The Complete Miss Marple Collection

Agatha Christie

Agatha Christie

The Murder at the Vicarage

A Miss Marple Mystery

To Rosalind

Contents

Dedication

Â 

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

One

It is difficult to know quite where to begin this story, but I have fixed my choice on a certain Wednesday at luncheon at the Vicarage. The conversation, though in the main irrelevant to the matter in hand, yet contained one or two suggestive incidents which influenced later developments.

I had just finished carving some boiled beef (remarkably tough by the way) and on resuming my seat I remarked, in a spirit most unbecoming to my cloth, that anyone who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world at large a service.

My young nephew, Dennis, said instantly:

âThatâll be remembered against you when the old boy is found bathed in blood. Mary will give evidence, wonât you, Mary? And describe how you brandished the carving knife in a vindictive manner.â

Mary, who is in service at the Vicarage as a stepping-stone to better things and higher wages, merely said in a loud, businesslike voice, âGreens,â and thrust a cracked dish at him in a truculent manner.

My wife said in a sympathetic voice: âHas he been very trying?â

I did not reply at once, for Mary, setting the greens on the table with a bang, proceeded to thrust a dish of singularly moist and unpleasant dumplings under my nose. I said, âNo, thank you,â and she deposited the dish with a clatter on the table and left the room.

âIt is a pity that I am such a shocking housekeeper,â said my wife, with a tinge of genuine regret in her voice.

I was inclined to agree with her. My wifeâs name is Griseldaâa highly suitable name for a parsonâs wife. But there the suitability ends. She is not in the least meek.

I have always been of the opinion that a clergyman should be unmarried. Why I should have urged Griselda to marry me at the end of twenty-four hoursâ acquaintance is a mystery to me. Marriage, I have always held, is a serious affair, to be entered into only after long deliberation and forethought, and suitability of tastes and inclinations is the most important consideration.

Griselda is nearly twenty years younger than myself. She is most distractingly pretty and quite incapable of taking anything seriously. She is incompetent in every way, and extremely trying to live with. She treats the parish as a kind of huge joke arranged for her amusement. I have endeavoured to form her mind and failed. I am more than ever convinced that celibacy is desirable for the clergy. I have frequently hinted as much to Griselda, but she has only laughed.

âMy dear,â I said, âif you would only exercise a little careââ

âI do sometimes,â said Griselda. âBut, on the whole, I think things go worse when Iâm trying. Iâm evidently not a housekeeper by nature. I find it better to leave things to Mary and just make up my mind to be uncomfortable and have nasty things to eat.â

âAnd what about your husband, my dear?â I said reproachfully, and proceeding to follow the example of the devil in quoting Scripture for his own ends I added: âShe looketh to the ways of her householdâ¦.â

âThink how lucky you are not to be torn to pieces by lions,â said Griselda, quickly interrupting. âOr burnt at the stake. Bad food and lots of dust and dead wasps is really nothing to make a fuss about. Tell me more about Colonel Protheroe. At any rate the early Christians were lucky enough not to have churchwardens.â

âPompous old brute,â said Dennis. âNo wonder his first wife ran away from him.â

âI donât see what else she could do,â said my wife.

âGriselda,â I said sharply. âI will not have you speaking in that way.â

âDarling,â said my wife affectionately. âTell me about him. What was the trouble? Was it Mr. Hawesâs becking and nodding and crossing himself every other minute?â

Hawes is our new curate. He has been with us just over three weeks. He has High Church views and fasts on Fridays. Colonel Protheroe is a great opposer of ritual in any form.

âNot this time. He did touch on it in passing. No, the whole trouble arose out of Mrs. Price Ridleyâs wretched pound note.â

Mrs. Price Ridley is a devout member of my congregation. Attending early service on the anniversary of her sonâs death, she put a pound note in the offertory bag. Later, reading the amount of the collection posted up, she was pained to observe that one ten-shilling note was the highest item mentioned.

She complained to me about it, and I pointed out, very reasonably, that she must have made a mistake.

âWeâre none of us so young as we were,â I said, trying to turn it off tactfully. âAnd we must pay the penalty of advancing years.â

Strangely enough, my words only seemed to incense her further. She said that things had a very odd look and that she was surprised I didnât think so also. And she flounced away and, I gather, took her troubles to Colonel Protheroe. Protheroe is the kind of man who enjoys making a fuss on every conceivable occasion. He made a fuss. It is a pity he made it on a Wednesday. I teach in the Church Day School on Wednesday mornings, a proceeding that causes me acute nervousness and leaves me unsettled for the rest of the day.

âWell, I suppose he must have some fun,â said my wife, with the air of trying to sum up the position impartially. âNobody flutters round him and calls him âthe dear Vicar,â and embroiders awful slippers for him, and gives him bedsocks for Christmas. Both his wife and his daughter are fed up to the teeth with him. I suppose it makes him happy to feel important somewhere.â

âHe neednât be offensive about it,â I said with some heat. âI donât think he quite realized the implications of what he was saying. He wants to go over all the Church accountsâin case of defalcationsâthat was the word he used. Defalcations! Does he suspect me of embezzling the Church funds?â

âNobody would suspect you of anything, darling,â said Griselda. âYouâre so transparently above suspicion that really it would be a marvellous opportunity. I wish youâd embezzle the S.P.G. funds. I hate missionariesâI always have.â

I would have reproved her for that sentiment, but Mary entered at that moment with a partially cooked rice pudding. I made a mild protest, but Griselda said that the Japanese always ate half-cooked rice and had marvellous brains in consequence.

âI dare say,â she said, âthat if you had a rice pudding like this every day till Sunday, youâd preach the most marvellous sermon.â

âHeaven forbid,â I said with a shudder.

âProtheroeâs coming over tomorrow evening and weâre going over the accounts together,â I went on. âI must finish preparing my talk for the C.E.M.S. today. Looking up a reference, I became so engrossed in Canon Shirleyâs Reality that I havenât got on as well as I should. What are you doing this afternoon, Griselda?â

âMy duty,â said Griselda. âMy duty as the Vicaress. Tea and scandal at four thirty.â

âWho is coming?â

Griselda ticked them off on her fingers with a glow of virtue on her face.

âMrs. Price Ridley, Miss Wetherby, Miss Hartnell, and that terrible Miss Marple.â

âI rather like Miss Marple,â I said. âShe has, at least, a sense of humour.â

âSheâs the worst cat in the village,â said Griselda. âAnd she always knows every single thing that happensâand draws the worst inferences from it.â

Griselda, as I have said, is much younger than I am. At my time of life, one knows that the worst is usually true.

âWell, donât expect me in for tea, Griselda,â said Dennis.

âBeast!â said Griselda.

âYes, but look here, the Protheroes really did ask me for tennis today.â

âBeast!â said Griselda again.

Dennis beat a prudent retreat and Griselda and I went together into my study.

âI wonder what we shall have for tea,â said Griselda, seating herself on my writing table. âDr. Stone and Miss Cram, I suppose, and perhaps Mrs. Lestrange. By the way, I called on her yesterday, but she was out. Yes, Iâm sure we shall have Mrs. Lestrange for tea. Itâs so mysterious, isnât it, her arriving like this and taking a house down here, and hardly ever going outside it? Makes one think of detective stories. You knowââWho was she, the mysterious woman with the pale, beautiful face? What was her past history? Nobody knew. There was something faintly sinister about her.â I believe Dr. Haydock knows something about her.â

âYou read too many detective stories, Griselda,â I observed mildly.

âWhat about you?â she retorted. âI was looking everywhere for The Stain on the Stairs the other day when you were in here writing a sermon. And at last I came in to ask you if youâd seen it anywhere, and what did I find?â

I had the grace to blush.

âI picked it up at random. A chance sentence caught my eye andâ¦.â

âI know those chance sentences,â said Griselda. She quoted impressively, ââAnd then a very curious thing happenedâGriselda rose, crossed the room and kissed her elderly husband affectionately.ââ She suited the action to the word.

âIs that a very curious thing?â I inquired.

âOf course it is,â said Griselda. âDo you realize, Len, that I might have married a Cabinet Minister, a Baronet, a rich Company Promoter, three subalterns and a neâer-do-weel with attractive manners, and that instead I chose you? Didnât it astonish you very much?â

âAt the time it did,â I replied. âI have often wondered why you did it.â

Griselda laughed.

âIt made me feel so powerful,â she murmured. âThe others thought me simply wonderful and of course it would have been very nice for them to have me. But Iâm everything you most dislike and disapprove of, and yet you couldnât withstand me! My vanity couldnât hold out against that. Itâs so much nicer to be a secret and delightful sin to anybody than to be a feather in their cap. I make you frightfully uncomfortable and stir you up the wrong way the whole time, and yet you adore me madly. You adore me madly, donât you?â

âNaturally I am very fond of you, my dear.â

âOh! Len, you adore me. Do you remember that day when I stayed up in town and sent you a wire you never got because the postmistressâs sister was having twins and she forgot to send it round? The state you got into and you telephoned Scotland Yard and made the most frightful fuss.â

There are things one hates being reminded of. I had really been strangely foolish on the occasion in question. I said:

âIf you donât mind, dear, I want to get on with the C.E.M.S.â

Griselda gave a sigh of intense irritation, ruffled my hair up on end, smoothed it down again, said:

âYou donât deserve me. You really donât. Iâll have an affair with the artist. I willâreally and truly. And then think of the scandal in the parish.â

âThereâs a good deal already,â I said mildly.

Griselda laughed, blew me a kiss, and departed through the window.

Two

Griselda is a very irritating woman. On leaving the luncheon table, I had felt myself to be in a good mood for preparing a really forceful address for the Church of England Menâs Society. Now I felt restless and disturbed.

Just when I was really settling down to it, Lettice Protheroe drifted in.

I use the word drifted advisedly. I have read novels in which young people are described as bursting with energyâjoie de vivre, the magnificent vitality of youth â¦ Personally, all the young people I come across have the air of animal wraiths.

Lettice was particularly wraithlike this afternoon. She is a pretty girl, very tall and fair and completely vague. She drifted through the French window, absently pulled off the yellow beret she was wearing and murmured vaguely with a kind of faraway surprise: âOh! itâs you.â

There is a path from Old Hall through the woods which comes out by our garden gate, so that most people coming from there come in at that gate and up to the study window instead of going a long way round by the road and coming to the front door. I was not surprised at Lettice coming in this way, but I did a little resent her attitude.

If you come to a Vicarage, you ought to be prepared to find a Vicar.

She came in and collapsed in a crumpled heap in one of my big armchairs. She plucked aimlessly at her hair, staring at the ceiling.

âIs Dennis anywhere about?â

âI havenât seen him since lunch. I understood he was going to play tennis at your place.â

âOh!â said Lettice. âI hope he isnât. He wonât find anybody there.â

âHe said you asked him.â

âI believe I did. Only that was Friday. And todayâs Tuesday.â

âItâs Wednesday,â I said.

âOh, how dreadful!â said Lettice. âThat means that Iâve forgotten to go to lunch with some people for the third time.â

Fortunately it didnât seem to worry her much.

âIs Griselda anywhere about?â

âI expect youâll find her in the studio in the gardenâsitting to Lawrence Redding.â

âThereâs been quite a shemozzle about him,â said Lettice. âWith father, you know. Fatherâs dreadful.â

âWhat was the sheâwhatever it was about?â I inquired.

âAbout his painting me. Father found out about it. Why shouldnât I be painted in my bathing dress? If I go on a beach in it, why shouldnât I be painted in it?â

Lettice paused and then went on.

âItâs really absurdâfather forbidding a young man the house. Of course, Lawrence and I simply shriek about it. I shall come and be done here in your studio.â

âNo, my dear,â I said. âNot if your father forbids it.â

âOh! dear,â said Lettice, sighing. âHow tiresome everyone is. I feel shattered. Definitely. If only I had some money Iâd go away, but without it I canât. If only father would be decent and die, I should be all right.â

âYou must not say things like that, Lettice.â

âWell, if he doesnât want me to want him to die, he shouldnât be so horrible over money. I donât wonder mother left him. Do you know, for years I believed she was dead. What sort of a young man did she run away with? Was he nice?â

âIt was before your father came to live here.â

âI wonder whatâs become of her. I expect Anne will have an affair with someone soon. Anne hates meâsheâs quite decent to me, but she hates me. Sheâs getting old and she doesnât like it. Thatâs the age you break out, you know.â

I wondered if Lettice was going to spend the entire afternoon in my study.

âYou havenât seen my gramophone records, have you?â she asked.

âNo.â

âHow tiresome. I know Iâve left them somewhere. And Iâve lost the dog. And my wristwatch is somewhere, only it doesnât much matter because it wonât go. Oh! dear, I am so sleepy. I canât think why, because I didnât get up till eleven. But lifeâs very shattering, donât you think? Oh! dear, I must go. Iâm going to see Dr. Stoneâs barrow at three oâclock.â

I glanced at the clock and remarked that it was now five-and-twenty to four.

âOh! Is it? How dreadful. I wonder if theyâve waited or if theyâve gone without me. I suppose Iâd better go down and do something about it.â

She got up and drifted out again, murmuring over her shoulder:

âYouâll tell Dennis, wonât you?â

I said âYesâ mechanically, only realizing too late that I had no idea what it was I was to tell Dennis. But I reflected that in all probability it did not matter. I fell to cogitating on the subject of Dr. Stone, a well-known archaeologist who had recently come to stay at the Blue Boar, whilst he superintended the excavation of a barrow situated on Colonel Protheroeâs property. There had already been several disputes between him and the Colonel. I was amused at his appointment to take Lettice to see the operations.

It occurred to me that Lettice Protheroe was something of a minx. I wondered how she would get on with the archaeologistâs secretary, Miss Cram. Miss Cram is a healthy young woman of twenty-five, noisy in manner, with a high colour, fine animal spirits and a mouth that always seems to have more than its full share of teeth.

Village opinion is divided as to whether she is no better than she should be, or else a young woman of iron virtue who purposes to become Mrs. Stone at an early opportunity. She is in every way a great contrast to Lettice.

I could imagine that the state of things at Old Hall might not be too happy. Colonel Protheroe had married again some five years previously. The second Mrs. Protheroe was a remarkably handsome woman in a rather unusual style. I had always guessed that the relations between her and her stepdaughter were not too happy.

I had one more interruption. This time, it was my curate, Hawes. He wanted to know the details of my interview with Protheroe. I told him that the Colonel had deplored his âRomish tendenciesâ but that the real purpose of his visit had been on quite another matter. At the same time, I entered a protest of my own, and told him plainly that he must conform to my ruling. On the whole, he took my remarks very well.

I felt rather remorseful when he had gone for not liking him better. These irrational likes and dislikes that one takes to people are, I am sure, very unChristian.

With a sigh, I realized that the hands of the clock on my writing table pointed to a quarter to five, a sign that it was really half past four, and I made my way to the drawing room.

Four of my parishioners were assembled there with teacups. Griselda sat behind the tea table trying to look natural in her environment, but only succeeded in looking more out of place than usual.

I shook hands all round and sat down between Miss Marple and Miss Wetherby.

Miss Marple is a white-haired old lady with a gentle, appealing mannerâMiss Wetherby is a mixture of vinegar and gush. Of the two Miss Marple is much the more dangerous.

âWe were just talking,â said Griselda in a honeysweet voice, âabout Dr. Stone and Miss Cram.â

A ribald rhyme concocted by Dennis shot through my head.

âMiss Cram doesnât give a damn.â

I had a sudden yearning to say it out loud and observe the effect, but fortunately I refrained. Miss Wetherby said tersely:

âNo nice girl would do it,â and shut her thin lips disapprovingly.

âDo what?â I inquired.

âBe a secretary to an unmarried man,â said Miss Wetherby in a horrified tone.

âOh! my dear,â said Miss Marple. âI think married ones are the worst. Remember poor Mollie Carter.â

âMarried men living apart from their wives are, of course, notorious,â said Miss Wetherby.

âAnd even some of the ones living with their wives,â murmured Miss Marple. âI rememberâ¦.â

I interrupted these unsavoury reminiscences.

âBut surely,â I said, âin these days a girl can take a post in just the same way as a man does.â

âTo come away to the country? And stay at the same hotel?â said Mrs. Price Ridley in a severe voice.

Miss Wetherby murmured to Miss Marple in a low voice:

âAnd all the bedrooms on the same floorâ¦.â

Miss Hartnell, who is weather-beaten and jolly and much dreaded by the poor, observed in a loud, hearty voice:

âThe poor man will be caught before he knows where he is. Heâs as innocent as a babe unborn, you can see that.â

Curious what turns of phrase we employ. None of the ladies present would have dreamed of alluding to an actual baby till it was safely in the cradle, visible to all.

âDisgusting, I call it,â continued Miss Hartnell, with her usual tactlessness. âThe man must be at least twenty-five years older than she is.â

Three female voices rose at once making disconnected remarks about the Choir Boysâ Outing, the regrettable incident at the last Motherâs Meeting, and the draughts in the church. Miss Marple twinkled at Griselda.

âDonât you think,â said my wife, âthat Miss Cram may just like having an interesting job? And that she considers Dr. Stone just as an employer?â

There was a silence. Evidently none of the four ladies agreed. Miss Marple broke the silence by patting Griselda on the arm.

âMy dear,â she said, âyou are very young. The young have such innocent minds.â

Griselda said indignantly that she hadnât got at all an innocent mind.

âNaturally,â said Miss Marple, unheeding of the protest, âyou think the best of everyone.â

âDo you really think she wants to marry that baldheaded dull man?â

âI understand he is quite well off,â said Miss Marple. âRather a violent temper, Iâm afraid. He had quite a serious quarrel with Colonel Protheroe the other day.â

Everyone leaned forward interestingly.

âColonel Protheroe accused him of being an ignoramus.â

âHow like Colonel Protheroe, and how absurd,â said Mrs. Price Ridley.

âVery like Colonel Protheroe, but I donât know about it being absurd,â said Miss Marple. âYou remember the woman who came down here and said she represented Welfare, and after taking subscriptions she was never heard of again and proved to having nothing whatever to do with Welfare. One is so inclined to be trusting and take people at their own valuation.â

I should never have dreamed of describing Miss Marple as trusting.

âThereâs been some fuss about that young artist, Mr. Redding, hasnât there?â asked Miss Wetherby.

Miss Marple nodded.

âColonel Protheroe turned him out of the house. It appears he was painting Lettice in her bathing dress.â

âI always thought there was something between them,â said Mrs. Price Ridley. âThat young fellow is always mouching off up there. Pity the girl hasnât got a mother. A stepmother is never the same thing.â

âI dare say Mrs. Protheroe does her best,â said Miss Hartnell.

âGirls are so sly,â deplored Mrs. Price Ridley.

âQuite a romance, isnât it?â said the softerhearted Miss Wetherby. âHeâs a very good-looking young fellow.â

âBut loose,â said Miss Hartnell. âBound to be. An artist! Paris! Models! The Altogether!â

âPainting her in her bathing dress,â said Mrs. Price Ridley. âNot quite nice.â

âHeâs painting me too,â said Griselda.

âBut not in your bathing dress, dear,â said Miss Marple.

âIt might be worse,â said Griselda solemnly.

âNaughty girl,â said Miss Hartnell, taking the joke broad-mindedly. Everybody else looked slightly shocked.

âDid dear Lettice tell you of the trouble?â asked Miss Marple of me.

âTell me?â

âYes. I saw her pass through the garden and go round to the study window.â

Miss Marple always sees everything. Gardening is as good as a smoke screen, and the habit of observing birds through powerful glasses can always be turned to account.

âShe mentioned it, yes,â I admitted.

âMr. Hawes looked worried,â said Miss Marple. âI hope he hasnât been working too hard.â

âOh!â cried Miss Wetherby excitedly. âI quite forgot. I knew I had some news for you. I saw Dr. Haydock coming out of Mrs. Lestrangeâs cottage.â

Everyone looked at each other.

âPerhaps sheâs ill,â suggested Mrs. Price Ridley.

âIt must have been very sudden, if so,â said Miss Hartnell. âFor I saw her walking round her garden at three oâclock this afternoon, and she seemed in perfect health.â

âShe and Dr. Haydock must be old acquaintances,â said Mrs. Price Ridley. âHeâs been very quiet about it.â

âItâs curious,â said Miss Wetherby, âthat heâs never mentioned it.â

âAs a matter of factââ said Griselda in a low, mysterious voice, and stopped. Everyone leaned forward excitedly.

âI happen to know,â said Griselda impressively. âHer husband was a missionary. Terrible story. He was eaten, you know. Actually eaten. And she was forced to become the chiefâs head wife. Dr. Haydock was with an expedition and rescued her.â

For a moment excitement was rife, then Miss Marple said reproachfully, but with a smile: âNaughty girl!â

She tapped Griselda reprovingly on the arm.

âVery unwise thing to do, my dear. If you make up these things, people are quite likely to believe them. And sometimes that leads to complications.â

A distinct frost had come over the assembly. Two of the ladies rose to take their departure.

âI wonder if there is anything between young Lawrence Redding and Lettice Protheroe,â said Miss Wetherby. âIt certainly looks like it. What do you think, Miss Marple?â

Miss Marple seemed thoughtful.

âI shouldnât have said so myself. Not Lettice. Quite another person I should have said.â

âBut Colonel Protheroe must have thoughtâ¦.â

âHe has always struck me as rather a stupid man,â said Miss Marple. âThe kind of man who gets the wrong idea into his head and is obstinate about it. Do you remember Joe Bucknell who used to keep the Blue Boar? Such a to-do about his daughter carrying on with young Bailey. And all the time it was that minx of a wife of his.â

She was looking full at Griselda as she spoke, and I suddenly felt a wild surge of anger.

âDonât you think, Miss Marple,â I said, âthat weâre all inclined to let our tongues run away with us too much. Charity thinketh no evil, you know. Inestimable harm may be done by foolish wagging of tongues in ill-natured gossip.â

âDear Vicar,â said Miss Marple, âYou are so unworldly. Iâm afraid that observing human nature for as long as I have done, one gets not to expect very much from it. I dare say the idle tittle-tattle is very wrong and unkind, but it is so often true, isnât it?â

That last Parthian shot went home.

Three

âNasty old cat,â said Griselda, as soon as the door was closed.

She made a face in the direction of the departing visitors and then looked at me and laughed.

âLen, do you really suspect me of having an affair with Lawrence Redding?â

âMy dear, of course not.â

âBut you thought Miss Marple was hinting at it. And you rose to my defence simply beautifully. Likeâlike an angry tiger.â

A momentary uneasiness assailed me. A clergyman of the Church of England ought never to put himself in the position of being described as an angry tiger.

âI felt the occasion could not pass without a protest,â I said. âBut Griselda, I wish you would be a little more careful in what you say.â

âDo you mean the cannibal story?â she asked. âOr the suggestion that Lawrence was painting me in the nude! If they only knew that he was painting me in a thick cloak with a very high fur collarâthe sort of thing that you could go quite purely to see the Pope inânot a bit of sinful flesh showing anywhere! In fact, itâs all marvellously pure. Lawrence never even attempts to make love to meâI canât think why.â

âSurely knowing that youâre a married womanââ

âDonât pretend to come out of the ark, Len. You know very well that an attractive young woman with an elderly husband is a kind of gift from heaven to a young man. There must be some other reasonâitâs not that Iâm unattractiveâIâm not.â

âSurely you donât want him to make love to you?â

âN-n-o,â said Griselda, with more hesitation than I thought becoming.

âIf heâs in love with Lettice Protheroeââ

âMiss Marple didnât seem to think he was.â

âMiss Marple may be mistaken.â

âShe never is. That kind of old cat is always right.â She paused a minute and then said, with a quick sidelong glance at me: âYou do believe me, donât you? I mean, that thereâs nothing between Lawrence and me.â

âMy dear Griselda,â I said, surprised. âOf course.â

My wife came across and kissed me.

âI wish you werenât so terribly easy to deceive, Len. Youâd believe me whatever I said.â

âI should hope so. But, my dear, I do beg of you to guard your tongue and be careful of what you say. These women are singularly deficient in humour, remember, and take everything seriously.â

âWhat they need,â said Griselda, âis a little immorality in their lives. Then they wouldnât be so busy looking for it in other peopleâs.â

And on this she left the room, and glancing at my watch I hurried out to pay some visits that ought to have been made earlier in the day.

The Wednesday evening service was sparsely attended as usual, but when I came out through the church, after disrobing in the vestry, it was empty save for a woman who stood staring up at one of our windows. We have some rather fine old stained glass, and indeed the church itself is well worth looking at. She turned at my footsteps, and I saw that it was Mrs. Lestrange.

We both hesitated a moment, and then I said:

âI hope you like our little church.â

âIâve been admiring the screen,â she said.

Her voice was pleasant, low, yet very distinct, with a clearcut enunciation. She added:

âIâm so sorry to have missed your wife yesterday.â

We talked a few minutes longer about the church. She was evidently a cultured woman who knew something of Church history and architecture. We left the building together and walked down the road, since one way to the Vicarage led past her house. As we arrived at the gate, she said pleasantly:

âCome in, wonât you? And tell me what you think of what I have done.â

I accepted the invitation. Little Gates had formerly belonged to an Anglo-Indian colonel, and I could not help feeling relieved by the disappearance of the brass tables and Burmese idols. It was furnished now very simply, but in exquisite taste. There was a sense of harmony and rest about it.

Yet I wondered more and more what had brought such a woman as Mrs. Lestrange to St. Mary Mead. She was so very clearly a woman of the world that it seemed a strange taste to bury herself in a country village.

In the clear light of her drawing room I had an opportunity of observing her closely for the first time.

She was a very tall woman. Her hair was gold with a tinge of red in it. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were dark, whether by art or by nature I could not decide. If she was, as I thought, made up, it was done very artistically. There was something Sphinxlike about her face when it was in repose and she had the most curious eyes I have ever seenâthey were almost golden in shade.

Her clothes were perfect and she had all the ease of manner of a well-bred woman, and yet there was something about her that was incongruous and baffling. You felt that she was a mystery. The word Griselda had used occurred to meâsinister. Absurd, of course, and yetâwas it so absurd? The thought sprang unbidden into my mind: âThis woman would stick at nothing.â

Our talk was on most normal linesâpictures, books, old churches. Yet somehow I got very strongly the impression that there was something elseâsomething of quite a different nature that Mrs. Lestrange wanted to say to me.

I caught her eye on me once or twice, looking at me with a curious hesitancy, as though she were unable to make up her mind. She kept the talk, I noticed, strictly to impersonal subjects. She made no mention of a husband or relations.

But all the time there was that strange urgent appeal in her glance. It seemed to say: âShall I tell you? I want to. Canât you help me?â

Yet in the end it died awayâor perhaps it had all been my fancy. I had the feeling that I was being dismissed. I rose and took my leave. As I went out of the room, I glanced back and saw her staring after me with a puzzled, doubtful expression. On an impulse I came back:

âIf there is anything I can doââ

She said doubtfully: âItâs very kind of youââ

We were both silent. Then she said:

âI wish I knew. Itâs difficult. No, I donât think anyone can help me. But thank you for offering to do so.â

That seemed final, so I went. But as I did so, I wondered. We are not used to mysteries in St. Mary Mead.

So much is this the case that as I emerged from the gate I was pounced upon. Miss Hartnell is very good at pouncing in a heavy and cumbrous way.

âI saw you!â she exclaimed with ponderous humour. âAnd I was so excited. Now you can tell us all about it.â

âAbout what?â

âThe mysterious lady! Is she a widow or has she a husband somewhere?â

âI really couldnât say. She didnât tell me.â

âHow very peculiar. One would think she would be certain to mention something casually. It almost looks, doesnât it, as though she had a reason for not speaking?â

âI really donât see that.â

âAh! But as dear Miss Marple says, you are so unworldly, dear Vicar. Tell me, has she known Dr. Haydock long?â

âShe didnât mention him, so I donât know.â

âReally? But what did you talk about then?â

âPictures, music, books,â I said truthfully.

Miss Hartnell, whose only topics of conversation are the purely personal, looked suspicious and unbelieving. Taking advantage of a momentary hesitation on her part as to how to proceed next, I bade her good night and walked rapidly away.

I called in at a house farther down the village and returned to the Vicarage by the garden gate, passing, as I did so, the danger point of Miss Marpleâs garden. However, I did not see how it was humanly possible for the news of my visit to Mrs. Lestrange to have yet reached her ears, so I felt reasonably safe.

As I latched the gate, it occurred to me that I would just step down to the shed in the garden which young Lawrence Redding was using as a studio, and see for myself how Griseldaâs portrait was progressing.

I append a rough sketch here which will be useful in the light of after happenings, only sketching in such details as are necessary.

I had no idea there was anyone in the studio. There had been no voices from within to warn me, and I suppose that my own footsteps made no noise upon the grass.

I opened the door and then stopped awkwardly on the threshold. For there were two people in the studio, and the manâs arms were round the woman and he was kissing her passionately.

The two people were the artist, Lawrence Redding, and Mrs. Protheroe.

I backed out precipitately and beat a retreat to my study. There I sat down in a chair, took out my pipe, and thought things over. The discovery had come as a great shock to me. Especially since my conversation with Lettice that afternoon, I had felt fairly certain that there was some kind of understanding growing up between her and the young man. Moreover, I was convinced that she herself thought so. I felt positive that she had no idea of the artistâs feelings for her stepmother.

A nasty tangle. I paid a grudging tribute to Miss Marple. She had not been deceived but had evidently suspected the true state of things with a fair amount of accuracy. I had entirely misread her meaning glance at Griselda.

I had never dreamt of considering Mrs. Protheroe in the matter. There has always been rather a suggestion of Caesarâs wife about Mrs. Protheroeâa quiet, self-contained woman whom one would not suspect of any great depths of feeling.

I had got to this point in my meditations when a tap on my study window aroused me. I got up and went to it. Mrs. Protheroe was standing outside. I opened the window and she came in, not waiting for an invitation on my part. She crossed the room in a breathless sort of way and dropped down on the sofa.

I had the feeling that I had never really seen her before. The quiet self-contained woman that I knew had vanished. In her place was a quick-breathing, desperate creature. For the first time I realized that Anne Protheroe was beautiful.

She was a brown-haired woman with a pale face and very deep set grey eyes. She was flushed now and her breast heaved. It was as though a statue had suddenly come to life. I blinked my eyes at the transformation.

âI thought it best to come,â she said. âYouâyou saw just now?â I bowed my head.

She said very quietly: âWe love each otherâ¦.â

And even in the middle of her evident distress and agitation she could not keep a little smile from her lips. The smile of a woman who sees something very beautiful and wonderful.

I still said nothing, and she added presently:

âI suppose to you that seems very wrong?â

âCan you expect me to say anything else, Mrs. Protheroe?â

âNoâno, I suppose not.â

I went on, trying to make my voice as gentle as possible:

âYou are a married womanââ

She interrupted me.

âOh! I knowâI know. Do you think I havenât gone over all that again and again? Iâm not a bad woman reallyâIâm not. And things arenâtâarenâtâas you might think they are.â

I said gravely: âIâm glad of that.â

She asked rather timorously:

âAre you going to tell my husband?â

I said rather dryly:

âThere seems to be a general idea that a clergyman is incapable of behaving like a gentleman. That is not true.â

She threw me a grateful glance.

âIâm so unhappy. Oh! Iâm so dreadfully unhappy. I canât go on. I simply canât go on. And I donât know what to do.â Her voice rose with a slightly hysterical note in it. âYou donât know what my life is like. Iâve been miserable with Lucius from the beginning. No woman could be happy with him. I wish he were dead â¦ Itâs awful, but I do â¦ Iâm desperate. I tell you, Iâm desperate.â She started and looked over at the window.

âWhat was that? I thought I heard someone? Perhaps itâs Lawrence.â

I went over to the window which I had not closed as I had thought. I stepped out and looked down the garden, but there was no one in sight. Yet I was almost convinced that I, too, had heard someone. Or perhaps it was her certainty that had convinced me.

When I reentered the room she was leaning forward, drooping her head down. She looked the picture of despair. She said again:

âI donât know what to do. I donât know what to do.â

I came and sat down beside her. I said the things I thought it was my duty to say, and tried to say them with the necessary conviction, uneasily conscious all the time that that same morning I had given voice to the sentiment that a world without Colonel Protheroe in it would be improved for the better.

Above all, I begged her to do nothing rash. To leave her home and her husband was a very serious step.

I donât suppose I convinced her. I have lived long enough in the world to know that arguing with anyone in love is next door to useless, but I do think my words brought to her some measure of comfort.

When she rose to go, she thanked me, and promised to think over what I had said.

Nevertheless, when she had gone, I felt very uneasy. I felt that hitherto I had misjudged Anne Protheroeâs character. She impressed me now as a very desperate woman, the kind of woman who would stick at nothing once her emotions were aroused. And she was desperately, wildly, madly in love with Lawrence Redding, a man several years younger than herself. I didnât like it.

Four

I had entirely forgotten that we had asked Lawrence Redding to dinner that night. When Griselda burst in and scolded me, pointing out that it lacked two minutes to dinner time, I was quite taken aback.

âI hope everything will be all right,â Griselda called up the stairs after me. âIâve thought over what you said at lunch, and Iâve really thought of some quite good things to eat.â

I may say, in passing, that our evening meal amply bore out Griseldaâs assertion that things went much worse when she tried than when she didnât. The menu was ambitious in conception, and Mary seemed to have taken a perverse pleasure in seeing how best she could alternate undercooking and overcooking. Some oysters which Griselda had ordered, and which would seem to be beyond the reach of incompetence, we were, unfortunately, not able to sample as we had nothing in the house to open them withâan omission which was discovered only when the moment for eating them arrived.

I had rather doubted whether Lawrence Redding would put in an appearance. He might very easily have sent an excuse.

However, he arrived punctually enough, and the four of us went in to dinner.

Lawrence Redding has an undeniably attractive personality. He is, I suppose, about thirty years of age. He has dark hair, but his eyes are of a brilliant, almost startling blue. He is the kind of young man who does everything well. He is good at games, an excellent shot, a good amateur actor, and can tell a first-rate story. He is capable of making any party go. He has, I think, Irish blood in his veins. He is not, at all, oneâs idea of the typical artist. Yet I believe he is a clever painter in the modern style. I know very little of painting myself.

It was only natural that on this particular evening he should appear a shade distrait. On the whole, he carried off things very well. I donât think Griselda or Dennis noticed anything wrong. Probably I should not have noticed anything myself if I had not known beforehand.

Griselda and Dennis were particularly gayâfull of jokes about Dr. Stone and Miss Cramâthe Local Scandal! It suddenly came home to me with something of a pang that Dennis is nearer Griseldaâs age than I am. He calls me Uncle Len, but her Griselda. It gave me, somehow, a lonely feeling.

I must, I think, have been upset by Mrs. Protheroe. Iâm not usually given to such unprofitable reflections.

Griselda and Dennis went rather far now and then, but I hadnât the heart to check them. I have always thought it a pity that the mere presence of a clergyman should have a dampening effect.

Lawrence took a gay part in the conversation. Nevertheless I was aware of his eyes continually straying to where I sat, and I was not surprised when after dinner he manoeuvred to get me into the study.

As soon as we were alone his manner changed.

âYouâve surprised our secret, sir,â he said. âWhat are you going to do about it?â

I could speak far more plainly to Redding than I could to Mrs. Protheroe, and I did so. He took it very well.

âOf course,â he said, when I had finished, âyouâre bound to say all this. Youâre a parson. I donât mean that in any way offensively. As a matter of fact I think youâre probably right. But this isnât the usual sort of thing between Anne and me.â

I told him that people had been saying that particular phrase since the dawn of time, and a queer little smile creased his lips.

âYou mean everyone thinks their case is unique? Perhaps so. But one thing you must believe.â

He assured me that so farââthere was nothing wrong in it.â Anne, he said, was one of the truest and most loyal women that ever lived. What was going to happen he didnât know.

âIf this were only a book,â he said gloomily, âthe old man would dieâand a good riddance to everybody.â

I reproved him.

âOh! I didnât mean I was going to stick him in the back with a knife, though Iâd offer my best thanks to anyone else who did so. Thereâs not a soul in the world whoâs got a good word to say for him. I rather wonder the first Mrs. Protheroe didnât do him in. I met her once, years ago, and she looked quite capable of it. One of those calm dangerous women. He goes blustering along, stirring up trouble everywhere, mean as the devil, and with a particularly nasty temper. You donât know what Anne has had to stand from him. If I had a penny in the world Iâd take her away without any more ado.â

Then I spoke to him very earnestly. I begged him to leave St. Mary Mead. By remaining there, he could only bring greater unhappiness on Anne Protheroe than was already her lot. People would talk, the matter would get to Colonel Protheroeâs earsâand things would be made infinitely worse for her.

Lawrence protested.

âNobody knows a thing about it except you, padre.â

âMy dear young man, you underestimate the detective instinct of village life. In St. Mary Mead everyone knows your most intimate affairs. There is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands.â

He said easily that that was all right. Everyone thought it was Lettice.

âHas it occurred to you,â I asked, âthat possibly Lettice might think so herself?â

He seemed quite surprised by the idea. Lettice, he said, didnât care a hang about him. He was sure of that.

âSheâs a queer sort of girl,â he said. âAlways seems in a kind of dream, and yet underneath I believe sheâs really rather practical. I believe all that vague stuff is a pose. Lettice knows jolly well what sheâs doing. And thereâs a funny vindictive streak in her. The queer thing is that she hates Anne. Simply loathes her. And yet Anneâs been a perfect angel to her always.â

I did not, of course, take his word for this last. To infatuated young men, their inamorata always behaves like an angel. Still, to the best of my observation, Anne had always behaved to her step-daughter with kindness and fairness. I had been surprised myself that afternoon at the bitterness of Letticeâs tone.

We had to leave the conversation there, because Griselda and Dennis burst in upon us and said I was not to make Lawrence behave like an old fogy.

âOh dear!â said Griselda, throwing herself into an armchair. âHow I would like a thrill of some kind. A murderâor even a burglary.â

âI donât suppose thereâs anyone much worth burgling,â said Lawrence, trying to enter into her mood. âUnless we stole Miss Hartnellâs false teeth.â

âThey do click horribly,â said Griselda. âBut youâre wrong about there being no one worthwhile. Thereâs some marvellous old silver at Old Hall. Trencher salts and a Charles II Tazzaâall kinds of things like that. Worth thousands of pounds, I believe.â

âThe old man would probably shoot you with an army revolver,â said Dennis. âJust the sort of thing heâd enjoy doing.â

âOh, weâd get in first and hold him up!â said Griselda. âWhoâs got a revolver?â

âIâve got a Mauser pistol,â said Lawrence.

âHave you? How exciting. Why do you have it?â

âSouvenir of the war,â said Lawrence briefly.

âOld Protheroe was showing the silver to Stone today,â volunteered Dennis. âOld Stone was pretending to be no end interested in it.â

âI thought theyâd quarrelled about the barrow,â said Griselda.

âOh, theyâve made that up!â said Dennis. âI canât think what people want to grub about in barrows for, anyway.â

âThe man Stone puzzles me,â said Lawrence. âI think he must be very absentminded. Youâd swear sometimes he knew nothing about his own subject.â

âThatâs love,â said Dennis. âSweet Gladys Cram, you are no sham. Your teeth are white and fill me with delight. Come, fly with me, my bride to be. And at the Blue Boar, on the bedroom floorââ

âThatâs enough, Dennis,â I said.

âWell,â said Lawrence Redding, âI must be off. Thank you very much, Mrs. Clement, for a very pleasant evening.â

Griselda and Dennis saw him off. Dennis returned to the study alone. Something had happened to ruffle the boy. He wandered about the room aimlessly, frowning and kicking the furniture.

Our furniture is so shabby already that it can hardly be damaged further, but I felt impelled to utter a mild protest.

âSorry,â said Dennis.

He was silent for a moment and then burst out:

âWhat an absolutely rotten thing gossip is!â

I was a little surprised. âWhatâs the matter?â I asked.

âI donât know whether I ought to tell you.â

I was more and more surprised.

âItâs such an absolutely rotten thing,â Dennis said again. âGoing round and saying things. Not even saying them. Hinting them. No, Iâm damnedâsorryâif Iâll tell you! Itâs too absolutely rotten.â

I looked at him curiously, but I did not press him further. I wondered very much, though. It is very unlike Dennis to take anything to heart.

Griselda came in at that moment.

âMiss Wetherbyâs just rung up,â she said. âMrs. Lestrange went out at a quarter past eight and hasnât come in yet. Nobody knows where sheâs gone.â

âWhy should they know?â

âBut it isnât to Dr. Haydockâs. Miss Wetherby does know that, because she telephoned to Miss Hartnell who lives next door to him and who would have been sure to see her.â

âIt is a mystery to me,â I said, âhow anyone ever gets any nourishment in this place. They must eat their meals standing up by the window so as to be sure of not missing anything.â

âAnd thatâs not all,â said Griselda, bubbling with pleasure. âTheyâve found out about the Blue Boar. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram have got rooms next door to each other, BUTââshe waved an impressive forefingerââno communicating door!â

âThat,â I said, âmust be very disappointing to everybody.â

At which Griselda laughed.

Thursday started badly. Two of the ladies of my parish elected to quarrel about the church decorations. I was called in to adjudicate between two middle-aged ladies, each of whom was literally trembling with rage. If it had not been so painful, it would have been quite an interesting physical phenomenon.

Then I had to reprove two of our choir boys for persistent sweet sucking during the hours of divine service, and I had an uneasy feeling that I was not doing the job as wholeheartedly as I should have done.

Then our organist, who is distinctly âtouchy,â had taken offence and had to be smoothed down.

And four of my poorer parishioners declared open rebellion against Miss Hartnell, who came to me bursting with rage about it.

I was just going home when I met Colonel Protheroe. He was in high good humour, having sentenced three poachers, in his capacity as magistrate.

âFirmness,â he shouted in his stentorian voice. He is slightly deaf and raises his voice accordingly as deaf people often do. âThatâs whatâs needed nowadaysâfirmness! Make an example. That rogue Archer came out yesterday and is vowing vengeance against me, I hear. Impudent scoundrel. Threatened men live long, as the saying goes. Iâll show him what his vengeance is worth next time I catch him taking my pheasants. Lax! Weâre too lax nowadays! I believe in showing a man up for what he is. Youâre always being asked to consider a manâs wife and children. Damned nonsense. Fiddlesticks. Why should a man escape the consequences of his acts just because he whines about his wife and children? Itâs all the same to meâno matter what a man isâdoctor, lawyer, clergyman, poacher, drunken wastrelâif you catch him on the wrong side of the law, let the law punish him. You agree with me, Iâm sure.â

âYou forget,â I said. âMy calling obliges me to respect one quality above all othersâthe quality of mercy.â

âWell, Iâm a just man. No one can deny that.â

I did not speak, and he said sharply:

âWhy donât you answer? A penny for your thoughts, man.â

I hesitated, then I decided to speak.

âI was thinking,â I said, âthat when my time comes, I should be sorry if the only plea I had to offer was that of justice. Because it might mean that only justice would be meted out to meâ¦.â

âPah! What we need is a little militant Christianity. Iâve always done my duty, I hope. Well, no more of that. Iâll be along this evening, as I said. Weâll make it a quarter past six instead of six, if you donât mind. Iâve got to see a man in the village.â

âThat will suit me quite well.â

He flourished his stick and strode away. Turning, I ran into Hawes. I thought he looked distinctly ill this morning. I had meant to upbraid him mildly for various matters in his province which had been muddled or shelved, but seeing his white strained face, I felt that the man was ill.

I said as much, and he denied it, but not very vehemently. Finally he confessed that he was not feeling too fit, and appeared ready to accept my advice of going home to bed.

I had a hurried lunch and went out to do some visits. Griselda had gone to London by the cheap Thursday train.

I came in about a quarter to four with the intention of sketching the outline of my Sunday sermon, but Mary told me that Mr. Redding was waiting for me in the study.

I found him pacing up and down with a worried face. He looked white and haggard.

He turned abruptly at my entrance.

âLook here, sir. Iâve been thinking over what you said yesterday. Iâve had a sleepless night thinking about it. Youâre right. Iâve got to cut and run.â

âMy dear boy,â I said.

âYou were right in what you said about Anne. Iâll only bring trouble on her by staying here. Sheâsâsheâs too good for anything else. I see Iâve got to go. Iâve made things hard enough for her as it is, heaven help me.â

âI think you have made the only decision possible,â I said. âI know that it is a hard one, but believe me, it will be for the best in the end.â

I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said by someone who didnât know what he was talking about.

âYouâll look after Anne? She needs a friend.â

âYou can rest assured that I will do everything in my power.â

âThank you, sir.â He wrung my hand. âYouâre a good sort, Padre. I shall see her to say good-bye this evening, and I shall probably pack up and go tomorrow. No good prolonging the agony. Thanks for letting me have the shed to paint in. Iâm sorry not to have finished Mrs. Clementâs portrait.â

âDonât worry about that, my dear boy. Good-bye, and God bless you.â

When he had gone I tried to settle down to my sermon, but with very poor success. I kept thinking of Lawrence and Anne Protheroe.

I had rather an unpalatable cup of tea, cold and black, and at half past five the telephone rang. I was informed that Mr. Abbott of Lower Farm was dying and would I please come at once.

I rang up Old Hall immediately, for Lower Farm was nearly two miles away and I could not possibly get back by six fifteen. I have never succeeded in learning to ride a bicycle.

I was told, however, that Colonel Protheroe had just started out in the car, so I departed, leaving word with Mary that I had been called away, but would try to be back by six thirty or soon after.

Five

It was nearer seven than half past six when I approached the Vicarage gate on my return. Before I reached it, it swung open and Lawrence Redding came out. He stopped dead on seeing me, and I was immediately struck by his appearance. He looked like a man who was on the point of going mad. His eyes stared in a peculiar manner, he was deathly white, and he was shaking and twitching all over.

I wondered for a moment whether he could have been drinking, but repudiated the idea immediately.

âHallo,â I said, âhave you been to see me again? Sorry I was out. Come back now. Iâve got to see Protheroe about some accountsâbut I dare say we shanât be long.â

âProtheroe,â he said. He began to laugh. âProtheroe? Youâre going to see Protheroe? Oh, youâll see Protheroe all right! Oh, my Godâyes!â

I stared. Instinctively I stretched out a hand towards him. He drew sharply aside.

âNo,â he almost cried out. âIâve got to get awayâto think. Iâve got to think. I must think.â

He broke into a run and vanished rapidly down the road towards the village, leaving me staring after him, my first idea of drunkenness recurring.

Finally I shook my head, and went on to the Vicarage. The front door is always left open, but nevertheless I rang the bell. Mary came, wiping her hands on her apron.

âSo youâre back at last,â she observed.

âIs Colonel Protheroe here?â I asked.

âIn the study. Been here since a quarter past six.â

âAnd Mr. Reddingâs been here?â

âCome a few minutes ago. Asked for you. I told him youâd be back at any minute and that Colonel Protheroe was waiting in the study, and he said heâd wait too, and went there. Heâs there now.â

âNo, he isnât,â I said. âIâve just met him going down the road.â

âWell, I didnât hear him leave. He canât have stayed more than a couple of minutes. The mistress isnât back from town yet.â

I nodded absentmindedly. Mary beat a retreat to the kitchen quarters and I went down the passage and opened the study door.

After the dusk of the passage, the evening sunshine that was pouring into the room made my eyes blink. I took a step or two across the floor and then stopped dead.

For a moment I could hardly take in the meaning of the scene before me.

Colonel Protheroe was lying sprawled across my writing table in a horrible unnatural position. There was a pool of some dark fluid on the desk by his head, and it was slowly dripping on to the floor with a horrible drip, drip, drip.

I pulled myself together and went across to him. His skin was cold to the touch. The hand that I raised fell back lifeless. The man was deadâshot through the head.

I went to the door and called Mary. When she came I ordered her to run as fast as she could and fetch Dr. Haydock, who lives just at the corner of the road. I told her there had been an accident.

Then I went back and closed the door to await the doctorâs coming.

Fortunately, Mary found him at home. Haydock is a good fellow, a big, fine, strapping man with an honest, rugged face.

His eyebrows went up when I pointed silently across the room. But, like a true doctor, he showed no signs of emotion. He bent over the dead man, examining him rapidly. Then he straightened himself and looked across at me.

âWell?â I asked.

âHeâs dead right enoughâbeen dead half an hour, I should say.â

âSuicide?â

âOut of the question, man. Look at the position of the wound. Besides, if he shot himself, whereâs the weapon?â

True enough, there was no sign of any such thing.

âWeâd better not mess around with anything,â said Haydock. âIâd better ring up the police.â

He picked up the receiver and spoke into it. He gave the facts as curtly as possible and then replaced the telephone and came across to where I was sitting.

âThis is a rotten business. How did you come to find him?â

I explained. âIsâis it murder?â I asked rather faintly.

âLooks like it. Mean to say, what else can it be? Extraordinary business. Wonder who had a down on the poor old fellow. Of course I know he wasnât popular, but one isnât often murdered for that reasonâworse luck.â

âThereâs one rather curious thing,â I said. âI was telephoned for this afternoon to go to a dying parishioner. When I got there everyone was very surprised to see me. The sick man was very much better than he had been for some days, and his wife flatly denied telephoning for me at all.â

Haydock drew his brows together.

âThatâs suggestiveâvery. You were being got out of the way. Whereâs your wife?â

âGone up to London for the day.â

âAnd the maid?â

âIn the kitchenâright at the other side of the house.â

âWhere she wouldnât be likely to hear anything that went on in here. Itâs a nasty business. Who knew that Protheroe was coming here this evening?â

âHe referred to the fact this morning in the village street at the top of his voice as usual.â

âMeaning that the whole village knew it? Which they always do in any case. Know of anyone who had a grudge against him?â

The thought of Lawrence Reddingâs white face and staring eyes came to my mind. I was spared answering by a noise of shuffling feet in the passage outside.

âThe police,â said my friend, and rose to his feet.

Our police force was represented by Constable Hurst, looking very important but slightly worried.

âGood evening, gentlemen,â he greeted us. âthe Inspector will be here any minute. In the meantime Iâll follow out his instructions. I understand Colonel Protheroeâs been found shotâin the Vicarage.â

He paused and directed a look of cold suspicion at me, which I tried to meet with a suitable bearing of conscious innocence.

He moved over to the writing table and announced:

âNothing to be touched until the Inspector comes.â

For the convenience of my readers I append a sketch plan of the room.

He got out his notebook, moistened his pencil and looked expectantly at both of us.

I repeated my story of discovering the body. When he had got it all down, which took some time, he turned to the doctor.

âIn your opinion, Dr. Haydock, what was the cause of death?â

âShot through the head at close quarters.â

âAnd the weapon?â

âI canât say with certainty until we get the bullet out. But I should say in all probability the bullet was fired from a pistol of small calibreâsay a Mauser .25.â

I started, remembering our conversation of the night before, and Lawrence Reddingâs admission. The police constable brought his cold, fish-like eye round on me.

âDid you speak, sir?â

I shook my head. Whatever suspicions I might have, they were no more than suspicions, and as such to be kept to myself.

âWhen, in your opinion, did the tragedy occur?â

The doctor hesitated for a minute before he answered. Then he said:

âThe man has been dead just over half an hour, I should say. Certainly not longer.â

Hurst turned to me. âDid the girl hear anything?â

âAs far as I know she heard nothing,â I said. âBut you had better ask her.â

But at this moment Inspector Slack arrived, having come by car from Much Benham, two miles away.

All that I can say of Inspector Slack is that never did a man more determinedly strive to contradict his name. He was a dark man, restless and energetic in manner, with black eyes that snapped ceaselessly. His manner was rude and overbearing in the extreme.

He acknowledged our greetings with a curt nod, seized his subordinateâs notebook, perused it, exchanged a few curt words with him in an undertone, then strode over to the body.

âEverythingâs been messed up and pulled about, I suppose,â he said.

âIâve touched nothing,â said Haydock.

âNo more have I,â I said.

The Inspector busied himself for some time peering at the things on the table and examining the pool of blood.

âAh!â he said in a tone of triumph. âHereâs what we want. Clock overturned when he fell forward. Thatâll give us the time of the crime. Twenty-two minutes past six. What time did you say death occurred, doctor?â

âI said about half an hour, butââ

The Inspector consulted his watch.

âFive minutes past seven. I got word about ten minutes ago, at five minutes to seven. Discovery of the body was at about a quarter to seven. I understand you were fetched immediately. Say you examined it at ten minutes toâWhy, that brings it to the identical second almost!â

âI donât guarantee the time absolutely,â said Haydock. âThat is an approximate estimate.â

âGood enough, sir, good enough.â

I had been trying to get a word in.

âAbout the clockââ

âIf youâll excuse me, sir, Iâll ask you any questions I want to know. Timeâs short. What I want is absolute silence.â

âYes, but Iâd like to tell youââ

âAbsolute silence,â said the Inspector, glaring at me ferociously. I gave him what he asked for.

He was still peering about the writing table.

âWhat was he sitting here for?â he grunted. âDid he want to write a noteâHalloâwhatâs this?â

He held up a piece of notepaper triumphantly. So pleased was he with his find that he permitted us to come to his side and examine it with him.

It was a piece of Vicarage notepaper, and it was headed at the top 6:20.

âDear Clementââit beganââSorry I cannot wait any longer, but I mustâ¦.â

Here the writing tailed off in a scrawl.

âPlain as a pikestaff,â said Inspector Slack triumphantly. âHe sits down here to write this, an enemy comes softly in through the window and shoots him as he writes. What more do you want?â

âIâd just like to sayââ I began.

âOut of the way, if you please, sir. I want to see if there are footprints.â

He went down on his hands and knees, moving towards the open window.

âI think you ought to knowââ I said obstinately.

The Inspector rose. He spoke without heat, but firmly.

âWeâll go into all that later. Iâd be obliged if you gentlemen will clear out of here. Right out, if you please.â

We permitted ourselves to be shooed out like children.

Hours seemed to have passedâyet it was only a quarter past seven.

âWell,â said Haydock. âThatâs that. When that conceited ass wants me, you can send him over to the surgery. So long.â

âThe mistress is back,â said Mary, making a brief appearance from the kitchen. Her eyes were round and agog with excitement. âCome in about five minutes ago.â

I found Griselda in the drawing room. She looked frightened, but excited.

I told her everything and she listened attentively.

âThe letter is headed 6:20,â I ended. âAnd the clock fell over and has stopped at 6:22.â

âYes,â said Griselda. âBut that clock, didnât you tell him that it was always kept a quarter of an hour fast?â

âNo,â I said. âI didnât. He wouldnât let me. I tried my best.â Griselda was frowning in a puzzled manner.

âBut, Len,â she said, âthat makes the whole thing perfectly extraordinary. Because when that clock said twenty past six it was really only five minutes past, and at five minutes past I donât suppose Colonel Protheroe had even arrived at the house.â

Six

We puzzled over the business of the clock for some time, but we could make nothing of it. Griselda said I ought to make another effort to tell Inspector Slack about it, but on that point I was feeling what I can only describe as âmulish.â

Inspector Slack had been abominably and most unnecessarily rude. I was looking forward to a moment when I could produce my valuable contribution and effect his discomfiture. I would then say in a tone of mild reproach:

âIf you had only listened to me, Inspector Slackâ¦.â

I expected that he would at least speak to me before he left the house, but to our surprise we learned from Mary that he had departed, having locked up the study door and issued orders that no one was to attempt to enter the room.

Griselda suggested going up to Old Hall.

âIt will be so awful for Anne Protheroeâwith the police and everything,â she said. âPerhaps I might be able to do something for her.â

I cordially approved of this plan, and Griselda set off with instructions that she was to telephone to me if she thought that I could be of any use or comfort to either of the ladies.

I now proceeded to ring up the Sunday School teachers, who were coming at 7:45 for their weekly preparation class. I thought that under the circumstances it would be better to put them off.

Dennis was the next person to arrive on the scene, having just returned from a tennis party. The fact that murder had taken place at the Vicarage seemed to afford him acute satisfaction.

âFancy being right on the spot in a murder case,â he exclaimed. âIâve always wanted to be right in the midst of one. Why have the police locked up the study? Wouldnât one of the other door keys fit it?â

I refused to allow anything of the sort to be attempted. Dennis gave in with a bad grace. After extracting every possible detail from me he went out into the garden to look for footprints, remarking cheerfully that it was lucky it was only old Protheroe, whom everyone disliked.

His cheerful callousness rather grated on me, but I reflected that I was perhaps being hard on the boy. At Dennisâs age a detective story is one of the best things in life, and to find a real detective story, complete with corpse, waiting on oneâs own front doorstep, so to speak, is bound to send a healthy-minded boy into the seventh heaven of enjoyment. Death means very little to a boy of sixteen.

Griselda came back in about an hourâs time. She had seen Anne Protheroe, having arrived just after the Inspector had broken the news to her.

On hearing that Mrs. Protheroe had last seen her husband in the village about a quarter to six, and that she had no light of any kind to throw upon the matter, he had taken his departure, explaining that he would return on the morrow for a fuller interview.

âHe was quite decent in his way,â said Griselda grudgingly.

âHow did Mrs. Protheroe take it?â I asked.

âWellâshe was very quietâbut then she always is.â

âYes,â I said. âI canât imagine Anne Protheroe going into hysterics.â

âOf course it was a great shock. You could see that. She thanked me for coming and said she was very grateful but that there was nothing I could do.â

âWhat about Lettice?â

âShe was out playing tennis somewhere. She hadnât got home yet.â There was a pause, and then Griselda said:

âYou know, Len, she was really very quietâvery queer indeed.â

âThe shock,â I suggested.

âYesâI suppose so. And yetââ Griselda furrowed her brows perplexedly. âIt wasnât like that, somehow. She didnât seem so much bowled over asâwellâterrified.â

âTerrified?â

âYesânot showing it, you know. At least not meaning to show it. But a queer, watchful look in her eyes. I wonder if she has a sort of idea who did kill him. She asked again and again if anyone were suspected.â

âDid she?â I said thoughtfully.

âYes. Of course Anneâs got marvellous self-control, but one could see that she was terribly upset. More so than I would have thought, for after all it wasnât as though she were so devoted to him. I should have said she rather disliked him, if anything.â

âDeath alters oneâs feelings sometimes,â I said.

âYes, I suppose so.â

Dennis came in and was full of excitement over a footprint he had found in one of the flower beds. He was sure that the police had overlooked it and that it would turn out to be the turning point of the mystery.

I spent a troubled night. Dennis was up and about and out of the house long before breakfast to âstudy the latest developments,â as he said.

Nevertheless it was not he, but Mary, who brought us the morningâs sensational bit of news.

We had just sat down to breakfast when she burst into the room, her cheeks red and her eyes shining, and addressed us with her customary lack of ceremony.

âWould you believe it? The bakerâs just told me. Theyâve arrested young Mr. Redding.â

âArrested Lawrence,â cried Griselda incredulously. âImpossible. It must be some stupid mistake.â

âNo mistake about it, mum,â said Mary with a kind of gloating exultation. âMr. Redding, he went there himself and gave himself up. Last night, last thing. Went right in, threw down the pistol on the table, and âI did it,â he says. Just like that.â

She looked at us both, nodded her head vigorously, and withdrew satisfied with the effect she had produced. Griselda and I stared at each other.

âOh! It isnât true,â said Griselda. âIt canât be true.â

She noticed my silence, and said: âLen, you donât think itâs true?â

I found it hard to answer her. I sat silent, thoughts whirling through my head.

âHe must be mad,â said Griselda. âAbsolutely mad. Or do you think they were looking at the pistol together and it suddenly went off?â

âThat doesnât sound at all a likely thing to happen.â

âBut it must have been an accident of some kind. Because thereâs not a shadow of a motive. What earthly reason could Lawrence have for killing Colonel Protheroe?â

I could have answered that question very decidedly, but I wished to spare Anne Protheroe as far as possible. There might still be a chance of keeping her name out of it.

âRemember they had had a quarrel,â I said.

âAbout Lettice and her bathing dress. Yes, but thatâs absurd; and even if he and Lettice were engaged secretlyâwell, thatâs not a reason for killing her father.â

âWe donât know what the true facts of the case may be, Griselda.â

âYou do believe it, Len! Oh! How can you! I tell you, Iâm sure Lawrence never touched a hair of his head.â

âRemember, I met him just outside the gate. He looked like a madman.â

âYes, butâoh! Itâs impossible.â

âThereâs the clock, too,â I said. âThis explains the clock. Lawrence must have put it back to 6:20 with the idea of making an alibi for himself. Look how Inspector Slack fell into the trap.â

âYouâre wrong, Len. Lawrence knew about that clock being fast. âKeeping the Vicar up to time!â he used to say. Lawrence would never have made the mistake of putting it back to 6:22. Heâd have put the hands somewhere possibleâlike a quarter to seven.â

âHe maynât have known what time Protheroe got here. Or he may have simply forgotten about the clock being fast.â

Griselda disagreed.

âNo, if you were committing a murder, youâd be awfully careful about things like that.â

âYou donât know, my dear,â I said mildly. âYouâve never done one.â

Before Griselda could reply, a shadow fell across the breakfast table, and a very gentle voice said:

âI hope I am not intruding. You must forgive me. But in the sad circumstancesâthe very sad circumstancesâ¦.â

It was our neighbour, Miss Marple. Accepting our polite disclaimers, she stepped in through the window, and I drew up a chair for her. She looked faintly flushed and quite excited.

âVery terrible, is it not? Poor Colonel Protheroe. Not a very pleasant man, perhaps, and not exactly popular, but itâs none the less sad for that. And actually shot in the Vicarage study, I understand?â

I said that that had indeed been the case.

âBut the dear Vicar was not here at the time?â Miss Marple questioned of Griselda. I explained where I had been.

âMr. Dennis is not with you this morning?â said Miss Marple, glancing round.

âDennis,â said Griselda, âfancies himself as an amateur detective. He is very excited about a footprint he found in one of the flower beds, and I fancy has gone off to tell the police about it.â

âDear, dear,â said Miss Marple. âSuch a to-do, is it not? And Mr. Dennis thinks he knows who committed the crime. Well, I suppose we all think we know.â

âYou mean it is obvious?â said Griselda.

âNo, dear, I didnât mean that at all. I dare say everyone thinks it is somebody different. That is why it is so important to have proofs. I, for instance, am quite convinced I know who did it. But I must admit I havenât one shadow of proof. One must, I know, be very careful of what one says at a time like thisâcriminal libel, donât they call it? I had made up my mind to be most careful with Inspector Slack. He sent word he would come and see me this morning, but now he has just phoned up to say it wonât be necessary after all.â

âI suppose, since the arrest, it isnât necessary,â I said.

âThe arrest?â Miss Marple leaned forward, her cheeks pink with excitement. âI didnât know there had been an arrest.â

It is so seldom that Miss Marple is worse informed than we are that I had taken it for granted that she would know the latest developments.

âIt seems we have been talking at cross purposes,â I said. âYes, there has been an arrestâLawrence Redding.â

âLawrence Redding?â Miss Marple seemed very surprised. âNow I should not have thoughtââ

Griselda interrupted vehemently.

âI canât believe it even now. No, not though he has actually confessed.â

âConfessed?â said Miss Marple. âYou say he has confessed? Oh! dear, I see I have been sadly at seaâyes, sadly at sea.â

âI canât help feeling it must have been some kind of an accident,â said Griselda. âDonât you think so, Len? I mean his coming forward to give himself up looks like that.â

Miss Marple leant forward eagerly.

âHe gave himself up, you say?â

âYes.â

âOh!â said Miss Marple, with a deep sigh. âI am so gladâso very glad.â

I looked at her in some surprise.

âIt shows a true state of remorse, I suppose,â I said.

âRemorse?â Miss Marple looked very surprised. âOh, but surely, dear, dear Vicar, you donât think that he is guilty?â

It was my turn to stare.

âBut since he has confessedââ

âYes, but that just proves it, doesnât it? I mean that he had nothing to do with it.â

âNo,â I said. âI may be dense, but I canât see that it does. If you have not committed a murder, I cannot see the object of pretending you have.â

âOh, of course, thereâs a reason!â said Miss Marple. âNaturally. Thereâs always a reason, isnât there? And young men are so hot-headed and often prone to believe the worst.â

She turned to Griselda.

âDonât you agree with me, my dear?â

âIâI donât know,â said Griselda. âItâs difficult to know what to think. I canât see any reason for Lawrence behaving like a perfect idiot.â

âIf you had seen his face last nightââ I began.

âTell me,â said Miss Marple.

I described my homecoming while she listened attentively.

When I had finished she said:

âI know that I am very often rather foolish and donât take in things as I should, but I really do not see your point.

âIt seems to me that if a young man had made up his mind to the great wickedness of taking a fellow creatureâs life, he would not appear distraught about it afterwards. It would be a premeditated and cold-blooded action and though the murderer might be a little flurried and possibly might make some small mistake, I do not think it likely he would fall into a state of agitation such as you describe. It is difficult to put oneself in such a position, but I cannot imagine getting into a state like that myself.â

âWe donât know the circumstances,â I argued. âIf there was a quarrel, the shot may have been fired in a sudden gust of passion, and Lawrence might afterwards have been appalled at what he had done. Indeed, I prefer to think that this is what did actually occur.â

âI know, dear Mr. Clement, that there are many ways we prefer to look at things. But one must actually take facts as they are, must one not? And it does not seem to me that the facts bear the interpretation you put upon them. Your maid distinctly stated that Mr. Redding was only in the house a couple of minutes, not long enough, surely, for a quarrel such as you describe. And then again, I understand the Colonel was shot through the back of the head while he was writing a letterâat least that is what my maid told me.â

âQuite true,â said Griselda. âHe seems to have been writing a note to say he couldnât wait any longer. The note was dated 6:20, and the clock on the table was overturned and had stopped at 6:22, and thatâs just what has been puzzling Len and myself so frightfully.â

She explained our custom of keeping the clock a quarter of an hour fast.

âVery curious,â said Miss Marple. âVery curious indeed. But the note seems to me even more curious still. I meanââ

She stopped and looked round. Lettice Protheroe was standing outside the window. She came in, nodding to us and murmuring âMorning.â

She dropped into a chair and said, with rather more animation than usual:

âTheyâve arrested Lawrence, I hear.â

âYes,â said Griselda. âItâs been a great shock to us.â

âI never really thought anyone would murder father,â said Lettice. She was obviously taking a pride in letting no hint of distress or emotion escape her. âLots of people wanted to, Iâm sure. There are times when Iâd have liked to do it myself.â

âWonât you have something to eat or drink, Lettice?â asked Griselda.

âNo, thank you. I just drifted round to see if youâd got my beret hereâa queer little yellow one. I think I left it in the study the other day.â

âIf you did, itâs there still,â said Griselda. âMary never tidies anything.â

âIâll go and see,â said Lettice, rising. âSorry to be such a bother, but I seem to have lost everything else in the hat line.â

âIâm afraid you canât get it now,â I said. âInspector Slack has locked the room up.â

âOh, what a bore! Canât we get in through the window?â

âIâm afraid not. It is latched on the inside. Surely, Lettice, a yellow beret wonât be much good to you at present?â

âYou mean mourning and all that? I shanât bother about mourning. I think itâs an awfully archaic idea. Itâs a nuisance about Lawrenceâyes, itâs a nuisance.â

She got up and stood frowning abstractedly.

âI suppose itâs all on account of me and my bathing dress. So silly, the whole thingâ¦.â

Griselda opened her mouth to say something, but for some unexplained reason shut it again.

A curious smile came to Letticeâs lips.

âI think,â she said softly, âIâll go home and tell Anne about Lawrence being arrested.â

She went out of the window again. Griselda turned to Miss Marple. âWhy did you step on my foot?â

The old lady was smiling.

âI thought you were going to say something, my dear. And it is often so much better to let things develop on their own lines. I donât think, you know, that that child is half so vague as she pretends to be. Sheâs got a very definite idea in her head and sheâs acting upon it.â

Mary gave a loud knock on the dining room door and entered hard upon it.

âWhat is it?â said Griselda. âAnd Mary, you must remember not to knock on doors. Iâve told you about it before.â

âThought you might be busy,â said Mary. âColonel Melchettâs here. Wants to see the master.â

Colonel Melchett is Chief Constable of the county. I rose at once.

âI thought you wouldnât like my leaving him in the hall, so I put him in the drawing room,â went on Mary. âShall I clear?â

âNot yet,â said Griselda. âIâll ring.â

She turned to Miss Marple and I left the room.

Seven

Colonel Melchett is a dapper little man with a habit of snorting suddenly and unexpected. He has red hair and rather keen bright blue eyes.

âGood morning, Vicar,â he said. âNasty business, eh? Poor old Protheroe. Not that I liked him. I didnât. Nobody did, for that matter. Nasty bit of work for you, too. Hope it hasnât upset your missus?â

I said Griselda had taken it very well.

âThatâs lucky. Rotten thing to happen in oneâs house. I must say Iâm surprised at young Reddingâdoing it the way he did. No sort of consideration for anyoneâs feelings.â

A wild desire to laugh came over me, but Colonel Melchett evidently saw nothing odd in the idea of a murderer being considerate, so I held my peace.

âI must say I was rather taken aback when I heard the fellow had marched in and given himself up,â continued Colonel Melchett, dropping on to a chair.

âHow did it happen exactly?â

âLast night. About ten oâclock. Fellow rolls in, throws down a pistol, and says: âHere I am. I did it.â Just like that.â

âWhat account does he give of the business?â

âPrecious little. He was warned, of course, about making a statement. But he merely laughed. Said he came here to see youâfound Protheroe here. They had words and he shot him. Wonât say what the quarrel was about. Look here, Clementâjust between you and me, do you know anything about it? Iâve heard rumoursâabout his being forbidden the house and all that. What was itâdid he seduce the daughter, or what? We donât want to bring the girl into it more than we can help for everybodyâs sake. Was that the trouble?â

âNo,â I said. âYou can take it from me that it was something quite different, but I canât say more at the present juncture.â

He nodded and rose.

âIâm glad to know. Thereâs a lot of talk. Too many women in this part of the world. Well, I must get along. Iâve got to see Haydock. He was called out to some case or other, but he ought to be back by now. I donât mind telling you Iâm sorry about Redding. He always struck me as a decent young chap. Perhaps theyâll think out some kind of defence for him. Aftereffects of war, shell shock, or something. Especially if no very adequate motive turns up. I must be off. Like to come along?â

I said I would like to very much, and we went out together.

Haydockâs house is next door to mine. His servant said the doctor had just come in and showed us into the dining room, where Haydock was sitting down to a steaming plate of eggs and bacon. He greeted me with an amiable nod.

âSorry I had to go out. Confinement case. Iâve been up most of the night, over your business. Iâve got the bullet for you.â

He shoved a little box along the table. Melchett examined it.

âPoint two five?â

Haydock nodded.

âIâll keep the technical details for the inquest,â he said. âAll you want to know is that death was practically instantaneous. Silly young fool, what did he want to do it for? Amazing, by the way, that nobody heard the shot.â

âYes,â said Melchett, âthat surprises me.â

âThe kitchen window gives on the other side of the house,â I said. âWith the study door, the pantry door, and the kitchen door all shut, I doubt if you would hear anything, and there was no one but the maid in the house.â

âHâm,â said Melchett. âItâs odd, all the same. I wonder the old ladyâwhatâs her nameâMarple, didnât hear it. The study window was open.â

âPerhaps she did,â said Haydock.

âI donât think she did,â said I. âShe was over at the Vicarage just now and she didnât mention anything of the kind which Iâm certain she would have done if there had been anything to tell.â

âMay have heard it and paid no attention to itâthought it was a car backfiring.â

It struck me that Haydock was looking much more jovial and good-humoured this morning. He seemed like a man who was decorously trying to subdue unusually good spirits.

âOr what about a silencer?â he added. âThatâs quite likely. Nobody would hear anything then.â

Melchett shook his head.

âSlack didnât find anything of the kind, and he asked Redding, and Redding didnât seem to know what he was talking about at first and then denied point blank using anything of the kind. And I suppose one can take his word for it.â

âYes, indeed, poor devil.â

âDamned young fool,â said Colonel Melchett. âSorry, Clement. But he really is! Somehow one canât get used to thinking of him as a murderer.â

âAny motive?â asked Haydock, taking a final draught of coffee and pushing back his chair.

âHe says they quarrelled and he lost his temper and shot him.â

âHoping for manslaughter, eh?â The doctor shook his head. âThat story doesnât hold water. He stole up behind him as he was writing and shot him through the head. Precious little âquarrelâ about that.â

âAnyway, there wouldnât have been time for a quarrel,â I said, remembering Miss Marpleâs words. âTo creep up, shoot him, alter the clock hands back to 6:20, and leave again would have taken him all his time. I shall never forget his face when I met him outside the gate, or the way he said, âYou want to see Protheroeâoh, youâll see him all right!â That in itself ought to have made me suspicious of what had just taken place a few minutes before.â

Haydock stared at me.

âWhat do you meanâwhat had just taken place? When do you think Redding shot him?â

âA few minutes before I got to the house.â

The doctor shook his head.

âImpossible. Plumb impossible. Heâd been dead much longer than that.â

âBut, my dear man,â cried Colonel Melchett, âyou said yourself that half an hour was only an approximate estimate.â

âHalf an hour, thirty-five minutes, twenty-five minutes, twenty minutesâpossibly, but less, no. Why, the body would have been warm when I got to it.â

We stared at each other. Haydockâs face had changed. It had gone suddenly grey and old. I wondered at the change in him.

âBut, look here, Haydock.â The Colonel found his voice. âIf Redding admits shooting him at a quarter to sevenââ

Haydock sprang to his feet.

âI tell you itâs impossible,â he roared. âIf Redding says he killed Protheroe at a quarter to seven, then Redding lies. Hang it all, I tell you Iâm a doctor, and I know. The blood had begun to congeal.â

âIf Redding is lying,â began Melchett. He stopped, shook his head.

âWeâd better go down to the police station and see him,â he said.

Eight

We were rather silent on our way down to the police station. Haydock drew behind a little and murmured to me:

âYou know I donât like the look of this. I donât like it. Thereâs something here we donât understand.â

He looked thoroughly worried and upset.

Inspector Slack was at the police station and presently we found ourselves face to face with Lawrence Redding.

He looked pale and strained but quite composedâmarvellously so, I thought, considering the circumstances. Melchett snorted and hummed, obviously nervous.

âLook here, Redding,â he said, âI understand you made a statement to Inspector Slack here. You state you went to the Vicarage at approximately a quarter to seven, found Protheroe there, quarrelled with him, shot him, and came away. Iâm not reading it over to you, but thatâs the gist of it.â

âYes.â

âIâm going to ask a few questions. Youâve already been told that you neednât answer them unless you choose. Your solicitorââ

Lawrence interrupted.

âIâve nothing to hide. I killed Protheroe.â

âAh! wellââ Melchett snorted. âHow did you happen to have a pistol with you?â

Lawrence hesitated. âIt was in my pocket.â

âYou took it with you to the Vicarage?â

âYes.â

âWhy?â

âI always take it.â

He had hesitated again before answering, and I was absolutely sure that he was not speaking the truth.

âWhy did you put the clock back?â

âThe clock?â He seemed puzzled.

âYes, the hands pointed to 6:22.â

A look of fear sprang up in his face.

âOh! thatâyes. IâI altered it.â

Haydock spoke suddenly.

âWhere did you shoot Colonel Protheroe?â

âIn the study at the Vicarage.â

âI mean in what part of the body?â

âOh!âIâthrough the head, I think. Yes, through the head.â

âArenât you sure?â

âSince you know, I canât see why it is necessary to ask me.â

It was a feeble kind of bluster. There was some commotion outside. A constable without a helmet brought in a note.

âFor the Vicar. It says very urgent on it.â

I tore it open and read:

âPleaseâpleaseâcome to me. I donât know what to do. It is all too awful. I want to tell someone. Please come immediately, and bring anyone you like with you. Anne Protheroe.â

I gave Melchett a meaning glance. He took the hint. We all went out together. Glancing over my shoulder, I had a glimpse of Lawrence Reddingâs face. His eyes were riveted on the paper in my hand, and I have hardly ever seen such a terrible look of anguish and despair in any human beingâs face.

I remembered Anne Protheroe sitting on my sofa and saying:

âIâm a desperate woman,â and my heart grew heavy within me. I saw now the possible reason for Lawrence Reddingâs heroic self-accusation. Melchett was speaking to Slack.

âHave you got any line on Reddingâs movements earlier in the day? Thereâs some reason to think he shot Protheroe earlier than he says. Get on to it, will you?â

He turned to me and without a word I handed him Anne Protheroeâs letter. He read it and pursed up his lips in astonishment. Then he looked at me inquiringly.

âIs this what you were hinting at this morning?â

âYes. I was not sure then if it was my duty to speak. I am quite sure now.â And I told him of what I had seen that night in the studio.

The Colonel had a few words with the Inspector and then we set off for Old Hall. Dr. Haydock came with us.

A very correct butler opened the door, with just the right amount of gloom in his bearing.

âGood morning,â said Melchett. âWill you ask Mrs. Protheroeâs maid to tell her we are here and would like to see her, and then return here and answer a few questions.â

The butler hurried away and presently returned with the news that he had despatched the message.

âNow letâs hear something about yesterday,â said Colonel Melchett. âYour master was in to lunch?â

âYes, sir.â

âAnd in his usual spirits?â

âAs far as I could see, yes, sir.â

âWhat happened after that?â

âAfter luncheon Mrs. Protheroe went to lie down and the Colonel went to his study. Miss Lettice went out to a tennis party in the two-seater. Colonel and Mrs. Protheroe had tea at four thirty, in the drawing room. The car was ordered for five-thirty to take them to the village. Immediately after they had left Mr. Clement rang upââhe bowed to meââI told him they had started.â

âHâm,â said Colonel Melchett. âWhen was Mr. Redding last here?â

âOn Tuesday afternoon, sir.â

âI understand that there was a disagreement between them?â

âI believe so, sir. The Colonel gave me orders that Mr. Redding was not to be admitted in future.â

âDid you overhear the quarrel at all?â asked Colonel Melchett bluntly.

âColonel Protheroe, sir, had a very loud voice, especially when it was raised in anger. I was unable to help overhearing a few words here and there.â

âEnough to tell you the cause of the dispute?â

âI understood, sir, that it had to do with a portrait Mr. Redding had been paintingâa portrait of Miss Lettice.â

Melchett grunted.

âDid you see Mr. Redding when he left?â

âYes, sir, I let him out.â

âDid he seem angry?â

âNo, sir; if I may say so, he seemed rather amused.â

âAh! He didnât come to the house yesterday?â

âNo, sir.â

âAnyone else come?â

âNot yesterday, sir.â

âWell, the day before?â

âMr. Dennis Clement came in the afternoon. And Dr. Stone was here for some time. And there was a lady in the evening.â

âA lady?â Melchett was surprised. âWho was she?â

The butler couldnât remember her name. It was a lady he had not seen before. Yes, she had given her name, and when he told her that the family were at dinner, she had said that she would wait. So he had shown her into the little morning room.

She had asked for Colonel Protheroe, not Mrs. Protheroe. He had told the Colonel and the Colonel had gone to the morning room directly dinner was over.

How long had the lady stayed? He thought about half an hour. The Colonel himself had let her out. Ah! Yes, he remembered her name now. The lady had been a Mrs. Lestrange.

This was a surprise.

âCurious,â said Melchett. âReally very curious.â

But we pursued the matter no further, for at that moment a message came that Mrs. Protheroe would see us.

Anne was in bed. Her face was pale and her eyes very bright. There was a look on her face that puzzled meâa kind of grim determination. She spoke to me.

âThank you for coming so promptly,â she said. âI see youâve understood what I meant by bringing anyone you liked with you.â She paused.

âItâs best to get it over quickly, isnât it?â she said. She gave a queer, half-pathetic little smile. âI suppose youâre the person I ought to say it to, Colonel Melchett. You see, it was I who killed my husband.â

Colonel Melchett said gently:

âMy dear Mrs. Protheroeââ

âOh! Itâs quite true. I suppose Iâve said it rather bluntly, but I never can go into hysterics over anything. Iâve hated him for a long time, and yesterday I shot him.â

She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes.

âThatâs all. I suppose youâll arrest me and take me away. Iâll get up and dress as soon as I can. At the moment I am feeling rather sick.â

âAre you aware, Mrs. Protheroe, that Mr. Lawrence Redding has already accused himself of committing the crime?â

Anne opened her eyes and nodded brightly.

âI know. Silly boy. Heâs very much in love with me, you know. It was frightfully noble of himâbut very silly.â

âHe knew that it was you who had committed the crime?â

âYes.â

âHow did he know?â

She hesitated.

âDid you tell him?â

Still she hesitated. Then at last she seemed to make up her mind.

âYesâI told himâ¦.â

She twitched her shoulders with a movement of irritation.

âCanât you go away now? Iâve told you. I donât want to talk about it anymore.â

âWhere did you get the pistol, Mrs. Protheroe?â

âThe pistol! Oh, it was my husbandâs. I got it out of the drawer of his dressing table.â

âI see. And you took it with you to the Vicarage?â

âYes. I knew he would be thereââ

âWhat time was this?â

âIt must have been after sixâquarterâtwenty pastâsomething like that.â

âYou took the pistol meaning to shoot your husband?â

âNoâIâmeant it for myself.â

âI see. But you went to the Vicarage?â

âYes. I went along to the window. There were no voices. I looked in. I saw my husband. Something came over meâand I fired.â

âAnd then?â

âThen? Oh, then I went away.â

âAnd told Mr. Redding what you had done?â

Again I noticed the hesitation in her voice before she said âYes.â

âDid anybody see you entering or leaving the Vicarage?â

âNoâat least, yes. Old Miss Marple. I talked to her for a few minutes. She was in her garden.â

She moved restlessly on the pillows.

âIsnât that enough? Iâve told you. Why do you want to go on bothering me?â

Dr. Haydock moved to her side and felt her pulse.

He beckoned to Melchett.

âIâll stay with her,â he said in a whisper, âwhilst you make the necessary arrangements. She oughtnât to be left. Might do herself a mischief.â

Melchett nodded.

We left the room and descended the stairs. I saw a thin, cadaverous-looking man come out of the adjoining room and on impulse I remounted the stairs.

âAre you Colonel Protheroeâs valet?â

The man looked surprised. âYes, sir.â

âDo you know whether your late master kept a pistol anywhere?â

âNot that I know of, sir.â

âNot in one of the drawers of his dressing table? Think, man.â

The valet shook his head decisively.

âIâm quite sure he didnât, sir. Iâd have seen it if so. Bound to.â

I hurried down the stairs after the others.

Mrs. Protheroe had lied about the pistol.

Why?

Nine

After leaving a message at the police station, the Chief Constable announced his intention of paying a visit to Miss Marple.

âYouâd better come with me, Vicar,â he said. âI donât want to give a member of your flock hysterics. So lend the weight of your soothing presence.â

I smiled. For all her fragile appearance, Miss Marple is capable of holding her own with any policeman or Chief Constable in existence.

âWhatâs she like?â asked the Colonel, as we rang the bell. âAnything she says to be depended upon or otherwise?â

I considered the matter.

âI think she is quite dependable,â I said cautiously. âThat is, in so far as she is talking of what she has actually seen. Beyond that, of course, when you get on to what she thinksâwell, that is another matter. She has a powerful imagination and systematically thinks the worst of everyone.â

âThe typical elderly spinster, in fact,â said Melchett, with a laugh. âWell, I ought to know the breed by now. Gad, the tea parties down here!â

We were admitted by a very diminutive maid and shown into a small drawing room.

âA bit crowded,â said Colonel Melchett, looking round. âBut plenty of good stuff. A ladyâs room, eh, Clement?â

I agreed, and at that moment the door opened and Miss Marple made her appearance.

âVery sorry to bother you, Miss Marple,â said the Colonel, when I had introduced him, putting on his bluff military manner which he had an idea was attractive to elderly ladies. âGot to do my duty, you know.â

âOf course, of course,â said Miss Marple. âI quite understand. Wonât you sit down? And might I offer you a little glass of cherry brandy? My own making. A recipe of my grandmotherâs.â

âThank you very much, Miss Marple. Very kind of you. But I think I wonât. Nothing till lunch time, thatâs my motto. Now, I want to talk to you about this sad businessâvery sad business indeed. Upset us all, Iâm sure. Well, it seems possible that owing to the position of your house and garden, you may have been able to tell us something we want to know about yesterday evening.â

âAs a matter of fact, I was in my little garden from five oâclock onwards yesterday, and, of course, from thereâwell, one simply cannot help seeing anything that is going on next door.â

âI understand, Miss Marple, that Mrs. Protheroe passed this way yesterday evening?â

âYes, she did. I called out to her, and she admired my roses.â

âCould you tell us about what time that was?â

âI should say it was just a minute or two after a quarter past six. Yes, thatâs right. The church clock had just chimed the quarter.â

âVery good. What happened next?â

âWell, Mrs. Protheroe said she was calling for her husband at the Vicarage so that they could go home together. She had come along the lane, you understand, and she went into the Vicarage by the back gate and across the garden.â

âShe came from the lane?â

âYes, Iâll show you.â

Full of eagerness, Miss Marple led us out into the garden and pointed out the lane that ran along by the bottom of the garden.

âThe path opposite with the stile leads to the Hall,â she explained. âThat was the way they were going home together. Mrs. Protheroe came from the village.â

âPerfectly, perfectly,â said Colonel Melchett. âAnd she went across to the Vicarage, you say?â

âYes. I saw her turn the corner of the house. I suppose the Colonel wasnât there yet, because she came back almost immediately, and went down the lawn to the studioâthat building there. The one the Vicar lets Mr. Redding use as a studio.â

âI see. Andâyou didnât hear a shot, Miss Marple?â

âI didnât hear a shot then,â said Miss Marple.

âBut you did hear one sometime?â

âYes, I think there was a shot somewhere in the woods. But quite five or ten minutes afterwardsâand, as I say, out in the woods. At least, I think so. It couldnât have beenâsurely it couldnât have beenââ

She stopped, pale with excitement.

âYes, yes, weâll come to all that presently,â said Colonel Melchett. âPlease go on with your story. Mrs. Protheroe went down to the studio?â

âYes, she went inside and waited. Presently Mr. Redding came along the lane from the village. He came to the Vicarage gate, looked all roundââ

âAnd saw you, Miss Marple.â

âAs a matter of fact, he didnât see me,â said Miss Marple, flushing slightly. âBecause, you see, just at that minute I was bending right overâtrying to get up one of those nasty dandelions, you know. So difficult. And then he went through the gate and down to the studio.â

âHe didnât go near the house?â

âOh, no! He went straight to the studio. Mrs. Protheroe came to the door to meet him, and then they both went inside.â

Here Miss Marple contributed a singularly eloquent pause.

âPerhaps she was sitting for him?â I suggested.

âPerhaps,â said Miss Marple.

âAnd they came outâwhen?â

âAbout ten minutes later.â

âThat was roughly?â

âThe church clock had chimed the half hour. They strolled out through the garden gate and along the lane, and just at that minute, Dr. Stone came down the path leading to the Hall, and climbed over the stile and joined them. They all walked towards the village together. At the end of the lane, I think, but I canât be quite sure, they were joined by Miss Cram. I think it must have been Miss Cram because her skirts were so short.â

âYou must have very good eyesight, Miss Marple, if you can observe as far as that.â

âI was observing a bird,â said Miss Marple. âA golden crested wren, I think he was. A sweet little fellow. I had my glasses out, and thatâs how I happened to see Miss Cram (if it was Miss Cram, and I think so), join them.â

âAh! Well, that may be so,â said Colonel Melchett. âNow, since you seem very good at observing, did you happen to notice, Miss Marple, what sort of expression Mrs. Protheroe and Mr. Redding had as they passed along the lane?â

âThey were smiling and talking,â said Miss Marple. âThey seemed very happy to be together, if you know what I mean.â

âThey didnât seem upset or disturbed in any way?â

âOh, no! Just the opposite.â

âDeuced odd,â said the Colonel. âThereâs something deuced odd about the whole thing.â

Miss Marple suddenly took our breath away by remarking in a placid voice:

âHas Mrs. Protheroe been saying that she committed the crime now?â

âUpon my soul,â said the Colonel, âhow did you come to guess that, Miss Marple?â

âWell, I rather thought it might happen,â said Miss Marple. âI think dear Lettice thought so, too. Sheâs really a very sharp girl. Not always very scrupulous, Iâm afraid. So Anne Protheroe says she killed her husband. Well, well. I donât think itâs true. No, Iâm almost sure it isnât true. Not with a woman like Anne Protheroe. Although one never can be quite sure about anyone, can one? At least thatâs what Iâve found. When does she say she shot him?â

âAt twenty minutes past six. Just after speaking to you.â

Miss Marple shook her head slowly and pityingly. The pity was, I think, for two full-grown men being so foolish as to believe such a story. At least that is what we felt like.

âWhat did she shoot him with?â

âA pistol.â

âWhere did she find it?â

âShe brought it with her.â

âWell, that she didnât do,â said Miss Marple, with unexpected decision. âI can swear to that. Sheâd no such thing with her.â

âYou mightnât have seen it.â

âOf course I should have seen it.â

âIf it had been in her handbag.â

âShe wasnât carrying a handbag.â

âWell, it might have been concealedâerâupon her person.â

Miss Marple directed a glance of sorrow and scorn upon him.

âMy dear Colonel Melchett, you know what young women are nowadays. Not ashamed to show exactly how the creator made them. She hadnât so much as a handkerchief in the top of her stocking.â

Melchett was obstinate.

âYou must admit that it all fits in,â he said. âThe time, the overturned clock pointing to 6:22ââ

Miss Marple turned on me.

âDo you mean you havenât told him about that clock yet?â

âWhat about the clock, Clement?â

I told him. He showed a good deal of annoyance.

âWhy on earth didnât you tell Slack this last night?â

âBecause,â I said, âhe wouldnât let me.â

âNonsense, you ought to have insisted.â

âProbably,â I said, âInspector Slack behaves quite differently to you than he does to me. I had no earthly chance of insisting.â

âItâs an extraordinary business altogether,â said Melchett. âIf a third person comes along and claims to have done this murder, I shall go into a lunatic asylum.â

âIf I might be allowed to suggestââ murmured Miss Marple.

âWell?â

âIf you were to tell Mr. Redding what Mrs. Protheroe has done and then explain that you donât really believe it is her. And then if you were to go to Mrs. Protheroe and tell her that Mr. Redding is all rightâwhy then, they might each of them tell you the truth. And the truth is helpful, though I dare say they donât know very much themselves, poor things.â

âItâs all very well, but they are the only two people who had a motive for making away with Protheroe.â

âOh, I wouldnât say that, Colonel Melchett,â said Miss Marple.

âWhy, can you think of anyone else?â

âOh! yes, indeed. Why,â she counted on her fingers, âone, two, three, four, five, sixâyes, and a possible seven. I can think of at least seven people who might be very glad to have Colonel Protheroe out of the way.â

The Colonel looked at her feebly.

âSeven people? In St. Mary Mead?â

Miss Marple nodded brightly.

âMind you I name no names,â she said. âThat wouldnât be right. But Iâm afraid thereâs a lot of wickedness in the world. A nice honourable upright soldier like you doesnât know about these things, Colonel Melchett.â

I thought the Chief Constable was going to have apoplexy.

Ten

His remarks on the subject of Miss Marple as we left the house were far from complimentary.

âI really believe that wizened-up old maid thinks she knows everything there is to know. And hardly been out of this village all her life. Preposterous. What can she know of life?â

I said mildly that though doubtless Miss Marple knew next to nothing of Life with a capital L, she knew practically everything that went on in St. Mary Mead.

Melchett admitted that grudgingly. She was a valuable witnessâparticularly valuable from Mrs. Protheroeâs point of view.

âI suppose thereâs no doubt about what she says, eh?â

âIf Miss Marple says she had no pistol with her, you can take it for granted that it is so,â I said. âIf there was the least possibility of such a thing, Miss Marple would have been on to it like a knife.â

âThatâs true enough. Weâd better go and have a look at the studio.â

The so-called studio was a mere rough shed with a skylight. There were no windows and the door was the only means of entrance or egress. Satisfied on this score, Melchett announced his intention of visiting the Vicarage with the Inspector.

âIâm going to the police station now.â

As I entered through the front door, a murmur of voices caught my ear. I opened the drawing room door.

On the sofa beside Griselda, conversing animatedly, sat Miss Gladys Cram. Her legs, which were encased in particularly shiny pink stockings, were crossed, and I had every opportunity of observing that she wore pink striped silk knickers.

âHullo, Len,â said Griselda.

âGood morning, Mr. Clement,â said Miss Cram. âIsnât the news about the Colonel really too awful? Poor old gentleman.â

âMiss Cram,â said my wife, âvery kindly came in to offer to help us with the Guides. We asked for helpers last Sunday, you remember.â

I did remember, and I was convinced, and so, I knew from her tone, was Griselda, that the idea of enrolling herself among them would never have occurred to Miss Cram but for the exciting incident which had taken place at the Vicarage.

âI was only just saying to Mrs. Clement,â went on Miss Cram, âyou could have struck me all of a heap when I heard the news. A murder? I said. In this quiet one-horse villageâfor quiet it is, you must admitânot so much as a picture house, and as for Talkies! And then when I heard it was Colonel Protheroeâwhy, I simply couldnât believe it. He didnât seem the kind, somehow, to get murdered.â

âAnd so,â said Griselda, âMiss Cram came round to find out all about it.â

I feared this plain speaking might offend the lady, but she merely flung her head back and laughed uproariously, showing every tooth she possessed.

âThatâs too bad. Youâre a sharp one, arenât you, Mrs. Clement? But itâs only natural, isnât it, to want to hear the ins and outs of a case like this? And Iâm sure Iâm willing enough to help with the Guides in any way you like. Exciting, thatâs what it is. Iâve been stagnating for a bit of fun. I have, really I have. Not that my job isnât a very good one, well paid, and Dr. Stone quite the gentleman in every way. But a girl wants a bit of life out of office hours, and except for you, Mrs. Clement, who is there in the place to talk to except a lot of old cats?â

âThereâs Lettice Protheroe,â I said.

Gladys Cram tossed her head.

âSheâs too high and mighty for the likes of me. Fancies herself the country, and wouldnât demean herself by noticing a girl who had to work for her living. Not but what I did hear her talking of earning her living herself. And whoâd employ her, I should like to know? Why, sheâd be fired in less than a week. Unless she went as one of those mannequins, all dressed up and sidling about. She could do that, I expect.â

âSheâd make a very good mannequin,â said Griselda. âSheâs got such a lovely figure.â Thereâs nothing of the cat about Griselda. âWhen was she talking of earning her own living?â

Miss Cram seemed momentarily discomfited, but recovered herself with her usual archness.

âThat would be telling, wouldnât it?â she said. âBut she did say so. Things not very happy at home, I fancy. Catch me living at home with a stepmother. I wouldnât sit down under it for a minute.â

âAh! but youâre so high spirited and independent,â said Griselda gravely, and I looked at her with suspicion.

Miss Cram was clearly pleased.

âThatâs right. Thatâs me all over. Can be led, not driven. A palmist told me that not so very long ago. No. Iâm not one to sit down and be bullied. And Iâve made it clear all along to Dr. Stone that I must have my regular times off. These scientific gentlemen, they think a girlâs a kind of machineâhalf the time they just donât notice her or remember sheâs there. Of course, I donât know much about it,â confessed the girl.

âDo you find Dr. Stone pleasant to work with? It must be an interesting job if you are interested in archaeology.â

âIt still seems to me that digging up people that are dead and have been dead for hundreds of years isnâtâwell, it seems a bit nosy, doesnât it? And thereâs Dr. Stone so wrapped up in it all, that half the time heâd forget his meals if it wasnât for me.â

âIs he at the barrow this morning?â asked Griselda.

Miss Cram shook her head.

âA bit under the weather this morning,â she explained. âNot up to doing any work. That means a holiday for little Gladys.â

âIâm sorry,â I said.

âOh! Itâs nothing much. Thereâs not going to be a second death. But do tell me, Mr. Clement, I hear youâve been with the police all morning. What do they think?â

âWell,â I said slowly, âthere is still a littleâuncertainty.â

âAh!â cried Miss Cram. âThen they donât think it is Mr. Lawrence Redding after all. So handsome, isnât he? Just like a movie star. And such a nice smile when he says good morning to you. I really couldnât believe my ears when I heard the police had arrested him. Still, one has always heard theyâre very stupidâthe county police.â

âYou can hardly blame them in this instance,â I said. âMr. Redding came in and gave himself up.â

âWhat?â the girl was clearly dumbfounded. âWellâof all the poor fish! If Iâd committed a murder, I wouldnât go straight off and give myself up. I should have thought Lawrence Redding would have had more sense. To give in like that! What did he kill Protheroe for? Did he say? Was it just a quarrel?â

âItâs not absolutely certain that he did kill him,â I said.

âBut surelyâif he says he hasâwhy really, Mr. Clement, he ought to know.â

âHe ought to, certainly,â I agreed. âBut the police are not satisfied with his story.â

âBut why should he say heâd done it if he hasnât?â

That was a point on which I had no intention of enlightening Miss Cram. Instead I said rather vaguely:

âI believe that in all prominent murder cases, the police receive numerous letters from people accusing themselves of the crime.â

Miss Cramâs reception of this piece of information was:

âThey must be chumps!â in a tone of wonder and scorn.

âWell,â she said with a sigh, âI suppose I must be trotting along.â She rose. âMr. Redding accusing himself of the murder will be a bit of news of Dr. Stone.â

âIs he interested?â asked Griselda.

Miss Cram furrowed her brows perplexedly.

âHeâs a queer one. You never can tell with him. All wrapped up in the past. Heâd a hundred times rather look at a nasty old bronze knife out of those humps of ground than he would see the knife Crippen cut up his wife with, supposing he had a chance to.â

âWell,â I said, âI must confess I agree with him.â

Miss Cramâs eyes expressed incomprehension and slight contempt. Then, with reiterated good-byes, she took her departure.

âNot such a bad sort, really,â said Griselda, as the door closed behind her. âTerribly common, of course, but one of those big, bouncing, good-humoured girls that you canât dislike. I wonder what really brought her here?â

âCuriosity.â

âYes, I suppose so. Now, Len, tell me all about it. Iâm simply dying to hear.â

I sat down and recited faithfully all the happenings of the morning, Griselda interpolating the narrative with little exclamations of surprise and interest.

âSo it was Anne Lawrence was after all along! Not Lettice. How blind weâve all been! That must have been what old Miss Marple was hinting at yesterday. Donât you think so?â

âYes,â I said, averting my eyes.

Mary entered.

âThereâs a couple of men hereâcome from a newspaper, so they say. Do you want to see them?â

âNo,â I said, âcertainly not. Refer them to Inspector Slack at the police station.â

Mary nodded and turned away.

âAnd when youâve got rid of them,â I said, âcome back here. Thereâs something I want to ask you.â

Mary nodded again.

It was some few minutes before she returned.

âHad a job getting rid of them,â she said. âPersistent. You never saw anything like it. Wouldnât take no for an answer.â

âI expect we shall be a good deal troubled with them,â I said. âNow, Mary, what I want to ask you is this: Are you quite certain you didnât hear the shot yesterday evening?â

âThe shot what killed him? No, of course I didnât. If I had of done, I should have gone in to see what had happened.â

âYes, butââ I was remembering Miss Marpleâs statement that she had heard a shot âin the woods.â I changed the form of my question. âDid you hear any other shotâone down in the wood, for instance?â

âOh! That.â The girl paused. âYes, now I come to think of it, I believe I did. Not a lot of shots, just one. Queer sort of bang it was.â

âExactly,â I said. âNow what time was that?â

âTime?â

âYes, time.â

âI couldnât say, Iâm sure. Well after teatime. I do know that.â

âCanât you get a little nearer than that?â

âNo, I canât. Iâve got my work to do, havenât I? I canât go on looking at clocks the whole timeâand it wouldnât be much good anywayâthe alarm loses a good three-quarters every day, and what with putting it on and one thing and another, Iâm never exactly sure what time it is.â

This perhaps explains why our meals are never punctual. They are sometimes too late and sometimes bewilderingly early.

âWas it long before Mr. Redding came?â

âNo, it wasnât long. Ten minutesâa quarter of an hourânot longer than that.â

I nodded my head, satisfied.

âIs that all?â said Mary. âBecause what I mean to say is, Iâve got the joint in the oven and the pudding boiling over as likely as not.â

âThatâs all right. You can go.â

She left the room, and I turned to Griselda.

âIs it quite out of the question to induce Mary to say sir or maâam?â

âI have told her. She doesnât remember. Sheâs just a raw girl, remember?â

âI am perfectly aware of that,â I said. âBut raw things do not necessarily remain raw for ever. I feel a tinge of cooking might be induced in Mary.â

âWell, I donât agree with you,â said Griselda. âYou know how little we can afford to pay a servant. If once we got her smartened up at all, sheâd leave. Naturally. And get higher wages. But as long as Mary canât cook and has those awful mannersâwell, weâre safe, nobody else would have her.â

I perceived that my wifeâs methods of housekeeping were not so entirely haphazard as I had imagined. A certain amount of reasoning underlay them. Whether it was worthwhile having a maid at the price of her not being able to cook, and having a habit of throwing dishes and remarks at one with the same disconcerting abruptness, was a debatable matter.

âAnd anyway,â continued Griselda, âyou must make allowances for her manners being worse than usual just now. You canât expect her to feel exactly sympathetic about Colonel Protheroeâs death when he jailed her young man.â

âDid he jail her young man?â

âYes, for poaching. You know, that man, Archer. Mary has been walking out with him for two years.â

âI didnât know that.â

âDarling Len, you never know anything.â

âItâs queer,â I said, âthat everyone says the shot came from the woods.â

âI donât think itâs queer at all,â said Griselda. âYou see, one so often hears shots in the wood. So naturally, when you do hear a shot, you just assume as a matter of course that it is in the wood. It probably just sounds a bit louder than usual. Of course, if one were in the next room, youâd realize that it was in the house, but from Maryâs kitchen with the window right the other side of the house, I donât believe youâd ever think of such a thing.â

The door opened again.

âColonel Melchettâs back,â said Mary. âAnd that police inspector with him, and they say theyâd be glad if youâd join them. Theyâre in the study.â

Eleven

I saw at a glance that Colonel Melchett and Inspector Slack had not been seeing eye to eye about the case. Melchett looked flushed and annoyed and the Inspector looked sulky.

âIâm sorry to say,â said Melchett, âthat Inspector Slack doesnât agree with me in considering young Redding innocent.â

âIf he didnât do it, what does he go and say he did it for?â asked Slack sceptically.

âMrs. Protheroe acted in an exactly similar fashion, remember, Slack.â

âThatâs different. Sheâs a woman, and women act in that silly way. Iâm not saying she did it for a moment. She heard he was accused and she trumped up a story. Iâm used to that sort of game. You wouldnât believe the fool things Iâve known women do. But Reddingâs different. Heâs got his head screwed on all right. And if he admits he did it, well, I say he did do it. Itâs his pistolâyou canât get away from that. And thanks to this business of Mrs. Protheroe, we know the motive. That was the weak point before, but now we know itâwhy, the whole thingâs plain sailing.â

âYou think he can have shot him earlier? At six thirty, say?â

âHe canât have done that.â

âYouâve checked up his movements?â

The Inspector nodded.

âHe was in the village near the Blue Boar at ten past six. From there he came along the back lane where you say the old lady next door saw himâshe doesnât miss much, I should sayâand kept his appointment with Mrs. Protheroe in the studio in the garden. They left there together just after six thirty, and went along the lane to the village, being joined by Dr. Stone. He corroborates that all rightâIâve seen him. They all stood talking just by the post office for a few minutes, then Mrs. Protheroe went into Miss Hartnellâs to borrow a gardening magazine. Thatâs all right too. Iâve seen Miss Hartnell. Mrs. Protheroe remained there talking to her till just on seven oâclock when she exclaimed at the lateness of the hour and said she must get home.â

âWhat was her manner?â

âVery easy and pleasant, Miss Hartnell said. She seemed in good spiritsâMiss Hartnell is quite sure there was nothing on her mind.â

âWell, go on.â

âRedding, he went with Dr. Stone to the Blue Boar and they had a drink together. He left there at twenty minutes to seven, went rapidly along the village street and down the road to the Vicarage. Lots of people saw him.â

âNot down the back lane this time?â commented the Colonel.

âNoâhe came to the front, asked for the Vicar, heard Colonel Protheroe was there, went inâand shot himâjust as he said he did! Thatâs the truth of it, and we neednât look further.â

Melchett shook his head.

âThereâs the doctorâs evidence. You canât get away from that. Protheroe was shot not later than six thirty.â

âOh, doctors!â Inspector Slack looked contemptuous. âIf youâre going to believe doctors. Take out all your teethâthatâs what they do nowadaysâand then say theyâre very sorry, but all the time it was appendicitis. Doctors!â

âThis isnât a question of diagnosis. Dr. Haydock was absolutely positive on the point. You canât go against the medical evidence, Slack.â

âAnd thereâs my evidence for what it is worth,â I said, suddenly recalling a forgotten incident. âI touched the body and it was cold. That I can swear to.â

âYou see, Slack?â said Melchett.

âWell, of course, if thatâs so. But there it wasâa beautiful case. Mr. Redding only too anxious to be hanged, so to speak.â

âThat, in itself, strikes me as a little unnatural,â observed Colonel Melchett.

âWell, thereâs no accounting for tastes,â said the Inspector. âThereâs a lot of gentlemen went a bit balmy after the war. Now, I suppose, it means starting again at the beginning.â He turned on me. âWhy you went out of your way to mislead me about the clock, sir, I canât think. Obstructing the ends of justice, thatâs what that was.â

âI tried to tell you on three separate occasions,â I said. âAnd each time you shut me up and refused to listen.â

âThatâs just a way of speaking, sir. You could have told me perfectly well if you had had a mind to. The clock and the note seemed to tally perfectly. Now, according to you, the clock was all wrong. I never knew such a case. Whatâs the sense of keeping a clock a quarter of an hour fast anyway?â

âIt is supposed,â I said, âto induce punctuality.â

âI donât think we need go further into that now, Inspector,â said Colonel Melchett tactfully. âWhat we want now is the true story from both Mrs. Protheroe and young Redding. I telephoned to Haydock and asked him to bring Mrs. Protheroe over here with him. They ought to be here in about a quarter of an hour. I think it would be as well to have Redding here first.â

âIâll get on to the station,â said Inspector Slack, and took up the telephone.

âAnd now,â he said, replacing the receiver, âweâll get to work on this room.â He looked at me in a meaningful fashion.

âPerhaps,â I said, âyouâd like me out of the way.â

The Inspector immediately opened the door for me. Melchett called out:

âCome back when young Redding arrives, will you, Vicar? Youâre a friend of his and you may have sufficient influence to persuade him to speak the truth.â

I found my wife and Miss Marple with their heads together.

âWeâve been discussing all sorts of possibilities,â said Griselda. âI wish youâd solve the case, Miss Marple, like you did the time Miss Wetherbyâs gill of picked shrimps disappeared. And all because it reminded you of something quite different about a sack of coals.â

âYouâre laughing, my dear,â said Miss Marple, âbut after all, that is a very sound way of arriving at the truth. Itâs really what people call intuition and make such a fuss about. Intuition is like reading a word without having to spell it out. A child canât do that because it has had so little experience. But a grown-up person knows the word because theyâve seen it often before. You catch my meaning, Vicar?â

âYes,â I said slowly, âI think I do. You mean that if a thing reminds you of something elseâwell, itâs probably the same kind of thing.â

âExactly.â

âAnd what precisely does the murder of Colonel Protheroe remind you of?â

Miss Marple sighed.

âThat is just the difficulty. So many parallels come to the mind. For instance, there was Major Hargreaves, a churchwarden and a man highly respected in every way. And all the time he was keeping a separate second establishmentâa former housemaid, just think of it! And five childrenâactually five childrenâa terrible shock to his wife and daughter.â

I tried hard to visualize Colonel Protheroe in the rÃ´le of secret sinner and failed.

âAnd then there was that laundry business,â went on Miss Marple. âMiss Hartnellâs opal pinâleft most imprudently in a frilled blouse and sent to the laundry. And the woman who took it didnât want it in the least and wasnât by any means a thief. She simply hid it in another womanâs house and told the police sheâd seen this other woman take it. Spite, you know, sheer spite. Itâs an astonishing motiveâspite. A man in it, of course. There always is.â

This time I failed to see any parallel, however remote.

âAnd then there was poor Elwellâs daughterâsuch a pretty ethereal girlâtried to stifle her little brother. And there was the money for the Choir Boysâ Outing (before your time, Vicar) actually taken by the organist. His wife was sadly in debt. Yes, this case makes one think so many thingsâtoo many. Itâs very hard to arrive at the truth.â

âI wish you would tell me,â I said, âwho were the seven suspects?â

âThe seven suspects?â

âYou said you could think of seven people who wouldâwell, be glad of Colonel Protheroeâs death.â

âDid I? Yes, I remember I did.â

âWas that true?â

âOh! Certainly it was true. But I mustnât mention names. You can think of them quite easily yourself. I am sure.â

âIndeed I canât. There is Lettice Protheroe, I suppose, since she probably comes into money on her fatherâs death. But it is absurd to think of her in such a connection, and outside her I can think of nobody.â

âAnd you, my dear?â said Miss Marple, turning to Griselda.

Rather to my surprise Griselda coloured up. Something very like tears started into her eyes. She clenched both her small hands.

âOh!â she cried indignantly. âPeople are hatefulâhateful. The things they say! The beastly things they sayâ¦.â

I looked at her curiously. It is very unlike Griselda to be so upset. She noticed my glance and tried to smile.

âDonât look at me as though I were an interesting specimen you didnât understand, Len. Donât letâs get heated and wander from the point. I donât believe that it was Lawrence or Anne, and Lettice is out of the question. There must be some clue or other that would help us.â

âThere is the note, of course,â said Miss Marple. âYou will remember my saying this morning that that struck me as exceedingly peculiar.â

âIt seems to fix the time of his death with remarkable accuracy,â I said. âAnd yet, is that possible? Mrs. Protheroe would only have just left the study. She would hardly have had time to reach the studio. The only way in which I can account for it is that he consulted his own watch and that his watch was slow. That seems to me a feasible solution.â

âI have another idea,â said Griselda. âSuppose, Len, that the clock had already been put backâno, that comes to the same thingâhow stupid of me!â

âIt hadnât been altered when I left,â I said. âI remember comparing it with my watch. Still, as you say, that has no bearing on the present matter.â

âWhat do you think, Miss Marple?â asked Griselda.

âMy dear, I confess I wasnât thinking about it from that point of view at all. What strikes me as so curious, and has done from the first, is the subject matter of that letter.â

âI donât see that,â I said. âColonel Protheroe merely wrote that he couldnât wait any longerââ

âAt twenty minutes past six?â said Miss Marple. âYour maid, Mary, had already told him that you wouldnât be in till half past six at the earliest, and he appeared to be quite willing to wait until then. And yet at twenty past six he sits down and says he âcanât wait any longer.ââ

I stared at the old lady, feeling an increased respect for her mental powers. Her keen wits had seen what we had failed to perceive. It was an odd thingâa very odd thing.

âIf only,â I said, âthe letter hadnât been datedââ

Miss Marple nodded her head.

âExactly,â she said. âIf it hadnât been dated!â

I cast my mind back, trying to recall that sheet of notepaper and the blurred scrawl, and at the top that neatly printed 6:20. Surely these figures were on a different scale to the rest of the letter. I gave a gasp.

âSupposing,â I said, âit wasnât dated. Supposing that round about 6:30 Colonel Protheroe got impatient and sat down to say he couldnât wait any longer. And as he was sitting there writing, someone came in through the windowââ

âOr through the door,â suggested Griselda.

âHeâd hear the door and look up.â

âColonel Protheroe was rather deaf, you remember,â said Miss Marple.

âYes, thatâs true. He wouldnât hear it. Whichever way the murderer came, he stole up behind the Colonel and shot him. Then he saw the note and the clock and the idea came to him. He put 6:20 at the top of the letter and he altered the clock to 6:22. It was a clever idea. It gave him, or so he would think, a perfect alibi.â

âAnd what we want to find,â said Griselda, âis someone who has a cast-iron alibi for 6:20, but no alibi at all forâwell, that isnât so easy. One canât fix the time.â

âWe can fix it within very narrow limits,â I said. âHaydock places 6:30 as the outside limit of time. I suppose one could perhaps shift it to 6:35 from the reasoning we have just been following out, it seems clear that Protheroe would not have got impatient before 6:30. I think we can say we do know pretty well.â

âThen that shot I heardâyes, I suppose it is quite possible. And I thought nothing about itânothing at all. Most vexing. And yet, now I try to recollect, it does seem to me that it was different from the usual sort of shot one hears. Yes, there was a difference.â

âLouder?â I suggested.

No, Miss Marple didnât think it had been louder. In fact, she found it hard to say in what way it had been different, but she still insisted that it was.

I thought she was probably persuading herself of the fact rather than actually remembering it, but she had just contributed such a valuable new outlook to the problem that I felt highly respectful towards her.

She rose, murmuring that she must really get backâit had been so tempting just to run over and discuss the case with dear Griselda. I escorted her to the boundary wall and the back gate and returned to find Griselda wrapped in thought.

âStill puzzling over that note?â I asked.

âNo.â

She gave a sudden shiver and shook her shoulders impatiently.

âLen, Iâve been thinking. How badly someone must have hated Anne Protheroe!â

âHated her?â

âYes. Donât you see? Thereâs no real evidence against Lawrenceâall the evidence against him is what you might call accidental. He just happens to take it into his head to come here. If he hadnâtâwell, no one would have thought of connecting him with the crime. But Anne is different. Suppose someone knew that she was here at exactly 6:20âthe clock and the time on the letterâeverything pointing to her. I donât think it was only because of an alibi it was moved to that exact timeâI think there was more in it than thatâa direct attempt to fasten the business on her. If it hadnât been for Miss Marple saying she hadnât got the pistol with her and noticing that she was only a moment before going down to the studioâYes, if it hadnât been for that â¦â She shivered again. âLen, I feel that someone hated Anne Protheroe very much. IâI donât like it.â

Twelve

I was summoned to the study when Lawrence Redding arrived. He looked haggard, and, I thought, suspicious. Colonel Melchett greeted him with something approaching cordiality.

âWe want to ask you a few questionsâhere, on the spot,â he said.

Lawrence sneered slightly.

âIsnât that a French idea? Reconstruction of the crime?â

âMy dear boy,â said Colonel Melchett, âdonât take that tone with us. Are you aware that someone else has also confessed to committing the crime which you pretend to have committed?â

The effect of these words on Lawrence was painful and immediate.

âS-s-omeone else?â he stammered. âWhoâwho?â

âMrs. Protheroe,â said Colonel Melchett, watching him.

âAbsurd. She never did it. She couldnât have. Itâs impossible.â

Melchett interrupted him.

âStrangely enough, we did not believe her story. Neither, I may say, do we believe yours. Dr. Haydock says positively that the murder could not have been committed at the time you say it was.â

âDr. Haydock says that?â

âYes, so, you see, you are cleared whether you like it or not. And now we want you to help us, to tell us exactly what occurred.â

Lawrence still hesitated.

âYouâre not deceiving me aboutâabout Mrs. Protheroe? You really donât suspect her?â

âOn my word of honour,â said Colonel Melchett.

Lawrence drew a deep breath.

âIâve been a fool,â he said. âAn absolute fool. How could I have thought for one minute that she did itââ

âSuppose you tell us all about it?â suggested the Chief Constable.

âThereâs not much to tell. IâI met Mrs. Protheroe that afternoonââ He paused.

âWe know all about that,â said Melchett. âYou may think that your feeling for Mrs. Protheroe and hers for you was a dead secret, but in reality it was known and commented upon. In any case, everything is bound to come out now.â

âVery well, then. I expect you are right. I had promised the Vicar here (he glanced at me) toâto go right away. I met Mrs. Protheroe that evening in the studio at a quarter past six. I told her of what I had decided. She, too, agreed that it was the only thing to do. Weâwe said good-bye to each other.

âWe left the studio, and almost at once Dr. Stone joined us. Anne managed to seem marvellously natural. I couldnât do it. I went off with Stone to the Blue Boar and had a drink. Then I thought Iâd go home, but when I got to the corner of this road, I changed my mind and decided to come along and see the Vicar. I felt I wanted someone to talk to about the matter.

âAt the door, the maid told me the Vicar was out, but would be in shortly, but that Colonel Protheroe was in the study waiting for him. Well, I didnât like to go away againâlooked as though I were shirking meeting him. So I said Iâd wait too, and I went into the study.â

He stopped.

âWell?â said Colonel Melchett.

âProtheroe was sitting at the writing tableâjust as you found him. I went up to himâtouched him. He was dead. Then I looked down and saw the pistol lying on the floor beside him. I picked it upâand at once saw that it was my pistol.

âThat gave me a turn. My pistol! And then, straightaway I leaped to one conclusion. Anne must have bagged my pistol some time or otherâmeaning it for herself if she couldnât bear things any longer. Perhaps she had had it with her today. After we parted in the village she must have come back here andâandâoh! I suppose I was mad to think of it. But thatâs what I thought. I slipped the pistol in my pocket and came away. Just outside the Vicarage gate, I met the Vicar. He said something nice and normal about seeing Protheroeâsuddenly I had a wild desire to laugh. His manner was so ordinary and everyday and there was I all strung up. I remember shouting out something absurd and seeing his face change. I was nearly off my head, I believe. I went walkingâwalkingâat last I couldnât bear it any longer. If Anne had done this ghastly thing, I was, at least, morally responsible. I went and gave myself up.â

There was a silence when he had finished. Then the Colonel said in a businesslike voice:

âI would like to ask just one or two questions. First, did you touch or move the body in any way?â

âNo, I didnât touch it at all. One could see he was dead without touching him.â

âDid you notice a note lying on the blotter half concealed by his body?â

âNo.â

âDid you interfere in any way with the clock?â

âI never touched the clock. I seem to remember a clock lying overturned on the table, but I never touched it.â

âNow as to this pistol of yours, when did you last see it?â

Lawrence Redding reflected. âItâs hard to say exactly.â

âWhere do you keep it?â

âOh, in a litter of odds and ends in the sitting room in my cottage. On one of the shelves of the bookcase.â

âYou left it lying about carelessly?â

âYes. I really didnât think about it. It was just there.â

âSo that anyone who came to your cottage could have seen it?â

âYes.â

âAnd you donât remember when you last saw it?â

Lawrence drew his brows together in a frown of recollection.

âIâm almost sure it was there the day before yesterday. I remember pushing it aside to get an old pipe. I think it was the day before yesterdayâbut it may have been the day before that.â

âWho has been to your cottage lately?â

âOh! Crowds of people. Someone is always drifting in and out. I had a sort of tea party the day before yesterday. Lettice Protheroe, Dennis, and all their crowd. And then one or other of the old Pussies comes in now and again.â

âDo you lock the cottage up when you go out?â

âNo; why on earth should I? Iâve nothing to steal. And no one does lock their house up round here.â

âWho looks after your wants there?â

âAn old Mrs. Archer comes in every morning to âdo for meâ as itâs called.â

âDo you think she would remember when the pistol was there last?â

âI donât know. She might. But I donât fancy conscientious dusting is her strong point.â

âIt comes to thisâthat almost anyone might have taken that pistol?â

âIt seems soâyes.â

The door opened and Dr. Haydock came in with Anne Protheroe.

She started at seeing Lawrence. He, on his part, made a tentative step towards her.

âForgive me, Anne,â he said. âIt was abominable of me to think what I did.â

âIââ She faltered, then looked appealingly at Colonel Melchett. âIs it true, what Dr. Haydock told me?â

âThat Mr. Redding is cleared of suspicion? Yes. And now what about this story of yours, Mrs. Protheroe? Eh, what about it?â

She smiled rather shamefacedly.

âI suppose you think it dreadful of me?â

âWell, shall we sayâvery foolish? But thatâs all over. What I want now, Mrs. Protheroe, is the truthâthe absolute truth.â

She nodded gravely.

âI will tell you. I suppose you know aboutâabout everything.â

âYes.â

âI was to meet LawrenceâMr. Reddingâthat evening at the studio. At a quarter past six. My husband and I drove into the village together. I had some shopping to do. As we parted he mentioned casually that he was going to see the Vicar. I couldnât get word to Lawrence, and I was rather uneasy. Iâwell, it was awkward meeting him in the Vicarage garden whilst my husband was at the Vicarage.â

Her cheeks burned as she said this. It was not a pleasant moment for her.

âI reflected that perhaps my husband would not stay very long. To find this out, I came along the back lane and into the garden. I hoped no one would see me, but of course old Miss Marple had to be in her garden! She stopped me and we said a few words, and I explained I was going to call for my husband. I felt I had to say something. I donât know whether she believed me or not. She looked ratherâfunny.

âWhen I left her, I went straight across to the Vicarage and round the corner of the house to the study window. I crept up to it very softly, expecting to hear the sound of voices. But to my surprise there were none. I just glanced in, saw the room was empty, and hurried across the lawn and down to the studio where Lawrence joined me almost at once.â

âYou say the room was empty, Mrs. Protheroe?â

âYes, my husband was not there.â

âExtraordinary.â

âYou mean, maâam, that you didnât see him?â said the Inspector.

âNo, I didnât see him.â

Inspector Slack whispered to the Chief Constable, who nodded.

âDo you mind, Mrs. Protheroe, just showing us exactly what you did?â

âNot at all.â

She rose, Inspector Slack pushed open the window for her, and she stepped out on the terrace and round the house to the left.

Inspector Slack beckoned me imperiously to go and sit at the writing table.

Somehow I didnât much like doing it. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling. But, of course, I complied.

Presently I heard footsteps outside, they paused for a minute, then retreated. Inspector Slack indicated to me that I could return to the other side of the room. Mrs. Protheroe reentered through the window.

âIs that exactly how it was?â asked Colonel Melchett.

âI think exactly.â

âThen can you tell us, Mrs. Protheroe, just exactly where the Vicar was in the room when you looked in?â asked Inspector Slack.

âThe Vicar? Iâno, Iâm afraid I canât. I didnât see him.â

Inspector Slack nodded.

âThatâs how you didnât see your husband. He was round the corner at the writing desk.â

âOh!â she paused. Suddenly her eyes grew round with horror. âIt wasnât there thatâthatââ

âYes, Mrs. Protheroe. It was while he was sitting there.â

âOh!â She quivered.

He went on with his questions.

âDid you know, Mrs. Protheroe, that Mr. Redding had a pistol?â

âYes. He told me so once.â

âDid you ever have that pistol in your possession?â

She shook her head. âNo.â

âDid you know where he kept it?â

âIâm not sure. I thinkâyes, I think Iâve seen it on a shelf in his cottage. Didnât you keep it there, Lawrence?â

âWhen was the last time you were at the cottage, Mrs. Protheroe?â

âOh! About three weeks ago. My husband and I had tea there with him.â

âAnd you have not been there since?â

âNo. I never went there. You see, it would probably cause a lot of talk in the village.â

âDoubtless,â said Colonel Melchett dryly. âWhere were you in the habit of seeing Mr. Redding, if I may ask?â

âHe used to come up to the Hall. He was painting Lettice. Weâwe often met in the woods afterwards.â

Colonel Melchett nodded.

âIsnât that enough?â Her voice was suddenly broken. âItâs so awfulâhaving to tell you all these things. Andâand there wasnât anything wrong about it. There wasnâtâindeed, there wasnât. We were just friends. Weâwe couldnât help caring for each other.â

She looked pleadingly at Dr. Haydock, and that softhearted man stepped forward.

âI really think, Melchett,â he said, âthat Mrs. Protheroe has had enough. Sheâs had a great shockâin more ways than one.â

The Chief Constable nodded.

âThere is really nothing more I want to ask you, Mrs. Protheroe,â he said. âThank you for answering my questions so frankly.â

âThenâthen I may go?â

âIs your wife in?â asked Haydock. âI think Mrs. Protheroe would like to see her.â

âYes,â I said, âGriselda is in. Youâll find her in the drawing room.â

She and Haydock left the room together and Lawrence Redding with them.

Colonel Melchett had pursed up his lips and was playing with a paper knife. Slack was looking at the note. It was then that I mentioned Miss Marpleâs theory. Slack looked closely at it.

âMy word,â he said, âI believe the old ladyâs right. Look here, sir, donât you see?âthese figures are written in different ink. That date was written with a fountain pen or Iâll eat my boots!â

We were all rather excited.

âYouâve examined the note for fingerprints, of course,â said the Chief Constable.

âWhat do you think, Colonel? No fingerprints on the note at all. Fingerprints on the pistol those of Mr. Lawrence Redding. May have been some others once, before he went fooling round with it and carrying it around in his pocket, but thereâs nothing clear enough to get hold of now.â

âAt first the case looked very black against Mrs. Protheroe,â said the Colonel thoughtfully. âMuch blacker than against young Redding. There was that old woman Marpleâs evidence that she didnât have the pistol with her, but these elderly ladies are often mistaken.â

I was silent, but I did not agree with him. I was quite sure that Anne Protheroe had had no pistol with her since Miss Marple had said so. Miss Marple is not the type of elderly lady who makes mistakes. She has got an uncanny knack of being always right.

âWhat did get me was that nobody heard the shot. If it was fired thenâsomebody must have heard itâwherever they thought it came from. Slack, youâd better have a word with the maid.â

Inspector Slack moved with alacrity towards the door.

âI shouldnât ask her if she heard a shot in the house,â I said. âBecause if you do, sheâll deny it. Call it a shot in the wood. Thatâs the only kind of shot sheâll admit to hearing.â

âI know how to manage them,â said Inspector Slack, and disappeared.

âMiss Marple says she heard a shot later,â said Colonel Melchett thoughtfully. âWe must see if she can fix the time at all precisely. Of course it may be a stray shot that had nothing to do with the case.â

âIt may be, of course,â I agreed.

The Colonel took a turn or two up and down the room.

âDo you know, Clement,â he said suddenly, âIâve a feeling that this is going to turn out a much more intricate and difficult business than any of us think. Dash it all, thereâs something behind it.â He snorted. âSomething we donât know about. Weâre only beginning, Clement. Mark my words, weâre only beginning. All these things, the clock, the note, the pistolâthey donât make sense as they stand.â

I shook my head. They certainly didnât.

âBut Iâm going to get to the bottom of it. No calling in of Scotland Yard. Slackâs a smart man. Heâs a very smart man. Heâs a kind of ferret. Heâll nose his way through to the truth. Heâs done several very good things already, and this case will be his chef dâoeuvre. Some men would call in Scotland Yard. I shanât. Weâll get to the bottom of this here in Downshire.â

âI hope so, Iâm sure,â I said.

I tried to make my voice enthusiastic, but I had already taken such a dislike to Inspector Slack that the prospect of his success failed to appeal to me. A successful Slack would, I thought, be even more odious than a baffled one.

âWho has the house next door?â asked the Colonel suddenly.

âYou mean at the end of the road? Mrs. Price Ridley.â

âWeâll go along to her after Slack has finished with your maid. She might just possibly have heard something. She isnât deaf or anything, is she?â

âI should say her hearing is remarkably keen. Iâm going by the amount of scandal she has started by âjust happening to overhear accidentally.ââ

âThatâs the kind of woman we want. Oh! hereâs Slack.â

The Inspector had the air of one emerging from a severe tussle.

âPhew!â he said. âThatâs a tartar youâve got, sir.â

âMary is essentially a girl of strong character,â I replied.

âDoesnât like the police,â he said. âI cautioned herâdid what I could to put the fear of the law into her, but no good. She stood right up to me.â

âSpirited,â I said, feeling more kindly towards Mary.

âBut I pinned her down all right. She heard one shotâand one shot only. And it was a good long time after Colonel Protheroe came. I couldnât get her to name a time, but we fixed it at last by means of the fish. The fish was late, and she blew the boy up when he came, and he said it was barely half past six anyway, and it was just after that she heard the shot. Of course, thatâs not accurate, so to speak, but it gives us an idea.â

âHâm,â said Melchett.

âI donât think Mrs. Protheroeâs in this after all,â said Slack, with a note of regret in his voice. âShe wouldnât have had time, to begin with, and then women never like fiddling about with firearms. Arsenicâs more in their line. No, I donât think she did it. Itâs a pity!â He sighed.

Melchett explained that he was going round to Mrs. Price Ridleyâs, and Slack approved.

âMay I come with you?â I asked. âIâm getting interested.â

I was given permission, and we set forth. A loud âHieâ greeted us as we emerged from the Vicarage gate, and my nephew, Dennis, came running up the road from the village to join us.

âLook here,â he said to the Inspector, âwhat about that footprint I told you about?â

âGardenerâs,â said Inspector Slack laconically.

âYou donât think it might be someone else wearing the gardenerâs boots?â

âNo, I donât!â said Inspector Slack in a discouraging way.

It would take more than that to discourage Dennis, however.

He held out a couple of burnt matches.

âI found these by the Vicarage gate.â

âThank you,â said Slack, and put them in his pocket.

Matters appeared now to have reached a deadlock.

âYouâre not arresting Uncle Len, are you?â inquired Dennis facetiously.

âWhy should I?â inquired Slack.

âThereâs a lot of evidence against him,â declared Dennis. âYou ask Mary. Only the day before the murder he was wishing Colonel Protheroe out of the world. Werenât you, Uncle Len?â

âErââ I began.

Inspector Slack turned a slow suspicious stare upon me, and I felt hot all over. Dennis is exceedingly tiresome. He ought to realize that a policeman seldom has a sense of humour.

âDonât be absurd, Dennis,â I said irritably.

The innocent child opened his eyes in a stare of surprise.

âI say, itâs only a joke,â he said. âUncle Len just said that any one who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world a service.â

âAh!â said Inspector Slack, âthat explains something the maid said.â

Servants very seldom have any sense of humour either. I cursed Dennis heartily in my mind for bringing the matter up. That and the clock together will make the Inspector suspicious of me for life.

âCome on, Clement,â said Colonel Melchett.

âWhere are you going? Can I come, too?â asked Dennis.

âNo, you canât,â I snapped.

We left him looking after us with a hurt expression. We went up to the neat front door of Mrs. Price Ridleyâs house and the Inspector knocked and rang in what I can only describe as an official manner. A pretty parlourmaid answered the bell.

âMrs. Price Ridley in?â inquired Melchett.

âNo, sir.â The maid paused and added: âSheâs just gone down to the police station.â

This was a totally unexpected development. As we retraced our steps Melchett caught me by the arm and murmured:

âIf sheâs gone to confess to the crime, too, I really shall go off my head.â

Thirteen

I hardly thought it likely that Mrs. Price Ridley had anything so dramatic in view, but I did wonder what had taken her to the police station. Had she really got evidence of importance, or that she thought of importance, to offer? At any rate, we should soon know.

We found Mrs. Price Ridley talking at a high rate of speed to a somewhat bewildered-looking police constable. That she was extremely indignant I knew from the way the bow in her hat was trembling. Mrs. Price Ridley wears what, I believe, are known as âHats for Matronsââthey make a speciality of them in our adjacent town of Much Benham. They perch easily on a superstructure of hair and are somewhat overweighted with large bows of ribbon. Griselda is always threatening to get a matronâs hat.

Mrs. Price Ridley paused in her flow of words upon our entrance.

âMrs. Price Ridley?â inquired Colonel Melchett, lifting his hat.

âLet me introduce Colonel Melchett to you, Mrs. Price Ridley,â I said. âColonel Melchett is our Chief Constable.â

Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me coldly, but produced the semblance of a gracious smile for the Colonel.

âWeâve just been round to your house, Mrs. Price Ridley,â explained the Colonel, âand heard you had come down here.â

Mrs. Price Ridley thawed altogether.

âAh!â she said, âIâm glad some notice is being taken of the occurrence. Disgraceful, I call it. Simply disgraceful.â

There is no doubt that murder is disgraceful, but it is not the word I should use to describe it myself. It surprised Melchett too, I could see.

âHave you any light to throw upon the matter?â he asked.

âThatâs your business. Itâs the business of the police. What do we pay rates and taxes for, I should like to know?â

One wonders how many times that query is uttered in a year!

âWeâre doing our best, Mrs. Price Ridley,â said the Chief Constable.

âBut the man here hadnât even heard of it till I told him about it!â cried the lady.

We all looked at the constable.

âLady been rung up on the telephone,â he said. âAnnoyed. Matter of obscene language, I understand.â

âOh! I see.â The Colonelâs brow cleared. âWeâve been talking at cross purposes. You came down here to make a complaint, did you?â

Melchett is a wise man. He knows that when it is a question of an irate middle-aged lady, there is only one thing to be doneâlisten to her. When she had said all that she wants to say, there is a chance that she will listen to you.

Mrs. Price Ridley surged into speech.

âSuch disgraceful occurrences ought to be prevented. They ought not to occur. To be rung up in oneâs own house and insultedâyes, insulted. Iâm not accustomed to such things happening. Ever since the war there has been a loosening of moral fibre. Nobody minds what they say, and as to the clothes they wearââ

âQuite,â said Colonel Melchett hastily. âWhat happened exactly?â

Mrs. Price Ridley took breath and started again.

âI was rung upââ

âWhen?â

âYesterday afternoonâevening to be exact. About half past six. I went to the telephone, suspecting nothing. Immediately I was foully attacked, threatenedââ

âWhat actually was said?â

Mrs. Price Ridley got slightly pink.

âThat I decline to state.â

âObscene language,â murmured the constable in a ruminative bass.

âWas bad language used?â asked Colonel Melchett.

âIt depends on what you call bad language.â

âCould you understand it?â I asked.

âOf course I could understand it.â

âThen it couldnât have been bad language,â I said.

Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me suspiciously.

âA refined lady,â I explained, âis naturally unacquainted with bad language.â

âIt wasnât that kind of thing,â said Mrs. Price Ridley. âAt first, I must admit, I was quite taken in. I thought it was a genuine message. Then theâerâperson became abusive.â

âAbusive?â

âMost abusive. I was quite alarmed.â

âUsed threatening language, eh?â

âYes. I am not accustomed to being threatened.â

âWhat did they threaten you with? Bodily damage?â

âNot exactly.â

âIâm afraid, Mrs. Price Ridley, you must be more explicit. In what way were you threatened?â

This Mrs. Price Ridley seemed singularly reluctant to answer.

âI canât remember exactly. It was all so upsetting. But right at the endâwhen I was really very upset, thisâthisâwretch laughed.â

âWas it a manâs voice or a womanâs?â

âIt was a degenerate voice,â said Mrs. Price Ridley, with dignity. âI can only describe it as a kind of perverted voice. Now gruff, now squeaky. Really a very peculiar voice.â

âProbably a practical joke,â said the Colonel soothingly.

âA most wicked thing to do, if so. I might have had a heart attack.â

âWeâll look into it,â said the Colonel; âeh, Inspector? Trace the telephone call. You canât tell me more definitely exactly what was said, Mrs. Price Ridley?â

A struggle began in Mrs. Price Ridleyâs ample black bosom. The desire for reticence fought against a desire for vengeance. Vengeance triumphed.

âThis, of course, will go no further,â she began.

âOf course not.â

âThis creature began by sayingâI can hardly bring myself to repeat itââ

âYes, yes,â said Melchett encouragingly.

ââYou are a wicked scandal-mongering old woman!â Me, Colonel Melchettâa scandal-mongering old woman. âBut this time youâve gone too far. Scotland Yard are after you for libel.ââ

âNaturally, you were alarmed,â said Melchett, biting his moustache to conceal a smile.

ââUnless you hold your tongue in future, it will be the worse for youâin more ways than one.â I canât describe to you the menacing way that was said. I gasped, âwho are you?â faintlyâlike that, and the voice answered, âThe Avenger.â I gave a little shriek. It sounded so awful, and thenâthe person laughed. Laughed! Distinctly. And that was all. I heard them hang up the receiver. Of course I asked the exchange what number had been ringing me up, but they said they didnât know. You know what exchanges are. Thoroughly rude and unsympathetic.â

âQuite,â I said.

âI felt quite faint,â continued Mrs. Price Ridley. âAll on edge and so nervous that when I heard a shot in the woods, I do declare I jumped almost out of my skin. That will show you.â

âA shot in the woods?â said Inspector Slack alertly.

âIn my excited state, it simply sounded to me like a cannon going off. âOh!â I said, and sank down on the sofa in a state of prostration. Clara had to bring me a glass of damson gin.â

âShocking,â said Melchett. âShocking. All very trying for you. And the shot sounded very loud, you say? As though it were near at hand?â

âThat was simply the state of my nerves.â

âOf course. Of course. And what time was all this? To help us in tracing the telephone call, you know.â

âAbout half past six.â

âYou canât give it us more exactly than that?â

âWell, you see, the little clock on my mantelpiece had just chimed the half hour, and I said, âSurely that clock is fast.â (It does gain, that clock.) And I compared it with the watch I was wearing and that only said ten minutes past, but then I put it to my ear and found it had stopped. So I thought: âWell, if that clock is fast, I shall hear the church tower in a moment or two.â And then, of course, the telephone bell rang, and I forgot all about it.â She paused breathless.

âWell, thatâs near enough,â said Colonel Melchett. âWeâll have it looked into for you, Mrs. Price Ridley.â

âJust think of it as a silly joke, and donât worry, Mrs. Price Ridley,â I said.

She looked at me coldly. Evidently the incident of the pound note still rankled.

âVery strange things have been happening in this village lately,â she said, addressing herself to Melchett. âVery strange things indeed. Colonel Protheroe was going to look into them, and what happened to him, poor man? Perhaps I shall be the next?â

And on that she took her departure, shaking her head with a kind of ominous melancholy. Melchett muttered under his breath: âNo such luck.â Then his face grew grave, and he looked inquiringly at Inspector Slack.

That worthy nodded his head slowly.

âThis about settles it, sir. Thatâs three people who heard the shot. Weâve got to find out now who fired it. This business of Mr. Reddingâs has delayed us. But weâve got several starting points. Thinking Mr. Redding was guilty, I didnât bother to look into them. But thatâs all changed now. And now one of the first things to do is look up that telephone call.â

âMrs. Price Ridleyâs?â

The Inspector grinned.

âNoâthough I suppose weâd better make a note of that or else we shall have the old girl bothering in here again. No, I meant that fake call that got the Vicar out of the way.â

âYes,â said Melchett, âthatâs important.â

âAnd the next thing is to find out what everyone was doing that evening between six and seven. Everyone at Old Hall, I mean, and pretty well everyone in the village as well.â

I gave a sigh.

âWhat wonderful energy you have, Inspector Slack.â

âI believe in hard work. Weâll begin by just noting down your own movements, Mr. Clement.â

âWillingly. The telephone call came through about half past five.â

âA manâs voice, or a womanâs?â

âA womanâs. At least it sounded like a womanâs. But of course I took it for granted it was Mrs. Abbott speaking.â

âYou didnât recognize it as being Mrs. Abbottâs?â

âNo, I canât say I did. I didnât notice the voice particularly or think about it.â

âAnd you started right away? Walked? Havenât you got a bicycle?â

âNo.â

âI see. So it took youâhow long?â

âItâs very nearly two miles, whichever way you go.â

âThrough Old Hall woods is the shortest way, isnât it?â

âActually, yes. But itâs not particularly good going. I went and came back by the footpath across the fields.â

âThe one that comes out opposite the Vicarage gate?â

âYes.â

âAnd Mrs. Clement?â

âMy wife was in London. She arrived back by the 6:50 train.â

âRight. The maid Iâve seen. That finishes with the Vicarage. Iâll be off to Old Hall next. And then I want an interview with Mrs. Lestrange. Queer, her going to see Protheroe the night before he was killed. A lot of queer things about this case.â

I agreed.

Glancing at the clock, I realized that it was nearly lunchtime. I invited Melchett to partake of potluck with us, but he excused himself on the plea of having to go to the Blue Boar. The Blue Boar gives you a first-rate meal of the joint and two-vegetable type. I thought his choice was a wise one. After her interview with the police, Mary would probably be feeling more temperamental than usual.

Fourteen

On my way home, I ran into Miss Hartnell and she detained me at least ten minutes, declaiming in her deep bass voice against the improvidence and ungratefulness of the lower classes. The crux of the matter seemed to be that The Poor did not want Miss Hartnell in their houses. My sympathies were entirely on their side. I am debarred by my social standing from expressing my prejudices in the forceful manner they do.

I soothed her as best I could and made my escape.

Haydock overtook me in his car at the corner of the Vicarage road. âIâve just taken Mrs. Protheroe home,â he called.

He waited for me at the gate of his house.

âCome in a minute,â he said. I complied.

âThis is an extraordinary business,â he said, as he threw his hat on a chair and opened the door into his surgery.

He sank down on a shabby leather chair and stared across the room. He looked harried and perplexed.

I told him that we had succeeded in fixing the time of the shot. He listened with an almost abstracted air.

âThat lets Anne Protheroe out,â he said. âWell, well, Iâm glad itâs neither of those two. I like âem both.â

I believed him, and yet it occurred to me to wonder why, since, as he said, he liked them both, their freedom from complicity seemed to have had the result of plunging him in gloom. This morning he had looked like a man with a weight lifted from his mind, now he looked thoroughly rattled and upset.

And yet I was convinced that he meant what he said. He was fond of both Anne Protheroe and Lawrence Redding. Why, then, this gloomy absorption? He roused himself with an effort.

âI meant to tell you about Hawes. All this business has driven him out of my mind.â

âIs he really ill?â

âThereâs nothing radically wrong with him. You know, of course, that heâs had Encephalitis Lethargica, sleepy sickness, as itâs commonly called?â

âNo,â I said, very much surprised, âI didnât know anything of the kind. He never told me anything about it. When did he have it?â

âAbout a year ago. He recovered all rightâas far as one ever recovers. Itâs a strange diseaseâhas a queer moral effect. The whole character may change after it.â

He was silent for a moment or two, and then said:

âWe think with horror now of the days when we burnt witches. I believe the day will come when we will shudder to think that we ever hanged criminals.â

âYou donât believe in capital punishment?â

âItâs not so much that.â He paused. âYou know,â he said slowly, âIâd rather have my job than yours.â

âWhy?â

âBecause your job deals very largely with what we call right and wrongâand Iâm not at all sure that thereâs any such thing. Suppose itâs all a question of glandular secretion. Too much of one gland, too little of anotherâand you get your murderer, your thief, your habitual criminal. Clement, I believe the time will come when weâll be horrified to think of the long centuries in which weâve punished people for diseaseâwhich they canât help, poor devils. You donât hang a man for having tuberculosis.â

âHe isnât dangerous to the community.â

âIn a sense he is. He infects other people. Or take a man who fancies heâs the Emperor of China. You donât say how wicked of him. I take your point about the community. The community must be protected. Shut up these people where they canât do any harmâeven put them peacefully out of the wayâyes, Iâd go as far as that. But donât call it punishment. Donât bring shame on them and their innocent families.â

I looked at him curiously.

âIâve never heard you speak like this before.â

âI donât usually air my theories abroad. Today Iâm riding my hobby. Youâre an intelligent man, Clement, which is more than some parsons are. You wonât admit, I dare say, that thereâs no such thing as what is technically termed, âSin,â but youâre broadminded enough to consider the possibility of such a thing.â

âIt strikes at the root of all accepted ideas,â he said.

âYes, weâre a narrow-minded, self-righteous lot, only too keen to judge matters we know nothing about. I honestly believe crime is a case for the doctor, not the policeman and not the parson. In the future, perhaps, there wonât be any such thing.â

âYouâll have cured it?â

âWeâll have cured it. Rather a wonderful thought. Have you ever studied the statistics of crime? Noâvery few people have. I have, though. Youâd be amazed at the amount there is of adolescent crime, glands again, you see. Young Neil, the Oxfordshire murdererâkilled five little girls before he was suspected. Nice ladânever given any trouble of any kind. Lily Rose, the little Cornish girlâkilled her uncle because he docked her of sweets. Hit him when he was asleep with a coal hammer. Went home and a fortnight later killed her elder sister who had annoyed her about some trifling matter. Neither of them hanged, of course. Sent to a home. May be all right laterâmay not. Doubt if the girl will. The only thing she cares about is seeing the pigs killed. Do you know when suicide is commonest? Fifteen to sixteen years of age. From self-murder to murder of someone else isnât a very long step. But itâs not a moral lackâitâs a physical one.â

âWhat you say is terrible!â

âNoâitâs only new to you. New truths have to be faced. Oneâs ideas adjusted. But sometimesâit makes life difficult.â

He sat there, frowning, yet with a strange look of weariness.

âHaydock,â I said, âif you suspectedâif you knewâthat a certain person was a murderer, would you give that person up to the law, or would you be tempted to shield them?â

I was quite unprepared for the effect of my question. He turned on me angrily and suspiciously.

âWhat makes you say that, Clement? Whatâs in your mind? Out with it, man.â

âWhy, nothing particular,â I said, rather taken aback. âOnlyâwell, murder is in our minds just now. If by any chance you happened to discover the truthâI wondered how you would feel about it, that was all.â

His anger died down. He stared once more straight ahead of him like a man trying to read the answer to a riddle that perplexes him, yet which exists only in his own brain.

âIf I suspectedâif I knewâI should do my duty, Clement. At least, I hope so.â

âThe question isâwhich way would you consider your duty lay?â

He looked at me with inscrutable eyes.

âThat question comes to every man some time in his life, I suppose, Clement. And every man has to decide in his own way.â

âYou donât know?â

âNo, I donât knowâ¦.â

I felt the best thing was to change the subject.

âThat nephew of mine is enjoying this case thoroughly,â I said. âSpends his entire time looking for footprints and cigarette ash.â

Haydock smiled. âWhat age is he?â

âJust sixteen. You donât take tragedies seriously at that age. Itâs all Sherlock Holmes and Arsene Lupin to you.â

Haydock said thoughtfully:

âHeâs a fine-looking boy. What are you going to do with him?â

âI canât afford a University education, Iâm afraid. The boy himself wants to go into the Merchant Service. He failed for the Navy.â

âWellâitâs a hard lifeâbut he might do worse. Yes, he might do worse.â

âI must be going,â I exclaimed, catching sight of the clock. âIâm nearly half an hour late for lunch.â

My family were just sitting down when I arrived. They demanded a full account of the morningâs activities, which I gave them, feeling, as I did so, that most of it was in the nature of an anticlimax.

Dennis, however, was highly entertained by the history of Mrs. Price Ridleyâs telephone call, and went into fits of laughter as I enlarged upon the nervous shock her system had sustained and the necessity for reviving her with damson gin.

âServe the old cat right,â he exclaimed. âSheâs got the worst tongue in the place. I wish Iâd thought of ringing her up and giving her a fright. I say, Uncle Len, what about giving her a second dose?â

I hastily begged him to do nothing of the sort. Nothing is more dangerous than the well-meant efforts of the younger generation to assist you and show their sympathy.

Dennisâs mood changed suddenly. He frowned and put on his man of the world air.

âIâve been with Lettice most of the morning,â he said. âYou know, Griselda, sheâs really very worried. She doesnât want to show it, but she is. Very worried indeed.â

âI should hope so,â said Griselda, with a toss of her head.

Griselda is not too fond of Lettice Protheroe.

âI donât think youâre ever quite fair to Lettice.â

âDonât you?â said Griselda.

âLots of people donât wear mourning.â

Griselda was silent and so was I. Dennis continued:

âShe doesnât talk to most people, but she does talk to me. Sheâs awfully worried about the whole thing, and she thinks something ought to be done about it.â

âShe will find,â I said, âthat Inspector Slack shares her opinion. He is going up to Old Hall this afternoon, and will probably make the life of everybody there quite unbearable to them in his efforts to get at the truth.â

âWhat do you think is the truth, Len?â asked my wife suddenly.

âItâs hard to say, my dear. I canât say that at the moment Iâve any idea at all.â

âDid you say that Inspector Slack was going to trace that telephone callâthe one that took you to the Abbotts?ââ

âYes.â

âBut can he do it? Isnât it a very difficult thing to do?â

âI should not imagine so. The Exchange will have a record of the calls.â

âOh!â My wife relapsed into thought.

âUncle Len,â said my nephew, âwhy were you so ratty with me this morning for joking about your wishing Colonel Protheroe to be murdered?â

âBecause,â I said, âthere is a time for everything. Inspector Slack has no sense of humour. He took your words quite seriously, will probably cross-examine Mary, and will get out a warrant for my arrest.â

âDoesnât he know when a fellowâs ragging?â

âNo,â I said, âhe does not. He has attained his present position through hard work and zealous attention to duty. That has left him no time for the minor recreations of life.â

âDo you like him, Uncle Len?â

âNo,â I said, âI do not. From the first moment I saw him I disliked him intensely. But I have no doubt that he is a highly successful man in his profession.â

âYou think heâll find out who shot old Protheroe?â

âIf he doesnât,â I said, âit will not be for the want of trying.â

Mary appeared and said:

âMr. Hawes wants to see you. Iâve put him in the drawing room, and hereâs a note. Waiting for an answer. Verbal will do.â I tore open the note and read it.

âDear Mr. Clement,âI should be so very grateful if you could come and see me this afternoon as early as possible. I am in great trouble and would like your advice.

Sincerely yours,

Estelle Lestrange.â

âSay I will come round in about half an hour,â I said to Mary. Then I went into the drawing room to see Hawes.

Fifteen

Hawesâs appearance distressed me very much. His hands were shaking and his face kept twitching nervously. In my opinion he should have been in bed, and I told him so. He insisted that he was perfectly well.

âI assure you, sir, I never felt better. Never in my life.â

This was so obviously wide of the truth that I hardly knew how to answer. I have a certain admiration for a man who will not give in to illness, but Hawes was carrying the thing rather too far.

âI called to tell you how sorry I wasâthat such a thing should happen in the Vicarage.â

âYes,â I said, âitâs not very pleasant.â

âItâs terribleâquite terrible. It seems they havenât arrested Mr. Redding after all?â

âNo. That was a mistake. He madeâerârather a foolish statement.â

âAnd the police are now quite convinced that he is innocent?â

âPerfectly.â

âWhy is that, may I ask? Is itâI mean, do they suspect anyone else?â

I should never have suspected that Hawes would take such a keen interest in the details of a murder case. Perhaps it is because it happened in the Vicarage. He appeared as eager as a reporter.

âI donât know that I am completely in Inspector Slackâs confidence. As far as I know, he does not suspect anyone in particular. He is at present engaged in making inquiries.â

âYes. Yesâof course. But who can one imagine doing such a dreadful thing?â

I shook my head.

âColonel Protheroe was not a popular man, I know that. But murder! For murderâone would need a very strong motive.â

âSo I should imagine,â I said.

âWho could have such a motive? Have the police any idea?â

âI couldnât say.â

âHe might have made enemies, you know. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that he was the kind of man to have enemies. He had a reputation on the Bench for being very severe.â

âI suppose he had.â

âWhy, donât you remember, sir? He was telling you yesterday morning about having been threatened by that man Archer.â

âNow I come to think of it, so he did,â I said. âOf course, I remember. You were quite near us at the time.â

âYes, I overheard what he was saying. Almost impossible to help it with Colonel Protheroe. He had such a very loud voice, hadnât he? I remember being impressed by your own words. That when his time came, he might have justice meted out to him instead of mercy.â

âDid I say that?â I asked, frowning. My remembrance of my own words was slightly different.

âYou said it very impressively, sir. I was struck by your words. Justice is a terrible thing. And to think the poor man was struck down shortly afterwards. Itâs almost as though you had a premonition.â

âI had nothing of the sort,â I said shortly. I rather dislike Hawesâs tendency to mysticism. There is a touch of the visionary about him.

âHave you told the police about this man Archer, sir?â

âI know nothing about him.â

âI mean, have you repeated to them what Colonel Protheroe saidâabout Archer having threatened him?â

âNo,â I said slowly. âI have not.â

âBut you are going to do so?â

I was silent. I dislike hounding a man down who has already got the forces of law and order against him. I held no brief for Archer. He is an inveterate poacherâone of those cheerful neâer-do-weels that are to be found in any parish. Whatever he may have said in the heat of anger when he was sentenced I had no definite knowledge that he felt the same when he came out of prison.

âYou heard the conversation,â I said at last. âIf you feel it your duty to go to the police with it, you must do so.â

âIt would come better from you, sir.â

âPerhapsâbut to tell the truthâwell, Iâve no fancy for doing it. I might be helping to put the rope round the neck of an innocent man.â

âBut if he shot Colonel Protheroeââ

âOh, if! Thereâs no evidence of any kind that he did.â

âHis threats.â

âStrictly speaking, the threats were not his, but Colonel Protheroeâs. Colonel Protheroe was threatening to show Archer what vengeance was worth next time he caught him.â

âI donât understand your attitude, sir.â

âDonât you,â I said wearily. âYouâre a young man. Youâre zealous in the cause of right. When you get to my age, youâll find that you like to give people the benefit of the doubt.â

âItâs notâI meanââ

He paused, and I looked at him in surprise.

âYou havenât anyâany idea of your ownâas to the identity of the murderer, I mean?â

âGood heavens, no.â

Hawes persisted. âOr as to theâmotive?â

âNo. Have you?â

âI? No, indeed. I just wondered. If Colonel Protheroe hadâhad confided in you in any wayâmentioned anythingâ¦.â

âHis confidences, such as they were, were heard by the whole village street yesterday morning,â I said dryly.

âYes. Yes, of course. And you donât thinkâabout Archer?â

âThe police will know all about Archer soon enough,â I said. âIf Iâd heard him threaten Colonel Protheroe myself, that would be a different matter. But you may be sure that if he actually has threatened him, half the people in the village will have heard him, and the news will get to the police all right. You, of course, must do as you like about the matter.â

But Hawes seemed curiously unwilling to do anything himself.

The manâs whole attitude was nervous and queer. I recalled what Haydock had said about his illness. There, I supposed, lay the explanation.

He took his leave unwillingly, as though he had more to say, and didnât know how to say it.

Before he left, I arranged with him to take the service for the Mothersâ Union, followed by the meeting of District Visitors. I had several projects of my own for the afternoon.

Dismissing Hawes and his troubles from my mind I started off for Mrs. Lestrange.

On the table in the hall lay the Guardian and the Church Times unopened.

As I walked, I remembered that Mrs. Lestrange had had an interview with Colonel Protheroe the night before his death. It was possible that something had transpired in that interview which would throw light upon the problem of his murder.

I was shown straight into the little drawing room, and Mrs. Lestrange rose to meet me. I was struck anew by the marvellous atmosphere that this woman could create. She wore a dress of some dead black material that showed off the extraordinary fairness of her skin. There was something curiously dead about her face. Only the eyes were burningly alive. There was a watchful look in them today. Otherwise she showed no signs of animation.

âIt was very good of you to come, Mr. Clement,â she said, as she shook hands. âI wanted to speak to you the other day. Then I decided not to do so. I was wrong.â

âAs I told you then, I shall be glad to do anything that can help you.â

âYes, you said that. And you said it as though you meant it. Very few people, Mr. Clement, in this world have ever sincerely wished to help me.â

âI can hardly believe that, Mrs. Lestrange.â

âIt is true. Most peopleâmost men, at any rate, are out for their own hand.â There was a bitterness in her voice.

I did not answer, and she went on:

âSit down, wonât you?â

I obeyed, and she took a chair facing me. She hesitated a moment and then began to speak very slowly and thoughtfully, seeming to weigh each word as she uttered it.

âI am in a very peculiar position, Mr. Clement, and I want to ask your advice. That is, I want to ask your advice as to what I should do next. What is past is past and cannot be undone. You understand?â

Before I could reply, the maid who had admitted me opened the door and said with a scared face:

âOh! Please, maâam, there is a police inspector here, and he says he must speak to you, please.â

There was a pause. Mrs. Lestrangeâs face did not change. Only her eyes very slowly closed and opened again. She seemed to swallow once or twice, then she said in exactly the same clear, calm voice: âShow him in, Hilda.â

I was about to rise, but she motioned me back again with an imperious hand.

âIf you do not mindâI should be much obliged if you would stay.â

I resumed my seat.

âCertainly, if you wish it,â I murmured, as Slack entered with a brisk regulation tread.

âGood afternoon, madam,â he began.

âGood afternoon, Inspector.â

At this moment, he caught sight of me and scowled. There is no doubt about it, Slack does not like me.

âYou have no objection to the Vicarâs presence, I hope?â

I suppose that Slack could not very well say he had.

âNo-o,â he said grudgingly. âThough, perhaps, it might be betterââ

Mrs. Lestrange paid no attention to the hint.

âWhat can I do for you, Inspector?â she asked.

âItâs this way, madam. Murder of Colonel Protheroe. Iâm in charge of the case and making inquiries.â

Mrs. Lestrange nodded.

âJust as a matter of form, Iâm asking every one just where they were yesterday evening between the hours of 6 and 7 p.m. Just as a matter of form, you understand.â

âYou want to know where I was yesterday evening between six and seven?â

âIf you please, madam.â

âLet me see.â She reflected a moment. âI was here. In this house.â

âOh!â I saw the Inspectorâs eyes flash. âAnd your maidâyou have only one maid, I thinkâcan confirm that statement?â

âNo, it was Hildaâs afternoon out.â

âI see.â

âSo, unfortunately, you will have to take my word for it,â said Mrs. Lestrange pleasantly.

âYou seriously declare that you were at home all the afternoon?â

âYou said between six and seven, Inspector. I was out for a walk early in the afternoon. I returned some time before five oâclock.â

âThen if a ladyâMiss Hartnell, for instanceâwere to declare that she came here about six oâclock, rang the bell, but could make no one hear and was compelled to go away againâyouâd say she was mistaken, eh?â

âOh, no,â Mrs. Lestrange shook her head.

âButââ

âIf your maid is in, she can say not at home. If one is alone and does not happen to want to see callersâwell, the only thing to do is to let them ring.â

Inspector Slack looked slightly baffled.

âElderly women bore me dreadfully,â said Mrs. Lestrange. âAnd Miss Hartnell is particularly boring. She must have rung at least half a dozen times before she went away.â

She smiled sweetly at Inspector Slack.

The Inspector shifted his ground.

âThen if anyone were to say theyâd seen you out and about thenââ

âOh! but they didnât, did they?â She was quick to sense his weak point. âNo one saw me out, because I was in, you see.â

âQuite so, madam.â

The Inspector hitched his chair a little nearer.

âNow I understand, Mrs. Lestrange, that you paid a visit to Colonel Protheroe at Old Hall the night before his death.â

Mrs. Lestrange said calmly: âThat is so.â

âCan you indicate to me the nature of that interview?â

âIt concerned a private matter, Inspector.â

âIâm afraid I must ask you tell me the nature of that private matter.â

âI shall not tell you anything of the kind. I will only assure you that nothing which was said at that interview could possibly have any bearing upon the crime.â

âI donât think you are the best judge of that.â

âAt any rate, you will have to take my word for it, Inspector.â

âIn fact, I have to take your word about everything.â

âIt does seem rather like it,â she agreed, still with the same smiling calm.

Inspector Slack grew very red.

âThis is a serious matter, Mrs. Lestrange. I want the truthââ He banged his fist down on a table. âAnd I mean to get it.â

Mrs. Lestrange said nothing at all.

âDonât you see, madam, that youâre putting yourself in a very fishy position?â

Still Mrs. Lestrange said nothing.

âYouâll be required to give evidence at the inquest.â

âYes.â

Just the monosyllable. Unemphatic, uninterested. The Inspector altered his tactics.

âYou were acquainted with Colonel Protheroe?â

âYes, I was acquainted with him.â

âWell acquainted?â

There was a pause before she said:

âI had not seen him for several years.â

âYou were acquainted with Mrs. Protheroe?â

âNo.â

âYouâll excuse me, but it was a very unusual time to make a call.â

âNot from my point of view.â

âWhat do you mean by that?â

âI wanted to see Colonel Protheroe alone. I did not want to see Mrs. Protheroe or Miss Protheroe. I considered this the best way of accomplishing my object.â

âWhy didnât you want to see Mrs. or Miss Protheroe?â

âThat, Inspector, is my business.â

âThen you refuse to say more?â

âAbsolutely.â

Inspector Slack rose.

âYouâll be putting yourself in a nasty position, madam, if youâre not careful. All this looks badâit looks very bad.â

She laughed. I could have told Inspector Slack that this was not the kind of woman who is easily frightened.

âWell,â he said, extricating himself with dignity, âdonât say I havenât warned you, thatâs all. Good afternoon, madam, and mind you weâre going to get at the truth.â

He departed. Mrs. Lestrange rose and held out her hand.

âI am going to send you awayâyes, it is better so. You see, it is too late for advice now. I have chosen my part.â

She repeated in a rather forlorn voice:

âI have chosen my part.â

Sixteen

As I went out I ran into Haydock on the doorstep. He glanced sharply after Slack, who was just passing through the gate, and demanded: âHas he been questioning her?â

âYes.â

âHeâs been civil, I hope?â

Civility, to my mind, is an art which Inspector Slack has never learnt, but I presumed that according to his own lights, civil he had been, and anyway, I didnât want to upset Haydock any further. He was looking worried and upset as it was. So I said he had been quite civil.

Haydock nodded and passed on into the house, and I went on down the village street, where I soon caught up to the inspector. I fancy that he was walking slowly on purpose. Much as he dislikes me, he is not the man to let dislike stand in the way of acquiring any useful information.

âDo you know anything about the lady?â he asked me point blank.

I said I knew nothing whatever.

âSheâs never said anything about why she came here to live?â

âNo.â

âYet you go and see her?â

âIt is one of my duties to call on my parishioners,â I replied, evading to remark that I had been sent for.

âHâm, I suppose it is.â He was silent for a minute or two and then, unable to resist discussing his recent failure, he went on: âFishy business, it looks to me.â

âYou think so?â

âIf you ask me, I say âblackmail.â Seems funny, when you think of what Colonel Protheroe was always supposed to be. But there, you never can tell. He wouldnât be the first churchwarden whoâd led a double life.â

Faint remembrances of Miss Marpleâs remarks on the same subject floated through my mind.

âYou really think thatâs likely?â

âWell, it fits the facts, sir. Why did a smart, well-dressed lady come down to this quiet little hole? Why did she go and see him at that funny time of day? Why did she avoid seeing Mrs. and Miss Protheroe? Yes, it all hangs together. Awkward for her to admitâblackmailâs a punishable offence. But weâll get the truth out of her. For all we know it may have a very important bearing on the case. If Colonel Protheroe had some guilty secret in his lifeâsomething disgracefulâwell, you can see for yourself what a field it opens up.â

I suppose it did.

âIâve been trying to get the butler to talk. He might have overheard some of the conversation between Colonel Protheroe and Lestrange. Butlers do sometimes. But he swears he hasnât the least idea of what the conversation was about. By the way, he got the sack through it. The Colonel went for him, being angry at his having let her in. The butler retorted by giving notice. Says he didnât like the place anyway and had been thinking of leaving for some time.â

âReally.â

âSo that gives us another person who had a grudge against the Colonel.â

âYou donât seriously suspect the manâwhatâs his name, by the way?â

âHis nameâs Reeves, and I donât say I do suspect him. What I say is, you never know. I donât like that soapy, oily manner of his.â

I wonder what Reeves would say of Inspector Slackâs manner.

âIâm going to question the chauffeur now.â

âPerhaps, then,â I said, âyouâll give me a lift in your car. I want a short interview with Mrs. Protheroe.â

âWhat about?â

âThe funeral arrangements.â

âOh!â Inspector Slack was slightly taken aback. âThe inquestâs tomorrow, Saturday.â

âJust so. The funeral will probably be arranged for Tuesday.â

Inspector Slack seemed to be a little ashamed of himself for his brusqueness. He held out an olive branch in the shape of an invitation to be present at the interview with the chauffeur, Manning.

Manning was a nice lad, not more than twenty-five or -six years of age. He was inclined to be awed by the Inspector.

âNow, then, my lad,â said Slack, âI want a little information from you.â

âYes, sir,â stammered the chauffeur. âCertainly, sir.â

If he had committed the murder himself he could not have been more alarmed.

âYou took your master to the village yesterday?â

âYes, sir.â

âWhat time was that?â

âFive thirty.â

âMrs. Protheroe went too?â

âYes, sir.â

âYou went straight to the village?â

âYes, sir.â

âYou didnât stop anywhere on the way?â

âNo, sir.â

âWhat did you do when you got there?â

âThe Colonel got out and told me he wouldnât want the car again. Heâd walk home. Mrs. Protheroe had some shopping to do. The parcels were put in the car. Then she said that was all, and I drove home.â

âLeaving her in the village?â

âYes, sir.â

âWhat time was that?â

âA quarter past six, sir. A quarter past exactly.â

âWhere did you leave her?â

âBy the church, sir.â

âHad the Colonel mentioned at all where he was going?â

âHe said something about having to see the vet â¦ something to do with one of the horses.â

âI see. And you drove straight back here?â

âYes, sir.â

âThere are two entrances to Old Hall, by the South Lodge and by the North Lodge. I take it that going to the village you would go by the South Lodge?â

âYes, sir, always.â

âAnd you came back the same way?â

âYes, sir.â

âHâm. I think thatâs all. Ah! Hereâs Miss Protheroe.â

Lettice drifted towards us.

âI want the Fiat, Manning,â she said. âStart her for me, will you?â

âVery good, miss.â

He went towards a two-seater and lifted the bonnet.

âJust a minute, Miss Protheroe,â said Slack. âItâs necessary that I should have a record of everybodyâs movements yesterday afternoon. No offence meant.â

Lettice stared at him.

âI never know the time of anything,â she said.

âI understand you went out soon after lunch yesterday?â

She nodded.

âWhere to, please?â

âTo play tennis.â

âWho with?â

âThe Hartley Napiers.â

âAt Much Benham?â

âYes.â

âAnd you returned?â

âI donât know. I tell you I never know these things.â

âYou returned,â I said, âabout seven thirty.â

âThatâs right,â said Lettice. âIn the middle of the shemozzle. Anne having fits and Griselda supporting her.â

âThank you, miss,â said the Inspector. âThatâs all I want to know.â

âHow queer,â said Lettice. âIt seems so uninteresting.â

She moved towards the Fiat.

The Inspector touched his forehead in a surreptitious manner.

âA bit wanting?â he suggested.

âNot in the least,â I said. âBut she likes to be thought so.â

âWell, Iâm off to question the maids now.â

One cannot really like Slack, but one can admire his energy.

We parted company and I inquired of Reeves if I could see Mrs. Protheroe. âShe is lying down, sir, at the moment.â

âThen Iâd better not disturb her.â

âPerhaps if you would wait, sir, I know that Mrs. Protheroe is anxious to see you. She was saying as much at luncheon.â

He showed me into the drawing room, switching on the electric lights since the blinds were down.

âA very sad business all this,â I said.

âYes, sir.â His voice was cold and respectful.

I looked at him. What feelings were at work under that impassive demeanour. Were there things that he knew and could have told us? There is nothing so inhuman as the mask of the good servant.

âIs there anything more, sir?â

Was there just a hint of anxiety to be gone behind that correct expression?

âThereâs nothing more,â I said.

I had a very short time to wait before Anne Protheroe came to me. We discussed and settled a few arrangements and then:

âWhat a wonderfully kind man Dr. Haydock is!â she exclaimed.

âHaydock is the best fellow I know.â

âHe has been amazingly kind to me. But he looks very sad, doesnât he?â

It had never occurred to me to think of Haydock as sad. I turned the idea over in my mind.

âI donât think Iâve ever noticed it,â I said at last.

âI never have, until today.â

âOneâs own troubles sharpen oneâs eyes sometimes,â I said.

âThatâs very true.â She paused and then said:

âMr. Clement, thereâs one thing I absolutely cannot make out. If my husband were shot immediately after I left him, how was it that I didnât hear the shot?â

âThey have reason to believe that the shot was fired later.â

âBut the 6:20 on the note?â

âWas possibly added by a different handâthe murdererâs.â

Her cheek paled.

âIt didnât strike you that the date was not in his handwriting?â

âHow horrible!â

âNone of it looked like his handwriting.â

There was some truth in this observation. It was a somewhat illegible scrawl, not so precise as Protheroeâs writing usually was.

âYou are sure they donât still suspect Lawrence?â

âI think he is definitely cleared.â

âBut, Mr. Clement, who can it be? Lucius was not popular, I know, but I donât think he had any real enemies. Notânot that kind of enemy.â

I shook my head. âItâs a mystery.â

I thought wonderingly of Miss Marpleâs seven suspects. Who could they be?

After I took leave of Anne, I proceeded to put a certain plan of mine into action.

I returned from Old Hall by way of the private path. When I reached the stile, I retraced my steps, and choosing a place where I fancied the undergrowth showed signs of being disturbed, I turned aside from the path and forced my way through the bushes. The wood was a thick one, with a good deal of tangled undergrowth. My progress was not very fast, and I suddenly became aware that someone else was moving amongst the bushes not very far from me. As I paused irresolutely, Lawrence Redding came into sight. He was carrying a large stone.

I suppose I must have looked surprised, for he suddenly burst out laughing.

âNo,â he said, âitâs not a clue, itâs a peace offering.â

âA peace offering?â

âWell, a basis for negotiations, shall we say? I want an excuse for calling on your neighbour, Miss Marple, and I have been told there is nothing she likes so much as a nice bit of rock or stone for the Japanese gardens she makes.â

âQuite true,â I said. âBut what do you want with the old lady?â

âJust this. If there was anything to be seen yesterday evening Miss Marple saw it. I donât mean anything necessarily connected with the crimeâthat she would think connected with the crime. I mean some outrÃ© or bizarre incident, some simple little happening that might give us a clue to the truth. Something that she wouldnât think worthwhile mentioning to the police.â

âItâs possible, I suppose.â

âItâs worth trying anyhow. Clement, Iâm going to get to the bottom of this business. For Anneâs sake, if nobodyâs else. And I havenât any too much confidence in Slackâheâs a zealous fellow, but zeal canât really take the place of brains.â

âI see,â I said, âthat you are that favourite character of fiction, the amateur detective. I donât know that they really hold their own with the professional in real life.â

He looked at me shrewdly and suddenly laughed.

âWhat are you doing in the wood, padre?â

I had the grace to blush.

âJust the same as I am doing, I dare swear. Weâve got the same idea, havenât we? How did the murderer come to the study? First way, along the lane and through the gate, second way, by the front door, third wayâis there a third way? My idea was to see if there was any sign of the bushes being disturbed or broken anywhere near the wall of the Vicarage garden.â

âThat was just my idea,â I admitted.

âI hadnât really got down to the job, though,â continued Lawrence. âBecause it occurred to me that Iâd like to see Miss Marple first, to make quite sure that no one did pass along the lane yesterday evening whilst we were in the studio.â

I shook my head.

âShe was quite positive that nobody did.â

âYes, nobody whom she would call anybodyâsounds mad, but you see what I mean. But there might have been someone like a postman or a milkman or a butcherâs boyâsomeone whose presence would be so natural that you wouldnât think of mentioning it.â

âYouâve been reading G. K. Chesterton,â I said, and Lawrence did not deny it.

âBut donât you think thereâs just possibly something in the idea?â

âWell, I suppose there might be,â I admitted.

Without further ado, we made our way to Miss Marpleâs. She was working in the garden, and called out to us as we climbed over the stile.

âYou see,â murmured Lawrence, âshe sees everybody.â

She received us very graciously and was much pleased with Lawrenceâs immense rock, which he presented with all due solemnity.

âItâs very thoughtful of you, Mr. Redding. Very thoughtful indeed.â

Emboldened by this, Lawrence embarked on his questions. Miss Marple listened attentively.

âYes, I see what you mean, and I quite agree, it is the sort of thing no one mentions or bothers to mention. But I can assure you that there was nothing of the kind. Nothing whatever.â

âYou are sure, Miss Marple?â

âQuite sure.â

âDid you see anyone go by the path into the wood that afternoon?â I asked. âOr come from it?â

âOh, yes, quite a number of people. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram went that wayâitâs the nearest way to the barrow for them. That was a little after two oâclock. And Dr. Stone returned that wayâas you know, Mr. Redding, since he joined you and Mrs. Protheroe.â

âBy the way,â I said. âThat shotâthe one you heard, Miss Marple. Mr. Redding and Mrs. Protheroe must have heard it too.â

I looked inquiringly at Lawrence.

âYes,â he said, frowning. âI believe I did hear some shots. Werenât there one or two shots?â

âI only heard one,â said Miss Marple.

âItâs only the vaguest impression in my mind,â said Lawrence. âCurse it all, I wish I could remember. If only Iâd known. You see, I was so completely taken up withâwithââ

He paused, embarrassed.

I gave a tactful cough. Miss Marple, with a touch of prudishness, changed the subject.

âInspector Slack has been trying to get me to say whether I heard the shot after Mr. Redding and Mrs. Protheroe had left the studio or before. Iâve had to confess that I really could not say definitely, but I have the impressionâwhich is growing stronger the more I think about itâthat it was after.â

âThen that lets the celebrated Dr. Stone out anyway,â said Lawrence, with a sigh. âNot that there has ever been the slightest reason why he should be suspected of shooting poor old Protheroe.â

âAh!â said Miss Marple. âBut I always find it prudent to suspect everybody just a little. What I say is, you really never know, do you?â

This was typical of Miss Marple. I asked Lawrence if he agreed with her about the shot.

âI really canât say. You see, it was such an ordinary sound. I should be inclined to think it had been fired when we were in the studio. The sound would have been deadened andâone would have noticed it less there.â

For other reasons than the sound being deadened, I thought to myself.

âI must ask Anne,â said Lawrence. âShe may remember. By the way, there seems to me to be one curious fact that needs explanation. Mrs. Lestrange, the Mystery Lady of St. Mary Mead, paid a visit to old Protheroe after dinner on Wednesday night. And nobody seems to have any idea what it was all about. Old Protheroe said nothing to either his wife or Lettice.â

âPerhaps the Vicar knows,â said Miss Marple.

Now how did the woman know that I had been to visit Mrs. Lestrange that afternoon? The way she always knows things is uncanny.

I shook my head and said I could throw no light upon the matter.

âWhat does Inspector Slack think?â asked Miss Marple.

âHeâs done his best to bully the butlerâbut apparently the butler wasnât curious enough to listen at the door. So there it isâno one knows.â

âI expect someone overheard something, though, donât you?â said Miss Marple. âI mean, somebody always does. I think that is where Mr. Redding may find out something.â

âBut Mrs. Protheroe knows nothing.â

âI didnât mean Anne Protheroe,â said Miss Marple. âI meant the women servants. They do so hate telling anything to the police. But a nice looking young manâyouâll excuse me, Mr. Reddingâand one who has been unjustly suspectedâoh! Iâm sure theyâd tell him at once.â

âIâll go and have a try this evening,â said Lawrence with vigour. âThanks for the hint, Miss Marple. Iâll go afterâwell, after a little job the Vicar and I are going to do.â

It occurred to me that we had better be getting on with it. I said good-bye to Miss Marple and we entered the woods once more.

First we went up the path till we came to a new spot where it certainly looked as though someone had left the path on the right-hand side. Lawrence explained that he had already followed this particular trail and found it led nowhere, but he added that we might as well try again. He might have been wrong.

It was, however, as he had said. After about ten or twelve yards any sign of broken and trampled leaves petered out. It was from this spot that Lawrence had broken back towards the path to meet me earlier in the afternoon.

We emerged on the path again and walked a little farther along it. Again we came to a place where the bushes seemed disturbed. The signs were very slight but, I thought, unmistakable. This time the trail was more promising. By a devious course, it wound steadily nearer to the Vicarage. Presently we arrived at where the bushes grew thickly up to the wall. The wall is a high one and ornamented with fragments of broken bottles on the top. If anyone had placed a ladder against it, we ought to find traces of their passage.

We were working our way slowly along the wall when a sound came to our ears of a breaking twig. I pressed forward, forcing my way through a thick tangle of shrubsâand came face to face with Inspector Slack.

âSo itâs you,â he said. âAnd Mr. Redding. Now what do you think you two gentlemen are doing?â

Slightly crestfallen, we explained.

âQuite so,â said the Inspector. âNot being the fools weâre usually thought to be, I had the same idea myself. Iâve been here over an hour. Would you like to know something?â

âYes,â I said meekly.

âWhoever murdered Colonel Protheroe didnât come this way to do it! Thereâs not a sign either on this side of the wall, nor the other. Whoever murdered Colonel Protheroe came through the front door. Thereâs no other way he could have come.â

âImpossible,â I cried.

âWhy impossible? Your door stands open. Anyoneâs only got to walk in. They canât be seen from the kitchen. They know youâre safely out of the way, they know Mrs. Clement is in London, they know Mr. Dennis is at a tennis party. Simple as A B C. And they donât need to go or come through the village. Just opposite the Vicarage gate is a public footpath, and from it you can turn into these same woods and come out whichever way you choose. Unless Mrs. Price Ridley were to come out of her front gate at that particular minute, itâs all clear sailing. A great deal more so than climbing over walls. The side windows of the upper story of Mrs. Price Ridleyâs house do overlook most of that wall. No, depend upon it, thatâs the way he came.â

It really seemed as though he must be right.

Seventeen

Inspector Slack came round to see me the following morning. He is, I think, thawing towards me. In time, he may forget the incident of the clock.

âWell, sir,â he greeted me. âIâve traced that telephone call that you received.â

âIndeed?â I said eagerly.

âItâs rather odd. It was put through from the North Lodge of Old Hall. Now that lodge is empty, the lodgekeepers have been pensioned off and the new lodgekeepers arenât in yet. The place was empty and convenientâa window at the back was open. No fingerprints on the instrument itselfâit had been wiped clear. Thatâs suggestive.â

âHow do you mean?â

âI mean that it shows that call was put through deliberately to get you out of the way. Therefore the murder was carefully planned in advance. If it had been just a harmless practical joke, the fingerprints wouldnât have been wiped off so carefully.â

âNo. I see that.â

âIt also shows that the murderer was well acquainted with Old Hall and its surroundings. It wasnât Mrs. Protheroe who put that call through. Iâve accounted for every moment of her time that afternoon. There are half a dozen other servants who can swear that she was at home till five thirty. Then the car came round and drove Colonel Protheroe and her to the village. The Colonel went to see Quinton, the vet, about one of the horses. Mrs. Protheroe did some ordering at the grocers and at the fish shop, and from there came straight down the back lane where Miss Marple saw her. All the shops agree she carried no handbag with her. The old lady was right.â

âShe usually is,â I said mildly.

âAnd Miss Protheroe was over at Much Benham at 5:30.â

âQuite so,â I said. âMy nephew was there too.â

âThat disposes of her. The maid seems all rightâa bit hysterical and upset, but what can you expect? Of course, Iâve got my eye on the butlerâwhat with giving notice and all. But I donât think he knows anything about it.â

âYour inquiries seem to have had rather a negative result, Inspector.â

âThey do and they do not, sir. Thereâs one very queer thing has turned upâquite unexpectedly, I may say.â

âYes?â

âYou remember the fuss that Mrs. Price Ridley, who lives next door to you, was kicking up yesterday morning? About being rung up on the telephone?â

âYes?â I said.

âWell, we traced the call just to calm herâand where on this earth do you think it was put through from?â

âA call office?â I hazarded.

âNo, Mr. Clement. That call was put through from Mr. Lawrence Reddingâs cottage.â

âWhat?â I exclaimed, surprised.

âYes. A bit odd, isnât it? Mr. Redding had nothing to do with it. At that time, 6:30, he was on his way to the Blue Boar with Dr. Stone in full view of the village. But there it is. Suggestive, eh? Someone walked into that empty cottage and used the telephone, who was it? Thatâs two queer telephone calls in one day. Makes you think thereâs some connection between them. Iâll eat my hat if they werenât both put through by the same person.â

âBut with what object?â

âWell, thatâs what weâve got to find out. There seems no particular point in the second one, but there must be a point somewhere. And you see the significance? Mr. Reddingâs house used to telephone from. Mr. Reddingâs pistol. All throwing suspicion on Mr. Redding.â

âIt would be more to the point to have put through the first call from his house,â I objected.

âAh, but Iâve been thinking that out. What did Mr. Redding do most afternoons? He went up to Old Hall and painted Miss Protheroe. And from his cottage heâd go on his motor bicycle, passing through the North Gate. Now you see the point of the call being put through from there. The murderer is someone who didnât know about the quarrel and that Mr. Redding wasnât going up to Old Hall any more.â

I reflected a moment to let the Inspectorâs points sink into my brain. They seemed to me logical and unavoidable.

âWere there any fingerprints on the receiver in Mr. Reddingâs cottage?â I asked.

âThere were not,â said the Inspector bitterly. âThat dratted old woman who goes and does for him had been and dusted them off yesterday morning.â He reflected wrathfully for a few minutes. âSheâs a stupid old fool, anyway. Canât remember when she saw the pistol last. It might have been there on the morning of the crime, or it might not. âShe couldnât say, sheâs sure.â Theyâre all alike!

âJust as a matter of form, I went round and saw Dr. Stone,â he went on. âI must say he was pleasant as could be about it. He and Miss Cram went up to that moundâor barrowâor whatever you call it, about half past two yesterday, and stayed there all the afternoon. Dr. Stone came back alone, and she came later. He says he didnât hear any shot, but admits heâs absentminded. But it all bears out what we think.â

âOnly,â I said, âyou havenât caught the murderer.â

âHâm,â said the Inspector. âIt was a womanâs voice you heard through the telephone. It was in all probability a womanâs voice Mrs. Price Ridley heard. If only that shot hadnât come hard on the close of the telephone callâwell, Iâd know where to look.â

âWhere?â

âAh! Thatâs just what itâs best not to say, sir.â

Unblushingly, I suggested a glass of old port. I have some very fine old vintage port. Eleven oâclock in the morning is not the usual time for drinking port, but I did not think that mattered with Inspector Slack. It was, of course, cruel abuse of the vintage port, but one must not be squeamish about such things.

When Inspector Slack had polished off the second glass, he began to unbend and become genial. Such is the effect of that particular port.

âI donât suppose it matters with you, sir,â he said. âYouâll keep it to yourself? No letting it get round the parish.â

I reassured him.

âSeeing as the whole thing happened in your house, it almost seems as though you have a right to know.â

âJust what I feel myself,â I said.

âWell, then, sir, what about the lady who called on Colonel Protheroe the night before the murder?â

âMrs. Lestrange,â I cried, speaking rather loud in my astonishment.

The Inspector threw me a reproachful glance.

âNot so loud, sir. Mrs. Lestrange is the lady Iâve got my eye on. You remember what I told youâblackmail.â

âHardly a reason for murder. Wouldnât it be a case of killing the goose that laid the golden eggs? That is, assuming that your hypothesis is true, which I donât for a minute admit.â

The Inspector winked at me in a common manner.

âAh! Sheâs the kind the gentlemen will always stand up for. Now look here, sir. Suppose sheâs successfully blackmailed the old gentleman in the past. After a lapse of years, she gets wind of him, comes down here and tries it on again. But, in the meantime, things have changed. The law has taken up a very different stand. Every facility is given nowadays to people prosecuting for blackmailânames are not allowed to be reported in the press. Suppose Colonel Protheroe turns round and says heâll have the law on her. Sheâs in a nasty position. They give a very severe sentence for blackmail. The bootâs on the other leg. The only thing to do to save herself is to put him out good and quick.â

I was silent. I had to admit that the case the Inspector had built up was plausible. Only one thing to my mind made it inadmissableâthe personality of Mrs. Lestrange.

âI donât agree with you, Inspector,â I said. âMrs. Lestrange doesnât seem to me to be a potential blackmailer. Sheâsâwell, itâs an old-fashioned word, but sheâs aâlady.â

He threw me a pitying glance.

âAh! well, sir,â he said tolerantly, âyouâre a clergyman. You donât know half of what goes on. Lady indeed! Youâd be surprised if you knew some of the things I know.â

âIâm not referring to mere social position. Anyway, I should imagine Mrs. Lestrange to be a dÃ©classÃ©e. What I mean is a question ofâpersonal refinement.â

âYou donât see her with the same eyes as I do, sir. I may be a manâbut Iâm a police officer, too. They canât get over me with their personal refinement. Why, that woman is the kind who could stick a knife into you without turning a hair.â

Curiously enough, I could believe Mrs. Lestrange guilty of murder much more easily than I could believe her capable of blackmail.

âBut, of course, she canât have been telephoning to the old lady next door and shooting Colonel Protheroe at one and the same time,â continued the Inspector.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when he slapped his leg ferociously.

âGot it,â he exclaimed. âThatâs the point of the telephone call. Kind of alibi. Knew weâd connect it with the first one. Iâm going to look into this. She may have bribed some village lad to do the phoning for her. Heâd never think of connecting it with the murder.â

The Inspector hurried off.

âMiss Marple wants to see you,â said Griselda, putting her head in. âShe sent over a very incoherent noteâall spidery and underlined. I couldnât read most of it. Apparently she canât leave home herself. Hurry up and go across and see her and find out what it is. Iâve got my old women coming in two minutes or Iâd come myself. I do hate old womenâthey tell you about their bad legs and sometimes insist on showing them to you. What luck that the inquest is this afternoon! You wonât have to go and watch the Boysâ Club Cricket Match.â

I hurried off, considerably exercised in my mind as to the reason for this summons.

I found Miss Marple in what, I believe, is described as a fluster. She was very pink and slightly incoherent.

âMy nephew,â she explained. âMy nephew, Raymond West, the author. He is coming down today. Such a to-do. I have to see to everything myself. You cannot trust a maid to air a bed properly, and we must, of course, have a meat meal tonight. Gentlemen require such a lot of meat, do they not? And drink. There certainly should be some drink in the houseâand a siphon.â

âIf I can do anythingââ I began.

âOh! How very kind. But I did not mean that. There is plenty of time really. He brings his own pipe and tobacco, I am glad to say. Glad because it saves me from knowing which kind of cigarettes are right to buy. But rather sorry, too, because it takes so long for the smell to get out of the curtains. Of course, I open the window and shake them well very early every morning. Raymond gets up very lateâI think writers often do. He writes very clever books, I believe, though people are not really nearly so unpleasant as he makes out. Clever young men know so little of life, donât you think?â

âWould you like to bring him to dinner at the Vicarage?â I asked, still unable to gather why I had been summoned.

âOh! No, thank you,â said Miss Marple. âItâs very kind of you,â she added.

âThere wasâerâsomething you wanted to see me about, I think,â I suggested desperately.

âOh! Of course. In all the excitement it had gone right out of my head.â She broke off and called to her maid. âEmilyâEmily. Not those sheets. The frilled ones with the monogram, and donât put them too near the fire.â

She closed the door and returned to me on tiptoe.

âItâs just rather a curious thing that happened last night,â she explained. âI thought you would like to hear about it, though at the moment it doesnât seem to make sense. I felt very wakeful last nightâwondering about all this sad business. And I got up and looked out of my window. And what do you think I saw?â

I looked, inquiring.

âGladys Cram,â said Miss Marple, with great emphasis. âAs I live, going into the wood with a suitcase.â

âA suitcase?â

âIsnât it extraordinary? What should she want with a suitcase in the wood at twelve oâclock at night?

âYou see,â said Miss Marple, âI dare say it has nothing to do with the murder. But it is a Peculiar Thing. And just at present we all feel we must take notice of Peculiar Things.â

âPerfectly amazing,â I said. âWas she going toâerâsleep in the barrow by any chance?â

âShe didnât, at any rate,â said Miss Marple. âBecause quite a short time afterwards she came back, and she hadnât got the suitcase with her.â

Eighteen

The inquest was held that afternoon (Saturday) at two oâclock at the Blue Boar. The local excitement was, I need hardly say, tremendous. There had been no murder in St. Mary Mead for at least fifteen years. And to have someone like Colonel Protheroe murdered actually in the Vicarage study is such a feast of sensation as rarely falls to the lot of a village population.

Various comments floated to my ears which I was probably not meant to hear.

âThereâs Vicar. Looks pale, donât he? I wonder if he had a hand in it. âTwas done at Vicarage, after all.â âHow can you, Mary Adams? And him visiting Henry Abbott at the time.â âOh! But they do say him and the Colonel had words. Thereâs Mary Hill. Giving herself airs, she is, on account of being in service there. Hush, hereâs coroner.â

The coroner was Dr. Roberts of our adjoining town of Much Benham. He cleared his throat, adjusted his eyeglasses, and looked important.

To recapitulate all the evidence would be merely tiresome. Lawrence Redding gave evidence of finding the body, and identified the pistol as belonging to him. To the best of his belief he had seen it on the Tuesday, two days previously. It was kept on a shelf in his cottage, and the door of the cottage was habitually unlocked.

Mrs. Protheroe gave evidence that she had last seen her husband at about a quarter to six when they separated in the village street. She agreed to call for him at the Vicarage later. She had gone to the Vicarage about a quarter past six, by way of the back lane and the garden gate. She had heard no voices in the study and had imagined that the room was empty, but her husband might have been sitting at the writing table, in which case she would not have seen him. As far as she knew, he had been in his usual health and spirits. She knew of no enemy who might have had a grudge against him.

I gave evidence next, told of my appointment with Protheroe and my summons to the Abbotts.â I described how I had found the body and my summoning of Dr. Haydock.

âHow many people, Mr. Clement, were aware that Colonel Protheroe was coming to see you that evening?â

âA good many, I should imagine. My wife knew, and my nephew, and Colonel Protheroe himself alluded to the fact that morning when I met him in the village. I should think several people might have overheard him, as, being slightly deaf, he spoke in a loud voice.â

âIt was, then, a matter of common knowledge? Anyone might know?â

I agreed.

Haydock followed. He was an important witness. He described carefully and technically the appearance of the body and the exact injuries. It was his opinion that the deceased had been shot at approximately 6:20 to 6:30âcertainly not later than 6:35. That was the outside limit. He was positive and emphatic on that point. There was no question of suicide, the wound could not have been self-inflicted.

Inspector Slackâs evidence was discreet and abridged. He described his summons and the circumstances under which he had found the body. The unfinished letter was produced and the time on itâ6:20ânoted. Also the clock. It was tacitly assumed that the time of death was 6:22. The police were giving nothing away. Anne Protheroe told me afterwards that she had been told to suggest a slightly earlier period of time than 6:20 for her visit.

Our maid, Mary, was the next witness, and proved a somewhat truculent one. She hadnât heard anything, and didnât want to hear anything. It wasnât as though gentlemen who came to see the Vicar usually got shot. They didnât. Sheâd got her own jobs to look after. Colonel Protheroe had arrived at a quarter past six exactly. No, she didnât look at the clock. She heard the church chime after she had shown him into the study. She didnât hear any shot. If there had been a shot sheâd have heard it. Well, of course, she knew there must have been a shot, since the gentleman was found shotâbut there it was. She hadnât heard it.

The coroner did not press the point. I realized that he and Colonel Melchett were working in agreement.

Mrs. Lestrange had been subpoenaed to give evidence, but a medical certificate, signed by Dr. Haydock, was produced saying she was too ill to attend.

There was only one other witness, a somewhat doddering old woman. The one who, in Slackâs phrase, âdid forâ Lawrence Redding.

Mrs. Archer was shown the pistol and recognized it as the one she had seen in Mr. Reddingâs sitting room âover against the bookcase, he kept it, lying about.â She had last seen it on the day of the murder. Yesâin answer to a further questionâshe was quite sure it was there at lunchtime on Thursdayâquarter to one when she left.

I remembered what the Inspector had told me, and I was mildly surprised. However vague she might have been when he questioned her, she was quite positive about it now.

The coroner summed up in a negative manner, but with a good deal of firmness. The verdict was given almost immediately:

Murder by Person or Persons unknown.

As I left the room I was aware of a small army of young men with bright, alert faces and a kind of superficial resemblance to each other. Several of them were already known to me by sight as having haunted the Vicarage the last few days. Seeking to escape, I plunged back into the Blue Boar and was lucky enough to run straight into the archaeologist, Dr. Stone. I clutched at him without ceremony.

âJournalists,â I said briefly and expressively. âIf you could deliver me from their clutches?â

âWhy, certainly, Mr. Clement. Come upstairs with me.â

He led the way up the narrow staircase and into his sitting room, where Miss Cram was sitting rattling the keys of a typewriter with a practised touch. She greeted me with a broad smile of welcome and seized the opportunity to stop work.

âAwful, isnât it?â she said. âNot knowing who did it, I mean. Not but that Iâm disappointed in an inquest. Tame, thatâs what I call it. Nothing what you might call spicy from beginning to end.â

âYou were there, then, Miss Cram?â

âI was there all right. Fancy your not seeing me. Didnât you see me? I feel a bit hurt about that. Yes, I do. A gentleman, even if he is a clergyman, ought to have eyes in his head.â

âWere you present also?â I asked Dr. Stone, in an effort to escape from this playful badinage. Young women like Miss Cram always make me feel awkward.

âNo, Iâm afraid I feel very little interest in such things. I am a man very wrapped up in his own hobby.â

âIt must be a very interesting hobby,â I said.

âYou know something of it, perhaps?â

I was obliged to confess that I knew next to nothing.

Dr. Stone was not the kind of man whom a confession of ignorance daunts. The result was exactly the same as though I had said that the excavation of barrows was my only relaxation. He surged and eddied into speech. Long barrows, round barrows, stone age, bronze age, paleolithic, neolithic kistvaens and cromlechs, it burst forth in a torrent. I had little to do save nod my head and look intelligentâand that last is perhaps over optimistic. Dr. Stone boomed on. He was a little man. His head was round and bald, his face was round and rosy, and he beamed at you through very strong glasses. I have never known a man so enthusiastic on so little encouragement. He went into every argument for and against his own pet theoryâwhich, by the way, I quite failed to grasp!

He detailed at great length his difference of opinion with Colonel Protheroe.

âAn opinionated boor,â he said with heat. âYes, yes, I know he is dead, and one should speak no ill of the dead. But death does not alter facts. An opinionated boor describes him exactly. Because he had read a few books, he set himself up as an authorityâagainst a man who has made a lifelong study of the subject. My whole life, Mr. Clement, has been given up to this work. My whole lifeââ

He was spluttering with excitement. Gladys Cram brought him back to earth with a terse sentence.

âYouâll miss your train if you donât look out,â she observed.

âOh!â The little man stopped in mid speech and dragged a watch from his pocket. âBless my soul. Quarter to? Impossible.â

âOnce you start talking you never remember the time. What youâd do without me to look after you, I really donât know.â

âQuite right, my dear, quite right.â He patted her affectionately on the shoulder. âThis is a wonderful girl, Mr. Clement. Never forgets anything. I consider myself extremely lucky to have found her.â

âOh! Go on, Dr. Stone,â said the lady. âYou spoil me, you do.â

I could not help feeling that I should be in a material position to add my support to the second school of thoughtâthat which foresees lawful matrimony as the future of Dr. Stone and Miss Cram. I imagined that in her own way Miss Cram was rather a clever young woman.

âYouâd better be getting along,â said Miss Cram.

âYes, yes, so I must.â

He vanished into the room next door and returned carrying a suitcase.

âYou are leaving?â I asked in some surprise.

âJust running up to town for a couple of days,â he explained. âMy old mother to see tomorrow, some business with my lawyers on Monday. On Tuesday I shall return. By the way, I suppose that Colonel Protheroeâs death will make no difference to our arrangements. As regards the barrow, I mean. Mrs. Protheroe will have no objection to our continuing the work?â

âI should not think so.â

As he spoke, I wondered who actually would be in authority at Old Hall. It was just possible that Protheroe might have left it to Lettice. I felt that it would be interesting to know the contents of Protheroeâs will.

âCauses a lot of trouble in a family, a death does,â remarked Miss Cram, with a kind of gloomy relish. âYou wouldnât believe what a nasty spirit there sometimes is.â

âWell, I must really be going.â Dr. Stone made ineffectual attempts to control the suitcase, a large rug and an unwieldy umbrella. I came to his rescue. He protested.

âDonât troubleâdonât trouble. I can manage perfectly. Doubtless there will be somebody downstairs.â

But down below there was no trace of a boots or anyone else. I suspect that they were being regaled at the expense of the Press. Time was getting on, so we set out together to the station, Dr. Stone carrying the suitcase, and I holding the rug and umbrella.

Dr. Stone ejaculated remarks in between panting breaths as we hurried along.

âReally too good of youâdidnât meanâto trouble you â¦ Hope we shanât missâthe trainâGladys is a good girlâreally a wonderful girlâa very sweet natureânot too happy at home, Iâm afraidâabsolutelyâthe heart of a childâheart of a child. I do assure you, in spite ofâdifference in our agesâfind a lot in commonâ¦.â

We saw Lawrence Reddingâs cottage just as we turned off to the station. It stands in an isolated position with no other houses near it. I observed two young men of smart appearance standing on the doorstep and a couple more peering in at the windows. It was a busy day for the Press.

âNice fellow, young Redding,â I remarked, to see what my companion would say.

He was so out of breath by this time that he found it difficult to say anything, but he puffed out a word which I did not at first quite catch.

âDangerous,â he gasped, when I asked him to repeat his remark.

âDangerous?â

âMost dangerous. Innocent girlsâknow no betterâtaken in by a fellow like thatâalways hanging round women â¦ No good.â

From which I deduced that the only young man in the village had not passed unnoticed by the fair Gladys.

âGoodness,â ejaculated Dr. Stone. âThe train!â

We were close to the station by this time and we broke into a fast sprint. A down train was standing in the station and the up London train was just coming in.

At the door of the booking office we collided with a rather exquisite young man, and I recognized Miss Marpleâs nephew just arriving. He is, I think, a young man who does not like to be collided with. He prides himself on his poise and general air of detachment, and there is no doubt that vulgar contact is detrimental to poise of any kind. He staggered back. I apologized hastily and we passed in. Dr. Stone climbed on the train and I handed up his baggage just as the train gave an unwilling jerk and started.

I waved to him and then turned away. Raymond West had departed, but our local chemist, who rejoices in the name of Cherubim, was just setting out for the village. I walked beside him.

âClose shave that,â he observed. âWell, how did the inquest go, Mr. Clement?â

I gave him the verdict.

âOh! So thatâs what happened. I rather thought that would be the verdict. Whereâs Dr. Stone off to?â

I repeated what he had told me.

âLucky not to miss the train. Not that you ever know on this line. I tell you, Mr. Clement, itâs a crying shame. Disgraceful, thatâs what I call it. Train I came down by was ten minutes late. And that on a Saturday with no traffic to speak of. And on Wednesdayâno, Thursdayâyes, Thursday it wasâI remember it was the day of the murder because I meant to write a strongly-worded complaint to the companyâand the murder put it out of my headâyes, last Thursday. I had been to a meeting of the Pharmaceutical Society. How late do you think the 6:50 was? Half an hour. Half an hour exactly! What do you think of that? Ten minutes I donât mind. But if the train doesnât get in till twenty past seven, well, you canât get home before half past. What I say is, why call it the 6:50?â

âQuite so,â I said, and wishing to escape from the monologue I broke away with the excuse that I had something to say to Lawrence Redding whom I saw approaching us on the other side of the road.

Nineteen

âVery glad to have met you,â said Lawrence. âCome to my place.â

We turned in at the little rustic gate, went up the path, and he drew a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock.

âYou keep the door locked now,â I observed.

âYes.â He laughed rather bitterly. âCase of stable door when the steed is gone, eh? It is rather like that. You know, padre,â he held the door open and I passed inside, âthereâs something about all this business that I donât like. Itâs too much ofâhow shall I put itâan inside job. Someone knew about that pistol of mine. That means that the murderer, whoever he was, must have actually been in this houseâperhaps even had a drink with me.â

âNot necessarily,â I objected. âThe whole village of St. Mary Mead probably knows exactly where you keep your toothbrush and what kind of tooth powder you use.â

âBut why should it interest them?â

âI donât know,â I said, âbut it does. If you change your shaving cream it will be a topic of conversation.â

âThey must be very hard up for news.â

âThey are. Nothing exciting ever happens here.â

âWell, it has nowâwith a vengeance.â

I agreed.

âAnd who tells them all these things anyway? Shaving cream and things like that?â

âProbably old Mrs. Archer.â

âThat old crone? Sheâs practically a half-wit, as far as I can make out.â

âThatâs merely the camouflage of the poor,â I explained. âThey take refuge behind a mask of stupidity. Youâll probably find that the old lady has all her wits about her. By the way, she seems very certain now that the pistol was in its proper place midday Thursday. Whatâs made her so positive all of a sudden?â

âI havenât the least idea.â

âDo you think sheâs right?â

âThere again I havenât the least idea. I donât go round taking an inventory of my possessions every day.â

I looked round the small living room. Every shelf and table was littered with miscellaneous articles. Lawrence lived in the midst of an artistic disarray that would have driven me quite mad.

âItâs a bit of a job finding things sometimes,â he said, observing my glance. âOn the other hand, everything is handyânot tucked away.â

âNothing is tucked away, certainly,â I agreed. âIt might perhaps have been better if the pistol had been.â

âDo you know I rather expected the coroner to say something of the sort. Coroners are such asses. I expected to be censured or whatever they call it.â

âBy the way,â I asked, âwas it loaded?â

Lawrence shook his head.

âIâm not quite so careless as that. It was unloaded, but there was a box of cartridges beside it.â

âIt was apparently loaded in all six chambers and one shot had been fired.â

Lawrence nodded.

âAnd whose hand fired it? Itâs all very well, sir, but unless the real murderer is discovered I shall be suspected of the crime to the day of my death.â

âDonât say that, my boy.â

âBut I do say it.â

He became silent, frowning to himself. He roused himself at last and said:

âBut let me tell you how I got on last night. You know, old Miss Marple knows a thing or two.â

âShe is, I believe, rather unpopular on that account.â

Lawrence proceeded to recount his story.

He had, following Miss Marpleâs advice, gone up to Old Hall. There, with Anneâs assistance, he had had an interview with the parlourmaid. Anne had said simply:

âMr. Redding wants to ask you a few questions, Rose.â

Then she had left the room.

Lawrence had felt somewhat nervous. Rose, a pretty girl of twenty-five, gazed at him with a limpid gaze which he found rather disconcerting.

âItâsâitâs about Colonel Protheroeâs death.â

âYes, sir.â

âIâm very anxious, you see, to get at the truth.â

âYes, sir.â

âI feel that there may beâthat someone mightâthatâthat there might be some incidentââ

At this point Lawrence felt that he was not covering himself with glory, and heartily cursed Miss Marple and her suggestions.

âI wondered if you could help me?â

âYes, sir?â

Roseâs demeanour was still that of the perfect servant, polite, anxious to assist, and completely uninterested.

âDash it all,â said Lawrence, âhavenât you talked the thing over in the servantsâ hall?â

This method of attack flustered Rose slightly. Her perfect poise was shaken.

âIn the servantsâ hall, sir?â

âOr the housekeeperâs room, or the bootboyâs dugout, or wherever you do talk? There must be some place.â

Rose displayed a very faint disposition to giggle, and Lawrence felt encouraged.

âLook here, Rose, youâre an awfully nice girl. Iâm sure you must understand what Iâm feeling like. I donât want to be hanged. I didnât murder your master, but a lot of people think I did. Canât you help me in any way?â

I can imagine at this point that Lawrence must have looked extremely appealing. His handsome head thrown back, his Irish blue eyes appealing. Rose softened and capitulated.

âOh, sir! Iâm sureâif any of us could help in any way. None of us think you did it, sir. Indeed we donât.â

âI know, my dear girl, but thatâs not going to help me with the police.â

âThe police!â Rose tossed her head. âI can tell you, sir, we donât think much of that Inspector. Slack, he calls himself. The police indeed.â

âAll the same, the police are very powerful. Now, Rose, you say youâll do your best to help me. I canât help feeling that thereâs a lot we havenât got yet. The lady, for instance, who called to see Colonel Protheroe the night before he died.â

âMrs. Lestrange?â

âYes, Mrs. Lestrange. I canât help feeling thereâs something rather odd about that visit of hers.â

âYes, indeed, sir, thatâs what we all said.â

âYou did?â

âComing the way she did. And asking for the Colonel. And of course thereâs been a lot of talkânobody knowing anything about her down here. And Mrs. Simmons, sheâs the housekeeper, sir, she gave it as her opinion that she was a regular bad lot. But after hearing what Gladdie said, well, I didnât know what to think.â

âWhat did Gladdie say?â

âOh, nothing, sir! It was justâwe were talking, you know.â

Lawrence looked at her. He had the feeling of something kept back.

âI wonder very much what her interview with Colonel Protheroe was about.â

âYes, sir.â

âI believe you know, Rose?â

âMe? Oh, no, sir! Indeed I donât. How could I?â

âLook here, Rose. You said youâd help me. If you overheard anything, anything at allâit mightnât seem important, but anything â¦ Iâd be so awfully grateful to you. After all, anyone mightâmight chanceâjust chance to overhear something.â

âBut I didnât, sir, really, I didnât.â

âThen somebody else did,â said Lawrence acutely.

âWell, sirââ

âDo tell me, Rose.â

âI donât know what Gladdie would say, Iâm sure.â

âSheâd want you to tell me. Who is Gladdie, by the way?â

âSheâs the kitchenmaid, sir. And you see, sheâd just stepped out to speak to a friend, and she was passing the windowâthe study windowâand the master was there with the lady. And of course he did speak very loud, the master did, always. And naturally, feeling a little curiousâI meanââ

âAwfully natural,â said Lawrence, âI mean one would simply have to listen.â

âBut of course she didnât tell anyoneâexcept me. And we both thought it very odd. But Gladdie couldnât say anything, you see, because if it was known sheâd gone out to meetâaâa friendâwell, it would have meant a lot of unpleasantness with Mrs. Pratt, thatâs the cook, sir. But Iâm sure sheâd tell you anything, sir, willing.â

âWell, can I go to the kitchen and speak to her?â

Rose was horrified by the suggestion.

âOh, no, sir, that would never do! And Gladdieâs a very nervous girl anyway.â

At last the matter was settled, after a lot of discussion over difficult points. A clandestine meeting was arranged in the shrubbery.

Here, in due course, Lawrence was confronted by the nervous Gladdie who he described as more like a shivering rabbit than anything human. Ten minutes were spent in trying to put the girl at her ease, the shivering Gladys explaining that she couldnât everâthat she didnât ought, that she didnât think Rose would have given her away, that anyway she hadnât meant no harm, indeed she hadnât, and that sheâd catch it badly if Mrs. Pratt ever came to hear of it.

Lawrence reassured, cajoled, persuadedâat last Gladys consented to speak. âIf youâll be sure itâll go no further, sir.â

âOf course it wonât.â

âAnd it wonât be brought up against me in a court of law?â

âNever.â

âAnd you wonât tell the mistress?â

âNot on any account.â

âIf it were to get to Mrs. Prattâs earsââ

âIt wonât. Now tell me, Gladys.â

âIf youâre sure itâs all right?â

âOf course it is. Youâll be glad some day youâve saved me from being hanged.â

Gladys gave a little shriek.

âOh! Indeed, I wouldnât like that, sir. Well, itâs very little I heardâand that entirely by accident as you might sayââ

âI quite understand.â

âBut the master, he was evidently very angry. âAfter all these yearsââthatâs what he was sayingââyou dare to come hereââ âItâs an outrageââ I couldnât hear what the lady saidâbut after a bit he said, âI utterly refuseâutterlyââ I canât remember everythingâseemed as though they were at it hammer and tongs, she wanting him to do something and he refusing. âItâs a disgrace that you should have come down here,â thatâs one thing he said. And âYou shall not see herâI forbid itââ and that made me prick up my ears. Looked as though the lady wanted to tell Mrs. Protheroe a thing or two, and he was afraid about it. And I thought to myself, âWell, now, fancy the master. Him so particular. And maybe no beauty himself when allâs said and done. Fancy!â I said. And âMen are all alike,â I said to my friend later. Not that heâd agree. Argued, he did. But he did admit he was surprised at Colonel Protheroeâhim being a churchwarden and handing round the plate and reading the lessons on Sundays. âBut there,â I said, âthatâs very often the worst.â For thatâs what Iâve heard my mother say, many a time.â

Gladdie paused out of breath, and Lawrence tried tactfully to get back to where the conversation had started.

âDid you hear anything else?â

âWell, itâs difficult to remember exactly, sir. It was all much the same. He said once or twice, âI donât believe it.â Just like that. âWhatever Haydock says, I donât believe it.ââ

âHe said that, did he? âWhatever Haydock says?ââ

âYes. And he said it was all a plot.â

âYou didnât hear the lady speak at all?â

âOnly just at the end. She must have got up to go and come nearer the window. And I heard what she said. Made my blood run cold, it did. Iâll never forget it. âBy this time tomorrow night, you may be dead,â she said. Wicked the way she said it. As soon as I heard the news, âThere,â I said to Rose. âThere!ââ

Lawrence wondered. Principally he wondered how much of Gladysâs story was to be depended upon. True in the main, he suspected that it had been embellished and polished since the murder. In especial he doubted the accuracy of the last remark. He thought it highly possible that it owed its being to the fact of the murder.

He thanked Gladys, rewarded her suitably, reassured her as to her misdoings being made known to Mrs. Pratt, and left Old Hall with a good deal to think over.

One thing was clear, Mrs. Lestrangeâs interview with Colonel Protheroe had certainly not been a peaceful one, and it was one which he was anxious to keep from the knowledge of his wife.

I thought of Miss Marpleâs churchwarden with his separate establishment. Was this a case resembling that?

I wondered more than ever where Haydock came in. He had saved Mrs. Lestrange from having to give evidence at the inquest. He had done his best to protect her from the police.

How far would he carry that protection?

Supposing he suspected her of crimeâwould he still try and shield her?

She was a curious womanâa woman of very strong magnetic charm. I myself hated the thought of connecting her with the crime in any way.

Something in me said, âIt canât be her!â Why?

And an imp in my brain replied: âBecause sheâs a very beautiful and attractive woman. Thatâs why.â

There is, as Miss Marple would say, a lot of human nature in all of us.

Twenty

When I got back to the Vicarage I found that we were in the middle of a domestic crisis.

Griselda met me in the hall and with tears in her eyes dragged me into the drawing room. âSheâs going.â

âWhoâs going?â

âMary. Sheâs given notice.â

I really could not take the announcement in a tragic spirit.

âWell,â I said, âweâll have to get another servant.â

It seemed to me a perfectly reasonable thing to say. When one servant goes, you get another. I was at a loss to understand Griseldaâs look of reproach.

âLenâyou are absolutely heartless. You donât care.â

I didnât. In fact, I felt almost lighthearted at the prospect of no more burnt puddings and undercooked vegetables.

âIâll have to look for a girl, and find one, and train her,â continued Griselda in a voice of acute self-pity.

âIs Mary trained?â I said.

âOf course she is.â

âI suppose,â I said, âthat someone has heard her address us as sir or maâam and has immediately wrested her from us as a paragon. All I can say is, theyâll be disappointed.â

âIt isnât that,â said Griselda. âNobody else wants her. I donât see how they could. Itâs her feelings. Theyâre upset because Lettice Protheroe said she didnât dust properly.â

Griselda often comes out with surprising statements, but this seemed to me so surprising that I questioned it. It seemed to me the most unlikely thing in the world that Lettice Protheroe should go out of her way to interfere in our domestic affairs and reprove our maid for slovenly housework. It was so completely unLettice-like, and I said so.

âI donât see,â I said, âwhat our dust has to do with Lettice Protheroe.â

âNothing at all,â said my wife. âThatâs why itâs so unreasonable. I wish youâd go and talk to Mary yourself. Sheâs in the kitchen.â

I had no wish to talk to Mary on the subject, but Griselda, who is very energetic and quick, fairly pushed me through the baize door into the kitchen before I had time to rebel.

Mary was peeling potatoes at the sink.

âErâgood afternoon,â I said nervously.

Mary looked up and snorted, but made no other response.

âMrs. Clement tells me that you wish to leave us,â I said.

Mary condescended to reply to this.

âThereâs some things,â she said darkly, âas no girl can be asked to put up with.â

âWill you tell me exactly what it is that has upset you?â

âTell you that in two words, I can.â (Here, I may say, she vastly underestimated.) âPeople coming snooping round here when my backâs turned. Poking round. And what business of hers is it, how often the study is dusted or turned out? If you and the missus donât complain, itâs nobody elseâs business. If I give satisfaction to you thatâs all that matters, I say.â

Mary has never given satisfaction to me. I confess that I have a hankering after a room thoroughly dusted and tidied every morning. Maryâs practice of flicking off the more obvious deposit on the surface of low tables is to my thinking grossly inadequate. However, I realized that at the moment it was no good to go into side issues.

âHad to go to that inquest, didnât I? Standing up before twelve men, a respectable girl like me! And who knows what questions you may be asked. Iâll tell you this. Iâve never before been in a place where they had a murder in the house, and I never want to be again.â

âI hope you wonât,â I said. âOn the law of averages, I should say it was very unlikely.â

âI donât hold with the law. He was a magistrate. Many a poor fellow sent to jail for potting at a rabbitâand him with his pheasants and what not. And then, before heâs so much as decently buried, that daughter of his comes round and says I donât do my work properly.â

âDo you mean that Miss Protheroe has been here?â

âFound her here when I come back from the Blue Boar. In the study she was. And âOh!â she says. âIâm looking for my little yellow berryâa little yellow hat. I left it here the other day.â âWell,â I says, âI havenât seen no hat. It wasnât here when I done the room on Thursday morning,â I says. And âOh!â she says, âbut I dare say you wouldnât see it. You donât spend much time doing a room, do you?â And with that she draws her finger along the mantelshelf and looks at it. As though I had time on a morning like this to take off all them ornaments and put them back, with the police only unlocking the room the night before. âIf the Vicar and his lady are satisfied thatâs all that matters, I think, miss,â I said. And she laughs and goes out of the windows and says, âOh! but are you sure they are?ââ

âI see,â I said.

âAnd there it is! A girl has her feelings! Iâm sure Iâd work my fingers to the bone for you and the missus. And if she wants a new-fangled dish tried, Iâm always ready to try it.â

âIâm sure you are,â I said soothingly.

âBut she must have heard something or she wouldnât have said what she did. And if I donât give satisfaction Iâd rather go. Not that I take any notice of what Miss Protheroe says. Sheâs not loved up at the Hall, I can tell you. Never a please or a thank you, and everything scattered right and left. I wouldnât set any store by Miss Lettice Protheroe myself for all that Mr. Dennis is so set upon her. But sheâs the kind that can always twist a young gentleman round her little finger.â

During all this, Mary had been extracting eyes from potatoes with such energy that they had been flying round the kitchen like hailstones. At this moment one hit me in the eye and caused a momentary pause in the conversation.

âDonât you think,â I said, as I dabbed my eye with my handkerchief, âthat you have been rather too inclined to take offence where none is meant? You know, Mary, your mistress will be very sorry to lose you.â

âIâve nothing against the mistressâor against you, sir, for that matter.â

âWell, then, donât you think youâre being rather silly?â

Mary sniffed.

âI was a bit upset likeâafter the inquest and all. And a girl has her feelings. But I wouldnât like to cause the mistress inconvenience.â

âThen thatâs all right,â I said.

I left the kitchen to find Griselda and Dennis waiting for me in the hall. âWell?â exclaimed Griselda.

âSheâs staying,â I said, and sighed.

âLen,â said my wife, âyou have been clever.â

I felt rather inclined to disagree with her. I did not think I had been clever. It is my firm opinion that no servant could be a worse one than Mary. Any change, I consider, would have been a change for the better.

But I like to please Griselda. I detailed the heads of Maryâs grievance.

âHow like Lettice,â said Dennis. âShe couldnât have left that yellow beret of hers here on Wednesday. She was wearing it for tennis on Thursday.â

âThat seems to me highly probable,â I said.

âShe never knows where sheâs left anything,â said Dennis, with a kind of affectionate pride and admiration that I felt was entirely uncalled for. âShe loses about a dozen things every day.â

âA remarkably attractive trait,â I observed.

Any sarcasm missed Dennis.

âShe is attractive,â he said, with a deep sigh. âPeople are always proposing to herâshe told me so.â

âThey must be illicit proposals if theyâre made to her down here,â I remarked. âWe havenât got a bachelor in the place.â

âThereâs Dr. Stone,â said Griselda, her eyes dancing.

âHe asked her to come and see the barrow the other day,â I admitted.

âOf course he did,â said Griselda. âShe is attractive, Len. Even baldheaded archaeologists feel it.â

âLots of S.A.,â said Dennis sapiently.

And yet Lawrence Redding is completely untouched by Letticeâs charm. Griselda, however, explained that with the air of one who knew she was right.

âLawrence has got lots of S.A. himself. That kind always likes theâhow shall I put itâthe Quaker type. Very restrained and diffident. The kind of woman whom everybody calls cold. I think Anne is the only woman who could ever hold Lawrence. I donât think theyâll ever tire of each other. All the same, I think heâs been rather stupid in one way. Heâs rather made use of Lettice, you know. I donât think he ever dreamed she caredâheâs awfully modest in some waysâbut I have a feeling she does.â

âShe canât bear him,â said Dennis positively. âShe told me so.â

I have never seen anything like the pitying silence with which Griselda received this remark.

I went into my study. There was, to my fancy, still a rather eerie feeling in the room. I knew that I must get over this. Once give in to that feeling, and I should probably never use the study again. I walked thoughtfully over to the writing table. Here Protheroe had sat, red-faced, hearty, self-righteous, and here, in a moment of time, he had been struck down. Here, where I was standing, an enemy had stoodâ¦.

And soâno more Protheroeâ¦.

Here was the pen his fingers had held.

On the floor was a faint dark stainâthe rug had been sent to the cleaners, but the blood had soaked through.

I shivered.

âI canât use this room,â I said aloud. âI canât use it.â

Then my eye was caught by somethingâa mere speck of bright blue. I bent down. Between the floor and the desk I saw a small object. I picked it up.

I was standing staring at it in the palm of my hand when Griselda came in.

âI forgot to tell you, Len. Miss Marple wants us to go over tonight after dinner. To amuse the nephew. Sheâs afraid of his being dull. I said weâd go.â

âVery well, my dear.â

âWhat are you looking at?â

âNothing.â

I closed my hand, and looking at my wife, observed:

âIf you donât amuse Master Raymond West, my dear, he must be very hard to please.â

My wife said: âDonât be ridiculous, Len,â and turned pink.

She went out again, and I unclosed my hand.

In the palm of my hand was a blue lapis lazuli earring set in seed pearls.

It was rather an unusual jewel, and I knew very well where I had seen it last.

Twenty-one

I cannot say that I have at any time had a great admiration for Mr. Raymond West. He is, I know, supposed to be a brilliant novelist and has made quite a name as a poet. His poems have no capital letters in them, which is, I believe, the essence of modernity. His books are about unpleasant people leading lives of surpassing dullness.

He has a tolerant affection for âAunt Jane,â whom he alludes to in her presence as a âsurvival.â

She listens to his talk with a flattering interest, and if there is sometimes an amused twinkle in her eye I am sure he never notices it.

He fastened on Griselda at once with flattering abruptness. They discussed modern plays and from there went on to modern schemes of decoration. Griselda affects to laugh at Raymond West, but she is, I think, susceptible to his conversation.

During my (dull) conversation with Miss Marple, I heard at intervals the reiteration âburied as you are down here.â

It began at last to irritate me. I said suddenly:

âI suppose you consider us very much out of the things down here?â

Raymond West waved his cigarette.

âI regard St. Mary Mead,â he said authoritatively, âas a stagnant pool.â

He looked at us, prepared for resentment at his statement, but somewhat, I think, to his chagrin, no one displayed annoyance.

âThat is really not a very good simile, dear Raymond,â said Miss Marple briskly. âNothing, I believe, is so full of life under the microscope as a drop of water from a stagnant pool.â

âLifeâof a kind,â admitted the novelist.

âItâs all much the same kind, really, isnât it?â said Miss Marple.

âYou compare yourself to a denizen of a stagnant pond, Aunt Jane?â

âMy dear, you said something of the sort in your last book, I remember.â

No clever young man likes having his works quoted against himself. Raymond West was no exception.

âThat was entirely different,â he snapped.

âLife is, after all, very much the same everywhere,â said Miss Marple in her placid voice. âGetting born, you know, and growing upâand coming into contact with other peopleâgetting jostledâand then marriage and more babiesââ

âAnd finally death,â said Raymond West. âAnd not death with a death certificate always. Death in life.â

âTalking of death,â said Griselda. âYou know weâve had a murder here?â

Raymond West waved murder away with his cigarette.

âMurder is so crude,â he said. âI take no interest in it.â

That statement did not take me in for a moment. They say all the world loves a loverâapply that saying to murder and you have an even more infallible truth. No one can fail to be interested in a murder. Simple people like Griselda and myself can admit the fact, but anyone like Raymond West has to pretend to be boredâat any rate for the first five minutes.

Miss Marple, however, gave her nephew away by remarking:

âRaymond and I have been discussing nothing else all through dinner.â

âI take a great interest in all the local news,â said Raymond hastily. He smiled benignly and tolerantly at Miss Marple.

âHave you a theory, Mr. West?â asked Griselda.

âLogically,â said Raymond West, again flourishing his cigarette, âonly one person could have killed Protheroe.â

âYes?â said Griselda.

We hung upon his words with flattering attention.

âThe Vicar,â said Raymond, and pointed an accusing finger at me.

I gasped.

âOf course,â he reassured me, âI know you didnât do it. Life is never what it should be. But think of the dramaâthe fitnessâchurchwarden murdered in the Vicarâs study by the Vicar. Delicious!â

âAnd the motive?â I inquired.

âOh! Thatâs interesting.â He sat upâallowed his cigarette to go out. âInferiority complex, I think. Possibly too many inhibitions. I should like to write the story of the affair. Amazingly complex. Week after week, year after year, heâs seen the manâat vestry meetingsâat choirboysâ outingsâhanding round the bag in churchâbringing it to the altar. Always he dislikes the manâalways he chokes down his dislike. Itâs unChristian, he wonât encourage it. And so it festers underneath, and one dayââ

He made a graphic gesture.

Griselda turned to me.

âHave you ever felt like that, Len?â

âNever,â I said truthfully.

âYet I hear you were wishing him out of the world not so long ago,â remarked Miss Marple.

(That miserable Dennis! But my fault, of course, for ever making the remark.)

âIâm afraid I was,â I said. âIt was a stupid remark to make, but really Iâd had a very trying morning with him.â

âThatâs disappointing,â said Raymond West. âBecause, of course, if your subconscious were really planning to do him in, it would never have allowed you to make that remark.â

He sighed.

âMy theory falls to the ground. This is probably a very ordinary murderâa revengeful poacher or something of that sort.â

âMiss Cram came to see me this afternoon,â said Miss Marple. âI met her in the village and I asked her if she would like to see my garden.â

âIs she fond of gardens?â asked Griselda.

âI donât think so,â said Miss Marple, with a faint twinkle. âBut it makes a very useful excuse for talk, donât you think?â

âWhat did you make of her?â asked Griselda. âI donât believe sheâs really so bad.â

âShe volunteered a lot of informationâreally a lot of information,â said Miss Marple. âAbout herself, you know, and her people. They all seem to be dead or in India. Very sad. By the way, she has gone to Old Hall for the weekend.â

âWhat?â

âYes, it seems Mrs. Protheroe asked herâor she suggested it to Mrs. ProtheroeâI donât quite know which way about it was. To do some secretarial work for herâthere are so many letters to cope with. It turned out rather fortunately. Dr. Stone being away, she has nothing to do. What an excitement this barrow has been.â

âStone?â said Raymond. âIs that the archaeologist fellow?â

âYes, he is excavating a barrow. On the Protheroe property.â

âHeâs a good man,â said Raymond. âWonderfully keen on his job. I met him at a dinner not long ago and we had a most interesting talk. I must look him up.â

âUnfortunately,â I said, âheâs just gone to London for the weekend. Why, you actually ran into him at the station this afternoon.â

âI ran into you. You had a little fat man with youâwith glasses on.â

âYesâDr. Stone.â

âBut, my dear fellowâthat wasnât Stone.â

âNot Stone?â

âNot the archaeologist. I know him quite well. The man wasnât Stoneânot the faintest resemblance.â

We stared at each other. In particular I stared at Miss Marple.

âExtraordinary,â I said.

âThe suitcase,â said Miss Marple.

âBut why?â said Griselda.

âIt reminds me of the time the man went round pretending to be the Gas Inspector,â murmured Miss Marple. âQuite a little haul, he got.â

âAn impostor,â said Raymond West. âNow this is really interesting.â

âThe question is, has it anything to do with the murder?â said Griselda.

âNot necessarily,â I said. âButââ I looked at Miss Marple.

âIt is,â she said, âa Peculiar Thing. Another Peculiar Thing.â

âYes,â I said, rising. âI rather feel the Inspector ought to be told about this at once.â

Twenty-two

Inspector Slackâs orders, once I had got him on the telephone, were brief and emphatic. Nothing was to âget about.â In particular, Miss Cram was not to be alarmed. In the meantime, a search was to be instituted for the suitcase in the neighbourhood of the barrow.

Griselda and I returned home very excited over this new development. We could not say much with Dennis present, as we had faithfully promised Inspector Slack to breath no word to anybody.

In any case, Dennis was full of his own troubles. He came into my study and began fingering things and shuffling his feet and looking thoroughly embarrassed.

âWhat is it, Dennis?â I said at last.

âUncle Len, I donât want to go to sea.â

I was astonished. The boy had been so very decided about his career up to now.

âBut you were so keen on it.â

âYes, but Iâve changed my mind.â

âWhat do you want to do?â

âI want to go into finance.â

I was even more surprised.

âWhat do you meanâfinance?â

âJust that. I want to go into the city.â

âBut, my dear boy, I am sure you would not like the life. Even if I obtained a post for you in a bankââ

Dennis said that wasnât what he meant. He didnât want to go into a bank. I asked him what exactly he did mean, and of course, as I suspected, the boy didnât really know.

By âgoing into finance,â he simply meant getting rich quickly, which with the optimism of youth he imagined was a certainty if one âwent into the city.â I disabused him of this notion as gently as I could.

âWhatâs put it into your head?â I asked. âYou were so satisfied with the idea of going to sea.â

âI know, Uncle Len, but Iâve been thinking. I shall want to marry some dayâand, I mean, youâve got to be rich to marry a girl.â

âFacts disprove your theory,â I said.

âI knowâbut a real girl. I mean, a girl whoâs used to things.â

It was very vague, but I thought I knew what he meant.

âYou know,â I said gently, âall girls arenât like Lettice Protheroe.â

He fired up at once.

âYouâre awfully unfair to her. You donât like her. Griselda doesnât either. She says sheâs tiresome.â

From the feminine point of view Griselda is quite right. Lettice is tiresome. I could quite realize, however, that a boy would resent the adjective.

âIf only people made a few allowances. Why even the Hartley Napiers are going about grousing about her at a time like this! Just because she left their old tennis party a bit early. Why should she stay if she was bored? Jolly decent of her to go at all, I think.â

âQuite a favour,â I said, but Dennis suspected no malice. He was full of his own grievances on Letticeâs behalf.

âSheâs awfully unselfish really. Just to show you, she made me stay. Naturally I wanted to go too. But she wouldnât hear of it. Said it was too bad on the Napiers. So, just to please her, I stopped on a quarter of an hour.â

The young have very curious views on unselfishness.

âAnd now I hear Susan Hartley Napier is going about everywhere saying Lettice has rotten manners.â

âIf I were you,â I said, âI shouldnât worry.â

âItâs all very well, butââ

He broke off.

âIâdâIâd do anything for Lettice.â

âVery few of us can do anything for anyone else,â I said. âHowever much we wish it, we are powerless.â

âI wish I were dead,â said Dennis.

Poor lad. Calf love is a virulent disease. I forebore to say any of the obvious and probably irritating things which come so easily to oneâs lips. Instead, I said goodnight, and went up to bed.

I took the eight oâclock service the following morning and when I returned found Griselda sitting at the breakfast table with an open note in her hand. It was from Anne Protheroe.

âDear Griselda,âIf you and the Vicar could come up and lunch here quietly today, I should be so very grateful. Something very strange has occurred, and I should like Mr. Clementâs advice.

Please donât mention this when you come, as I have said nothing to anyone.

With love,

Yours affectionately,

Anne Protheroe.â

âWe must go, of course,â said Griselda.

I agreed.

âI wonder what can have happened?â

I wondered too.

âYou know,â I said to Griselda, âI donât feel we are really at the end of this case yet.â

âYou mean not till someone has really been arrested?â

âNo,â I said, âI didnât mean that. I mean that there are ramifications, undercurrents, that we know nothing about. There are a whole lot of things to clear up before we get at the truth.â

âYou mean things that donât really matter, but that get in the way?â

âYes, I think that expresses my meaning very well.â

âI think weâre all making a great fuss,â said Dennis, helping himself to marmalade. âItâs a jolly good thing old Protheroe is dead. Nobody liked him. Oh! I know the police have got to worryâitâs their job. But I rather hope myself theyâll never find out. I should hate to see Slack promoted going about swelling with importance over his cleverness.â

I am human enough to feel that I agree over the matter of Slackâs promotion. A man who goes about systematically rubbing people up the wrong way cannot hope to be popular.

âDr. Haydock thinks rather like I do,â went on Dennis. âHeâd never give a murderer up to justice. He said so.â

I think that that is the danger of Haydockâs views. They may be sound in themselvesâit is not for me to sayâbut they produce an impression on the young careless mind which I am sure Haydock himself never meant to convey.

Griselda looked out of the window and remarked that there were reporters in the garden.

âI suppose theyâre photographing the study windows again,â she said, with a sigh.

We had suffered a good deal in this way. There was first the idle curiosity of the villageâeveryone had come to gape and stare. There were next the reporters armed with cameras, and the village again to watch the reporters. In the end we had to have a constable from Much Benham on duty outside the window.

âWell,â I said, âthe funeral is tomorrow morning. After that, surely, the excitement will die down.â

I noticed a few reporters hanging about Old Hall when we arrived there. They accosted me with various queries to which I gave the invariable answer (we had found it the best), that, âI had nothing to say.â

We were shown by the butler into the drawing room, the sole occupant of which turned out to be Miss Cramâapparently in a state of high enjoyment.

âThis is a surprise, isnât it?â she said, as she shook hands. âI never should have thought of such a thing, but Mrs. Protheroe is kind, isnât she? And, of course, it isnât what you might call nice for a young girl to be staying alone at a place like the Blue Boar, reporters about and all. And, of course, itâs not as though I havenât been able to make myself usefulâyou really need a secretary at a time like this, and Miss Protheroe doesnât do anything to help, does she?â

I was amused to notice that the old animosity against Lettice persisted, but that the girl had apparently become a warm partisan of Anneâs. At the same time I wondered if the story of her coming here was strictly accurate. In her account the initiative had come from Anne, but I wondered if that were really so. The first mention of disliking to be at the Blue Boar alone might have easily come from the girl herself. Whilst keeping an open mind on the subject, I did not fancy that Miss Cram was strictly truthful.

At that moment Anne Protheroe entered the room.

She was dressed very quietly in black. She carried in her hand a Sunday paper which she held out to me with a rueful glance.

âIâve never had any experience of this sort of thing. Itâs pretty ghastly, isnât it? I saw a reporter at the inquest. I just said that I was terribly upset and had nothing to say, and then he asked me if I wasnât very anxious to find my husbandâs murderer, and I said âYes.â And then whether I had any suspicions, and I said âNo.â And whether I didnât think the crime showed local knowledge, and I said it seemed to certainly. And that was all. And now look at this!â

In the middle of the page was a photograph, evidently taken at least ten years agoâHeaven knows where they had dug it out. There were large headlines:

WIDOW DECLARES SHE WILL NEVER REST TILL SHE HAS HUNTED DOWN HUSBANDâS MURDERER.

Mrs. Protheroe, the widow of the murdered man, is certain that the murderer must be looked for locally. She has suspicions, but no certainty. She declared herself prostrated with grief, but reiterated her determination to hunt down the murderer.

âIt doesnât sound like me, does it?â said Anne.

âI dare say it might have been worse,â I said, handing back the paper.

âImpudent, arenât they?â said Miss Cram. âIâd like to see one of those fellows trying to get something out of me.â

By the twinkle in Griseldaâs eye, I was convinced that she regarded this statement as being more literally true than Miss Cram intended it to appear.

Luncheon was announced, and we went in. Lettice did not come in till halfway through the meal, when she drifted into the empty place with a smile for Griselda and a nod for me. I watched her with some attention, for reasons of my own, but she seemed much the same vague creature as usual. Extremely prettyâthat in fairness I had to admit. She was still not wearing mourning, but was dressed in a shade of pale green that brought out all the delicacy of her fair colouring.

After we had had coffee, Anne said quietly:

âI want to have a little talk with the Vicar. I will take him up to my sitting room.â

At last I was to learn the reason of our summons. I rose and followed her up the stairs. She paused at the door of the room. As I was about to speak, she stretched out a hand to stop me. She remained listening, looking down towards the hall.

âGood. They are going out into the garden. Noâdonât go in there. We can go straight up.â

Much to my surprise she led the way along the corridor to the extremity of the wing. Here a narrow ladder-like staircase rose to the floor above, and she mounted it, I following. We found ourselves in a dusty boarded passage. Anne opened a door and led me into a large dim attic which was evidently used as a lumber room. There were trunks there, old broken furniture, a few stacked pictures, and the many countless odds and ends which a lumber room collects.

My surprise was so evident that she smiled faintly.

âFirst of all, I must explain. I am sleeping very lightly just now. Last nightâor rather this morning about three oâclock, I was convinced that I heard someone moving about the house. I listened for some time, and at last got up and came out to see. Out on the landing I realized that the sounds came, not from down below, but from up above. I came along to the foot of these stairs. Again I thought I heard a sound. I called up, âIs anybody there?â But there was no answer, and I heard nothing more, so I assumed that my nerves had been playing tricks on me, and went back to bed.

âHowever, early this morning, I came up hereâsimply out of curiosity. And I found this!â

She stooped down and turned round a picture that was leaning against the wall with the back of the canvas towards us.

I gave a gasp of surprise. The picture was evidently a portrait in oils, but the face had been hacked and cut in such a savage way as to render it unrecognizable. Moreover, the cuts were clearly quite fresh.

âWhat an extraordinary thing,â I said.

âIsnât it? Tell me, can you think of any explanation?â

I shook my head.

âThereâs a kind of savagery about it,â I said, âthat I donât like. It looks as though it had been done in a fit of maniacal rage.â

âYes, thatâs what I thought.â

âWhat is the portrait?â

âI havenât the least idea. I have never seen it before. All these things were in the attic when I married Lucius and came here to live. I have never been through them or bothered about them.â

âExtraordinary,â I commented.

I stooped down and examined the other pictures. They were very much what you would expect to findâsome very mediocre landscapes, some oleographs and a few cheaply-framed reproductions.

There was nothing else helpful. A large old-fashioned trunk, of the kind that used to be called an âark,â had the initials E.P. upon it. I raised the lid. It was empty. Nothing else in the attic was the least suggestive.

âIt really is a most amazing occurrence,â I said. âItâs soâsenseless.â

âYes,â said Anne. âThat frightens me a little.â

There was nothing more to see. I accompanied her down to her sitting room where she closed the door.

âDo you think I ought to do anything about it? Tell the police?â

I hesitated.

âItâs hard to say on the face of it whetherââ

âIt has anything to do with the murder or not,â finished Anne. âI know. Thatâs what is so difficult. On the face of it, there seems no connection whatever.â

âNo,â I said, âbut it is another Peculiar Thing.â

We both sat silent with puzzled brows.

âWhat are your plans, if I may ask?â I said presently.

She lifted her head.

âIâm going to live here for at least another six months!â She said it defiantly. âI donât want to. I hate the idea of living here. But I think itâs the only thing to be done. Otherwise people will say that I ran awayâthat I had a guilty conscience.â

âSurely not.â

âOh! Yes, they will. Especially whenââ She paused and then said: âWhen the six months are upâI am going to marry Lawrence.â Her eyes met mine. âWeâre neither of us going to wait any longer.â

âI supposed,â I said, âthat that would happen.â

Suddenly she broke down, burying her head in her hands.

âYou donât know how grateful I am to youâyou donât know. Weâd said good-bye to each otherâhe was going away. I feelâI feel so awful about Luciusâs death. If weâd been planning to go away together, and heâd died thenâit would be so awful now. But you made us both see how wrong it would be. Thatâs why Iâm grateful.â

âI, too, am thankful,â I said gravely.

âAll the same, you know,â she sat up. âUnless the real murderer is found theyâll always think it was Lawrenceâoh! Yes, they will. And especially when he marries me.â

âMy dear, Dr. Haydockâs evidence made it perfectly clearââ

âWhat do people care about evidence? They donât even know about it. And medical evidence never means anything to outsiders anyway. Thatâs another reason why Iâm staying on here. Mr. Clement, Iâm going to find out the truth.â

Her eyes flashed as she spoke. She added:

âThatâs why I asked that girl here.â

âMiss Cram?â

âYes.â

âYou did ask her, then. I mean, it was your idea?â

âEntirely. Oh! As a matter of fact, she whined a bit. At the inquestâshe was there when I arrived. No, I asked her here deliberately.â

âBut surely,â I cried, âyou donât think that that silly young woman could have anything to do with the crime?â

âItâs awfully easy to appear silly, Mr. Clement. Itâs one of the easiest things in the world.â

âThen you really thinkâ?â

âNo, I donât. Honestly, I donât. What I do think is that that girl knows somethingâor might know something. I wanted to study her at close quarters.â

âAnd the very night she arrives, that picture is slashed,â I said thoughtfully.

âYou think she did it? But why? It seems so utterly absurd and impossible.â

âIt seems to me utterly impossible and absurd that your husband should have been murdered in my study,â I said bitterly. âBut he was.â

âI know.â She laid her hand on my arm. âItâs dreadful for you. I do realize that, though I havenât said very much about it.â

I took the blue lapis lazuli earring from my pocket and held it out to her.

âThis is yours, I think?â

âOh, yes!â She held out her hand for it with a pleased smile. âWhere did you find it?â

But I did not put the jewel into her outstretched hand.

âWould you mind,â I said, âif I kept it a little longer?â

âWhy, certainly.â She looked puzzled and a little inquiring. I did not satisfy her curiosity.

Instead I asked her how she was situated financially.

âIt is an impertinent question,â I said, âbut I really do not mean it as such.â

âI donât think itâs impertinent at all. You and Griselda are the best friends I have here. And I like that funny old Miss Marple. Lucius was very well off, you know. He left things pretty equally divided between me and Lettice. Old Hall goes to me, but Lettice is to be allowed to choose enough furniture to furnish a small house, and she is left a separate sum for the purpose of buying one, so as to even things up.â

âWhat are her plans, do you know?â

Anne made a comical grimace.

âShe doesnât tell them to me. I imagine she will leave here as soon as possible. She doesnât like meâshe never has. I dare say itâs my fault, though Iâve really always tried to be decent. But I suppose any girl resents a young stepmother.â

âAre you fond of her?â I asked bluntly.

She did not reply at once, which convinced me that Anne Protheroe is a very honest woman.

âI was at first,â she said. âShe was such a pretty little girl. I donât think I am now. I donât know why. Perhaps itâs because she doesnât like me. I like being liked, you know.â

âWe all do,â I said, and Anne Protheroe smiled.

I had one more task to perform. That was to get a word alone with Lettice Protheroe. I managed that easily enough, catching sight of her in the deserted drawing room. Griselda and Gladys Cram were out in the garden.

I went in and shut the door.

âLettice,â I said, âI want to speak to you about something.â

She looked up indifferently.

âYes?â

I had thought beforehand what to say. I held out the lapis earring and said quietly:

âWhy did you drop that in my study?â

I saw her stiffen for a momentâit was almost instantaneous. Her recovery was so quick that I myself could hardly have sworn to the movement. Then she said carelessly:

âI never dropped anything in your study. Thatâs not mine. Thatâs Anneâs.â

âI know that,â I said.

âWell, why ask me, then? Anne must have dropped it.â

âMrs. Protheroe has only been in my study once since the murder, and then she was wearing black and so would not have been likely to have had on a blue earring.â

âIn that case,â said Lettice, âI suppose she must have dropped it before.â She added: âThatâs only logical.â

âItâs very logical,â I said. âI suppose you donât happen to remember when your stepmother was wearing these earrings last?â

âOh!â She looked at me with a puzzled, trustful gaze. âIs it very important?â

âIt might be,â I said.

âIâll try and think.â She sat there knitting her brows. I have never seen Lettice Protheroe look more charming than she did at that moment. âOh, yes!â she said suddenly. âShe had them onâon Thursday. I remember now.â

âThursday,â I said slowly, âwas the day of the murder. Mrs. Protheroe came to the study in the garden that day, but if you remember, in her evidence, she only came as far as the study window, not inside the room.â

âWhere did you find this?â

âRolled underneath the desk.â

âThen it looks, doesnât it,â said Lettice coolly, âas though she hadnât spoken the truth?â

âYou mean that she came right in and stood by the desk?â

âWell, it looks like it, doesnât it?â

Her eyes met mine serenely.

âIf you want to know,â she said calmly, âI never have thought she was speaking the truth.â

âAnd I know you are not, Lettice.â

âWhat do you mean?â

She was startled.

âI mean,â I said, âthat the last time I saw this earring was on Friday morning when I came up here with Colonel Melchett. It was lying with its fellow on your stepmotherâs dressing table. I actually handled them both.â

âOhâ!â She wavered, then suddenly flung herself sideways over the arm of her chair and burst into tears. Her short fair hair hung down almost touching the floor. It was a strange attitudeâbeautiful and unrestrained.

I let her sob for some moments in silence and then I said very gently:

âLettice, why did you do it?â

âWhat?â

She sprang up, flinging her hair wildly back. She looked wildâalmost terrified.

âWhat do you mean?â

âWhat made you do it? Was it jealousy? Dislike of Anne?â

âOh!âOh, yes!â She pushed the hair back from her face and seemed suddenly to regain complete self-possession. âYes, you can call it jealousy. Iâve always disliked Anneâever since she came queening it here. I put the damned thing under the desk. I hoped it would get her into trouble. It would have done if you hadnât been such a Nosey Parker, fingering things on dressing tables. Anyway, it isnât a clergymanâs business to go about helping the police.â

It was a spiteful, childish outburst. I took no notice of it. Indeed, at that moment, she seemed a very pathetic child indeed.

Her childish attempt at vengeance against Anne seemed hardly to be taken seriously. I told her so, and added that I should return the earring to her and say nothing of the circumstances in which I had found it. She seemed rather touched by that.

âThatâs nice of you,â she said.

She paused a minute and then said, keeping her face averted and evidently choosing her words with care:

âYou know, Mr. Clement, I shouldâI should get Dennis away from here soon, if I were you Iâthink it would be better.â

âDennis?â I raised my eyebrows in slight surprise but with a trace of amusement too.

âI think it would be better.â She added, still in the same awkward manner: âIâm sorry about Dennis. I didnât think heâanyway, Iâm sorry.â

We left it at that.

Twenty-three

On the way back, I proposed to Griselda that we should make a detour and go round by the barrow. I was anxious to see if the police were at work and if so, what they had found. Griselda, however, had things to do at home, so I was left to make the expedition on my own.

I found Constable Hurst in charge of operations.

âNo sign so far, sir,â he reported. âAnd yet it stands to reason that this is the only place for a cache.â

His use of the word cache puzzled me for a moment, as he pronounced it catch, but his real meaning occurred to me almost at once.

âWhatimeantersay is, sir, where else could the young woman be going starting into the wood by that path? It leads to Old Hall, and it leads here, and thatâs about all.â

âI suppose,â I said, âthat Inspector Slack would disdain such a simple course as asking the young lady straight out.â

âAnxious not to put the wind up her,â said Hurst. âAnything she writes to Stone or he writes to her may throw light on thingsâonce she knows weâre on to her, sheâd shut up like that.â

Like what exactly was left in doubt, but I personally doubted Miss Gladys Cram ever being shut up in the way described. It was impossible to imagine her as other than overflowing with conversation.

âWhen a manâs an hâimpostor, you want to know why heâs an hâimpostor,â said Constable Hurst didactically.

âNaturally,â I said.

âAnd the answer is to be found in this here barrowâor else why was he forever messing about with it?â

âA raison dâÃªtre for prowling about,â I suggested, but this bit of French was too much for the constable. He revenged himself for not understanding it by saying coldly:

âThatâs the hâamateurâs point of view.â

âAnyway, you havenât found the suitcase,â I said.

âWe shall do, sir. Not a doubt of it.â

âIâm not so sure,â I said. âIâve been thinking. Miss Marple said it was quite a short time before the girl reappeared empty-handed. In that case, she wouldnât have had time to get up here and back.â

âYou canât take any notice of what old ladies say. When theyâve seen something curious, and are waiting all eager like, why, time simply flies for them. And anyway, no lady knows anything about time.â

I often wonder why the whole world is so prone to generalize. Generalizations are seldom if ever true and are usually utterly inaccurate. I have a poor sense of time myself (hence the keeping of my clock fast) and Miss Marple, I should say, has a very acute one. Her clocks keep time to the minute and she herself is rigidly punctual on every occasion.

However, I had no intention of arguing with Constable Hurst on the point. I wished him good afternoon and good luck and went on my way.

It was just as I was nearing home that the idea came to me. There was nothing to lead up to it. It just flashed into my brain as a possible solution.

You will remember that on my first search of the path, the day after the murder, I had found the bushes disturbed in a certain place. They proved, or so I thought at the time, to have been disturbed by Lawrence, bent on the same errand as myself.

But I remembered that afterwards he and I together had come upon another faintly marked trail which proved to be that of the Inspector. On thinking it over, I distinctly remembered that the first trail (Lawrenceâs) had been much more noticeable than the second, as though more than one person had been passing that way. And I reflected that that was probably what had drawn Lawrenceâs attention to it in the first instance. Supposing that it had originally been made by either Dr. Stone or else Miss Cram?

I remembered, or else I imagined remembering, that there had been several withered leaves on broken twigs. If so, the trail could not have been made the afternoon of our search.

I was just approaching the spot in question. I recognized it easily enough and once more forced my way through the bushes. This time I noticed fresh twigs broken. Someone had passed this way since Lawrence and myself.

I soon came to the place where I had encountered Lawrence. The faint trail, however, persisted farther, and I continued to follow it. Suddenly it widened out into a little clearing, which showed signs of recent upheaval. I say a clearing, because the denseness of the undergrowth was thinned out there, but the branches of the trees met overhead and the whole place was not more than a few feet across.

On the other side, the undergrowth grew densely again, and it seemed quite clear that no one had forced a way through it recently. Nevertheless, it seemed to have been disturbed in one place.

I went across and kneeled down, thrusting the bushes aside with both hands. A glint of shiny brown surface rewarded me. Full of excitement, I thrust my arm in and with a good deal of difficulty I extracted a small brown suitcase.

I uttered an ejaculation of triumph. I had been successful. Coldly snubbed by Constable Hurst, I had yet proved right in my reasoning. Here without doubt was the suitcase carried by Miss Cram. I tried the hasp, but it was locked.

As I rose to my feet I noticed a small brownish crystal lying on the ground. Almost automatically, I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket.

Then grasping my find by the handle, I retraced my steps to the path.

As I climbed over the stile into the lane, an agitated voice near at hand called out:

âOh! Mr. Clement. Youâve found it! How clever of you!â

Mentally registering the fact that in the art of seeing without being seen, Miss Marple had no rival, I balanced my find on the palings between us.

âThatâs the one,â said Miss Marple âIâd know it anywhere.â

This, I thought, was a slight exaggeration. There are thousands of cheap shiny suitcases all exactly alike. No one could recognize one particular one seen from such a distance away by moonlight, but I realized that the whole business of the suitcase was Miss Marpleâs particular triumph and, as such, she was entitled to a little pardonable exaggeration.

âItâs locked, I suppose, Mr. Clement?â

âYes. Iâm just going to take it down to the police station.â

âYou donât think it would be better to telephone?â

Of course unquestionably it would be better to telephone. To stride through the village, suitcase in hand, would be to court a probably undesirable publicity.

So I unlatched Miss Marpleâs garden gate and entered the house by the French window, and from the sanctity of the drawing room with the door shut, I telephoned my news.

The result was that Inspector Slack announced he would be up himself in a couple of jiffies.

When he arrived it was in his most cantankerous mood.

âSo weâve got it, have we?â he said. âYou know, sir, you shouldnât keep things to yourself. If youâd any reason to believe you knew where the article in question was hidden, you ought to have reported it to the proper authorities.â

âIt was a pure accident,â I said. âThe idea just happened to occur to me.â

âAnd thatâs a likely tale. Nearly three-quarters of a mile of woodland, and you go right to the proper spot and lay your hand upon it.â

I would have given Inspector Slack the steps in reasoning which led me to this particular spot, but he had achieved his usual result of putting my back up. I said nothing.

âWell?â said Inspector Slack, eyeing the suitcase with dislike and would be indifference, âI suppose we might as well have a look at whatâs inside.â

He had brought an assortment of keys and wire with him. The lock was a cheap affair. In a couple of seconds the case was open.

I donât know what we had expected to findâsomething sternly sensational, I imagine. But the first thing that met our eyes was a greasy plaid scarf. The Inspector lifted it out. Next came a faded dark blue overcoat, very much the worse for wear. A checked cap followed.

âA shoddy lot,â said the Inspector.

A pair of boots very down at heel and battered came next. At the bottom of the suitcase was a parcel done up in newspaper.

âFancy shirt, I suppose,â said the Inspector bitterly, as he tore it open.

A moment later he had caught his breath in surprise.

For inside the parcel were some demure little silver objects and a round platter of the same metal.

Miss Marple gave a shrill exclamation of recognition.

âThe trencher salts,â she exclaimed. âColonel Protheroeâs trencher salts, and the Charles II tazza. Did you ever hear of such a thing!â

The Inspector had got very red.

âSo that was the game,â he muttered. âRobbery. But I canât make it out. Thereâs been no mention of these things being missing.â

âPerhaps they havenât discovered the loss,â I suggested. âI presume these valuable things would not have been kept out in common use. Colonel Protheroe probably kept them locked away in a safe.â

âI must investigate this,â said the Inspector. âIâll go right up to Old Hall now. So thatâs why our Dr. Stone made himself scarce. What with the murder and one thing and another, he was afraid weâd get wind of his activities. As likely as not his belongings might have been searched. He got the girl to hide them in the wood with a suitable change of clothing. He meant to come back by a roundabout route and go off with them one night whilst she stayed here to disarm suspicion. Well, thereâs one thing to the good. This lets him out over the murder. Heâd nothing to do with that. Quite a different game.â

He repacked the suitcase and took his departure, refusing Miss Marpleâs offer of a glass of sherry.

âWell, thatâs one mystery cleared up,â I said with a sigh. âWhat Slack says is quite true; there are no grounds for suspecting him of the murder. Everythingâs accounted for quite satisfactorily.â

âIt really would seem so,â said Miss Marple. âAlthough one never can be quite certain, can one?â

âThereâs a complete lack of motive,â I pointed out. âHeâd got what he came for and was clearing out.â

âYâes.â

She was clearly not quite satisfied, and I looked at her in some curiosity. She hastened to answer my inquiring gaze with a kind of apologetic eagerness.

âIâve no doubt I am quite wrong. Iâm so stupid about these things. But I just wonderedâI mean this silver is very valuable, is it not?â

âA tazza sold the other day for over a thousand pounds, I believe.â

âI meanâitâs not the value of the metal.â

âNo, itâs what one might call a connoisseurâs value.â

âThatâs what I mean. The sale of such things would take a little time to arrange, or even if it was arranged, it couldnât be carried through without secrecy. I meanâif the robbery were reported and a hue and cry were raised, well, the things couldnât be marketed at all.â

âI donât quite see what you mean?â I said.

âI know Iâm putting it badly.â She became more flustered and apologetic. âBut it seems to me thatâthat the things couldnât just have been abstracted, so to speak. The only satisfactory thing to do would be to replace these things with copies. Then, perhaps, the robbery wouldnât be discovered for some time.â

âThatâs a very ingenious idea,â I said.

âIt would be the only way to do it, wouldnât it? And if so, of course, as you say, once the substitution had been accomplished there wouldnât have been any reason for murdering Colonel Protheroeâquite the reverse.â

âExactly,â I said. âThatâs what I said.â

âYes, but I just wonderedâI donât know, of courseâand Colonel Protheroe always talked a lot about doing things before he actually did do them, and, of course, sometimes never did them at all, but he did sayââ

âYes?â

âThat he was going to have all his things valuedâa man down from London. For probateâno, thatâs when youâre deadâfor insurance. Someone told him that was the thing to do. He talked about it a great deal, and the importance of having it done. Of course, I donât know if he had made any actual arrangements, but if he hadâ¦.â

âI see,â I said slowly.

âOf course, the moment the expert saw the silver, heâd know, and then Colonel Protheroe would remember having shown the things to Dr. StoneâI wonder if it was done thenâlegerdemain, donât they call it? So cleverâand then, well, the fat would be in the fire, to use an old-fashioned expression.â

âI see your idea,â I said. âI think we ought to find out for certain.â

I went once more to the telephone. In a few minutes I was through to Old Hall and speaking to Anne Protheroe.

âNo, itâs nothing very important. Has the Inspector arrived yet? Oh! Well, heâs on his way. Mrs. Protheroe, can you tell me if the contents of Old Hall were ever valued? Whatâs that you say?â

Her answer came clear and prompt. I thanked her, replaced the receiver, and turned to Miss Marple.

âThatâs very definite. Colonel Protheroe had made arrangements for a man to come down from London on Mondayâtomorrowâto make a full valuation. Owing to the Colonelâs death, the matter has been put off.â

âThen there was a motive,â said Miss Marple softly.

âA motive, yes. But thatâs all. You forget. When the shot was fired, Dr. Stone had just joined the others, or was climbing over the stile in order to do so.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully. âSo that rules him out.â

Twenty-four

I returned to the Vicarage to find Hawes waiting for me in my study. He was pacing up and down nervously, and when I entered the room he started as though he had been shot.

âYou must excuse me,â he said, wiping his forehead. âMy nerves are all to pieces lately.â

âMy dear fellow,â I said, âyou positively must get away for a change. We shall have you breaking down altogether, and that will never do.â

âI canât desert my post. No, that is a thing I will never do.â

âItâs not a case of desertion. You are ill. Iâm sure Haydock would agree with me.â

âHaydockâHaydock. What kind of a doctor is he? An ignorant country practitioner.â

âI think youâre unfair to him. He has always been considered a very able man in his profession.â

âOh! Perhaps. Yes, I dare say. But I donât like him. However, thatâs not what I came to say. I came to ask you if you would be kind enough to preach tonight instead of me. IâI really do not feel equal to it.â

âWhy, certainly. I will take the service for you.â

âNo, no. I wish to take the service. I am perfectly fit. It is only the idea of getting up in the pulpit, of all those eyes staring at meâ¦.â

He shut his eyes and swallowed convulsively.

It is clear to me that there is something very wrong indeed the matter with Hawes. He seemed aware of my thoughts, for he opened his eyes and said quickly:

âThere is nothing really wrong with me. It is just these headachesâthese awful racking headaches. I wonder if you could let me have a glass of water.â

âCertainly,â I said.

I went and fetched it myself from the tap. Ringing bells is a profitless form of exercise in our house.

I brought the water to him and he thanked me. He took from his pocket a small cardboard box, and opening it, extracted a rice paper capsule, which he swallowed with the aid of the water.

âA headache powder,â he explained.

I suddenly wondered whether Hawes might have become addicted to drugs. It would explain a great many of his peculiarities.

âYou donât take too many, I hope,â I said.

âNoâoh, no. Dr. Haydock warned me against that. But it is really wonderful. They bring instant relief.â

Indeed he already seemed calmer and more composed.

He stood up.

âThen you will preach tonight? Itâs very good of you, sir.â

âNot at all. And I insist on taking the service too. Get along home and rest. No, I wonât have any argument. Not another word.â

He thanked me again. Then he said, his eyes sliding past me to the window:

âYouâhave been up at Old Hall today, havenât you, sir?â

âYes.â

âExcuse meâbut were you sent for?â

I looked at him in surprise, and he flushed.

âIâm sorry, sir. IâI just thought some new development might have arisen and that was why Mrs. Protheroe had sent for you.â

I had not the faintest intention of satisfying Hawesâs curiosity.

âShe wanted to discuss the funeral arrangements and one or two other small matters with me,â I said.

âOh! That was all. I see.â

I did not speak. He fidgeted from foot to foot, and finally said:

âMr. Redding came to see me last night. IâI canât imagine why.â

âDidnât he tell you?â

âHeâhe just said he thought heâd look me up. Said it was a bit lonely in the evenings. Heâs never done such a thing before.â

âWell, heâs supposed to be pleasant company,â I said, smiling.

âWhat does he want to come and see me for? I donât like it.â His voice rose shrilly. âHe spoke of dropping in again. What does it all mean? What idea do you think he has got into his head?â

âWhy should you suppose he has any ulterior motive?â I asked.

âI donât like it,â repeated Hawes obstinately. âIâve never gone against him in any way. I never suggested that he was guiltyâeven when he accused himself I said it seemed most incomprehensible. If Iâve had suspicions of anybody itâs been of Archerânever of him. Archer is a totally different propositionâa godless irreligious ruffian. A drunken blackguard.â

âDonât you think youâre being a little harsh?â I said. âAfter all, we really know very little about the man.â

âA poacher, in and out of prison, capable of anything.â

âDo you really think he shot Colonel Protheroe?â I asked curiously.

Hawes has an inveterate dislike of answering yes or no. I have noticed it several times lately.

âDonât you think yourself, sir, that itâs the only possible solution?â

âAs far as we know,â I said, âthereâs no evidence of any kind against him.â

âHis threats,â said Hawes eagerly. âYou forget about his threats.â

I am sick and tired of hearing about Archerâs threats. As far as I can make out, there is no direct evidence that he ever made any.

âHe was determined to be revenged on Colonel Protheroe. He primed himself with drink and then shot him.â

âThatâs pure supposition.â

âBut you will admit that itâs perfectly probable?â

âNo, I donât.â

âPossible, then?â

âPossible, yes.â

Hawes glanced at me sideways.

âWhy donât you think itâs probable?â

âBecause,â I said, âa man like Archer wouldnât think of shooting a man with a pistol. Itâs the wrong weapon.â

Hawes seemed taken aback by my argument. Evidently it wasnât the objection he had expected.

âDo you really think the objection is feasible?â he asked doubtingly.

âTo my mind it is a complete stumbling block to Archerâs having committed the crime,â I said.

In face of my positive assertion, Hawes said no more. He thanked me again and left.

I had gone as far as the front door with him, and on the hall table I saw four notes. They had certain characteristics in common. The handwriting was almost unmistakably feminine, they all bore the words, âBy hand, Urgent,â and the only difference I could see was that one was noticeably dirtier than the rest.

Their similarity gave me a curious feeling of seeingânot double but quadruple.

Mary came out of the kitchen and caught me staring at them.

âCome by hand since lunchtime,â she volunteered. âAll but one. I found that in the box.â

I nodded, gathered them up and took them into the study.

The first one ran thus:

âDear Mr. Clement,âSomething has come to my knowledge which I feel you ought to know. It concerns the death of poor Colonel Protheroe. I should much appreciate your advice on the matterâwhether to go to the police or not. Since my dear husbandâs death, I have such a shrinking from every kind of publicity. Perhaps you could run in and see me for a few minutes this afternoon.

Yours sincerely,

Martha Price Ridley.â

I opened the second:

âDear Mr. Clement,âI am so troubledâso excited in my mindâto know what I ought to do. Something has come to my ears that I feel may be important. I have such a horror of being mixed up with the police in any way. I am so disturbed and distressed. Would it be asking too much of you, dear Vicar, to drop in for a few minutes and solve my doubts and perplexities for me in the wonderful way you always do?

Forgive my troubling you,

Yours very sincerely,

Caroline Wetherby.â

The third, I felt, I could almost have recited beforehand.

âDear Mr. Clement,âSomething most important has come to my ears. I feel you should be the first to know about it. Will you call in and see me this afternoon some time? I will wait in for you.â

This militant epistle was signed âAmanda Hartnell.â

I opened the fourth missive. It has been my good fortune to be troubled with very few anonymous letters. An anonymous letter is, I think, the meanest and cruellest weapon there is. This one was no exception. It purported to be written by an illiterate person, but several things inclined me to disbelieve that assumption.

âDear Vicar,âI think you ought to know what is Going On. Your lady has been seen coming out of Mr. Reddingâs cottage in a surreptitious manner. You know wot i mean. The two are Carrying On together. i think you ought to know.

A Friend.â

I made a faint exclamation of disgust and crumpling up the paper tossed it into the open grate just as Griselda entered the room.

âWhatâs that youâre throwing down so contemptuously?â she asked.

âFilth,â I said.

Taking a match from my pocket, I struck it and bent down. Griselda, however, was too quick for me. She had stooped down and caught up the crumpled ball of paper and smoothed it out before I could stop her.

She read it, gave a little exclamation of disgust, and tossed it back to me, turning away as she did so. I lighted it and watched it burn.

Griselda had moved away. She was standing by the window looking out into the garden.

âLen,â she said, without turning round.

âYes, my dear.â

âIâd like to tell you something. Yes, donât stop me. I want to, please. Whenâwhen Lawrence Redding came here, I let you think that I had only known him slightly before. That wasnât true. Iâhad known him rather well. In fact, before I met you, I had been rather in love with him. I think most people are with Lawrence. I wasâwell, absolutely silly about him at one time. I donât mean I wrote him compromising letters or anything idiotic like they do in books. But I was rather keen on him once.â

âWhy didnât you tell me?â I asked.

âOh! Because! I donât know exactly except thatâwell, youâre foolish in some ways. Just because youâre so much older than I am, you think that Iâwell, that Iâm likely to like other people. I thought youâd be tiresome, perhaps, about me and Lawrence being friends.â

âYouâre very clever at concealing things,â I said, remembering what she had told me in that room less than a week ago, and the ingenuous way she had talked.

âYes, Iâve always been able to hide things. In a way, I like doing it.â

Her voice held a childlike ring of pleasure to it.

âBut itâs quite true what I said. I didnât know about Anne, and I wondered why Lawrence was so different, notâwell, really not noticing me. Iâm not used to it.â

There was a pause.

âYou do understand, Len?â said Griselda anxiously.

âYes,â I said, âI understand.â

But did I?

Twenty-five

I found it hard to shake off the impression left by the anonymous letter. Pitch soils.

However, I gathered up the other three letters, glanced at my watch, and started out.

I wondered very much what this might be that had âcome to the knowledgeâ of three ladies simultaneously. I took it to be the same piece of news. In this, I was to realize that my psychology was at fault.

I cannot pretend that my calls took me past the police station. My feet gravitated there of their own accord. I was anxious to know whether Inspector Slack had returned from Old Hall.

I found that he had, and further, that Miss Cram had returned with him. The fair Gladys was seated in the police station carrying off matters with a high hand. She denied absolutely having taken the suitcase to the woods.

âJust because one of these gossiping old cats had nothing better to do than look out of her window all night you go and pitch upon me. Sheâs been mistaken once, remember, when she said she saw me at the end of the lane on the afternoon of the murder, and if she was mistaken then, in daylight, how can she possibly have recognized me by moonlight?

âWicked it is, the way these old ladies go on down here. Say anything, they will. And me asleep in my bed as innocent as can be. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, the lot of you.â

âAnd supposing the landlady of the Blue Boar identifies the suitcase as yours, Miss Cram?â

âIf she says anything of the kind, sheâs wrong. Thereâs no name on it. Nearly everybodyâs got a suitcase like that. As for poor Dr. Stone, accusing him of being a common burglar! And he has a lot of letters after his name.â

âYou refuse to give us any explanation, then, Miss Cram?â

âNo refusing about it. Youâve made a mistake, thatâs all. You and your meddlesome Marples. I wonât say a word moreânot without my solicitor present. Iâm going this minuteâunless youâre going to arrest me.â

For answer, the Inspector rose and opened the door for her, and with a toss of the head, Miss Cram walked out.

âThatâs the line she takes,â said Slack, coming back to his chair. âAbsolute denial. And, of course, the old lady may have been mistaken. No jury would believe you could recognize anyone from that distance on a moonlit night. And, of course, as I say, the old lady may have made a mistake.â

âShe may,â I said, âbut I donât think she did. Miss Marple is usually right. Thatâs what makes her unpopular.â

The Inspector grinned.

âThatâs what Hurst says. Lord, these villages!â

âWhat about the silver, Inspector?â

âSeemed to be perfectly in order. Of course, that meant one lot or the other must be a fake. Thereâs a very good man in Much Benham, an authority on old silver. Iâve phoned over to him and sent a car to fetch him. Weâll soon know which is which. Either the burglary was an accomplished fact, or else it was only planned. Doesnât make a frightful lot of difference either wayâI mean as far as weâre concerned. Robberyâs a small business compared with murder. These two arenât concerned with the murder. Weâll maybe get a line on him through the girlâthatâs why I let her go without any more fuss.â

âI wondered,â I said.

âA pity about Mr. Redding. Itâs not often you find a man who goes out of his way to oblige you.â

âI suppose not,â I said, smiling slightly.

âWomen cause a lot of trouble,â moralized the Inspector.

He sighed and then went on, somewhat to my surprise: âOf course, thereâs Archer.â

âOh!â I said, âYouâve thought of him?â

âWhy, naturally, sir, first thing. It didnât need any anonymous letters to put me on his track.â

âAnonymous letters,â I said sharply. âDid you get one, then?â

âThatâs nothing new, sir. We get a dozen a day, at least. Oh, yes, we were put wise to Archer. As though the police couldnât look out for themselves! Archerâs been under suspicion from the first. The trouble of it is, heâs got an alibi. Not that it amounts to anything, but itâs awkward to get over.â

âWhat do you mean by its not amounting to anything?â I asked.

âWell, it appears he was with a couple of pals all the afternoon. Not, as I say, that that counts much. Men like Archer and his pals would swear to anything. Thereâs no believing a word they say. We know that. But the public doesnât, and the juryâs taken from the public, moreâs the pity. They know nothing, and ten to one believe everything thatâs said in the witness box, no matter who it is that says it. And of course Archer himself will swear till heâs black in the face that he didnât do it.â

âNot so obliging as Mr. Redding,â I said with a smile.

âNot he,â said the Inspector, making the remark as a plain statement of fact.

âIt is natural, I suppose, to cling to life,â I mused.

âYouâd be surprised if you knew the murderers that have got off through the softheartedness of the jury,â said the Inspector gloomily.

âBut do you really think that Archer did it?â I asked.

It has struck me as curious all along that Inspector Slack never seems to have any personal views of his own on the murder. The easiness or difficulty of getting a conviction are the only points that seem to appeal to him.

âIâd like to be a bit surer,â he admitted. âA fingerprint now, or a footprint, or seen in the vicinity about the time of the crime. Canât risk arresting him without something of that kind. Heâs been seen round Mr. Reddingâs house once or twice, but heâd say that was to speak to his mother. A decent body, she is. No, on the whole, Iâm for the lady. If I could only get definite proof of blackmailâbut you canât get definite proof of anything in this crime! Itâs theory, theory, theory. Itâs a sad pity that thereâs not a single spinster lady living along your road, Mr. Clement. I bet sheâd have seen something if there had been.â

His words reminded me of my calls, and I took leave of him. It was about the solitary instance when I had seen him in a genial mood.

My first call was on Miss Hartnell. She must have been watching me from the window, for before I had time to ring she had opened the front door, and clasping my hand firmly in hers, had led me over the threshold.

âSo good of you to come. In here. More private.â

We entered a microscopic room, about the size of a hencoop. Miss Hartnell shut the door and with an air of deep secrecy waved me to a seat (there were only three). I perceived that she was enjoying herself.

âIâm never one to beat about the bush,â she said in her jolly voice, the latter slightly toned down to meet the requirements of the situation. âYou know how things go the rounds in a village like this.â

âUnfortunately,â I said, âI do.â

âI agree with you. Nobody dislikes gossip more than I do. But there it is. I thought it my duty to tell the police inspector that Iâd called on Mrs. Lestrange the afternoon of the murder and that she was out. I donât expect to be thanked for doing my duty, I just do it. Ingratitude is what you meet with first and last in this life. Why, only yesterday that impudent Mrs. Bakerââ

âYes, yes,â I said, hoping to avert the usual tirade. âVery sad, very sad. But you were saying.â

âThe lower classes donât know who are their best friends,â said Miss Hartnell. âI always say a word in season when Iâm visiting. Not that Iâm ever thanked for it.â

âYou were telling the Inspector about your call upon Mrs. Lestrange,â I prompted.

âExactlyâand by the way, he didnât thank me. Said heâd ask for information when he wanted itânot those words exactly, but that was the spirit. Thereâs a different class of men in the police force nowadays.â

âVery probably,â I said. âBut you were going on to say something?â

âI decided that this time I wouldnât go near any wretched inspector. After all, a clergyman is a gentlemanâat least some are,â she added.

I gathered that the qualification was intended to include me.

âIf I can help you in any way,â I began.

âItâs a matter of duty,â said Miss Hartnell, and closed her mouth with a snap. âI donât want to have to say these things. No one likes it less. But duty is duty.â

I waited.

âIâve been given to understand,â went on Miss Hartnell, turning rather red, âthat Mrs. Lestrange gives out that she was at home all the timeâthat she didnât answer the door becauseâwell, she didnât choose. Such airs and graces. I only called as a matter of duty, and to be treated like that!â

âShe has been ill,â I said mildly.

âIll? Fiddlesticks. Youâre too unworldly, Mr. Clement. Thereâs nothing the matter with that woman. Too ill to attend the inquest indeed! Medical certificate from Dr. Haydock! She can wind him round her little finger, everyone knows that. Well, where was I?â

I didnât quite know. It is difficult with Miss Hartnell to know where narrative ends and vituperation begins.

âOh, about calling on her that afternoon. Well, itâs fiddlesticks to say she was in the house. She wasnât. I know.â

âHow can you possibly know?â

Miss Hartnellâs face turned redder. In someone less truculent, her demeanour might have been called embarrassed.

âIâd knocked and rung,â she explained. âTwice. If not three times. And it occurred to me suddenly that the bell might be out of order.â

She was, I was glad to note, unable to look me in the face when saying this. The same builder builds all our houses and the bells he installs are clearly audible when standing on the mat outside the front door. Both Miss Hartnell and I knew this perfectly well, but I suppose decencies have to be preserved.

âYes?â I murmured.

âI didnât want to push my card through the letter box. That would seem so rude, and whatever I am, I am never rude.â

She made this amazing statement without a tremor.

âSo I thought I would just go round the house andâand tap on the window pane,â she continued unblushingly. âI went all round the house and looked in at all the windows, but there was no one in the house at all.â

I understood her perfectly. Taking advantage of the fact that the house was empty, Miss Hartnell had given unbridled rein to her curiosity and had gone round the house examining the garden and peering in at all the windows to see as much as she could of the interior. She had chosen to tell her story to me, believing that I should be a more sympathetic and lenient audience than the police. The clergy are supposed to give the benefit of the doubt to their parishioners.

I made no comment on the situation. I merely asked a question.

âWhat time was this, Miss Hartnell?â

âAs far as I can remember,â said Miss Hartnell, âit must have been close on six oâclock. I went straight home afterwards, and I got in about ten past six, and Mrs. Protheroe came in somewhere round about the half hour, leaving Dr. Stone and Mr. Redding outside, and we talked about bulbs. And all the time the poor Colonel lying murdered. Itâs a sad world.â

âIt is sometimes a rather unpleasant one,â I said.

I rose.

âAnd that is all you have to tell me?â

âI just thought it might be important.â

âIt might,â I agreed.

And refusing to be drawn further, much to Miss Hartnellâs disappointment, I took my leave.

Miss Wetherby, whom I visited next, received me in a kind of flutter.

âDear Vicar, how truly kind. Youâve had tea? Really, you wonât? A cushion for your back? It is so kind of you to come round so promptly. Always willing to put yourself out for others.â

There was a good deal of this before we came to the point, and even then it was approached with a good deal of circumlocution.

âYou must understand that I heard this on the best authority.â

In St. Mary Mead the best authority is always somebody elseâs servant.

âYou canât tell me who told you?â

âI promised, dear Mr. Clement. And I always think a promise should be a sacred thing.â

She looked very solemn.

âShall we say a little bird told me? That is safe isnât it?â

I longed to say, âItâs damned silly.â I rather wish I had. I should have liked to observe the effect on Miss Wetherby.

âWell, this little bird told that she saw a certain lady, who shall be nameless.â

âAnother kind of bird?â I inquired.

To my great surprise Miss Wetherby went off into paroxysms of laughter and tapped me playfully on the arm saying:

âOh, Vicar, you must not be so naughty!â

When she had recovered, she went on.

âA certain lady, and where do you think this certain lady was going? She turned into the Vicarage road, but before she did so, she looked up and down the road in a most peculiar wayâto see if anyone she knew were noticing her, I imagine.â

âAnd the little birdââ I inquired.

âPaying a visit to the fishmongerâsâin the room over the shop.â

I know where maids go on their days out. I know there is one place they never go if they can helpâanywhere in the open air.

âAnd the time,â continued Miss Wetherby, leaning forward mysteriously, âwas just before six oâclock.â

âOn which day?â

Miss Wetherby gave a little scream.

âThe day of the murder, of course, didnât I say so?â

âI inferred it,â I replied. âAnd the name of the lady?â

âBegins with an L,â said Wetherby, nodding her head several times.

Feeling that I had got to the end of the information Miss Wetherby had to impart, I rose to my feet.

âYou wonât let the police cross-question me, will you?â said Miss Wetherby, pathetically, as she clasped my hand in both of hers. âI do shrink from publicity. And to stand up in court!â

âIn special cases,â I said, âthey let witnesses sit down.â

And I escaped.

There was still Mrs. Price Ridley to see. That lady put me in my place at once.

âI will not be mixed up in any police court business,â she said grimly, after shaking my hand coldly. âYou understand that, on the other hand, having come across a circumstance which needs explaining, I think it should be brought to the notice of the authorities.â

âDoes it concern Mrs. Lestrange?â I asked.

âWhy should it?â demanded Mrs. Price Ridley coldly.

She had me at a disadvantage there.

âItâs a very simple matter,â she continued. âMy maid, Clara, was standing at the front gate, she went down there for a minute or twoâshe says to get a breath of fresh air. Most unlikely, I should say. Much more probable that she was looking out for the fishmongerâs boyâif he calls himself a boyâimpudent young jackanapes, thinks because heâs seventeen he can joke with all the girls. Anyway, as I say, she was standing at the gate and she heard a sneeze.â

âYes,â I said, waiting for more.

âThatâs all. I tell you she heard a sneeze. And donât start telling me Iâm not so young as I once was and may have made a mistake, because it was Clara who heard it and sheâs only nineteen.â

âBut,â I said, âwhy shouldnât she have heard a sneeze?â

Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me in obvious pity for my poorness of intellect.

âShe heard a sneeze on the day of the murder at a time when there was no one in your house. Doubtless the murderer was concealed in the bushes waiting his opportunity. What you have to look for is a man with a cold in his head.â

âOr a sufferer from hay fever,â I suggested. âBut as a matter of fact, Mrs. Price Ridley, I think that mystery has a very easy solution. Our maid, Mary, has been suffering from a severe cold in the head. In fact, her sniffing has tried us very much lately. It must have been her sneeze your maid heard.â

âIt was a manâs sneeze,â said Mrs. Price Ridley firmly. âAnd you couldnât hear your maid sneeze in your kitchen from our gate.â

âYou couldnât hear anyone sneezing in the study from your gate,â I said. âOr at least, I very much doubt it.â

âI said the man might have been concealed in the shrubbery,â said Mrs. Price Ridley. âDoubtless when Clara had gone in, he effected an entrance by the front door.â

âWell, of course, thatâs possible,â I said.

I tried not to make my voice consciously soothing, but I must have failed, for Mrs. Price Ridley glared at me suddenly.

âI am accustomed not to be listened to, but I might mention also that to leave a tennis racquet carelessly flung down on the grass without a press completely ruins it. And tennis racquets are very expensive nowadays.â

There did not seem to be rhyme or reason in this flank attack. It bewildered me utterly.

âBut perhaps you donât agree,â said Mrs. Price Ridley.

âOh! I doâcertainly.â

âI am glad. Well, that is all I have to say. I wash my hands of the whole affair.â

She leaned back and closed her eyes like one weary of this world. I thanked her and said good-bye.

On the doorstep, I ventured to ask Clara about her mistressâs statement.

âItâs quite true, sir, I heard a sneeze. And it wasnât an ordinary sneezeânot by any means.â

Nothing about a crime is ever ordinary. The shot was not an ordinary kind of shot. The sneeze was not a usual kind of sneeze. It was, I presume, a special murdererâs sneeze. I asked the girl what time this had been, but she was very vague, some time between a quarter and half past six she thought. Anyway, âit was before the mistress had the telephone call and was took bad.â

I asked her if she had heard a shot of any kind. And she said the shots had been something awful. After that, I placed very little credence in her statements.

I was just turning in at my own gate when I decided to pay a friend a visit.

Glancing at my watch, I saw that I had just time for it before taking Evensong. I went down the road to Haydockâs house. He came out on the doorstep to meet me.

I noticed afresh how worried and haggard he looked. This business seemed to have aged him out of all knowledge.

âIâm glad to see you,â he said. âWhatâs the news?â

I told him the latest Stone development.

âA high-class thief,â he commented. âWell, that explains a lot of things. Heâd read up his subject, but he made slips from time to time to me. Protheroe must have caught him out once. You remember the row they had. What do you think about the girl? Is she in it too?â

âOpinion as to that is undecided,â I said. âFor my own part, I think the girl is all right.

âSheâs such a prize idiot,â I added.

âOh! I wouldnât say that. Sheâs rather shrewd, is Miss Gladys Cram. A remarkably healthy specimen. Not likely to trouble members of my profession.â

I told him that I was worried about Hawes, and that I was anxious that he should get away for a real rest and change.

Something evasive came into his manner when I said this. His answer did not ring quite true.

âYes,â he said slowly. âI suppose that would be the best thing. Poor chap. Poor chap.â

âI thought you didnât like him.â

âI donâtânot much. But Iâm sorry for a lot of people I donât like.â He added after a minute or two: âIâm even sorry for Protheroe. Poor fellowânobody ever liked him much. Too full of his own rectitude and too self-assertive. Itâs an unlovable mixture. He was always the sameâeven as a young man.â

âI didnât know you knew him then.â

âOh, yes! When we lived in Westmorland, I had a practice not far away. Thatâs a long time ago now. Nearly twenty years.â

I sighed. Twenty years ago Griselda was five years old. Time is an odd thingâ¦.

âIs that all you came to say to me, Clement?â

I looked up with a start. Haydock was watching me with keen eyes.

âThereâs something else, isnât there?â he said.

I nodded.

I had been uncertain whether to speak or not when I came in, but now I decided to do so. I like Haydock as well as any man I know. He is a splendid fellow in every way. I felt that what I had to tell might be useful to him.

I recited my interviews with Miss Hartnell and Miss Wetherby.

He was silent for a long time after Iâd spoken.

âItâs quite true, Clement,â he said at last. âIâve been trying to shield Mrs. Lestrange from any inconvenience that I could. As a matter of fact, sheâs an old friend. But thatâs not my only reason. That medical certificate of mine isnât the put-up job you all think it was.â

He paused, and then said gravely:

âThis is between you and me, Clement. Mrs. Lestrange is doomed.â

âWhat?â

âSheâs a dying woman. I give her a month at longest. Do you wonder that I want to keep her from being badgered and questioned?â

He went on:

âWhen she turned into this road that evening it was here she cameâto this house.â

âYou havenât said so before.â

âI didnât want to create talk. Six to seven isnât my time for seeing patients, and everyone knows that. But you can take my word for it that she was here.â

âShe wasnât here when I came for you, though. I mean, when we discovered the body.â

âNo,â he seemed perturbed. âSheâd leftâto keep an appointment.â

âIn what direction was the appointment? In her own house?â

âI donât know, Clement. On my honour, I donât know.â

I believed him, butâ

âAnd supposing an innocent man is hanged?â I said.

âNo,â he said. âNo one will be hanged for the murder of Colonel Protheroe. You can take my word for that.â

But that is just what I could not do. And yet the certainty in his voice was very great.

âNo one will be hanged,â he repeated.

âThis man, Archerââ

He made an impatient movement.

âHasnât got brains enough to wipe his fingerprints off the pistol.â

âPerhaps not,â I said dubiously.

Then I remembered something, and taking the little brownish crystal I had found in the wood from my pocket, I held it out to him and asked him what it was.

âHâm,â he hesitated. âLooks like picric acid. Where did you find it?â

âThat,â I replied, âis Sherlock Holmesâs secret.â

He smiled.

âWhat is picric acid?â

âWell, itâs an explosive.â

âYes, I know that, but itâs got another use, hasnât it?â

He nodded.

âItâs used medicallyâin solution for burns. Wonderful stuff.â

I held out my hand, and rather reluctantly he handed it back to me.

âItâs of no consequence probably,â I said. âBut I found it in rather an unusual place.â

âYou wonât tell me where?â

Rather childishly, I wouldnât.

He had his secrets. Well, I would have mine.

I was a little hurt that he had not confided in me more fully.

Twenty-six

I was in a strange mood when I mounted the pulpit that night.

The church was unusually full. I cannot believe that it was the prospect of Hawes preaching which had attracted so many. Hawesâs sermons are dull and dogmatic. And if the news had got round that I was preaching instead, that would not have attracted them either. For my sermons are dull and scholarly. Neither, I am afraid, can I attribute it to devotion.

Everybody had come, I concluded, to see who else was there, and possibly exchange a little gossip in the church porch afterwards.

Haydock was in church, which is unusual, and also Lawrence Redding. And to my surprise, beside Lawrence I saw the white strained face of Hawes. Anne Protheroe was there, but she usually attends Evensong on Sundays, though I had hardly thought she would today. I was far more surprised to see Lettice. Churchgoing was compulsory on Sunday morningâColonel Protheroe was adamant on that point, but I had never seen Lettice at evening service before.

Gladys Cram was there, looking rather blatantly young and healthy against a background of wizened spinsters, and I fancied that a dim figure at the end of the church who had slipped in late, was Mrs. Lestrange.

I need hardly say that Mrs. Price Ridley, Miss Hartnell, Miss Wetherby, and Miss Marple were there in full force. All the village people were there, with hardly a single exception. I donât know when we have had such a crowded congregation.

Crowds are queer things. There was a magnetic atmosphere that night, and the first person to feel its influence was myself.

As a rule, I prepare my sermons beforehand. I am careful and conscientious over them, but no one is better aware than myself of their deficiencies.

Tonight I was of necessity preaching extempore, and as I looked down on the sea of upturned faces, a sudden madness entered my brain. I ceased to be in any sense a Minister of God. I became an actor. I had an audience before me and I wanted to move that audienceâand more, I felt the power to move it.

I am not proud of what I did that night. I am an utter disbeliever in the emotional Revivalist spirit. Yet that night I acted the part of a raving, ranting evangelist.

I gave out my text slowly.

I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.

I repeated it twice, and I heard my own voice, a resonant, ringing voice unlike the voice of the everyday Leonard Clement.

I saw Griselda from her front pew look up in surprise and Dennis follow her example.

I held my breath for a moment or two, and then I let myself rip.

The congregation in that church were in a state of pent-up emotion, ripe to be played upon. I played upon them. I exhorted sinners to repentance. I lashed myself into a kind of emotional frenzy. Again and again I threw out a denouncing hand and reiterated the phrase.

âI am speaking to you.â¦â

And each time, from different parts of the church, a kind of sighing gasp went up.

Mass emotion is a strange and terrible thing.

I finished up with those beautiful and poignant wordsâperhaps the most poignant words in the whole Bible:

âThis night thy soul shall be required of theeâ¦.â

It was a strange, brief possession. When I got back to the Vicarage I was my usual faded, indeterminate self. I found Griselda rather pale. She slipped her arm through mine.

âLen,â she said, âyou were rather terrible tonight. IâI didnât like it. Iâve never heard you preach like that before.â

âI donât suppose you ever will again,â I said, sinking down wearily on the sofa. I was tired.

âWhat made you do it?â

âA sudden madness came over me.â

âOh! Itâit wasnât something special?â

âWhat do you meanâsomething special?â

âI wonderedâthat was all. Youâre very unexpected, Len. I never feel I really know you.â

We sat down to cold supper, Mary being out.

âThereâs a note for you in the hall,â said Griselda. âGet it, will you, Dennis?â

Dennis, who had been very silent, obeyed.

I took it and groaned. Across the top left-hand corner was written: By handâUrgent.

âThis,â I said, âmust be from Miss Marple. Thereâs no one else left.â

I had been perfectly correct in my assumption.

âDear Mr. Clement,âI should so much like to have a little chat with you about one or two things that have occurred to me. I feel we should all try and help in elucidating this sad mystery. I will come over about half past nine if I may, and tap on your study window. Perhaps dear Griselda would be so very kind as to run over here and cheer up my nephew. And Mr. Dennis too, of course, if he cares to come. If I do not hear, I will expect them and will come over myself at the time I have stated.

Yours very sincerely,

Jane Marple.â

I handed the note to Griselda.

âOh, weâll go!â she said cheerfully. âA glass or two of homemade liqueur is just what one needs on Sunday evening. I think itâs Maryâs blancmange that is so frightfully depressing. Itâs like something out of a mortuary.â

Dennis seemed less charmed at the prospect.

âItâs all very well for you,â he grumbled. âYou can talk all this highbrow stuff about art and books. I always feel a perfect fool sitting and listening to you.â

âThatâs good for you,â said Griselda serenely. âIt puts you in your place. Anyway, I donât think Mr. Raymond West is so frightfully clever as he pretends to be.â

âVery few of us are,â I said.

I wondered very much what exactly it was that Miss Marple wished to talk over. Of all the ladies in my congregation, I considered her by far the shrewdest. Not only does she see and hear practically everything that goes on, but she draws amazingly neat and apposite deductions from the facts that come under her notice.

If I were at any time to set out on a career of deceit, it would be of Miss Marple that I should be afraid.

What Griselda called the Nephew Amusing Party started off at a little after nine, and whilst I was waiting for Miss Marple to arrive I amused myself by drawing up a kind of schedule of the facts connected with the crime. I arranged them so far as possible in chronological order. I am not a punctual person, but I am a neat one, and I like things jotted down in a methodical fashion.

At half past nine punctually, there was a little tap on the window, and I rose and admitted Miss Marple.

She had a very fine Shetland shawl thrown over her head and shoulders and was looking rather old and frail. She came in full of little fluttering remarks.

âSo good of you to let me comeâand so good of dear GriseldaâRaymond admires her so muchâthe perfect Greuze he always calls her â¦ No, I wonât have a footstool.â

I deposited the Shetland shawl on a chair and returned to take a chair facing my guest. We looked at each other, and a little deprecating smile broke out on her face.

âI feel that you must be wondering whyâwhy I am so interested in all this. You may possibly think itâs very unwomanly. NoâpleaseâI should like to explain if I may.â

She paused a moment, a pink colour suffusing her cheeks.

âYou see,â she began at last, âliving alone, as I do, in a rather out-of-the-way part of the world, one has to have a hobby. There is, of course, woolwork, and Guides, and Welfare, and sketching, but my hobby isâand always has beenâHuman Nature. So variedâand so very fascinating. And, of course, in a small village, with nothing to distract one, one has such ample opportunity for becoming what I might call proficient in oneâs study. One begins to class people, quite definitely, just as though they were birds or flowers, group so-and-so, genus this, species that. Sometimes, of course, one makes mistakes, but less and less as time goes on. And then, too, one tests oneself. One takes a little problemâfor instance, the gill of picked shrimps that amused dear Griselda so muchâa quite unimportant mystery but absolutely incomprehensible unless one solves it right. And then there was that matter of the changed cough drops, and the butcherâs wifeâs umbrellaâthe last absolutely meaningless unless on the assumption that the greengrocer was not behaving at all nicely with the chemistâs wifeâwhich, of course, turned out to be the case. It is so fascinating, you know, to apply oneâs judgment and find that one is right.â

âYou usually are, I believe,â I said smiling.

âThat, I am afraid, is what has made me a little conceited,â confessed Miss Marple. âBut I have always wondered whether, if some day a really big mystery came along, I should be able to do the same thing. I meanâjust solve it correctly. Logically, it ought to be exactly the same thing. After all, a tiny working model of a torpedo is just the same as a real torpedo.â

âYou mean itâs all a question of relativity,â I said slowly. âIt should beâlogically, I admit. But I donât know whether it really is.â

âSurely it must be the same,â said Miss Marple. âTheâwhat one used to call the factors at schoolâare the same. Thereâs money, and the mutual attraction people of anâerâopposite sexâand thereâs queerness of courseâso many people are a little queer, arenât they?âin fact, most people are when you know them well. And normal people do such astonishing things sometimes, and abnormal people are sometimes so very sane and ordinary. In fact, the only way is to compare people with other people you have known or come across. Youâd be surprised if you knew how very few distinct types there are in all.â

âYou frighten me,â I said. âI feel Iâm being put under the microscope.â

âOf course, I wouldnât dream of saying any of this to Colonel Melchettâsuch an autocratic man, isnât he?âand poor Inspector Slackâwell, heâs exactly like the young lady in the boot shop who wants to sell you patent leather because sheâs got it in your size, and doesnât take any notice of the fact that you want brown calf.â

That, really, is a very good description of Slack.

âBut you, Mr. Clement, know, Iâm sure, quite as much about the crime as Inspector Slack. I thought, if we could work togetherââ

âI wonder,â I said. âI think each one of us in his secret heart fancies himself as Sherlock Holmes.â

Then I told her of the three summonses I had received that afternoon. I told her of Anneâs discovery of the picture with the slashed face. I also told her of Miss Cramâs attitude at the police station, and I described Haydockâs identification of the crystal I had picked up.

âHaving found that myself,â I finished up, âI should like it to be important. But itâs probably got nothing to do with the case.â

âI have been reading a lot of American detective stories from the library lately,â said Miss Marple, âhoping to find them helpful.â

âWas there anything in them about picric acid?â

âIâm afraid not. I do remember reading a story once, though, in which a man was poisoned by picric acid and lanoline being rubbed on him as an ointment.â

âBut as nobody has been poisoned here, that doesnât seem to enter into the question,â I said.

Then I took up my schedule and handed it to her.

âIâve tried,â I said, âto recapitulate the facts of the case as clearly as possible.â

MY SCHEDULE

Thursday, 21st inst.

12:30 p.m.âColonel Protheroe alters his appointment from six to six fifteen. Overheard by half village very probably.

12:45âPistol last seen in its proper place. (But this is doubtful, as Mrs. Archer had previously said she could not remember.)

5:30 (approx.)âColonel and Mrs. Protheroe leave Old Hall for village in car.

5:30 Fake call put through to me from the North Lodge, Old Hall.

6:15 (or a minute or two earlier)âColonel Protheroe arrives at Vicarage. Is shown into study by Mary.

6:20âMrs. Protheroe comes along back lane and across garden to study window. Colonel Protheroe not visible.

6:29âCall from Lawrence Reddingâs cottage put through to Mrs. Price Ridley (according to Exchange).

6:30â6:35âShot heard. (Accepting telephone call time as correct.) Lawrence Redding, Anne Protheroe and Dr. Stoneâs evidence seem to point to its being earlier, but Mrs. P.R. probably right.

6:45âLawrence Redding arrives Vicarage and finds the body.

6:48âI meet Lawrence Redding.

6:49âBody discovered by me.

6:55âHaydock examines body.

NOTE.âThe only two people who have no kind of alibi for 6:30â6:35 are Miss Cram and Mrs. Lestrange. Miss Cram says she was at the barrow, but no confirmation. It seems reasonable, however, to dismiss her from case as there seems nothing to connect her with it. Mrs. Lestrange left Dr. Haydockâs house some time after six to keep an appointment. Where was the appointment, and with whom? It could hardly have been with Colonel Protheroe, as he expected to be engaged with me. It is true that Mrs. Lestrange was near the spot at the time the crime was committed, but it seems doubtful what motive she could have had for murdering him. She did not gain by his death, and the Inspectorâs theory of blackmail I cannot accept. Mrs. Lestrange is not that kind of woman. Also it seems unlikely that she should have got hold of Lawrence Reddingâs pistol.

âVery clear,â said Miss Marple, nodding her head in approval. âVery clear indeed. Gentlemen always make such excellent memoranda.â

âYou agree with what I have written?â I asked.

âOh, yesâyou have put it all beautifully.â

I asked her the question then that I had been meaning to put all along.

âMiss Marple,â I said. âWho do you suspect? You once said that there were seven people.â

âQuite that, I should think,â said Miss Marple absently. âI expect every one of us suspects someone different. In fact, one can see they do.â

She didnât ask me who I suspected.

âThe point is,â she said, âthat one must provide an explanation for everything. Each thing has got to be explained away satisfactorily. If you have a theory that fits every factâwell, then, it must be the right one. But thatâs extremely difficult. If it wasnât for that noteââ

âThe note?â I said, surprised.

âYes, you remember, I told you. That note has worried me all along. Itâs wrong, somehow.â

âSurely,â I said, âthat is explained now. It was written at six thirty five and another handâthe murdererâsâput the misleading 6:20 at the top. I think that is clearly established.â

âBut even then,â said Miss Marple, âitâs all wrong.â

âBut why?â

âListen.â Miss Marple leant forward eagerly. âMrs. Protheroe passed my garden, as I told you, and she went as far as the study window and she looked in and she didnât see Colonel Protheroe.â

âBecause he was writing at the desk,â I said.

âAnd thatâs whatâs all wrong. That was at twenty past six. We agreed that he wouldnât sit down to say he couldnât wait any longer until after half past sixâso, why was he sitting at the writing table then?â

âI never thought of that,â I said slowly.

âLet us, dear Mr. Clement, just go over it again. Mrs. Protheroe comes to the window and she thinks the room is emptyâshe must have thought so, because otherwise she would never have gone down to the studio to meet Mr. Redding. It wouldnât have been safe. The room must have been absolutely silent if she thought it was empty. And that leaves us three alternatives, doesnât it?â

âYou meanââ

âWell, the first alternative would be that Colonel Protheroe was dead alreadyâbut I donât think thatâs the most likely one. To begin with heâd only been there about five minutes and she or I would have heard the shot, and secondly, the same difficulty remains about his being at the writing table. The second alternative is, of course, that he was sitting at the writing table writing a note, but in that case it must have been a different note altogether. It canât have been to say he couldnât wait. And the thirdââ

âYes?â I said.

âWell, the third is, of course, that Mrs. Protheroe was right, and that the room was actually empty.â

âYou mean that, after he had been shown in, he went out again and came back later?â

âYes.â

âBut why should he have done that?â

Miss Marple spread out her hands in a little gesture of bewilderment.

âThat would mean looking at the case from an entirely different angle,â I said.

âOne so often has to do thatâabout everything. Donât you think so?â

I did not reply. I was going over carefully in my mind the three alternatives that Miss Marple had suggested.

With a slight sigh the old lady rose to her feet.

âI must be getting back. I am very glad to have had this little chatâthough we havenât got very far, have we?â

âTo tell you the truth,â I said, as I fetched her shawl, âthe whole thing seems to me a bewildering maze.â

âOh! I wouldnât say that. I think, on the whole, one theory fits nearly everything. That is, if you admit one coincidenceâand I think one coincidence is allowable. More than one, of course, is unlikely.â

âDo you really think that? About the theory, I mean?â I asked, looking at her.

âI admit that there is one flaw in my theoryâone fact that I canât get over. Oh! If only that note had been something quite differentââ

She sighed and shook her head. She moved towards the window and absentmindedly reached up her hand and felt the rather depressed-looking plant that stood in a stand.

âYou know, dear Mr. Clement, this should be watered oftener. Poor thing, it needs it badly. Your maid should water it every day. I suppose it is she who attends to it?â

âAs much,â I said, âas she attends to anything.â

âA little raw at present,â suggested Miss Marple.

âYes,â I said. âAnd Griselda steadily refuses to attempt to sack her. Her idea is that only a thoroughly undesirable maid will remain with us. However, Mary herself gave us notice the other day.â

âIndeed. I always imagined she was very fond of you both.â

âI havenât noticed it,â I said. âBut, as a matter of fact, it was Lettice Protheroe who upset her. Mary came back from the inquest in rather a temperamental state and found Lettice here andâwell, they had words.â

âOh!â said Miss Marple. She was just about to step through the window when she stopped suddenly, and a bewildering series of changes passed over her face.

âOh, dear!â she muttered to herself. âI have been stupid. So that was it. Perfectly possible all the time.â

âI beg your pardon?â

She turned a worried face upon me.

âNothing. An idea that has just occurred to me. I must go home and think things out thoroughly. Do you know, I believe I have been extremely stupidâalmost incredibly so.â

âI find that hard to believe,â I said gallantly.

I escorted her through the window and across the lawn.

âCan you tell me what it is that has occurred to you so suddenly?â I asked.

âI would rather notâjust at present. You see, there is still a possibility that I may be mistaken. But I do not think so. Here we are at my garden gate. Thank you so much. Please do not come any further.â

âIs the note still a stumbling block?â I asked, as she passed through the gate and latched it behind her.

She looked at me abstractedly.

âThe note? Oh! Of course that wasnât the real note. I never thought it was. Goodnight, Mr. Clement.â

She went rapidly up the path to the house, leaving me staring after her.

I didnât know what to think.

Twenty-seven

Griselda and Dennis had not yet returned. I realized that the most natural thing would have been for me to go up to the house with Miss Marple and fetch them home. Both she and I had been so entirely taken up with our preoccupation over the mystery that we had forgotten anybody existed in the world except ourselves.

I was just standing in the hall, wondering whether I would not even now go over and join them, when the doorbell rang.

I crossed over to it. I saw there was a letter in the box, and presuming that this was the cause of the ring, I took it out.

As I did so, however, the bell rang again, and I shoved the letter hastily into my pocket and opened the front door.

It was Colonel Melchett.

âHallo, Clement. Iâm on my way home from town in the car. Thought Iâd just look in and see if you could give me a drink.â

âDelighted,â I said. âCome into the study.â

He pulled off the leather coat that he was wearing and followed me into the study. I fetched the whisky and soda and two glasses. Melchett was standing in front of the fireplace, legs wide apart, stroking his closely cropped moustache.

âIâve got one bit of news for you, Clement. Most astounding thing youâve ever heard. But let that go for the minute. How are things going down here? Any more old ladies hot on the scent?â

âTheyâre not doing so badly,â I said. âOne of them, at all events, thinks sheâs got there.â

âOur friend, Miss Marple, eh?â

âOur friend, Miss Marple.â

âWomen like that always think they know everything,â said Colonel Melchett.

He sipped his whisky and soda appreciatively.

âItâs probably unnecessary interference on my part, asking,â I said. âBut I suppose somebody has questioned the fish boy. I mean, if the murderer left by the front door, thereâs a chance the boy may have seen him.â

âSlack questioned him right enough,â said Melchett. âBut the boy says he didnât meet anybody. Hardly likely he would. The murderer wouldnât be exactly courting observation. Lots of cover by your front gate. He would have taken a look to see if the road was clear. The boy had to call at the Vicarage, at Haydockâs, and at Mrs. Price Ridleyâs. Easy enough to dodge him.â

âYes,â I said, âI suppose it would be.â

âOn the other hand,â went on Melchett, âif by any chance that rascal Archer did the job, and young Fred Jackson saw him about the place, I doubt very much whether heâd let on. Archer is a cousin of his.â

âDo you seriously suspect Archer?â

âWell, you know, old Protheroe had his knife into Archer pretty badly. Lots of bad blood between them. Leniency wasnât Protheroeâs strong point.â

âNo,â I said. âHe was a very ruthless man.â

âWhat I say is,â said Melchett, âLive and let live. Of course, the lawâs the law, but it never hurts to give a man the benefit of the doubt. Thatâs what Protheroe never did.â

âHe prided himself on it,â I said.

There was a pause, and then I asked:

âWhat is this âastounding bit of newsâ you promised me?â

âWell, it is astounding. You know that unfinished letter that Protheroe was writing when he was killed?â

âYes.â

âWe got an expert on itâto say whether the 6:20 was added by a different hand. Naturally we sent up samples of Protheroeâs handwriting. And do you know the verdict? That letter was never written by Protheroe at all.â

âYou mean a forgery?â

âItâs a forgery. The 6:20 they think is written in a different hand againâbut theyâre not sure about that. The heading is in a different ink, but the letter itself is a forgery. Protheroe never wrote it.â

âAre they certain?â

âWell, theyâre as certain as experts ever are. You know what an expert is! Oh! But theyâre sure enough.â

âAmazing,â I said. Then a memory assailed me.

âWhy,â I said, âI remember at the time Mrs. Protheroe said it wasnât like her husbandâs handwriting at all, and I took no notice.â

âReally?â

âI thought it one of those silly remarks women will make. If there seemed one thing sure on earth it was that Protheroe had written that note.â

We looked at each other.

âItâs curious,â I said slowly. âMiss Marple was saying this evening that that note was all wrong.â

âConfound the woman, she couldnât know more about it if she had committed the murder herself.â

At that moment the telephone bell rang. There is a queer kind of psychology about a telephone bell. It rang now persistently and with a kind of sinister significance.

I went over and took up the receiver.

âThis is the Vicarage,â I said. âWhoâs speaking?â

A strange, high-pitched hysterical voice came over the wire:

âI want to confess,â it said. âMy God, I want to confess.â

âHallo,â I said, âhallo. Look here youâve cut me off. What number was that?â

A languid voice said it didnât know. It added that it was sorry I had been troubled.

I put down the receiver, and turned to Melchett.

âYou once said,â I remarked, âthat you would go mad if anyone else accused themselves of the crime.â

âWhat about it?â

âThat was someone who wanted to confess â¦ And the Exchange has cut us off.â

Melchett dashed over and took up the receiver.

âIâll speak to them.â

âDo,â I said. âYou may have some effect. Iâll leave you to it. Iâm going out. Iâve a fancy I recognized that voice.â

Twenty-eight

I hurried down the village street. It was eleven oâclock, and at eleven oâclock on a Sunday night the whole village of St. Mary Mead might be dead. I saw, however, a light in a first floor window as I passed, and, realizing that Hawes was still up, I stopped and rang the doorbell.

After what seemed a long time, Hawesâs landlady, Mrs. Sadler, laboriously unfastened two bolts, a chain, and turned a key and peered out at me suspiciously.

âWhy, itâs Vicar!â she exclaimed.

âGood evening,â I said. âI want to see Mr. Hawes. I see thereâs a light in the window, so heâs up still.â

âThat may be. Iâve not seen him since I took up his supper. Heâs had a quiet eveningâno one to see him, and heâs not been out.â

I nodded, and passing her, went quickly up the stairs. Hawes has a bedroom and sitting room on the first floor.

I passed into the latter. Hawes was lying back in a long chair asleep. My entrance did not wake him. An empty cachet box and a glass of water, half full, stood beside him.

On the floor, by his left foot, was a crumpled sheet of paper with writing on it. I picked it up and straightened it out.

It began: âMy dear Clementââ

I read it through, uttered an exclamation and shoved it into my pocket. Then I bent over Hawes and studied him attentively.

Next, reaching for the telephone which stood by his elbow, I gave the number of the Vicarage. Melchett must have been still trying to trace the call, for I was told that the number was engaged. Asking them to call me, I put the instrument down again.

I put my hand into my pocket to look at the paper I had picked up once more. With it, I drew out the note that I had found in the letter box and which was still unopened.

Its appearance was horribly familiar. It was the same handwriting as the anonymous letter that had come that afternoon.

I tore it open.

I read it onceâtwiceâunable to realize its contents.

I was beginning to read it a third time when the telephone rang. Like a man in a dream I picked up the receiver and spoke.

âHallo?â

âHallo.â

âIs that you, Melchett?â

âYes, where are you? Iâve traced that call. The number isââ

âI know the number.â

âOh, good! Is that where you are speaking from?â

âYes.â

âWhat about that confession?â

âIâve got the confession all right.â

âYou mean youâve got the murderer?â

I had then the strongest temptation of my life. I looked at the anonymous scrawl. I looked at the empty cachet box with the name of Cherubim on it. I remembered a certain casual conversation.

I made an immense effort.

âIâdonât know,â I said. âYouâd better come round.â

And I gave him the address.

Then I sat down in the chair opposite Hawes to think.

I had two clear minutes to do so.

In two minutesâ time, Melchett would have arrived.

I took up the anonymous letter and read it through again for the third time.

Then I closed my eyes and thoughtâ¦.

Twenty-nine

I donât know how long I sat thereâonly a few minutes in reality, I suppose. Yet it seemed as though an eternity had passed when I heard the door open and, turning my head, looked up to see Melchett entering the room.

He stared at Hawes asleep in his chair, then turned to me.

âWhatâs this, Clement? What does it all mean?â

Of the two letters in my hand I selected one and passed it to him. He read it aloud in a low voice.

âMy dear Clement,âIt is a peculiarly unpleasant thing that I have to say. After all, I think I prefer writing it. We can discuss it at a later date. It concerns the recent peculations. I am sorry to say that I have satisfied myself beyond any possible doubt as to the identity of the culprit. Painful as it is for me to have to accuse an ordained priest of the church, my duty is only too painfully clear. An example must be made andââ

He looked at me questioningly. At this point the writing tailed off in an undistinguishable scrawl where death had overtaken the writerâs hand.

Melchett drew a deep breath, then looked at Hawes.

âSo thatâs the solution! The one man we never even considered. And remorse drove him to confess!â

âHeâs been very queer lately,â I said.

Suddenly Melchett strode across to the sleeping man with a sharp exclamation. He seized him by the shoulder and shook him, at first gently, then with increasing violence.

âHeâs not asleep! Heâs drugged! Whatâs the meaning of this?â

His eye went to the empty cachet box. He picked it up.

âHas heââ

âI think so,â I said. âHe showed me these the other day. Told me heâd been warned against an overdose. Itâs his way out, poor chap. Perhaps the best way. Itâs not for us to judge him.â

But Melchett was Chief Constable of the County before anything else. The arguments that appealed to me had no weight with him. He had caught a murderer and he wanted his murderer hanged.

In one second he was at the telephone, jerking the receiver up and down impatiently until he got a reply. He asked for Haydockâs number. Then there was a further pause during which he stood, his ear to the telephone and his eyes on the limp figure in the chair.

âHalloâhalloâhalloâis that Dr. Haydockâs? Will the doctor come round at once to High Street? Mr. Hawes. Itâs urgent â¦ whatâs that?â¦ Well, what number is it then?â¦ Oh, sorry.â

He rang off, fuming.

âWrong number, wrong numberâalways wrong numbers! And a manâs life hanging on it. HALLOâyou gave me the wrong number â¦ Yesâdonât waste timeâgive me three nineânine, not five.â

Another period of impatienceâshorter this time.

âHalloâis that you, Haydock? Melchett speaking. Come to 19 High Street at once, will you? Hawes has taken some kind of overdose. At once, man, itâs vital.â

He rang off, strode impatiently up and down the room.

âWhy on earth you didnât get hold of the doctor at once, Clement, I cannot think. Your wits must have all gone wool gathering.â

Fortunately it never occurs to Melchett that anyone can possibly have different ideas on conduct to those he holds himself. I said nothing, and he went on:

âWhere did you find this letter?â

âCrumpled on the floorâwhere it had fallen from his hand.â

âExtraordinary businessâthat old maid was right about its being the wrong note we found. Wonder how she tumbled to that. But what an ass the fellow was not to destroy this one. Fancy keeping itâthe most damaging evidence you can imagine!â

âHuman nature is full of inconsistencies.â

âIf it werenât, I doubt if we should ever catch a murderer! Sooner or later they always do some fool thing. Youâre looking very under the weather, Clement. I suppose this has been the most awful shock to you?â

âIt has. As I say, Hawes has been queer in his manner for some time, but I never dreamedââ

âWho would? Hallo, that sounds like a car.â He went across to the window, pushing up the sash and leaning out. âYes, itâs Haydock all right.â

A moment later the doctor entered the room.

In a few succinct words, Melchett explained the situation.

Haydock is not a man who ever shows his feelings. He merely raised his eyebrows, nodded, and strode across to his patient. He felt his pulse, raised the eyelid and looked intently at the eye.

Then he turned to Melchett.

âWant to save him for the gallows?â he asked. âHeâs pretty far gone, you know. It will be touch and go, anyway. I doubt if I can bring him round.â

âDo everything possible.â

âRight.â

He busied himself with the case he had brought with him, preparing a hypodermic injection which he injected into Hawesâs arm. Then he stood up.

âBest thing is to run him into Much Benhamâto the hospital there. Give me a hand to get him down to the car.â

We both lent our assistance. As Haydock climbed into the driving seat, he threw a parting remark over his shoulder.

âYou wonât be able to hang him, you know, Melchett.â

âYou mean he wonât recover?â

âMay or may not. I didnât mean that. I mean that even if he does recoverâwell, the poor devil wasnât responsible for his actions. I shall give evidence to that effect.â

âWhat did he mean by that?â asked Melchett as we went upstairs again.

I explained that Hawes had been a victim of encephalitis lethargica.

âSleepy sickness, eh? Always some good reason nowadays for every dirty action thatâs done. Donât you agree?â

âScience is teaching us a lot.â

âScience be damnedâI beg your pardon, Clement; but all this namby pambyism annoys me. Iâm a plan man. Well, I suppose weâd better have a look round here.â

But at this moment there was an interruptionâand a most amazing one. The door opened and Miss Marple walked into the room.

She was pink and somewhat flustered, and seemed to realize our condition of bewilderment.

âSo sorryâso very sorryâto intrudeâgood evening, Colonel Melchett. As I say, I am so sorry, but hearing that Mr. Hawes was taken ill, I felt I must come round and see if I couldnât do something.â

She paused. Colonel Melchett was regarding her in a somewhat disgusted fashion.

âVery kind of you, Miss Marple,â he said dryly. âBut no need to trouble. How did you know, by the way?â

It was the question I had been yearning to ask!

âThe telephone,â explained Miss Marple. âSo careless with their wrong numbers, arenât they? You spoke to me first, thinking I was Dr. Haydock. My number is three five.â

âSo that was it!â I exclaimed.

There is always some perfectly good and reasonable explanation for Miss Marpleâs omniscience.

âAnd so,â she continued. âI just came round to see if I could be of any use.â

âVery kind of you,â said Melchett again, even more dryly this time. âBut nothing to be done. Haydockâs taken him off to hospital.â

âActually to hospital? Oh, thatâs a great relief! I am so very glad to hear it. Heâll be quite safe there. When you say ânothing to be done,â you donât mean that he wonât recover?â

âItâs very doubtful,â I said.

Miss Marpleâs eyes had gone to the cachet box.

âI suppose he took an overdose?â she said.

Melchett, I think, was in favour of being reticent. Perhaps I might have been under other circumstances. But my discussion of the case with Miss Marple was too fresh in my mind for me to have the same view, though I must admit that her rapid appearance on the scene and eager curiosity repelled me slightly.

âYou had better look at this,â I said, and handed her Protheroeâs unfinished letter.

She took it and read it without any appearance of surprise.

âYou had already deduced something of the kind, had you not?â I asked.

âYesâyes, indeed. May I ask you, Mr. Clement, what made you come here this evening? That is a point which puzzles me. You and Colonel Melchettânot at all what I should have expected.â

I explained the telephone call and that I believed I had recognized Hawesâs voice. Miss Marple nodded thoughtfully.

âVery interesting. Very providentialâif I may use the term. Yes, it brought you here in the nick of time.â

âIn the nick of time for what?â I said bitterly.

Miss Marple looked surprised.

âTo save Mr. Hawesâs life, of course.â

âDonât you think,â I said, âthat it might be better if Hawes didnât recover? Better for himâbetter for everyone. We know the truth now andââ

I stoppedâfor Miss Marple was nodding her head with such a peculiar vehemence that it made me lose the thread of what I was saying.

âOf course,â she said. âOf course! Thatâs what he wants you to think! That you know the truthâand that itâs best for everyone as it is. Oh, yes, it all fits inâthe letter, and the overdose, and poor Mr. Hawesâs state of mind and his confession. It all fits inâbut itâs wrongâ¦.â

We stared at her.

âThatâs why I am so glad Mr. Hawes is safeâin hospitalâwhere no one can get at him. If he recovers, heâll tell you the truth.â

âThe truth?â

âYesâthat he never touched a hair of Colonel Protheroeâs head.â

âBut the telephone call,â I said. âThe letterâthe overdose. Itâs all so clear.â

âThatâs what he wants you to think. Oh, heâs very clever! Keeping the letter and using it this way was very clever indeed.â

âWho do you mean,â I said, âby âheâ?â

âI mean the murderer,â said Miss Marple.

She added very quietly:

âI mean Mr. Lawrence Reddingâ¦.â

Thirty

We stared at her. I really think that for a moment or two we really believed she was out of her mind. The accusation seemed so utterly preposterous.

Colonel Melchett was the first to speak. He spoke kindly and with a kind of pitying tolerance.

âThat is absurd, Miss Marple,â he said. âYoung Redding has been completely cleared.â

âNaturally,â said Miss Marple. âHe saw to that.â

âOn the contrary,â said Colonel Melchett dryly. âHe did his best to get himself accused of the murder.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âHe took us all in that wayâmyself as much as anyone else. You will remember, dear Mr. Clement, that I was quite taken aback when I heard Mr. Redding had confessed to the crime. It upset all my ideas and made me think him innocentâwhen up to then I had felt convinced that he was guilty.â

âThen it was Lawrence Redding you suspected?â

âI know that in books it is always the most unlikely person. But I never find that rule applies in real life. There it is so often the obvious that is true. Much as I have always liked Mrs. Protheroe, I could not avoid coming to the conclusion that she was completely under Mr. Reddingâs thumb and would do anything he told her, and, of course, he is not the kind of young man who would dream of running away with a penniless woman. From his point of view it was necessary that Colonel Protheroe should be removedâand so he removed him. One of those charming young men who have no moral sense.â

Colonel Melchett had been snorting impatiently for some time. Now he broke out.

âAbsolute nonsenseâthe whole thing! Reddingâs time is fully accounted for up to 6:50 and Haydock says positively Protheroe couldnât have been shot then. I suppose you think you know better than a doctor. Or do you suggest that Haydock is deliberately lyingâthe Lord knows why?â

âI think Dr. Haydockâs evidence was absolutely truthful. He is a very upright man. And, of course, it was Mrs. Protheroe who actually shot Colonel Protheroeânot Mr. Redding.â

Again we stared at her. Miss Marple arranged her lace fichu, pushed back the fleecy shawl that draped her shoulders, and began to deliver a gentle old-maidish lecture comprising the most astounding statements in the most natural way in the world.

âI have not thought it right to speak until now. Oneâs own beliefâeven so strong as to amount to knowledgeâis not the same as proof. And unless one has an explanation that will fit all the facts (as I was saying to dear Mr. Clement this evening) one cannot advance it with any real conviction. And my own explanation was not quite completeâit lacked just one thingâbut suddenly, just as I was leaving Mr. Clementâs study, I noticed the palm in the pot by the windowâandâwell, there the whole thing was! Clear as daylight!â

âMadâquite mad,â murmured Melchett to me.

But Miss Marple beamed on us serenely and went on in her gentle ladylike voice.

âI was very sorry to believe what I didâvery sorry. Because I liked them both. But you know what human nature is. And to begin with, when first he and then she both confessed in the most foolish wayâwell, I was more relieved than I could say. I had been wrong. And I began to think of other people who had a possible motive for wishing Colonel Protheroe out of the way.â

âThe seven suspects!â I murmured.

She smiled at me.

âYes, indeed. There was that man Archerânot likely, but primed with drink (so inflaming) you never know. And, of course, there was your Mary. Sheâs been walking out with Archer a long time, and sheâs a queer-tempered girl. Motive and opportunityâwhy, she was alone in the house! Old Mrs. Archer could easily have got the pistol from Mr. Reddingâs house for either of those two. And then, of course, there was Letticeâwanting freedom and money to do as she liked. Iâve known many cases where the most beautiful and ethereal girls have shown next to no moral scrupleâthough, of course, gentlemen never wish to believe it of them.â

I winced.

âAnd then there was the tennis racquet,â continued Miss Marple.

âThe tennis racquet?â

âYes, the one Mrs. Price Ridleyâs Clara saw lying on the grass by the Vicarage gate. That looked as though Mr. Dennis had got back earlier from his tennis party than he said. Boys of sixteen are so very susceptible and so very unbalanced. Whatever the motiveâfor Letticeâs sake or for yours, it was a possibility. And then, of course, there was poor Mr. Hawes and youânot both of you naturallyâbut alternatively, as the lawyers say.â

âMe?â I exclaimed in lively astonishment.

âWell, yes. I do apologizeâand indeed I never really thoughtâbut there was the question of those disappearing sums of money. Either you or Mr. Hawes must be guilty, and Mrs. Price Ridley was going about everywhere hinting that you were the person in faultâprincipally because you objected so vigorously to any kind of inquiry into the matter. Of course, I myself was always convinced it was Mr. Hawesâhe reminded me so much of that unfortunate organist I mentioned; but all the same one couldnât be absolutely sureââ

âHuman nature being what it is,â I ended grimly.

âExactly. And then, of course, there was dear Griselda.â

âBut Mrs. Clement was completely out of it,â interrupted Melchett. âShe returned by the 6:50 train.â

âThatâs what she said,â retorted Miss Marple. âOne should never go by what people say. The 6:50 was half an hour late that night. But at a quarter past seven I saw her with my own eyes starting for Old Hall. So it followed that she must have come by the earlier train. Indeed she was seen; but perhaps you know that?â

She looked at me inquiringly.

Some magnetism in her glance impelled me to hold out the last anonymous letter, the one I had opened so short a time ago. It set out in detail that Griselda had been seen leaving Lawrence Reddingâs cottage by the back window at twenty past six on the fatal day.

I said nothing then or at any time of the dreadful suspicion that had for one moment assailed my mind. I had seen it in nightmare termsâa past intrigue between Lawrence and Griselda, the knowledge of it coming to Protheroeâs ears, his decision to make me acquainted with the factsâand Griselda, desperate, stealing the pistol and silencing Protheroe. As I sayâa nightmare onlyâbut invested for a few long minutes with a dreadful appearance of reality.

I donât know whether Miss Marple had any inkling of all this. Very probably she had. Few things are hidden from her.

She handed me back the note with a little nod.

âThatâs been all over the village,â she said. âAnd it did look rather suspicious, didnât it? Especially with Mrs. Archer swearing at the inquest that the pistol was still in the cottage when she left at midday.â

She paused a minute and then went on.

âBut Iâm wandering terribly from the point. What I want to sayâand believe it my dutyâis to put my own explanation of the mystery before you. If you donât believe itâwell, I shall have done my best. Even as it is, my wish to be quite sure before I spoke may have cost poor Mr. Hawes his life.â

Again she paused, and when she resumed, her voice held a different note. It was less apologetic, more decided.

âThat is my own explanation of the facts. By Thursday afternoon the crime had been fully planned down to the smallest detail. Lawrence Redding first called on the Vicar, knowing him to be out. He had with him the pistol which he concealed in that pot in the stand by the window. When the Vicar came in, Lawrence explained his visit by a statement that he had made up his mind to go away. At five thirty, Lawrence Redding telephoned from the North Lodge to the Vicar, adopting a womanâs voice (you remember what a good amateur actor he was).

âMrs. Protheroe and her husband had just started for the village. Andâa very curious thing (though no one happened to think of it that way)âMrs. Protheroe took no handbag with her. Really a most unusual thing for a woman to do. Just before twenty past six she passes my garden and stops and speaks, so as to give me every opportunity of noticing that she has no weapon with her and also that she is quite her normal self. They realized, you see, that I am a noticing kind of person. She disappears round the corner of the house to the study window. The poor Colonel is sitting at the desk writing his letter to you. He is deaf, as we all know. She takes the pistol from the bowl where it is waiting for her, comes up behind him and shoots him through the head, throws down the pistol and is out again like a flash, and going down the garden to the studio. Nearly anyone would swear that there couldnât have been time!â

âBut the shot?â objected the Colonel. âYou didnât hear the shot?â

âThere is, I believe, an invention called a Maxim silencer. So I gather from detective stories. I wonder if, possibly, the sneeze that the maid, Clara, heard might have actually been the shot? But no matter. Mrs. Protheroe is met at the studio by Mr. Redding. They go in togetherâand, human nature being what it is, Iâm afraid they realize that I shanât leave the garden till they come out again!â

I had never liked Miss Marple better than at this moment, with her humorous perception of her own weakness.

âWhen they do come out, their demeanour is gay and natural. And there, in reality, they made a mistake. Because if they had really said good-bye to each other, as they pretended, they would have looked very different. But you see, that was their weak point. They simply dare not appear upset in any way. For the next ten minutes they are careful to provide themselves with what is called an alibi, I believe. Finally Mr. Redding goes to the Vicarage, leaving it as late as he dares. He probably saw you on the footpath from far away and was able to time matters nicely. He picks up the pistol and the silencer, leaves the forged letter with the time on it written in a different ink and apparently in a different handwriting. When the forgery is discovered it will look like a clumsy attempt to incriminate Anne Protheroe.

âBut when he leaves the letter, he finds the one actually written by Colonel Protheroeâsomething quite unexpected. And being a very intelligent young man, and seeing that this letter may come in very useful to him, he takes it away with him. He alters the hands of the clock to the same time as the letterâknowing that it is always kept a quarter of an hour fast. The same ideaâattempt to throw suspicion on Mrs. Protheroe. Then he leaves, meeting you outside the gate, and acting the part of someone nearly distraught. As I say, he is really most intelligent. What would a murderer who had committed a crime try to do? Behave naturally, of course. So that is just what Mr. Redding does not do. He gets rid of the silencer, but marches into the police station with the pistol and makes a perfectly ridiculous self-accusation which takes everybody in.â

There was something fascinating in Miss Marpleâs resumÃ© of the case. She spoke with such certainty that we both felt that in this way and in no other could the crime have been committed.

âWhat about the shot heard in the wood?â I asked. âWas that the coincidence to which you were referring earlier this evening?â

âOh, dear, no!â Miss Marple shook her head briskly. âThat wasnât a coincidenceâvery far from it. It was absolutely necessary that a shot should be heardâotherwise suspicion of Mrs. Protheroe might have continued. How Mr. Redding arranged it, I donât quite know. But I understand that picric acid explodes if you drop a weight on it, and you will remember, dear Vicar, that you met Mr. Redding carrying a large stone just in the part of the wood where you picked up that crystal later. Gentlemen are so clever at arranging thingsâthe stone suspended above the crystals and then a time fuseâor do I mean a slow match? Something that would take about twenty minutes to burn throughâso that the explosion would come about 6:30 when he and Mrs. Protheroe had come out of the studio and were in full view. A very safe device because what would there be to find afterwardsâonly a big stone! But even that he tried to removeâwhen you came upon him.â

âI believe you are right,â I exclaimed, remembering the start of surprise Lawrence had given on seeing me that day. It had seemed natural enough at the time, but nowâ¦.

Miss Marple seemed to read my thoughts, for she nodded her head shrewdly.

âYes,â she said, âit must have been a very nasty shock for him to come across you just then. But he turned it off very wellâpretending he was bringing it to me for my rock gardens. Onlyââ Miss Marple became suddenly very emphatic. âIt was the wrong sort of stone for my rock gardens! And that put me on the right track!â

All this time Colonel Melchett had sat like a man in a trance. Now he showed signs of coming to. He snorted once or twice, blew his nose in a bewildered fashion, and said:

âUpon my word! Well, upon my word!â

Beyond that, he did not commit himself. I think that he, like myself, was impressed with the logical certainty of Miss Marpleâs conclusions. But for the moment he was not willing to admit it.

Instead, he stretched out a hand, picked up the crumpled letter and barked out:

âAll very well. But how do you account for this fellow Hawes! Why, he actually rang up and confessed.â

âYes, that was what was so providential. The Vicarâs sermon, doubtless. You know, dear Mr. Clement, you really preached a most remarkable sermon. It must have affected Mr. Hawes deeply. He could bear it no longer, and felt he must confessâabout the misappropriations of the church funds.â

âWhat?â

âYesâand that, under Providence, is what has saved his life. (For I hope and trust it is saved. Dr. Haydock is so clever.) As I see the matter, Mr. Redding kept this letter (a risky thing to do, but I expect he hid it in some safe place) and waited till he found out for certain to whom it referred. He soon made quite sure that it was Mr. Hawes. I understand he came back here with Mr. Hawes last night and spent a long time with him. I suspect that he then substituted a cachet of his own for one of Mr. Hawesâs, and slipped this letter in the pocket of Mr. Hawesâs dressing gown. The poor young man would swallow the fatal cachet in all innocenceâafter his death his things would be gone through and the letter found and everyone would jump to the conclusion that he had shot Colonel Protheroe and taken his own life out of remorse. I rather fancy Mr. Hawes must have found that letter tonight just after taking the fatal cachet. In his disordered state, it must have seemed like something supernatural, and, coming on top of the Vicarâs sermon, it must have impelled him to confess the whole thing.â

âUpon my word,â said Colonel Melchett. âUpon my word! Most extraordinary! IâIâdonât believe a word of it.â

He had never made a statement that sounded more unconvincing. It must have sounded so in his own ears, for he went on:

âAnd can you explain the other telephone callâthe one from Mr. Reddingâs cottage to Mrs. Price Ridley?â

âAh!â said Miss Marple. âThat is what I call the coincidence. Dear Griselda sent that callâshe and Mr. Dennis between them, I fancy. They had heard the rumours Mrs. Price Ridley was circulating about the Vicar, and they thought of this (perhaps rather childish) way of silencing her. The coincidence lies in the fact that the call should have been put through at exactly the same time as the fake shot from the wood. It led one to believe that the two must be connected.â

I suddenly remembered how everyone who spoke of that shot had described it as âdifferentâ from the usual shot. They had been right. Yet how hard to explain just in what way the âdifferenceâ of the shot consisted.

Colonel Melchett cleared his throat.

âYour solution is a very plausible one, Miss Marple,â he said. âBut you will allow me to point out that there is not a shadow of proof.â

âI know,â said Miss Marple. âBut you believe it to be true, donât you?â

There was a pause, then the Colonel said almost reluctantly:

âYes, I do. Dash it all, itâs the only way the thing could have happened. But thereâs no proofânot an atom.â

Miss Marple coughed.

âThat is why I thought perhaps under the circumstancesââ

âYes?â

âA little trap might be permissable.â

Thirty-one

Colonel Melchett and I both stared at her.

âA trap? What kind of a trap?â

Miss Marple was a little diffident, but it was clear that she had a plan fully outlined.

âSupposing Mr. Redding were to be rung up on the telephone and warned.â

Colonel Melchett smiled.

ââAll is discovered. Fly!â Thatâs an old wheeze, Miss Marple. Not that it isnât often successful! But I think in this case young Redding is too downy a bird to be caught that way.â

âIt would have to be something specific. I quite realize that,â said Miss Marple. âI would suggestâthis is just a mere suggestionâthat the warning should come from somebody who is known to have rather unusual views on these matters. Dr. Haydockâs conversation would lead anyone to suppose that he might view such a thing as murder from an unusual angle. If he were to hint that somebodyâMrs. Sadlerâor one of her childrenâhad actually happened to see the transposing of the cachetsâwell, of course, if Mr. Redding is an innocent man, that statement will mean nothing to him, but if he isnâtââ

âWell, he might just possibly do something foolish.â

âAnd deliver himself into our hands. Itâs possible. Very ingenious, Miss Marple. But will Haydock stand for it? As you say, his viewsââ

Miss Marple interrupted him brightly.

âOh, but thatâs theory! So very different from practice, isnât it? But anyway, here he is, so we can ask him.â

Haydock was, I think, rather astonished to find Miss Marple with us. He looked tired and haggard.

âItâs been a near thing,â he said. âA very near thing. But heâs going to pull through. Itâs a doctorâs business to save his patient and I saved him, but Iâd have been just as glad if I hadnât pulled it off.â

âYou may think differently,â said Melchett, âwhen you have heard what we have to tell you.â

And briefly and succinctly, he put Miss Marpleâs theory of the crime before the doctor, ending up with her final suggestion.

We were then privileged to see exactly what Miss Marple meant by the difference between theory and practice.

Haydockâs views appeared to have undergone a complete transformation. He would, I think, have liked Lawrence Reddingâs head on a charger. It was not, I imagine, the murder of Colonel Protheroe that so stirred his rancour. It was the assault on the unlucky Hawes.

âThe damned scoundrel,â said Haydock. âThe damned scoundrel! That poor devil Hawes. Heâs got a mother and a sister too. The stigma of being the mother and sister of a murderer would have rested on them for life, and think of their mental anguish. Of all the cowardly dastardly tricks!â

For sheer primitive rage, commend me to a thoroughgoing humanitarian when you get him well roused.

âIf this thingâs true,â he said, âyou can count on me. The fellowâs not fit to live. A defenceless chap like Hawes.â

A lame dog of any kind can always count on Haydockâs sympathy.

He was eagerly arranging details with Melchett when Miss Marple rose and I insisted on seeing her home.

âIt is most kind of you, Mr. Clement,â said Miss Marple, as we walked down the deserted street. âDear me, past twelve oâclock. I hope Raymond has gone to bed and not waited up.â

âHe should have accompanied you,â I said.

âI didnât let him know I was going,â said Miss Marple.

I smiled suddenly as I remembered Raymond Westâs subtle psychological analysis of the crime.

âIf your theory turns out to be the truthâwhich I for one do not doubt for a minute,â I said, âyou will have a very good score over your nephew.â

Miss Marple smiled alsoâan indulgent smile.

âI remember a saying of my Great Aunt Fannyâs. I was sixteen at the time and thought it particularly foolish.â

âYes?â I inquired.

âShe used to say: âThe young people think the old people are fools; but the old people know the young people are fools!ââ

Thirty-two

There is little more to be told. Miss Marpleâs plan succeeded. Lawrence Redding was not an innocent man, and the hint of a witness of the change of capsule did indeed cause him to do âsomething foolish.â Such is the power of an evil conscience.

He was, of course, peculiarly placed. His first impulse, I imagine, must have been to cut and run. But there was his accomplice to consider. He could not leave without getting word to her, and he dared not wait till morning. So he went up to Old Hall that nightâand two of Colonel Melchettâs most efficient officers followed him. He threw gravel at Anne Protheroeâs window, aroused her, and an urgent whisper brought her down to speak with him. Doubtless they felt safer outside than inâwith the possibility of Lettice waking. But as it happened, the two police officers were able to overhear the conversation in full. It left the matter in no doubt. Miss Marple had been right on every count.

The trial of Lawrence Redding and Anne Protheroe is a matter of public knowledge. I do not propose to go into it. I will only mention that great credit was reflected upon Inspector Slack, whose zeal and intelligence had resulted in the criminals being brought to justice. Naturally, nothing was said of Miss Marpleâs share in the business. She herself would have been horrified at the thought of such a thing.

Lettice came to see me just before the trial took place. She drifted through my study window, wraithlike as ever. She told me then that she had all along been convinced of her stepmotherâs complicity. The loss of the yellow beret had been a mere excuse for searching the study. She hoped against hope that she might find something the police had overlooked.

âYou see,â she said in her dreamy voice, âthey didnât hate her like I did. And hate makes things easier for you.â

Disappointed in the result of her search, she had deliberately dropped Anneâs earring by the desk.

âSince I knew she had done it, what did it matter? One way was as good as another. She had killed him.â

I sighed a little. There are always some things that Lettice will never see. In some respects she is morally colour blind.

âWhat are you going to do, Lettice?â I asked.

âWhenâwhen itâs all over, I am going abroad.â She hesitated and then went on. âI am going abroad with my mother.â

I looked up, startled.

She nodded.

âDidnât you ever guess? Mrs. Lestrange is my mother. She isâis dying, you know. She wanted to see me and so she came down here under an assumed name. Dr. Haydock helped her. Heâs a very old friend of hersâhe was keen about her onceâyou can see that! In a way, he still is. Men always went batty about mother, I believe. Sheâs awfully attractive even now. Anyway, Dr. Haydock did everything he could to help her. She didnât come down here under her own name because of the disgusting way people talk and gossip. She went to see father that night and told him she was dying and had a great longing to see something of me. Father was a beast. He said sheâd forfeited all claim, and that I thought she was deadâas though I had ever swallowed that story! Men like father never see an inch before their noses!

âBut mother is not the sort to give in. She thought it only decent to go to father first, but when he turned her down so brutally she sent a note to me, and I arranged to leave the tennis party early and meet her at the end of the footpath at a quarter past six. We just had a hurried meeting and arranged when to meet again. We left each other before half past six. Afterwards I was terrified that she would be suspected of having killed father. After all, she had got a grudge against him. Thatâs why I got hold of that old picture of her up in the attic and slashed it about. I was afraid the police might go nosing about and get hold of it and recognize it. Dr. Haydock was frightened too. Sometimes, I believe, he really thought she had done it! Mother is rather aâdesperate kind of person. She doesnât count consequences.â

She paused.

âItâs queer. She and I belong to each other. Father and I didnât. But motherâwell, anyway, Iâm going abroad with her. I shall be with her tillâtill the endâ¦.â

She got up and I took her hand.

âGod bless you both,â I said. âSome day, I hope, there is a lot of happiness coming to you, Lettice.â

âThere should be,â she said, with an attempt at a laugh. âThere hasnât been much so farâhas there? Oh, well, I donât suppose it matters. Good-bye, Mr. Clement. Youâve been frightfully decent to me alwaysâyou and Griselda.â

Griselda!

I had to own to her how terribly the anonymous letter had upset me, and first she laughed, and then solemnly read me a lecture.

âHowever,â she added, âIâm going to be very sober and Godfearing in futureâquite like the Pilgrim fathers.â

I did not see Griselda in the rÃ´le of a Pilgrim father.

She went on:

âYou see, Len, I have a steadying influence coming into my life. Itâs coming into your life, too, but in your case it will be a kind ofâof rejuvenating oneâat least, I hope so! You canât call me a dear child half so much when we have a real child of our own. And, Len, Iâve decided that now Iâm going to be a real âwife and motherâ (as they say in books), I must be a housekeeper too. Iâve bought two books on Household Management and one on Mother Love, and if that doesnât turn me out a pattern I donât know what will! They are all simply screamingly funnyânot intentionally, you know. Especially the one about bringing up children.â

âYou havenât bought a book on How to Treat a Husband, have you?â I asked, with sudden apprehension as I drew her to me.

âI donât need to,â said Griselda. âIâm a very good wife. I love you dearly. What more do you want?â

âNothing,â I said.

âCould you say, just for once, that you love me madly?â

âGriselda,â I saidââI adore you! I worship you! I am wildly, hopelessly and quite unclerically crazy about you!â

My wife gave a deep and contented sigh.

Then she drew away suddenly.

âBother! Hereâs Miss Marple coming. Donât let her suspect, will you? I donât want everyone offering me cushions and urging me to put my feet up. Tell her Iâve gone down to the golf links. That will put her off the scentâand itâs quite true because I left my yellow pullover there and I want it.â

Miss Marple came to the window, halted apologetically, and asked for Griselda.

âGriselda,â I said, âhas gone to the golf links.â

An expression of concern leaped into Miss Marpleâs eyes.

âOh, but surely,â she said, âthat is most unwiseâjust now.â

And then in a nice, old-fashioned, ladylike, maiden lady way, she blushed.

And to cover the momentâs confusion, we talked hurriedly of the Protheroe case, and of âDr. Stone,â who had turned out to be a well-known cracksman with several different aliases. Miss Cram, by the way, had been cleared of all complicity. She had at last admitted taking the suitcase to the wood, but had done so in all good faith, Dr. Stone having told her that he feared the rivalry of other archaeologists who would not stick at burglary to gain their object of discrediting his theories. The girl apparently swallowed this not very plausible story. She is now, according to the village, looking out for a more genuine article in the line of an elderly bachelor requiring a secretary.

As we talked, I wondered very much how Miss Marple had discovered our latest secret. But presently, in a discreet fashion, Miss Marple herself supplied me with a clue.

âI hope dear Griselda is not overdoing it,â she murmured, and, after a discreet pause, âI was in the bookshop in Much Benham yesterdayââ

Poor Griseldaâthat book on Mother Love has been her undoing!

âI wonder, Miss Marple,â I said suddenly, âif you were to commit a murder whether you would ever be found out.â

âWhat a terrible idea,â said Miss Marple, shocked. âI hope I could never do such a wicked thing.â

âBut human nature being what it is,â I murmured.

Miss Marple acknowledged the hit with a pretty old-ladyish laugh.

âHow naughty of you, Mr. Clement.â She rose. âBut naturally you are in good spirits.â

She paused by the window.

âMy love to dear Griseldaâand tell herâthat any little secret is quite safe with me.â

Really Miss Marple is rather a dearâ¦.

Agatha Christie

The Body in the Library

A Miss Marple Mystery

To My Friend Nan

Contents

Dedication

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Foreword

There are certain clichÃ©s belonging to certain types of fiction. The âbold bad baronetâ for melodrama, the âbody in the libraryâ for the detective story. For several years I treasured up the possibility of a suitable âVariation on a well-known Theme.â I laid down for myself certain conditions. The library in question must be a highly orthodox and conventional library. The body, on the other hand, must be a wildly improbable and highly sensational body. Such were the terms of the problem, but for some years they remained as such, represented only by a few lines of writing in an exercise book. Then, staying one summer for a few days at a fashionable hotel by the seaside I observed a family at one of the tables in the dining room; an elderly man, a cripple, in a wheeled chair, and with him was a family party of a younger generation. Fortunately they left the next day, so that my imagination could get to work unhampered by any kind of knowledge. When people ask âDo you put real people in your books?â the answer is that, for me, it is quite impossible to write about anyone I know, or have ever spoken to, or indeed have even heard about! For some reason, it kills them for me stone dead. But I can take a âlay figureâ and endow it with qualities and imaginings of my own.

So an elderly crippled man became the pivot of the story. Colonel and Mrs. Bantry, those old cronies of my Miss Marple, had just the right kind of library. In the manner of a cookery recipe add the following ingredients: a tennis pro, a young dancer, an artist, a girl guide, a dance hostess, etc., and serve up Ã  la Miss Marple!

One

I

Mrs. Bantry was dreaming. Her sweet peas had just taken a First at the flower show. The vicar, dressed in cassock and surplice, was giving out the prizes in church. His wife wandered past, dressed in a bathing suit, but as is the blessed habit of dreams this fact did not arouse the disapproval of the parish in the way it would assuredly have done in real lifeâ¦.

Mrs. Bantry was enjoying her dream a good deal. She usually did enjoy those early-morning dreams that were terminated by the arrival of early-morning tea. Somewhere in her inner consciousness was an awareness of the usual early-morning noises of the household. The rattle of the curtain rings on the stairs as the housemaid drew them, the noises of the second housemaidâs dustpan and brush in the passage outside. In the distance the heavy noise of the front-door bolt being drawn back.

Another day was beginning. In the meantime she must extract as much pleasure as possible from the flower showâfor already its dream-like quality was becoming apparentâ¦.

Below her was the noise of the big wooden shutters in the drawing room being opened. She heard it, yet did not hear it. For quite half an hour longer the usual household noises would go on, discreet, subdued, not disturbing because they were so familiar. They would culminate in a swift, controlled sound of footsteps along the passage, the rustle of a print dress, the subdued chink of tea things as the tray was deposited on the table outside, then the soft knock and the entry of Mary to draw the curtains.

In her sleep Mrs. Bantry frowned. Something disturbing was penetrating through to the dream state, something out of its time. Footsteps along the passage, footsteps that were too hurried and too soon. Her ears listened unconsciously for the chink of china, but there was no chink of china.

The knock came at the door. Automatically from the depths of her dreams Mrs. Bantry said: âCome in.â The door openedânow there would be the chink of curtain rings as the curtains were drawn back.

But there was no chink of curtain rings. Out of the dim green light Maryâs voice cameâbreathless, hysterical: âOh, maâam, oh, maâam, thereâs a body in the library.â

And then with a hysterical burst of sobs she rushed out of the room again.

II

Mrs. Bantry sat up in bed.

Either her dream had taken a very odd turn or elseâor else Mary had really rushed into the room and had said (incredible! fantastic!) that there was a body in the library.

âImpossible,â said Mrs. Bantry to herself. âI must have been dreaming.â

But even as she said it, she felt more and more certain that she had not been dreaming, that Mary, her superior self-controlled Mary, had actually uttered those fantastic words.

Mrs. Bantry reflected a minute and then applied an urgent conjugal elbow to her sleeping spouse.

âArthur, Arthur, wake up.â

Colonel Bantry grunted, muttered, and rolled over on his side.

âWake up, Arthur. Did you hear what she said?â

âVery likely,â said Colonel Bantry indistinctly. âI quite agree with you, Dolly,â and promptly went to sleep again.

Mrs. Bantry shook him.

âYouâve got to listen. Mary came in and said that there was a body in the library.â

âEh, what?â

âA body in the library.â

âWho said so?â

âMary.â

Colonel Bantry collected his scattered faculties and proceeded to deal with the situation. He said:

âNonsense, old girl; youâve been dreaming.â

âNo, I havenât. I thought so, too, at first. But I havenât. She really came in and said so.â

âMary came in and said there was a body in the library?â

âYes.â

âBut there couldnât be,â said Colonel Bantry.

âNo, no, I suppose not,â said Mrs. Bantry doubtfully.

Rallying, she went on:

âBut then why did Mary say there was?â

âShe canât have.â

âShe did.â

âYou must have imagined it.â

âI didnât imagine it.â

Colonel Bantry was by now thoroughly awake and prepared to deal with the situation on its merits. He said kindly:

âYouâve been dreaming, Dolly, thatâs what it is. Itâs that detective story you were readingâThe Clue of the Broken Match. You knowâLord Edgbaston finds a beautiful blonde dead on the library hearthrug. Bodies are always being found in libraries in books. Iâve never known a case in real life.â

âPerhaps you will now,â said Mrs. Bantry. âAnyway, Arthur, youâve got to get up and see.â

âBut really, Dolly, it must have been a dream. Dreams often do seem wonderfully vivid when you first wake up. You feel quite sure theyâre true.â

âI was having quite a different sort of dreamâabout a flower show and the vicarâs wife in a bathing dressâsomething like that.â

With a sudden burst of energy Mrs. Bantry jumped out of bed and pulled back the curtains. The light of a fine autumn day flooded the room.

âI did not dream it,â said Mrs. Bantry firmly. âGet up at once, Arthur, and go downstairs and see about it.â

âYou want me to go downstairs and ask if thereâs a body in the library? I shall look a damned fool.â

âYou neednât ask anything,â said Mrs. Bantry. âIf there is a bodyâand of course itâs just possible that Maryâs gone mad and thinks she sees things that arenât thereâwell, somebody will tell you soon enough. You wonât have to say a word.â

Grumbling, Colonel Bantry wrapped himself in his dressing gown and left the room. He went along the passage and down the staircase. At the foot of it was a little knot of huddled servants; some of them were sobbing. The butler stepped forward impressively.

âIâm glad you have come, sir. I have directed that nothing should be done until you came. Will it be in order for me to ring up the police, sir?â

âRing âem up about what?â

The butler cast a reproachful glance over his shoulder at the tall young woman who was weeping hysterically on the cookâs shoulder.

âI understood, sir, that Mary had already informed you. She said she had done so.â

Mary gasped out:

âI was so upset I donât know what I said. It all came over me again and my legs gave way and my inside turned over. Finding it like thatâoh, oh, oh!â

She subsided again on to Mrs. Eccles, who said: âThere, there, my dear,â with some relish.

âMary is naturally somewhat upset, sir, having been the one to make the gruesome discovery,â explained the butler. âShe went into the library as usual, to draw the curtains, andâalmost stumbled over the body.â

âDo you mean to tell me,â demanded Colonel Bantry, âthat thereâs a dead body in my libraryâmy library?â

The butler coughed.

âPerhaps, sir, you would like to see for yourself.â

III

âHallo, âallo, âallo. Police station here. Yes, whoâs speaking?â

Police-Constable Palk was buttoning up his tunic with one hand while the other held the receiver.

âYes, yes, Gossington Hall. Yes? Oh, good morning, sir.â Police-Constable Palkâs tone underwent a slight modification. It became less impatiently official, recognizing the generous patron of the police sports and the principal magistrate of the district.

âYes, sir? What can I do for you?âIâm sorry, sir, I didnât quite catchâa body, did you say?âyes?âyes, if you please, sirâthatâs right, sirâyoung woman not known to you, you say?âquite, sir. Yes, you can leave it all to me.â

Police-Constable Palk replaced the receiver, uttered a longdrawn whistle and proceeded to dial his superior officerâs number.

Mrs. Palk looked in from the kitchen whence proceeded an appetizing smell of frying bacon.

âWhat is it?â

âRummest thing you ever heard of,â replied her husband. âBody of a young woman found up at the Hall. In the Colonelâs library.â

âMurdered?â

âStrangled, so he says.â

âWho was she?â

âThe Colonel says he doesnât know her from Adam.â

âThen what was she doing in âis library?â

Police-Constable Palk silenced her with a reproachful glance and spoke officially into the telephone.

âInspector Slack? Police-Constable Palk here. A report has just come in that the body of a young woman was discovered this morning at seven-fifteenââ

IV

Miss Marpleâs telephone rang when she was dressing. The sound of it flurried her a little. It was an unusual hour for her telephone to ring. So well ordered was her prim spinsterâs life that unforeseen telephone calls were a source of vivid conjecture.

âDear me,â said Miss Marple, surveying the ringing instrument with perplexity. âI wonder who that can be?â

Nine oâclock to nine-thirty was the recognized time for the village to make friendly calls to neighbours. Plans for the day, invitations and so on were always issued then. The butcher had been known to ring up just before nine if some crisis in the meat trade had occurred. At intervals during the day spasmodic calls might occur, though it was considered bad form to ring after nine-thirty at night. It was true that Miss Marpleâs nephew, a writer, and therefore erratic, had been known to ring up at the most peculiar times, once as late as ten minutes to midnight. But whatever Raymond Westâs eccentricities, early rising was not one of them. Neither he nor anyone of Miss Marpleâs acquaintance would be likely to ring up before eight in the morning. Actually a quarter to eight.

Too early even for a telegram, since the post office did not open until eight.

âIt must be,â Miss Marple decided, âa wrong number.â

Having decided this, she advanced to the impatient instrument and quelled its clamour by picking up the receiver. âYes?â she said.

âIs that you, Jane?â

Miss Marple was much surprised.

âYes, itâs Jane. Youâre up very early, Dolly.â

Mrs. Bantryâs voice came breathless and agitated over the wires.

âThe most awful thing has happened.â

âOh, my dear.â

âWeâve just found a body in the library.â

For a moment Miss Marple thought her friend had gone mad.

âYouâve found a what?â

âI know. One doesnât believe it, does one? I mean, I thought they only happened in books. I had to argue for hours with Arthur this morning before heâd even go down and see.â

Miss Marple tried to collect herself. She demanded breathlessly: âBut whose body is it?â

âItâs a blonde.â

âA what?â

âA blonde. A beautiful blondeâlike books again. None of us have ever seen her before. Sheâs just lying there in the library, dead. Thatâs why youâve got to come up at once.â

âYou want me to come up?â

âYes, Iâm sending the car down for you.â

Miss Marple said doubtfully:

âOf course, dear, if you think I can be of any comfort to youââ

âOh, I donât want comfort. But youâre so good at bodies.â

âOh no, indeed. My little successes have been mostly theoretical.â

âBut youâre very good at murders. Sheâs been murdered, you see, strangled. What I feel is that if one has got to have a murder actually happening in oneâs house, one might as well enjoy it, if you know what I mean. Thatâs why I want you to come and help me find out who did it and unravel the mystery and all that. It really is rather thrilling, isnât it?â

âWell, of course, my dear, if I can be of any help to you.â

âSplendid! Arthurâs being rather difficult. He seems to think I shouldnât enjoy myself about it at all. Of course, I do know itâs very sad and all that, but then I donât know the girlâand when youâve seen her youâll understand what I mean when I say she doesnât look real at all.â

V

A little breathless, Miss Marple alighted from the Bantryâs car, the door of which was held open for her by the chauffeur.

Colonel Bantry came out on the steps, and looked a little surprised.

âMiss Marple?âerâvery pleased to see you.â

âYour wife telephoned to me,â explained Miss Marple.

âCapital, capital. She ought to have someone with her. Sheâll crack up otherwise. Sheâs putting a good face on things at the moment, but you know what it isââ

At this moment Mrs. Bantry appeared, and exclaimed:

âDo go back into the dining room and eat your breakfast, Arthur. Your bacon will get cold.â

âI thought it might be the Inspector arriving,â explained Colonel Bantry.

âHeâll be here soon enough,â said Mrs. Bantry. âThatâs why itâs important to get your breakfast first. You need it.â

âSo do you. Much better come and eat something. Dollyââ

âIâll come in a minute,â said Mrs. Bantry. âGo on, Arthur.â

Colonel Bantry was shooed back into the dining room like a recalcitrant hen.

âNow!â said Mrs. Bantry with an intonation of triumph. âCome on.â

She led the way rapidly along the long corridor to the east of the house. Outside the library door Constable Palk stood on guard. He intercepted Mrs. Bantry with a show of authority.

âIâm afraid nobody is allowed in, madam. Inspectorâs orders.â

âNonsense, Palk,â said Mrs. Bantry. âYou know Miss Marple perfectly well.â

Constable Palk admitted to knowing Miss Marple.

âItâs very important that she should see the body,â said Mrs. Bantry. âDonât be stupid, Palk. After all, itâs my library, isnât it?â

Constable Palk gave way. His habit of giving in to the gentry was lifelong. The Inspector, he reflected, need never know about it.

âNothing must be touched or handled in any way,â he warned the ladies.

âOf course not,â said Mrs. Bantry impatiently. âWe know that. You can come in and watch, if you like.â

Constable Palk availed himself of this permission. It had been his intention, anyway.

Mrs. Bantry bore her friend triumphantly across the library to the big old-fashioned fireplace. She said, with a dramatic sense of climax: âThere!â

Miss Marple understood then just what her friend had meant when she said the dead girl wasnât real. The library was a room very typical of its owners. It was large and shabby and untidy. It had big sagging armchairs, and pipes and books and estate papers laid out on the big table. There were one or two good old family portraits on the walls, and some bad Victorian watercolours, and some would-be-funny hunting scenes. There was a big vase of Michaelmas daisies in the corner. The whole room was dim and mellow and casual. It spoke of long occupation and familiar use and of links with tradition.

And across the old bearskin hearthrug there was sprawled something new and crude and melodramatic.

The flamboyant figure of a girl. A girl with unnaturally fair hair dressed up off her face in elaborate curls and rings. Her thin body was dressed in a backless evening dress of white spangled satin. The face was heavily made-up, the powder standing out grotesquely on its blue swollen surface, the mascara of the lashes lying thickly on the distorted cheeks, the scarlet of the lips looking like a gash. The fingernails were enamelled in a deep blood-red and so were the toenails in their cheap silver sandal shoes. It was a cheap, tawdry, flamboyant figureâmost incongruous in the solid old-fashioned comfort of Colonel Bantryâs library.

Mrs. Bantry said in a low voice:

âYou see what I mean? It just isnât true!â

The old lady by her side nodded her head. She looked down long and thoughtfully at the huddled figure.

She said at last in a gentle voice:

âSheâs very young.â

âYesâyesâI suppose she is.â Mrs. Bantry seemed almost surprisedâlike one making a discovery.

Miss Marple bent down. She did not touch the girl. She looked at the fingers that clutched frantically at the front of the girlâs dress, as though she had clawed it in her last frantic struggle for breath.

There was the sound of a car scrunching on the gravel outside. Constable Palk said with urgency:

âThatâll be the Inspectorâ¦.â

True to his ingrained belief that the gentry didnât let you down, Mrs. Bantry immediately moved to the door. Miss Marple followed her. Mrs. Bantry said:

âThatâll be all right, Palk.â

Constable Palk was immensely relieved.

VI

Hastily downing the last fragments of toast and marmalade with a drink of coffee, Colonel Bantry hurried out into the hall and was relieved to see Colonel Melchett, the Chief Constable of the county, descending from a car with Inspector Slack in attendance. Melchett was a friend of the Colonelâs. Slack he had never much taken toâan energetic man who belied his name and who accompanied his bustling manner with a good deal of disregard for the feelings of anyone he did not consider important.

âMorning, Bantry,â said the Chief Constable. âThought Iâd better come along myself. This seems an extraordinary business.â

âItâsâitâsââ Colonel Bantry struggled to express himself. âItâs incredibleâfantastic!â

âNo idea who the woman is?â

âNot the slightest. Never set eyes on her in my life.â

âButler know anything?â asked Inspector Slack.

âLorrimer is just as taken aback as I am.â

âAh,â said Inspector Slack. âI wonder.â

Colonel Bantry said:

âThereâs breakfast in the dining room, Melchett, if youâd like anything?â

âNo, noâbetter get on with the job. Haydock ought to be here any minute nowâah, here he is.â

Another car drew up and big, broad-shouldered Doctor Haydock, who was also the police surgeon, got out. A second police car had disgorged two plainclothes men, one with a camera.

âAll setâeh?â said the Chief Constable. âRight. Weâll go along. In the library, Slack tells me.â

Colonel Bantry groaned.

âItâs incredible! You know, when my wife insisted this morning that the housemaid had come in and said there was a body in the library, I just wouldnât believe her.â

âNo, no, I can quite understand that. Hope your missus isnât too badly upset by it all?â

âSheâs been wonderfulâreally wonderful. Sheâs got old Miss Marple up here with herâfrom the village, you know.â

âMiss Marple?â The Chief Constable stiffened. âWhy did she send for her?â

âOh, a woman wants another womanâdonât you think so?â

Colonel Melchett said with a slight chuckle:

âIf you ask me, your wifeâs going to try her hand at a little amateur detecting. Miss Marpleâs quite the local sleuth. Put it over us properly once, didnât she, Slack?â

Inspector Slack said: âThat was different.â

âDifferent from what?â

âThat was a local case, that was, sir. The old lady knows everything that goes on in the village, thatâs true enough. But sheâll be out of her depth here.â

Melchett said dryly: âYou donât know very much about it yourself yet, Slack.â

âAh, you wait, sir. It wonât take me long to get down to it.â

VII

In the dining room Mrs. Bantry and Miss Marple, in their turn, were partaking of breakfast.

After waiting on her guest, Mrs. Bantry said urgently:

âWell, Jane?â

Miss Marple looked up at her, slightly bewildered.

Mrs. Bantry said hopefully:

âDoesnât it remind you of anything?â

For Miss Marple had attained fame by her ability to link up trivial village happenings with graver problems in such a way as to throw light upon the latter.

âNo,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully, âI canât say that it doesânot at the moment. I was reminded a little of Mrs. Chettyâs youngestâEdie, you knowâbut I think that was just because this poor girl bit her nails and her front teeth stuck out a little. Nothing more than that. And, of course,â went on Miss Marple, pursuing the parallel further, âEdie was fond of what I call cheap finery, too.â

âYou mean her dress?â said Mrs. Bantry.

âYes, a very tawdry satinâpoor quality.â

Mrs. Bantry said:

âI know. One of those nasty little shops where everything is a guinea.â She went on hopefully:

âLet me see, what happened to Mrs. Chettyâs Edie?â

âSheâs just gone into her second placeâand doing very well, I believe.â

Mrs. Bantry felt slightly disappointed. The village parallel didnât seem to be exactly hopeful.

âWhat I canât make out,â said Mrs. Bantry, âis what she could possibly be doing in Arthurâs study. The window was forced, Palk tells me. She might have come down here with a burglar and then they quarrelledâbut that seems such nonsense, doesnât it?â

âShe was hardly dressed for burglary,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

âNo, she was dressed for dancingâor a party of some kind. But thereâs nothing of that kind down hereâor anywhere near.â

âN-n-o,â said Miss Marple doubtfully.

Mrs. Bantry pounced.

âSomethingâs in your mind, Jane.â

âWell, I was just wonderingââ

âYes?â

âBasil Blake.â

Mrs. Bantry cried impulsively: âOh, no!â and added as though in explanation, âI know his mother.â

The two women looked at each other.

Miss Marple sighed and shook her head.

âI quite understand how you feel about it.â

âSelina Blake is the nicest woman imaginable. Her herbaceous borders are simply marvellousâthey make me green with envy. And sheâs frightfully generous with cuttings.â

Miss Marple, passing over these claims to consideration on the part of Mrs. Blake, said:

âAll the same, you know, there has been a lot of talk.â

âOh, I knowâI know. And of course Arthur goes simply livid when he hears Basil Blake mentioned. He was really very rude to Arthur, and since then Arthur wonât hear a good word for him. Heâs got that silly slighting way of talking that these boys have nowadaysâsneering at people sticking up for their school or the Empire or that sort of thing. And then, of course, the clothes he wears!â

âPeople say,â continued Mrs. Bantry, âthat it doesnât matter what you wear in the country. I never heard such nonsense. Itâs just in the country that everyone notices.â She paused, and added wistfully: âHe was an adorable baby in his bath.â

âThere was a lovely picture of the Cheviot murderer as a baby in the paper last Sunday,â said Miss Marple.

âOh, but Jane, you donât think heââ

âNo, no, dear. I didnât mean that at all. That would indeed be jumping to conclusions. I was just trying to account for the young womanâs presence down here. St. Mary Mead is such an unlikely place. And then it seemed to me that the only possible explanation was Basil Blake. He does have parties. People came down from London and from the studiosâyou remember last July? Shouting and singingâthe most terrible noiseâeveryone very drunk, Iâm afraidâand the mess and the broken glass next morning simply unbelievableâso old Mrs. Berry told meâand a young woman asleep in the bath with practically nothing on!â

Mrs. Bantry said indulgently:

âI suppose they were film people.â

âVery likely. And thenâwhat I expect youâve heardâseveral weekends lately heâs brought down a young woman with himâa platinum blonde.â

Mrs. Bantry exclaimed:

âYou donât think itâs this one?â

âWellâI wondered. Of course, Iâve never seen her close toâonly just getting in and out of the carâand once in the cottage garden when she was sunbathing with just some shorts and a brassiÃ¨re. I never really saw her face. And all these girls with their makeup and their hair and their nails look so alike.â

âYes. Still, it might be. Itâs an idea, Jane.â

Two

I

It was an idea that was being at that moment discussed by Colonel Melchett and Colonel Bantry.

The Chief Constable, after viewing the body and seeing his subordinates set to work on their routine tasks, had adjourned with the master of the house to the study in the other wing of the house.

Colonel Melchett was an irascible-looking man with a habit of tugging at his short red moustache. He did so now, shooting a perplexed sideways glance at the other man. Finally, he rapped out:

âLook here, Bantry, got to get this off my chest. Is it a fact that you donât know from Adam who this girl is?â

The otherâs answer was explosive, but the Chief Constable interrupted him.

âYes, yes, old man, but look at it like this. Might be deuced awkward for you. Married manâfond of your missus and all that. But just between ourselvesâif you were tied up with this girl in any way, better say so now. Quite natural to want to suppress the factâshould feel the same myself. But it wonât do. Murder case. Facts bound to come out. Dash it all, Iâm not suggesting you strangled the girlânot the sort of thing youâd doâI know that. But, after all, she came hereâto this house. Put it she broke in and was waiting to see you, and some bloke or other followed her down and did her in. Possible, you know. See what I mean?â

âDamn it all, Melchett, I tell you Iâve never set eyes on that girl in my life! Iâm not that sort of man.â

âThatâs all right, then. Shouldnât blame you, you know. Man of the world. Still, if you say soâQuestion is, what was she doing down here? She doesnât come from these partsâthatâs quite certain.â

âThe whole thingâs a nightmare,â fumed the angry master of the house.

âThe point is, old man, what was she doing in your library?â

âHow should I know? I didnât ask her here.â

âNo, no. But she came here, all the same. Looks as though she wanted to see you. You havenât had any odd letters or anything?â

âNo, I havenât.â

Colonel Melchett inquired delicately:

âWhat were you doing yourself last night?â

âI went to the meeting of the Conservative Association. Nine oâclock, at Much Benham.â

âAnd you got home when?â

âI left Much Benham just after tenâhad a bit of trouble on the way home, had to change a wheel. I got back at a quarter to twelve.â

âYou didnât go into the library?â

âNo.â

âPity.â

âI was tired. I went straight up to bed.â

âAnyone waiting up for you?â

âNo. I always take the latchkey. Lorrimer goes to bed at eleven unless I give orders to the contrary.â

âWho shuts up the library?â

âLorrimer. Usually about seven-thirty this time of year.â

âWould he go in there again during the evening?â

âNot with my being out. He left the tray with whisky and glasses in the hall.â

âI see. What about your wife?â

âI donât know. She was in bed when I got home and fast asleep. She may have sat in the library yesterday evening or in the drawing room. I forgot to ask her.â

âOh well, we shall soon know all the details. Of course, itâs possible one of the servants may be concerned, eh?â

Colonel Bantry shook his head.

âI donât believe it. Theyâre all a most respectable lot. Weâve had âem for years.â

Melchett agreed.

âYes, it doesnât seem likely that theyâre mixed up in it. Looks more as though the girl came down from townâperhaps with some young fellow. Though why they wanted to break into this houseââ

Bantry interrupted.

âLondon. Thatâs more like it. We donât have goings on down hereâat leastââ

âWell, what is it?â

âUpon my word!â exploded Colonel Bantry. âBasil Blake!â

âWhoâs he?â

âYoung fellow connected with the film industry. Poisonous young brute. My wife sticks up for him because she was at school with his mother, but of all the decadent useless young jackanapes! Wants his behind kicked! Heâs taken that cottage on the Lansham Roadâyou knowâghastly modern bit of building. He has parties there, shrieking, noisy crowds, and he has girls down for the weekend.â

âGirls?â

âYes, there was one last weekâone of these platinum blondesââ

The Colonelâs jaw dropped.

âA platinum blonde, eh?â said Melchett reflectively.

âYes. I say, Melchett, you donât thinkââ

The Chief Constable said briskly:

âItâs a possibility. It accounts for a girl of this type being in St. Mary Mead. I think Iâll run along and have a word with this young fellowâBraidâBlakeâwhat did you say his name was?â

âBlake. Basil Blake.â

âWill he be at home, do you know?â

âLet me see. Whatâs todayâSaturday? Usually gets here sometime Saturday morning.â

Melchett said grimly:

âWeâll see if we can find him.â

II

Basil Blakeâs cottage, which consisted of all modern conveniences enclosed in a hideous shell of half timbering and sham Tudor, was known to the postal authorities, and to William Booker, builder, as âChatsworthâ; to Basil and his friends as âThe Period Piece,â and to the village of St. Mary Mead at large as âMr. Bookerâs new house.â

It was little more than a quarter of a mile from the village proper, being situated on a new building estate that had been bought by the enterprising Mr. Booker just beyond the Blue Boar, with frontage on what had been a particularly unspoilt country lane. Gossington Hall was about a mile farther on along the same road.

Lively interest had been aroused in St. Mary Mead when news went round that âMr. Bookerâs new houseâ had been bought by a film star. Eager watch was kept for the first appearance of the legendary creature in the village, and it may be said that as far as appearances went Basil Blake was all that could be asked for. Little by little, however, the real facts leaked out. Basil Blake was not a film starânot even a film actor. He was a very junior person, rejoicing in the title of about fifteenth in the list of those responsible for Set Decorations at Lemville Studios, headquarters of British New Era Films. The village maidens lost interest, and the ruling class of censorious spinsters took exception to Basil Blakeâs way of life. Only the landlord of the Blue Boar continued to be enthusiastic about Basil and Basilâs friends. The revenues of the Blue Boar had increased since the young manâs arrival in the place.

The police car stopped outside the distorted rustic gate of Mr. Bookerâs fancy, and Colonel Melchett, with a glance of distaste at the excessive half timbering of Chatsworth, strode up to the front door and attacked it briskly with the knocker.

It was opened much more promptly than he had expected. A young man with straight, somewhat long, black hair, wearing orange corduroy trousers and a royal-blue shirt, snapped out: âWell, what do you want?â

âAre you Mr. Basil Blake?â

âOf course I am.â

âI should be glad to have a few words with you, if I may, Mr. Blake?â

âWho are you?â

âI am Colonel Melchett, the Chief Constable of the County.â

Mr. Blake said insolently:

âYou donât say so; how amusing!â

And Colonel Melchett, following the other in, understood what Colonel Bantryâs reactions had been. The toe of his own boot itched.

Containing himself, however, he said with an attempt to speak pleasantly:

âYouâre an early riser, Mr. Blake.â

âNot at all. I havenât been to bed yet.â

âIndeed.â

âBut I donât suppose youâve come here to inquire into my hours of bedgoingâor if you have itâs rather a waste of the countyâs time and money. What is it you want to speak to me about?â

Colonel Melchett cleared his throat.

âI understand, Mr. Blake, that last weekend you had a visitorâaâerâfair-haired young lady.â

Basil Blake stared, threw back his head and roared with laughter.

âHave the old cats been on to you from the village? About my morals? Damn it all, morals arenât a police matter. You know that.â

âAs you say,â said Melchett dryly, âyour morals are no concern of mine. I have come to you because the body of a fair-haired young woman of slightlyâerâexotic appearance has been foundâmurdered.â

âStrewth!â Blake stared at him. âWhere?â

âIn the library at Gossington Hall.â

âAt Gossington? At old Bantryâs? I say, thatâs pretty rich. Old Bantry! The dirty old man!â

Colonel Melchett went very red in the face. He said sharply through the renewed mirth of the young man opposite him: âKindly control your tongue, sir. I came to ask you if you can throw any light on this business.â

âYouâve come round to ask me if Iâve missed a blonde? Is that it? Why shouldâhallo, âallo, âallo, whatâs this?â

A car had drawn up outside with a scream of brakes. Out of it tumbled a young woman dressed in flapping black-and-white pyjamas. She had scarlet lips, blackened eyelashes, and a platinum-blonde head. She strode up to the door, flung it open, and exclaimed angrily:

âWhy did you run out on me, you brute?â

Basil Blake had risen.

âSo there you are! Why shouldnât I leave you? I told you to clear out and you wouldnât.â

âWhy the hell should I because you told me to? I was enjoying myself.â

âYesâwith that filthy brute Rosenberg. You know what heâs like.â

âYou were jealous, thatâs all.â

âDonât flatter yourself. I hate to see a girl I like who canât hold her drink and lets a disgusting Central European paw her about.â

âThatâs a damned lie. You were drinking pretty hard yourselfâand going on with the black-haired Spanish bitch.â

âIf I take you to a party I expect you to be able to behave yourself.â

âAnd I refuse to be dictated to, and thatâs that. You said weâd go to the party and come on down here afterwards. Iâm not going to leave a party before Iâm ready to leave it.â

âNoâand thatâs why I left you flat. I was ready to come down here and I came. I donât hang round waiting for any fool of a woman.â

âSweet, polite person you are!â

âYou seem to have followed me down all right!â

âI wanted to tell you what I thought of you!â

âIf you think you can boss me, my girl, youâre wrong!â

âAnd if you think you can order me about, you can think again!â

They glared at each other.

It was at this moment that Colonel Melchett seized his opportunity, and cleared his throat loudly.

Basil Blake swung round on him.

âHallo, I forgot you were here. About time you took yourself off, isnât it? Let me introduce youâDinah LeeâColonel Blimp of the County Police. And now, Colonel, that youâve seen my blonde is alive and in good condition, perhaps youâll get on with the good work concerning old Bantryâs little bit of fluff. Good morning!â

Colonel Melchett said:

âI advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head, young man, or youâll let yourself in for trouble,â and stumped out, his face red and wrathful.

Three

I

In his office at Much Benham, Colonel Melchett received and scrutinized the reports of his subordinates:

ââ¦ so it all seems clear enough, sir,â Inspector Slack was concluding: âMrs. Bantry sat in the library after dinner and went to bed just before ten. She turned out the lights when she left the room and, presumably, no one entered the room afterwards. The servants went to bed at half-past ten and Lorrimer, after putting the drinks in the hall, went to bed at a quarter to eleven. Nobody heard anything out of the usual except the third housemaid, and she heard too much! Groans and a blood-curdling yell and sinister footsteps and I donât know what. The second housemaid who shares a room with her says the other girl slept all night through without a sound. Itâs those ones that make up things that cause us all the trouble.â

âWhat about the forced window?â

âAmateur job, Simmons says; done with a common chiselâordinary patternâwouldnât have made much noise. Ought to be a chisel about the house but nobody can find it. Still, thatâs common enough where tools are concerned.â

âThink any of the servants know anything?â

Rather unwillingly Inspector Slack replied:

âNo, sir, I donât think they do. They all seemed very shocked and upset. I had my suspicions of Lorrimerâreticent, he was, if you know what I meanâbut I donât think thereâs anything in it.â

Melchett nodded. He attached no importance to Lorrimerâs reticence. The energetic Inspector Slack often produced that effect on people he interrogated.

The door opened and Dr. Haydock came in.

âThought Iâd look in and give you the rough gist of things.â

âYes, yes, glad to see you. Well?â

âNothing much. Just what youâd think. Death was due to strangulation. Satin waistband of her own dress, which was passed round the neck and crossed at the back. Quite easy and simple to do. Wouldnât have needed great strengthâthat is, if the girl were taken by surprise. There are no signs of a struggle.â

âWhat about time of death?â

âSay, between ten oâclock and midnight.â

âYou canât get nearer than that?â

Haydock shook his head with a slight grin.

âI wonât risk my professional reputation. Not earlier than ten and not later than midnight.â

âAnd your own fancy inclines to which time?â

âDepends. There was a fire in the grateâthe room was warmâall that would delay rigor and cadaveric stiffening.â

âAnything more you can say about her?â

âNothing much. She was youngâabout seventeen or eighteen, I should say. Rather immature in some ways but well developed muscularly. Quite a healthy specimen. She was virgo intacta, by the way.â

And with a nod of his head the doctor left the room.

Melchett said to the Inspector:

âYouâre quite sure sheâd never been seen before at Gossington?â

âThe servants are positive of that. Quite indignant about it. Theyâd have remembered if theyâd ever seen her about in the neighbourhood, they say.â

âI expect they would,â said Melchett. âAnyone of that type sticks out a mile round here. Look at that young woman of Blakeâs.â

âPity it wasnât her,â said Slack; âthen we should be able to get on a bit.â

âIt seems to me this girl must have come down from London,â said the Chief Constable thoughtfully. âDonât believe there will be any local leads. In that case, I suppose, we should do well to call in the Yard. Itâs a case for them, not for us.â

âSomething must have brought her down here, though,â said Slack. He added tentatively: âSeems to me, Colonel and Mrs. Bantry must know somethingâof course, I know theyâre friends of yours, sirââ

Colonel Melchett treated him to a cold stare. He said stiffly:

âYou may rest assured that Iâm taking every possibility into account. Every possibility.â He went on: âYouâve looked through the list of persons reported missing, I suppose?â

Slack nodded. He produced a typed sheet.

âGot âem here. Mrs. Saunders, reported missing a week ago, dark-haired, blue-eyed, thirty-six. âTisnât herâand, anyway, everyone knows except her husband that sheâs gone off with a fellow from Leedsâcommercial. Mrs. Barnardâsheâs sixty-five. Pamela Reeves, sixteen, missing from her home last night, had attended Girl Guide rally, dark-brown hair in pigtail, five feet fiveââ

Melchett said irritably:

âDonât go on reading idiotic details, Slack. This wasnât a schoolgirl. In my opinionââ

He broke off as the telephone rang. âHalloâyesâyes, Much Benham Police Headquartersâwhat? Just a minuteââ

He listened, and wrote rapidly. Then he spoke again, a new tone in his voice:

âRuby Keene, eighteen, occupation professional dancer, five feet four inches, slender, platinum-blonde hair, blue eyes, retroussÃ© nose, believed to be wearing white diamantÃ© evening dress, silver sandal shoes. Is that right? What? Yes, not a doubt of it, I should say. Iâll send Slack over at once.â

He rang off and looked at his subordinate with rising excitement. âWeâve got it, I think. That was the Glenshire Policeâ (Glenshire was the adjoining county). âGirl reported missing from the Majestic Hotel, Danemouth.â

âDanemouth,â said Inspector Slack. âThatâs more like it.â

Danemouth was a large and fashionable watering-place on the coast not far away.

âItâs only a matter of eighteen miles or so from here,â said the Chief Constable. âThe girl was a dance hostess or something at the Majestic. Didnât come on to do her turn last night and the management were very fed up about it. When she was still missing this morning one of the other girls got the wind up about her, or someone else did. It sounds a bit obscure. Youâd better go over to Danemouth at once, Slack. Report there to Superintendent Harper, and cooperate with him.â

II

Activity was always to Inspector Slackâs taste. To rush off in a car, to silence rudely those people who were anxious to tell him things, to cut short conversations on the plea of urgent necessity. All this was the breath of life to Slack.

In an incredibly short time, therefore, he had arrived at Danemouth, reported at police headquarters, had a brief interview with a distracted and apprehensive hotel manager, and, leaving the latter with the doubtful comfort ofââgot to make sure it is the girl, first, before we start raising the windââwas driving back to Much Benham in company with Ruby Keeneâs nearest relative.

He had put through a short call to Much Benham before leaving Danemouth, so the Chief Constable was prepared for his arrival, though not perhaps for the brief introduction of: âThis is Josie, sir.â

Colonel Melchett stared at his subordinate coldly. His feeling was that Slack had taken leave of his senses.

The young woman who had just got out of the car came to the rescue.

âThatâs what Iâm known as professionally,â she explained with a momentary flash of large, handsome white teeth. âRaymond and Josie, my partner and I call ourselves, and, of course, all the hotel know me as Josie. Josephine Turnerâs my real name.â

Colonel Melchett adjusted himself to the situation and invited Miss Turner to sit down, meanwhile casting a swift, professional glance over her.

She was a good-looking young woman of perhaps nearer thirty than twenty, her looks depending more on skilful grooming than actual features. She looked competent and good-tempered, with plenty of common sense. She was not the type that would ever be described as glamorous, but she had nevertheless plenty of attraction. She was discreetly made-up and wore a dark tailor-made suit. Though she looked anxious and upset she was not, the Colonel decided, particularly grief-stricken.

As she sat down she said: âIt seems too awful to be true. Do you really think itâs Ruby?â

âThat, Iâm afraid, is what weâve got to ask you to tell us. Iâm afraid it may be rather unpleasant for you.â

Miss Turner said apprehensively:

âDoes sheâdoes sheâlook very terrible?â

âWellâIâm afraid it may be rather a shock to you.â He handed her his cigarette case and she accepted one gratefully.

âDoâdo you want me to look at her right away?â

âIt would be best, I think, Miss Turner. You see, itâs not much good asking you questions until weâre sure. Best get it over, donât you think?â

âAll right.â

They drove down to the mortuary.

When Josie came out after a brief visit, she looked rather sick.

âItâs Ruby all right,â she said shakily. âPoor kid! Goodness, I do feel queer. There isnâtââshe looked round wistfullyââany gin?â

Gin was not available, but brandy was, and after gulping a little down Miss Turner regained her composure. She said frankly:

âIt gives you a turn, doesnât it, seeing anything like that? Poor little Rube! What swine men are, arenât they?â

âYou believe it was a man?â

Josie looked slightly taken aback.

âWasnât it? Well, I meanâI naturally thoughtââ

âAny special man you were thinking of?â

She shook her head vigorously.

âNoânot me. I havenât the least idea. Naturally Ruby wouldnât have let on to me ifââ

âIf what?â

Josie hesitated.

âWellâif sheâd beenâgoing about with anyone.â

Melchett shot her a keen glance. He said no more until they were back at his office. Then he began:

âNow, Miss Turner, I want all the information you can give me.â

âYes, of course. Where shall I begin?â

âIâd like the girlâs full name and address, her relationship to you and all you know about her.â

Josephine Turner nodded. Melchett was confirmed in his opinion that she felt no particular grief. She was shocked and distressed but no more. She spoke readily enough.

âHer name was Ruby Keeneâher professional name, that is. Her real name was Rosy Legge. Her mother was my motherâs cousin. Iâve known her all my life, but not particularly well, if you know what I mean. Iâve got a lot of cousinsâsome in business, some on the stage. Ruby was more or less training for a dancer. She had some good engagements last year in panto and that sort of thing. Not really classy, but good provincial companies. Since then sheâs been engaged as one of the dancing partners at the Palais de Danse in BrixwellâSouth London. Itâs a nice respectable place and they look after the girls well, but there isnât much money in it.â She paused.

Colonel Melchett nodded.

âNow this is where I come in. Iâve been dance and bridge hostess at the Majestic in Danemouth for three years. Itâs a good job, well paid and pleasant to do. You look after people when they arriveâsize them up, of courseâsome like to be left alone and others are lonely and want to get into the swing of things. You try to get the right people together for bridge and all that, and get the young people dancing with each other. It needs a bit of tact and experience.â

Again Melchett nodded. He thought that this girl would be good at her job; she had a pleasant, friendly way with her and was, he thought, shrewd without being in the least intellectual.

âBesides that,â continued Josie, âI do a couple of exhibition dances every evening with Raymond. Raymond Starrâheâs the tennis and dancing pro. Well, as it happens, this summer I slipped on the rocks bathing one day and gave my ankle a nasty turn.â

Melchett had noticed that she walked with a slight limp.

âNaturally that put the stop to dancing for a bit and it was rather awkward. I didnât want the hotel to get someone else in my place. Thatâs always a dangerââfor a minute her good-natured blue eyes were hard and sharp; she was the female fighting for existenceââthat they may queer your pitch, you see. So I thought of Ruby and suggested to the manager that I should get her down. Iâd carry on with the hostess business and the bridge and all that. Ruby would just take on the dancing. Keep it in the family, if you see what I mean?â

Melchett said he saw.

âWell, they agreed, and I wired to Ruby and she came down. Rather a chance for her. Much better class than anything sheâd ever done before. That was about a month ago.â

Colonel Melchett said:

âI understand. And she was a success?â

âOh, yes,â Josie said carelessly, âshe went down quite well. She doesnât dance as well as I do, but Raymondâs clever and carried her through, and she was quite nice-looking, you knowâslim and fair and baby-looking. Overdid the makeup a bitâI was always on at her about that. But you know what girls are. She was only eighteen, and at that age they always go and overdo it. It doesnât do for a good-class place like the Majestic. I was always ticking her off about it and getting her to tone it down.â

Melchett asked: âPeople liked her?â

âOh, yes. Mind you, Ruby hadnât got much comeback. She was a bit dumb. She went down better with the older men than with the young ones.â

âHad she got any special friend?â

The girlâs eyes met his with complete understanding.

âNot in the way you mean. Or, at any rate, not that I knew about. But then, you see, she wouldnât tell me.â

Just for a moment Melchett wondered why notâJosie did not give the impression of being a strict disciplinarian. But he only said: âWill you describe to me now when you last saw your cousin.â

âLast night. She and Raymond do two exhibition dancesâone at 10:30 and the other at midnight. They finished the first one. After it, I noticed Ruby dancing with one of the young men staying in the hotel. I was playing bridge with some people in the lounge. Thereâs a glass panel between the lounge and the ballroom. Thatâs the last time I saw her. Just after midnight Raymond came up in a terrible taking, said where was Ruby, she hadnât turned up, and it was time to begin. I was vexed, I can tell you! Thatâs the sort of silly thing girls do and get the managementâs backs up and then they get the sack! I went up with him to her room, but she wasnât there. I noticed that sheâd changed. The dress sheâd been dancing inâa sort of pink, foamy thing with full skirtsâwas lying over a chair. Usually she kept the same dress on unless it was the special dance nightâWednesdays, that is.

âIâd no idea where sheâd got to. We got the band to play one more foxtrotâstill no Ruby, so I said to Raymond Iâd do the exhibition dance with him. We chose one that was easy on my ankle and made it shortâbut it played up my ankle pretty badly all the same. Itâs all swollen this morning. Still Ruby didnât show up. We sat about waiting up for her until two oâclock. Furious with her, I was.â

Her voice vibrated slightly. Melchett caught the note of real anger in it. Just for a moment he wondered. The reaction seemed a little more intense than was justified by the facts. He had a feeling of something deliberately left unsaid. He said:

âAnd this morning, when Ruby Keene had not returned and her bed had not been slept in, you went to the police?â

He knew from Slackâs brief telephone message from Danemouth that that was not the case. But he wanted to hear what Josephine Turner would say.

She did not hesitate. She said: âNo, I didnât.â

âWhy not, Miss Turner?â

Her eyes met his frankly. She said:

âYou wouldnâtâin my place!â

âYou think not?â

Josie said:

âIâve got my job to think about. The one thing a hotel doesnât want is scandalâespecially anything that brings in the police. I didnât think anything had happened to Ruby. Not for a minute! I thought sheâd just made a fool of herself about some young man. I thought sheâd turn up all rightâand I was going to give her a good dressing down when she did! Girls of eighteen are such fools.â

Melchett pretended to glance through his notes.

âAh, yes, I see it was a Mr. Jefferson who went to the police. One of the guests staying at the hotel?â

Josephine Turner said shortly:

âYes.â

Colonel Melchett asked:

âWhat made this Mr. Jefferson do that?â

Josie was stroking the cuff of her jacket. There was a constraint in her manner. Again Colonel Melchett had a feeling that something was being withheld. She said rather sullenly:

âHeâs an invalid. Heâhe gets all het up rather easily. Being an invalid, I mean.â

Melchett passed on from that. He asked:

âWho was the young man with whom you last saw your cousin dancing?â

âHis nameâs Bartlett. Heâd been there about ten days.â

âWere they on very friendly terms?â

âNot specially, I should say. Not that I knew, anyway.â

Again a curious note of anger in her voice.

âWhat does he have to say?â

âSaid that after their dance Ruby went upstairs to powder her nose.â

âThat was when she changed her dress?â

âI suppose so.â

âAnd that is the last thing you know? After that she justââ

âVanished,â said Josie. âThatâs right.â

âDid Miss Keene know anybody in St. Mary Mead? Or in this neighbourhood?â

âI donât know. She may have done. You see, quite a lot of young men come into Danemouth to the Majestic from all round about. I wouldnât know where they lived unless they happened to mention it.â

âDid you ever hear your cousin mention Gossington?â

âGossington?â Josie looked patently puzzled.

âGossington Hall.â

She shook her head.

âNever heard of it.â Her tone carried conviction. There was curiosity in it too.

âGossington Hall,â explained Colonel Melchett, âis where her body was found.â

âGossington Hall?â She stared. âHow extraordinary!â

Melchett thought to himself: âExtraordinaryâs the word!â Aloud he said:

âDo you know a Colonel or Mrs. Bantry?â

Again Josie shook her head.

âOr a Mr. Basil Blake?â

She frowned slightly.

âI think Iâve heard that name. Yes, Iâm sure I haveâbut I donât remember anything about him.â

The diligent Inspector Slack slid across to his superior officer a page torn from his notebook. On it was pencilled:

âCol. Bantry dined at Majestic last week.â

Melchett looked up and met the Inspectorâs eye. The Chief Constable flushed. Slack was an industrious and zealous officer and Melchett disliked him a good deal. But he could not disregard the challenge. The Inspector was tacitly accusing him of favouring his own classâof shielding an âold school tie.â

He turned to Josie.

âMiss Turner, I should like you, if you do not mind, to accompany me to Gossington Hall.â

Coldly, defiantly, almost ignoring Josieâs murmur of assent, Melchettâs eyes met Slackâs.

Four

I

St. Mary Mead was having the most exciting morning it had known for a long time.

Miss Wetherby, a long-nosed, acidulated spinster, was the first to spread the intoxicating information. She dropped in upon her friend and neighbour Miss Hartnell.

âForgive me coming so early, dear, but I thought, perhaps, you mightnât have heard the news.â

âWhat news?â demanded Miss Hartnell. She had a deep bass voice and visited the poor indefatigably, however hard they tried to avoid her ministrations.

âAbout the body in Colonel Bantryâs libraryâa womanâs bodyââ

âIn Colonel Bantryâs library?â

âYes. Isnât it terrible?â

âHis poor wife.â Miss Hartnell tried to disguise her deep and ardent pleasure.

âYes, indeed. I donât suppose she had any idea.â

Miss Hartnell observed censoriously:

âShe thought too much about her garden and not enough about her husband. Youâve got to keep an eye on a manâall the timeâall the time,â repeated Miss Hartnell fiercely.

âI know. I know. Itâs really too dreadful.â

âI wonder what Jane Marple will say. Do you think she knew anything about it? Sheâs so sharp about these things.â

âJane Marple has gone up to Gossington.â

âWhat? This morning?â

âVery early. Before breakfast.â

âBut really! I do think! Well, I mean, I think that is carrying things too far. We all know Jane likes to poke her nose into thingsâbut I call this indecent!â

âOh, but Mrs. Bantry sent for her.â

âMrs. Bantry sent for her?â

âWell, the car cameâwith Muswell driving it.â

âDear me! How very peculiarâ¦.â

They were silent a minute or two digesting the news.

âWhose body?â demanded Miss Hartnell.

âYou know that dreadful woman who comes down with Basil Blake?â

âThat terrible peroxide blonde?â Miss Hartnell was slightly behind the times. She had not yet advanced from peroxide to platinum. âThe one who lies about in the garden with practically nothing on?â

âYes, my dear. There she wasâon the hearthrugâstrangled!â

âBut what do you meanâat Gossington?â

Miss Wetherby nodded with infinite meaning.

âThenâColonel Bantry tooâ?â

Again Miss Wetherby nodded.

âOh!â

There was a pause as the ladies savoured this new addition to village scandal.

âWhat a wicked woman!â trumpeted Miss Hartnell with righteous wrath.

âQuite, quite abandoned, Iâm afraid!â

âAnd Colonel Bantryâsuch a nice quiet manââ

Miss Wetherby said zestfully:

âThose quiet ones are often the worst. Jane Marple always says so.â

II

Mrs. Price Ridley was among the last to hear the news.

A rich and dictatorial widow, she lived in a large house next door to the vicarage. Her informant was her little maid Clara.

âA woman, you say, Clara? Found dead on Colonel Bantryâs hearthrug?â

âYes, mum. And they say, mum, as she hadnât anything on at all, mum, not a stitch!â

âThat will do, Clara. It is not necessary to go into details.â

âNo, mum, and they say, mum, that at first they thought it was Mr. Blakeâs young ladyâwhat comes down for the weekends with âim to Mr. Bookerâs new âouse. But now they say itâs quite a different young lady. And the fishmongerâs young man, he says heâd never have believed it of Colonel Bantryânot with him handing round the plate on Sundays and all.â

âThere is a lot of wickedness in the world, Clara,â said Mrs. Price Ridley. âLet this be a warning to you.â

âYes, mum. Mother, she never will let me take a place where thereâs a gentleman in the âouse.â

âThat will do, Clara,â said Mrs. Price Ridley.

III

It was only a step from Mrs. Price Ridleyâs house to the vicarage.

Mrs. Price Ridley was fortunate enough to find the vicar in his study.

The vicar, a gentle, middle-aged man, was always the last to hear anything.

âSuch a terrible thing,â said Mrs. Price Ridley, panting a little, because she had come rather fast. âI felt I must have your advice, your counsel about it, dear vicar.â

Mr. Clement looked mildly alarmed. He said:

âHas anything happened?â

âHas anything happened?â Mrs. Price Ridley repeated the question dramatically. âThe most terrible scandal! None of us had any idea of it. An abandoned woman, completely unclothed, strangled on Colonel Bantryâs hearthrug.â

The vicar stared. He said:

âYouâyou are feeling quite well?â

âNo wonder you canât believe it! I couldnât at first. The hypocrisy of the man! All these years!â

âPlease tell me exactly what all this is about.â

Mrs. Price Ridley plunged into a full-swing narrative. When she had finished Mr. Clement said mildly:

âBut there is nothing, is there, to point to Colonel Bantryâs being involved in this?â

âOh, dear vicar, you are so unworldly! But I must tell you a little story. Last Thursdayâor was it the Thursday before? well, it doesnât matterâI was going up to London by the cheap day train. Colonel Bantry was in the same carriage. He looked, I thought, very abstracted. And nearly the whole way he buried himself behind The Times. As though, you know, he didnât want to talk.â

The vicar nodded with complete comprehension and possible sympathy.

âAt Paddington I said good-bye. He had offered to get me a taxi, but I was taking the bus down to Oxford Streetâbut he got into one, and I distinctly heard him tell the driver to go toâwhere do you think?â

Mr. Clement looked inquiring.

âAn address in St. Johnâs Wood!â

Mrs. Price Ridley paused triumphantly.

The vicar remained completely unenlightened.

âThat, I consider, proves it,â said Mrs. Price Ridley.

IV

At Gossington, Mrs. Bantry and Miss Marple were sitting in the drawing room.

âYou know,â said Mrs. Bantry, âI canât help feeling glad theyâve taken the body away. Itâs not nice to have a body in oneâs house.â

Miss Marple nodded.

âI know, dear. I know just how you feel.â

âYou canât,â said Mrs. Bantry; ânot until youâve had one. I know you had one next door once, but thatâs not the same thing. I only hope,â she went on, âthat Arthur wonât take a dislike to the library. We sit there so much. What are you doing, Jane?â

For Miss Marple, with a glance at her watch, was rising to her feet. âWell, I was thinking Iâd go home. If thereâs nothing more I can do for you?â

âDonât go yet,â said Mrs. Bantry. âThe fingerprint men and the photographers and most of the police have gone, I know, but I still feel something might happen. You donât want to miss anything.â

The telephone rang and she went off to answer. She returned with a beaming face.

âI told you more things would happen. That was Colonel Melchett. Heâs bringing the poor girlâs cousin along.â

âI wonder why,â said Miss Marple.

âOh, I suppose, to see where it happened and all that.â

âMore than that, I expect,â said Miss Marple.

âWhat do you mean, Jane?â

âWell, I thinkâperhapsâhe might want her to meet Colonel Bantry.â

Mrs. Bantry said sharply:

âTo see if she recognizes him? I supposeâoh, yes, I suppose theyâre bound to suspect Arthur.â

âIâm afraid so.â

âAs though Arthur could have anything to do with it!â

Miss Marple was silent. Mrs. Bantry turned on her accusingly.

âAnd donât quote old General Hendersonâor some frightful old man who kept his housemaidâat me. Arthur isnât like that.â

âNo, no, of course not.â

âNo, but he really isnât. Heâs justâsometimesâa little silly about pretty girls who come to tennis. You knowârather fatuous and avuncular. Thereâs no harm in it. And why shouldnât he? After all,â finished Mrs. Bantry rather obscurely, âIâve got the garden.â

Miss Marple smiled.

âYou must not worry, Dolly,â she said.

âNo, I donât mean to. But all the same I do a little. So does Arthur. Itâs upset him. All these policemen prowling about. Heâs gone down to the farm. Looking at pigs and things always soothes him if heâs been upset. Hallo, here they are.â

The Chief Constableâs car drew up outside.

Colonel Melchett came in accompanied by a smartly dressed young woman.

âThis is Miss Turner, Mrs. Bantry. The cousin of theâerâvictim.â

âHow do you do,â said Mrs. Bantry, advancing with outstretched hand. âAll this must be rather awful for you.â

Josephine Turner said frankly: âOh, it is. None of it seems real, somehow. Itâs like a bad dream.â

Mrs. Bantry introduced Miss Marple.

Melchett said casually: âYour good man about?â

âHe had to go down to one of the farms. Heâll be back soon.â

âOhââ Melchett seemed rather at a loss.

Mrs. Bantry said to Josie: âWould you like to see whereâwhere it happened? Or would you rather not?â

Josephine said after a momentâs pause:

âI think Iâd like to see.â

Mrs. Bantry led her to her library with Miss Marple and Melchett following behind.

âShe was there,â said Mrs. Bantry, pointing dramatically; âon the hearthrug.â

âOh!â Josie shuddered. But she also looked perplexed. She said, her brow creased: âI just canât understand it! I canât!â

âWell, we certainly canât,â said Mrs. Bantry.

Josie said slowly:

âIt isnât the sort of placeââ and broke off.

Miss Marple nodded her head gently in agreement with the unfinished sentiment.

âThat,â she murmured, âis what makes it so very interesting.â

âCome now, Miss Marple,â said Colonel Melchett goodhumouredly, âhavenât you got an explanation?â

âOh yes, Iâve got an explanation,â said Miss Marple. âQuite a feasible one. But of course itâs only my own idea. Tommy Bond,â she continued, âand Mrs. Martin, our new schoolmistress. She went to wind up the clock and a frog jumped out.â

Josephine Turner looked puzzled. As they all went out of the room she murmured to Mrs. Bantry: âIs the old lady a bit funny in the head?â

âNot at all,â said Mrs. Bantry indignantly.

Josie said: âSorry; I thought perhaps she thought she was a frog or something.â

Colonel Bantry was just coming in through the side door. Melchett hailed him, and watched Josephine Turner as he introduced them to each other. But there was no sign of interest or recognition in her face. Melchett breathed a sigh of relief. Curse Slack and his insinuations!

In answer to Mrs. Bantryâs questions Josie was pouring out the story of Ruby Keeneâs disappearance.

âFrightfully worrying for you, my dear,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âI was more angry than worried,â said Josie. âYou see, I didnât know then that anything had happened to her.â

âAnd yet,â said Miss Marple, âyou went to the police. Wasnât thatâexcuse meârather premature?â

Josie said eagerly:

âOh, but I didnât. That was Mr. Jeffersonââ

Mrs. Bantry said: âJefferson?â

âYes, heâs an invalid.â

âNot Conway Jefferson? But I know him well. Heâs an old friend of ours. Arthur, listenâConway Jefferson. Heâs staying at the Majestic, and it was he who went to the police! Isnât that a coincidence?â

Josephine Turner said:

âMr. Jefferson was here last summer too.â

âFancy! And we never knew. I havenât seen him for a long time.â She turned to Josie. âHowâhow is he, nowadays?â

Josie considered.

âI think heâs wonderful, reallyâquite wonderful. Considering, I mean. Heâs always cheerfulâalways got a joke.â

âAre the family there with him?â

âMr. Gaskell, you mean? And young Mrs. Jefferson? And Peter? Oh, yes.â

There was something inhibiting Josephine Turnerâs usual attractive frankness of manner. When she spoke of the Jeffersons there was something not quite natural in her voice.

Mrs. Bantry said: âTheyâre both very nice, arenât they? The young ones, I mean.â

Josie said rather uncertainly:

âOh yesâyes, they are. Iâweâyes, they are, really.â

V

âAnd what,â demanded Mrs. Bantry as she looked through the window at the retreating car of the Chief Constable, âdid she mean by that? âThey are, really.â Donât you think, Jane, that thereâs somethingââ

Miss Marple fell upon the words eagerly.

âOh, I doâindeed I do. Itâs quite unmistakable! Her manner changed at once when the Jeffersons were mentioned. She had seemed quite natural up to then.â

âBut what do you think it is, Jane?â

âWell, my dear, you know them. All I feel is that there is something, as you say, about them which is worrying that young woman. Another thing, did you notice that when you asked her if she wasnât anxious about the girl being missing, she said that she was angry! And she looked angryâreally angry! That strikes me as interesting, you know. I have a feelingâperhaps Iâm wrongâthat thatâs her main reaction to the fact of the girlâs death. She didnât care for her, Iâm sure. Sheâs not grieving in any way. But I do think, very definitely, that the thought of that girl, Ruby Keene, makes her angry. And the interesting point isâwhy?â

âWeâll find out!â said Mrs. Bantry. âWeâll go over to Danemouth and stay at the Majesticâyes, Jane, you too. I need a change for my nerves after what has happened here. A few days at the Majesticâthatâs what we need. And youâll meet Conway Jefferson. Heâs a dearâa perfect dear. Itâs the saddest story imaginable. Had a son and daughter, both of whom he loved dearly. They were both married, but they still spent a lot of time at home. His wife, too, was the sweetest woman, and he was devoted to her. They were flying home one year from France and there was an accident. They were all killed: the pilot, Mrs. Jefferson, Rosamund, and Frank. Conway had both legs so badly injured they had to be amputated. And heâs been wonderfulâhis courage, his pluck! He was a very active man and now heâs a helpless cripple, but he never complains. His daughter-in-law lives with himâshe was a widow when Frank Jefferson married her and she had a son by her first marriageâPeter Carmody. They both live with Conway. And Mark Gaskell, Rosamundâs husband, is there too most of the time. The whole thing was the most awful tragedy.â

âAnd now,â said Miss Marple, âthereâs another tragedyââ

Mrs. Bantry said: âOh yesâyesâbut itâs nothing to do with the Jeffersons.â

âIsnât it?â said Miss Marple. âIt was Mr. Jefferson who went to the police.â

âSo he did â¦ You know, Jane, that is curiousâ¦.â

Five

I

Colonel Melchett was facing a much annoyed hotel manager. With him was Superintendent Harper of the Glenshire Police and the inevitable Inspector Slackâthe latter rather disgruntled at the Chief Constableâs wilful usurpation of the case.

Superintendent Harper was inclined to be soothing with the almost tearful Mr. PrestcottâColonel Melchett tended towards a blunt brutality.

âNo good crying over spilt milk,â he said sharply. âThe girlâs deadâstrangled. Youâre lucky that she wasnât strangled in your hotel. This puts the inquiry in a different county and lets your establishment down extremely lightly. But certain inquiries have got to be made, and the sooner we get on with it the better. You can trust us to be discreet and tactful. So I suggest you cut the cackle and come to the horses. Just what exactly do you know about the girl?â

âI knew nothing of herânothing at all. Josie brought her here.â

âJosieâs been here some time?â

âTwo yearsâno, three.â

âAnd you like her?â

âYes, Josieâs a good girlâa nice girl. Competent. She gets on with people, and smoothes over differencesâbridge, you know, is a touchy sort of gameââ Colonel Melchett nodded feelingly. His wife was a keen but an extremely bad bridge player. Mr. Prestcott went on: âJosie was very good at calming down unpleasantnesses. She could handle people wellâsort of bright and firm, if you know what I mean.â

Again Melchett nodded. He knew now what it was Miss Josephine Turner had reminded him of. In spite of the makeup and the smart turnout there was a distinct touch of the nursery governess about her.

âI depend upon her,â went on Mr. Prestcott. His manner became aggrieved. âWhat does she want to go playing about on slippery rocks in that damnâ fool way? Weâve got a nice beach here. Why couldnât she bathe from that? Slipping and falling and breaking her ankle. It wasnât fair on me! I pay her to dance and play bridge and keep people happy and amusedânot to go bathing off rocks and breaking her ankle. Dancers ought to be careful of their anklesânot take risks. I was very annoyed about it. It wasnât fair to the hotel.â

Melchett cut the recital short.

âAnd then she suggested this girlâher cousinâcoming down?â

Prestcott assented grudgingly.

âThatâs right. It sounded quite a good idea. Mind you, I wasnât going to pay anything extra. The girl could have her keep; but as for salary, that would have to be fixed up between her and Josie. Thatâs the way it was arranged. I didnât know anything about the girl.â

âBut she turned out all right?â

âOh yes, there wasnât anything wrong with herânot to look at, anyway. She was very young, of courseârather cheap in style, perhaps, for a place of this kind, but nice mannersâquiet and wellbehaved. Danced well. People liked her.â

âPretty?â

It had been a question hard to answer from a view of the blue swollen face.

Mr. Prestcott considered.

âFair to middling. Bit weaselly, if you know what I mean. Wouldnât have been much without makeup. As it was she managed to look quite attractive.â

âMany young men hanging about after her?â

âI know what youâre trying to get at, sir.â Mr. Prestcott became excited. âI never saw anything. Nothing special. One or two of the boys hung around a bitâbut all in the dayâs work, so to speak. Nothing in the strangling line, Iâd say. She got on well with the older people, tooâhad a kind of prattling way with herâseemed quite a kid, if you know what I mean. It amused them.â

Superintendent Harper said in a deep melancholy voice:

âMr. Jefferson, for instance?â

The manager agreed.

âYes, Mr. Jefferson was the one I had in mind. She used to sit with him and his family a lot. He used to take her out for drives sometimes. Mr. Jeffersonâs very fond of young people and very good to them. I donât want to have any misunderstanding. Mr. Jeffersonâs a cripple; he canât get about muchâonly where his wheelchair will take him. But heâs always keen on seeing young people enjoy themselvesâwatches the tennis and the bathing and all thatâand gives parties for young people here. He likes youthâand thereâs nothing bitter about him as there well might be. A very popular gentleman and, Iâd say, a very fine character.â

Melchett asked:

âAnd he took an interest in Ruby Keene?â

âHer talk amused him, I think.â

âDid his family share his liking for her?â

âThey were always very pleasant to her.â

Harper said:

âAnd it was he who reported the fact of her being missing to the police?â

He contrived to put into the word a significance and a reproach to which the manager instantly responded.

âPut yourself in my place, Mr. Harper. I didnât dream for a minute anything was wrong. Mr. Jefferson came along to my office, storming, and all worked up. The girl hadnât slept in her room. She hadnât appeared in her dance last night. She must have gone for a drive and had an accident, perhaps. The police must be informed at once! Inquiries made! In a state, he was, and quite high-handed. He rang up the police station then and there.â

âWithout consulting Miss Turner?â

âJosie didnât like it much. I could see that. She was very annoyed about the whole thingâannoyed with Ruby, I mean. But what could she say?â

âI think,â said Melchett, âweâd better see Mr. Jefferson. Eh, Harper?â

Superintendent Harper agreed.

II

Mr. Prestcott went up with them to Conway Jeffersonâs suite. It was on the first floor, overlooking the sea. Melchett said carelessly:

âDoes himself pretty well, eh? Rich man?â

âVery well off indeed, I believe. Nothingâs ever stinted when he comes here. Best rooms reservedâfood usually Ã  la carte, expensive winesâbest of everything.â

Melchett nodded.

Mr. Prestcott tapped on the outer door and a womanâs voice said: âCome in.â

The manager entered, the others behind him.

Mr. Prestcottâs manner was apologetic as he spoke to the woman who turned her head at their entrance from her seat by the window.

âI am so sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Jefferson, but these gentlemen areâfrom the police. They are very anxious to have a word with Mr. Jefferson. ErâColonel MelchettâSuperintendent Harper, InspectorâerâSlackâMrs. Jefferson.â

Mrs. Jefferson acknowledged the introduction by bending her head.

A plain woman, was Melchettâs first impression. Then, as a slight smile came to her lips and she spoke, he changed his opinion. She had a singularly charming and sympathetic voice and her eyes, clear hazel eyes, were beautiful. She was quietly but not unbecomingly dressed and was, he judged, about thirty-five years of age.

She said:

âMy father-in-law is asleep. He is not strong at all, and this affair has been a terrible shock to him. We had to have the doctor, and the doctor gave him a sedative. As soon as he wakes he will, I know, want to see you. In the meantime, perhaps I can help you? Wonât you sit down?â

Mr. Prestcott, anxious to escape, said to Colonel Melchett: âWellâerâif thatâs all I can do for you?â and thankfully received permission to depart.

With his closing of the door behind him, the atmosphere took on a mellow and more social quality. Adelaide Jefferson had the power of creating a restful atmosphere. She was a woman who never seemed to say anything remarkable but who succeeded in stimulating other people to talk and setting them at their ease. She struck now the right note when she said:

âThis business has shocked us all very much. We saw quite a lot of the poor girl, you know. It seems quite unbelievable. My father-in-law is terribly upset. He was very fond of Ruby.â

Colonel Melchett said:

âIt was Mr. Jefferson, I understand, who reported her disappearance to the police?â

He wanted to see exactly how she would react to that. There was a flickerâjust a flickerâofâannoyance? concern?âhe could not say what exactly, but there was something, and it seemed to him she had definitely to brace herself, as though to an unpleasant task, before going on.

She said:

âYes, that is so. Being an invalid, he gets easily upset and worried. We tried to persuade him that it was all right, that there was some natural explanation, and that the girl herself would not like the police being notified. He insisted. Wellââshe made a slight gestureââhe was right and we were wrong.â

Melchett asked: âExactly how well did you know Ruby Keene, Mrs. Jefferson?â

She considered.

âItâs difficult to say. My father-in-law is very fond of young people and likes to have them round him. Ruby was a new type to himâhe was amused and interested by her chatter. She sat with us a good deal in the hotel and my father-in-law took her out for drives in the car.â

Her voice was quite noncommittal. Melchett thought to himself: âShe could say more if she chose.â

He said: âWill you tell me what you can of the course of events last night?â

âCertainly, but there is very little that will be useful, Iâm afraid. After dinner Ruby came and sat with us in the lounge. She remained even after the dancing had started. We had arranged to play bridge later, but we were waiting for Mark, that is Mark Gaskell, my brother-in-lawâhe married Mr. Jeffersonâs daughter, you knowâwho had some important letters to write, and also for Josie. She was going to make a fourth with us.â

âDid that often happen?â

âQuite frequently. Sheâs a first-class player, of course, and very nice. My father-in-law is a keen bridge player and whenever possible liked to get hold of Josie to make the fourth instead of an outsider. Naturally, as she has to arrange the fours, she canât always play with us, but she does whenever she can, and asââher eyes smiled a littleââmy father-in-law spends a lot of money in the hotel, the management are quite pleased for Josie to favour us.â

Melchett asked:

âYou like Josie?â

âYes, I do. Sheâs always good-humoured and cheerful, works hard and seems to enjoy her job. Sheâs shrewd, though not well educated, andâwellânever pretends about anything. Sheâs natural and unaffected.â

âPlease go on, Mrs. Jefferson.â

âAs I say, Josie had to get her bridge fours arranged and Mark was writing, so Ruby sat and talked with us a little longer than usual. Then Josie came along, and Ruby went off to do her first solo dance with Raymondâheâs the dance and tennis professional. She came back to us afterwards just as Mark joined us. Then she went off to dance with a young man and we four started our bridge.â

She stopped, and made a slight insignificant gesture of helplessness.

âAnd thatâs all I know! I just caught a glimpse of her once dancing, but bridge is an absorbing game and I hardly glanced through the glass partition at the ballroom. Then, at midnight, Raymond came along to Josie very upset and asked where Ruby was. Josie, naturally, tried to shut him up butââ

Superintendent Harper interrupted. He said in his quiet voice: âWhy ânaturally,â Mrs. Jefferson?â

âWellââshe hesitated, looked, Melchett thought, a little put outââJosie didnât want the girlâs absence made too much of. She considered herself responsible for her in a way. She said Ruby was probably up in her bedroom, said the girl had talked about having a headache earlierâI donât think that was true, by the way; Josie just said it by way of excuse. Raymond went off and telephoned up to Rubyâs room, but apparently there was no answer, and he came back in rather a stateâtemperamental, you know. Josie went off with him and tried to soothe him down, and in the end she danced with him instead of Ruby. Rather plucky of her, because you could see afterwards it had hurt her ankle. She came back to us when the dance was over and tried to calm down Mr. Jefferson. He had got worked up by then. We persuaded him in the end to go to bed, told him Ruby had probably gone for a spin in a car and that theyâd had a puncture. He went to bed worried, and this morning he began to agitate at once.â She paused. âThe rest you know.â

âThank you, Mrs. Jefferson. Now Iâm going to ask you if youâve any idea who could have done this thing.â

She said immediately: âNo idea whatever. Iâm afraid I canât help you in the slightest.â

He pressed her. âThe girl never said anything? Nothing about jealousy? About some man she was afraid of? Or intimate with?â

Adelaide Jefferson shook her head to each query.

There seemed nothing more that she could tell them.

The Superintendent suggested that they should interview young George Bartlett and return to see Mr. Jefferson later. Colonel Melchett agreed, and the three men went out, Mrs. Jefferson promising to send word as soon as Mr. Jefferson was awake.

âNice woman,â said the Colonel, as they closed the door behind them.

âA very nice lady indeed,â said Superintendent Harper.

III

George Bartlett was a thin, lanky youth with a prominent Adamâs apple and an immense difficulty in saying what he meant. He was in such a state of dither that it was hard to get a calm statement from him.

âI say, it is awful, isnât it? Sort of thing one reads about in the Sunday papersâbut one doesnât feel it really happens, donât you know?â

âUnfortunately there is no doubt about it, Mr. Bartlett,â said the Superintendent.

âNo, no, of course not. But it seems so rum somehow. And miles from here and everythingâin some country house, wasnât it? Awfully county and all that. Created a bit of a stir in the neighbourhoodâwhat?â

Colonel Melchett took charge.

âHow well did you know the dead girl, Mr. Bartlett?â

George Bartlett looked alarmed.

âOh, n-n-n-ot well at all, s-s-sir. No, hardly at allâif you know what I mean. Danced with her once or twiceâpassed the time of dayâbit of tennisâyou know.â

âYou were, I think, the last person to see her alive last night?â

âI suppose I wasâdoesnât it sound awful? I mean, she was perfectly all right when I saw herâabsolutely.â

âWhat time was that, Mr. Bartlett?â

âWell, you know, I never know about timeâwasnât very late, if you know what I mean.â

âYou danced with her?â

âYesâas a matter of factâwell, yes, I did. Early on in the evening, though. Tell you what, it was just after her exhibition dance with the pro fellow. Must have been ten, half-past, eleven, I donât know.â

âNever mind the time. We can fix that. Please tell us exactly what happened.â

âWell, we danced, donât you know. Not that Iâm much of a dancer.â

âHow you dance is not really relevant, Mr. Bartlett.â

George Bartlett cast an alarmed eye on the Colonel and stammered:

âNoâerân-n-n-o, I suppose it isnât. Well, as I say, we danced, round and round, and I talked, but Ruby didnât say very much and she yawned a bit. As I say, I donât dance awfully well, and so girlsâwellâinclined to give it a miss, if you know what I mean. She said she had a headacheâI know where I get off, so I said righty ho, and that was that.â

âWhat was the last you saw of her?â

âShe went off upstairs.â

âShe said nothing about meeting anyone? Or going for a drive? Orâorâhaving a date?â The Colonel used the colloquial expression with a slight effort.

Bartlett shook his head.

âNot to me.â He looked rather mournful. âJust gave me the push.â

âWhat was her manner? Did she seem anxious, abstracted, anything on her mind?â

George Bartlett considered. Then he shook his head.

âSeemed a bit bored. Yawned, as I said. Nothing more.â

Colonel Melchett said:

âAnd what did you do, Mr. Bartlett?â

âEh?â

âWhat did you do when Ruby Keene left you?â

George Bartlett gaped at him.

âLetâs see nowâwhat did I do?â

âWeâre waiting for you to tell us.â

âYes, yesâof course. Jolly difficult, remembering things, what? Let me see. Shouldnât be surprised if I went into the bar and had a drink.â

âDid you go into the bar and have a drink?â

âThatâs just it. I did have a drink. Donât think it was just then. Have an idea I wandered out, donât you know? Bit of air. Rather stuffy for September. Very nice outside. Yes, thatâs it. I strolled around a bit, then I came in and had a drink and then I strolled back to the ballroom. Wasnât much doing. Noticed whatâs-her-nameâJosieâwas dancing again. With the tennis fellow. Sheâd been on the sick listâtwisted ankle or something.â

âThat fixes the time of your return at midnight. Do you intend us to understand that you spent over an hour walking about outside?â

âWell, I had a drink, you know. I wasâwell, I was thinking of things.â

This statement received more credulity than any other.

Colonel Melchett said sharply:

âWhat were you thinking about?â

âOh, I donât know. Things,â said Mr. Bartlett vaguely.

âYou have a car, Mr. Bartlett?â

âOh, yes, Iâve got a car.â

âWhere was it, in the hotel garage?â

âNo, it was in the courtyard, as a matter of fact. Thought I might go for a spin, you see.â

âPerhaps you did go for a spin?â

âNoâno, I didnât. Swear I didnât.â

âYou didnât, for instance, take Miss Keene for a spin?â

âOh, I say. Look here, what are you getting at? I didnâtâI swear I didnât. Really, now.â

âThank you, Mr. Bartlett, I donât think there is anything more at present. At present,â repeated Colonel Melchett with a good deal of emphasis on the words.

They left Mr. Bartlett looking after them with a ludicrous expression of alarm on his unintellectual face.

âBrainless young ass,â said Colonel Melchett. âOr isnât he?â

Superintendent Harper shook his head.

âWeâve got a long way to go,â he said.

Six

I

Neither the night porter nor the barman proved helpful. The night porter remembered ringing up to Miss Keeneâs room just after midnight and getting no reply. He had not noticed Mr. Bartlett leaving or entering the hotel. A lot of gentlemen and ladies were strolling in and out, the night being fine. And there were side doors off the corridor as well as the one in the main hall. He was fairly certain Miss Keene had not gone out by the main door, but if she had come down from her room, which was on the first floor, there was a staircase next to it and a door out at the end of the corridor, leading on to the side terrace. She could have gone out of that unseen easily enough. It was not locked until the dancing was over at two oâclock.

The barman remembered Mr. Bartlett being in the bar the preceding evening but could not say when. Somewhere about the middle of the evening, he thought. Mr. Bartlett had sat against the wall and was looking rather melancholy. He did not know how long he was there. There were a lot of outside guests coming and going in the bar. He had noticed Mr. Bartlett but he couldnât fix the time in any way.

II

As they left the bar, they were accosted by a small boy of about nine years old. He burst immediately into excited speech.

âI say, are you the detectives? Iâm Peter Carmody. It was my grandfather, Mr. Jefferson, who rang up the police about Ruby. Are you from Scotland Yard? You donât mind my speaking to you, do you?â

Colonel Melchett looked as though he were about to return a short answer, but Superintendent Harper intervened. He spoke benignly and heartily.

âThatâs all right, my son. Naturally interests you, I expect?â

âYou bet it does. Do you like detective stories? I do. I read them all, and Iâve got autographs from Dorothy Sayers and Agatha Christie and Dickson Carr and H. C. Bailey. Will the murder be in the papers?â

âItâll be in the papers all right,â said Superintendent Harper grimly.

âYou see, Iâm going back to school next week and I shall tell them all that I knew herâreally knew her well.â

âWhat did you think of her, eh?â

Peter considered.

âWell, I didnât like her much. I think she was rather a stupid sort of girl. Mum and Uncle Mark didnât like her much either. Only Grandfather. Grandfather wants to see you, by the way. Edwards is looking for you.â

Superintendent Harper murmured encouragingly:

âSo your mother and your Uncle Mark didnât like Ruby Keene much? Why was that?â

âOh, I donât know. She was always butting in. And they didnât like Grandfather making such a fuss of her. I expect,â said Peter cheerfully, âthat theyâre glad sheâs dead.â

Superintendent Harper looked at him thoughtfully. He said: âDid you hear themâerâsay so?â

âWell, not exactly. Uncle Mark said: âWell, itâs one way out, anyway,â and Mums said: âYes, but such a horrible one,â and Uncle Mark said it was no good being hypocritical.â

The men exchanged glances. At that moment a respectable, clean-shaven man, neatly dressed in blue serge, came up to them.

âExcuse me, gentlemen. I am Mr. Jeffersonâs valet. He is awake now and sent me to find you, as he is very anxious to see you.â

Once more they went up to Conway Jeffersonâs suite. In the sitting room Adelaide Jefferson was talking to a tall, restless man who was prowling nervously about the room. He swung round sharply to view the newcomers.

âOh, yes. Glad youâve come. My father-in-lawâs been asking for you. Heâs awake now. Keep him as calm as you can, wonât you? His healthâs not too good. Itâs a wonder, really, that this shock didnât do for him.â

Harper said:

âIâd no idea his health was as bad as that.â

âHe doesnât know it himself,â said Mark Gaskell. âItâs his heart, you see. The doctor warned Addie that he mustnât be overexcited or startled. He more or less hinted that the end might come any time, didnât he, Addie?â

Mrs. Jefferson nodded. She said:

âItâs incredible that heâs rallied the way he has.â

Melchett said dryly:

âMurder isnât exactly a soothing incident. Weâll be as careful as we can.â

He was sizing up Mark Gaskell as he spoke. He didnât much care for the fellow. A bold, unscrupulous, hawk-like face. One of those men who usually get their own way and whom women frequently admire.

âBut not the sort of fellow Iâd trust,â the Colonel thought to himself.

Unscrupulousâthat was the word for him.

The sort of fellow who wouldnât stick at anythingâ¦.

III

In the big bedroom overlooking the sea, Conway Jefferson was sitting in his wheeled chair by the window.

No sooner were you in the room with him than you felt the power and magnetism of the man. It was as though the injuries which had left him a cripple had resulted in concentrating the vitality of his shattered body into a narrower and more intense focus.

He had a fine head, the red of the hair slightly grizzled. The face was rugged and powerful, deeply suntanned, and the eyes were a startling blue. There was no sign of illness or feebleness about him. The deep lines on his face were the lines of suffering, not the lines of weakness. Here was a man who would never rail against fate but accept it and pass on to victory.

He said: âIâm glad youâve come.â His quick eyes took them in. He said to Melchett: âYouâre the Chief Constable of Radfordshire? Right. And youâre Superintendent Harper? Sit down. Cigarettes on the table beside you.â

They thanked him and sat down. Melchett said:

âI understand, Mr. Jefferson, that you were interested in the dead girl?â

A quick, twisted smile flashed across the lined face.

âYesâtheyâll all have told you that! Well, itâs no secret. How much has my family said to you?â

He looked quickly from one to the other as he asked the question. It was Melchett who answered.

âMrs. Jefferson told us very little beyond the fact that the girlâs chatter amused you and that she was by way of being a protÃ©gÃ©e. We have only exchanged half a dozen words with Mr. Gaskell.â

Conway Jefferson smiled.

âAddieâs a discreet creature, bless her. Mark would probably have been more outspoken. I think, Melchett, that Iâd better tell you some facts rather fully. Itâs important, in order that you should understand my attitude. And, to begin with, itâs necessary that I go back to the big tragedy of my life. Eight years ago I lost my wife, my son, and my daughter in an aeroplane accident. Since then Iâve been like a man whoâs lost half himselfâand Iâm not speaking of my physical plight! I was a family man. My daughter-in-law and my son-in-law have been very good to me. Theyâve done all they can to take the place of my flesh and blood. But Iâve realizedâespecially of late, that they have, after all, their own lives to live.

âSo you must understand that, essentially, Iâm a lonely man. I like young people. I enjoy them. Once or twice Iâve played with the idea of adopting some girl or boy. During this last month I got very friendly with the child whoâs been killed. She was absolutely naturalâcompletely naÃ¯ve. She chattered on about her life and her experiencesâin pantomime, with touring companies, with Mum and Dad as a child in cheap lodgings. Such a different life from any Iâve known! Never complaining, never seeing it as sordid. Just a natural, uncomplaining, hardworking child, unspoilt and charming. Not a lady, perhaps, but, thank God, neither vulgar norâabominable wordââlady-like.â

âI got more and more fond of Ruby. I decided, gentlemen, to adopt her legally. She would becomeâby lawâmy daughter. That, I hope, explains my concern for her and the steps I took when I heard of her unaccountable disappearance.â

There was a pause. Then Superintendent Harper, his unemotional voice robbing the question of any offence, asked: âMay I ask what your son-in-law and daughter-in-law said to that?â

Jeffersonâs answer came back quickly:

âWhat could they say? They didnât, perhaps, like it very much. Itâs the sort of thing that arouses prejudice. But they behaved very wellâyes, very well. Itâs not as though, you see, they were dependent on me. When my son Frank married I turned over half my worldly goods to him then and there. I believe in that. Donât let your children wait until youâre dead. They want the money when theyâre young, not when theyâre middle-aged. In the same way when my daughter Rosamund insisted on marrying a poor man, I settled a big sum of money on her. That sum passed to him at her death. So, you see, that simplified the matter from the financial angle.â

âI see, Mr. Jefferson,â said Superintendent Harper.

But there was a certain reserve in his tone. Conway Jefferson pounced upon it.

âBut you donât agree, eh?â

âItâs not for me to say, sir, but families, in my experience, donât always act reasonably.â

âI dare say youâre right, Superintendent, but you must remember that Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson arenât, strictly speaking, my family. Theyâre not blood relations.â

âThat, of course, makes a difference,â admitted the Superintendent.

For a moment Conway Jeffersonâs eyes twinkled. He said: âThatâs not to say that they didnât think me an old fool! That would be the average personâs reaction. But I wasnât being a fool. I know character. With education and polishing, Ruby Keene could have taken her place anywhere.â

Melchett said:

âIâm afraid weâre being rather impertinent and inquisitive, but itâs important that we should get at all the facts. You proposed to make full provision for the girlâthat is, settle money upon her, but you hadnât already done so?â

Jefferson said:

âI understand what youâre driving atâthe possibility of someoneâs benefiting by the girlâs death? But nobody could. The necessary formalities for legal adoption were under way, but they hadnât yet been completed.â

Melchett said slowly:

âThen, if anything happened to youâ?â

He left the sentence unfinished, as a query. Conway Jefferson was quick to respond.

âNothingâs likely to happen to me! Iâm a cripple, but Iâm not an invalid. Although doctors do like to pull long faces and give advice about not overdoing things. Not overdoing things! Iâm as strong as a horse! Still, Iâm quite aware of the fatalities of lifeâmy God, Iâve good reason to be! Sudden death comes to the strongest manâespecially in these days of road casualties. But Iâd provided for that. I made a new will about ten days ago.â

âYes?â Superintendent Harper leaned forward.

âI left the sum of fifty thousand pounds to be held in trust for Ruby Keene until she was twenty-five, when she would come into the principal.â

Superintendent Harperâs eyes opened. So did Colonel Melchettâs. Harper said in an almost awed voice:

âThatâs a very large sum of money, Mr. Jefferson.â

âIn these days, yes, it is.â

âAnd you were leaving it to a girl you had only known a few weeks?â

Anger flashed into the vivid blue eyes.

âMust I go on repeating the same thing over and over again? Iâve no flesh and blood of my ownâno nieces or nephews or distant cousins, even! I might have left it to charity. I prefer to leave it to an individual.â He laughed. âCinderella turned into a princess overnight! A fairy-godfather instead of a fairy-godmother. Why not? Itâs my money. I made it.â

Colonel Melchett asked: âAny other bequests?â

âA small legacy to Edwards, my valetâand the remainder to Mark and Addie in equal shares.â

âWouldâexcuse meâthe residue amount to a large sum?â

âProbably not. Itâs difficult to say exactly, investments fluctuate all the time. The sum involved, after death duties and expenses had been paid, would probably have come to something between five and ten thousand pounds net.â

âI see.â

âAnd you neednât think I was treating them shabbily. As I said, I divided up my estate at the time my children married. I left myself, actually, a very small sum. But afterâafter the tragedyâI wanted something to occupy my mind. I flung myself into business. At my house in London I had a private line put in connecting my bedroom with my office. I worked hardâit helped me not to think, and it made me feel that myâmy mutilation had not vanquished me. I threw myself into workââhis voice took on a deeper note, he spoke more to himself than to his audienceââand, by some subtle irony, everything I did prospered! My wildest speculations succeeded. If I gambled, I won. Everything I touched turned to gold. Fateâs ironic way of righting the balance, I suppose.â

The lines of suffering stood out on his face again.

Recollecting himself, he smiled wryly at them.

âSo you see, the sum of money I left Ruby was indisputably mine to do with as my fancy dictated.â

Melchett said quickly:

âUndoubtedly, my dear fellow, we are not questioning that for a moment.â

Conway Jefferson said: âGood. Now I want to ask some questions in my turn, if I may. I want to hearâmore about this terrible business. All I know is that sheâthat little Ruby was found strangled in a house some twenty miles from here.â

âThat is correct. At Gossington Hall.â

Jefferson frowned.

âGossington? But thatâsââ

âColonel Bantryâs house.â

âBantry! Arthur Bantry? But I know him. Know him and his wife! Met them abroad some years ago. I didnât realize they lived in this part of the world. Why, itâsââ

He broke off. Superintendent Harper slipped in smoothly:

âColonel Bantry was dining in the hotel here Tuesday of last week. You didnât see him?â

âTuesday? Tuesday? No, we were back late. Went over to Harden Head and had dinner on the way back.â

Melchett said:

âRuby Keene never mentioned the Bantrys to you?â

Jefferson shook his head.

âNever. Donât believe she knew them. Sure she didnât. She didnât know anybody but theatrical folk and that sort of thing.â He paused and then asked abruptly:

âWhatâs Bantry got to say about it?â

âHe canât account for it in the least. He was out at a Conservative meeting last night. The body was discovered this morning. He says heâs never seen the girl in his life.â

Jefferson nodded. He said:

âIt certainly seems fantastic.â

Superintendent Harper cleared his throat. He said:

âHave you any idea at all, sir, who can have done this?â

âGood God, I wish I had!â The veins stood out on his forehead. âItâs incredible, unimaginable! Iâd say it couldnât have happened, if it hadnât happened!â

âThereâs no friend of hersâfrom her past lifeâno man hanging aboutâor threatening her?â

âIâm sure there isnât. Sheâd have told me if so. Sheâs never had a regular âboyfriend.â She told me so herself.â

Superintendent Harper thought:

âYes, I dare say thatâs what she told you! But thatâs as may be!â

Conway Jefferson went on:

âJosie would know better than anyone if there had been some man hanging about Ruby or pestering her. Canât she help?â

âShe says not.â

Jefferson said, frowning:

âI canât help feeling it must be the work of some maniacâthe brutality of the methodâbreaking into a country houseâthe whole thing so unconnected and senseless. There are men of that type, men outwardly sane, but who decoy girlsâsometimes childrenâaway and kill them. Sexual crimes really, I suppose.â

Harper said:

âOh, yes, there are such cases, but weâve no knowledge of anyone of that kind operating in this neighbourhood.â

Jefferson went on:

âIâve thought over all the various men Iâve seen with Ruby. Guests here and outsidersâmen sheâd danced with. They all seem harmless enoughâthe usual type. She had no special friend of any kind.â

Superintendent Harperâs face remained quite impassive, but unseen by Conway Jefferson there was still a speculative glint in his eye.

It was quite possible, he thought, that Ruby Keene might have had a special friend even though Conway Jefferson did not know about it.

He said nothing, however. The Chief Constable gave him a glance of inquiry and then rose to his feet. He said:

âThank you, Mr. Jefferson. Thatâs all we need for the present.â

Jefferson said:

âYouâll keep me informed of your progress?â

âYes, yes, weâll keep in touch with you.â

The two men went out.

Conway Jefferson leaned back in his chair.

His eyelids came down and veiled the fierce blue of his eyes. He looked suddenly a very tired man.

Then, after a minute or two, the lids flickered. He called: âEdwards!â

From the next room the valet appeared promptly. Edwards knew his master as no one else did. Others, even his nearest, knew only his strength. Edwards knew his weakness. He had seen Conway Jefferson tired, discouraged, weary of life, momentarily defeated by infirmity and loneliness.

âYes, sir?â

Jefferson said:

âGet on to Sir Henry Clithering. Heâs at Melborne Abbas. Ask him, from me, to get here today if he can, instead of tomorrow. Tell him itâs urgent.â

Seven

I

When they were outside Jeffersonâs door, Superintendent Harper said:

âWell, for what itâs worth, weâve got a motive, sir.â

âHâm,â said Melchett. âFifty thousand pounds, eh?â

âYes, sir. Murderâs been done for a good deal less than that.â

âYes, butââ

Colonel Melchett left the sentence unfinished. Harper, however, understood him.

âYou donât think itâs likely in this case? Well, I donât either, as far as that goes. But itâs got to be gone into all the same.â

âOh, of course.â

Harper went on:

âIf, as Mr. Jefferson says, Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson are already well provided for and in receipt of a comfortable income, well, itâs not likely theyâd set out to do a brutal murder.â

âQuite so. Their financial standing will have to be investigated, of course. Canât say I like the appearance of Gaskell muchâlooks a sharp, unscrupulous sort of fellowâbut thatâs a long way from making him out a murderer.â

âOh, yes, sir, as I say, I donât think itâs likely to be either of them, and from what Josie said I donât see how it would have been humanly possible. They were both playing bridge from twenty minutes to eleven until midnight. No, to my mind thereâs another possibility much more likely.â

Melchett said: âBoy friend of Ruby Keeneâs?â

âThatâs it, sir. Some disgruntled young fellowânot too strong in the head, perhaps. Someone, Iâd say, she knew before she came here. This adoption scheme, if he got wise to it, may just have put the lid on things. He saw himself losing her, saw her being removed to a different sphere of life altogether, and he went mad and blind with rage. He got her to come out and meet him last night, had a row with her over it, lost his head completely and did her in.â

âAnd how did she come to be in Bantryâs library?â

âI think thatâs feasible. They were out, say, in his car at the time. He came to himself, realized what heâd done, and his first thought was how to get rid of the body. Say they were near the gates of a big house at the time. The idea comes to him that if sheâs found there the hue and cry will centre round the house and its occupants and will leave him comfortably out of it. Sheâs a little bit of a thing. He could easily carry her. Heâs got a chisel in the car. He forces a window and plops her down on the hearthrug. Being a strangling case, thereâs no blood or mess to give him away in the car. See what I mean, sir?â

âOh, yes, Harper, itâs all perfectly possible. But thereâs still one thing to be done. Cherchez lâhomme.â

âWhat? Oh, very good, sir.â

Superintendent Harper tactfully applauded his superiorâs joke, although, owing to the excellence of Colonel Melchettâs French accent he almost missed the sense of the words.

II

âOhâerâI sayâerâc-could I speak to you a minute?â It was George Bartlett who thus waylaid the two men. Colonel Melchett, who was not attracted to Mr. Bartlett and who was anxious to see how Slack had got on with the investigation of the girlâs room and the questioning of the chambermaids, barked sharply:

âWell, what is itâwhat is it?â

Young Mr. Bartlett retreated a step or two, opening and shutting his mouth and giving an unconscious imitation of a fish in a tank.

âWellâerâprobably isnât important, donât you knowâthought I ought to tell you. Matter of fact, canât find my car.â

âWhat do you mean, canât find your car?â

Stammering a good deal, Mr. Bartlett explained that what he meant was that he couldnât find his car.

Superintendent Harper said:

âDo you mean itâs been stolen?â

George Bartlett turned gratefully to the more placid voice.

âWell, thatâs just it, you know. I mean, one canât tell, can one? I mean someone may just have buzzed off in it, not meaning any harm, if you know what I mean.â

âWhen did you last see it, Mr. Bartlett?â

âWell, I was tryinâ to remember. Funny how difficult it is to remember anything, isnât it?â

Colonel Melchett said coldly:

âNot, I should think, to a normal intelligence. I understood you to say just now that it was in the courtyard of the hotel last nightââ

Mr. Bartlett was bold enough to interrupt. He said:

âThatâs just itâwas it?â

âWhat do you mean by âwas itâ? You said it was.â

âWellâI mean I thought it was. I meanâwell, I didnât go out and look, donât you see?â

Colonel Melchett sighed. He summoned all his patience. He said:

âLetâs get this quite clear. When was the last time you sawâactually saw your car? What make is it, by the way?â

âMinoan 14.â

âAnd you last saw itâwhen?â

George Bartlettâs Adamâs apple jerked convulsively up and down.

âBeen trying to think. Had it before lunch yesterday. Was going for a spin in the afternoon. But somehow, you know how it is, went to sleep instead. Then, after tea, had a game of squash and all that, and a bathe afterwards.â

âAnd the car was then in the courtyard of the hotel?â

âSuppose so. I mean, thatâs where Iâd put it. Thought, you see, Iâd take someone for a spin. After dinner, I mean. But it wasnât my lucky evening. Nothing doing. Never took the old bus out after all.â

Harper said:

âBut, as far as you knew, the car was still in the courtyard?â

âWell, naturally. I mean, Iâd put it thereâwhat?â

âWould you have noticed if it had not been there?â

Mr. Bartlett shook his head.

âDonât think so, you know. Lots of cars going and coming and all that. Plenty of Minoans.â

Superintendent Harper nodded. He had just cast a casual glance out of the window. There were at that moment no less than eight Minoan 14s in the courtyardâit was the popular cheap car of the year.

âArenât you in the habit of putting your car away at night?â asked Colonel Melchett.

âDonât usually bother,â said Mr. Bartlett. âFine weather and all that, you know. Such a fag putting a car away in a garage.â

Glancing at Colonel Melchett, Superintendent Harper said: âIâll join you upstairs, sir. Iâll just get hold of Sergeant Higgins and he can take down particulars from Mr. Bartlett.â

âRight, Harper.â

Mr. Bartlett murmured wistfully:

âThought I ought to let you know, you know. Might be important, what?â

III

Mr. Prestcott had supplied his additional dancer with board and lodging. Whatever the board, the lodging was the poorest the hotel possessed.

Josephine Turner and Ruby Keene had occupied rooms at the extreme end of a mean and dingy little corridor. The rooms were small, faced north on to a portion of the cliff that backed the hotel, and were furnished with the odds and ends of suites that had once, some thirty years ago, represented luxury and magnificence in the best suites. Now, when the hotel had been modernized and the bedrooms supplied with built-in receptacles for clothes, these large Victorian oak and mahogany wardrobes were relegated to those rooms occupied by the hotelâs resident staff, or given to guests in the height of the season when all the rest of the hotel was full.

As Melchett saw at once, the position of Ruby Keeneâs room was ideal for the purpose of leaving the hotel without being observed, and was particularly unfortunate from the point of view of throwing light on the circumstances of that departure.

At the end of the corridor was a small staircase which led down to an equally obscure corridor on the ground floor. Here there was a glass door which led out on to the side terrace of the hotel, an unfrequented terrace with no view. You could go from it to the main terrace in front, or you could go down a winding path and come out in a lane that eventually rejoined the cliff road farther along. Its surface being bad, it was seldom used.

Inspector Slack had been busy harrying chambermaids and examining Rubyâs room for clues. He had been lucky enough to find the room exactly as it had been left the night before.

Ruby Keene had not been in the habit of rising early. Her usual procedure, Slack discovered, was to sleep until about ten or half-past and then ring for breakfast. Consequently, since Conway Jefferson had begun his representations to the manager very early, the police had taken charge of things before the chambermaids had touched the room. They had actually not been down that corridor at all. The other rooms there, at this season of the year, were only opened and dusted once a week.

âThatâs all to the good as far as it goes,â Slack explained gloomily. âIt means that if there were anything to find weâd find it, but there isnât anything.â

The Glenshire police had already been over the room for fingerprints, but there were none unaccounted for. Rubyâs own, Josieâs, and the two chambermaidsâone on the morning and one on the evening shift. There were also a couple of prints made by Raymond Starr, but these were accounted for by his story that he had come up with Josie to look for Ruby when she did not appear for the midnight exhibition dance.

There had been a heap of letters and general rubbish in the pigeonholes of the massive mahogany desk in the corner. Slack had just been carefully sorting through them. But he had found nothing of a suggestive nature. Bills, receipts, theatre programmes, cinema stubs, newspaper cuttings, beauty hints torn from magazines. Of the letters there were some from âLil,â apparently a friend from the Palais de Danse, recounting various affairs and gossip, saying they âmissed Rube a lot. Mr. Findeison asked after you ever so often! Quite put out, he is! Young Reg has taken up with May now youâve gone. Barny asks after you now and then. Things going much as usual. Old Grouser still as mean as ever with us girls. He ticked off Ada for going about with a fellow.â

Slack had carefully noted all the names mentioned. Inquiries would be madeâand it was possible some useful information might come to light. To this Colonel Melchett agreed; so did Superintendent Harper, who had joined them. Otherwise the room had little to yield in the way of information.

Across a chair in the middle of the room was the foamy pink dance frock Ruby had worn early in the evening with a pair of pink satin high-heeled shoes kicked off carelessly on the floor. Two sheer silk stockings were rolled into a ball and flung down. One had a ladder in it. Melchett recalled that the dead girl had had bare feet and legs. This, Slack learned, was her custom. She used makeup on her legs instead of stockings and only sometimes wore stockings for dancing, by this means saving expense. The wardrobe door was open and showed a variety of rather flashy evening dresses and a row of shoes below. There was some soiled underwear in the clothes-basket, some nail parings, soiled face-cleaning tissue and bits of cotton wool stained with rouge and nail-polish in the wastepaper basketâin fact, nothing out of the ordinary! The facts seemed plain to read. Ruby Keene had hurried upstairs, changed her clothes and hurried off againâwhere?

Josephine Turner, who might be supposed to know most of Rubyâs life and friends, had proved unable to help. But this, as Inspector Slack pointed out, might be natural.

âIf what you tell me is true, sirâabout this adoption business, I meanâwell, Josie would be all for Ruby breaking with any old friends she might have and who might queer the pitch, so to speak. As I see it, this invalid gentleman gets all worked up about Ruby Keene being such a sweet, innocent, childish little piece of goods. Now, supposing Rubyâs got a tough boy friendâthat wonât go down so well with the old boy. So itâs Rubyâs business to keep that dark. Josie doesnât know much about the girl anywayânot about her friends and all that. But one thing she wouldnât stand forâRubyâs messing up things by carrying on with some undesirable fellow. So it stands to reason that Ruby (who, as I see it, was a sly little piece!) would keep very dark about seeing any old friend. She wouldnât let on to Josie anything about itâotherwise Josie would say: âNo, you donât, my girl.â But you know what girls areâespecially young onesâalways ready to make a fool of themselves over a tough guy. Ruby wants to see him. He comes down here, cuts up rough about the whole business, and wrings the girlâs neck.â

âI expect youâre right, Slack,â said Colonel Melchett, disguising his usual repugnance for the unpleasant way Slack had of putting things. âIf so, we ought to be able to discover this tough friendâs identity fairly easily.â

âYou leave it to me, sir,â said Slack with his usual confidence. âIâll get hold of this âLilâ girl at that Palais de Danse place and turn her right inside out. Weâll soon get at the truth.â

Colonel Melchett wondered if they would. Slackâs energy and activity always made him feel tired.

âThereâs one other person you might be able to get a tip from, sir,â went on Slack, âand thatâs the dance and tennis pro fellow. He must have seen a lot of her and heâd know more than Josie would. Likely enough sheâd loosen her tongue a bit to him.â

âI have already discussed that point with Superintendent Harper.â

âGood, sir. Iâve done the chambermaids pretty thoroughly! They donât know a thing. Looked down on these two, as far as I can make out. Scamped the service as much as they dared. Chambermaid was in here last at seven oâclock last night, when she turned down the bed and drew the curtains and cleared up a bit. Thereâs a bathroom next door, if youâd like to see it?â

The bathroom was situated between Rubyâs room and the slightly larger room occupied by Josie. It was illuminating. Colonel Melchett silently marvelled at the amount of aids to beauty that women could use. Rows of jars of face cream, cleansing cream, vanishing cream, skin-feeding cream! Boxes of different shades of powder. An untidy heap of every variety of lipstick. Hair lotions and âbrighteningâ applications. Eyelash black, mascara, blue stain for under the eyes, at least twelve different shades of nail varnish, face tissues, bits of cotton wool, dirty powder-puffs. Bottles of lotionsâastringent, tonic, soothing, etc.

âDo you mean to say,â he murmured feebly, âthat women use all these things?â

Inspector Slack, who always knew everything, kindly enlightened him.

âIn private life, sir, so to speak, a lady keeps to one or two distinct shades, one for evening, one for day. They know what suits them and they keep to it. But these professional girls, they have to ring a change, so to speak. They do exhibition dances, and one night itâs a tango and the next a crinoline Victorian dance and then a kind of Apache dance and then just ordinary ballroom, and, of course, the makeup varies a good bit.â

âGood lord!â said the Colonel. âNo wonder the people who turn out these creams and messes make a fortune.â

âEasy money, thatâs what it is,â said Slack. âEasy money. Got to spend a bit in advertisement, of course.â

Colonel Melchett jerked his mind away from the fascinating and age-long problem of womanâs adornments. He said to Harper, who had just joined them:

âThereâs still this dancing fellow. Your pigeon, Superintendent?â

âI suppose so, sir.â

As they went downstairs Harper asked:

âWhat did you think of Mr. Bartlettâs story, sir?â

âAbout his car? I think, Harper, that that young man wants watching. Itâs a fishy story. Supposing that he did take Ruby Keene out in that car last night, after all?â

IV

Superintendent Harperâs manner was slow and pleasant and absolutely noncommittal. These cases where the police of two counties had to collaborate were always difficult. He liked Colonel Melchett and considered him an able Chief Constable, but he was nevertheless glad to be tackling the present interview by himself. Never do too much at once, was Superintendent Harperâs rule. Bare routine inquiry for the first time. That left the persons you were interviewing relieved and predisposed them to be more unguarded in the next interview you had with them.

Harper already knew Raymond Starr by sight. A fine-looking specimen, tall, lithe, and good-looking, with very white teeth in a deeply-bronzed face. He was dark and graceful. He had a pleasant, friendly manner and was very popular in the hotel.

âIâm afraid I canât help you much, Superintendent. I knew Ruby quite well, of course. Sheâd been here over a month and we had practised our dances together and all that. But thereâs really very little to say. She was quite a pleasant and rather stupid girl.â

âItâs her friendships weâre particularly anxious to know about. Her friendships with men.â

âSo I suppose. Well, I donât know anything! Sheâd got a few young men in tow in the hotel, but nothing special. You see, she was nearly always monopolized by the Jefferson family.â

âYes, the Jefferson family.â Harper paused meditatively. He shot a shrewd glance at the young man. âWhat did you think of that business, Mr. Starr?â

Raymond Starr said coolly: âWhat business?â

Harper said: âDid you know that Mr. Jefferson was proposing to adopt Ruby Keene legally?â

This appeared to be news to Starr. He pursed up his lips and whistled. He said:

âThe clever little devil! Oh, well, thereâs no fool like an old fool.â

âThatâs how it strikes you, is it?â

âWellâwhat else can one say? If the old boy wanted to adopt someone, why didnât he pick upon a girl of his own class?â

âRuby Keene never mentioned the matter to you?â

âNo, she didnât. I knew she was elated about something, but I didnât know what it was.â

âAnd Josie?â

âOh, I think Josie must have known what was in the wind. Probably she was the one who planned the whole thing. Josieâs no fool. Sheâs got a head on her, that girl.â

Harper nodded. It was Josie who had sent for Ruby Keene. Josie, no doubt, who had encouraged the intimacy. No wonder she had been upset when Ruby had failed to show up for her dance that night and Conway Jefferson had begun to panic. She was envisaging her plans going awry.

He asked:

âCould Ruby keep a secret, do you think?â

âAs well as most. She didnât talk about her own affairs much.â

âDid she ever say anythingâanything at allâabout some friend of hersâsomeone from her former life who was coming to see her here, or whom she had had difficulty withâyou know the sort of thing I mean, no doubt.â

âI know perfectly. Well, as far as Iâm aware, there was no one of the kind. Not by anything she ever said.â

âThank you, Mr. Starr. Now will you just tell me in your own words exactly what happened last night?â

âCertainly. Ruby and I did our ten-thirty dance togetherââ

âNo signs of anything unusual about her then?â

Raymond considered.

âI donât think so. I didnât notice what happened afterwards. I had my own partners to look after. I do remember noticing she wasnât in the ballroom. At midnight she hadnât turned up. I was very annoyed and went to Josie about it. Josie was playing bridge with the Jeffersons. She hadnât any idea where Ruby was, and I think she got a bit of a jolt. I noticed her shoot a quick, anxious glance at Mr. Jefferson. I persuaded the band to play another dance and I went to the office and got them to ring up to Rubyâs room. There wasnât any answer. I went back to Josie. She suggested that Ruby was perhaps asleep in her room. Idiotic suggestion really, but it was meant for the Jeffersons, of course! She came away with me and said weâd go up together.â

âYes, Mr. Starr. And what did she say when she was alone with you?â

âAs far as I can remember, she looked very angry and said: âDamned little fool. She canât do this sort of thing. It will ruin all her chances. Whoâs she with, do you know?â

âI said that I hadnât the least idea. The last Iâd seen of her was dancing with young Bartlett. Josie said: âShe wouldnât be with him. What can she be up to? She isnât with that film man, is she?ââ

Harper said sharply: âFilm man? Who was he?â

Raymond said: âI donât know his name. Heâs never stayed here. Rather an unusual-looking chapâblack hair and theatrical-looking. He has something to do with the film industry, I believeâor so he told Ruby. He came over to dine here once or twice and danced with Ruby afterwards, but I donât think she knew him at all well. Thatâs why I was surprised when Josie mentioned him. I said I didnât think heâd been here tonight. Josie said: âWell, she must be out with someone. What on earth am I going to say to the Jeffersons?â I said what did it matter to the Jeffersons? And Josie said it did matter. And she said, too, that sheâd never forgive Ruby if she went and messed things up.

âWeâd got to Rubyâs room by then. She wasnât there, of course, but sheâd been there, because the dress she had been wearing was lying across a chair. Josie looked in the wardrobe and said she thought sheâd put on her old white dress. Normally sheâd have changed into a black velvet dress for our Spanish dance. I was pretty angry by this time at the way Ruby had let me down. Josie did her best to soothe me and said sheâd dance herself so that old Prestcott shouldnât get after us all. She went away and changed her dress and we went down and did a tangoâexaggerated style and quite showy but not really too exhausting upon the ankles. Josie was very plucky about itâfor it hurt her, I could see. After that she asked me to help her soothe the Jeffersons down. She said it was important. So, of course, I did what I could.â

Superintendent Harper nodded. He said:

âThank you, Mr. Starr.â

To himself he thought: âIt was important, all right! Fifty thousand pounds!â

He watched Raymond Starr as the latter moved gracefully away. He went down the steps of the terrace, picking up a bag of tennis balls and a racquet on the way. Mrs. Jefferson, also carrying a racquet, joined him and they went towards the tennis courts.

âExcuse me, sir.â

Sergeant Higgins, rather breathless, stood at Harperâs side.

The Superintendent, jerked from the train of thought he was following, looked startled.

âMessage just come through for you from headquarters, sir. Labourer reported this morning saw glare as of fire. Half an hour ago they found a burnt-out car in a quarry. Vennâs Quarryâabout two miles from here. Traces of a charred body inside.â

A flush came over Harperâs heavy features. He said:

âWhatâs come to Glenshire? An epidemic of violence? Donât tell me weâre going to have a Rouse case now!â

He asked: âCould they get the number of the car?â

âNo, sir. But weâll be able to identify it, of course, by the engine number. A Minoan 14, they think it is.â

Eight

I

Sir Henry Clithering, as he passed through the lounge of the Majestic, hardly glanced at its occupants. His mind was preoccupied. Nevertheless, as is the way of life, something registered in his subconscious. It waited its time patiently.

Sir Henry was wondering as he went upstairs just what had induced the sudden urgency of his friendâs message. Conway Jefferson was not the type of man who sent urgent summonses to anyone. Something quite out of the usual must have occurred, decided Sir Henry.

Jefferson wasted no time in beating about the bush. He said:

âGlad youâve come. Edwards, get Sir Henry a drink. Sit down, man. Youâve not heard anything, I suppose? Nothing in the papers yet?â

Sir Henry shook his head, his curiosity aroused.

âWhatâs the matter?â

âMurderâs the matter. Iâm concerned in it and so are your friends the Bantrys.â

âArthur and Dolly Bantry?â Clithering sounded incredulous.

âYes, you see, the body was found in their house.â

Clearly and succinctly, Conway Jefferson ran through the facts. Sir Henry listened without interrupting. Both men were accustomed to grasping the gist of a matter. Sir Henry, during his term as Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, had been renowned for his quick grip on essentials.

âItâs an extraordinary business,â he commented when the other had finished. âHow do the Bantrys come into it, do you think?â

âThatâs what worries me. You see, Henry, it looks to me as though possibly the fact that I know them might have a bearing on the case. Thatâs the only connection I can find. Neither of them, I gather, ever saw the girl before. Thatâs what they say, and thereâs no reason to disbelieve them. Itâs most unlikely they should know her. Then isnât it possible that she was decoyed away and her body deliberately left in the house of friends of mine?â

Clithering said:

âI think thatâs far-fetched.â

âItâs possible, though,â persisted the other.

âYes, but unlikely. What do you want me to do?â

Conway Jefferson said bitterly:

âIâm an invalid. I disguise the factârefuse to face itâbut now it comes home to me. I canât go about as Iâd like to, asking questions, looking into things. Iâve got to stay here meekly grateful for such scraps of information as the police are kind enough to dole out to me. Do you happen to know Melchett, by the way, the Chief Constable of Radfordshire?â

âYes, Iâve met him.â

Something stirred in Sir Henryâs brain. A face and figure noted unseeingly as he passed through the lounge. A straight-backed old lady whose face was familiar. It linked up with the last time he had seen Melchett.

He said:

âDo you mean you want me to be a kind of amateur sleuth? Thatâs not my line.â

Jefferson said:

âYouâre not an amateur, thatâs just it.â

âIâm not a professional anymore. Iâm on the retired list now.â

Jefferson said: âThat simplifies matters.â

âYou mean that if I were still at Scotland Yard I couldnât butt in? Thatâs perfectly true.â

âAs it is,â said Jefferson, âyour experience qualifies you to take an interest in the case, and any cooperation you offer will be welcomed.â

Clithering said slowly:

âEtiquette permits, I agree. But what do you really want, Conway? To find out who killed this girl?â

âJust that.â

âYouâve no idea yourself?â

âNone whatever.â

Sir Henry said slowly:

âYou probably wonât believe me, but youâve got an expert at solving mysteries sitting downstairs in the lounge at this minute. Someone whoâs better than I am at it, and who in all probability may have some local dope.â

âWhat are you talking about?â

âDownstairs in the lounge, by the third pillar from the left, there sits an old lady with a sweet, placid spinsterish face, and a mind that has plumbed the depths of human iniquity and taken it as all in the dayâs work. Her nameâs Miss Marple. She comes from the village of St. Mary Mead, which is a mile and a half from Gossington, sheâs a friend of the Bantrysâand where crime is concerned sheâs the goods, Conway.â

Jefferson stared at him with thick, puckered brows. He said heavily:

âYouâre joking.â

âNo, Iâm not. You spoke of Melchett just now. The last time I saw Melchett there was a village tragedy. Girl supposed to have drowned herself. Police quite rightly suspected that it wasnât suicide, but murder. They thought they knew who did it. Along to me comes old Miss Marple, fluttering and dithering. Sheâs afraid, she says, theyâll hang the wrong person. Sheâs got no evidence, but she knows who did do it. Hands me a piece of paper with a name written on it. And, by God, Jefferson, she was right!â

Conway Jeffersonâs brows came down lower than ever. He grunted disbelievingly:

âWomanâs intuition, I suppose,â he said sceptically.

âNo, she doesnât call it that. Specialized knowledge is her claim.â

âAnd what does that mean?â

âWell, you know, Jefferson, we use it in police work. We get a burglary and we usually know pretty well who did itâof the regular crowd, that is. We know the sort of burglar who acts in a particular sort of way. Miss Marple has an interesting, though occasionally trivial, series of parallels from village life.â

Jefferson said sceptically:

âWhat is she likely to know about a girl whoâs been brought up in a theatrical milieu and probably never been in a village in her life?â

âI think,â said Sir Henry Clithering firmly, âthat she might have ideas.â

II

Miss Marple flushed with pleasure as Sir Henry bore down upon her.

âOh, Sir Henry, this is indeed a great piece of luck meeting you here.â

Sir Henry was gallant. He said:

âTo me it is a great pleasure.â

Miss Marple murmured, flushing: âSo kind of you.â

âAre you staying here?â

âWell, as a matter of fact, we are.â

âWe?â

âMrs. Bantryâs here too.â She looked at him sharply. âHave you heard yet? Yes, I can see you have. It is terrible, is it not?â

âWhatâs Dolly Bantry doing here? Is her husband here too?â

âNo. Naturally, they both reacted quite differently. Colonel Bantry, poor man, just shuts himself up in his study, or goes down to one of the farms, when anything like this happens. Like tortoises, you know, they draw their heads in and hope nobody will notice them. Dolly, of course, is quite different.â

âDolly, in fact,â said Sir Henry, who knew his old friend fairly well, âis almost enjoying herself, eh?â

âWellâerâyes. Poor dear.â

âAnd sheâs brought you along to produce the rabbits out of the hat for her?â

Miss Marple said composedly:

âDolly thought that a change of scene would be a good thing and she didnât want to come alone.â She met his eye and her own gently twinkled. âBut, of course, your way of describing it is quite true. Itâs rather embarrassing for me, because, of course, I am no use at all.â

âNo ideas? No village parallels?â

âI donât know very much about it all yet.â

âI can remedy that, I think. Iâm going to call you into consultation, Miss Marple.â

He gave a brief recital of the course of events. Miss Marple listened with keen interest.

âPoor Mr. Jefferson,â she said. âWhat a very sad story. These terrible accidents. To leave him alive, crippled, seems more cruel than if he had been killed too.â

âYes, indeed. Thatâs why all his friends admire him so much for the resolute way heâs gone on, conquering pain and grief and physical disabilities.â

âYes, it is splendid.â

âThe only thing I canât understand is this sudden outpouring of affection for this girl. She may, of course, have had some remarkable qualities.â

âProbably not,â said Miss Marple placidly.

âYou donât think so?â

âI donât think her qualities entered into it.â

Sir Henry said:

âHe isnât just a nasty old man, you know.â

âOh, no, no!â Miss Marple got quite pink. âI wasnât implying that for a minute. What I was trying to say wasâvery badly, I knowâthat he was just looking for a nice bright girl to take his dead daughterâs placeâand then this girl saw her opportunity and played it for all she was worth! That sounds rather uncharitable, I know, but I have seen so many cases of the kind. The young maid-servant at Mr. Harbottleâs, for instance. A very ordinary girl, but quiet with nice manners. His sister was called away to nurse a dying relative and when she got back she found the girl completely above herself, sitting down in the drawing room laughing and talking and not wearing her cap or apron. Miss Harbottle spoke to her very sharply and the girl was impertinent, and then old Mr. Harbottle left her quite dumbfounded by saying that he thought she had kept house for him long enough and that he was making other arrangements.

âSuch a scandal as it created in the village, but poor Miss Harbottle had to go and live most uncomfortably in rooms in Eastbourne. People said things, of course, but I believe there was no familiarity of any kindâit was simply that the old man found it much pleasanter to have a young, cheerful girl telling him how clever and amusing he was than to have his sister continually pointing out his faults to him, even if she was a good economical manager.â

There was a momentâs pause, and then Miss Marple resumed.

âAnd there was Mr. Badger who had the chemistâs shop. Made a lot of fuss over the young lady who worked in his toilet section. Told his wife they must look on her as a daughter and have her to live in the house. Mrs. Badger didnât see it that way at all.â

Sir Henry said: âIf sheâd only been a girl in his own rank of lifeâa friendâs childââ

Miss Marple interrupted him.

âOh! but that wouldnât have been nearly as satisfactory from his point of view. Itâs like King Cophetua and the beggar maid. If youâre really rather a lonely, tired old man, and if, perhaps, your own family have been neglecting youââshe paused for a secondââwell, to befriend someone who will be overwhelmed with your magnificenceâ(to put it rather melodramatically, but I hope you see what I mean)âwell, thatâs much more interesting. It makes you feel a much greater personâa beneficent monarch! The recipient is more likely to be dazzled, and that, of course, is a pleasant feeling for you.â She paused and said: âMr. Badger, you know, bought the girl in his shop some really fantastic presents, a diamond bracelet and a most expensive radio-gramophone. Took out a lot of his savings to do so. However, Mrs. Badger, who was a much more astute woman than poor Miss Harbottle (marriage, of course, helps), took the trouble to find out a few things. And when Mr. Badger discovered that the girl was carrying on with a very undesirable young man connected with the racecourses, and had actually pawned the bracelet to give him the moneyâwell, he was completely disgusted and the affair passed over quite safely. And he gave Mrs. Badger a diamond ring the following Christmas.â

Her pleasant, shrewd eyes met Sir Henryâs. He wondered if what she had been saying was intended as a hint. He said:

âAre you suggesting that if there had been a young man in Ruby Keeneâs life, my friendâs attitude towards her might have altered?â

âIt probably would, you know. I dare say, in a year or two, he might have liked to arrange for her marriage himselfâthough more likely he wouldnâtâgentlemen are usually rather selfish. But I certainly think that if Ruby Keene had had a young man sheâd have been careful to keep very quiet about it.â

âAnd the young man might have resented that?â

âI suppose that is the most plausible solution. It struck me, you know, that her cousin, the young woman who was at Gossington this morning, looked definitely angry with the dead girl. What youâve told me explains why. No doubt she was looking forward to doing very well out of the business.â

âRather a cold-blooded character, in fact?â

âThatâs too harsh a judgment, perhaps. The poor thing has had to earn her living, and you canât expect her to sentimentalize because a well-to-do man and womanâas you have described Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jeffersonâare going to be done out of a further large sum of money to which they have really no particular moral right. I should say Miss Turner was a hard-headed, ambitious young woman, with a good temper and considerable joie de vivre. A little,â added Miss Marple, âlike Jessie Golden, the bakerâs daughter.â

âWhat happened to her?â asked Sir Henry.

âShe trained as a nursery governess and married the son of the house, who was home on leave from India. Made him a very good wife, I believe.â

Sir Henry pulled himself clear of these fascinating side issues. He said:

âIs there any reason, do you think, why my friend Conway Jefferson should suddenly have developed this âCophetua complex,â if you like to call it that?â

âThere might have been.â

âIn what way?â

Miss Marple said, hesitating a little:

âI should thinkâitâs only a suggestion, of courseâthat perhaps his son-in-law and daughter-in-law might have wanted to get married again.â

âSurely he couldnât have objected to that?â

âOh, no, not objected. But, you see, you must look at it from his point of view. He had a terrible shock and lossâso had they. The three bereaved people live together and the link between them is the loss they have all sustained. But Time, as my dear mother used to say, is a great healer. Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson are young. Without knowing it themselves, they may have begun to feel restless, to resent the bonds that tied them to their past sorrow. And so, feeling like that, old Mr. Jefferson would have become conscious of a sudden lack of sympathy without knowing its cause. Itâs usually that. Gentlemen so easily feel neglected. With Mr. Harbottle it was Miss Harbottle going away. And with the Badgers it was Mrs. Badger taking such an interest in Spiritualism and always going out to sÃ©ances.â

âI must say,â said Sir Henry ruefully, âthat I dislike the way you reduce us all to a General Common Denominator.â

Miss Marple shook her head sadly.

âHuman nature is very much the same anywhere, Sir Henry.â

Sir Henry said distastefully:

âMr. Harbottle! Mr. Badger! And poor Conway! I hate to intrude the personal note, but have you any parallel for my humble self in your village?â

âWell, of course, there is Briggs.â

âWhoâs Briggs?â

âHe was the head gardener up at Old Hall. Quite the best man they ever had. Knew exactly when the under-gardeners were slacking offâquite uncanny it was! He managed with only three men and a boy and the place was kept better than it had been with six. And took several firsts with his sweet peas. Heâs retired now.â

âLike me,â said Sir Henry.

âBut he still does a little jobbingâif he likes the people.â

âAh,â said Sir Henry. âAgain like me. Thatâs what Iâm doing nowâjobbingâto help an old friend.â

âTwo old friends.â

âTwo?â Sir Henry looked a little puzzled.

Miss Marple said:

âI suppose you meant Mr. Jefferson. But I wasnât thinking of him. I was thinking of Colonel and Mrs. Bantry.â

âYesâyesâI seeââ He asked sharply: âWas that why you alluded to Dolly Bantry as âpoor dearâ at the beginning of our conversation?â

âYes. She hasnât begun to realize things yet. I know because Iâve had more experience. You see, Sir Henry, it seems to me that thereâs a great possibility of this crime being the kind of crime that never does get solved. Like the Brighton trunk murders. But if that happens it will be absolutely disastrous for the Bantrys. Colonel Bantry, like nearly all retired military men, is really abnormally sensitive. He reacts very quickly to public opinion. He wonât notice it for some time, and then it will begin to go home to him. A slight here, and a snub there, and invitations that are refused, and excuses that are madeâand then, little by little, it will dawn upon him and heâll retire into his shell and get terribly morbid and miserable.â

âLet me be sure I understand you rightly, Miss Marple. You mean that, because the body was found in his house, people will think that he had something to do with it?â

âOf course they will! Iâve no doubt theyâre saying so already. Theyâll say so more and more. And people will cold shoulder the Bantrys and avoid them. Thatâs why the truth has got to be found out and why I was willing to come here with Mrs. Bantry. An open accusation is one thingâand quite easy for a soldier to meet. Heâs indignant and he has a chance of fighting. But this other whispering business will break himâwill break them both. So you see, Sir Henry, weâve got to find out the truth.â

Sir Henry said:

âAny ideas as to why the body should have been found in his house? There must be an explanation of that. Some connection.â

âOh, of course.â

âThe girl was last seen here about twenty minutes to eleven. By midnight, according to the medical evidence, she was dead. Gossingtonâs about eighteen miles from here. Good road for sixteen of those miles until one turns off the main road. A powerful car could do it in well under half an hour. Practically any car could average thirty-five. But why anyone should either kill her here and take her body out to Gossington or should take her out to Gossington and strangle her there, I donât know.â

âOf course you donât, because it didnât happen.â

âDo you mean that she was strangled by some fellow who took her out in a car and he then decided to push her into the first likely house in the neighbourhood?â

âI donât think anything of the kind. I think there was a very careful plan made. What happened was that the plan went wrong.â

Sir Henry stared at her.

âWhy did the plan go wrong?â

Miss Marple said rather apologetically:

âSuch curious things happen, donât they? If I were to say that this particular plan went wrong because human beings are so much more vulnerable and sensitive than anyone thinks, it wouldnât sound sensible, would it? But thatâs what I believeâandââ

She broke off. âHereâs Mrs. Bantry now.â

Nine

Mrs. Bantry was with Adelaide Jefferson. The former came up to Sir Henry and exclaimed: âYou?â

âI, myself.â He took both her hands and pressed them warmly. âI canât tell you how distressed I am at all this, Mrs. B.â

Mrs. Bantry said mechanically:

âDonât call me Mrs. B.!â and went on: âArthur isnât here. Heâs taking it all rather seriously. Miss Marple and I have come here to sleuth. Do you know Mrs. Jefferson?â

âYes, of course.â

He shook hands. Adelaide Jefferson said:

âHave you seen my father-in-law?â

âYes, I have.â

âIâm glad. Weâre anxious about him. It was a terrible shock.â

Mrs. Bantry said:

âLetâs come out on the terrace and have drinks and talk about it all.â

The four of them went out and joined Mark Gaskell, who was sitting at the extreme end of the terrace by himself.

After a few desultory remarks and the arrival of the drinks Mrs. Bantry plunged straight into the subject with her usual zest for direct action.

âWe can talk about it, canât we?â she said. âI mean, weâre all old friendsâexcept Miss Marple, and she knows all about crime. And she wants to help.â

Mark Gaskell looked at Miss Marple in a somewhat puzzled fashion. He said doubtfully:

âDo youâerâwrite detective stories?â

The most unlikely people, he knew, wrote detective stories. And Miss Marple, in her old-fashioned spinsterâs clothes, looked a singularly unlikely person.

âOh no, Iâm not clever enough for that.â

âSheâs wonderful,â said Mrs. Bantry impatiently. âI canât explain now, but she is. Now, Addie, I want to know all about things. What was she really like, this girl?â

âWellââ Adelaide Jefferson paused, glanced across at Mark, and half laughed. She said: âYouâre so direct.â

âDid you like her?â

âNo, of course I didnât.â

âWhat was she really like?â Mrs. Bantry shifted her inquiry to Mark Gaskell. Mark said deliberately:

âCommon or garden gold-digger. And she knew her stuff. Sheâd got her hooks into Jeff all right.â

Both of them called their father-in-law Jeff.

Sir Henry thought, looking disapprovingly at Mark:

âIndiscreet fellow. Shouldnât be so outspoken.â

He had always disapproved a little of Mark Gaskell. The man had charm but he was unreliableâtalked too much, was occasionally boastfulânot quite to be trusted, Sir Henry thought. He had sometimes wondered if Conway Jefferson thought so too.

âBut couldnât you do something about it?â demanded Mrs. Bantry.

Mark said dryly:

âWe might haveâif weâd realized it in time.â

He shot a glance at Adelaide and she coloured faintly. There had been reproach in that glance.

She said:

âMark thinks I ought to have seen what was coming.â

âYou left the old boy alone too much, Addie. Tennis lessons and all the rest of it.â

âWell, I had to have some exercise.â She spoke apologetically. âAnyway, I never dreamedââ

âNo,â said Mark, âneither of us ever dreamed. Jeff has always been such a sensible, levelheaded old boy.â

Miss Marple made a contribution to the conversation.

âGentlemen,â she said with her old-maidâs way of referring to the opposite sex as though it were a species of wild animal, âare frequently not as levelheaded as they seem.â

âIâll say youâre right,â said Mark. âUnfortunately, Miss Marple, we didnât realize that. We wondered what the old boy saw in that rather insipid and meretricious little bag of tricks. But we were pleased for him to be kept happy and amused. We thought there was no harm in her. No harm in her! I wish Iâd wrung her neck!â

âMark,â said Addie, âyou really must be careful what you say.â

He grinned at her engagingly.

âI suppose I must. Otherwise people will think I actually did wring her neck. Oh well, I suppose Iâm under suspicion, anyway. If anyone had an interest in seeing that girl dead it was Addie and myself.â

âMark,â cried Mrs. Jefferson, half laughing and half angry, âyou really mustnât!â

âAll right, all right,â said Mark Gaskell pacifically. âBut I do like speaking my mind. Fifty thousand pounds our esteemed father-in-law was proposing to settle upon that half-baked nitwitted little slypuss.â

âMark, you mustnâtâsheâs dead.â

âYes, sheâs dead, poor little devil. And after all, why shouldnât she use the weapons that Nature gave her? Who am I to judge? Done plenty of rotten things myself in my life. No, letâs say Ruby was entitled to plot and scheme and we were mugs not to have tumbled to her game sooner.â

Sir Henry said:

âWhat did you say when Conway told you he proposed to adopt the girl?â

Mark thrust out his hands.

âWhat could we say? Addie, always the little lady, retained her self-control admirably. Put a brave face upon it. I endeavoured to follow her example.â

âI should have made a fuss!â said Mrs. Bantry.

âWell, frankly speaking, we werenât entitled to make a fuss. It was Jeff âs money. We werenât his flesh and blood. Heâd always been damned good to us. There was nothing for it but to bite on the bullet.â He added reflectively: âBut we didnât love little Ruby.â

Adelaide Jefferson said:

âIf only it had been some other kind of girl. Jeff had two godchildren, you know. If it had been one of themâwell, one would have understood it.â She added, with a shade of resentment: âAnd Jeff âs always seemed so fond of Peter.â

âOf course,â said Mrs. Bantry. âI always have known Peter was your first husbandâs childâbut Iâd quite forgotten it. Iâve always thought of him as Mr. Jeffersonâs grandson.â

âSo have I,â said Adelaide. Her voice held a note that made Miss Marple turn in her chair and look at her.

âIt was Josieâs fault,â said Mark. âJosie brought her here.â

Adelaide said:

âOh, but surely you donât think it was deliberate, do you? Why, youâve always liked Josie so much.â

âYes, I did like her. I thought she was a good sport.â

âIt was sheer accident her bringing the girl down.â

âJosieâs got a good head on her shoulders, my girl.â

âYes, but she couldnât foreseeââ

Mark said:

âNo, she couldnât. I admit it. Iâm not really accusing her of planning the whole thing. But Iâve no doubt she saw which way the wind was blowing long before we did and kept very quiet about it.â

Adelaide said with a sigh:

âI suppose one canât blame her for that.â

Mark said:

âOh, we canât blame anyone for anything!â

Mrs. Bantry asked:

âWas Ruby Keene very pretty?â

Mark stared at her. âI thought youâd seenââ

Mrs. Bantry said hastily:

âOh yes, I saw herâher body. But sheâd been strangled, you know, and one couldnât tellââ She shivered.

Mark said, thoughtfully:

âI donât think she was really pretty at all. She certainly wouldnât have been without any makeup. A thin ferrety little face, not much chin, teeth running down her throat, nondescript sort of noseââ

âIt sounds revolting,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âOh no, she wasnât. As I say, with makeup she managed to give quite an effect of good looks, donât you think so, Addie?â

âYes, rather chocolate-box, pink and white business. She had nice blue eyes.â

âYes, innocent baby stare, and the heavily-blacked lashes brought out the blueness. Her hair was bleached, of course. Itâs true, when I come to think of it, that in colouringâartificial colouring, anywayâshe had a kind of spurious resemblance to Rosamundâmy wife, you know. I dare say thatâs what attracted the old manâs attention to her.â

He sighed.

âWell, itâs a bad business. The awful thing is that Addie and I canât help being glad, really, that sheâs deadââ

He quelled a protest from his sister-in-law.

âItâs no good, Addie; I know what you feel. I feel the same. And Iâm not going to pretend! But, at the same time, if you know what I mean, I really am most awfully concerned for Jeff about the whole business. Itâs hit him very hard. Iââ

He stopped, and stared towards the doors leading out of the lounge on to the terrace.

âWell, wellâsee whoâs here. What an unscrupulous woman you are, Addie.â

Mrs. Jefferson looked over her shoulder, uttered an exclamation and got up, a slight colour rising in her face. She walked quickly along the terrace and went up to a tall middle-aged man with a thin brown face, who was looking uncertainly about him.

Mrs. Bantry said: âIsnât that Hugo McLean?â

Mark Gaskell said:

âHugo McLean it is. Alias William Dobbin.â

Mrs. Bantry murmured:

âHeâs very faithful, isnât he?â

âDog-like devotion,â said Mark. âAddieâs only got to whistle and Hugo comes trotting from any odd corner of the globe. Always hopes that some day sheâll marry him. I dare say she will.â

Miss Marple looked beamingly after them. She said:

âI see. A romance?â

âOne of the good old-fashioned kind,â Mark assured her. âItâs been going on for years. Addieâs that kind of woman.â

He added meditatively: âI suppose Addie telephoned him this morning. She didnât tell me she had.â

Edwards came discreetly along the terrace and paused at Markâs elbow.

âExcuse me, sir. Mr. Jefferson would like you to come up.â

âIâll come at once.â Mark sprang up.

He nodded to them, said: âSee you later,â and went off.

Sir Henry leant forward to Miss Marple. He said:

âWell, what do you think of the principal beneficiaries of the crime?â

Miss Marple said thoughtfully, looking at Adelaide Jefferson as she stood talking to her old friend:

âI should think, you know, that she was a very devoted mother.â

âOh, she is,â said Mrs. Bantry. âSheâs simply devoted to Peter.â

âSheâs the kind of woman,â said Miss Marple, âthat everyone likes. The kind of woman that could go on getting married again and again. I donât mean a manâs womanâthatâs quite different.â

âI know what you mean,â said Sir Henry.

âWhat you both mean,â said Mrs. Bantry, âis that sheâs a good listener.â

Sir Henry laughed. He said:

âAnd Mark Gaskell?â

âAh,â said Miss Marple, âheâs a downy fellow.â

âVillage parallel, please?â

âMr. Cargill, the builder. He bluffed a lot of people into having things done to their houses they never meant to do. And how he charged them for it! But he could always explain his bills away plausibly. A downy fellow. He married money. So did Mr. Gaskell, I understand.â

âYou donât like him.â

âYes, I do. Most women would. But he canât take me in. Heâs a very attractive person, I think. But a little unwise, perhaps, to talk as much as he does.â

âUnwise is the word,â said Sir Henry. âMark will get himself into trouble if he doesnât look out.â

A tall dark young man in white flannels came up the steps to the terrace and paused just for a minute, watching Adelaide Jefferson and Hugo McLean.

âAnd that,â said Sir Henry obligingly, âis X, whom we might describe as an interested party. He is the tennis and dancing proâRaymond Starr, Ruby Keeneâs partner.â

Miss Marple looked at him with interest. She said:

âHeâs very nice-looking, isnât he?â

âI suppose so.â

âDonât be absurd, Sir Henry,â said Mrs. Bantry; âthereâs no supposing about it. He is good-looking.â

Miss Marple murmured:

âMrs. Jefferson has been taking tennis lessons, I think she said.â

âDo you mean anything by that, Jane, or donât you?â

Miss Marple had no chance of replying to this downright question. Young Peter Carmody came across the terrace and joined them. He addressed himself to Sir Henry:

âI say, are you a detective, too? I saw you talking to the Superintendentâthe fat one is a superintendent, isnât he?â

âQuite right, my son.â

âAnd somebody told me you were a frightfully important detective from London. The head of Scotland Yard or something like that.â

âThe head of Scotland Yard is usually a complete dud in books, isnât he?â

âOh no, not nowadays. Making fun of the police is very old-fashioned. Do you know who did the murder yet?â

âNot yet, Iâm afraid.â

âAre you enjoying this very much, Peter?â asked Mrs. Bantry.

âWell, I am, rather. It makes a change, doesnât it? Iâve been hunting round to see if I could find any clues, but I havenât been lucky. Iâve got a souvenir, though. Would you like to see it? Fancy, Mother wanted me to throw it away. I do think oneâs parents are rather trying sometimes.â

He produced from his pocket a small matchbox. Pushing it open, he disclosed the precious contents.

âSee, itâs a fingernail. Her fingernail! Iâm going to label it Fingernail of the Murdered Woman and take it back to school. Itâs a good souvenir, donât you think?â

âWhere did you get it?â asked Miss Marple.

âWell, it was a bit of luck, really. Because, of course, I didnât know she was going to be murdered then. It was before dinner last night. Ruby caught her nail in Josieâs shawl and it tore it. Mums cut it off for her and gave it to me and said put it in the wastepaper basket, and I meant to, but I put it in my pocket instead, and this morning I remembered and looked to see if it was still there and it was, so now Iâve got it as a souvenir.â

âDisgusting,â said Mrs. Bantry.

Peter said politely: âOh, do you think so?â

âGot any other souvenirs?â asked Sir Henry.

âWell, I donât know. Iâve got something that might be.â

âExplain yourself, young man.â

Peter looked at him thoughtfully. Then he pulled out an envelope. From the inside of it he extracted a piece of browny tapey substance.

âItâs a bit of that chap George Bartlettâs shoe-lace,â he explained. âI saw his shoes outside the door this morning and I bagged a bit just in case.â

âIn case what?â

âIn case he should be the murderer, of course. He was the last person to see her and thatâs always frightfully suspicious, you know. Is it nearly dinner time, do you think? Iâm frightfully hungry. It always seems such a long time between tea and dinner. Hallo, thereâs Uncle Hugo. I didnât know Mums had asked him to come down. I suppose she sent for him. She always does if sheâs in a jam. Hereâs Josie coming. Hi, Josie!â

Josephine Turner, coming along the terrace, stopped and looked rather startled to see Mrs. Bantry and Miss Marple.

Mrs. Bantry said pleasantly:

âHow dâyou do, Miss Turner. Weâve come to do a bit of sleuthing!â

Josie cast a guilty glance round. She said, lowering her voice:

âItâs awful. Nobody knows yet. I mean, it isnât in the papers yet. I suppose everyone will be asking me questions and itâs so awkward. I donât know what I ought to say.â

Her glance went rather wistfully towards Miss Marple, who said: âYes, it will be a very difficult situation for you, Iâm afraid.â

Josie warmed to this sympathy.

âYou see, Mr. Prestcott said to me: âDonât talk about it.â And thatâs all very well, but everyone is sure to ask me, and you canât offend people, can you? Mr. Prestcott said he hoped Iâd feel able to carry on as usualâand he wasnât very nice about it, so of course I want to do my best. And I really donât see why it should all be blamed on me.â

Sir Henry said:

âDo you mind me asking you a frank question, Miss Turner?â

âOh, do ask me anything you like,â said Josie, a little insincerely.

âHas there been any unpleasantness between you and Mrs. Jefferson and Mr. Gaskell over all this?â

âOver the murder, do you mean?â

âNo, I donât mean the murder.â

Josie stood twisting her fingers together. She said rather sullenly:

âWell, there has and there hasnât, if you know what I mean. Neither of them have said anything. But I think they blamed it on meâMr. Jefferson taking such a fancy to Ruby, I mean. It wasnât my fault, though, was it? These things happen, and I never dreamt of such a thing happening beforehand, not for a moment. IâI was quite dumbfounded.â

Her words rang out with what seemed undeniable sincerity.

Sir Henry said kindly:

âIâm quite sure you were. But once it had happened?â

Josieâs chin went up.

âWell, it was a piece of luck, wasnât it? Everyoneâs got the right to have a piece of luck sometimes.â

She looked from one to the other of them in a slightly defiant questioning manner and then went on across the terrace and into the hotel.

Peter said judicially:

âI donât think she did it.â

Miss Marple murmured:

âItâs interesting, that piece of fingernail. It had been worrying me, you knowâhow to account for her nails.â

âNails?â asked Sir Henry.

âThe dead girlâs nails,â explained Mrs. Bantry. âThey were quite short, and now that Jane says so, of course it was a little unlikely. A girl like that usually has absolute talons.â

Miss Marple said:

âBut of course if she tore one off, then she might clip the others close, so as to match. Did they find nail parings in her room, I wonder?â

Sir Henry looked at her curiously. He said:

âIâll ask Superintendent Harper when he gets back.â

âBack from where?â asked Mrs. Bantry. âHe hasnât gone over to Gossington, has he?â

Sir Henry said gravely:

âNo. Thereâs been another tragedy. Blazing car in a quarryââ

Miss Marple caught her breath.

âWas there someone in the car?â

âIâm afraid soâyes.â

Miss Marple said thoughtfully:

âI expect that will be the Girl Guide whoâs missingâPatienceâno, Pamela Reeves.â

Sir Henry stared at her.

âNow why on earth do you think that, Miss Marple?â

Miss Marple got rather pink.

âWell, it was given out on the wireless that she was missing from her homeâsince last night. And her home was Daneleigh Vale; thatâs not very far from here. And she was last seen at the Girl-Guide Rally up on Danebury Downs. Thatâs very close indeed. In fact, sheâd have to pass through Danemouth to get home. So it does rather fit in, doesnât it? I mean, it looks as though she might have seenâor perhaps heardâsomething that no one was supposed to see and hear. If so, of course, sheâd be a source of danger to the murderer and sheâd have to beâremoved. Two things like that must be connected, donât you think?â

Sir Henry said, his voice dropping a little:

âYou thinkâa second murder?â

âWhy not?â Her quiet placid gaze met his. âWhen anyone has committed one murder, they donât shrink from another, do they? Nor even from a third.â

âA third? You donât think there will be a third murder?â

âI think itâs just possible â¦ Yes, I think itâs highly possible.â

âMiss Marple,â said Sir Henry, âyou frighten me. Do you know who is going to be murdered?â

Miss Marple said: âIâve a very good idea.â

Ten

I

Superintendent Harper stood looking at the charred and twisted heap of metal. A burnt-up car was always a revolting object, even without the additional gruesome burden of a charred and blackened corpse.

Vennâs Quarry was a remote spot, far from any human habitation. Though actually only two miles as the crow flies from Danemouth, the approach to it was by one of those narrow, twisted, rutted roads, little more than a cart track, which led nowhere except to the quarry itself. It was a long time now since the quarry had been worked, and the only people who came along the lane were the casual visitors in search of blackberries. As a spot to dispose of a car it was ideal. The car need not have been found for weeks but for the accident of the glow in the sky having been seen by Albert Biggs, a labourer, on his way to work.

Albert Biggs was still on the scene, though all he had to tell had been heard some time ago, but he continued to repeat the thrilling story with such embellishments as occurred to him.

âWhy, dang my eyes, I said, whatever be that? Proper glow it was, up in the sky. Might be a bonfire, I says, but whoâd be having bonfire over to Vennâs Quarry? No, I says, âtis some mighty big fire, to be sure. But whatever would it be, I says? Thereâs no house or farm to that direction. âTis over by Vennâs, I says, thatâs where it is, to be sure. Didnât rightly know what I ought to do about it, but seeing as Constable Gregg comes along just then on his bicycle, I tells him about it. âTwas all died down by then, but I tells him just where âtwere. âTis over that direction, I says. Big glare in the sky, I says. Mayhap as itâs a rick, I says. One of them tramps, as likely as not, set alight of it. But I did never think as how it might be a carâfar less as someone was being burnt up alive in it. âTis a terrible tragedy, to be sure.â

The Glenshire police had been busy. Cameras had clicked and the position of the charred body had been carefully noted before the police surgeon had started his own investigation.

The latter came over now to Harper, dusting black ash off his hands, his lips set grimly together.

âA pretty thorough job,â he said. âPart of one foot and shoe are about all that has escaped. Personally I myself couldnât say if the body was a manâs or a womanâs at the moment, though weâll get some indication from the bones, I expect. But the shoe is one of the black strapped affairsâthe kind schoolgirls wear.â

âThereâs a schoolgirl missing from the next county,â said Harper; âquite close to here. Girl of sixteen or so.â

âThen itâs probably her,â said the doctor. âPoor kid.â

Harper said uneasily: âShe wasnât alive whenâ?â

âNo, no, I donât think so. No signs of her having tried to get out. Body was just slumped down on the seatâwith the foot sticking out. She was dead when she was put there, I should say. Then the car was set fire to in order to try and get rid of the evidence.â

He paused, and asked:

âWant me any longer?â

âI donât think so, thank you.â

âRight. Iâll be off.â

He strode away to his car. Harper went over to where one of his sergeants, a man who specialized in car cases, was busy.

The latter looked up.

âQuite a clear case, sir. Petrol poured over the car and the whole thing deliberately set light to. There are three empty cans in the hedge over there.â

A little farther away another man was carefully arranging small objects picked out of the wreckage. There was a scorched black leather shoe and with it some scraps of scorched and blackened material. As Harper approached, his subordinate looked up and exclaimed:

âLook at this, sir. This seems to clinch it.â

Harper took the small object in his hand. He said:

âButton from a Girl Guideâs uniform?â

âYes, sir.â

âYes,â said Harper, âthat does seem to settle it.â

A decent, kindly man, he felt slightly sick. First Ruby Keene and now this child, Pamela Reeves.

He said to himself, as he had said before:

âWhatâs come to Glenshire?â

His next move was first to ring up his own Chief Constable, and afterwards to get in touch with Colonel Melchett. The disappearance of Pamela Reeves had taken place in Radfordshire though her body had been found in Glenshire.

The next task set him was not a pleasant one. He had to break the news to Pamela Reevesâs father and motherâ¦.

II

Superintendent Harper looked up consideringly at the faÃ§ade of Braeside as he rang the front door bell.

Neat little villa, nice garden of about an acre and a half. The sort of place that had been built fairly freely all over the countryside in the last twenty years. Retired Army men, retired Civil Servantsâthat type. Nice decent folk; the worst you could say of them was that they might be a bit dull. Spent as much money as they could afford on their childrenâs education. Not the kind of people you associated with tragedy. And now tragedy had come to them. He sighed.

He was shown at once into a lounge where a stiff man with a grey moustache and a woman whose eyes were red with weeping both sprang up. Mrs. Reeves cried out eagerly:

âYou have some news of Pamela?â

Then she shrank back, as though the Superintendentâs commiserating glance had been a blow.

Harper said:

âIâm afraid you must prepare yourself for bad news.â

âPamelaââ faltered the woman.

Major Reeves said sharply:

âSomethingâs happenedâto the child?â

âYes, sir.â

âDo you mean sheâs dead?â

Mrs. Reeves burst out:

âOh no, no,â and broke into a storm of weeping. Major Reeves put his arm round his wife and drew her to him. His lips trembled but he looked inquiringly at Harper, who bent his head.

âAn accident?â

âNot exactly, Major Reeves. She was found in a burnt-out car which had been abandoned in a quarry.â

âIn a car? In a quarry?â

His astonishment was evident.

Mrs. Reeves broke down altogether and sank down on the sofa, sobbing violently.

Superintendent Harper said:

âIf youâd like me to wait a few minutes?â

Major Reeves said sharply:

âWhat does this mean? Foul play?â

âThatâs what it looks like, sir. Thatâs why Iâd like to ask you some questions if it isnât too trying for you.â

âNo, no, youâre quite right. No time must be lost if what you suggest is true. But I canât believe it. Who would want to harm a child like Pamela?â

Harper said stolidly:

âYouâve already reported to your local police the circumstances of your daughterâs disappearance. She left here to attend a Guides rally and you expected her home for supper. That is right?â

âYes.â

âShe was to return by bus?â

âYes.â

âI understand that, according to the story of her fellow Guides, when the rally was over Pamela said she was going into Danemouth to Woolworthâs, and would catch a later bus home. That strikes you as quite a normal proceeding?â

âOh yes, Pamela was very fond of going to Woolworthâs. She often went into Danemouth to shop. The bus goes from the main road, only about a quarter of a mile from here.â

âAnd she had no other plans, so far as you know?â

âNone.â

âShe was not meeting anybody in Danemouth?â

âNo, Iâm sure she wasnât. She would have mentioned it if so. We expected her back for supper. Thatâs why, when it got so late and she hadnât turned up, we rang up the police. It wasnât like her not to come home.â

âYour daughter had no undesirable friendsâthat is, friends that you didnât approve of?â

âNo, there was never any trouble of that kind.â

Mrs. Reeves said tearfully:

âPam was just a child. She was very young for her age. She liked games and all that. She wasnât precocious in any way.â

âDo you know a Mr. George Bartlett who is staying at the Majestic Hotel in Danemouth?â

Major Reeves stared.

âNever heard of him.â

âYou donât think your daughter knew him?â

âIâm quite sure she didnât.â

He added sharply: âHow does he come into it?â

âHeâs the owner of the Minoan 14 car in which your daughterâs body was found.â

Mrs. Reeves cried: âBut then he mustââ

Harper said quickly:

âHe reported his car missing early today. It was in the courtyard of the Majestic Hotel at lunch time yesterday. Anybody might have taken the car.â

âBut didnât someone see who took it?â

The Superintendent shook his head.

âDozens of cars going in and out all day. And a Minoan 14 is one of the commonest makes.â

Mrs. Reeves cried:

âBut arenât you doing something? Arenât you trying to find theâthe devil who did this? My little girlâoh, my little girl! She wasnât burnt alive, was she? Oh, Pam, Pam â¦!â

âShe didnât suffer, Mrs. Reeves. I assure you she was already dead when the car was set alight.â

Reeves asked stiffly:

âHow was she killed?â

Harper gave him a significant glance.

âWe donât know. The fire had destroyed all evidence of that kind.â

He turned to the distraught woman on the sofa.

âBelieve me, Mrs. Reeves, weâre doing everything we can. Itâs a matter of checking up. Sooner or later we shall find someone who saw your daughter in Danemouth yesterday, and saw whom she was with. It all takes time, you know. We shall have dozens, hundreds of reports coming in about a Girl Guide who was seen here, there, and everywhere. Itâs a matter of selection and of patienceâbut we shall find out the truth in the end, never you fear.â

Mrs. Reeves asked:

âWhereâwhere is she? Can I go to her?â

Again Superintendent Harper caught the husbandâs eye. He said:

âThe medical officer is attending to all that. Iâd suggest that your husband comes with me now and attends to all the formalities. In the meantime, try and recollect anything Pamela may have saidâsomething, perhaps, that you didnât pay attention to at the time but which might throw some light upon things. You know what I meanâjust some chance word or phrase. Thatâs the best way you can help us.â

As the two men went towards the door, Reeves said, pointing to a photograph:

âThere she is.â

Harper looked at it attentively. It was a hockey group. Reeves pointed out Pamela in the centre of the team.

âA nice kid,â Harper thought, as he looked at the earnest face of the pigtailed girl.

His mouth set in a grim line as he thought of the charred body in the car.

He vowed to himself that the murder of Pamela Reeves should not remain one of Glenshireâs unsolved mysteries.

Ruby Keene, so he admitted privately, might have asked for what was coming to her, but Pamela Reeves was quite another story. A nice kid, if he ever saw one. Heâd not rest until heâd hunted down the man or woman whoâd killed her.

Eleven

A day or two later Colonel Melchett and Superintendent Harper looked at each other across the formerâs big desk. Harper had come over to Much Benham for a consultation.

Melchett said gloomily:

âWell, we know where we areâor rather where we arenât!â

âWhere we arenât expresses it better, sir.â

âWeâve got two deaths to take into account,â said Melchett. âTwo murders. Ruby Keene and the child Pamela Reeves. Not much to identify her by, poor kid, but enough. That shoe that escaped burning has been identified positively as hers by her father, and thereâs this button from her Girl Guide uniform. A fiendish business, Superintendent.â

Superintendent Harper said very quietly:

âIâll say youâre right, sir.â

âIâm glad itâs quite certain she was dead before the car was set on fire. The way she was lying, thrown across the seat, shows that. Probably knocked on the head, poor kid.â

âOr strangled, perhaps,â said Harper.

Melchett looked at him sharply.

âYou think so?â

âWell, sir, there are murderers like that.â

âI know. Iâve seen the parentsâthe poor girlâs motherâs beside herself. Damned painful, the whole thing. The point for us to settle isâare the two murders connected?â

âIâd say definitely yes.â

âSo would I.â

The Superintendent ticked off the points on his fingers.

âPamela Reeves attended rally of Girl Guides on Danebury Downs. Stated by companions to be normal and cheerful. Did not return with three companions by the bus to Medchester. Said to them that she was going into Danemouth to Woolworthâs and would take the bus home from there. The main road into Danemouth from the downs does a big round inland. Pamela Reeves took a shortcut over two fields and a footpath and lane which would bring her into Danemouth near the Majestic Hotel. The lane, in fact, actually passes the hotel on the west side. Itâs possible, therefore, that she overheard or saw somethingâsomething concerning Ruby Keeneâwhich would have proved dangerous to the murdererâsay, for instance, that she heard him arranging to meet Ruby Keene at eleven that evening. He realizes that this schoolgirl has overheard, and he has to silence her.â

Colonel Melchett said:

âThatâs presuming, Harper, that the Ruby Keene crime was premeditatedânot spontaneous.â

Superintendent Harper agreed.

âI believe it was, sir. It looks as though it would be the other wayâsudden violence, a fit of passion or jealousyâbut Iâm beginning to think that thatâs not so. I donât see otherwise how you can account for the death of the Reeves child. If she was a witness of the actual crime, it would be late at night, round about eleven p.m., and what would she be doing round about the Majestic at that time? Why, at nine oâclock her parents were getting anxious because she hadnât returned.â

âThe alternative is that she went to meet someone in Danemouth unknown to her family and friends, and that her death is quite unconnected with the other death.â

âYes, sir, and I donât believe thatâs so. Look how even the old lady, old Miss Marple, tumbled to it at once that there was a connection. She asked at once if the body in the burnt car was the body of the missing Girl Guide. Very smart old lady, that. These old ladies are sometimes. Shrewd, you know. Put their fingers on the vital spot.â

âMiss Marple has done that more than once,â said Colonel Melchett dryly.

âAnd besides, sir, thereâs the car. That seems to me to link up her death definitely with the Majestic Hotel. It was Mr. George Bartlettâs car.â

Again the eyes of the two men met. Melchett said:

âGeorge Bartlett? Could be! What do you think?â

Again Harper methodically recited various points.

âRuby Keene was last seen with George Bartlett. He says she went to her room (borne out by the dress she was wearing being found there), but did she go to her room and change in order to go out with him? Had they made a date to go out together earlierâdiscussed it, say, before dinner, and did Pamela Reeves happen to overhear?â

Melchett said: âHe didnât report the loss of his car until the following morning, and he was extremely vague about it then, pretended he couldnât remember exactly when he had last noticed it.â

âThat might be cleverness, sir. As I see it, heâs either a very clever gentleman pretending to be a silly ass, or elseâwell, he is a silly ass.â

âWhat we want,â said Melchett, âis motive. As it stands, he had no motive whatever for killing Ruby Keene.â

âYesâthatâs where weâre stuck every time. Motive. All the reports from the Palais de Danse at Brixwell are negative, I understand?â

âAbsolutely! Ruby Keene had no special boy friend. Slackâs been into the matter thoroughlyâgive Slack his due, he is thorough.â

âThatâs right, sir. Thoroughâs the word.â

âIf there was anything to ferret out, heâd have ferreted it out. But thereâs nothing there. He got a list of her most frequent dancing partnersâall vetted and found correct. Harmless fellows, and all able to produce alibis for that night.â

âAh,â said Superintendent Harper. âAlibis. Thatâs what weâre up against.â

Melchett looked at him sharply. âThink so? Iâve left that side of the investigation to you.â

âYes, sir. Itâs been gone intoâvery thoroughly. We applied to London for help over it.â

âWell?â

âMr. Conway Jefferson may think that Mr. Gaskell and young Mrs. Jefferson are comfortably off, but that is not the case. Theyâre both extremely hard up.â

âIs that true?â

âQuite true, sir. Itâs as Mr. Conway Jefferson said, he made over considerable sums of money to his son and daughter when they married. That was over ten years ago, though. Mr. Jefferson fancied himself as knowing good investments. He didnât invest in anything absolutely wild cat, but he was unlucky and showed poor judgment more than once. His holdings have gone steadily down. I should say the widow found it difficult to make both ends meet and send her son to a good school.â

âBut she hasnât applied to her father-in-law for help?â

âNo, sir. As far as I can make out she lives with him, and consequently has no household expenses.â

âAnd his health is such that he wasnât expected to live long?â

âThatâs right, sir. Now for Mr. Mark Gaskell. Heâs a gambler, pure and simple. Got through his wifeâs money very soon. Has got himself tangled up rather critically just at present. He needs money badlyâand a good deal of it.â

âCanât say I liked the looks of him much,â said Colonel Melchett. âWild-looking sort of fellowâwhat? And heâs got a motive all right. Twenty-five thousand pounds it meant to him getting that girl out of the way. Yes, itâs a motive all right.â

âThey both had a motive.â

âIâm not considering Mrs. Jefferson.â

âNo, sir, I know youâre not. And, anyway, the alibi holds for both of them. They couldnât have done it. Just that.â

âYouâve got a detailed statement of their movements that evening?â

âYes, I have. Take Mr. Gaskell first. He dined with his father-in-law and Mrs. Jefferson, had coffee with them afterwards when Ruby Keene joined them. Then he said he had to write letters and left them. Actually he took his car and went for a spin down to the front. He told me quite frankly he couldnât stick playing bridge for a whole evening. The old boyâs mad on it. So he made letters an excuse. Ruby Keene remained with the others. Mark Gaskell returned when she was dancing with Raymond. After the dance Ruby came and had a drink with them, then she went off with young Bartlett, and Gaskell and the others cut for partners and started their bridge. That was at twenty minutes to elevenâand he didnât leave the table until after midnight. Thatâs quite certain, sir. Everyone says so. The family, the waiters, everyone. Therefore he couldnât have done it. And Mrs. Jeffersonâs alibi is the same. She, too, didnât leave the table. Theyâre out, both of themâout.â

Colonel Melchett leaned back, tapping the table with a paper cutter.

Superintendent Harper said:

âThat is, assuming the girl was killed before midnight.â

âHaydock said she was. Heâs a very sound fellow in police work. If he says a thing, itâs so.â

âThere might be reasonsâhealth, physical idiosyncrasy, or something.â

âIâll put it to him.â Melchett glanced at his watch, picked up the telephone receiver and asked for a number. He said: âHaydock ought to be at home at this time. Now, assuming that she was killed after midnight?â

Harper said:

âThen there might be a chance. There was some coming and going afterwards. Letâs assume that Gaskell had asked the girl to meet him outside somewhereâsay at twenty past twelve. He slips away for a minute or two, strangles her, comes back and disposes of the body laterâin the early hours of the morning.â

Melchett said:

âTakes her by car thirty-odd miles to put her in Bantryâs library? Dash it all, itâs not a likely story.â

âNo, it isnât,â the Superintendent admitted at once.

The telephone rang. Melchett picked up the receiver.

âHallo, Haydock, is that you? Ruby Keene. Would it be possible for her to have been killed after midnight?â

âI told you she was killed between ten and midnight.â

âYes, I know, but one could stretch it a bitâwhat?â

âNo, you couldnât stretch it. When I say she was killed before midnight I mean before midnight, and donât try to tamper with the medical evidence.â

âYes, but couldnât there be some physiological what-not? You know what I mean.â

âI know that you donât know what youâre talking about. The girl was perfectly healthy and not abnormal in any wayâand Iâm not going to say she was just to help you fit a rope round the neck of some wretched fellow whom you police wallahs have got your knife into. Now donât protest. I know your ways. And, by the way, the girl wasnât strangled willinglyâthat is to say, she was drugged first. Powerful narcotic. She died of strangulation but she was drugged first.â Haydock rang off.

Melchett said gloomily: âWell, thatâs that.â

Harper said:

âThought Iâd found another likely starterâbut it petered out.â

âWhatâs that? Who?â

âStrictly speaking, heâs your pigeon, sir. Name of Basil Blake. Lives near Gossington Hall.â

âImpudent young jackanapes!â The Colonelâs brow darkened as he remembered Basil Blakeâs outrageous rudeness. âHowâs he mixed up in it?â

âSeems he knew Ruby Keene. Dined over at the Majestic quite oftenâdanced with the girl. Do you remember what Josie said to Raymond when Ruby was discovered to be missing? âSheâs not with that film fellow, is she?â Iâve found out it was Blake, she meant. Heâs employed with the Lemville Studios, you know. Josie has nothing to go upon except a belief that Ruby was rather keen on him.â

âVery promising, Harper, very promising.â

âNot so good as it sounds, sir. Basil Blake was at a party at the studios that night. You know the sort of thing. Starts at eight with cocktails and goes on and on until the airâs too thick to see through and everyone passes out. According to Inspector Slack, whoâs questioned him, he left the show round about midnight. At midnight Ruby Keene was dead.â

âAnyone bear out his statement?â

âMost of them, I gather, sir, were ratherâerâfar gone. Theâerâyoung woman now at the bungalowâMiss Dinah Leeâsays his statement is correct.â

âDoesnât mean a thing!â

âNo, sir, probably not. Statements taken from other members of the party bear Mr. Blakeâs statement out on the whole, though ideas as to time are somewhat vague.â

âWhere are these studios?â

âLemville, sir, thirty miles southwest of London.â

âHâmâabout the same distance from here?â

âYes, sir.â

Colonel Melchett rubbed his nose. He said in a rather dissatisfied tone:

âWell, it looks as though we could wash him out.â

âI think so, sir. There is no evidence that he was seriously attracted by Ruby Keene. In factââSuperintendent Harper coughed primlyââhe seems fully occupied with his own young lady.â

Melchett said:

âWell, we are left with âX,â an unknown murdererâso unknown Slack canât find a trace of him! Or Jeffersonâs son-in-law, who might have wanted to kill the girlâbut didnât have a chance to do so. Daughter-in-law ditto. Or George Bartlett, who has no alibiâbut unfortunately no motive either. Or with young Blake, who has an alibi and no motive. And thatâs the lot! No, stop, I suppose we ought to consider the dancing fellowâRaymond Starr. After all, he saw a lot of the girl.â

Harper said slowly:

âCanât believe he took much interest in herâor else heâs a thundering good actor. And, for all practical purposes, heâs got an alibi too. He was more or less in view from twenty minutes to eleven until midnight, dancing with various partners. I donât see that we can make a case against him.â

âIn fact,â said Colonel Melchett, âwe canât make a case against anybody.â

âGeorge Bartlettâs our best hope. If we could only hit on a motive.â

âYouâve had him looked up?â

âYes, sir. Only child. Coddled by his mother. Came into a good deal of money on her death a year ago. Getting through it fast. Weak rather than vicious.â

âMay be mental,â said Melchett hopefully.

Superintendent Harper nodded. He said:

âHas it struck you, sirâthat that may be the explanation of the whole case?â

âCriminal lunatic, you mean?â

âYes, sir. One of those fellows who go about strangling young girls. Doctors have a long name for it.â

âThat would solve all our difficulties,â said Melchett.

âThereâs only one thing I donât like about it,â said Superintendent Harper.

âWhat?â

âItâs too easy.â

âHâmâyesâperhaps. So, as I said at the beginning where are we?â

âNowhere, sir,â said Superintendent Harper.

Twelve

I

Conway Jefferson stirred in his sleep and stretched. His arms were flung out, long, powerful arms into which all the strength of his body seemed to be concentrated since his accident.

Through the curtains the morning light glowed softly.

Conway Jefferson smiled to himself. Always, after a night of rest, he woke like this, happy, refreshed, his deep vitality renewed. Another day!

So for a minute he lay. Then he pressed the special bell by his hand. And suddenly a wave of remembrance swept over him.

Even as Edwards, deft and quiet-footed, entered the room, a groan was wrung from his master.

Edwards paused with his hand on the curtains. He said: âYouâre not in pain, sir?â

Conway Jefferson said harshly:

âNo. Go on, pull âem.â

The clear light flooded the room. Edwards, understanding, did not glance at his master.

His face grim, Conway Jefferson lay remembering and thinking. Before his eyes he saw again the pretty, vapid face of Ruby. Only in his mind he did not use the adjective vapid. Last night he would have said innocent. A naÃ¯ve, innocent child! And now?

A great weariness came over Conway Jefferson. He closed his eyes. He murmured below his breath:

âMargaretâ¦.â

It was the name of his dead wifeâ¦.

II

âI like your friend,â said Adelaide Jefferson to Mrs. Bantry.

The two women were sitting on the terrace.

âJane Marpleâs a very remarkable woman,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âSheâs nice too,â said Addie, smiling.

âPeople call her a scandalmonger,â said Mrs. Bantry, âbut she isnât really.â

âJust a low opinion of human nature?â

âYou could call it that.â

âItâs rather refreshing,â said Adelaide Jefferson, âafter having had too much of the other thing.â

Mrs. Bantry looked at her sharply.

Addie explained herself.

âSo much high-thinkingâidealization of an unworthy object!â

âYou mean Ruby Keene?â

Addie nodded.

âI donât want to be horrid about her. There wasnât any harm in her. Poor little rat, she had to fight for what she wanted. She wasnât bad. Common and rather silly and quite good-natured, but a decided little gold-digger. I donât think she schemed or planned. It was just that she was quick to take advantage of a possibility. And she knew just how to appeal to an elderly man who wasâlonely.â

âI suppose,â said Mrs. Bantry thoughtfully, âthat Conway was lonely?â

Addie moved restlessly. She said:

âHe wasâthis summer.â She paused and then burst out: âMark will have it that it was all my fault. Perhaps it was, I donât know.â

She was silent for a minute, then, impelled by some need to talk, she went on speaking in a difficult, almost reluctant way.

âIâIâve had such an odd sort of life. Mike Carmody, my first husband, died so soon after we were marriedâitâit knocked me out. Peter, as you know, was born after his death. Frank Jefferson was Mikeâs great friend. So I came to see a lot of him. He was Peterâs godfatherâMike had wanted that. I got very fond of himâandâoh! sorry for him too.â

âSorry?â queried Mrs. Bantry with interest.

âYes, just that. It sounds odd. Frank had always had everything he wanted. His father and his mother couldnât have been nicer to him. And yetâhow can I say it?âyou see, old Mr. Jeffersonâs personality is so strong. If you live with it, you canât somehow have a personality of your own. Frank felt that.

âWhen we were married he was very happyâwonderfully so. Mr. Jefferson was very generous. He settled a large sum of money on Frankâsaid he wanted his children to be independent and not have to wait for his death. It was so nice of himâso generous. But it was much too sudden. He ought really to have accustomed Frank to independence little by little.

âIt went to Frankâs head. He wanted to be as good a man as his father, as clever about money and business, as far-seeing and successful. And, of course, he wasnât. He didnât exactly speculate with the money, but he invested in the wrong things at the wrong time. Itâs frightening, you know, how soon money goes if youâre not clever about it. The more Frank dropped, the more eager he was to get it back by some clever deal. So things went from bad to worse.â

âBut, my dear,â said Mrs. Bantry, âcouldnât Conway have advised him?â

âHe didnât want to be advised. The one thing he wanted was to do well on his own. Thatâs why we never let Mr. Jefferson know. When Frank died there was very little leftâonly a tiny income for me. And IâI didnât let his father know either. You seeââ

She turned abruptly.

âIt would have felt like betraying Frank to him. Frank would have hated it so. Mr. Jefferson was ill for a long time. When he got well he assumed that I was a very-well-off widow. Iâve never undeceived him. Itâs been a point of honour. He knows Iâm very careful about moneyâbut he approves of that, thinks Iâm a thrifty sort of woman. And, of course, Peter and I have lived with him practically ever since, and heâs paid for all our living expenses. So Iâve never had to worry.â

She said slowly:

âWeâve been like a family all these yearsâonlyâonlyâyou see (or donât you see?) Iâve never been Frankâs widow to himâIâve been Frankâs wife.â

Mrs. Bantry grasped the implication.

âYou mean heâs never accepted their deaths?â

âNo. Heâs been wonderful. But heâs conquered his own terrible tragedy by refusing to recognize death. Mark is Rosamundâs husband and Iâm Frankâs wifeâand though Frank and Rosamund arenât exactly here with usâthey are still existent.â

Mrs. Bantry said softly:

âItâs a wonderful triumph of faith.â

âI know. Weâve gone on, year after year. But suddenlyâthis summerâsomething went wrong in me. I feltâI felt rebellious. Itâs an awful thing to say, but I didnât want to think of Frank anymore! All that was overâmy love and companionship with him, and my grief when he died. It was something that had been and wasnât any longer.

âItâs awfully hard to describe. Itâs like wanting to wipe the slate clean and start again. I wanted to be meâAddie, still reasonably young and strong and able to play games and swim and danceâjust a person. Even Hugoâ(you know Hugo McLean?) heâs a dear and wants to marry me, but, of course, Iâve never really thought of itâbut this summer I did begin to think of itânot seriouslyâonly vaguelyâ¦.â

She stopped and shook her head.

âAnd so I suppose itâs true. I neglected Jeff. I donât mean really neglected him, but my mind and thoughts werenât with him. When Ruby, as I saw, amused him, I was rather glad. It left me freer to go and do my own things. I never dreamedâof course I never dreamedâthat he would be soâsoâinfatuated by her!â

Mrs. Bantry asked:

âAnd when you did find out?â

âI was dumbfoundedâabsolutely dumbfounded! And, Iâm afraid, angry too.â

âIâd have been angry,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âThere was Peter, you see. Peterâs whole future depends on Jeff. Jeff practically looked on him as a grandson, or so I thought, but, of course, he wasnât a grandson. He was no relation at all. And to think that he was going to beâdisinherited!â Her firm, well-shaped hands shook a little where they lay in her lap. âFor thatâs what it felt likeâand for a vulgar, gold-digging little simpletonâOh! I could have killed her!â

She stopped, stricken. Her beautiful hazel eyes met Mrs. Bantryâs in a pleading horror. She said:

âWhat an awful thing to say!â

Hugo McLean, coming quietly up behind them, asked:

âWhatâs an awful thing to say?â

âSit down, Hugo. You know Mrs. Bantry, donât you?â

McLean had already greeted the older lady. He said now in a low, persevering way:

âWhat was an awful thing to say?â

Addie Jefferson said:

âThat Iâd like to have killed Ruby Keene.â

Hugo McLean reflected a minute or two. Then he said:

âNo, I wouldnât say that if I were you. Might be misunderstood.â

His eyesâsteady, reflective, grey eyesâlooked at her meaningly.

He said:

âYouâve got to watch your step, Addie.â

There was a warning in his voice.

III

When Miss Marple came out of the hotel and joined Mrs. Bantry a few minutes later, Hugo McLean and Adelaide Jefferson were walking down the path to the sea together.

Seating herself, Miss Marple remarked:

âHe seems very devoted.â

âHeâs been devoted for years! One of those men.â

âI know. Like Major Bury. He hung round an Anglo-Indian widow for quite ten years. A joke among her friends! In the end she gave inâbut unfortunately ten days before they were to have been married she ran away with the chauffeur! Such a nice woman, too, and usually so well balanced.â

âPeople do do very odd things,â agreed Mrs. Bantry. âI wish youâd been here just now, Jane. Addie Jefferson was telling me all about herselfâhow her husband went through all his money but they never let Mr. Jefferson know. And then, this summer, things felt different to herââ

Miss Marple nodded.

âYes. She rebelled, I suppose, against being made to live in the past? After all, thereâs a time for everything. You canât sit in the house with the blinds down forever. I suppose Mrs. Jefferson just pulled them up and took off her widowâs weeds, and her father-in-law, of course, didnât like it. Felt left out in the cold, though I donât suppose for a minute he realized who put her up to it. Still, he certainly wouldnât like it. And so, of course, like old Mr. Badger when his wife took up Spiritualism, he was just ripe for what happened. Any fairly nice-looking young girl who listened prettily would have done.â

âDo you think,â said Mrs. Bantry, âthat that cousin, Josie, got her down here deliberatelyâthat it was a family plot?â

Miss Marple shook her head.

âNo, I donât think so at all. I donât think Josie has the kind of mind that could foresee peopleâs reactions. Sheâs rather dense in that way. Sheâs got one of those shrewd, limited, practical minds that never do foresee the future and are usually astonished by it.â

âIt seems to have taken everyone by surprise,â said Mrs. Bantry. âAddieâand Mark Gaskell too, apparently.â

Miss Marple smiled.

âI dare say he had his own fish to fry. A bold fellow with a roving eye! Not the man to go on being a sorrowing widower for years, no matter how fond he may have been of his wife. I should think they were both restless under old Mr. Jeffersonâs yoke of perpetual remembrance.

âOnly,â added Miss Marple cynically, âitâs easier for gentlemen, of course.â

IV

At that very moment Mark was confirming this judgment on himself in a talk with Sir Henry Clithering.

With characteristic candour Mark had gone straight to the heart of things.

âItâs just dawned on me,â he said, âthat Iâm Favourite Suspect No. I to the police! Theyâve been delving into my financial troubles. Iâm broke, you know, or very nearly. If dear old Jeff dies according to schedule in a month or two, and Addie and I divide the dibs also according to schedule, all will be well. Matter of fact, I owe rather a lot â¦ If the crash comes it will be a big one! If I can stave it off, it will be the other way roundâI shall come out on top and be a very rich man.â

Sir Henry Clithering said:

âYouâre a gambler, Mark.â

âAlways have been. Risk everythingâthatâs my motto! Yes, itâs a lucky thing for me that somebody strangled that poor kid. I didnât do it. Iâm not a strangler. I donât really think I could ever murder anybody. Iâm too easygoing. But I donât suppose I can ask the police to believe that! I must look to them like the answer to the criminal investigatorâs prayer! I had a motive, was on the spot, I am not burdened with high moral scruples! I canât imagine why Iâm not in the jug already! That Superintendentâs got a very nasty eye.â

âYouâve got that useful thing, an alibi.â

âAn alibi is the fishiest thing on Godâs earth! No innocent person ever has an alibi! Besides, it all depends on the time of death, or something like that, and you may be sure if three doctors say the girl was killed at midnight, at least six will be found who will swear positively that she was killed at five in the morningâand whereâs my alibi then?â

âAt any rate, you are able to joke about it.â

âDamned bad taste, isnât it?â said Mark cheerfully. âActually, Iâm rather scared. One isâwith murder! And donât think Iâm not sorry for old Jeff. I am. But itâs better this wayâbad as the shock wasâthan if heâd found her out.â

âWhat do you mean, found her out?â

Mark winked.

âWhere did she go off to last night? Iâll lay you any odds you like she went to meet a man. Jeff wouldnât have liked that. He wouldnât have liked it at all. If heâd found she was deceiving himâthat she wasnât the prattling little innocent she seemedâwellâmy father-in-law is an odd man. Heâs a man of great self-control, but that self-control can snap. And thenâlook out!â

Sir Henry glanced at him curiously.

âAre you fond of him or not?â

âIâm very fond of himâand at the same time I resent him. Iâll try and explain. Conway Jefferson is a man who likes to control his surroundings. Heâs a benevolent despot, kind, generous, and affectionateâbut his is the tune, and the others dance to his piping.â

Mark Gaskell paused.

âI loved my wife. I shall never feel the same for anyone else. Rosamund was sunshine and laughter and flowers, and when she was killed I felt just like a man in the ring whoâs had a knock-out blow. But the refereeâs been counting a good long time now. Iâm a man, after all. I like women. I donât want to marry againânot in the least. Well, thatâs all right. Iâve had to be discreetâbut Iâve had my good times all right. Poor Addie hasnât. Addieâs a really nice woman. Sheâs the kind of woman men want to marry, not to sleep with. Give her half a chance and she would marry againâand be very happy and make the chap happy too. But old Jeff saw her always as Frankâs wifeâand hypnotized her into seeing herself like that. He doesnât know it, but weâve been in prison. I broke out, on the quiet, a long time ago. Addie broke out this summerâand it gave him a shock. It split up his world. ResultâRuby Keene.â

Irrepressibly he sang:

âBut she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

âCome and have a drink, Clithering.â

It was hardly surprising, Sir Henry reflected, that Mark Gaskell should be an object of suspicion to the police.

Thirteen

I

Dr. Metcalf was one of the best-known physicians in Danemouth. He had no aggressive bedside manner, but his presence in the sick room had an invariably cheering effect. He was middle-aged, with a quiet pleasant voice.

He listened carefully to Superintendent Harper and replied to his questions with gentle precision.

Harper said:

âThen I can take it, Doctor Metcalf, that what I was told by Mrs. Jefferson was substantially correct?â

âYes, Mr. Jeffersonâs health is in a precarious state. For several years now the man has been driving himself ruthlessly. In his determination to live like other men, he has lived at a far greater pace than the normal man of his age. He has refused to rest, to take things easy, to go slowâor any of the other phrases with which I and his other medical advisers have tendered our opinion. The result is that the man is an overworked engine. Heart, lungs, blood pressureâtheyâre all overstrained.â

âYou say Mr. Jefferson has absolutely refused to listen?â

âYes. I donât know that I blame him. Itâs not what I say to my patients, Superintendent, but a man may as well wear out as rust out. A lot of my colleagues do that, and take it from me itâs not a bad way. In a place like Danemouth one sees most of the other thing: invalids clinging to life, terrified of over-exerting themselves, terrified of a breath of draughty air, of a stray germ, of an injudicious meal!â

âI expect thatâs true enough,â said Superintendent Harper. âWhat it amounts to, then, is this: Conway Jefferson is strong enough, physically speakingâor, I suppose I mean, muscularly speaking. Just what can he do in the active line, by the way?â

âHe has immense strength in his arms and shoulders. He was a powerful man before his accident. He is extremely dexterous in his handling of his wheeled chair, and with the aid of crutches he can move himself about a roomâfrom his bed to the chair, for instance.â

âIsnât it possible for a man injured as Mr. Jefferson was to have artificial legs?â

âNot in his case. There was a spine injury.â

âI see. Let me sum up again. Jefferson is strong and fit in the muscular sense. He feels well and all that?â

Metcalf nodded.

âBut his heart is in a bad condition. Any overstrain or exertion, or a shock or a sudden fright, and he might pop off. Is that it?â

âMore or less. Over-exertion is killing him slowly, because he wonât give in when he feels tired. That aggravates the cardiac condition. It is unlikely that exertion would kill him suddenly. But a sudden shock or fright might easily do so. That is why I expressly warned his family.â

Superintendent Harper said slowly:

âBut in actual fact a shock didnât kill him. I mean, doctor, that there couldnât have been a much worse shock than this business, and heâs still alive?â

Dr. Metcalf shrugged his shoulders.

âI know. But if youâd had my experience, Superintendent, youâd know that case history shows the impossibility of prognosticating accurately. People who ought to die of shock and exposure donât die of shock and exposure, etc., etc. The human frame is tougher than one can imagine possible. Moreover, in my experience, a physical shock is more often fatal than a mental shock. In plain language, a door banging suddenly would be more likely to kill Mr. Jefferson than the discovery that a girl he was fond of had died in a particularly horrible manner.â

âWhy is that, I wonder?â

âThe breaking of a piece of bad news nearly always sets up a defence reaction. It numbs the recipient. They are unableâat firstâto take it in. Full realization takes a little time. But the banged door, someone jumping out of a cupboard, the sudden onslaught of a motor as you cross a roadâall those things are immediate in their action. The heart gives a terrified leapâto put it in laymanâs language.â

Superintendent Harper said slowly:

âBut as far as anyone would know, Mr. Jeffersonâs death might easily have been caused by the shock of the girlâs death?â

âOh, easily.â The doctor looked curiously at the other. âYou donât thinkââ

âI donât know what I think,â said Superintendent Harper vexedly.

II

âBut youâll admit, sir, that the two things would fit in very prettily together,â he said a little later to Sir Henry Clithering. âKill two birds with one stone. First the girlâand the fact of her death takes off Mr. Jefferson tooâbefore heâs had any opportunity of altering his will.â

âDo you think he will alter it?â

âYouâd be more likely to know that, sir, than I would. What do you say?â

âI donât know. Before Ruby Keene came on the scene I happen to know that he had left his money between Mark Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson. I donât see why he should now change his mind about that. But of course he might do so. Might leave it to a Catsâ Home, or to subsidize young professional dancers.â

Superintendent Harper agreed.

âYou never know what bee a man is going to get in his bonnetâespecially when he doesnât feel thereâs any moral obligation in the disposal of his fortune. No blood relations in this case.â

Sir Henry said:

âHe is fond of the boyâof young Peter.â

âDâyou think he regards him as a grandson? Youâd know that better than I would, sir.â

Sir Henry said slowly:

âNo, I donât think so.â

âThereâs another thing Iâd like to ask you, sir. Itâs a thing I canât judge for myself. But theyâre friends of yours and so youâd know. Iâd like very much to know just how fond Mr. Jefferson is of Mr. Gaskell and young Mrs. Jefferson.â

Sir Henry frowned.

âIâm not sure if I understand you, Superintendent?â

âWell, itâs this way, sir. How fond is he of them as personsâapart from his relationship to them?â

âAh, I see what you mean.â

âYes, sir. Nobody doubts that he was very attached to them bothâbut he was attached to them, as I see it, because they were, respectively, the husband and the wife of his daughter and his son. But supposing, for instance, one of them had married again?â

Sir Henry reflected. He said:

âItâs an interesting point you raise there. I donât know. Iâm inclined to suspectâthis is a mere opinionâthat it would have altered his attitude a good deal. He would have wished them well, borne no rancour, but I think, yes, I rather think that he would have taken very little more interest in them.â

âIn both cases, sir?â

âI think so, yes. In Mr. Gaskellâs, almost certainly, and I rather think in Mrs. Jeffersonâs also, but thatâs not nearly so certain. I think he was fond of her for her own sake.â

âSex would have something to do with that,â said Superintendent Harper sapiently. âEasier for him to look on her as a daughter than to look on Mr. Gaskell as a son. It works both ways. Women accept a son-in-law as one of the family easily enough, but there arenât many times when a woman looks on her sonâs wife as a daughter.â

Superintendent Harper went on:

âMind if we walk along this path, sir, to the tennis court? I see Miss Marpleâs sitting there. I want to ask her to do something for me. As a matter of fact I want to rope you both in.â

âIn what way, Superintendent?â

âTo get at stuff that I canât get at myself. I want you to tackle Edwards for me, sir.â

âEdwards? What do you want from him?â

âEverything you can think of! Everything he knows and what he thinks! About the relations between the various members of the family, his angle on the Ruby Keene business. Inside stuff. He knows better than anyone the state of affairsâyou bet he does! And he wouldnât tell me. But heâll tell you. And something might turn up from it. That is, of course, if you donât object?â

Sir Henry said grimly:

âI donât object. Iâve been sent for, urgently, to get at the truth. I mean to do my utmost.â

He added:

âHow do you want Miss Marple to help you?â

âWith some girls. Some of those Girl Guides. Weâve rounded up half a dozen or so, the ones who were most friendly with Pamela Reeves. Itâs possible that they may know something. You see, Iâve been thinking. It seems to me that if that girl was really going to Woolworthâs she would have tried to persuade one of the other girls to go with her. Girls usually like to shop with someone.â

âYes, I think thatâs true.â

âSo I think itâs possible that Woolworthâs was only an excuse. I want to know where the girl was really going. She may have let slip something. If so, I feel Miss Marpleâs the person to get it out of these girls. Iâd say she knows a thing or two about girlsâmore than I do. And, anyway, theyâd be scared of the police.â

âIt sounds to me the kind of village domestic problem that is right up Miss Marpleâs street. Sheâs very sharp, you know.â

The Superintendent smiled. He said:

âIâll say youâre right. Nothing much gets past her.â Miss Marple looked up at their approach and welcomed them eagerly. She listened to the Superintendentâs request and at once acquiesced.

âI should like to help you very much, Superintendent, and I think that perhaps I could be of some use. What with the Sunday School, you know, and the Brownies, and our Guides, and the Orphanage quite nearâIâm on the committee, you know, and often run in to have a little talk with Matronâand then servantsâI usually have very young maids. Oh, yes, Iâve quite a lot of experience in when a girl is speaking the truth and when she is holding something back.â

âIn fact, youâre an expert,â said Sir Henry.

Miss Marple flashed him a reproachful glance and said:

âOh, please donât laugh at me, Sir Henry.â

âI shouldnât dream of laughing at you. Youâve had the laugh of me too many times.â

âOne does see so much evil in a village,â murmured Miss Marple in an explanatory voice.

âBy the way,â said Sir Henry, âIâve cleared up one point you asked me about. The Superintendent tells me that there were nail clippings in Rubyâs wastepaper basket.â

Miss Marple said thoughtfully:

âThere were? Then thatâs thatâ¦.â

âWhy did you want to know, Miss Marple?â asked the Superintendent.

Miss Marple said:

âIt was one of the things thatâwell, that seemed wrong when I looked at the body. The hands were wrong, somehow, and I couldnât at first think why. Then I realized that girls who are very much made-up, and all that, usually have very long fingernails. Of course, I know that girls everywhere do bite their nailsâitâs one of those habits that are very hard to break oneself of. But vanity often does a lot to help. Still, I presumed that this girl hadnât cured herself. And then the little boyâPeter, you knowâhe said something which showed that her nails had been long, only she caught one and broke it. So then, of course, she might have trimmed off the rest to make an even appearance, and I asked about clippings and Sir Henry said heâd find out.â

Sir Henry remarked:

âYou said just now, âone of the things that seemed wrong when you looked at the body.â Was there something else?â

Miss Marple nodded vigorously.

âOh yes!â she said. âThere was the dress. The dress was all wrong.â

Both men looked at her curiously.

âNow why?â said Sir Henry.

âWell, you see, it was an old dress. Josie said so, definitely, and I could see for myself that it was shabby and rather worn. Now thatâs all wrong.â

âI donât see why.â

Miss Marple got a little pink.

âWell, the idea is, isnât it, that Ruby Keene changed her dress and went off to meet someone on whom she presumably had what my young nephews call a âcrushâ?â

The Superintendentâs eyes twinkled a little.

âThatâs the theory. Sheâd got a date with someoneâa boy friend, as the saying goes.â

âThen why,â demanded Miss Marple, âwas she wearing an old dress?â

The Superintendent scratched his head thoughtfully. He said:

âI see your point. You think sheâd wear a new one?â

âI think sheâd wear her best dress. Girls do.â

Sir Henry interposed.

âYes, but look here, Miss Marple. Suppose she was going outside to this rendezvous. Going in an open car, perhaps, or walking in some rough going. Then sheâd not want to risk messing a new frock and sheâd put on an old one.â

âThat would be the sensible thing to do,â agreed the Superintendent.

Miss Marple turned on him. She spoke with animation.

âThe sensible thing to do would be to change into trousers and a pullover, or into tweeds. That, of course (I donât want to be snobbish, but Iâm afraid itâs unavoidable), thatâs what a girl ofâof our class would do.

âA well-bred girl,â continued Miss Marple, warming to her subject, âis always very particular to wear the right clothes for the right occasion. I mean, however hot the day was, a well-bred girl would never turn up at a point-to-point in a silk flowered frock.â

âAnd the correct wear to meet a lover?â demanded Sir Henry.

âIf she were meeting him inside the hotel or somewhere where evening dress was worn, sheâd wear her best evening frock, of courseâbut outside sheâd feel sheâd look ridiculous in evening dress and sheâd wear her most attractive sportswear.â

âGranted, Fashion Queen, but the girl Rubyââ

Miss Marple said:

âRuby, of course, wasnâtâwell, to put it bluntlyâRuby wasnât a lady. She belonged to the class that wear their best clothes however unsuitable to the occasion. Last year, you know, we had a picnic outing at Scrantor Rocks. Youâd be surprised at the unsuitable clothes the girls wore. Foulard dresses and patent shoes and quite elaborate hats, some of them. For climbing about over rocks and in gorse and heather. And the young men in their best suits. Of course, hikingâs different again. Thatâs practically a uniformâand girls donât seem to realize that shorts are very unbecoming unless they are very slender.â

The Superintendent said slowly:

âAnd you think that Ruby Keeneâ?â

âI think that sheâd have kept on the frock she was wearingâher best pink one. Sheâd only have changed it if sheâd had something newer still.â

Superintendent Harper said:

âAnd whatâs your explanation, Miss Marple?â

Miss Marple said:

âI havenât got oneâyet. But I canât help feeling that itâs importantâ¦.â

III

Inside the wire cage, the tennis lesson that Raymond Starr was giving had come to an end.

A stout middle-aged woman uttered a few appreciative squeaks, picked up a sky-blue cardigan and went off towards the hotel.

Raymond called out a few gay words after her.

Then he turned towards the bench where the three onlookers were sitting. The balls dangled in a net in his hand, his racquet was under one arm. The gay, laughing expression on his face was wiped off as though by a sponge from a slate. He looked tired and worried.

Coming towards them, he said: âThatâs over.â

Then the smile broke out again, that charming, boyish, expressive smile that went so harmoniously with his suntanned face and dark lithe grace.

Sir Henry found himself wondering how old the man was. Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five? It was impossible to say.

Raymond said, shaking his head a little:

âSheâll never be able to play, you know.â

âAll this must be very boring for you,â said Miss Marple.

Raymond said simply:

âIt is, sometimes. Especially at the end of the summer. For a time the thought of the pay buoys you up, but even that fails to stimulate imagination in the end!â

Superintendent Harper got up. He said abruptly:

âIâll call for you in half an hourâs time, Miss Marple, if that will be all right?â

âPerfectly, thank you. I shall be ready.â

Harper went off. Raymond stood looking after him. Then he said: âMind if I sit here for a bit?â

âDo,â said Sir Henry. âHave a cigarette?â He offered his case, wondering as he did so why he had a slight feeling of prejudice against Raymond Starr. Was it simply because he was a professional tennis coach and dancer? If so, it wasnât the tennisâit was the dancing. The English, Sir Henry decided, had a distrust for any man who danced too well! This fellow moved with too much grace! RamonâRaymondâwhich was his name? Abruptly, he asked the question.

The other seemed amused.

âRamon was my original professional name. Ramon and JosieâSpanish effect, you know. Then there was rather a prejudice against foreignersâso I became Raymondâvery Britishââ

Miss Marple said:

âAnd is your real name something quite different?â

He smiled at her.

âActually my real name is Ramon. I had an Argentine grandmother, you seeââ (And that accounts for that swing from the hips, thought Sir Henry parenthetically.) âBut my first name is Thomas. Painfully prosaic.â

He turned to Sir Henry.

âYou come from Devonshire, donât you, sir? From Stane? My people lived down that way. At Alsmonston.â

Sir Henryâs face lit up.

âAre you one of the Alsmonston Starrs? I didnât realize that.â

âNoâI donât suppose you would.â

There was a slight bitterness in his voice.

Sir Henry said awkwardly:

âBad luckâerâall that.â

âThe place being sold up after it had been in the family for three hundred years? Yes, it was rather. Still, our kind have to go, I suppose. Weâve outlived our usefulness. My elder brother went to New York. Heâs in publishingâdoing well. The rest of us are scattered up and down the earth. Iâll say itâs hard to get a job nowadays when youâve nothing to say for yourself except that youâve had a public-school education! Sometimes, if youâre lucky, you get taken on as a reception clerk at an hotel. The tie and the manner are an asset there. The only job I could get was showman in a plumbing establishment. Selling superb peach and lemon-coloured porcelain baths. Enormous showrooms, but as I never knew the price of the damned things or how soon we could deliver themâI got fired.

âThe only things I could do were dance and play tennis. I got taken on at an hotel on the Riviera. Good pickings there. I suppose I was doing well. Then I overheard an old Colonel, real old Colonel, incredibly ancient, British to the backbone and always talking about Poona. He went up to the manager and said at the top of his voice:

ââWhereâs the gigolo? I want to get hold of the gigolo. My wife and daughter want to dance, yer know. Where is the feller? What does he sting yer for? Itâs the gigolo I want.ââ

Raymond went on:

âSilly to mindâbut I did. I chucked it. Came here. Less pay but pleasanter work. Mostly teaching tennis to rotund women who will never, never, never be able to play. That and dancing with the neglected wallflower daughters of rich clients. Oh well, itâs life, I suppose. Excuse todayâs hard-luck story!â

He laughed. His teeth flashed out white, his eyes crinkled up at the corners. He looked suddenly healthy and happy and very much alive.

Sir Henry said:

âIâm glad to have a chat with you. Iâve been wanting to talk with you.â

âAbout Ruby Keene? I canât help you, you know. I donât know who killed her. I knew very little about her. She didnât confide in me.â

Miss Marple said: âDid you like her?â

âNot particularly. I didnât dislike her.â

His voice was careless, uninterested.

Sir Henry said:

âSo youâve no suggestions to offer?â

âIâm afraid not â¦ Iâd have told Harper if I had. It just seems to me one of those things! Petty, sordid little crimeâno clues, no motive.â

âTwo people had a motive,â said Miss Marple.

Sir Henry looked at her sharply.

âReally?â Raymond looked surprised.

Miss Marple looked insistently at Sir Henry and he said rather unwillingly:

âHer death probably benefits Mrs. Jefferson and Mr. Gaskell to the amount of fifty thousand pounds.â

âWhat?â Raymond looked really startledâmore than startledâupset. âOh, but thatâs absurdâabsolutely absurdâMrs. Jeffersonâneither of themâcould have had anything to do with it. It would be incredible to think of such a thing.â

Miss Marple coughed. She said gently:

âIâm afraid, you know, youâre rather an idealist.â

âI?â he laughed. âNot me! Iâm a hard-boiled cynic.â

âMoney,â said Miss Marple, âis a very powerful motive.â

âPerhaps,â Raymond said hotly. âBut that either of those two would strangle a girl in cold bloodââ He shook his head.

Then he got up.

âHereâs Mrs. Jefferson now. Come for her lesson. Sheâs late.â His voice sounded amused. âTen minutes late!â

Adelaide Jefferson and Hugo McLean were walking rapidly down the path towards them.

With a smiling apology for her lateness, Addie Jefferson went on to the court. McLean sat down on the bench. After a polite inquiry whether Miss Marple minded a pipe, he lit it and puffed for some minutes in silence, watching critically the two white figures about the tennis court.

He said at last:

âCanât see what Addie wants to have lessons for. Have a game, yes. No one enjoys it better than I do. But why lessons?â

âWants to improve her game,â said Sir Henry.

âSheâs not a bad player,â said Hugo. âGood enough, at all events. Dash it all, she isnât aiming to play at Wimbledon.â

He was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

âWho is this Raymond fellow? Where do they come from, these pros? Fellow looks like a dago to me.â

âHeâs one of the Devonshire Starrs,â said Sir Henry.

âWhat? Not really?â

Sir Henry nodded. It was clear that this news was unpleasing to Hugo McLean. He scowled more than ever.

He said: âDonât know why Addie sent for me. She seems not to have turned a hair over this business! Never looked better. Why send for me?â

Sir Henry asked with some curiosity:

âWhen did she send for you?â

âOhâerâwhen all this happened.â

âHow did you hear? Telephone or telegram?â

âTelegram.â

âAs a matter of curiosity, when was it sent off?â

âWellâI donât know exactly.â

âWhat time did you receive it?â

âI didnât exactly receive it. It was telephoned on to meâas a matter of fact.â

âWhy, where were you?â

âFact is, Iâd left London the afternoon before. I was staying at Danebury Head.â

âWhatâquite near here?â

âYes, rather funny, wasnât it? Got the message when I got in from a round of golf and came over here at once.â

Miss Marple gazed at him thoughtfully. He looked hot and uncomfortable. She said: âIâve heard itâs very pleasant at Danebury Head, and not very expensive.â

âNo, itâs not expensive. I couldnât afford it if it was. Itâs a nice little place.â

âWe must drive over there one day,â said Miss Marple.

âEh? What? Ohâerâyes, I should.â He got up. âBetter take some exerciseâget an appetite.â

He walked away stiffly.

âWomen,â said Sir Henry, âtreat their devoted admirers very badly.â

Miss Marple smiled but made no answer.

âDoes he strike you as rather a dull dog?â asked Sir Henry. âIâd be interested to know.â

âA little limited in his ideas, perhaps,â said Miss Marple. âBut with possibilities, I thinkâoh, definitely possibilities.â

Sir Henry in his turn got up.

âItâs time for me to go and do my stuff. I see Mrs. Bantry is on her way to keep you company.â

IV

Mrs. Bantry arrived breathless and sat down with a gasp.

She said:

âIâve been talking to chambermaids. But it isnât any good. I havenât found out a thing more! Do you think that girl can really have been carrying on with someone without everybody in the hotel knowing all about it?â

âThatâs a very interesting point, dear. I should say, definitely not. Somebody knows, depend upon it, if itâs true! But she must have been very clever about it.â

Mrs. Bantryâs attention had strayed to the tennis court. She said approvingly:

âAddieâs tennis is coming on a lot. Attractive young man, that tennis pro. Addieâs looking quite nice-looking. Sheâs still an attractive womanâI shouldnât be at all surprised if she married again.â

âSheâll be a rich woman, too, when Mr. Jefferson dies,â said Miss Marple.

âOh, donât always have such a nasty mind, Jane! Why havenât you solved this mystery yet? We donât seem to be getting on at all. I thought youâd know at once.â Mrs. Bantryâs tone held reproach.

âNo, no, dear. I didnât know at onceânot for some time.â

Mrs. Bantry turned startled and incredulous eyes on her.

âYou mean you know now who killed Ruby Keene?â

âOh yes,â said Miss Marple, âI know that!â

âBut Jane, who is it? Tell me at once.â

Miss Marple shook her head very firmly and pursed up her lips.

âIâm sorry, Dolly, but that wouldnât do at all.â

âWhy wouldnât it do?â

âBecause youâre so indiscreet. You would go round telling everyoneâor, if you didnât tell, youâd hint.â

âNo, I wouldnât. I wouldnât tell a soul.â

âPeople who use that phrase are always the last to live up to it. Itâs no good, dear. Thereâs a long way to go yet. A great many things that are quite obscure. You remember when I was so against letting Mrs. Partridge collect for the Red Cross, and I couldnât say why. The reason was that her nose had twitched in just the same way that that maid of mine, Alice, twitched her nose when I sent her out to pay the books. Always paid them a shilling or so short, and said âit could go on to the next weekâs account,â which, of course, was exactly what Mrs. Partridge did, only on a much larger scale. Seventy-five pounds it was she embezzled.â

âNever mind Mrs. Partridge,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âBut I had to explain to you. And if you care Iâll give you a hint. The trouble in this case is that everybody has been much too credulous and believing. You simply cannot afford to believe everything that people tell you. When thereâs anything fishy about, I never believe anyone at all! You see, I know human nature so well.â

Mrs. Bantry was silent for a minute or two. Then she said in a different tone of voice:

âI told you, didnât I, that I didnât see why I shouldnât enjoy myself over this case. A real murder in my own house! The sort of thing that will never happen again.â

âI hope not,â said Miss Marple.

âWell, so do I, really. Once is enough. But itâs my murder, Jane; I want to enjoy myself over it.â

Miss Marple shot a glance at her.

Mrs. Bantry said belligerently:

âDonât you believe that?â

Miss Marple said sweetly:

âOf course, Dolly, if you tell me so.â

âYes, but you never believe what people tell you, do you? Youâve just said so. Well, youâre quite right.â Mrs. Bantryâs voice took on a sudden bitter note. She said: âIâm not altogether a fool. You may think, Jane, that I donât know what theyâre saying all over St. Mary Meadâall over the county! Theyâre saying, one and all, that thereâs no smoke without fire, that if the girl was found in Arthurâs library, then Arthur must know something about it. Theyâre saying that the girl was Arthurâs mistressâthat she was his illegitimate daughterâthat she was blackmailing him. Theyâre saying anything that comes into their damned heads! And it will go on like that! Arthur wonât realize it at firstâhe wonât know whatâs wrong. Heâs such a dear old stupid that heâd never believe people would think things like that about him. Heâll be cold-shouldered and looked at askance (whatever that means!) and it will dawn on him little by little and suddenly heâll be horrified and cut to the soul, and heâll fasten up like a clam and just endure, day after day, in misery.

âItâs because of all thatâs going to happen to him that Iâve come here to ferret out every single thing about it that I can! This murderâs got to be solved! If it isnât, then Arthurâs whole life will be wreckedâand I wonât have that happen. I wonât! I wonât! I wonât!â

She paused for a minute and said:

âI wonât have the dear old boy go through hell for something he didnât do. Thatâs the only reason I came to Danemouth and left him alone at homeâto find out the truth.â

âI know, dear,â said Miss Marple. âThatâs why Iâm here too.â

Fourteen

I

In a quiet hotel room Edwards was listening deferentially to Sir Henry Clithering.

âThere are certain questions I would like to ask you, Edwards, but I want you first to understand quite clearly my position here. I was at one time Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard. I am now retired into private life. Your master sent for me when this tragedy occurred. He begged me to use my skill and experience in order to find out the truth.â

Sir Henry paused.

Edwards, his pale intelligent eyes on the otherâs face, inclined his head. He said: âQuite so, Sir Henry.â

Clithering went on slowly and deliberately:

âIn all police cases there is necessarily a lot of information that is held back. It is held back for various reasonsâbecause it touches on a family skeleton, because it is considered to have no bearing on the case, because it would entail awkwardness and embarrassment to the parties concerned.â

Again Edwards said:

âQuite so, Sir Henry.â

âI expect, Edwards, that by now you appreciate quite clearly the main points of this business. The dead girl was on the point of becoming Mr. Jeffersonâs adopted daughter. Two people had a motive in seeing that this should not happen. Those two people are Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson.â

The valetâs eyes displayed a momentary gleam. He said: âMay I ask if they are under suspicion, sir?â

âThey are in no danger of arrest, if that is what you mean. But the police are bound to be suspicious of them and will continue to be so until the matter is cleared up.â

âAn unpleasant position for them, sir.â

âVery unpleasant. Now to get at the truth one must have all the facts of the case. A lot depends, must depend, on the reactions, the words and gestures, of Mr. Jefferson and his family. How did they feel, what did they show, what things were said? I am asking you, Edwards, for inside informationâthe kind of inside information that only you are likely to have. You know your masterâs moods. From observation of them you probably know what caused them. I am asking this, not as a policeman, but as a friend of Mr. Jeffersonâs. That is to say, if anything you tell me is not, in my opinion, relevant to the case, I shall not pass it on to the police.â

He paused. Edwards said quietly:

âI understand you, sir. You want me to speak quite franklyâto say things that in the ordinary course of events I should not sayâand that, excuse me, sir, you wouldnât dream of listening to.â

Sir Henry said:

âYouâre a very intelligent fellow, Edwards. Thatâs exactly what I do mean.â

Edwards was silent for a minute or two, then he began to speak.

âOf course I know Mr. Jefferson fairly well by now. Iâve been with him quite a number of years. And I see him in his âoff â moments, not only in his âonâ ones. Sometimes, sir, Iâve questioned in my own mind whether itâs good for anyone to fight fate in the way Mr. Jefferson has fought. Itâs taken a terrible toll of him, sir. If, sometimes, he could have given way, been an unhappy, lonely, broken old manâwell, it might have been better for him in the end. But heâs too proud for that! Heâll go down fightingâthatâs his motto.

âBut that sort of thing leads, Sir Henry, to a lot of nervous reaction. He looks a good-tempered gentleman. Iâve seen him in violent rages when he could hardly speak for passion. And the one thing that roused him, sir, was deceitâ¦.â

âAre you saying that for any particular reason, Edwards?â

âYes, sir, I am. You asked me, sir, to speak quite frankly?â

âThat is the idea.â

âWell, then, Sir Henry, in my opinion the young woman that Mr. Jefferson was so taken up with wasnât worth it. She was, to put it bluntly, a common little piece. And she didnât care tuppence for Mr. Jefferson. All that play of affection and gratitude was so much poppycock. I donât say there was any harm in herâbut she wasnât, by a long way, what Mr. Jefferson thought her. It was funny, that, sir, for Mr. Jefferson was a shrewd gentleman; he wasnât often deceived over people. But there, a gentleman isnât himself in his judgment when it comes to a young woman being in question. Young Mrs. Jefferson, you see, whom heâd always depended upon a lot for sympathy, had changed a good deal this summer. He noticed it and he felt it badly. He was fond of her, you see. Mr. Mark he never liked much.â

Sir Henry interjected:

âAnd yet he had him with him constantly?â

âYes, but that was for Miss Rosamundâs sake. Mrs. Gaskell that was. She was the apple of his eye. He adored her. Mr. Mark was Miss Rosamundâs husband. He always thought of him like that.â

âSupposing Mr. Mark had married someone else?â

âMr. Jefferson, sir, would have been furious.â

Sir Henry raised his eyebrows. âAs much as that?â

âHe wouldnât have shown it, but thatâs what it would have been.â

âAnd if Mrs. Jefferson had married again?â

âMr. Jefferson wouldnât have liked that either, sir.â

âPlease go on, Edwards.â

âI was saying, sir, that Mr. Jefferson fell for this young woman. Iâve often seen it happen with the gentlemen Iâve been with. Comes over them like a kind of disease. They want to protect the girl, and shield her, and shower benefits upon herâand nine times out of ten the girl is very well able to look after herself and has a good eye to the main chance.â

âSo you think Ruby Keene was a schemer?â

âWell, Sir Henry, she was quite inexperienced, being so young, but she had the makings of a very fine schemer indeed when sheâd once got well into her swing, so to speak! In another five years sheâd have been an expert at the game!â

Sir Henry said:

âIâm glad to have your opinion of her. Itâs valuable. Now do you recall any incident in which this matter was discussed between Mr. Jefferson and his family?â

âThere was very little discussion, sir. Mr. Jefferson announced what he had in mind and stifled any protests. That is, he shut up Mr. Mark, who was a bit outspoken. Mrs. Jefferson didnât say muchâsheâs a quiet ladyâonly urged him not to do anything in a great hurry.â

Sir Henry nodded.

âAnything else? What was the girlâs attitude?â

With marked distaste the valet said:

âI should describe it, sir, as jubilant.â

âAhâjubilant, you say? You had no reason to believe, Edwards, thatââhe sought about for a phrase suitable to Edwardsââthatâerâher affections were engaged elsewhere?â

âMr. Jefferson was not proposing marriage, sir. He was going to adopt her.â

âCut out the âelsewhereâ and let the question stand.â

The valet said slowly: âThere was one incident, sir. I happened to be a witness of it.â

âThat is gratifying. Tell me.â

âThere is probably nothing in it, sir. It was just that one day the young woman, chancing to open her handbag, a small snapshot fell out. Mr. Jefferson pounced on it and said: âHallo, Kitten, whoâs this, eh?â

âIt was a snapshot, sir, of a young man, a dark young man with rather untidy hair and his tie very badly arranged.

âMiss Keene pretended that she didnât know anything about it. She said: âIâve no idea, Jeffie. No idea at all. I donât know how it could have got into my bag. I didnât put it there!â

âNow, Mr. Jefferson, sir, wasnât quite a fool. That story wasnât good enough. He looked angry, his brows came down heavy, and his voice was gruff when he said:

ââNow then, Kitten, now then. You know who it is right enough.â

âShe changed her tactics quick, sir. Looked frightened. She said: âI do recognize him now. He comes here sometimes and Iâve danced with him. I donât know his name. The silly idiot must have stuffed his photo into my bag one day. These boys are too silly for anything!â She tossed her head and giggled and passed it off. But it wasnât a likely story, was it? And I donât think Mr. Jefferson quite believed it. He looked at her once or twice after that in a sharp way, and sometimes, if sheâd been out, he asked her where sheâd been.â

Sir Henry said: âHave you ever seen the original of the photo about the hotel?â

âNot to my knowledge, sir. Of course, I am not much downstairs in the public departments.â

Sir Henry nodded. He asked a few more questions, but Edwards could tell him nothing more.

II

In the police station at Danemouth, Superintendent Harper was interviewing Jessie Davis, Florence Small, Beatrice Henniker, Mary Price, and Lilian Ridgeway.

They were girls much of an age, differing slightly in mentality. They ranged from âcountyâ to farmersâ and shopkeepersâ daughters. One and all they told the same storyâPamela Reeves had been just the same as usual, she had said nothing to any of them except that she was going to Woolworthâs and would go home by a later bus.

In the corner of Superintendent Harperâs office sat an elderly lady. The girls hardly noticed her. If they did, they may have wondered who she was. She was certainly no police matron. Possibly they assumed that she, like themselves, was a witness to be questioned.

The last girl was shown out. Superintendent Harper wiped his forehead and turned round to look at Miss Marple. His glance was inquiring, but not hopeful.

Miss Marple, however, spoke crisply.

âIâd like to speak to Florence Small.â

The Superintendentâs eyebrows rose, but he nodded and touched a bell. A constable appeared.

Harper said: âFlorence Small.â

The girl reappeared, ushered in by the constable. She was the daughter of a well-to-do farmerâa tall girl with fair hair, a rather foolish mouth, and frightened brown eyes. She was twisting her hands and looked nervous.

Superintendent Harper looked at Miss Marple, who nodded.

The Superintendent got up. He said:

âThis lady will ask you some questions.â

He went out, closing the door behind him.

Florence shot an uneasy glance at Miss Marple. Her eyes looked rather like one of her fatherâs calves.

Miss Marple said: âSit down, Florence.â

Florence Small sat down obediently. Unrecognized by herself, she felt suddenly more at home, less uneasy. The unfamiliar and terrorizing atmosphere of a police station was replaced by something more familiar, the accustomed tone of command of somebody whose business it was to give orders. Miss Marple said:

âYou understand, Florence, that itâs of the utmost importance that everything about poor Pamelaâs doings on the day of her death should be known?â

Florence murmured that she quite understood.

âAnd Iâm sure you want to do your best to help?â

Florenceâs eyes were wary as she said, of course she did.

âTo keep back any piece of information is a very serious offence,â said Miss Marple.

The girlâs fingers twisted nervously in her lap. She swallowed once or twice.

âI can make allowances,â went on Miss Marple, âfor the fact that you are naturally alarmed at being brought into contact with the police. You are afraid, too, that you may be blamed for not having spoken sooner. Possibly you are afraid that you may also be blamed for not stopping Pamela at the time. But youâve got to be a brave girl and make a clean breast of things. If you refuse to tell what you know now, it will be a very serious matter indeedâvery seriousâpractically perjury, and for that, as you know, you can be sent to prison.â

âIâI donâtââ

Miss Marple said sharply:

âNow donât prevaricate, Florence! Tell me all about it at once! Pamela wasnât going to Woolworthâs, was she?â

Florence licked her lips with a dry tongue and gazed imploringly at Miss Marple like a beast about to be slaughtered.

âSomething to do with the films, wasnât it?â asked Miss Marple.

A look of intense relief mingled with awe passed over Florenceâs face. Her inhibitions left her. She gasped:

âOh, yes!â

âI thought so,â said Miss Marple. âNow I want all the details, please.â

Words poured from Florence in a gush.

âOh! Iâve been ever so worried. I promised Pam, you see, Iâd never say a word to a soul. And then when she was found all burnt up in that carâoh! it was horrible and I thought I should dieâI felt it was all my fault. I ought to have stopped her. Only I never thought, not for a minute, that it wasnât all right. And then I was asked if sheâd been quite as usual that day and I said âYesâ before Iâd had time to think. And not having said anything then I didnât see how I could say anything later. And, after all, I didnât know anythingânot reallyâonly what Pam told me.â

âWhat did Pam tell you?â

âIt was as we were walking up the lane to the busâon the way to the rally. She asked me if I could keep a secret, and I said âYes,â and she made me swear not to tell. She was going into Danemouth for a film test after the rally! Sheâd met a film producerâjust back from Hollywood, he was. He wanted a certain type, and he told Pam she was just what he was looking for. He warned her, though, not to build on it. You couldnât tell, he said, not until you saw a person photographed. It might be no good at all. It was a kind of Bergner part, he said. You had to have someone quite young for it. A schoolgirl, it was, who changes places with a revue artist and has a wonderful career. Pamâs acted in plays at school and sheâs awfully good. He said he could see she could act, but sheâd have to have some intensive training. It wouldnât be all beer and skittles, he told her, it would be damned hard work. Did she think she could stick it?â

Florence Small stopped for breath. Miss Marple felt rather sick as she listened to the glib rehash of countless novels and screen stories. Pamela Reeves, like most other girls, would have been warned against talking to strangersâbut the glamour of the films would obliterate all that.

âHe was absolutely businesslike about it all,â continued Florence. âSaid if the test was successful sheâd have a contract, and he said that as she was young and inexperienced she ought to let a lawyer look at it before she signed it. But she wasnât to pass on that heâd said that. He asked her if sheâd have trouble with her parents, and Pam said she probably would, and he said: âWell, of course, thatâs always a difficulty with anyone as young as you are, but I think if it was put to them that this was a wonderful chance that wouldnât happen once in a million times, theyâd see reason.â But, anyway, he said, it wasnât any good going into that until they knew the result of the test. She mustnât be disappointed if it failed. He told her about Hollywood and about Vivien Leighâhow sheâd suddenly taken London by stormâand how these sensational leaps into fame did happen. He himself had come back from America to work with the Lemville Studios and put some pep into the English film companies.â

Miss Marple nodded.

Florence went on:

âSo it was all arranged. Pam was to go into Danemouth after the rally and meet him at his hotel and heâd take her along to the studios (theyâd got a small testing studio in Danemouth, he told her). Sheâd have her test and she could catch the bus home afterwards. She could say sheâd been shopping, and heâd let her know the result of the test in a few days, and if it was favourable Mr. Harmsteiter, the boss, would come along and talk to her parents.

âWell, of course, it sounded too wonderful! I was green with envy! Pam got through the rally without turning a hairâwe always call her a regular poker face. Then, when she said she was going into Danemouth to Woolworthâs she just winked at me.

âI saw her start off down the footpath.â Florence began to cry. âI ought to have stopped her. I ought to have stopped her. I ought to have known a thing like that couldnât be true. I ought to have told someone. Oh dear, I wish I was dead!â

âThere, there.â Miss Marple patted her on the shoulder. âItâs quite all right. No one will blame you. Youâve done the right thing in telling me.â

She devoted some minutes to cheering the child up.

Five minutes later she was telling the story to Superintendent Harper. The latter looked very grim.

âThe clever devil!â he said. âBy God, Iâll cook his goose for him. This puts rather a different aspect on things.â

âYes, it does.â

Harper looked at her sideways.

âIt doesnât surprise you?â

âI expected something of the kind.â

Superintendent Harper said curiously:

âWhat put you on to this particular girl? They all looked scared to death and there wasnât a pin to choose between them as far as I could see.â

Miss Marple said gently:

âYou havenât had as much experience with girls telling lies as I have. Florence looked at you very straight, if you remember, and stood very rigid and just fidgeted with her feet like the others. But you didnât watch her as she went out of the door. I knew at once then that sheâd got something to hide. They nearly always relax too soon. My little maid Janet always did. Sheâd explain quite convincingly that the mice had eaten the end of a cake and give herself away by smirking as she left the room.â

âIâm very grateful to you,â said Harper.

He added thoughtfully: âLemville Studios, eh?â

Miss Marple said nothing. She rose to her feet.

âIâm afraid,â she said, âI must hurry away. So glad to have been able to help you.â

âAre you going back to the hotel?â

âYesâto pack up. I must go back to St. Mary Mead as soon as possible. Thereâs a lot for me to do there.â

Fifteen

I

Miss Marple passed out through the french windows of her drawing room, tripped down her neat garden path, through a garden gate, in through the vicarage garden gate, across the vicarage garden, and up to the drawing room window, where she tapped gently on the pane.

The vicar was busy in his study composing his Sunday sermon, but the vicarâs wife, who was young and pretty, was admiring the progress of her offspring across the hearthrug.

âCan I come in, Griselda?â

âOh, do, Miss Marple. Just look at David! He gets so angry because he can only crawl in reverse. He wants to get to something and the more he tries the more he goes backwards into the coal box!â

âHeâs looking very bonny, Griselda.â

âHeâs not bad, is he?â said the young mother, endeavouring to assume an indifferent manner. âOf course I donât bother with him much. All the books say a child should be left alone as much as possible.â

âVery wise, dear,â said Miss Marple. âAhem, I came to ask if there was anything special you are collecting for at the moment.â

The vicarâs wife turned somewhat astonished eyes upon her.

âOh, heaps of things,â she said cheerfully. âThere always are.â

She ticked them off on her fingers.

âThereâs the Nave Restoration Fund, and St. Gilesâs Mission, and our Sale of Work next Wednesday, and the Unmarried Mothers, and a Boy Scoutsâ Outing, and the Needlework Guild, and the Bishopâs Appeal for Deep Sea Fishermen.â

âAny of them will do,â said Miss Marple. âI thought I might make a little roundâwith a book, you knowâif you would authorize me to do so.â

âAre you up to something? I believe you are. Of course I authorize you. Make it the Sale of Work; it would be lovely to get some real money instead of those awful sachets and comic pen-wipers and depressing childrenâs frocks and dusters all done up to look like dolls.

âI suppose,â continued Griselda, accompanying her guest to the window, âyou wouldnât like to tell me what itâs all about?â

âLater, my dear,â said Miss Marple, hurrying off.

With a sigh the young mother returned to the hearthrug and, by way of carrying out her principles of stern neglect, butted her son three times in the stomach so that he caught hold of her hair and pulled it with gleeful yells. Then they rolled over and over in a grand rough-and-tumble until the door opened and the vicarage maid announced to the most influential parishioner (who didnât like children):

âMissus is in here.â

Whereupon Griselda sat up and tried to look dignified and more what a vicarâs wife should be.

II

Miss Marple, clasping a small black book with pencilled entries in it, walked briskly along the village street until she came to the crossroads. Here she turned to the left and walked past the Blue Boar until she came to Chatsworth, alias âMr. Bookerâs new house.â

She turned in at the gate, walked up to the front door and knocked briskly.

The door was opened by the blonde young woman named Dinah Lee. She was less carefully made-up than usual, and in fact looked slightly dirty. She was wearing grey slacks and an emerald jumper.

âGood morning,â said Miss Marple briskly and cheerfully. âMay I just come in for a minute?â

She pressed forward as she spoke, so that Dinah Lee, who was somewhat taken aback at the call, had no time to make up her mind.

âThank you so much,â said Miss Marple, beaming amiably at her and sitting down rather gingerly on a âperiodâ bamboo chair.

âQuite warm for the time of year, is it not?â went on Miss Marple, still exuding geniality.

âYes, rather. Oh, quite,â said Miss Lee.

At a loss how to deal with the situation, she opened a box and offered it to her guest. âErâhave a cigarette?â

âThank you so much, but I donât smoke. I just called, you know, to see if I could enlist your help for our Sale of Work next week.â

âSale of Work?â said Dinah Lee, as one who repeats a phrase in a foreign language.

âAt the vicarage,â said Miss Marple. âNext Wednesday.â

âOh!â Miss Leeâs mouth fell open. âIâm afraid I couldnâtââ

âNot even a small subscriptionâhalf a crown perhaps?â

Miss Marple exhibited her little book.

âOhâerâwell, yes, I dare say I could manage that.â

The girl looked relieved and turned to hunt in her handbag.

Miss Marpleâs sharp eyes were looking round the room.

She said:

âI see youâve no hearthrug in front of the fire.â

Dinah Lee turned round and stared at her. She could not but be aware of the very keen scrutiny the old lady was giving her, but it aroused in her no other emotion than slight annoyance. Miss Marple recognized that. She said:

âItâs rather dangerous, you know. Sparks fly out and mark the carpet.â

âFunny old Tabby,â thought Dinah, but she said quite amiably if somewhat vaguely:

âThere used to be one. I donât know where itâs got to.â

âI suppose,â said Miss Marple, âit was the fluffy, woolly kind?â

âSheep,â said Dinah. âThatâs what it looked like.â

She was amused now. An eccentric old bean, this.

She held out a half crown. âHere you are,â she said.

âOh, thank you, my dear.â

Miss Marple took it and opened the little book.

âErâwhat name shall I write down?â

Dinahâs eyes grew suddenly hard and contemptuous.

âNosey old cat,â she thought, âthatâs all she came forâprying around for scandal!â

She said clearly and with malicious pleasure:

âMiss Dinah Lee.â

Miss Marple looked at her steadily.

She said:

âThis is Mr. Basil Blakeâs cottage, isnât it?â

âYes, and Iâm Miss Dinah Lee!â

Her voice rang out challengingly, her head went back, her blue eyes flashed.

Very steadily Miss Marple looked at her. She said:

âWill you allow me to give you some advice, even though you may consider it impertinent?â

âI shall consider it impertinent. You had better say nothing.â

âNevertheless,â said Miss Marple, âI am going to speak. I want to advise you, very strongly, not to continue using your maiden name in the village.â

Dinah stared at her. She said:

âWhatâwhat do you mean?â

Miss Marple said earnestly:

âIn a very short time you may need all the sympathy and goodwill you can find. It will be important to your husband, too, that he shall be thought well of. There is a prejudice in old-fashioned country districts against people living together who are not married. It has amused you both, I dare say, to pretend that that is what you are doing. It kept people away, so that you werenât bothered with what I expect you would call âold frumps.â Nevertheless, old frumps have their uses.â

Dinah demanded:

âHow did you know we are married?â

Miss Marple smiled a deprecating smile.

âOh, my dear,â she said.

Dinah persisted.

âNo, but how did you know? You didnâtâyou didnât go to Somerset House?â

A momentary flicker showed in Miss Marpleâs eyes.

âSomerset House? Oh, no. But it was quite easy to guess. Everything, you know, gets round in a village. Theâerâthe kind of quarrels you haveâtypical of early days of marriage. Quiteâquite unlike an illicit relationship. It has been said, you know (and, I think, quite truly), that you can only really get under anybodyâs skin if you are married to them. When there is noâno legal bond, people are much more careful, they have to keep assuring themselves how happy and halcyon everything is. They have, you see, to justify themselves. They dare not quarrel! Married people, I have noticed, quite enjoy their battles and theâerâappropriate reconciliations.â

She paused, twinkling benignly.

âWell, Iââ Dinah stopped and laughed. She sat down and lit a cigarette. âYouâre absolutely marvellous!â she said.

Then she went on:

âBut why do you want us to own up and admit to respectability?â

Miss Marpleâs face was grave. She said:

âBecause, any minute now, your husband may be arrested for murder.â

III

For several moments Dinah stared at her. Then she said incredulously:

âBasil? Murder? Are you joking?â

âNo, indeed. Havenât you seen the papers?â

Dinah caught her breath.

âYou meanâthat girl at the Majestic Hotel. Do you mean they suspect Basil of killing her?â

âYes.â

âBut itâs nonsense!â

There was the whir of a car outside, the bang of a gate. Basil Blake flung open the door and came in, carrying some bottles. He said:

âGot the gin and the vermouth. Did youâ?â

He stopped and turned incredulous eyes on the prim, erect visitor.

Dinah burst out breathlessly:

âIs she mad? She says youâre going to be arrested for the murder of that girl Ruby Keene.â

âOh, God!â said Basil Blake. The bottles dropped from his arms on to the sofa. He reeled to a chair and dropped down in it and buried his face in his hands. He repeated: âOh, my God! Oh, my God!â

Dinah darted over to him. She caught his shoulders.

âBasil, look at me! It isnât true! I know it isnât true! I donât believe it for a moment!â

His hand went up and gripped hers.

âBless you, darling.â

âBut why should they thinkâYou didnât even know her, did you?â

âOh, yes, he knew her,â said Miss Marple.

Basil said fiercely:

âBe quiet, you old hag. Listen, Dinah darling, I hardly knew her at all. Just ran across her once or twice at the Majestic. Thatâs all, I swear thatâs all.â

Dinah said, bewildered:

âI donât understand. Why should anyone suspect you, then?â

Basil groaned. He put his hands over his eyes and rocked to and fro.

Miss Marple said:

âWhat did you do with the hearthrug?â

His reply came mechanically:

âI put it in the dustbin.â

Miss Marple clucked her tongue vexedly.

âThat was stupidâvery stupid. People donât put good hearthrugs in dustbins. It had spangles in it from her dress, I suppose?â

âYes, I couldnât get them out.â

Dinah cried: âBut what are you both talking about?â

Basil said sullenly:

âAsk her. She seems to know all about it.â

âIâll tell you what I think happened, if you like,â said Miss Marple. âYou can correct me, Mr. Blake, if I go wrong. I think that after having had a violent quarrel with your wife at a party and after having had, perhaps, rather too muchâerâto drink, you drove down here. I donât know what time you arrivedââ

Basil Blake said sullenly:

âAbout two in the morning. I meant to go up to town first, then when I got to the suburbs I changed my mind. I thought Dinah might come down here after me. So I drove down here. The place was all dark. I opened the door and turned on the light and I sawâand I sawââ

He gulped and stopped. Miss Marple went on:

âYou saw a girl lying on the hearthrugâa girl in a white evening dressâstrangled. I donât know whether you recognized her thenââ

Basil Blake shook his head violently.

âI couldnât look at her after the first glanceâher face was all blueâswollen. Sheâd been dead some time and she was thereâin my room!â

He shuddered.

Miss Marple said gently:

âYou werenât, of course, quite yourself. You were in a fuddled state and your nerves are not good. You were, I think, panic-stricken. You didnât know what to doââ

âI thought Dinah might turn up any minute. And sheâd find me there with a dead bodyâa girlâs dead bodyâand sheâd think Iâd killed her. Then I got an ideaâit seemed, I donât know why, a good idea at the timeâI thought: Iâll put her in old Bantryâs library. Damned pompous old stick, always looking down his nose, sneering at me as artistic and effeminate. Serve the pompous old brute right, I thought. Heâll look a fool when a dead lovely is found on his hearthrug.â He added, with a pathetic eagerness to explain: âI was a bit drunk, you know, at the time. It really seemed positively amusing to me. Old Bantry with a dead blonde.â

âYes, yes,â said Miss Marple. âLittle Tommy Bond had very much the same idea. Rather a sensitive boy with an inferiority complex, he said teacher was always picking on him. He put a frog in the clock and it jumped out at her.

âYou were just the same,â went on Miss Marple, âonly of course, bodies are more serious matters than frogs.â

Basil groaned again.

âBy the morning Iâd sobered up. I realized what Iâd done. I was scared stiff. And then the police came hereâanother damned pompous ass of a Chief Constable. I was scared of himâand the only way I could hide it was by being abominably rude. In the middle of it all Dinah drove up.â

Dinah looked out of the window.

She said:

âThereâs a car driving up now â¦ there are men in it.â

âThe police, I think,â said Miss Marple.

Basil Blake got up. Suddenly he became quite calm and resolute. He even smiled. He said:

âSo Iâm for it, am I? All right, Dinah sweet, keep your head. Get on to old Simsâheâs the family lawyerâand go to Mother and tell her everything about our marriage. She wonât bite. And donât worry. I didnât do it. So itâs bound to be all right, see, sweetheart?â

There was a tap on the cottage door. Basil called âCome in.â Inspector Slack entered with another man. He said:

âMr. Basil Blake?â

âYes.â

âI have a warrant here for your arrest on the charge of murdering Ruby Keene on the night of September 21st last. I warn you that anything you say may be used at your trial. You will please accompany me now. Full facilities will be given you for communicating with your solicitor.â

Basil nodded.

He looked at Dinah, but did not touch her. He said:

âSo long, Dinah.â

âCool customer,â thought Inspector Slack.

He acknowledged the presence of Miss Marple with a half bow and a âGood morning,â and thought to himself:

âSmart old Pussy, sheâs on to it! Good job weâve got that hearthrug. That and finding out from the car-park man at the studio that he left that party at eleven instead of midnight. Donât think those friends of his meant to commit perjury. They were bottled and Blake told âem firmly the next day it was twelve oâclock when he left and they believed him. Well, his goose is cooked good and proper! Mental, I expect! Broadmoor, not hanging. First the Reeves kid, probably strangled her, drove her out to the quarry, walked back into Danemouth, picked up his own car in some side lane, drove to this party, then back to Danemouth, brought Ruby Keene out here, strangled her, put her in old Bantryâs library, then probably got the wind up about the car in the quarry, drove there, set it on fire, and got back here. Madâsex and blood lustâlucky this girlâs escaped. What they call recurring mania, I expect.â

Alone with Miss Marple, Dinah Blake turned to her. She said:

âI donât know who you are, but youâve got to understand thisâBasil didnât do it.â

Miss Marple said:

âI know he didnât. I know who did do it. But itâs not going to be easy to prove. Iâve an idea that something you saidâjust nowâmay help. It gave me an ideaâthe connection Iâd been trying to findânow what was it?â

Sixteen

I

âIâm home, Arthur!â declared Mrs. Bantry, announcing the fact like a Royal Proclamation as she flung open the study door.

Colonel Bantry immediately jumped up, kissed his wife, and declared heartily: âWell, well, thatâs splendid!â

The words were unimpeachable, the manner very well done, but an affectionate wife of as many yearsâ standing as Mrs. Bantry was not deceived. She said immediately:

âIs anything the matter?â

âNo, of course not, Dolly. What should be the matter?â

âOh, I donât know,â said Mrs. Bantry vaguely. âThings are so queer, arenât they?â

She threw off her coat as she spoke and Colonel Bantry picked it up as carefully and laid it across the back of the sofa.

All exactly as usualâyet not as usual. Her husband, Mrs. Bantry thought, seemed to have shrunk. He looked thinner, stooped more; they were pouches under his eyes and those eyes were not ready to meet hers.

He went on to say, still with that affectation of cheerfulness:

âWell, how did you enjoy your time at Danemouth?â

âOh! it was great fun. You ought to have come, Arthur.â

âCouldnât get away, my dear. Lot of things to attend to here.â

âStill, I think the change would have done you good. And you like the Jeffersons?â

âYes, yes, poor fellow. Nice chap. All very sad.â

âWhat have you been doing with yourself since Iâve been away?â

âOh, nothing much. Been over the farms, you know. Agreed that Anderson shall have a new roofâcanât patch it up any longer.â

âHow did the Radfordshire Council meeting go?â

âIâwellâas a matter of fact I didnât go.â

âDidnât go? But you were taking the chair?â

âWell, as a matter of fact, Dollyâseems there was some mistake about that. Asked me if Iâd mind if Thompson took it instead.â

âI see,â said Mrs. Bantry.

She peeled off a glove and threw it deliberately into the wastepaper basket. Her husband went to retrieve it, and she stopped him, saying sharply:

âLeave it. I hate gloves.â

Colonel Bantry glanced at her uneasily.

Mrs. Bantry said sternly:

âDid you go to dinner with the Duffs on Thursday?â

âOh, that! It was put off. Their cook was ill.â

âStupid people,â said Mrs. Bantry. She went on: âDid you go to the Naylorsâ yesterday?â

âI rang up and said I didnât feel up to it, hoped theyâd excuse me. They quite understood.â

âThey did, did they?â said Mrs. Bantry grimly.

She sat down by the desk and absentmindedly picked up a pair of gardening scissors. With them she cut off the fingers, one by one, of her second glove.

âWhat are you doing, Dolly?â

âFeeling destructive,â said Mrs. Bantry.

She got up. âWhere shall we sit after dinner, Arthur? In the library?â

âWellâerâI donât think soâeh? Very nice in hereâor the drawing room.â

âI think,â said Mrs. Bantry, âthat weâll sit in the library!â

Her steady eye met his. Colonel Bantry drew himself up to his full height. A sparkle came into his eye.

He said:

âYouâre right, my dear. Weâll sit in the library!â

II

Mrs. Bantry put down the telephone receiver with a sigh of annoyance. She had rung up twice, and each time the answer had been the same: Miss Marple was out.

Of a naturally impatient nature, Mrs. Bantry was never one to acquiesce in defeat. She rang up in rapid succession the vicarage, Mrs. Price Ridley, Miss Hartnell, Miss Wetherby, and, as a last resource, the fishmonger who, by reason of his advantageous geographical position, usually knew where everybody was in the village.

The fishmonger was sorry, but he had not seen Miss Marple at all in the village that morning. She had not been her usual round.

âWhere can the woman be?â demanded Mrs. Bantry impatiently aloud.

There was a deferential cough behind her. The discreet Lorrimer murmured:

âYou were requiring Miss Marple, madam? I have just observed her approaching the house.â

Mrs. Bantry rushed to the front door, flung it open, and greeted Miss Marple breathlessly:

âIâve been trying to get you everywhere. Where have you been?â She glanced over her shoulder. Lorrimer had discreetly vanished. âEverythingâs too awful! People are beginning to cold-shoulder Arthur. He looks years older. We must do something, Jane. You must do something!â

Miss Marple said:

âYou neednât worry, Dolly,â in a rather peculiar voice.

Colonel Bantry appeared from the study door.

âAh, Miss Marple. Good morning. Glad youâve come. My wifeâs been ringing you up like a lunatic.â

âI thought Iâd better bring you the news,â said Miss Marple, as she followed Mrs. Bantry into the study.

âNews?â

âBasil Blake has just been arrested for the murder of Ruby Keene.â

âBasil Blake?â cried the Colonel.

âBut he didnât do it,â said Miss Marple.

Colonel Bantry took no notice of this statement. It is doubtful if he even heard it.

âDo you mean to say he strangled that girl and then brought her along and put her in my library?â

âHe put her in your library,â said Miss Marple. âBut he didnât kill her.â

âNonsense! If he put her in my library, of course he killed her! The two things go together.â

âNot necessarily. He found her dead in his own cottage.â

âA likely story,â said the Colonel derisively. âIf you find a body, why, you ring up the policeânaturallyâif youâre an honest man.â

âAh,â said Miss Marple, âbut we havenât all got such iron nerves as you have, Colonel Bantry. You belong to the old school. This younger generation is different.â

âGot no stamina,â said the Colonel, repeating a well-worn opinion of his.

âSome of them,â said Miss Marple, âhave been through a bad time. Iâve heard a good deal about Basil. He did A.R.P. work, you know, when he was only eighteen. He went into a burning house and brought out four children, one after another. He went back for a dog, although they told him it wasnât safe. The building fell in on him. They got him out, but his chest was badly crushed and he had to lie in plaster for nearly a year and was ill for a long time after that. Thatâs when he got interested in designing.â

âOh!â The Colonel coughed and blew his nose. âIâerânever knew that.â

âHe doesnât talk about it,â said Miss Marple.

âErâquite right. Proper spirit. Must be more in the young chap than I thought. Always thought heâd shirked the war, you know. Shows you ought to be careful in jumping to conclusions.â

Colonel Bantry looked ashamed.

âBut, all the sameââhis indignation revivedââwhat did he mean trying to fasten a murder on me?â

âI donât think he saw it like that,â said Miss Marple. âHe thought of it more as aâas a joke. You see, he was rather under the influence of alcohol at the time.â

âBottled, was he?â said Colonel Bantry, with an Englishmanâs sympathy for alcoholic excess. âOh, well, canât judge a fellow by what he does when heâs drunk. When I was at Cambridge, I remember I put a certain utensilâwell, well, never mind. Deuce of a row there was about it.â

He chuckled, then checked himself sternly. He looked piercingly at Miss Marple with eyes that were shrewd and appraising. He said: âYou donât think he did the murder, eh?â

âIâm sure he didnât.â

âAnd you think you know who did?â

Miss Marple nodded.

Mrs. Bantry, like an ecstatic Greek chorus, said: âIsnât she wonderful?â to an unhearing world.

âWell, who was it?â

Miss Marple said:

âI was going to ask you to help me. I think, if we went up to Somerset House we should have a very good idea.â

Seventeen

I

Sir Henryâs face was very grave.

He said:

âI donât like it.â

âI am aware,â said Miss Marple, âthat it isnât what you call orthodox. But it is so important, isnât it, to be quite sureââto make assurance doubly sure,â as Shakespeare has it. I think, if Mr. Jefferson would agreeâ?â

âWhat about Harper? Is he to be in on this?â

âIt might be awkward for him to know too much. But there might be a hint from you. To watch certain personsâhave them trailed, you know.â

Sir Henry said slowly:

âYes, that would meet the caseâ¦.â

II

Superintendent Harper looked piercingly at Sir Henry Clithering.

âLetâs get this quite clear, sir. Youâre giving me a hint?â

Sir Henry said:

âIâm informing you of what my friend has just informed meâhe didnât tell me in confidenceâthat he proposes to visit a solicitor in Danemouth tomorrow for the purpose of making a new will.â

The Superintendentâs bushy eyebrows drew downwards over his steady eyes. He said:

âDoes Mr. Conway Jefferson propose to inform his son-in-law and daughter-in-law of that fact?â

âHe intends to tell them about it this evening.â

âI see.â

The Superintendent tapped his desk with a penholder.

He repeated again: âI seeâ¦.â

Then the piercing eyes bored once more into the eyes of the other man. Harper said:

âSo youâre not satisfied with the case against Basil Blake?â

âAre you?â

The Superintendentâs moustaches quivered. He said:

âIs Miss Marple?â

The two men looked at each other.

Then Harper said:

âYou can leave it to me. Iâll have men detailed. There will be no funny business, I can promise you that.â

Sir Henry said:

âThere is one more thing. Youâd better see this.â

He unfolded a slip of paper and pushed it across the table.

This time the Superintendentâs calm deserted him. He whistled:

âSo thatâs it, is it? That puts an entirely different complexion on the matter. How did you come to dig up this?â

âWomen,â said Sir Henry, âare eternally interested in marriages.â

âEspecially,â said the Superintendent, âelderly single women.â

III

Conway Jefferson looked up as his friend entered.

His grim face relaxed into a smile.

He said:

âWell, I told âem. They took it very well.â

âWhat did you say?â

âTold âem that, as Ruby was dead, I felt that the fifty thousand Iâd originally left her should go to something that I could associate with her memory. It was to endow a hostel for young girls working as professional dancers in London. Damned silly way to leave your moneyâsurprised they swallowed it. As though Iâd do a thing like that!â

He added meditatively:

âYou know, I made a fool of myself over that girl. Must be turning into a silly old man. I can see it now. She was a pretty kidâbut most of what I saw in her I put there myself. I pretended she was another Rosamund. Same colouring, you know. But not the same heart or mind. Hand me that paperârather an interesting bridge problem.â

IV

Sir Henry went downstairs. He asked a question of the porter.

âMr. Gaskell, sir? Heâs just gone off in his car. Had to go to London.â

âOh! I see. Is Mrs. Jefferson about?â

âMrs. Jefferson, sir, has just gone up to bed.â

Sir Henry looked into the lounge and through to the ballroom. In the lounge Hugo McLean was doing a crossword puzzle and frowning a good deal over it. In the ballroom Josie was smiling valiantly into the face of a stout, perspiring man as her nimble feet avoided his destructive tread. The stout man was clearly enjoying his dance. Raymond, graceful and weary, was dancing with an anaemic-looking girl with adenoids, dull brown hair, and an expensive and exceedingly unbecoming dress.

Sir Henry said under his breath:

âAnd so to bed,â and went upstairs.

V

It was three oâclock. The wind had fallen, the moon was shining over the quiet sea.

In Conway Jeffersonâs room there was no sound except his own heavy breathing as he lay, half propped up on pillows.

There was no breeze to stir the curtains at the window, but they stirred â¦ For a moment they parted, and a figure was silhouetted against the moonlight. Then they fell back into place. Everything was quiet again, but there was someone else inside the room.

Nearer and nearer to the bed the intruder stole. The deep breathing on the pillow did not relax.

There was no sound, or hardly any sound. A finger and thumb were ready to pick up a fold of skin, in the other hand the hypodermic was ready.

And then, suddenly, out of the shadows a hand came and closed over the hand that held the needle, the other arm held the figure in an iron grasp.

An unemotional voice, the voice of the law, said:

âNo, you donât. I want that needle!â

The light switched on and from his pillows Conway Jefferson looked grimly at the murderer of Ruby Keene.

Eighteen

I

Sir Henry Clithering said:

âSpeaking as Watson, I want to know your methods, Miss Marple.â

Superintendent Harper said:

âIâd like to know what put you on to it first.â

Colonel Melchett said:

âYouâve done it again, by Jove! I want to hear all about it from the beginning.â

Miss Marple smoothed the puce silk of her best evening gown. She flushed and smiled and looked very self-conscious.

She said: âIâm afraid youâll think my âmethods,â as Sir Henry calls them, are terribly amateurish. The truth is, you see, that most peopleâand I donât exclude policemenâare far too trusting for this wicked world. They believe what is told them. I never do. Iâm afraid I always like to prove a thing for myself.â

âThat is the scientific attitude,â said Sir Henry.

âIn this case,â continued Miss Marple, âcertain things were taken for granted from the firstâinstead of just confining oneself to the facts. The facts, as I noted them, were that the victim was quite young and that she bit her nails and that her teeth stuck out a littleâas young girlsâ so often do if not corrected in time with a plateâ(and children are very naughty about their plates and taking them out when their elders arenât looking).

âBut that is wandering from the point. Where was I? Oh, yes, looking down at the dead girl and feeling sorry, because it is always sad to see a young life cut short, and thinking that whoever had done it was a very wicked person. Of course it was all very confusing her being found in Colonel Bantryâs library, altogether too like a book to be true. In fact, it made the wrong pattern. It wasnât, you see, meant, which confused us a lot. The real idea had been to plant the body on poor young Basil Blake (a much more likely person), and his action in putting it in the Colonelâs library delayed things considerably, and must have been a source of great annoyance to the real murderer.

âOriginally, you see, Mr. Blake would have been the first object of suspicion. Theyâd have made inquiries at Danemouth, found he knew the girl, then found he had tied himself up with another girl, and theyâd have assumed that Ruby came to blackmail him, or something like that, and that heâd strangled her in a fit of rage. Just an ordinary, sordid, what I call nightclub type of crime!

âBut that, of course, all went wrong, and interest became focused much too soon on the Jefferson familyâto the great annoyance of a certain person.

âAs Iâve told you, Iâve got a very suspicious mind. My nephew Raymond tells me (in fun, of course, and quite affectionately) that I have a mind like a sink. He says that most Victorians have. All I can say is that the Victorians knew a good deal about human nature.

âAs I say, having this rather insanitaryâor surely sanitary?âmind, I looked at once at the money angle of it. Two people stood to benefit by this girlâs deathâyou couldnât get away from that. Fifty thousand pounds is a lot of moneyâespecially when you are in financial difficulties, as both these people were. Of course they both seemed very nice, agreeable peopleâthey didnât seem likely peopleâbut one never can tell, can one?

âMrs. Jefferson, for instanceâeveryone liked her. But it did seem clear that she had become very restless that summer, and that she was tired of the life she led, completely dependent on her father-in-law. She knew, because the doctor had told her, that he couldnât live longâso that was all rightâto put it callouslyâor it would have been all right if Ruby Keene hadnât come along. Mrs. Jefferson was passionately devoted to her son, and some women have a curious idea that crimes committed for the sake of their offspring are almost morally justified. I have come across that attitude once or twice in the village. âWell, âtwas all for Daisy, you see, miss,â they say, and seem to think that that makes doubtful conduct quite all right. Very lax thinking.

âMr. Mark Gaskell, of course, was a much more likely starter, if I may use such a sporting expression. He was a gambler and had not, I fancied, a very high moral code. But, for certain reasons, I was of the opinion that a woman was concerned in this crime.

âAs I say, with my eye on motive, the money angle seemed very suggestive. It was annoying, therefore, to find that both these people had alibis for the time when Ruby Keene, according to the medical evidence, had met her death.

âBut soon afterwards there came the discovery of the burnt-out car with Pamela Reevesâs body in it, and then the whole thing leaped to the eye. The alibis, of course, were worthless.

âI now had two halves of the case, and both quite convincing, but they did not fit. There must be a connection, but I could not find it. The one person whom I knew to be concerned in the crime hadnât got a motive.

âIt was stupid of me,â said Miss Marple meditatively. âIf it hadnât been for Dinah Lee I shouldnât have thought of itâthe most obvious thing in the world. Somerset House! Marriage! It wasnât a question of only Mr. Gaskell or Mrs. Jeffersonâthere were the further possibilities of marriage. If either of those two was married, or even was likely to marry, then the other party to the marriage contract was involved too. Raymond, for instance, might think he had a pretty good chance of marrying a rich wife. He had been very assiduous to Mrs. Jefferson, and it was his charm, I think, that awoke her from her long widowhood. She had been quite content just being a daughter to Mr. Jeffersonâlike Ruth and Naomiâonly Naomi, if you remember, took a lot of trouble to arrange a suitable marriage for Ruth.

âBesides Raymond there was Mr. McLean. She liked him very much and it seemed highly possible that she would marry him in the end. He wasnât well offâand he was not far from Danemouth on the night in question. So it seemed, didnât it,â said Miss Marple, âas though anyone might have done it?â

âBut, of course, really, in my mind, I knew. You couldnât get away, could you, from those bitten nails?â

âNails?â said Sir Henry. âBut she tore her nail and cut the others.â

âNonsense,â said Miss Marple. âBitten nails and close cut nails are quite different! Nobody could mistake them who knew anything about girlâs nailsâvery ugly, bitten nails, as I always tell the girls in my class. Those nails, you see, were a fact. And they could only mean one thing. The body in Colonel Bantryâs library wasnât Ruby Keene at all.

âAnd that brings you straight to the one person who must be concerned. Josie! Josie identified the body. She knew, she must have known, that it wasnât Ruby Keeneâs body. She said it was. She was puzzled, completely puzzled, at finding that body where it was. She practically betrayed that fact. Why? Because she knew, none better, where it ought to have been found! In Basil Blakeâs cottage. Who directed our attention to Basil? Josie, by saying to Raymond that Ruby might have been with the film man. And before that, by slipping a snapshot of him into Rubyâs handbag. Who cherished such bitter anger against the dead girl that she couldnât hide it even when she looked down at her dead? Josie! Josie, who was shrewd, practical, hard as nails, and all out for money.

âThat is what I meant about believing too readily. Nobody thought of disbelieving Josieâs statement that the body was Ruby Keeneâs. Simply because it didnât seem at the time that she could have any motive for lying. Motive was always the difficultyâJosie was clearly involved, but Rubyâs death seemed, if anything, contrary to her interests. It was not till Dinah Lee mentioned Somerset House that I got the connection.

âMarriage! If Josie and Mark Gaskell were actually marriedâthen the whole thing was clear. As we know now, Mark and Josie were married a year ago. They were keeping it dark until Mr. Jefferson died.

âIt was really quite interesting, you know, tracing out the course of eventsâseeing exactly how the plan had worked out. Complicated and yet simple. First of all the selection of the poor child, Pamela, the approach to her from the film angle. A screen testâof course the poor child couldnât resist it. Not when it was put up to her as plausibly as Mark Gaskell put it. She comes to the hotel, he is waiting for her, he takes her in by the side door and introduces her to Josieâone of their makeup experts! That poor child, it makes me quite sick to think of it! Sitting in Josieâs bathroom while Josie bleaches her hair and makes up her face and varnishes her fingernails and toenails. During all this, the drug was given. In an ice cream soda, very likely. She goes off into a coma. I imagine that they put her into one of the empty rooms oppositeâthey were only cleaned once a week, remember.

âAfter dinner Mark Gaskell went out in his carâto the seafront, he said. That is when he took Pamelaâs body to the cottage dressed in one of Rubyâs old dresses and arranged it on the hearthrug. She was still unconscious, but not dead, when he strangled her with the belt of the frock â¦ Not nice, noâbut I hope and pray she knew nothing about it. Really, I feel quite pleased to think of him being hanged â¦ That must have been just after ten oâclock. Then he drove back at top speed and found the others in the lounge where Ruby Keene, still alive, was dancing her exhibition dance with Raymond.

âI should imagine that Josie had given Ruby instructions beforehand. Ruby was accustomed to doing what Josie told her. She was to change, go into Josieâs room and wait. She, too, was drugged, probably in after-dinner coffee. She was yawning, remember, when she talked to young Bartlett.

âJosie came up later to âlook for herââbut nobody but Josie went into Josieâs room. She probably finished the girl off thenâwith an injection, perhaps, or a blow on the back of the head. She went down, danced with Raymond, debated with the Jeffersons where Ruby could be, and finally went to bed. In the early hours of the morning she dressed the girl in Pamelaâs clothes, carried the body down the side stairsâshe was a strong muscular young womanâfetched George Bartlettâs car, drove two miles to the quarry, poured petrol over the car and set it alight. Then she walked back to the hotel, probably timing her arrival there for eight or nine oâclockâup early in her anxiety about Ruby!â

âAn intricate plot,â said Colonel Melchett.

âNot more intricate than the steps of a dance,â said Miss Marple.

âI suppose not.â

âShe was very thorough,â said Miss Marple. âShe even foresaw the discrepancy of the nails. Thatâs why she managed to break one of Rubyâs nails on her shawl. It made an excuse for pretending that Ruby had clipped her nails close.â

Harper said: âYes, she thought of everything. And the only real proof you had, Miss Marple, was a schoolgirlâs bitten nails.â

âMore than that,â said Miss Marple. âPeople will talk too much. Mark Gaskell talked too much. He was speaking of Ruby and he said âher teeth ran down her throat.â But the dead girl in Colonel Bantryâs library had teeth that stuck out.â

Conway Jefferson said rather grimly:

âAnd was the last dramatic finale your idea, Miss Marple?â

Miss Marple confessed. âWell, it was, as a matter of fact. Itâs so nice to be sure, isnât it?â

âSure is the word,â said Conway Jefferson grimly.

âYou see,â said Miss Marple, âonce Mark and Josie knew that you were going to make a new will, theyâd have to do something. Theyâd already committed two murders on account of the money. So they might as well commit a third. Mark, of course, must be absolutely clear, so he went off to London and established an alibi by dining at a restaurant with friends and going on to a night club. Josie was to do the work. They still wanted Rubyâs death to be put down to Basilâs account, so Mr. Jeffersonâs death must be thought due to his heart failing. There was digitalin, so the Superintendent tells me, in the syringe. Any doctor would think death from heart trouble quite natural in the circumstances. Josie had loosened one of the stone balls on the balcony and she was going to let it crash down afterwards. His death would be put down to the shock of the noise.â

Melchett said: âIngenious devil.â

Sir Henry said: âSo the third death you spoke of was to be Conway Jefferson?â

Miss Marple shook her head.

âOh noâI meant Basil Blake. Theyâd have got him hanged if they could.â

âOr shut up in Broadmoor,â said Sir Henry.

Conway Jefferson grunted. He said:

âAlways knew Rosamund had married a rotter. Tried not to admit it to myself. She was damned fond of him. Fond of a murderer! Well, heâll hang as well as the woman. Iâm glad he went to pieces and gave the show away.â

Miss Marple said:

âShe was always the strong character. It was her plan throughout. The irony of it is that she got the girl down here herself, never dreaming that she would take Mr. Jeffersonâs fancy and ruin all her own prospects.â

Jefferson said:

âPoor lass. Poor little Rubyâ¦.â

Adelaide Jefferson and Hugo McLean came in. Adelaide looked almost beautiful tonight. She came up to Conway Jefferson and laid a hand on his shoulder. She said, with a little catch in her breath:

âI want to tell you something, Jeff. At once. Iâm going to marry Hugo.â

Conway Jefferson looked up at her for a moment. He said gruffly:

âAbout time you married again. Congratulations to you both. By the way, Addie, Iâm making a new will tomorrow.â

She nodded. âOh yes, I know.â

Jefferson said:

âNo, you donât. Iâm settling ten thousand pounds on you. Everything else I have goes to Peter when I die. How does that suit you, my girl?â

âOh, Jeff!â Her voice broke. âYouâre wonderful!â

âHeâs a nice lad. Iâd like to see a good deal of himâin the time Iâve got left.â

âOh, you shall!â

âGot a great feeling for crime, Peter has,â said Conway Jefferson meditatively. âNot only has he got the fingernail of the murdered girlâone of the murdered girls, anywayâbut he was lucky enough to have a bit of Josieâs shawl caught in with the nail. So heâs got a souvenir of the murderess too! That makes him very happy!â

II

Hugo and Adelaide passed by the ballroom. Raymond came up to them.

Adelaide said, rather quickly:

âI must tell you my news. Weâre going to be married.â

The smile on Raymondâs face was perfectâa brave, pensive smile.

âI hope,â he said, ignoring Hugo and gazing into her eyes, âthat you will be very, very happyâ¦.â

They passed on and Raymond stood looking after them.

âA nice woman,â he said to himself. âA very nice woman. And she would have had money too. The trouble I took to mug up that bit about the Devonshire Starrs â¦ Oh well, my luckâs out. Dance, dance, little gentleman!â

And Raymond returned to the ballroom.

Agatha Christie

The Moving Finger

A Miss Marple Mystery

To my friends
Sydney and Mary Smith

Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

One

I

When at last I was taken out of the plaster, and the doctors had pulled me about to their heartsâ content, and nurses had wheedled me into cautiously using my limbs, and I had been nauseated by their practically using baby talk to me, Marcus Kent told me I was to go and live in the country.

âGood air, quiet life, nothing to doâthatâs the prescription for you. That sister of yours will look after you. Eat, sleep and imitate the vegetable kingdom as far as possible.â

I didnât ask him if Iâd ever be able to fly again. There are questions that you donât ask because youâre afraid of the answers to them. In the same way during the last five months Iâd never asked if I was going to be condemned to lie on my back all my life. I was afraid of a bright hypocritical reassurance from Sister. âCome now, what a question to ask! We donât let our patients go talking in that way!â

So I hadnât askedâand it had been all right. I wasnât to be a helpless cripple. I could move my legs, stand on them, finally walk a few stepsâand if I did feel rather like an adventurous baby learning to toddle, with wobbly knees and cotton wool soles to my feetâwell, that was only weakness and disuse and would pass.

Marcus Kent, who is the right kind of doctor, answered what I hadnât said.

âYouâre going to recover completely,â he said. âWe werenât sure until last Tuesday when you had that final overhaul, but I can tell you so authoritatively now. Butâitâs going to be a long business. A long and, if I may so, a wearisome business. When itâs a question of healing nerves and muscles, the brain must help the body. Any impatience, any fretting, will throw you back. And whatever you do, donât âwill yourself to get well quickly.â Anything of that kind and youâll find yourself back in a nursing home. Youâve got to take life slowly and easily, the tempo is marked Legato. Not only has your body got to recover, but your nerves have been weakened by the necessity of keeping you under drugs for so long.

âThatâs why I say, go down to the country, take a house, get interested in local politics, in local scandal, in village gossip. Take an inquisitive and violent interest in your neighbours. If I may make a suggestion, go to a part of the world where you havenât got any friends scattered about.â

I nodded. âI had already,â I said, âthought of that.â

I could think of nothing more insufferable than members of oneâs own gang dropping in full of sympathy and their own affairs.

âBut Jerry, youâre looking marvellousâisnât he? Absolutely. Darling, I must tell youâWhat do you think Buster has done now?â

No, none of that for me. Dogs are wise. They crawl away into a quiet corner and lick their wounds and do not rejoin the world until they are whole once more.

So it came about that Joanna and I, sorting wildly through houseagentsâ glowing eulogies of properties all over the British Isles, selected Little Furze, Lymstock, as one of the âpossiblesâ to be viewed, mainly because we had never been to Lymstock, and knew no one in that neighbourhood.

And when Joanna saw Little Furze she decided at once that it was just the house we wanted.

It lay about half a mile out of Lymstock on the road leading up to the moors. It was a prim low white house, with a sloping Victorian veranda painted a faded green. It had a pleasant view over a slope of heather-covered land with the church spire of Lymstock down below to the left.

It had belonged to a family of maiden ladies, the Misses Barton, of whom only one was left, the youngest, Miss Emily.

Miss Emily Barton was a charming little old lady who matched her house in an incredible way. In a soft apologetic voice she explained to Joanna that she had never let her house before, indeed would never have thought of doing so, âbut you see, my dear, things are so different nowadaysâtaxation, of course, and then my stocks and shares, so safe, as I always imagined, and indeed the bank manager himself recommended some of them, but they seem to be paying nothing at all these daysâforeign, of course! And really it makes it all so difficult. One does not (Iâm sure you will understand me, my dear, and not take offence, you look so kind) like the idea of letting oneâs house to strangersâbut something must be done, and really, having seen you, I shall be quite glad to think of you being hereâit needs, you know, young life. And I must confess I did shrink from the idea of having Men here!â

At this point, Joanna had to break the news of me. Miss Emily rallied well.

âOh dear, I see. How sad! A flying accident? So brave, these young men. Still, your brother will be practically an invalidââ

The thought seemed to soothe the gentle little lady. Presumably I should not be indulging in those grosser masculine activities which Emily Barton feared. She inquired diffidently if I smoked.

âLike a chimney,â said Joanna. âBut then,â she pointed out, âso do I.â

âOf course, of course. So stupid of me. Iâm afraid, you know, I havenât moved with the times. My sisters were all older than myself, and my dear mother lived to be ninety-sevenâjust fancy!âand was most particular. Yes, yes, everyone smokes now. The only thing is, there are no ashtrays in the house.â

Joanna said that we would bring lots of ashtrays, and she added with a smile, âWe wonât put down cigarette ends on your nice furniture, that I do promise you. Nothing makes me so mad myself as to see people do that.â

So it was settled and we took Little Furze for a period of six months, with an option of another three, and Emily Barton explained to Joanna that she herself was going to be very comfortable because she was going into rooms kept by an old parlourmaid, âmy faithful Florence,â who had married âafter being with us for fifteen years. Such a nice girl, and her husband is in the building trade. They have a nice house in the High Street and two beautiful rooms on the top floor where I shall be most comfortable, and Florence so pleased to have me.â

So everything seemed to be most satisfactory, and the agreement was signed and in due course Joanna and I arrived and settled in, and Miss Emily Bartonâs maid Partridge having consented to remain, we were well looked after with the assistance of a âgirlâ who came in every morning and who seemed to be half-witted but amiable.

Partridge, a gaunt dour female of middle age, cooked admirably, and though disapproving of late dinner (it having been Miss Emilyâs custom to dine lightly off a boiled egg) nevertheless accommodated herself to our ways and went so far as to admit that she could see I needed my strength building up.

When we had settled in and been at Little Furze a week Miss Emily Barton came solemnly and left cards. Her example was followed by Mrs. Symmington, the lawyerâs wife, Miss Griffith, the doctorâs sister, Mrs. Dane Calthrop, the vicarâs wife, and Mr. Pye of Priorâs End.

Joanna was very much impressed.

âI didnât know,â she said in an awestruck voice, âthat people really calledâwith cards.â

âThat is because, my child,â I said, âyou know nothing about the country.â

âNonsense. Iâve stayed away for heaps of weekends with people.â

âThat is not at all the same thing,â I said.

I am five years older than Joanna. I can remember as a child the big white shabby untidy house we had with the fields running down to the river. I can remember creeping under the nets of raspberry canes unseen by the gardener, and the smell of white dust in the stable yard and an orange cat crossing it, and the sound of horse hoofs kicking something in the stables.

But when I was seven and Joanna two, we went to live in London with an aunt, and thereafter our Christmas and Easter holidays were spent there with pantomimes and theatres and cinemas and excursions to Kensington Gardens with boats, and later to skating rinks. In August we were taken to an hotel by the seaside somewhere.

Reflecting on this, I said thoughtfully to Joanna, and with a feeling of compunction as I realized what a selfish, self-centred invalid I had become:

âThis is going to be pretty frightful for you, Iâm afraid. Youâll miss everything so.â

For Joanna is very pretty and very gay, and she likes dancing and cocktails, and love affairs and rushing about in high-powered cars.

Joanna laughed and said she didnât mind at all.

âAs a matter of fact, Iâm glad to get away from it all. I really was fed up with the whole crowd, and although you wonât be sympathetic, I was really very cut up about Paul. It will take me a long time to get over it.â

I was sceptical over this. Joannaâs love affairs always run the same course. She has a mad infatuation for some completely spineless young man who is a misunderstood genius. She listens to his endless complaints and works like anything to get him recognition. Then, when he is ungrateful, she is deeply wounded and says her heart is brokenâuntil the next gloomy young man comes along, which is usually about three weeks later!

So I did not take Joannaâs broken heart very seriously. But I did see that living in the country was like a new game to my attractive sister.

âAt any rate,â she said, âI look all right, donât I?â

I studied her critically and was not able to agree.

Joanna was dressed (by Mirotin) for le Sport. That is to say she was wearing a skirt of outrageous and preposterous checks. It was skintight, and on her upper half she had a ridiculous little shortsleeved jersey with a Tyrolean effect. She had sheer silk stockings and some irreproachable but brand new brogues.

âNo,â I said, âyouâre all wrong. You ought to be wearing a very old tweed skirt, preferably of dirty green or faded brown. Youâd wear a nice cashmere jumper matching it, and perhaps a cardigan coat, and youâd have a felt hat and thick stockings and old shoes. Then, and only then, youâd sink into the background of Lymstock High Street, and not stand out as you do at present.â I added: âYour face is all wrong, too.â

âWhatâs wrong with that? Iâve got on my Country Tan Makeup No. 2.â

âExactly,â I said. âIf you lived in Lymstock, you would have on just a little powder to take the shine off your nose, and possibly a soupÃ§on of lipstickânot very well appliedâand you would almost certainly be wearing all your eyebrows instead of only a quarter of them.â

Joanna gurgled and seemed much amused.

âDo you think theyâll think Iâm awful?â she said.

âNo,â I said. âJust queer.â

Joanna had resumed her study of the cards left by our callers. Only the vicarâs wife had been so fortunate, or possibly unfortunate, as to catch Joanna at home.

Joanna murmured:

âItâs rather like Happy Families, isnât it? Mrs. Legal the lawyerâs wife, Miss Dose the doctorâs daughter, etc.â She added with enthusiasm: âI do think this is a nice place, Jerry! So sweet and funny and old-world. You just canât think of anything nasty happening here, can you?â

And although I knew what she said was really nonsense, I agreed with her. In a place like Lymstock nothing nasty could happen. It is odd to think that it was just a week later that we got the first letter.

II

I see that I have begun badly. I have given no description of Lymstock and without understanding what Lymstock is like, it is impossible to understand my story.

To begin with, Lymstock has its roots in the past. Somewhere about the time of the Norman Conquest, Lymstock was a place of importance. That importance was chiefly ecclesiastical. Lymstock had a priory, and it had a long succession of ambitious and powerful priors. Lords and barons in the surrounding countryside made themselves right with Heaven by leaving certain of their lands to the priory. Lymstock Priory waxed rich and important and was a power in the land for many centuries. In due course, however, Henry the Eighth caused it to share the fate of its contemporaries. From then on a castle dominated the town. It was still important. It had rights and privileges and wealth.

And then, somewhere in seventeen hundred and something, the tide of progress swept Lymstock into a backwater. The castle crumbled. Neither railways nor main roads came near Lymstock. It turned into a little provincial market town, unimportant and forgotten, with a sweep of moorland rising behind it, and placid farms and fields ringing it round.

A market was held there once a week, on which day one was apt to encounter cattle in the lanes and roads. It had a small race meeting twice a year which only the most obscure horses attended. It had a charming High Street with dignified houses set flat back, looking slightly incongruous with their ground-floor windows displaying buns or vegetables or fruit. It had a long straggling draperâs shop, a large and portentous ironmongerâs, a pretentious post office, and a row of straggly indeterminate shops, two rival butchers and an International Stores. It had a doctor, a firm of solicitors, Messrs. Galbraith, Galbraith and Symmington, a beautiful and unexpectedly large church dating from fourteen hundred and twenty, with some Saxon remains incorporated in it, a new and hideous school, and two pubs.

Such was Lymstock, and urged on by Emily Barton, anybody who was anybody came to call upon us, and in due course Joanna, having bought a pair of gloves and assumed a velvet beret rather the worse for wear, sallied forth to return them.

To us, it was all quite novel and entertaining. We were not there for life. It was, for us, an interlude. I prepared to obey my doctorâs instructions and get interested in my neighbours.

Joanna and I found it all great fun.

I remembered, I suppose, Marcus Kentâs instructions to enjoy the local scandals. I certainly didnât suspect how these scandals were going to be introduced to my notice.

The odd part of it was that the letter, when it came, amused us more than anything else.

It arrived, I remember, at breakfast. I turned it over, in the idle way one does when time goes slowly and every event must be spun out to its full extent. It was, I saw, a local letter with a typewritten address.

I opened it before the two with London postmarks, since one of them was a bill and the other from a rather tiresome cousin.

Inside, printed words and letters had been cut out and gummed to a sheet of paper. For a minute or two I stared at the words without taking them in. Then I gasped.

Joanna, who was frowning over some bills, looked up.

âHallo,â she said, âwhat is it? You look quite startled.â

The letter, using terms of the coarsest character, expressed the writerâs opinion that Joanna and I were not brother and sister.

âItâs a particularly foul anonymous letter,â I said.

I was still suffering from shock. Somehow one didnât expect that kind of thing in the placid backwater of Lymstock.

Joanna at once displayed lively interest.

âNo? What does it say?â

In novels, I have noticed, anonymous letters of a foul and disgusting character are never shown, if possible, to women. It is implied that women must at all cost be shielded from the shock it might give their delicate nervous systems.

I am sorry to say it never occurred to me not to show the letter to Joanna. I handed it to her at once.

She vindicated my belief in her toughness by displaying no emotion but that of amusement.

âWhat an awful bit of dirt! Iâve always heard about anonymous letters, but Iâve never seen one before. Are they always like this?â

âI canât tell you,â I said. âItâs my first experience, too.â

Joanna began to giggle.

âYou must have been right about my makeup, Jerry. I suppose they think I just must be an abandoned female!â

âThat,â I said, âcoupled with the fact that our father was a tall, dark lantern-jawed man and our mother a fair-haired blue-eyed little creature, and that I take after him and you take after her.â

Joanna nodded thoughtfully.

âYes, weâre not a bit alike. Nobody would take us for brother and sister.â

âSomebody certainly hasnât,â I said with feeling.

Joanna said she thought it was frightfully funny.

She dangled the letter thoughtfully by one corner and asked what we were to do with it.

âThe correct procedure, I believe,â I said, âis to drop it into the fire with a sharp exclamation of disgust.â

I suited the action to the word, and Joanna applauded.

âYou did that beautifully,â she added. âYou ought to have been on the stage. Itâs lucky we still have fires, isnât it?â

âThe wastepaper basket would have been much less dramatic,â I agreed. âI could, of course, have set light to it with a match and slowly watched it burnâor watched it slowly burn.â

âThings never burn when you want them to,â said Joanna. âThey go out. Youâd probably have had to strike match after match.â

She got up and went towards the window. Then, standing there, she turned her head sharply.

âI wonder,â she said, âwho wrote it?â

âWeâre never likely to know,â I said.

âNoâI suppose not.â She was silent a moment, and then said: âI donât know when I come to think of it that it is so funny after all. You know, I thought theyâthey liked us down here.â

âSo they do,â I said. âThis is just some half-crazy brain on the borderline.â

âI suppose so. Ughâ Nasty!â

As she went out into the sunshine I thought to myself as I smoked my after-breakfast cigarette that she was quite right. It was nasty. Someone resented our coming hereâsomeone resented Joannaâs bright young sophisticated beautyâsomebody wanted to hurt. To take it with a laugh was perhaps the best wayâbut deep down it wasnât funnyâ¦.

Dr. Griffith came that morning. I had fixed up for him to give me a weekly overhaul. I liked Owen Griffith. He was dark, ungainly, with awkward ways of moving and deft, very gentle hands. He had a jerky way of talking and was rather shy.

He reported progress to be encouraging. Then he added:

âYouâre feeling all right, arenât you. Is it my fancy, or are you a bit under the weather this morning?â

âNot really,â I said. âA particularly scurrilous anonymous letter arrived with the morning coffee, and itâs left rather a nasty taste in the mouth.â

He dropped his bag on the floor. His thin dark face was excited.

âDo you mean to say that youâve had one of them?â

I was interested.

âTheyâve been going about, then?â

âYes. For some time.â

âOh,â I said, âI see. I was under the impression that our presence as strangers was resented here.â

âNo, no, itâs nothing to do with that. Itâs justââ He paused and then asked, âWhat did it say? At leastââ he turned suddenly red and embarrassedâ âperhaps I oughtnât to ask?â

âIâll tell you with pleasure,â I said. âIt just said that the fancy tart Iâd brought down with me wasnât my sisterânot âalf! And that, I may say, is a Bowdlerized version.â

His dark face flushed angrily.

âHow damnable! Your sister didnâtâsheâs not upset, I hope?â

âJoanna,â I said, âlooks a little like the angel off the top of the Christmas tree, but sheâs eminently modern and quite tough. She found it highly entertaining. Such things havenât come her way before.â

âI should hope not, indeed,â said Griffith warmly.

âAnd anyway,â I said firmly. âThatâs the best way to take it, I think. As something utterly ridiculous.â

âYes,â said Owen Griffith. âOnlyââ

âQuite so,â I said. âOnly is the word!â

âThe trouble is,â he said, âthat this sort of thing, once it starts, grows.â

âSo I should imagine.â

âItâs pathological, of course.â

I nodded. âAny idea whoâs behind it?â I asked.

âNo, I wish I had. You see, the anonymous letter pest arises from one of two causes. Either itâs particularâdirected at one particular person or set of people, that is to say itâs motivated, itâs someone whoâs got a definite grudge (or thinks they have) and who chooses a particularly nasty and underhand way of working it off. Itâs mean and disgusting but itâs not necessarily crazy, and itâs usually fairly easy to trace the writerâa discharged servant, a jealous womanâand so on. But if itâs general, and not particular, then itâs more serious. The letters are sent indiscriminately and serve the purpose of working off some frustration in the writerâs mind. As I say, itâs definitely pathological. And the craze grows. In the end, of course, you track down the person in questionâitâs often someone extremely unlikely, and thatâs that. There was a bad outburst of the kind over the other side of the county last yearâturned out to be the head of the millinery department in a big draperâs establishment. Quiet, refined womanâhad been there for years. I remember something of the same kind in my last practice up northâbut that turned out to be purely personal spite. Still, as I say, Iâve seen something of this kind of thing, and, quite frankly, it frightens me!â

âHas it been going on long?â I asked.

âI donât think so. Hard to say, of course, because people who get these letters donât go round advertising the fact. They put them in the fire.â

He paused.

âIâve had one myself. Symmington, the solicitor, heâs had one. And one or two of my poorer patients have told me about them.â

âAll much the same sort of thing?â

âOh yes. A definite harping on the sex theme. Thatâs always a feature.â He grinned. âSymmington was accused of illicit relations with his lady clerkâpoor old Miss Ginch, whoâs forty at least, with pince-nez and teeth like a rabbit. Symmington took it straight to the police. My letters accused me of violating professional decorum with my lady patients, stressing the details. Theyâre all quite childish and absurd, but horribly venomous.â His face changed, grew grave. âBut all the same, Iâm afraid. These things can be dangerous, you know.â

âI suppose they can.â

âYou see,â he said, âcrude, childish spite though it is, sooner or later one of these letters will hit the mark. And then, God knows what may happen! Iâm afraid, too, of the effect upon the slow, suspicious uneducated mind. If they see a thing written, they believe itâs true. All sorts of complications may arise.â

âIt was an illiterate sort of letter,â I said thoughtfully, âwritten by somebody practically illiterate, I should say.â

âWas it?â said Owen, and went away.

Thinking it over afterwards, I found that âWas it?â rather disturbing.

Two

I

I am not going to pretend that the arrival of our anonymous letter did not leave a nasty taste in the mouth. It did. At the same time, it soon passed out of my mind. I did not, you see, at that point, take it seriously. I think I remember saying to myself that these things probably happen fairly often in out-of-the-way villages. Some hysterical woman with a taste for dramatizing herself was probably at the bottom of it. Anyway, if the letters were as childish and silly as the one we had got, they couldnât do much harm.

The next incident, if I may put it so, occurred about a week later, when Partridge, her lips set tightly together, informed me that Beatrice, the daily help, would not be coming today.

âI gather, sir,â said Partridge, âthat the girl has been Upset.â

I was not very sure what Partridge was implying, but I diagnosed (wrongly) some stomachic trouble to which Partridge was too delicate to allude more directly. I said I was sorry and hoped she would soon be better.

âThe girl is perfectly well, sir,â said Partridge. âShe is Upset in her Feelings.â

âOh,â I said rather doubtfully.

âOwing,â went on Partridge, âto a letter she has received. Making, I understand, Insinuations.â

The grimness of Partridgeâs eye, coupled with the obvious capital I of Insinuations, made me apprehensive that the insinuations were concerned with me. Since I would hardly have recognized Beatrice by sight if I had met her in the town so unaware of her had I beenâI felt a not unnatural annoyance. An invalid hobbling about on two sticks is hardly cast for the role of deceiver of village girls. I said irritably:

âWhat nonsense!â

âMy very words, sir, to the girlâs mother,â said Partridge. ââGoings On in this house,â I said to her, âthere never have been and never will be while I am in charge. As to Beatrice,â I said, âgirls are different nowadays, and as to Goings On elsewhere I can say nothing.â But the truth is, sir, that Beatriceâs friend from the garage as she walks out with got one of them nasty letters too, and he isnât acting reasonable at all.â

âI have never heard anything so preposterous in my life,â I said angrily.

âItâs my opinion, sir,â said Partridge, âthat weâre well rid of the girl. What I say is, she wouldnât take on so if there wasnât something she didnât want found out. No smoke without fire, thatâs what I say.â

I had no idea how horribly tired I was going to get of that particular phrase.

II

That morning, by way of adventure, I was to walk down to the village. (Joanna and I always called it the village, although technically we were incorrect, and Lymstock would have been annoyed to hear us.)

The sun was shining, the air was cool and crisp with the sweetness of spring in it. I assembled my sticks and started off, firmly refusing to permit Joanna to accompany me.

âNo,â I said, âI will not have a guardian angel teetering along beside me and uttering encouraging chirrups. A man travels fastest who travels alone, remember. I have much business to transact. I shall go to Galbraith, Galbraith and Symmington, and sign that transfer of shares, I shall call in at the bakerâs and complain about the currant loaf, and I shall return that book we borrowed. I have to go to the bank, too. Let me away, woman, the morning is all too short.â

It was arranged that Joanna should pick me up with the car and drive me back up the hill in time for lunch.

âThat ought to give you time to pass the time of day with everyone in Lymstock.â

âI have no doubt,â I said, âthat I shall have seen anybody who is anybody by then.â

For morning in the High Street was a kind of rendezvous for shoppers, when news was exchanged.

I did not, after all, walk down to the town unaccompanied. I had gone about two hundred yards, when I heard a bicycle bell behind me, then a scrunching of brakes, and then Megan Hunter more or less fell off her machine at my feet.

âHallo,â she said breathlessly as she rose and dusted herself off.

I rather liked Megan and always felt oddly sorry for her.

She was Symmington the lawyerâs stepdaughter, Mrs. Symmingtonâs daughter by a first marriage. Nobody talked much about Mr. (or Captain) Hunter, and I gathered that he was considered best forgotten. He was reported to have treated Mrs. Symmington very badly. She had divorced him a year or two after the marriage. She was a woman with means of her own and had settled down with her little daughter in Lymstock âto forget,â and had eventually married the only eligible bachelor in the place, Richard Symmington. There were two boys of the second marriage to whom their parents were devoted, and I fancied that Megan sometimes felt odd man out in the establishment. She certainly did not resemble her mother, who was a small anaemic woman, fadedly pretty, who talked in a thin melancholy voice of servant difficulties and her health.

Megan was a tall awkward girl, and although she was actually twenty, she looked more like a schoolgirlish sixteen. She had a shock of untidy brown hair, hazel green eyes, a thin bony face, and an unexpected charming one-sided smile. Her clothes were drab and unattractive and she usually had on lisle thread stockings with holes in them.

She looked, I decided this morning, much more like a horse than a human being. In fact she would have been a very nice horse with a little grooming.

She spoke, as usual, in a kind of breathless rush.

âIâve been up to the farmâyou know, Lasherâsâto see if theyâd got any duckâs eggs. Theyâve got an awfully nice lot of little pigs. Sweet! Do you like pigs? I even like the smell.â

âWell-kept pigs shouldnât smell,â I said.

âShouldnât they? They all do round here. Are you walking down to the town? I saw you were alone, so I thought Iâd stop and walk with you, only I stopped rather suddenly.â

âYouâve torn your stocking,â I said.

Megan looked rather ruefully at her right leg.

âSo I have. But itâs got two holes already, so it doesnât matter very much, does it?â

âDonât you ever mend your stockings, Megan?â

âRather. When Mummy catches me. But she doesnât notice awfully what I doâso itâs lucky in a way, isnât it?â

âYou donât seem to realize youâre grown up,â I said.

âYou mean I ought to be more like your sister? All dolled up?â

I rather resented this description of Joanna.

âShe looks clean and tidy and pleasing to the eye,â I said.

âSheâs awfully pretty,â said Megan. âShe isnât a bit like you, is she? Why not?â

âBrothers and sisters arenât always alike.â

âNo. Of course. Iâm not very like Brian or Colin. And Brian and Colin arenât like each other.â She paused and said, âItâs very rum, isnât it?â

âWhat is?â

Megan replied briefly: âFamilies.â

I said thoughtfully, âI suppose they are.â

I wondered just what was passing in her mind. We walked on in silence for a moment or two, then Megan said in a rather shy voice:

âYou fly, donât you?â

âYes.â

âThatâs how you got hurt?â

âYes, I crashed.â

Megan said:

âNobody down here flies.â

âNo,â I said. âI suppose not. Would you like to fly, Megan?â

âMe?â Megan seemed surprised. âGoodness, no. I should be sick. Iâm sick in a train even.â

She paused, and then asked with that directness which only a child usually displays:

âWill you get all right and be able to fly again, or will you always be a bit of a crock?â

âMy doctor says I shall be quite all right.â

âYes, but is he the kind of man who tells lies?â

âI donât think so,â I replied. âIn fact, Iâm quite sure of it. I trust him.â

âThatâs all right then. But a lot of people do tell lies.â

I accepted this undeniable statement of fact in silence.

Megan said in a detached judicial kind of way:

âIâm glad. I was afraid you looked bad tempered because you were crocked up for lifeâbut if itâs just natural, itâs different.â

âIâm not bad tempered,â I said coldly.

âWell, irritable, then.â

âIâm irritable because Iâm in a hurry to get fit againâand these things canât be hurried.â

âThen why fuss?â

I began to laugh.

âMy dear girl, arenât you ever in a hurry for things to happen?â

Megan considered the question. She said:

âNo. Why should I be? Thereâs nothing to be in a hurry about. Nothing ever happens.â

I was struck by something forlorn in the words. I said gently: âWhat do you do with yourself down here?â

She shrugged her shoulders.

âWhat is there to do?â

âHavenât you got any hobbies? Do you play games? Have you got friends round about?â

âIâm stupid at games. And I donât like them much. There arenât many girls round here, and the ones there are I donât like. They think Iâm awful.â

âNonsense. Why should they?â

Megan shook her head.

âDidnât you go to school at all?â

âYes, I came back a year ago.â

âDid you enjoy school?â

âIt wasnât bad. They taught you things in an awfully silly way, though.â

âHow do you mean?â

âWellâjust bits and pieces. Chopping and changing from one thing to the other. It was a cheap school, you know, and the teachers werenât very good. They could never answer questions properly.â

âVery few teachers can,â I said.

âWhy not? They ought to.â

I agreed.

âOf course Iâm pretty stupid,â said Megan. âAnd such a lot of things seem to me such rot. History, for instance. Why, itâs quite different out of different books!â

âThat is its real interest,â I said.

âAnd grammar,â went on Megan. âAnd silly compositions. And all the blathering stuff Shelley wrote, twittering on about skylarks, and Wordsworth going all potty over some silly daffodils. And Shakespeare.â

âWhatâs wrong with Shakespeare?â I inquired with interest.

âTwisting himself up to say things in such a difficult way that you canât get at what he means. Still, I like some Shakespeare.â

âHe would be gratified to know that, Iâm sure,â I said.

Megan suspected no sarcasm. She said, her face lighting up:

âI like Goneril and Regan, for instance.â

âWhy these two?â

âOh, I donât know. Theyâre satisfactory, somehow. Why do you think they were like that?â

âLike what?â

âLike they were. I mean something must have made them like that?â

For the first time I wondered. I had always accepted Learâs elder daughters as two nasty bits of goods and had let it go at that. But Meganâs demand for a first cause interested me.

âIâll think about it,â I said.

âOh, it doesnât really matter. I just wondered. Anyway, itâs only English Literature, isnât it?â

âQuite, quite. Wasnât there any subject you enjoyed?â

âOnly Maths.â

âMaths?â I said, rather surprised.

Meganâs face had lit up.

âI loved Maths. But it wasnât awfully well taught. Iâd like to be taught Maths really well. Itâs heavenly. I think thereâs something heavenly about numbers, anyway, donât you?â

âIâve never felt it,â I said truthfully.

We were now entering the High Street. Megan said sharply:

âHereâs Miss Griffith. Hateful woman.â

âDonât you like her?â

âI loathe her. Sheâs always at me to join her foul Guides. I hate Guides. Why dress yourself up and go about in clumps, and put badges on yourself for something you havenât really learnt to do properly? I think itâs all rot.â

On the whole, I rather agreed with Megan. But Miss Griffith had descended on us before I could voice my assent.

The doctorâs sister, who rejoiced in the singularly inappropriate name of AimÃ©e, had all the positive assurance that her brother lacked. She was a handsome woman in a masculine weather-beaten way, with a deep hearty voice.

âHallo, you two,â she bayed at us. âGorgeous morning, isnât it? Megan, youâre just the person I wanted to see. I want some help addressing envelopes for the Conservative Association.â

Megan muttered something elusive, propped up her bicycle against the kerb and dived in a purposeful way into the International Stores.

âExtraordinary child,â said Miss Griffith, looking after her. âBone lazy. Spends her time mooning about. Must be a great trial to poor Mrs. Symmington. I know her motherâs tried more than once to get her to take up somethingâshorthand-typing, you know, or cookery, or keeping Angora rabbits. She needs an interest in life.â

I thought that was probably true, but felt that in Meganâs place I should have withstood firmly any of AimÃ©e Griffithâs suggestions for the simple reason that her aggressive personality would have put my back up.

âI donât believe in idleness,â went on Miss Griffith. âAnd certainly not for young people. Itâs not as though Megan was pretty or attractive or anything like that. Sometimes I think the girlâs half-witted. A great disappointment to her mother. The father, you know,â she lowered her voice slightly, âwas definitely a wrong âun. Afraid the child takes after him. Painful for her mother. Oh, well, it takes all sorts to make a world, thatâs what I say.â

âFortunately,â I responded.

AimÃ©e Griffith gave a âjollyâ laugh.

âYes, it wouldnât do if we were all made to one pattern. But I donât like to see anyone not getting all they can out of life. I enjoy life myself and I want everyone to enjoy it too. People say to me you must be bored to death living down there in the country all the year round. Not a bit of it, I say. Iâm always busy, always happy! Thereâs always something going on in the country. My timeâs taken up, what with my Guides, and the Institute and various committeesâto say nothing of looking after Owen.â

At this minute, Miss Griffith saw an acquaintance on the other side of the street, and uttering a bay of recognition she leaped across the road, leaving me free to pursue my course to the bank.

I always found Miss Griffith rather overwhelming, though I admired her energy and vitality, and it was pleasant to see the beaming contentment with her lot in life which she always displayed, and which was a pleasant contrast to the subdued complaining murmurs of so many women.

My business at the bank transacted satisfactorily, I went on to the offices of Messrs. Galbraith, Galbraith and Symmington. I donât know if there were any Galbraiths extant. I never saw any. I was shown into Richard Symmingtonâs inner office which had the agreeable mustiness of a long-established legal firm.

Vast numbers of deed boxes, labelled Lady Hope, Sir Everard Carr, William Yatesby-Hoares, Esq., Deceased, etc., gave the required atmosphere of decorous county families and legitimate long-established business.

Studying Mr. Symmington as he bent over the documents I had brought, it occurred to me that if Mrs. Symmington had encountered disaster in her first marriage, she had certainly played safe in her second. Richard Symmington was the acme of calm respectability, the sort of man who would never give his wife a momentâs anxiety. A long neck with a pronounced Adamâs apple, a slightly cadaverous face and a long thin nose. A kindly man, no doubt, a good husband and father, but not one to set the pulses madly racing.

Presently Mr. Symmington began to speak. He spoke clearly and slowly, delivering himself of much good sense and shrewd acumen. We settled the matter in hand and I rose to go, remarking as I did so:

âI walked down the hill with your stepdaughter.â

For a moment Mr. Symmington looked as though he did not know who his stepdaughter was, then he smiled.

âOh yes, of course, Megan. Sheâerâhas been back from school some time. Weâre thinking about finding her something to doâyes, to do. But of course sheâs very young still. And backward for her age, so they say. Yes, so they tell me.â

I went out. In the outer office was a very old man on a stool writing slowly and laboriously, a small cheeky-looking boy and a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and pinze-nez who was typing with some speed and dash.

If this was Miss Ginch I agreed with Owen Griffith that tender passages between her and her employer were exceedingly unlikely.

I went into the bakerâs and said my piece about the currant loaf. It was received with the exclamation and incredulity proper to the occasion, and a new currant loaf was thrust upon me in replacementââfresh from the oven this minuteââas its indecent heat pressed against my chest proclaimed to be no less than truth.

I came out of the shop and looked up and down the street hoping to see Joanna with the car. The walk had tired me a good deal and it was awkward getting along with my sticks and the currant loaf.

But there was no sign of Joanna as yet.

Suddenly my eyes were held in glad and incredulous surprise.

Along the pavement towards me there came floating a goddess. There is really no other word for it.

The perfect features, the crisply curling golden hair, the tall exquisitely-shaped body! And she walked like a goddess, without effort, seeming to swim nearer and nearer. A glorious, an incredible, a breathtaking girl!

In my intense excitement something had to go. What went was the currant loaf. It slipped from my clutches. I made a dive after it and lost my stick, which clattered to the pavement, and I slipped and nearly fell myself.

It was the strong arm of the goddess that caught and held me. I began to stammer:

âTh-thanks awfully, Iâm f-f-frightfully sorry.â

She had retrieved the currant loaf and handed it to me together with the stick. And then she smiled kindly and said cheerfully:

âDonât mention it. No trouble, I assure you,â and the magic died completely before the flat, competent voice.

A nice healthy-looking well set-up girl, no more.

I fell to reflecting what would have happened if the Gods had given Helen of Troy exactly those flat accents. How strange that a girl could trouble your inmost soul so long as she kept her mouth shut, and that the moment she spoke the glamour could vanish as though it had never been.

I had known the reverse happen, though. I had seen a little sad monkey-faced woman whom no one would turn to look at twice. Then she opened her mouth and suddenly enchantment had lived and bloomed and Cleopatra had cast her spell anew.

Joanna had drawn up at the kerb beside me without my noticing her arrival. She asked if there was anything the matter.

âNothing,â I said, pulling myself together. âI was reflecting on Helen of Troy and others.â

âWhat a funny place to do it,â said Joanna. âYou looked most odd, standing there clasping currant bread to your breast with your mouth wide open.â

âIâve had a shock,â I said. âI have been transplanted to Ilium and back again.â

âDo you know who that is?â I added, indicating a retreating back that was swimming gracefully away.

Peering after the girl Joanna said that it was the Symmingtonsâ nursery governess.

âIs that what struck you all of a heap?â she asked. âSheâs good-looking, but a bit of a wet fish.â

âI know,â I said. âJust a nice kind girl. And Iâd been thinking her Aphrodite.â

Joanna opened the door of the car and I got in.

âItâs funny, isnât it?â she said. âSome people have lots of looks and absolutely no S.A. That girl has. It seems such a pity.â

I said that if she was a nursery governess it was probably just as well.

Three

I

That afternoon we went to tea with Mr. Pye.

Mr. Pye was an extremely ladylike plump little man, devoted to his petit point chairs, his Dresden shepherdesses and his collection of bric-Ã -brac. He lived at Priorâs Lodge in the grounds of which were the ruins of the old Priory.

Priorâs Lodge was certainly a very exquisite house and under Mr. Pyeâs loving care it showed to its best advantage. Every piece of furniture was polished and set in the exact place most suited to it. The curtains and cushions were of exquisite tone and colour, and of the most expensive silks.

It was hardly a manâs house, and it did strike me that to live there would be rather like taking up oneâs abode in a period room at a museum. Mr. Pyeâs principal enjoyment in life was taking people round his house. Even those completely insensitive to their surroundings could not escape. Even if you were so hardened as to consider the essentials of living a radio, a cocktail bar, a bath and a bed surrounded by the necessary walls. Mr. Pye did not despair of leading you to better things.

His small plump hands quivered with sensibility as he described his treasures, and his voice rose to a falsetto squeak as he narrated the exciting circumstances under which he had brought his Italian bedstead home from Verona.

Joanna and I being both fond of antiquities and of period furniture, met with approval.

âIt is really a pleasure, a great pleasure, to have such an acquisition to our little community. The dear good people down here, you know, so painfully bucolicânot to say provincial. They donât know anything. Vandalsâabsolute vandals! And the inside of their housesâit would make you weep, dear lady, I assure you it would make you weep. Perhaps it has done so?â

Joanna said that she hadnât gone quite as far as that.

âBut you see what I mean? They mix things so terribly! Iâve seen with my own eyes a most delightful little Sheraton pieceâdelicate, perfectâa collectorâs piece, absolutelyâand next to it a Victorian occasional table, or quite possibly a fumed oak revolving bookcaseâyes, even thatâfumed oak.â

He shudderedâand murmured plaintively:

âWhy are people so blind? You agreeâIâm sure you agree, that beauty is the only thing worth living for.â

Hypnotized by his earnestness, Joanna said, yes, yes, that was so.

âThen why,â demanded Mr. Pye, âdo people surround themselves with ugliness?â

Joanna said it was very odd.

âOdd? Itâs criminal! Thatâs what I call itâcriminal! And the excuses they give! They say something is comfortable. Or that it is quaint. Quaint! Such a horrible word.â

âThe house you have taken,â went on Mr. Pye, âMiss Emily Bartonâs house. Now that is charming, and she has some quite nice pieces. Quite nice. One or two of them are really first class. And she has taste, tooâalthough Iâm not quite so sure of that as I was. Sometimes, I am afraid, I think itâs really sentiment. She likes to keep things as they wereâbut not for le bon motifânot because of the resultant harmonyâbut because it is the way her mother had them.â

He transferred his attention to me, and his voice changed. It altered from that of the rapt artist to that of the born gossip.

âYou didnât know the family at all? No, quite soâyes, through house agents. But, my dears, you ought to have known that family! When I came here the old mother was still alive. An incredible personâquite incredible! A monster, if you know what I mean. Positively a monster. The old-fashioned Victorian monster, devouring her young. Yes, thatâs what it amounted to. She was monumental, you know, must have weighed seventeen stone, and all the five daughters revolved round her. âThe girlsâ! Thatâs how she always spoke of them. The girls! And the eldest was well over sixty then. âThose stupid girls!â she used to call them sometimes. Black slaves, thatâs all they were, fetching and carrying and agreeing with her. Ten oâclock they had to go to bed and they werenât allowed a fire in their bedroom, and as for asking their own friends to the house, that would have been unheard of. She despised them, you know, for not getting married, and yet so arranged their lives that it was practically impossible for them to meet anybody. I believe Emily, or perhaps it was Agnes, did have some kind of affair with a curate. But his family wasnât good enough and Mamma soon put a stop to that!â

âIt sounds like a novel,â said Joanna.

âOh, my dear, it was. And then the dreadful old woman died, but of course it was far too late then. They just went on living there and talking in hushed voices about what poor Mamma would have wished. Even repapering her bedroom they felt to be quite sacrilegious. Still they did enjoy themselves in the parish in a quiet wayâ¦ But none of them had much stamina, and they just died off one by one. Influenza took off Edith, and Minnie had an operation and didnât recover and poor Mabel had a strokeâEmily looked after her in the most devoted manner. Really that poor woman has done nothing but nursing for the last ten years. A charming creature, donât you think? Like a piece of Dresden. So sad for her having financial anxietiesâbut of course all investments have depreciated.â

âWe feel rather awful being in her house,â said Joanna.

âNo, no, my dear young lady. You mustnât feel that way. Her dear good Florence is devoted to her and she told me herself how happy she was to have got such nice tenants.â Here Mr. Pye made a little bow. âShe told me she thought she had been most fortunate.â

âThe house,â I said, âhas a very soothing atmosphere.â

Mr. Pye darted a quick glance at me.

âReally? You feel that? Now, thatâs very interesting. I wondered, you know. Yes, I wondered.â

âWhat do you mean, Mr. Pye?â asked Joanna.

My Pye spread out his plump hands.

âNothing, nothing. One wondered, that is all. I do believe in atmosphere, you know. Peopleâs thoughts and feelings. They give their impression to the walls and the furniture.â

I did not speak for a moment or two. I was looking round me and wondering how I would describe the atmosphere of Priorâs Lodge. It seemed to me that the curious thing was that it hadnât any atmosphere! That was really very remarkable.

I reflected on this point so long that I heard nothing of the conversation going on between Joanna and her host. I was recalled to myself, however, by hearing Joanna uttering farewell preliminaries. I came out of my dream and added my quota.

We all went out into the hall. As we came towards the front door a letter came through the box and fell on the mat.

âAfternoon post,â murmured Mr. Pye as he picked it up. âNow, my dear young people, you will come again, wonât you? Such a pleasure to meet some broader minds, if you understand me. Someone with an appreciation of Art. Really you know, these dear good people down here, if you mention the Ballet, it conveys to them pirouetting toes, and tulle skirts and old gentlemen with opera glasses in the Naughty Nineties. It does indeed. Fifty years behind the timesâthatâs what I put them down, as. A wonderful country, England. It has pockets. Lymstock is one of them. Interesting from a collectorâs point of viewâI always feel I have voluntarily put myself under a glass shade when I am here. The peaceful backwater where nothing ever happens.â

Shaking hands with us twice over, he helped me with exaggerated care into the car. Joanna took the wheel, she negotiated with some care the circular sweep round a plot of unblemished grass, then with a straight drive ahead, she raised a hand to wave goodbye to our host where he stood on the steps of the house. I leaned forward to do the same.

But our gesture of farewell went unheeded. Mr. Pye had opened his mail.

He was standing staring down at the open sheet in his hand.

Joanna had described him once as a plump pink cherub. He was still plump, but he was not looking like a cherub now. His face was a dark congested purple, contorted with rage and surprise.

And at that moment I realized that there had been something familiar about the look of that envelope. I had not realized it at the timeâindeed it had been one of those things that you note unconsciously without knowing that you do note them.

âGoodness,â said Joanna. âWhatâs bitten the poor pet?â

âI rather fancy,â I said, âthat itâs the Hidden Hand again.â

She turned an astonished face towards me and the car swerved.

âCareful, wench,â I said.

Joanna refixed her attention on the road. She was frowning.

âYou mean a letter like the one you got?â

âThatâs my guess.â

âWhat is this place?â asked Joanna. âIt looks the most innocent sleepy harmless little bit of England you can imagineââ

âWhere to quote Mr. Pye, nothing ever happens,â I cut in. âHe chose the wrong minute to say that. Something has happened.â

âBut who writes these things, Jerry?â

I shrugged my shoulders.

âMy dear girl, how should I know? Some local nitwit with a screw loose, I suppose.â

âBut why? It seems so idiotic.â

âYou must read Freud and Jung and that lot to find out. Or ask our Dr. Owen.â

Joanna tossed her head.

âDr. Owen doesnât like me.â

âHeâs hardly seen you.â

âHeâs seen quite enough, apparently, to make him cross over if he sees me coming along the High Street.â

âA most unusual reaction,â I said sympathetically. âAnd one youâre not used to.â

Joanna was frowning again.

âNo, but seriously, Jerry, why do people write anonymous letters?â

âAs I say, theyâve got a screw loose. It satisfies some urge, I suppose. If youâve been snubbed, or ignored, or frustrated, and your lifeâs pretty drab and empty, I suppose you get a sense of power from stabbing in the dark at people who are happy and enjoying themselves.â

Joanna shivered. âNot nice.â

âNo, not nice. I should imagine the people in these country places tend to be inbredâand so you would get a fair amount of queers.â

âSomebody, I suppose, quite uneducated and inarticulate? With better educationââ

Joanna did not finish her sentence, and I said nothing. I have never been able to accept the easy belief that education is a panacea for every ill.

As we drove through the town before climbing up the hill road, I looked curiously at the few figures abroad in the High Street. Was one of those sturdy countrywomen going about with a load of spite and malice behind her placid brow, planning perhaps even now a further outpouring of vindictive spleen?

But I still did not take the thing seriously.

II

Two days later we went to a bridge party at the Symmingtons.

It was a Saturday afternoonâthe Symmingtons always had their bridge parties on a Saturday, because the office was shut then.

There were two tables. The players were the Symmingtons, ourselves, Miss Griffith, Mr. Pye, Miss Barton and a Colonel Appleton whom we had not yet met and who lived at Combeacre, a village some seven miles distant. He was a perfect specimen of the Blimp type, about sixty years of age, liked playing what he called a âplucky gameâ (which usually resulted in immense sums above the line being scored by his opponents) and was so intrigued by Joanna that he practically never took his eyes off her the whole afternoon.

I was forced to admit that my sister was probably the most attractive thing that had been seen in Lymstock for many a long day.

When we arrived, Elsie Holland, the childrenâs governess, was hunting for some extra bridge scorers in an ornate writing desk. She glided across the floor with them in the same celestial way I had first noticed, but the spell could not be cast a second time. Exasperating that it should be soâa waste of a perfectly lovely form and face. But I noticed now only too clearly the exceptionally large white teeth like tombstones, and the way she showed her gums when she laughed. She was, unfortunately, one of your prattling girls.

âAre these the ones, Mrs. Symmington? Itâs ever so stupid of me not to remember where we put them away last time. Itâs my fault, too, Iâm afraid. I had them in my hand and then Brian called out his engine had got caught, and I ran out and what with one thing and another I must have just stuffed them in somewhere stupid. These arenât the right ones, I see now, theyâre a bit yellow at the edges. Shall I tell Agnes tea at five? Iâm taking the kiddies to Long Barrow so there wonât be any noise.â

A nice kind bright girl. I caught Joannaâs eye. She was laughing. I stared at her coldly. Joanna always knows what is passing in my mind, curse her.

We settled down to bridge.

I was soon to know to a nicety the bridge status of everyone in Lymstock. Mrs. Symmington was an exceedingly good bridge player and was quite a devotee of the game. Like many definitely unintellectual women, she was not stupid and had a considerable natural shrewdness. Her husband was a good sound player, slightly overcautious. Mr. Pye can best be described as brilliant. He had an uncanny flair for psychic bidding. Joanna and I, since the party was in our honour, played at a table with Mrs. Symmington and Mr. Pye. It was Symmingtonâs task to pour oil on troubled waters and by the exercise of tact to reconcile the three other players at his table. Colonel Appleton, as I have said, was wont to play âa plucky game.â Little Miss Barton was without exception the worst bridge player I have ever come across and always enjoyed herself enormously. She did manage to follow suit, but had the wildest ideas as to the strength of her hand, never knew the score, repeatedly led out of the wrong hand and was quite unable to count trumps and often forgot what they were. AimÃ©e Griffithâs play can be summed up in her own words. âI like a good game of bridge with no nonsenseâand I donât play any of these rubbishy conventions. I say what I mean. And no postmortems! After all, itâs only a game!â It will be seen, therefore, that their host had not too easy a task.

Play proceeded fairly harmoniously, however, with occasional forgetfulness on the part of Colonel Appleton as he stared across at Joanna.

Tea was laid in the dining room, round a big table. As we were finishing, two hot and excited little boys rushed in and were introduced, Mrs. Symmington beaming with maternal pride, as was their father.

Then, just as we were finishing, a shadow darkened my plate, and I turned my head to see Megan standing in the French window.

âOh,â said her mother. âHereâs Megan.â

Her voice held a faintly surprised note, as though she had forgotten that Megan existed.

The girl came in and shook hands, awkwardly and without any grace.

âIâm afraid I forgot about your tea, dear,â said Mrs. Symmington. âMiss Holland and the boys took theirs out with them, so thereâs no nursery tea today. I forgot you werenât with them.â

Megan nodded.

âThatâs all right. Iâll go to the kitchen.â

She slouched out of the room. She was untidily dressed as usual and there were potatoes in both heels.

Mrs. Symmington said with a little apologetic laugh:

âMy poor Megan. Sheâs just at that awkward age, you know. Girls are always shy and awkward when theyâve just left school before theyâre properly grown up.â

I saw Joannaâs fair head jerk backwards in what I knew to be a warlike gesture.

âBut Meganâs twenty, isnât she?â she said.

âOh, yes, yes. She is. But of course sheâs very young for her age. Quite a child still. Itâs so nice, I think, when girls donât grow up too quickly.â She laughed again. âI expect all mothers want their children to remain babies.â

âI canât think why,â said Joanna. âAfter all, it would be a bit awkward if one had a child who remained mentally six while his body grew up.â

âOh, you mustnât take things so literally, Miss Burton,â said Mrs. Symmington.

It occurred to me at that moment that I did not much care for Mrs. Symmington. That anaemic, slighted, faded prettiness concealed, I thought, a selfish and grasping nature. She said, and I disliked her a little more still:

âMy poor Megan. Sheâs rather a difficult child, Iâm afraid. Iâve been trying to find something for her to doâI believe there are several things one can learn by correspondence. Designing and dressmakingâor she might try and learn shorthand and typing.â

The red glint was still in Joannaâs eye. She said as we sat down again at the bridge table:

âI suppose sheâll be going to parties and all that sort of thing. Are you going to give a dance for her?â

âA dance?â Mrs. Symmington seemed surprised and amused. âOh, no, we donât do things like that down here.â

âI see. Just tennis parties and things like that.â

âOur tennis court has not been played on for years. Neither Richard nor I play. I suppose, later, when the boys grow upâOh, Megan will find plenty to do. Sheâs quite happy just pottering about, you know. Let me see, did I deal? Two No Trumps.â

As we drove home, Joanna said with a vicious pressure on the accelerator pedal that made the car leap forward:

âI feel awfully sorry for that girl.â

âMegan?â

âYes. Her mother doesnât like her.â

âOh, come now, Joanna, itâs not as bad as that.â

âYes, it is. Lots of mothers donât like their children. Megan, I should imagine, is an awkward sort of creature to have about the house. She disturbs the patternâthe Symmington pattern. Itâs a complete unit without herâand thatâs a most unhappy feeling for a sensitive creature to haveâand she is sensitive.â

âYes,â I said, âI think she is.â

I was silent a moment.

Joanna suddenly laughed mischievously.

âBad luck for you about the governess.â

âI donât know what you mean,â I said with dignity.

âNonsense. Masculine chagrin was written on your face every time you looked at her. I agree with you. It is a waste.â

âI donât know what youâre talking about.â

âBut Iâm delighted, all the same. Itâs the first sign of reviving life. I was quite worried about you at the nursing home. You never even looked at that remarkably pretty nurse you had. An attractive minx, tooâabsolutely Godâs gift to a sick man.â

âYour conversation, Joanna, I find definitely low.â

My sister continued without paying the least attention to my remarks.

âSo I was much relieved to see youâd still got an eye for a nice bit of skirt. She is a good looker. Funny that the S.A. should have been left out completely. It is odd, you know, Jerry. What is the thing that some women have and others havenât? What is it makes one woman, even if she only says âFoul weatherâ so attractive that every man within range wants to come over and talk about the weather with her? I suppose Providence makes a mistake every now and then when sending out the parcel. One Aphrodite face and form, one temperament ditto. And something goes astray and the Aphrodite temperament goes to some little plain-faced creature, and then all the other women go simply mad and say, âI canât think what the men see in her. She isnât even good-looking!ââ

âHave you quite finished, Joanna?â

âWell, you do agree, donât you?â

I grinned. âIâll admit to disappointment.â

âAnd I donât see who else there is here for you. Youâll have to fall back upon AimÃ©e Griffith.â

âGod forbid,â I said.

âSheâs quite good-looking, you know.â

âToo much of an Amazon for me.â

âShe seems to enjoy her life, all right,â said Joanna. âAbsolutely disgustingly hearty, isnât she? I shouldnât be at all surprised if she had a cold bath every morning.â

âAnd what are you going to do for yourself?â I asked.

âMe?â

âYes. Youâll need a little distraction down here if I know you.â

âWhoâs being low now? Besides, you forget Paul.â Joanna heaved up a not very convincing sigh.

âI shanât forget him nearly as quickly as you will. In about ten days youâll be saying, âPaul? Paul Who? I never knew a Paul.ââ

âYou think Iâm completely fickle,â said Joanna.

âWhen people like Paul are in question, Iâm only too glad that you should be.â

âYou never did like him. But he really was a bit of a genius.â

âPossibly, though I doubt it. Anyway, from all Iâve heard, geniuses are people to be heartily disliked. One thing, you wonât find any geniuses down here.â

Joanna considered for a moment, her head on one side.

âIâm afraid not,â she said regretfully.

âYouâll have to fall back upon Owen Griffith,â I said. âHeâs the only unattached male in the place. Unless you count old Colonel Appleton. He was looking at you like a hungry bloodhound most of the afternoon.â

Joanna laughed.

âHe was, wasnât he? It was quite embarrassing.â

âDonât pretend. Youâre never embarrassed.â

Joanna drove in silence through the gate and round to the garage.

She said then:

âThere may be something in that idea of yours.â

âWhat idea?â

Joanna replied:

âI donât see why any man should deliberately cross the street to avoid me. Itâs rude, apart from anything else.â

âI see,â I said. âYouâre going to hunt the man down in cold blood.â

âWell, I donât like being avoided.â

I got slowly and carefully out of the car, and balanced my sticks. Then I offered my sister a piece of advice.

âLet me tell you this, my girl. Owen Griffith isnât any of your tame whining artistic young men. Unless youâre careful youâll stir up a hornetâs nest about your ears. That man could be dangerous.â

âOo, do you think so?â demanded Joanna with every symptom of pleasure at the prospect.

âLeave the poor devil alone,â I said sternly.

âHow dare he cross the street when he saw me coming?â

âAll you women are alike. You harp on one theme. Youâll have Sister AimÃ©e gunning you, too, if Iâm not mistaken.â

âShe dislikes me already,â said Joanna. She spoke meditatively, but with a certain satisfaction.

âWe have come down here,â I said sternly, âfor peace and quiet, and I mean to see we get it.â

But peace and quiet were the last things we were to have.

Four

I

It was, I think, about a week later, that Partridge informed me that Mrs. Baker would like to speak to me for a minute or two if I would be so kind.

The name Mrs. Baker conveyed nothing at all to me.

âWho is Mrs. Baker?â I said, bewilderedââCanât she see Miss Joanna?â

But it appeared that I was the person with whom an interview was desired. It further transpired that Mrs. Baker was the mother of the girl Beatrice.

I had forgotten Beatrice. For a fortnight now, I had been conscious of a middle-aged woman with wisps of grey hair, usually on her knees retreating crablike from bathroom and stairs and passages when I appeared, and I knew, I suppose, that she was our new Daily Woman. Otherwise the Beatrice complication had faded from my mind.

I could not very well refuse to see Beatriceâs mother, especially as I learned that Joanna was out, but I was, I must confess, a little nervous at the prospect. I sincerely hoped that I was not going to be accused of having trifled with Beatriceâs affections. I cursed the mischievous activities of anonymous letter writers to myself at the same time as, aloud, I commanded that Beatriceâs mother should be brought to my presence.

Mrs. Baker was a big broad weather-beaten woman with a rapid flow of speech. I was relieved to notice no signs of anger or accusation.

âI hope, sir,â she said, beginning at once when the door had closed behind Partridge, âthat youâll excuse the liberty Iâve taken in coming to see you. But I thought, sir, as you was the proper person to come to, and I should be thankful if you could see your way to telling me what I ought to do in the circumstances, because in my opinion, sir, something ought to be done, and Iâve never been one to let the grass grow under my feet, and what I say is, no use moaning and groaning, but âUp and doingâ as vicar said in his sermon only the week before last.â

I felt slightly bewildered and as though I had missed something essential in the conversation.

âCertainly,â I said. âWonât youâerâsit down, Mrs. Baker? Iâm sure I shall be glad toâer help you in anyway I canââ

I paused expectantly.

âThank you, sir.â Mrs. Baker sat down on the edge of a chair. âItâs very good of you, Iâm sure. And glad I am that I came to you, I said to Beatrice, I said, and her howling and crying on her bed, Mr. Burton will know what to do, I said, being a London gentleman. And something must be done, what with young men being so hotheaded and not listening to reason the way they are, and not listening to a word a girl says, and anyway, if it was me, I says to Beatrice Iâd give him as good as I got, and what about that girl down at the mill?â

I felt more than ever bewildered.

âIâm sorry,â I said. âBut I donât quite understand. What has happened?â

âItâs the letters, sir. Wicked lettersâindecent, too, using such words and all. Worse than Iâve ever seen in the Bible, even.â

Passing over an interesting sideline here, I said desperately:

âHas your daughter been having more letters?â

âNot her, sir. She had just the one. That one as was the occasion of her leaving here.â

âThere was absolutely no reasonââ I began, but Mrs. Baker firmly and respectfully interrupted me:

âThere is no need to tell me, sir, that what was wrote was all wicked lies. I had Miss Partridgeâs word for thatâand indeed I would have known it for myself. You arenât that type of gentleman, sir, that I well know, and you an invalid and all. Wicked untruthful lies it was, but all the same I says to Beatrice as sheâd better leave because you know what talk is, sir. No smoke without fire, thatâs what people say. And a girl canât be too careful. And besides the girl herself felt bashful like after what had been written, so I says, âQuite right,â to Beatrice when she said she wasnât coming up here again, though Iâm sure we both regretted the inconvenience being suchââ

Unable to find her way out of this sentence, Mrs. Baker took a deep breath and began again.

âAnd that, I hoped, would be the end of any nasty talk. But now George, down at the garage, him what Beatrice is going with, heâs got one of them. Saying awful things about our Beatrice, and how sheâs going on with Fred Ledbetterâs Tomâand I can assure you, sir, the girl has been no more than civil to him and passing the time of day so to speak.â

My head was now reeling under this new complication of Mr. Ledbetterâs Tom.

âLet me get this straight,â I said. âBeatriceâsâerâyoung man has had an anonymous letter making accusations about her and another young man?â

âThatâs right, sir, and not nicely put at allâhorrible words used, and it drove young George mad with rage, it did, and he came round and told Beatrice he wasnât going to put up with that sort of thing from her, and he wasnât going to have her go behind his back with other chapsâand she says itâs all a lieâand he says no smoke without fire, he says, and rushes off being hot-like in his temper, and Beatrice she took on ever so, poor girl, and I said Iâll put my hat on and come straight up to you, sir.â

Mrs. Baker paused and looked at me expectantly, like a dog waiting for reward after doing a particularly clever trick.

âBut why come to me?â I demanded.

âI understood, sir, that youâd had one of these nasty letters yourself, and I thought, sir, that being a London gentleman, youâd know what to do about them.â

âIf I were you,â I said, âI should go to the police. This sort of thing ought to be stopped.â

Mrs. Baker looked deeply shocked.

âOh, no, sir. I couldnât go to the police.â

âWhy not?â

âIâve never been mixed up with the police, sir. None of us ever have.â

âProbably not. But the police are the only people who can deal with this sort of thing. Itâs their business.â

âGo to Bert Rundle?â

Bert Rundle was the constable, I knew.

âThereâs a sergeant, or an inspector, surely, at the police station.â

âMe, go into the police station?â

Mrs. Bakerâs voice expressed reproach and incredulity. I began to feel annoyed.

âThatâs the only advice I can give you.â

Mrs. Baker was silent, obviously quite unconvinced. She said wistfully and earnestly:

âThese letters ought to be stopped, sir, they did ought to be stopped. Thereâll be mischief done sooner or later.â

âIt seems to me there is mischief done now,â I said.

âI meant violence, sir. These young fellows, they get violent in their feelingsâand so do the older ones.â

I asked:

âAre a good many of these letters going about?â

Mrs. Baker nodded.

âItâs getting worse and worse, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Beadle at the Blue Boarâvery happy theyâve always beenâand now these letters comes and it sets him thinking thingsâthings that arenât so, sir.â

I leaned forward:

âMrs. Baker,â I said, âhave you any idea, any idea at all, who is writing these abominable letters?â

To my great surprise she nodded her head.

âWeâve got our idea, sir. Yes, weâve all got a very fair idea.â

âWho is it?â

I had fancied she might be reluctant to mention a name, but she replied promptly:

ââTis Mrs. Cleatâthatâs what we all think, sir. âTis Mrs. Cleat for sure.â

I had heard so many names this morning that I was quite bewildered. I asked:

âWho is Mrs. Cleat?â

Mrs. Cleat, I discovered, was the wife of an elderly jobbing gardener. She lived in a cottage on the road leading down to the Mill. My further questions only brought unsatisfactory answers. Questioned as to why Mrs. Cleat should write these letters, Mrs. Baker would only say vaguely that ââT would be like her.â

In the end I let her go, reiterating once more my advice to go to the police, advice which I could see Mrs. Baker was not going to act upon. I was left with the impression that I had disappointed her.

I thought over what she had said. Vague as the evidence was, I decided that if the village was all agreed that Mrs. Cleat was the culprit, then it was probably true. I decided to go and consult Griffith about the whole thing. Presumably he would know this Cleat woman. If he thought advisable, he or I might suggest to the police that she was at the bottom of this growing annoyance.

I timed my arrival for about the moment I fancied Griffith would have finished his âSurgery.â When the last patient had left, I went into the surgery.

âHallo, itâs you, Burton.â

I outlined my conversation with Mrs. Baker, and passed on to him the conviction that this Mrs. Cleat was responsible. Rather to my disappointment, Griffith shook his head.

âItâs not so simple as that,â he said.

âYou donât think this Cleat woman is at the bottom of it?â

âShe may be. But I should think it most unlikely.â

âThen why do they all think it is her?â

He smiled.

âOh,â he said, âyou donât understand. Mrs. Cleat is the local witch.â

âGood gracious!â I exclaimed.

âYes, sounds rather strange nowadays, nevertheless thatâs what it amounts to. The feeling lingers, you know, that there are certain people, certain families, for instance, whom it isnât wise to offend. Mrs. Cleat came from a family of âwise women.â And Iâm afraid sheâs taken pains to cultivate the legend. Sheâs a queer woman with a bitter and sardonic sense of humour. Itâs been easy enough for her, if a child cut its finger, or had a bad fall, or sickened with mumps, to nod her head and say, âYes, he stole my apples last weekâ or âHe pulled my catâs tail.â Soon enough mothers pulled their children away, and other women brought honey or a cake theyâd baked to give to Mrs. Cleat so as to keep on the right side of her so that she shouldnât âill wishâ them. Itâs superstitious and silly, but it happens. So naturally, now, they think sheâs at the bottom of this.â

âBut she isnât?â

âOh, no. She isnât the type. Itâsâitâs not so simple as that.â

âHave you any idea?â I looked at him curiously.

He shook his head, but his eyes were absent.

âNo,â he said. âI donât know at all. But I donât like it, Burtonâsome harm is going to come of this.â

II

When I got back to the house I found Megan sitting on the veranda steps, her chin resting on her knees.

She greeted me with her usual lack of ceremony.

âHallo,â she said. âDo you think I could come to lunch?â

âCertainly,â I said.

âIf itâs chops, or anything difficult like that and they wonât go round, just tell me,â shouted Megan as I went round to apprize Partridge of the fact that there would be three to lunch.

I fancy that Partridge sniffed. She certainly managed to convey without saying a word of any kind, that she didnât think much of that Miss Megan.

I went back to the veranda.

âIs it quite all right?â asked Megan anxiously.

âQuite all right,â I said. âIrish stew.â

âOh well, thatâs rather like dogsâ dinner anyway, isnât it? I mean itâs mostly potato and flavour.â

âQuite,â I said.

I took out my cigarette case and offered it to Megan. She flushed.

âHow nice of you.â

âWonât you have one?â

âNo, I donât think I will, but it was very nice of you to offer it to meâjust as though I was a real person.â

âArenât you a real person?â I said amused.

Megan shook her head, then, changing the subject, she stretched out a long dusty leg for my inspection.

âIâve darned my stockings,â she announced proudly.

I am not an authority on darning, but it did occur to me that the strange puckered blot of violently contrasting wool was perhaps not quite a success.

âItâs much more uncomfortable than the hole,â said Megan.

âIt looks as though it might be,â I agreed.

âDoes your sister darn well?â

I tried to think if I had ever observed any of Joannaâs handiwork in this direction.

âI donât know,â I had to confess.

âWell, what does she do when she gets a hole in her stocking?â

âI rather think,â I said reluctantly, âthat she throws them away and buys another pair.â

âVery sensible,â said Megan. âBut I canât do that. I get an allowance nowâforty pounds a year. You canât do much on that.â

I agreed.

âIf only I wore black stockings, I could ink my legs,â said Megan sadly. âThatâs what I always did at school. Miss Batworthy, the mistress who looked after our mending was like her nameâblind as a bat. It was awfully useful.â

âIt must have been,â I said.

We were silent while I smoked my pipe. It was quite a companionable silence.

Megan broke it by saying suddenly and violently:

âI suppose you think Iâm awful, like everyone else?â

I was so startled that my pipe fell out of my mouth. It was a meerschaum, just colouring nicely, and it broke. I said angrily to Megan:

âNow, see what youâve done.â

That most unaccountable of children, instead of being upset, merely grinned broadly.

âI do like you,â she said.

It was a most warming remark. It is the remark that one fancies perhaps erroneously that oneâs dog would say if he could talk. It occurred to me that Megan, for all she looked like a horse, had the disposition of a dog. She was certainly not quite human.

âWhat did you say before the catastrophe?â I asked, carefully picking up the fragments of my cherished pipe.

âI said I supposed you thought me awful,â said Megan, but not at all in the same tone she had said it before.

âWhy should I?â

Megan said gravely:

âBecause I am.â

I said sharply:

âDonât be stupid.â

Megan shook her head.

âThatâs just it. Iâm not really stupid. People think I am. They donât know that inside I know just what theyâre like, and that all the time Iâm hating them.â

âHating them?â

âYes,â said Megan.

Her eyes, those melancholy, unchildlike eyes, stared straight into mine, without blinking. It was a long mournful gaze.

âYou would hate people if you were like me,â she said. âIf you werenât wanted.â

âDonât you think youâre being rather morbid?â I asked.

âYes,â said Megan. âThatâs what people always say when youâre saying the truth. And it is true. Iâm not wanted and I can quite see why. Mummie doesnât like me a bit. I remind her, I think, of my father, who was cruel to her and pretty dreadful from all I can hear. Only mothers canât say they donât want their children and just go away. Or eat them. Cats eat the kittens they donât like. Awfully sensible, I think. No waste or mess. But human mothers have to keep their children, and look after them. It hasnât been so bad while I could be sent away to schoolâbut you see, what Mummie would really like is to be just herself and my stepfather and the boys.â

I said slowly:

âI still think youâre morbid, Megan, but accepting some of what you say as true, why donât you go away and have a life of your own?â

She gave me an unchildlike smile.

âYou mean take up a career. Earn my living?â

âYes.â

âWhat at?â

âYou could train for something, I suppose. Shorthand typingâbookkeeping.â

âI donât believe I could. I am stupid about doing things. And besidesââ

âWell?â

She had turned her face away, now she turned it slowly back again. It was crimson and there were tears in her eyes. She spoke now with all the childishness back in her voice.

âWhy should I go away? And be made to go away? They donât want me, but Iâll stay. Iâll stay and make everyone sorry. Iâll make them all sorry. Hateful pigs! I hate everyone here in Lymstock. They all think Iâm stupid and ugly. Iâll show them. Iâll show them. Iâllââ

It was a childish, oddly pathetic rage.

I heard a step on the gravel round the corner of the house.

âGet up,â I said savagely. âGo into the house through the drawing room. Go up to the first floor to the bathroom. End of the passage. Wash your face. Quick.â

She sprang awkwardly to her feet and darted through the window as Joanna came round the corner of the house.

âGosh, Iâm hot,â she called out. She sat down beside me and fanned her face with the Tyrolean scarf that had been round her head. âStill I think Iâm educating these damned brogues now. Iâve walked miles. Iâve learnt one thing, you shouldnât have these fancy holes in your brogues. The gorse prickles go through. Do you know, Jerry, I think we ought to have a dog?â

âSo do I,â I said. âBy the way, Megan is coming to lunch.â

âIs she? Good.â

âYou like her?â I asked.

âI think sheâs a changeling,â said Joanna. âSomething left on a doorstep, you know, while the fairies take the right one away. Itâs very interesting to meet a changeling. Oof, I must go up and wash.â

âYou canât yet,â I said, âMegan is washing.â

âOh, sheâs been footslogging too, has she?â

Joanna took out her mirror and looked at her face long and earnestly. âI donât think I like this lipstick,â she announced presently.

Megan came out through the window. She was composed, moderately clean, and showed no signs of the recent storm. She looked doubtfully at Joanna.

âHallo,â said Joanna, still preoccupied by her face. âIâm so glad youâve come to lunch. Good gracious, Iâve got a freckle on my nose. I must do something about it. Freckles are so earnest and Scottish.â

Partridge came out and said coldly that luncheon was served.

âCome on,â said Joanna, getting up. âIâm starving.â

She put her arm through Meganâs and they went into the house together.

Five

I

I see that there has been one omission in my story. So far I have made little or no mention of Mrs. Dane Calthrop, or indeed of the Rev. Caleb Dane Calthrop.

And yet both the vicar and his wife were distinct personalities. Dane Calthrop himself was perhaps a being more remote from everyday life than anyone I have ever met. His existence was in his books and in his study, and in his intimate knowledge of early Church history. Mrs. Dane Calthrop, on the other hand, was quite terrifyingly on the spot. I have perhaps purposely put off mentioning her, because I was from the first a little afraid of her. She was a woman of character and of almost Olympian knowledge. She was not in the least the typical vicarâs wifeâbut that, as I set it down, makes me ask myself, what do I know of vicarsâ wives?

The only one I remember well was a quiet nondescript creature, devoted to a big strong husband with a magnetic way of preaching. She had so little general conversation that it was a puzzle to know how to sustain a conversation with her.

Otherwise I was depending on the fictional presentment of vicarsâ wives, caricatures of females poking their noses everywhere, and uttering platitudes. Probably no such type exists.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop never poked her nose in anywhere, yet she had an uncanny power of knowing things and I soon discovered that almost everyone in the village was slightly afraid of her. She gave no advice and never interfered, yet she represented, to any uneasy conscience, the Deity personified.

I have never seen a woman more indifferent to her material surroundings. On hot days she would stride about clad in Harris tweed, and in rain or even sleet, I have seen her absentmindedly race down the village street in a cotton dress of printed poppies. She had a long thin well-bred face like a greyhound, and a most devastating sincerity of speech.

She stopped me in the High Street the day after Megan had come to lunch. I had the usual feeling of surprise, because Mrs. Dane Calthropâs progress resembled coursing more than walking, and her eyes were always fixed on the distant horizon so that you felt sure her real objective was about a mile and a half away.

âOh,â she said. âMr. Burton!â

She said it rather triumphantly, as someone might who had solved a particularly clever puzzle.

I admitted that I was Mr. Burton and Mrs. Dane Calthrop stopped focusing on the horizon and seemed to be trying to focus on me instead.

âNow what,â she said, âdid I want to see you about?â

I could not help her there. She stood frowning, deeply perplexed.

âSomething rather nasty,â she said.

âIâm sorry about that,â I said, startled.

âAh,â cried Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âI hate my love with an A. Thatâs it. Anonymous letters! Whatâs this story youâve brought down here about anonymous letters?â

âI didnât bring it,â I said. âIt was here already.â

âNobody got any until you came, though,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop accusingly.

âBut they did, Mrs. Dane Calthrop. The trouble had already started.â

âOh dear,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âI donât like that.â

She stood there, her eyes absent and faraway again. She said:

âI canât help feeling itâs all wrong. Weâre not like that here. Envy, of course, and malice, and all the mean spiteful little sinsâbut I didnât think there was anyone who would do thatâNo, I really didnât. And it distresses me, you see, because I ought to know.â

Her fine eyes came back from the horizon and met mine. They were worried, and seemed to hold the honest bewilderment of a child.

âHow should you know?â I said.

âI usually do. Iâve always felt thatâs my function. Caleb preaches good sound doctrine and administers the sacraments. Thatâs a priestâs duty, but if you admit marriage at all for a priest, then I think his wifeâs duty is to know what people are feeling and thinking, even if she canât do anything about it. And I havenât the least idea whose mind isââ

She broke off, adding absently.

âThey are such silly letters, too.â

âHave youâerâhad any yourself?â

I was a little diffident of asking, but Mrs. Dane Calthrop replied perfectly naturally, her eyes opening a little wider:

âOh yes, twoâno, three. I forget exactly what they said. Something very silly about Caleb and the schoolmistress, I think. Quite absurd, because Caleb has absolutely no taste for fornication. He never has had. So lucky, being a clergyman.â

âQuite,â I said. âOh quite.â

âCaleb would have been a saint,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, âif he hadnât been just a little too intellectual.â

I did not feel qualified to answer this criticism, and anyway Mrs. Dane Calthrop went on, leaping back from her husband to the letters in rather a puzzling way.

âThere are so many things the letters might say, but donât. Thatâs what is so curious.â

âI should hardly have thought they erred on the side of restraint,â I said bitterly.

âBut they donât seem to know anything. None of the real things.â

âYou mean?â

Those fine vague eyes met mine.

âWell, of course. Thereâs plenty of adultery hereâand everything else. Any amount of shameful secrets. Why doesnât the writer use those?â She paused and then asked abruptly, âWhat did they say in your letter?â

âThey suggested that my sister wasnât my sister.â

âAnd she is?â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop asked the question with unembarrassed friendly interest.

âCertainly Joanna is my sister.â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop nodded her head.

âThat just shows you what I mean. I dare say there are other thingsââ

Her clear uninterested eyes looked at me thoughtfully, and I suddenly understood why Lymstock was afraid of Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

In everybodyâs life there are hidden chapters which they hope may never be known. I felt that Mrs. Dane Calthrop knew them.

For once in my life, I was positively delighted when AimÃ©e Griffithâs hearty voice boomed out:

âHallo, Maud. Glad Iâve just caught you. I want to suggest an alteration of date for the Sale of Work. Morning, Mr. Burton.â

She went on:

âI must just pop into the grocerâs and leave my order, then Iâll come along to the Institute if that suits you?â

âYes, yes, that will do quite well,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

AimÃ©e Griffith went into the International Stores.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said: âPoor thing.â

I was puzzled. Surely she could not be pitying AimÃ©e?

She went on, however:

âYou know, Mr. Burton, Iâm rather afraidââ

âAbout this letter business?â

âYes, you see it meansâit must meanââ She paused lost in thought, her eyes screwed up. Then she said slowly, as one who solves a problem, âBlind hatredâ¦yes, blind hatred. But even a blind man might stab to the heart by pure chanceâ¦ And what would happen then, Mr. Burton?â

We were to know that before another day had passed.

II

It was Partridge who brought the news of the tragedy. Partridge enjoys calamity. Her nose always twitches ecstatically when she has to break bad news of any kind.

She came into Joannaâs room with her nose working overtime, her eyes bright, and her mouth pulled down into an exaggerated gloom. âThereâs terrible news, this morning, miss,â she observed as she drew up the blinds.

It takes a minute or two for Joanna, with her London habits, to become fully conscious in the morning. She said, âEr ah,â and rolled over without real interest.

Partridge placed her early tea beside her and began again. âTerrible it is. Shocking! I couldnât hardly believe it when I heard.â

âWhatâs terrible?â said Joanna, struggling into wakefulness.

âPoor Mrs. Symmington.â She paused dramatically. âDead.â

âDead?â Joanna sat up in bed, now wide awake.

âYes, miss, yesterday afternoon, and whatâs worse, took her own life.â

âOh no, Partridge?â

Joanna was really shockedâMrs. Symmington was not, somehow, the sort of person you associated with tragedies.

âYes, miss, itâs the truth. Did it deliberate. Not but what she was drove to it, poor soul.â

âDrove to it?â Joanna had an inkling of the truth then. âNotâ?â

Her eyes questioned Partridge and Partridge nodded.

âThatâs right, miss. One of them nasty letters!â

âWhat did it say?â

But that, to Partridgeâs regret, she had not succeeded in learning.

âTheyâre beastly things,â said Joanna. âBut I donât see why they should make one want to kill oneself.â

Partridge sniffed and then said with meaning:

âNot unless they were true, miss.â

âOh,â said Joanna.

She drank her tea after Partridge had left the room, then she threw on a dressing-gown and came in to me to tell me the news.

I thought of what Owen Griffith had said. Sooner or later the shot in the dark went home. It had done with Mrs. Symmington. She, apparently the most unlikely of women, had had a secretâ¦ It was true, I reflected, that for all her shrewdness she was not a woman of much stamina. She was the anaemic clinging type that crumples easily.

Joanna nudged me and asked me what I was thinking about.

I repeated to her what Owen had said.

âOf course,â said Joanna waspishly, âhe would know all about it. That man thinks he knows everything.â

âHeâs clever,â I said.

âHeâs conceited,â said Joanna. She added, âAbominably conceited!â

After a minute or two she said:

âHow awful for her husbandâand for the girl. What do you think Megan will feel about it?â

I hadnât the slightest idea and said so. It was curious that one could never gauge what Megan would think or feel.

Joanna nodded and said:

âNo, one never does know with changelings.â

After a minute or two she said:

âDo you thinkâwould you likeâI wonder if sheâd like to come and stay with us for a day or two? Itâs rather a shock for a girl that age.â

âWe might go along and suggest it,â I agreed.

âThe children are all right,â said Joanna. âTheyâve got that governess woman. But I expect sheâs just the sort of creature that would drive someone like Megan mad.â

I thought that was very possible. I could imagine Elsie Holland uttering platitude after platitude and suggesting innumerable cups of tea. A kindly creature, but not, I thought, the person for a sensitive girl.

I had thought myself of bringing Megan away, and I was glad that Joanna had thought of it spontaneously without prompting from me.

We went down to the Symmingtonsâ house after breakfast.

We were a little nervous, both of us. Our arrival might look like sheer ghoulish curiosity. Luckily we met Owen Griffith just coming out through the gate. He looked worried and preoccupied.

He greeted me, however, with some warmth.

âOh, hallo, Burton. Iâm glad to see you. What I was afraid would happen sooner or later has happened. A damnable business!â

âGood morning, Dr. Griffith,â said Joanna, using the voice she keeps for one of our deafer aunts.

Griffith started and flushed.

âOhâoh, good morning, Miss Burton.â

âI thought perhaps,â said Joanna, âthat you didnât see me.â

Owen Griffith got redder still. His shyness enveloped him like a mantle.

âIâmâ Iâm so sorryâpreoccupiedâI didnât.â

Joanna went on mercilessly: âAfter all, I am life size.â

âMerely kit-kat,â I said in a stern aside to her. Then I went on:

âMy sister and I, Griffith, wondered whether it would be a good thing if the girl came and stopped with us for a day or two? What do you think? I donât want to butt inâbut it must be rather grim for the poor child. What would Symmington feel about it, do you think?â

Griffith turned the idea over in his mind for a moment or two.

âI think it would be an excellent thing,â he said at last. âSheâs a queer nervy sort of girl, and it would be good for her to get away from the whole thing. Miss Holland is doing wondersâsheâs an excellent head on her shoulders, but she really has quite enough to do with the two children and Symmington himself. Heâs quite broken upâbewildered.â

âIt wasââ I hesitatedââsuicide?â

Griffith nodded.

âOh yes. No question of accident. She wrote, âI canât go onâ on a scrap of paper. The letter must have come by yesterday afternoonâs post. The envelope was down on the floor by her chair and the letter itself was screwed up into a ball and thrown into the fireplace.â

âWhat didââ

I stopped, rather horrified at myself.

âI beg your pardon,â I said.

Griffith gave a quick unhappy smile.

âYou neednât mind asking. That letter will have to be read at the inquest. No getting out of it, moreâs the pity. It was the usual kind of thingâcouched in the same foul style. The specific accusation was that the second boy, Colin, was not Symmingtonâs child.â

âDo you think that was true?â I exclaimed incredulously.

Griffith shrugged his shoulders.

âIâve no means of forming a judgment. Iâve only been here five years. As far as Iâve ever seen, the Symmingtons were a placid, happy couple devoted to each other and their children. Itâs true that the boy doesnât particularly resemble his parentsâheâs got bright red hair, for one thingâbut a child often throws back in appearance to a grandfather or grandmother.â

âThat lack of resemblance might have been what prompted the particular accusation. A foul and quite uncalled for bow at a venture.â

âVery likely. In fact, probably. Thereâs not been much accurate knowledge behind these poison pen letters, just unbridled spite and malice.â

âBut it happened to hit the bullâs eye,â said Joanna. âAfter all, she wouldnât have killed herself otherwise, would she?â

Griffith said doubtfully:

âIâm not quite sure. Sheâs been ailing in health for some time, neurotic, hysterical. Iâve been treating her for a nervous condition. Itâs possible, I think, that the shock of receiving such a letter, couched in those terms, may have induced such a state of panic and despondency that she may have decided to take her life. She may have worked herself up to feel that her husband might not believe her if she denied the story, and the general shame and disgust might have worked upon her so powerfully as to temporarily unbalance her judgment.â

âSuicide whilst of unsound mind,â said Joanna.

âExactly. I shall be quite justified, I think, in putting forward that point of view at the inquest.â

âI see,â said Joanna.

There was something in her voice which made Owen say:

âPerfectly justified!â in an angry voice. He added, âYou donât agree, Miss Burton?â

âOh yes, I do,â said Joanna. âIâd do exactly the same in your place.â

Owen looked at her doubtfully, then moved slowly away down the street. Joanna and I went on into the house.

The front door was open and it seemed easier than ringing the bell, especially as we heard Elsie Hollandâs voice inside.

She was talking to Mr. Symmington who, huddled in a chair, was looking completely dazed.

âNo, but really, Mr. Symmington, you must take something. You havenât had any breakfast, not what I call a proper breakfast, and nothing to eat last night, and what with the shock and all, youâll be getting ill yourself, and youâll need all your strength. The doctor said so before he left.â

Symmington said in a toneless voice:

âYouâre very kind, Miss Holland, butââ

âA nice cup of hot tea,â said Elsie Holland, thrusting the beverage on him firmly.

Personally I should have given the poor devil a stiff whisky and soda. He looked as though he needed it. However, he accepted the tea, and looking up at Elsie Holland:

âI canât thank you for all youâve done and are doing, Miss Holland. Youâve been perfectly splendid.â

The girl flushed and looked pleased.

âItâs nice of you to say that, Mr. Symmington. You must let me do all I can to help. Donât worry about the childrenâIâll see to them, and Iâve got the servants calmed down, and if thereâs anything I can do, letterwriting or telephoning, donât hesitate to ask me.â

âYouâre very kind,â Symmington said again.

Elsie Holland, turning, caught sight of us and came hurrying out into the hall.

âIsnât it terrible?â she said in a hushed whisper.

I thought, as I looked at her, that she was really a very nice girl. Kind, competent, practical in an emergency. Her magnificent blue eyes were just faintly rimmed with pink, showing that she had been softhearted enough to shed tears for her employerâs death.

âCan we speak to you a minute,â asked Joanna. âWe donât want to disturb Mr. Symmington.â

Elsie Holland nodded comprehendingly and led the way into the dining room on the other side of the hall.

âItâs been awful for him,â she said. âSuch a shock. Who ever would have thought a thing like this could happen? But of course, I do realize now that she had been queer for some time. Awfully nervy and weepy. I thought it was her health, though Dr. Griffith always said there was nothing really wrong with her. But she was snappy and irritable and some days you wouldnât know just how to take her.â

âWhat we really came for,â said Joanna, âwas to know whether we could have Megan for a few daysâthat, is if sheâd like to come.â

Elsie Holland looked rather surprised.

âMegan?â she said doubtfully. âI donât know, Iâm sure. I mean, itâs ever so kind of you, but sheâs such a queer girl. One never knows what sheâs going to say or feel about things.â

Joanna said rather vaguely:

âWe thought it might be a help, perhaps.â

âOh well, as far as that goes, it would. I mean, Iâve got the boys to look after (theyâre with Cook just now) and poor Mr. Symmingtonâhe really needs looking after as much as anyone, and such a lot to do and see to. I really havenât had time to see much to Megan. I think sheâs upstairs in the old nursery at the top of the house. She seems to want to get away from everyone. I donât know ifââ

Joanna gave me the faintest of looks. I slipped quickly out of the room and upstairs. The old nursery was at the top of the house. I opened the door and went in. The room downstairs had given on to the garden behind and the blinds had not been down there. But in this room which faced the road they were decorously drawn down.

Through a dim grey gloom I saw Megan. She was crouching on a divan set against the far wall, and I was reminded at once of some terrified animal, hiding. She looked petrified with fear.

âMegan,â I said.

I came forward, and unconsciously I adopted the tone one does adopt when you want to reassure a frightened animal. Iâm really surprised I didnât hold out a carrot or a piece of sugar. I felt like that.

She stared at me, but she did not move, and her expression did not alter.

âMegan,â I said again. âJoanna and I have come to ask you if you would like to come and stay with us for a little.â

Her voice came hollowly out of the dim twilight.

âStay with you? In your house?â

âYes.â

âYou mean, youâll take me away from here?â

âYes, my dear.â

Suddenly she began to shake all over. It was frightening and very moving.

âOh, do take me away! Please do. Itâs so awful, being here, and feeling so wicked.â

I came over to her and her hands fastened on my coat sleeve.

âIâm an awful coward. I didnât know what a coward I was.â

âItâs all right, funny face,â I said. âThese things are a bit shattering. Come along.â

âCan we go at once? Without waiting a minute?â

âWell, youâll have to put a few things together, I suppose.â

âWhat sort of things? Why?â

âMy dear girl,â I said. âWe can provide you with a bed and a bath and the rest of it, but Iâm damned if I lend you my toothbrush.â

She gave a very faint weak little laugh.

âI see. I think Iâm stupid today. You mustnât mind. Iâll go and pack some things. Youâyou wonât go away? Youâll wait for me?â

âIâll be on the mat.â

âThank you. Thank you very much. Iâm sorry Iâm so stupid. But you see itâs rather dreadful when your mother dies.â

âI know,â I said.

I gave her a friendly pat on the back and she flashed me a grateful look and disappeared into a bedroom. I went on downstairs.

âI found Megan,â I said. âSheâs coming.â

âOh now, that is a good thing,â exclaimed Elsie Holland. âIt will take her out of herself. Sheâs rather a nervy girl, you know. Difficult. It will be a great relief to feel I havenât got her on my mind as well as everything else. Itâs very kind of you, Miss Burton. I hope she wonât be a nuisance. Oh dear, thereâs the telephone. I must go and answer it. Mr. Symmington isnât fit.â

She hurried out of the room. Joanna said:

âQuite the ministering angel!â

âYou said that rather nastily,â I observed. âSheâs a nice kind girl, and obviously most capable.â

âMost. And she knows it.â

âThis is unworthy of you, Joanna,â I said.

âMeaning why shouldnât the girl do her stuff?â

âExactly.â

âI never can stand seeing people pleased with themselves,â said Joanna. âIt arouses all my worst instincts. How did you find Megan?â

âCrouching in a darkened room looking rather like a stricken gazelle.â

âPoor kid. She was quite willing to come?â

âShe leapt at it.â

A series of thuds out in the hall announced the descent of Megan and her suitcase. I went out and took it from her. Joanna, behind me, said urgently:

âCome on. Iâve already refused some nice hot tea twice.â

We went out to the car. It annoyed me that Joanna had to sling the suitcase in. I could get along with one stick now, but I couldnât do any athletic feats.

âGet in,â I said to Megan.

She got in. I followed her. Joanna started the car and we drove off.

We got to Little Furze and went into the drawing room.

Megan dropped into a chair and burst into tears. She cried with the hearty fervour of a childâbawled, I think, is the right word. I left the room in search of a remedy. Joanna stood by feeling rather helpless, I think.

Presently I heard Megan say in a thick choked voice:

âIâm sorry for doing this. It seems idiotic.â

Joanna said kindly, âNot at all. Have another handkerchief.â

I gather she supplied the necessary article. I reentered the room and handed Megan a brimming glass.

âWhat is it?â

âA cocktail,â I said.

âIs it? Is it really?â Meganâs tears were instantly dried. âIâve never drunk a cocktail.â

âEverything has to have a beginning,â I said.

Megan sipped her drink gingerly, then a beaming smile spread over her face, she tilted her head back and gulped it down at a draught.

âItâs lovely,â she said. âCan I have another?â

âNo,â I said.

âWhy not?â

âIn about ten minutes youâll probably know.â

âOh!â

Megan transferred her attention to Joanna.

âI really am awfully sorry for having made such a nuisance of myself howling away like that. I canât think why. It seems awfully silly when Iâm so glad to be here.â

âThatâs all right,â said Joanna. âWeâre very pleased to have you.â

âYou canât be, really. Itâs just kindness on your part. But I am grateful.â

âPlease donât be grateful,â said Joanna. âIt will embarrass me. I was speaking the truth when I said we should be glad to have you. Jerry and I have used up all our conversation. We canât think of anymore things to say to each other.â

âBut now,â I said, âwe shall be able to have all sorts of interesting discussionsâabout Goneril and Regan and things like that.â

Meganâs face lit up.

âIâve been thinking about that, and I think I know the answer. It was because that awful old father of theirs always insisted on such a lot of sucking up. When youâve always got to be saying thank you and how kind and all the rest of it, it would make you go a bit rotten and queer inside, and youâd just long to be able to be beastly for a changeâand when you got the chance, youâd probably find it went to your head and youâd go too far. Old Lear was pretty awful, wasnât he? I mean, he did deserve the snub Cordelia gave him.â

âI can see,â I said, âthat we are going to have many interesting discussions about Shakespeare.â

âI can see you two are going to be very highbrow,â said Joanna. âIâm afraid I always find Shakespeare terribly dreary. All those long scenes where everybody is drunk and itâs supposed to be funny.â

âTalking of drink,â I said turning to Megan. âHow are you feeling?â

âQuite all right, thank you.â

âNot at all giddy? You donât see two of Joanna or anything like that?â

âNo. I just feel as though Iâd like to talk rather a lot.â

âSplendid,â I said. âObviously you are one of our natural drinkers. That is to say, if that really was your first cocktail.â

âOh, it was.â

âA good strong head is an asset to any human being,â I said.

Joanna took Megan upstairs to unpack.

Partridge came in, looking sour, and said she had made two cup custards for lunch and what should she do about it?

Six

I

The inquest was held three days later. It was all done as decorously as possible, but there was a large attendance and, as Joanna observed, the beady bonnets were wagging.

The time of Mrs. Symmingtonâs death was put at between three and four oâclock. She was alone in the house, Symmington was at his office, the maids were having their day out, Elsie Holland and the children were out walking and Megan had gone for a bicycle ride.

The letter must have come by the afternoon post. Mrs. Symmington must have taken it out of the box, read itâand then in a state of agitation she had gone to the potting shed, fetched some of the cyanide kept there for taking waspsâ nests, dissolved it in water and drunk it after writing those last agitated words, âI canât go onâ¦.â

Owen Griffith gave medical evidence and stressed the view he had outlined to us of Mrs. Symmingtonâs nervous condition and poor stamina. The coroner was suave and discreet. He spoke with bitter condemnation of people who write those despicable things, anonymous letters. Whoever had written that wicked and lying letter was morally guilty of murder, he said. He hoped the police would soon discover the culprit and take action against him or her. Such a dastardly and malicious piece of spite deserved to be punished with the utmost rigour of the law. Directed by him, the jury brought in the inevitable verdict. Suicide whilst temporarily insane.

The coroner had done his bestâOwen Griffith also, but afterwards, jammed in the crowd of eager village women, I heard the same hateful sibilant whisper I had begun to know so well, âNo smoke without fire, thatâs what I say!â âMust âa been something in it for certain sure. She wouldnât never have done it otherwiseâ¦.â

Just for a moment I hated Lymstock and its narrow boundaries, and its gossiping whispering women.

II

It is difficult to remember things in their exact chronological order. The next landmark of importance, of course, was Superintendent Nashâs visit. But it was before that, I think, that we received calls from various members of the community, each of which was interesting in its way and shed some light on the characters and personalities of the people involved.

AimÃ©e Griffith came on the morning after the inquest. She was looking, as always, radiant with health and vigour and succeeded, also as usual, in putting my back up almost immediately. Joanna and Megan were out, so I did the honours.

âGood morning,â said Miss Griffith. âI hear youâve got Megan Hunter here?â

âWe have.â

âVery good of you, Iâm sure. It must be rather a nuisance to you. I came up to say she can come to us if you like. I dare say I can find ways of making her useful about the house.â

I looked at AimÃ©e Griffith with a good deal of distaste.

âHow kind of you,â I said. âBut we like having her. She potters about quite happily.â

âI dare say. Much too fond of pottering, that child. Still, I suppose she canât help it, being practically half-witted.â

âI think sheâs rather an intelligent girl,â I said.

AimÃ©e Griffith gave me a hard stare.

âFirst time Iâve ever heard anyone say that of her,â she remarked. âWhy, when you talk to her, she looks through you as though she doesnât understand what you are saying!â

âShe probably just isnât interested,â I said.

âIf so, sheâs extremely rude,â said AimÃ©e Griffith.

âThat may be. But not half-witted.â

Miss Griffith declared sharply:

âAt best, itâs woolgathering. What Megan needs is good hard workâsomething to give her an interest in life. Youâve no idea what a difference that makes to a girl. I know a lot about girls. Youâd be surprised at the difference even becoming a Guide makes to a girl. Meganâs much too old to spend her time lounging about and doing nothing.â

âItâs been rather difficult for her to do anything else so far,â I said. âMrs. Symmington always seemed under the impression that Megan was about twelve years old.â

Miss Griffith snorted.

âI know. I had no patience with that attitude of hers. Of course sheâs dead now, poor woman, so one doesnât want to say much, but she was a perfect example of what I call the unintelligent domestic type. Bridge and gossip and her childrenâand even there that Holland girl did all the looking after them. Iâm afraid I never thought very much of Mrs. Symmington, although of course I never suspected the truth.â

âThe truth?â I said sharply.

Miss Griffith flushed.

âI was terribly sorry for Dick Symmington, its all having to come out as it did at the inquest,â she said. âIt was awful for him.â

âBut surely you heard him say that there was not a word of truth in that letterâthat he was quite sure of that?â

âOf course he said so. Quite right. A manâs got to stick up for his wife. Dick would.â She paused and then explained: âYou see, Iâve known Dick Symmington a long time.â

I was a little surprised.

âReally?â I said. âI understood from your brother that he only bought this practice a few years ago.â

âOh yes, but Dick Symmington used to come and stay in our part of the world up north. Iâve known him for years.â

Women jump to conclusions that men do not. Nevertheless, the suddenly softened tone of AimÃ©e Griffithâs voice put, as our old nurse would have expressed it, ideas into my head.

I looked at AimÃ©e curiously. She went onâstill in that softened tone:

âI know Dick very wellâ¦ Heâs a proud man, and very reserved. But heâs the sort of man who could be very jealous.â

âThat would explain,â I said deliberately, âwhy Mrs. Symmington was afraid to show him or tell him about the letter. She was afraid that, being a jealous man, he might not believe her denials.â

Miss Griffith looked at me angrily and scornfully.

âGood Lord,â she said, âdo you think any woman would go and swallow a lot of cyanide of potassium for an accusation that wasnât true?â

âThe coroner seemed to think it was possible. Your brother, tooââ

AimÃ©e interrupted me.

âMen are all alike. All for preserving the decencies. But you donât catch me believing that stuff. If an innocent woman gets some foul anonymous letter, she laughs and chucks it away. Thatâs what Iââ she paused suddenly, and then finished, âwould do.â

But I had noticed the pause. I was almost sure that what she had been about to say was âThatâs what I did.â

I decided to take the war into the enemyâs country.

âI see,â I said pleasantly, âso youâve had one, too?â

AimÃ©e Griffith was the type of woman who scorns to lie. She paused a minuteâflushed, then said:

âWell, yes. But I didnât let it worry me!â

âNasty?â I inquired sympathetically, as a fellow sufferer.

âNaturally. These things always are. The ravings of a lunatic. I read a few words of it, realized what it was and chucked it straight into the wastepaper basket.â

âYou didnât think of taking it to the police?â

âNot then. Least said soonest mendedâthatâs what I felt.â

An urge came over me to say solemnly: âNo smoke without fire!â but I restrained myself. To avoid temptation I reverted to Megan.

âHave you any idea of Meganâs financial position?â I asked. âItâs not idle curiosity on my part. I wondered if it would actually be necessary for her to earn her living.â

âI donât think itâs strictly necessary. Her grandmother, her fatherâs mother, left her a small income, I believe. And in any case Dick Symmington would always give her a home and provide for her, even if her mother hasnât left her anything outright. No, itâs the principle of the thing.â

âWhat principle?â

âWork, Mr. Burton. Thereâs nothing like work, for men and women. The one unforgivable sin is idleness.â

âSir Edward Grey,â I said, âafterwards our foreign minister, was sent down from Oxford for incorrigible idleness. The Duke of Wellington, I have heard, was both dull and inattentive at his books. And has it ever occurred to you, Miss Griffith, that you would probably not be able to take a good express train to London if little Georgie Stephenson had been out with his youth movement instead of lolling about, bored, in his motherâs kitchen until the curious behaviour of the kettle lid attracted the attention of his idle mind?â

AimÃ©e merely snorted.

âIt is a theory of mine,â I said, warming to my theme, âthat we owe most of our great inventions and most of the achievements of genius to idlenessâeither enforced or voluntary. The human mind prefers to be spoon-fed with the thoughts of others, but deprived of such nourishment it will, reluctantly, begin to think for itselfâand such thinking, remember, is original thinking and may have valuable results.

âBesides,â I went on, before AimÃ©e could get in another sniff, âthere is the artistic side.â

I got up and took from my desk where it always accompanied me a photograph of my favourite Chinese picture. It represents an old man sitting beneath a tree playing catâs cradle with a piece of string on his fingers and toes.

âIt was in the Chinese exhibition,â I said. âIt fascinated me. Allow me to introduce you. It is called âOld Man enjoying the Pleasure of Idleness.ââ

AimÃ©e Griffith was unimpressed by my lovely picture. She said: âOh well, we all know what the Chinese are like!â

âIt doesnât appeal to you?â I asked.

âFrankly, no. Iâm not very interested in art, Iâm afraid. Your attitude, Mr. Burton, is typical of that of most men. You dislike the idea of women workingâof their competingââ

I was taken aback, I had come up against the Feminist. AimÃ©e was well away, her cheeks flushed.

âIt is incredible to you that women should want a career. It was incredible to my parents. I was anxious to study for a doctor. They would not hear of paying the fees. But they paid them readily for Owen. Yet I should have made a better doctor than my brother.â

âIâm sorry about that,â I said. âIt was tough on you. If one wants to do a thingââ

She went on quickly:

âOh, Iâve got over it now. Iâve plenty of willpower. My life is busy and active. Iâm one of the happiest people in Lymstock. Plenty to do. But I do go up in arms against the silly old-fashioned prejudice that womenâs place is always the home.â

âIâm sorry if I offended you,â I said. âAnd that wasnât really my point. I donât see Megan in a domestic role at all.â

âNo, poor child. Sheâll be a misfit anywhere, Iâm afraid.â AimÃ©e had calmed down. She was speaking quite normally again. âHer father, you knowââ

She paused and I said bluntly: âI donât know. Everyone says âher fatherâ and drops their voice, and that is that. What did the man do? Is he alive still?â

âI really donât know. And Iâm rather vague myself, Iâm afraid. But he was definitely a bad lot. Prison, I believe. And a streak of very strong abnormality. Thatâs why it wouldnât surprise me if Megan was a bit âwanting.ââ

âMegan,â I said, âis in full possession of her senses, and as I said before, I consider her an intelligent girl. My sister thinks so too. Joanna is very fond of her.â

AimÃ©e said:

âIâm afraid your sister must find it very dull down here.â

And as she said it, I learnt something else. AimÃ©e Griffith disliked my sister. It was there in the smooth conventional tones of her voice.

âWeâve all wondered how you could both bear to bury yourselves in such an out-of-the-way spot.â

It was a question and I answered it.

âDoctorâs orders. I was to come somewhere very quiet where nothing ever happened.â I paused and added, âNot quite true of Lymstock now.â

âNo, no, indeed.â

She sounded worried and got up to go. She said then:

âYou knowâitâs got to be put a stop toâall this beastliness! We canât have it going on.â

âArenât the police doing anything?â

âI suppose so. But I think we ought to take it in hand ourselves.â

âWeâre not as well equipped as they are.â

âNonsense! We probably have far more sense and intelligence! A little determination is all that is needed.â

She said goodbye abruptly and went away.

When Joanna and Megan came back from their walk I showed Megan my Chinese picture. Her face lighted up. She said, âItâs heavenly, isnât it?â

âThat is rather my opinion.â

Her forehead was crinkling in the way I knew so well.

âBut it would be difficult, wouldnât it?â

âTo be idle?â

âNo, not to be idleâbut to enjoy the pleasures of it. Youâd have to be very oldââ

She paused. I said: âHe is an old man.â

âI donât mean old that way. Not age. I mean old inâinâ¦.â

âYou mean,â I said, âthat one would have to attain a very high state of civilization for the thing to present itself to you in that wayâa fine point of sophistication? I think I shall complete your education, Megan, by reading to you one hundred poems translated from the Chinese.â

III

I met Symmington in the town later in the day.

âIs it quite all right for Megan to stay on with us for a bit?â I asked. âItâs company for Joannaâsheâs rather lonely sometimes with none of her own friends.â

âOhâerâ Megan? Oh yes, very good of you.â

I took a dislike to Symmington then which I never quite overcame. He had so obviously forgotten all about Megan. I wouldnât have minded if he had actively disliked the girlâa man may sometimes be jealous of a first husbandâs childâbut he didnât dislike her, he just hardly noticed her. He felt towards her much as a man who doesnât care much for dogs would feel about a dog in the house. You notice it when you fall over it and swear at it, and you give it a vague pat sometimes when it presents itself to be patted. Symmingtonâs complete indifference to his stepdaughter annoyed me very much.

I said, âWhat are you planning to do with her?â

âWith Megan?â He seemed rather startled. âWell, sheâll go on living at home. I mean, naturally, it is her home.â

My grandmother, of whom I had been very fond, used to sing old-fashioned songs to her guitar. One of them, I remembered, ended thus:

âOh maid, most dear, I am not here

I have no place, no part,

No dwelling more, by sea nor shore,

But only in your heart.â

I went home humming it.

IV

Emily Barton came just after tea had been cleared away.

She wanted to talk about the garden. We talked garden for about half an hour. Then we turned back towards the house.

It was then that lowering her voice, she murmured:

âI do hope that that childâthat she hasnât been too much upset by all this dreadful business?â

âHer motherâs death, you mean?â

âThat, of course. But I really meant, theâthe unpleasantness behind it.â

I was curious. I wanted Miss Bartonâs reaction.

âWhat do you think about that? Was it true?â

âOh, no, no, surely not. Iâm quite sure that Mrs. Symmington neverâthat he wasnâtââlittle Emily Barton was pink and confusedââI mean itâs quite untrueâalthough of course it may have been a judgment.â

âA judgment?â I said, staring.

Emily Barton was very pink, very Dresden china shepherdess-like.

âI cannot help feeling that all these dreadful letters, all the sorrow and pain they have caused, may have been sent for a purpose.â

âThey were sent for a purpose, certainly,â I said grimly.

âNo, no, Mr. Burton, you misunderstood me. Iâm not talking of the misguided creature who wrote themâsomeone quite abandoned that must be. I mean that they have been permittedâby Providence! To awaken us to a sense of our shortcomings.â

âSurely,â I said, âthe Almighty could choose a less unsavoury weapon.â

Miss Emily murmured that God moved in a mysterious way.

âNo,â I said. âThereâs too much tendency to attribute to God the evils that man does of his own free will. I might concede you the Devil. God doesnât really need to punish us, Miss Barton. Weâre so very busy punishing ourselves.â

âWhat I canât make out is why should anyone want to do such a thing?â

I shrugged my shoulders.

âA warped mentality.â

âIt seems very sad.â

âIt doesnât seem to me sad. It seems to me just damnable. And I donât apologize for the word. I mean just that.â

The pink had gone out of Miss Bartonâs cheeks. They were very white.

âBut why, Mr. Burton, why? What pleasure can anyone get out of it?â

âNothing you and I can understand, thank goodness.â

Emily Barton lowered her voice.

âThey say that Mrs. Cleatâbut I really cannot believe it.â

I shook my head. She went on in an agitated manner:

âNothing of this kind has ever happened beforeânever in my memory. It has been such a happy little community. What would my dear mother have said? Well, one must be thankful that she has been spared.â

I thought from all I had heard that old Mrs. Barton had been sufficiently tough to have taken anything, and would probably have enjoyed this sensation.

Emily went on:

âIt distresses me deeply.â

âYouâve notâerâhad anything yourself?â

She flushed crimson.

âOh, noâoh, no, indeed. Oh! that would be dreadful.â

I apologized hastily, but she went away looking rather upset.

I went into the house. Joanna was standing by the drawing room fire which she had just lit, for the evenings were still chilly.

She had an open letter in her hand.

She turned her head quickly as I entered.

âJerry! I found this in the letter boxâdropped in by hand. It begins, âYou painted trollopâ¦.â

âWhat else does it say?â

Joanna gave a wide grimace.

âSame old muck.â

She dropped it on to the fire. With a quick gesture that hurt my back I jerked it off again just before it caught.

âDonât,â I said. âWe may need it.â

âNeed it?â

âFor the police.â

V

Superintendent Nash came to see me the following morning. From the first moment I saw him I took a great liking to him. He was the best type of C.I.D. county superintendent. Tall, soldierly, with quiet reflective eyes and a straightforward unassuming manner.

He said: âGood morning, Mr. Burton, I expect you can guess what Iâve come to see you about.â

âYes, I think so. This letter business.â

He nodded.

âI understand you had one of them?â

âYes, soon after we got here.â

âWhat did it say exactly?â

I thought a minute, then conscientiously repeated the wording of the letter as closely as possible.

The superintendent listened with an immovable face, showing no signs of any kind of emotion. When I had finished, he said:

âI see. You didnât keep the letter, Mr. Burton?â

âIâm sorry. I didnât. You see, I thought it was just an isolated instance of spite against newcomers to the place.â

The superintendent inclined his head comprehendingly.

He said briefly: âA pity.â

âHowever,â I said, âmy sister got one yesterday. I just stopped her putting it in the fire.â

âThank you, Mr. Burton, that was thoughtful of you.â

I went across to my desk and unlocked the drawer in which I had put it. It was not, I thought, very suitable for Partridgeâs eyes. I gave it to Nash.

He read it through. Then he looked up and asked me:

âIs this the same in appearance as the last one?â

âI think soâas far as I can remember.â

âThe same difference between the envelope and the text?â

âYes,â I said. âThe envelope was typed. The letter itself had printed words pasted on to a sheet of paper.â

Nash nodded and put it in his pocket. Then he said:

âI wonder, Mr. Burton, if you would mind coming down to the station with me? We could have a conference there and it would save a good deal of time and overlapping.â

âCertainly,â I said. âYou would like me to come now?â

âIf you donât mind.â

There was a police car at the door. We drove down in it.

I said:

âDo you think youâll be able to get to the bottom of this?â

Nash nodded with easy confidence.

âOh yes, weâll get to the bottom of it all right. Itâs a question of time and routine. Theyâre slow, these cases, but theyâre pretty sure. Itâs a matter of narrowing things down.â

âElimination?â I said.

âYes. And general routine.â

âWatching post boxes, examining typewriters, fingerprints, all that?â

He smiled. âAs you say.â

At the police station I found Symmington and Griffith were already there. I was introduced to a tall lantern-jawed man in plain clothes, Inspector Graves.

âInspector Graves,â explained Nash, âhas come down from London to help us. Heâs an expert on anonymous letter cases.â

Inspector Graves smiled mournfully. I reflected that a life spent in the pursuit of anonymous letter writers must be singularly depressing. Inspector Graves, however, showed a kind of melancholy enthusiasm.

âTheyâre all the same, these cases,â he said in a deep lugubrious voice like a depressed bloodhound. âYouâd be surprised. The wording of the letters and the things they say.â

âWe had a case just on two years ago,â said Nash. âInspector Graves helped us then.â

Some of the letters, I saw, were spread out on the table in front of Graves. He had evidently been examining them.

âDifficulty is,â said Nash, âto get hold of the letters. Either people put them in the fire, or they wonât admit to having received anything of the kind. Stupid, you see, and afraid of being mixed up with the police. Theyâre a backward lot here.â

âStill weâve got a fair amount to get on with,â said Graves. Nash took the letter I had given him from his pocket and tossed it over to Graves.

The latter glanced through it, laid it with the others and observed approvingly:

âVery niceâvery nice indeed.â

It was not the way I should have chosen to describe the epistle in question, but experts, I suppose, have their own point of view. I was glad that that screed of vituperative and obscene abuse gave somebody pleasure.

âWeâve got enough, I think, to go on with,â said Inspector Graves, âand Iâll ask you gentlemen, if you should get anymore, to bring them along at once. Also, if you hear of someone else getting oneâ(you, in particular, doctor, among your patients) do your best to get them to come along here with them. Iâve gotââ he sorted with deft fingers among his exhibits, âone to Mr. Symmington, received as far back as two months ago, one to Dr. Griffith, one to Miss Ginch, one written to Mrs. Mudge, the butcherâs wife, one to Jennifer Clark, barmaid at the Three Crowns, the one received by Mrs. Symmington, this one now to Miss Burtonâoh yes, and one from the bank manager.â

âQuite a representative collection,â I remarked.

âAnd not one I couldnât match from other cases! This one here is as near as nothing to one written by that milliner woman. This one is the dead spit of an outbreak we had up in Northumberlandâwritten by a schoolgirl, they were. I can tell you, gentlemen, Iâd like to see something new sometimes, instead of the same old treadmill.â

âThere is nothing new under the sun,â I murmured.

âQuite so, sir. Youâd know that if you were in our profession.â

Nash sighed and said, âYes, indeed.â

Symmington asked:

âHave you come to any definite opinion as to the writer?â

Graves cleared his throat and delivered a small lecture.

âThere are certain similarities shared by all these letters. I shall enumerate them, gentlemen, in case they suggest anything to your minds. The text of the letters is composed of words made-up from individual letters cut out of a printed book. Itâs an old book, printed, I should say, about the year 1830. This has obviously been done to avoid the risk of recognition through handwriting which is, as most people know nowadays, a fairly easy matterâ¦the so-called disguising of a hand not amounting to much when faced with expert tests. There are no fingerprints on the letters and envelopes of a distinctive character. That is to say, they have been handled by the postal authorities, the recipient, and there are other stray fingerprints, but no set common to all, showing therefore that the person who put them together was careful to wear gloves. The envelopes are typewritten by a Windsor 7 machine, well worn, with the a and the t out of alignment. Most of them have been posted locally, or put in the box of a house by hand. It is therefore evident that they are of local provenance. They were written by a woman, and in my opinion a woman of middle age or over, and probably, though not certainly, unmarried.â

We maintained a respectful silence for a minute or two. Then I said:

âThe typewriterâs your best bet, isnât it? That oughtnât to be difficult in a little place like this.â

Inspector Graves shook his head sadly and said:

âThatâs where youâre wrong, sir.â

âThe typewriter,â said Superintendent Nash, âis unfortunately too easy. It is an old one from Mr. Symmingtonâs office, given by him to the Womenâs Institute where, I may say, itâs fairly easy of access. The ladies here all often go into the Institute.â

âCanât you tell something definite from theâerâthe touch, donât you call it?â

Again Graves nodded.

âYes, that can be doneâbut these envelopes have all been typed by someone using one finger.â

âSomeone, then, unused to the typewriter?â

âNo, I wouldnât say that. Someone, say, who can type but doesnât want us to know the fact.â

âWhoever writes these things has been very cunning,â I said slowly.

âShe is, sir, she is,â said Graves. âUp to every trick of the trade.â

âI shouldnât have thought one of these bucolic women down here would have had the brains,â I said.

Graves coughed.

âI havenât made myself plain, Iâm afraid. Those letters were written by an educated woman.â

âWhat, by a lady?â

The word slipped out involuntarily. I hadnât used the term âladyâ for years. But now it came automatically to my lips, reechoed from days long ago, and my grandmotherâs faint unconsciously arrogant voice saying, âOf course, she isnât a lady, dear.â

Nash understood at once. The word lady still meant something to him.

âNot necessarily a lady,â he said. âBut certainly not a village woman. Theyâre mostly pretty illiterate down here, canât spell, and certainly canât express themselves with fluency.â

I was silent, for I had had a shock. The community was so small. Unconsciously I had visualized the writer of the letters as a Mrs. Cleat or her like, some spiteful, cunning half-wit.

Symmington put my thoughts into words. He said sharply:

âBut that narrows it down to about half a dozen to a dozen people in the whole place!â

âThatâs right.â

âI canât believe it.â

Then, with a slight effort, and looking straight in front of him as though the mere sound of his own words were distasteful he said:

âYou have heard what I stated at the inquest. In case you may have thought that that statement was actuated by a desire to protect my wifeâs memory, I should like to repeat now that I am firmly convinced that the subject matter of the letter my wife received was absolutely false. I know it was false. My wife was a very sensitive woman, andâerâwell, you might call it prudish in some respects. Such a letter would have been a great shock to her, and she was in poor health.â

Graves responded instantly.

âThatâs quite likely to be right, sir. None of these letters show any signs of intimate knowledge. Theyâre just blind accusations. Thereâs been no attempt to blackmail. And there doesnât seem to be any religious biasâsuch as we sometimes get. Itâs just sex and spite! And thatâs going to give us quite a good pointer towards the writer.â

Symmington got up. Dry and unemotional as the man was, his lips were trembling.

âI hope you find the devil who writes these soon. She murdered my wife as surely as if sheâd put a knife into her.â He paused. âHow does she feel now, I wonder?â

He went out, leaving that question unanswered.

âHow does she feel, Griffith?â I asked. It seemed to me the answer was in his province.

âGod knows. Remorseful, perhaps. On the other hand, it may be that sheâs enjoying her power. Mrs. Symmingtonâs death may have fed her mania.â

âI hope not,â I said, with a slight shiver. âBecause if so, sheâllââ

I hesitated and Nash finished the sentence for me.

âSheâll try it again? That, Mr. Burton, would be the best thing that could happen, for us. The pitcher goes to the well once too often, remember.â

âSheâd be mad to go on with it,â I exclaimed.

âSheâll go on,â said Graves. âThey always do. Itâs a vice, you know, they canât let it alone.â

I shook my head with a shudder. I asked if they needed me any longer, I wanted to get out into the air. The atmosphere seemed tinged with evil.

âThereâs nothing more, Mr. Burton,â said Nash. âOnly keep your eyes open, and do as much propaganda as you canâthat is to say, urge on everyone that theyâve got to report any letter they receive.â I nodded.

âI should think everyone in the place has had one of the foul things by now,â I said.

âI wonder,â said Graves. He put his sad head a little on one side and asked, âYou donât know, definitely, of anyone who hasnât had a letter?â

âWhat an extraordinary question! The population at large isnât likely to take me into their confidence.â

âNo, no, Mr. Burton, I didnât mean that. I just wondered if you knew of anyone person who quite definitely, to your certain knowledge, has not received an anonymous letter.â

âWell, as a matter of fact,â I hesitated, âI do, in a way.â

And I repeated my conversation with Emily Barton and what she had said.

Graves received the information with a wooden face and said: âWell, that may come in useful. Iâll note it down.â

I went out into the afternoon sunshine with Owen Griffith. Once in the street, I swore aloud.

âWhat kind of place is this for a man to come to lie in the sun and heal his wounds? Itâs full of festering poison, this place, and it looks as peaceful and as innocent as the Garden of Eden.â

âEven there,â said Owen dryly, âthere was one serpent.â

âLook here, Griffith, do they know anything? Have they got any idea?â

âI donât know. Theyâve got a wonderful technique, the police. Theyâre seemingly so frank, and they tell you nothing.â

âYes. Nash is a nice fellow.â

âAnd a very capable one.â

âIf anyoneâs batty in this place, you ought to know it.â I said accusingly.

Griffith shook his head. He looked discouraged. But he looked more than thatâhe looked worried. I wondered if he had an inkling of some kind.

We had been walking along the High Street. I stopped at the door of the house agents.

âI believe my second instalment of rent is dueâin advance. Iâve got a good mind to pay it and clear out with Joanna right away. Forfeit the rest of the tenancy.â

âDonât go,â said Owen.

âWhy not?â

He didnât answer. He said slowly after a minute or two,

âAfter allâI dare say youâre right. Lymstock isnât healthy just now. It mightâit might harm you orâor your sister.â

âNothing harms Joanna,â I said. âSheâs tough. Iâm the weakly one. Somehow this business makes me sick.â

âIt makes me sick,â said Owen.

I pushed the door of the house agents half open.

âBut I shanât go,â I said. âVulgar curiosity is stronger than pusillanimity. I want to know the solution.â

I went in.

A woman who was typing got up and came towards me. She had frizzy hair and simpered, but I found her more intelligent than the spectacled youth who had previously held sway in the outer office.

A minute or two later something familiar about her penetrated through to my consciousness. It was Miss Ginch, lately Symmingtonâs lady clerk. I commented on the fact.

âYou were with Galbraith and Symmington, werenât you?â I said.

âYes. Yes, indeed. But I thought it was better to leave. This is quite a good post, though not quite so well paid. But there are things that are more valuable than money, donât you think so?â

âUndoubtedly,â I said.

âThose awful letters,â breathed Miss Ginch in a sibilant whisper. âI got a dreadful one. About me and Mr. Symmingtonâoh, terrible it was, saying the most awful things! I knew my duty and I took it to the police, though of course it wasnât exactly pleasant for me, was it?â

âNo, no, most unpleasant.â

âBut they thanked me and said I had done quite right. But I felt that, after that, if people were talkingâand evidently they must have been, or where did the writer get the idea from?âthen I must avoid even the appearance of evil, though there has never been anything at all wrong between me and Mr. Symmington.â

I felt rather embarrassed.

âNo, no, of course not.â

âBut people have such evil minds. Yes, alas, such evil minds!â

Nervously trying to avoid it, I nevertheless met her eye, and I made a most unpleasant discovery.

Miss Ginch was thoroughly enjoying herself.

Already once today I had come across someone who reacted pleasurably to anonymous letters. Inspector Gravesâs enthusiasm was professional. Miss Ginchâs enjoyment I found merely suggestive and disgusting.

An idea flashed across my startled mind.

Had Miss Ginch written these letters herself?

Seven

I

When I got home I found Mrs. Dane Calthrop sitting talking to Joanna. She looked, I thought, grey and ill.

âThis has been a terrible shock to me, Mr. Burton,â she said. âPoor thing, poor thing.â

âYes,â I said. âItâs awful to think of someone being driven to the stage of taking their own life.â

âOh, you mean Mrs. Symmington?â

âDidnât you?â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop shook her head.

âOf course one is sorry for her, but it would have been bound to happen anyway, wouldnât it?â

âWould it?â said Joanna dryly.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop turned to her.

âOh, I think so, dear. If suicide is your idea of escape from trouble then it doesnât very much matter what the trouble is. Whenever some very unpleasant shock had to be faced, sheâd have done the same thing. What it really comes down to is that she was that kind of woman. Not that one would have guessed it. She always seemed to me a selfish rather stupid woman, with a good firm hold on life. Not the kind to panic, you would thinkâbut Iâm beginning to realize how little I really know anyone.â

âIâm still curious as to whom you meant when you said âPoor thing,ââ I remarked.

She stared at me.

âThe woman who wrote the letters, of course.â

âI donât think,â I said dryly, âI shall waste sympathy on her.â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop leaned forward. She laid a hand on my knee.

âBut donât you realizeâcanât you feel? Use your imagination. Think how desperately, violently unhappy anyone must be to sit down and write these things. How lonely, how cut off from human kind. Poisoned through and through, with a dark stream of poison that finds its outlet in this way. Thatâs why I feel so self-reproachful. Somebody in this town has been racked with that terrible unhappiness, and Iâve had no idea of it. I should have had. You canât interfere with actionsâ I never do. But that black inward unhappinessâlike a septic arm physically, all black and swollen. If you could cut it and let the poison out it would flow away harmlessly. Yes, poor soul, poor soul.â

She got up to go.

I did not feel like agreeing with her. I had no sympathy for our anonymous letter writer whatsoever. But I did ask curiously:

âHave you any idea at all, Mrs. Calthrop, who this woman is?â

She turned her fine perplexed eyes on me.

âWell, I can guess,â she said. âBut then I might be wrong, mightnât I?â

She went swiftly out through the door, popping her head back to ask:

âDo tell me, why have you never married, Mr. Burton?â

In anyone else it would have been an impertinence, but with Mrs. Dane Calthrop you felt that the idea had suddenly come into her head and she had really wanted to know.

âShall we say,â I said, rallying, âthat I have never met the right woman?â

âWe can say so,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, âbut it wouldnât be a very good answer, because so many men have obviously married the wrong woman.â

This time she really departed.

Joanna said:

âYou know I really do think sheâs mad. But I like her. The people in the village here are afraid of her.â

âSo am I, a little.â

âBecause you never know whatâs coming next?â

âYes. And thereâs a careless brilliancy about her guesses.â

Joanna said slowly: âDo you really think whoever wrote these letters is very unhappy?â

âI donât know what the damned hag is thinking or feeling! And I donât care. Itâs her victims Iâm sorry for.â

It seems odd to me now that in our speculations about Poison Penâs frame of mind, we missed the most obvious one. Griffith had pictured her as possibly exultant. I had envisaged her as remorsefulâappalled by the result of her handiwork. Mrs. Dane Calthrop had seen her as suffering.

Yet the obvious, the inevitable reaction we did not considerâor perhaps I should say, I did not consider. That reaction was Fear.

For with the death of Mrs. Symmington, the letters had passed out of one category into another. I donât know what the legal position wasâSymmington knew, I suppose, but it was clear that with a death resulting, the position of the writer of the letters was much more serious. There could now be no question of passing it off as a joke if the identity of the writer was discovered. The police were active, a Scotland Yard expert called in. It was vital now for the anonymous author to remain anonymous.

And granted that Fear was the principal reaction, other things followed. Those possibilities also I was blind to. Yet surely they should have been obvious.

II

Joanna and I came down rather late to breakfast the next morning. That is to say, late by the standards of Lymstock. It was nine-thirty, an hour at which, in London, Joanna was just unclosing an eyelid, and mine would probably be still tight shut. However when Partridge had said âBreakfast at half past eight, or nine oâclock?â neither Joanna nor I had had the nerve to suggest a later hour.

To my annoyance, AimÃ©e Griffith was standing on the doorstep talking to Megan.

She gave tongue with her usual heartiness at the sight of us.

âHallo, there, slackers! Iâve been up for hours.â

That, of course, was her own business. A doctor, no doubt, has to have early breakfast, and a dutiful sister is there to pour out his tea, or coffee. But it is no excuse for coming and butting in on oneâs more somnolent neighbours. Nine-thirty is not the time for a morning call.

Megan slipped back into the house and into the dining room, where I gathered she had been interrupted in her breakfast.

âI said I wouldnât come in,â said AimÃ©e Griffithâthough why it is more of a merit to force people to come and speak to you on the doorstep, than to talk to them inside the house I do not know. âI just wanted to ask Miss Burton if sheâd any vegetables to spare for our Red Cross stall on the main road. If so, Iâd get Owen to call for them in the car.â

âYouâre out and about very early,â I said.

âThe early bird catches the worm,â said AimÃ©e. âYou have a better chance of finding people in this time of day. Iâm off to Mr. Pyeâs next. Got to go over to Brenton this afternoon. Guides.â

âYour energy makes me quite tired,â I said, and at that moment the telephone rang and I retired to the back of the hall to answer it, leaving Joanna murmuring rather doubtfully something about rhubarb and French beans and exposing her ignorance of the vegetable garden.

âYes?â I said into the telephone mouthpiece.

A confused noise of deep breathing came from the other end of the wire and a doubtful female voice said âOh!â

âYes?â I said again encouragingly.

âOh,â said the voice again, and then it inquired adenoidally, âIs thatâwhat I meanâis that Little Furze?â

âThis is Little Furze.â

âOh!â This was clearly a stock beginning to every sentence. The voice inquired cautiously: âCould I speak to Miss Partridge just a minute?â

âCertainly,â I said. âWho shall I say?â

âOh. Tell her itâs Agnes, would you? Agnes Waddle.â âAgnes Waddle?â

âThatâs right.â

Resisting the temptation to say, âDonald Duck to you,â I put down the telephone receiver and called up the stairs to where I could hear the sound of Partridgeâs activities overheard.

âPartridge. Partridge.â

Partridge appeared at the head of the stairs, a long mop in one hand, and a look of âWhat is it now?â clearly discernible behind her invariably respectful manner.

âYes, sir?â

âAgnes Waddle wants to speak to you on the telephone.â

âI beg your pardon, sir?â

I raised my voice. âAgnes Waddle.â

I have spelt the name as it presented itself to my mind. But I will now spell it as it was actually written.

âAgnes Woddellâwhatever can she want now?â

Very much put out of countenance, Partridge relinquished her mop and rustled down the stairs, her print dress crackling with agitation.

I beat an unobtrusive retreat into the dining room where Megan was wolfing down kidneys and bacon. Megan, unlike AimÃ©e Griffith, was displaying no âglorious morning face.â In fact she replied very gruffly to my morning salutations and continued to eat in silence.

I opened the morning paper and a minute or two later Joanna entered looking somewhat shattered.

âWhew!â she said. âIâm so tired. And I think Iâve exposed my utter ignorance of what grows when. Arenât there runner beans this time of year?â

âAugust,â said Megan. âWell, one has them anytime in London,â said Joanna defensively.

âTins, sweet fool,â I said. âAnd cold storage on ships from the far-flung limits of empire.â

âLike ivory, apes and peacocks?â asked Joanna.

âExactly.â

âIâd rather have peacocks,â said Joanna thoughtfully.

âIâd like a monkey of my own as a pet,â said Megan.

Meditatively peeling an orange, Joanna said:

âI wonder what it would feel like to be AimÃ©e Griffith, all bursting with health and vigour and enjoyment of life. Do you think sheâs ever tired, or depressed, orâor wistful?â

I said I was quite certain AimÃ©e Griffith was never wistful, and followed Megan out of the open French window on to the veranda.

Standing there, filling my pipe, I heard Partridge enter the dining room from the hall and heard her voice say grimly:

âCan I speak to you a minute, miss?â

âDear me,â I thought. âI hope Partridge isnât going to give notice. Emily Barton will be very annoyed with us if so.â

Partridge went on: âI must apologize, miss, for being rung up on the telephone. That is to say, the young person who did so should have known better. I have never been in the habit of using the telephone or of permitting my friends to ring me up on it, and Iâm very sorry indeed that it should have occurred, and the master taking the call and everything.â

âWhy, thatâs quite all right, Partridge,â said Joanna soothingly, âwhy shouldnât your friends use the phone if they want to speak to you?â

Partridgeâs face, I could feel, though I could not see it, was more dour than ever as she replied coldly:

âIt is not the kind of thing that has ever been done in this house. Miss Emily would never permit it. As I say, I am sorry it occurred, but Agnes Woddell, the girl who did it, was upset and sheâs young too, and doesnât know whatâs fitting in a gentlemanâs house.â

âThatâs one for you, Joanna,â I thought gleefully.

âThis Agnes who rung me up, miss,â went on Partridge, âshe used to be in service here under me. Sixteen she was, then, and come straight from the orphanage. And you see, not having a home, or a mother or any relations to advise her, sheâs been in the habit of coming to me. I can tell her whatâs what, you see.â

âYes?â said Joanna and waited. Clearly there was more to follow.

âSo I am taking the liberty of asking you, miss, if you would allow Agnes to come here to tea this afternoon in the kitchen. Itâs her day out, you see, and sheâs got something on her mind she wants to consult me about. I wouldnât dream of suggesting such a thing in the usual way.â

Joanna said bewildered:

âBut why shouldnât you have anyone to tea with you?â

Partridge drew herself up at this, so Joanna said afterwards, and really looked most formidable, as she replied:

âIt has never been the custom of This House, miss. Old Mrs. Barton never allowed visitors in the kitchen, excepting as it should be our own day out, in which case we were allowed to entertain friends here instead of going out, but otherwise, on ordinary days, no. And Miss Emily she keeps to the old ways.â

Joanna is very nice to servants and most of them like her but she has never cut any ice with Partridge.

âItâs no good, my girl,â I said when Partridge had gone and Joanna had joined me outside. âYour sympathy and leniency are not appreciated. The good old overbearing ways for Partridge and things done the way they should be done in a gentlemanâs house.â

âI never heard of such tyranny as not allowing them to have their friends to see them,â said Joanna. âItâs all very well, Jerry, but they canât like being treated like black slaves.â

âEvidently they do,â I said. âAt least the Partridges of this world do.â

âI canât imagine why she doesnât like me. Most people do.â

âShe probably despises you as an inadequate housekeeper. You never draw your hand across a shelf and examine it for traces of dust. You donât look under the mats. You donât ask what happened to the remains of the chocolate soufflÃ©, and you never order a nice bread pudding.â

âUgh!â said Joanna.

She went on sadly. âIâm a failure all round today. Despised by our AimÃ©e for ignorance of the vegetable kingdom. Snubbed by Partridge for being a human being. I shall now go out into the garden and eat worms.â

âMeganâs there already,â I said.

For Megan had wandered away a few minutes previously and was now standing aimlessly in the middle of a patch of lawn looking not unlike a meditative bird waiting for nourishment.

She came back, however, towards us and said abruptly:

âI say, I must go home today.â

âWhat?â I was dismayed.

She went on, flushing, but speaking with nervous determination.

âItâs been awfully good of you having me and I expect Iâve been a fearful nuisance, but I have enjoyed it awfully, only now I must go back, because after all, well, itâs my home and one canât stay away for ever, so I think Iâll go this morning.â

Both Joanna and I tried to make her change her mind, but she was quite adamant, and finally Joanna got out the car and Megan went upstairs and came down a few minutes later with her belongings packed up again.

The only person pleased seemed to be Partridge, who had almost a smile on her grim face. She had never liked Megan much.

I was standing in the middle of the lawn when Joanna returned.

She asked me if I thought I was a sundial.

âWhy?â

âStanding there like a garden ornament. Only one couldnât put on you the motto of only marking the sunny hours. You looked like thunder!â

âIâm out of humour. First AimÃ©e Griffithâ(âGracious!â murmured Joanna in parenthesis, âI must speak about those vegetables!â) and then Megan beetling off. Iâd thought of taking her for a walk up to Legge Tor.â

âWith a collar and lead, I suppose?â said Joanna.

âWhat?â

Joanna repeated loudly and clearly as she moved off round the corner of the house to the kitchen garden:

âI said, âWith a collar and lead, I suppose?â Masterâs lost his dog, thatâs whatâs the matter with you!â

III

I was annoyed, I must confess, at the abrupt way in which Megan had left us. Perhaps she had suddenly got bored with us.

After all, it wasnât a very amusing life for a girl. At home sheâd got the kids and Elsie Holland.

I heard Joanna returning and hastily moved in case she should make more rude remarks about sundials.

Owen Griffith called in his car just before lunchtime, and the gardener was waiting for him with the necessary garden produce.

Whilst old Adams was stowing it in the car I brought Owen indoors for a drink. He wouldnât stay to lunch.

When I came in with the sherry I found Joanna had begun doing her stuff.

No signs of animosity now. She was curled up in the corner of the sofa and was positively purring, asking Owen questions about his work, if he liked being a G.P., if he wouldnât rather have specialized? She thought, doctoring was one of the most fascinating things in the world.

Say what you will of her, Joanna is a lovely, a heaven-born listener. And after listening to so many would-be geniuses telling her how they had been unappreciated, listening to Owen Griffith was easy money. By the time we had got to the third glass of sherry, Griffith was telling her about some obscure reaction or lesion in such scientific terms that nobody could have understood a word of it except a fellow medico.

Joanna was looking intelligent and deeply interested.

I felt a momentâs qualm. It was really too bad of Joanna. Griffith was too good a chap to be played fast and loose with. Women really were devils.

Then I caught a sideways view of Griffith, his long purposeful chin and the grim set of his lips, and I was not so sure that Joanna was going to have it her own way after all. And anyway, a man has no business to let himself be made a fool of by a woman. Itâs his own look out if he does.

Then Joanna said:

âDo change your mind and stay to lunch with us, Dr. Griffith,â and Griffith flushed a little and said he would, only his sister would be expecting him backâ

âWeâll ring her up and explain,â said Joanna quickly and went out into the hall and did so.

I thought Griffith looked a little uneasy, and it crossed my mind that he was probably a little afraid of his sister.

Joanna came back smiling and said that that was all right.

And Owen Griffith stayed to lunch and seemed to enjoy himself. We talked about books and plays and world politics, and about music and painting and modern architecture.

We didnât talk about Lymstock at all, or about anonymous letters, or Mrs. Symmingtonâs suicide.

We got right away from everything, and I think Owen Griffith was happy. His dark sad face lighted up, and he revealed an interesting mind.

When he had gone I said to Joanna:

âThat fellowâs too good for your tricks.â

Joanna said:

âThatâs what you say! You men all stick together!â

âWhy were you out after his hide, Joanna? Wounded vanity?â

âPerhaps,â said my sister.

IV

That afternoon we were to go to tea with Miss Emily Barton at her rooms in the village.

We strolled down there on foot, for I felt strong enough now to manage the hill back again.

We must actually have allowed too much time and got there early, for the door was opened to us by a tall rawboned fierce-looking woman who told us that Miss Barton wasnât in yet.

âBut sheâs expecting you, I know, so if youâll come up and wait, please.â

This was evidently Faithful Florence.

We followed her up the stairs and she threw open a door and showed us into what was quite a comfortable sitting room, though perhaps a little over-furnished. Some of the things, I suspected, had come from Little Furze.

The woman was clearly proud of her room.

âItâs nice, isnât it?â she demanded.

âVery nice,â said Joanna warmly.

âI make her as comfortable as I can. Not that I can do for her as Iâd like to and in the way she ought to have. She ought to be in her own house, properly, not turned out into rooms.â

Florence, who was clearly a dragon, looked from one to the other of us reproachfully. It was not, I felt, our lucky day. Joanna had been ticked off by AimÃ©e Griffith and Partridge and now we were both being ticked off by the dragon Florence.

âParlourmaid I was for fifteen years there,â she added.

Joanna, goaded by injustice, said:

âWell, Miss Barton wanted to let the house. She put it down at the house agents.â

âForced to it,â said Florence. âAnd she living so frugal and careful. But even then, the government canât leave her alone! Has to have its pound of flesh just the same.â

I shook my head sadly.

âPlenty of money there was in the old ladyâs time,â said Florence. âAnd then they all died off one by one, poor dears. Miss Emily nursing of them one after the other. Wore herself out she did, and always so patient and uncomplaining. But it told on her, and then to have worry about money on top of it all! Shares not bringing in what they used to, so she says, and why not, I should like to know? They ought to be ashamed of themselves. Doing down a lady like her whoâs got no head for figures and canât be up to their tricks.â

âPractically everyone has been hit that way,â I said, but Florence remained unsoftened.

âItâs all right for some as can look after themselves, but not for her. She needs looking after, and as long as sheâs with me Iâm going to see no one imposes on her or upsets her in anyway. Iâd do anything for Miss Emily.â

And glaring at us for some moments in order to drive that point thoroughly home, the indomitable Florence left the room, carefully shutting the door behind her.

âDo you feel like a bloodsucker, Jerry?â inquired Joanna. âBecause I do. Whatâs the matter with us?â

âWe donât seem to be going down very well,â I said. âMegan gets tired of us, Partridge disapproves of you, faithful Florence disapproves of both of us.â

Joanna murmured, âI wonder why Megan did leave?â

âShe got bored.â

âI donât think she did at all. I wonderâdo you think, Jerry, it could have been something that AimÃ©e Griffith said?â

âYou mean this morning, when they were talking on the doorstep.â

âYes. Thereâs wasnât much time, of course, butââ I finished the sentence.

âBut that womanâs got the tread of a cow elephant! She might haveââ

The door opened and Miss Emily came in. She was pink and a little out of breath and seemed excited. Her eyes were very blue and shining.

She chirruped at us in quite a distracted manner.

âOh dear, Iâm so sorry Iâm late. Just doing a little shopping in the town, and the cakes at the Blue Rose didnât seem to me quite fresh, so I went on to Mrs. Lygonâs. I always like to get my cakes the last thing, then one gets the newest batch just out of the oven, and one isnât put off with the day beforeâs. But I am so distressed to have kept you waitingâreally unpardonableââ

Joanna cut in.

âItâs our fault, Miss Barton. Weâre early. We walked down and Jerry strides along so fast now that we arrive everywhere too soon.â

âNever too soon, dear. Donât say that. One cannot have too much of a good thing, you know.â

And the old lady patted Joanna affectionately on the shoulder.

Joanna brightened up. At last, so it seemed, she was being a success. Emily Barton extended her smile to include me, but with a slight timidity in it, rather as one might approach a man-eating tiger guaranteed for the moment harmless.

âItâs very good of you to come to such a feminine meal as tea, Mr. Burton.â

Emily Barton, I think, has a mental picture of men as interminably consuming whiskies and sodas and smoking cigars, and in the intervals dropping out to do a few seductions of village maidens, or to conduct a liaison with a married woman.

When I said this to Joanna later, she replied that it was probably wishful thinking, that Emily Barton would have liked to come across such a man, but alas had never done so.

In the meantime Miss Emily was fussing round the room, arranging Joanna and myself with little tables, and carefully providing ashtrays, and a minute later the door opened and Florence came in bearing a tray of tea with some fine Crown Derby cups on it which I gathered Miss Emily had brought with her. The tea was china and delicious and there were plates of sandwiches and thin bread and butter, and a quantity of little cakes.

Florence was beaming now, and looked at Miss Emily with a kind of maternal pleasure, as at a favourite child enjoying a dollâs tea party.

Joanna and I ate far more than we wanted to, our hostess pressed us so earnestly. The little lady was clearly enjoying her tea party and I perceived that, to Emily Barton, Joanna and I were a big adventure, two people from the mysterious world of London and sophistication.

Naturally, our talk soon dropped into local channels. Miss Barton spoke warmly of Dr. Griffith, his kindness and his cleverness as a doctor. Mr. Symmington, too, was a very clever lawyer, and had helped Miss Barton to get some money back from the income tax which she would never have known about. He was so nice to his children, too, devoted to them and to his wifeâshe caught herself up. âPoor Mrs. Symmington, itâs so dreadfully sad, with those young children left motherless. Never, perhaps, a very strong womanâand her health had been bad of late. A brain storm, that is what it must have been. I read about such a thing in the paper. People really do not know what they are doing under those circumstances. And she canât have known what she was doing or else she would have remembered Mr. Symmington and the children.â

âThat anonymous letter must have shaken her up very badly,â said Joanna.

Miss Barton flushed. She said, with a tinge of reproof in her voice:

âNot a very nice thing to discuss, do you think, dear? I know there have beenâerâletters, but we wonât talk about them. Nasty things. I think they are better just ignored.â

Well, Miss Barton might be able to ignore them, but for some people it wasnât so easy. However I obediently changed the subject and we discussed AimÃ©e Griffith.

âWonderful, quite wonderful,â said Emily Barton. âHer energy and her organizing powers are really splendid. Sheâs so good with girls too. And sheâs so practical and up-to-date in every way. She really runs this place. And absolutely devoted to her brother. Itâs very nice to see such devotion between brother and sister.â

âDoesnât he ever find her a little overwhelming?â asked Joanna.

Emily Barton stared at her in a startled fashion.

âShe has sacrificed a great deal for his sake,â she said with a touch of reproachful dignity.

I saw a touch of Oh Yeay! in Joannaâs eye and hastened to divert the conversation to Mr. Pye.

Emily Barton was a little dubious about Mr. Pye.

All she could say was, repeated rather doubtfully, that he was very kindâyes, very kind. Very well off, too, and most generous. He had very strange visitors sometimes, but then, of course, he had travelled a lot.

We agreed that travel not only broadened the mind, but occasionally resulted in the forming of strange acquaintances.

âI have often wished, myself, to go on a cruise,â said Emily Barton wistfully. âOne reads about them in the papers and they sound so attractive.â

âWhy donât you go?â asked Joanna.

This turning of a dream into a reality seemed to alarm Miss Emily. âOh, no, no, that would be quite impossible.â

âBut why? Theyâre fairly cheap.â

âOh, itâs not only the expense. But I shouldnât like to go alone. Travelling alone would look very peculiar, donât you think?â

âNo,â said Joanna.

Miss Emily looked at her doubtfully.

âAnd I donât know how I would manage about my luggageâand going ashore at foreign portsâand all the different currenciesââ

Innumerable pitfalls seemed to rise up before the little ladyâs affrighted gaze, and Joanna hastened to calm her by a question about an approaching garden fÃªte and sale of work. This led us quite naturally to Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

A faint spasm showed for a minute on Miss Bartonâs face.

âYou know, dear,â she said, âshe is really a very odd woman. The things she says sometimes.â

I asked what things.

âOh, I donât know. Such very unexpected things. And the way she looks at you, as though you werenât there but somebody else wasâIâm expressing it badly but it is so hard to convey the impression I mean. And then she wonâtâwell, interfere at all. There are so many cases where a vicarâs wife could advise andâperhaps admonish. Pull people up, you know, and make them mend their ways. Because people would listen to her, Iâm sure of that, theyâre all quite in awe of her. But she insists on being aloof and faraway, and has such a curious habit of feeling sorry for the most unworthy people.â

âThatâs interesting,â I said, exchanging a quick glance with Joanna.

âStill, she is a very well-bred woman. She was a Miss Farroway of Bellpath, very good family, but these old families sometimes are a little peculiar, I believe. But she is devoted to her husband who is a man of very fine intellectâwasted, I am sometimes afraid, in this country circle. A good man, and most sincere, but I always find his habit of quoting Latin a little confusing.â

âHear, hear,â I said fervently.

âJerry had an expensive public school education, so he doesnât recognize Latin when he hears it,â said Joanna.

This led Miss Barton to a new topic.

âThe schoolmistress here is a most unpleasant young woman,â she said. âQuite Red, Iâm afraid.â She lowered her voice over the word âRed.â

Later, as we walked home up the hill, Joanna said to me:

âSheâs rather sweet.â

V

At dinner that night, Joanna said to Partridge that she hoped her tea party had been a success.

Partridge got rather red in the face and held herself even more stiffly.

âThank you, miss, but Agnes never turned up after all.â

âOh, Iâm sorry.â

âIt didnât matter to me,â said Partridge.

She was so swelling with grievance that she condescended to pour it out to us.

âIt wasnât me who thought of asking her! She rang up herself, said sheâd something on her mind and could she come here, it being her day off. And I said, yes, subject to your permission which I obtained. And after that, not a sound or sign of her! And no word of apology either, though I should hope Iâll get a postcard tomorrow morning. These girls nowadaysâdonât know their placeâno idea of how to behave.â

Joanna attempted to soothe Partridgeâs wounded feelings.

âShe maynât have felt well. You didnât ring up to find out?â

Partridge drew herself up again.

âNo, I did not, Miss. No, indeed. If Agnes likes to behave rudely thatâs her lookout, but I shall give her a piece of my mind when we meet.â

Partridge went out of the room still stiff with indignation and Joanna and I laughed.

âProbably a case of âAdvice from Aunt Nancyâs Column,ââ I said. ââMy boy is very cold in his manner to me, what shall I do about it?â Failing Aunt Nancy, Partridge was to be applied to for advice, but instead there has been a reconciliation and I expect at this minute that Agnes and her boy are one of those speechless couples locked in each otherâs arms that you come upon suddenly standing by a dark hedge. They embarrass you horribly, but you donât embarrass them.â

Joanna laughed and said she expected that was it.

We began talking of the anonymous letters and wondered how Nash and the melancholy Graves were getting on.

âItâs a week today exactly,â said Joanna, âsince Mrs. Symmingtonâs suicide. I should think they must have got on to something by now. Fingerprints, or handwriting, or something.â

I answered her absently. Somewhere behind my conscious mind, a queer uneasiness was growing. It was connected in some way with the phrase that Joanna had used, âa week exactly.â

I ought, I dare say, to have put two and two together earlier. Perhaps, unconsciously, my mind was already suspicious.

Anyway the leaven was working now. The uneasiness was growingâcoming to a head.

Joanna noticed suddenly that I wasnât listening to her spirited account of a village encounter.

âWhatâs the matter, Jerry?â

I did not answer because my mind was busy piecing things together.

Mrs. Symmingtonâs suicideâ¦ She was alone in the house that afternoonâ¦ Alone in the house because the maids were having their day outâ¦ A week ago exactlyâ¦.

âJerry, whatââ

I interrupted.

âJoanna, maids have days out once a week, donât they?â

âAnd alternate Sundays,â said Joanna. âWhat onââ

âNever mind Sundays. They go out the same day every week?â

âYes. Thatâs the usual thing.â

Joanna was staring at me curiously. Her mind had not taken the track mine had done.

I crossed the room and rang the bell. Partridge came.

âTell me,â I said, âthis Agnes Woddell. Sheâs in service?â

âYes, sir. At Mrs. Symmingtonâs. At Mr. Symmingtonâs, I should say now.â

I drew a deep breath. I glanced at the clock. It was halfpast ten.

âWould she be back now, do you think?â

Partridge was looking disapproving.

âYes, sir. The maids have to be in by ten there. Theyâre old-fashioned.â

I said: âIâm going to ring up.â

I went out to the hall. Joanna and Partridge followed me. Partridge was clearly furious. Joanna was puzzled. She said, as I was trying to get the number:

âWhat are you going to do, Jerry?â

âIâd like to be sure that the girl has come in all right.â

Partridge sniffed. Just sniffed, nothing more. But I did not care twopence about Partridgeâs sniffs.

Elsie Holland answered the telephone the other end.

âSorry to ring you up,â I said. âThis is Jerry Burton speaking. Isâhasâyour maid Agnes come in?â

It was not until after I had said it that I suddenly felt a bit of a fool. For if the girl had come in and it was all right, how on earth was I going to explain my ringing up and asking. It would have been better if I had let Joanna ask the question, though even that would need a bit of explaining. I foresaw a new trail of gossip started in Lymstock, with myself and the unknown Agnes Woddell at its centre.

Elsie Holland sounded, not unnaturally, very much surprised.

âAgnes? Oh, sheâs sure to be in by now.â

I felt a fool, but I went on with it.

âDo you mind just seeing if she has come in, Miss Holland?â

There is one thing to be said for a nursery governess; she is used to doing things when told. Hers not to reason why! Elsie Holland put down the receiver and went off obediently.

Two minutes later I heard her voice.

âAre you there, Mr. Burton?â

âYes.â

âAgnes isnât in yet, as a matter of fact.â

I knew then that my hunch had been right.

I heard a noise of voices vaguely from the other end, then Symmington himself spoke.

âHallo, Burton, whatâs the matter?â

âYour maid Agnes isnât back yet?â

âNo. Miss Holland has just been to see. Whatâs the matter? Thereâs not been an accident, has there?â

âNot an accident,â I said.

âDo you mean you have reason to believe something has happened to the girl?â

I said grimly: âI shouldnât be surprised.â

Eight

I

I slept badly that night. I think that, even then, there were pieces of the puzzle floating about in my mind. I believe that if I had given my mind to it, I could have solved the whole thing then and there. Otherwise why did those fragments tag along so persistently?

How much do we know at anytime? Much more, or so I believe, than we know we know! But we cannot break through to that subterranean knowledge. It is there, but we cannot reach it.

I lay on my bed, tossing uneasily, and only vague bits of the puzzle came to torture me.

There was a pattern, if only I could get hold of it. I ought to know who wrote those damned letters. There was a trail somewhere if only I could follow itâ¦.

As I dropped off to sleep, words danced irritatingly through my drowsy mind.

âNo smoke without fire.â No fire without smoke. Smokeâ¦ Smoke? Smoke screenâ¦ No, that was the warâa war phrase. War. Scrap of paperâ¦ Only a scrap of paper. Belgiumâ Germanyâ¦.

I fell asleep. I dreamt that I was taking Mrs. Dane Calthrop, who had turned into a greyhound, for a walk with a collar and lead.

II

It was the ringing of the telephone that roused me. A persistent ringing.

I sat up in bed, glanced at my watch. It was half past seven. I had not yet been called. The telephone was ringing in the hall downstairs.

I jumped out of bed, pulled on a dressing-gown, and raced down. I beat Partridge coming through the back door from the kitchen by a short head. I picked up the receiver.

âHallo?â

âOhââ It was a sob of relief. âItâs you!â Meganâs voice. Meganâs voice indescribably forlorn and frightened. âOh, please do comeâdo come. Oh, please do! Will you?â

âIâm coming at once,â I said. âDo you hear? At once.â

I took the stairs two at a time and burst in on Joanna.

âLook here, Jo, Iâm going off to the Symmingtons.ââ

Joanna lifted a curly blonde head from the pillow and rubbed her eyes like a small child.

âWhyâwhatâs happened?â

âI donât know. It was the childâ Megan. She sounded all in.â

âWhat do you think it is?â

âThe girl Agnes, unless Iâm very much mistaken.â

As I went out of the door, Joanna called after me:

âWait. Iâll get up and drive you down.â

âNo need. Iâll drive myself.â

âYou canât drive the car.â

âYes, I can.â

I did, too. It hurt, but not too much. Iâd washed, shaved, dressed, got the car out and driven to the Symmingtonsâ in half an hour. Not bad going.

Megan must have been watching for me. She came out of the house at a run and clutched me. Her poor little face was white and twitching.

âOh, youâve comeâyouâve come!â

âHold up, funny face,â I said. âYes, Iâve come. Now what is it?â

She began to shake. I put my arm round her.

âIâ I found her.â

âYou found Agnes? Where?â

The trembling grew.

âUnder the stairs. Thereâs a cupboard there. It has fishing rods and golf clubs and things. You know.â

I nodded. It was the usual cupboard.

Megan went on.

âShe was thereâall huddled upâandâand coldâhorribly cold. She wasâshe was dead, you know!â

I asked curiously, âWhat made you look there?â

âIâI donât know. You telephoned last night. And we all began wondering where Agnes was. We waited up some time, but she didnât come in, and at last we went to bed. I didnât sleep very well and I got up early. There was only Rose (the cook, you know) about. She was very cross about Agnes not having come back. She said sheâd been before somewhere when a girl did a flit like that. I had some milk and bread and butter in the kitchenâand then suddenly Rose came in looking queer and she said that Agnesâs outdoor things were still in her room. Her best ones that she goes out in. And I began to wonder ifâif sheâd ever left the house, and I started looking round, and I opened the cupboard under the stairs andâand she was thereâ¦.â

âSomebodyâs rung up the police, I suppose?â

âYes, theyâre here now. My stepfather rang them up straightaway. And then IâI felt I couldnât bear it, and I rang you up. You donât mind?â

âNo,â I said. âI donât mind.â

I looked at her curiously.

âDid anybody give you some brandy, or some coffee, or some tea afterâafter you found her?â

Megan shook her head.

I cursed the whole Symmington mÃ©nage. That stuffed shirt, Symmington, thought of nothing but the police. Neither Elsie Holland nor the cook seemed to have thought of the effect on the sensitive child who had made that gruesome discovery.

âCome on, slabface,â I said. âWeâll go to the kitchen.â

We went round the house to the back door and into the kitchen. Rose, a plump pudding-faced woman of forty, was drinking strong tea by the kitchen fire. She greeted us with a flow of talk and her hand to her heart.

Sheâd come all over queer, she told me, awful the palpitations were! Just think of it, it might have been her, it might have been any of them, murdered in their beds they might have been.

âDish out a good strong cup of that tea for Miss Megan,â I said. âSheâs had a shock, you know. Remember it was she who found the body.â

The mere mention of a body nearly sent Rose off again, but I quelled her with a stern eye and she poured out a cup of inky fluid.

âThere you are, young woman,â I said to Megan. âYou drink that down. You havenât got any brandy, I suppose, Rose?â

Rose said rather doubtfully that there was a drop of cooking brandy left over from the Christmas puddings.

âThatâll do,â I said, and put a dollop of it into Meganâs cup. I saw by Roseâs eye that she thought it a good idea.

I told Megan to stay with Rose.

âI can trust you to look after Miss Megan?â I said, and Rose replied in a gratified way, âOh yes, sir.â

I went through into the house. If I knew Rose and her kind, she would soon find it necessary to keep her strength up with a little food, and that would be good for Megan too. Confound these people, why couldnât they look after the child?

Fuming inwardly I ran into Elsie Holland in the hall. She didnât seem surprised to see me. I suppose that the gruesome excitement of the discovery made one oblivious of who was coming and going. The constable, Bert Rundle, was by the front door.

Elsie Holland gasped out:

âOh, Mr. Burton, isnât it awful? Whoever can have done such a dreadful thing?â

âIt was murder, then?â

âOh, yes. She was struck on the back of the head. Itâs all blood and hairâoh! itâs awfulâand bundled into that cupboard. Who can have done such a wicked thing? And why? Poor Agnes, Iâm sure she never did anyone any harm.â

âNo,â I said. âSomebody saw to that pretty promptly.â

She stared at me. Not, I thought, a quick-witted girl. But she had good nerves. Her colour was, as usual, slightly heightened by excitement, and I even fancied that in a macabre kind of way, and in spite of a naturally kind heart, she was enjoying the drama.

She said apologetically: âI must go up to the boys. Mr. Symmington is so anxious that they shouldnât get a shock. He wants me to keep them right away.â

âMegan found the body, I hear,â I said. âI hope somebody is looking after her?â

I will say for Elsie Holland that she looked conscience stricken.

âOh dear,â she said. âI forgot all about her. I do hope sheâs all right. Iâve been so rushed, you know, and the police and everythingâbut it was remiss of me. Poor girl, she must be feeling bad. Iâll go and look for her at once.â

I relented.

âSheâs all right,â I said. âRose is looking after her. You get along to the kids.â

She thanked me with a flash of white tombstone teeth and hurried upstairs. After all, the boys were her job, and not Meganâ Megan was nobodyâs job. Elsie was paid to look after Symmingtonâs blinking brats. One could hardly blame her for doing so.

As she flashed round the corner of the stairs, I caught my breath. For a minute I caught a glimpse of a Winged Victory, deathless and incredibly beautiful, instead of a conscientious nursery governess.

Then a door opened and Superintendent Nash stepped out into the hall with Symmington behind him.

âOh, Mr. Burton,â he said. âI was just going to telephone you. Iâm glad you are here.â

He didnât ask meâthenâwhy I was here.

He turned his head and said to Symmington:

âIâll use this room if I may.â

It was a small morning room with a window on the front of the house.

âCertainly, certainly.â

Symmingtonâs poise was pretty good, but he looked desperately tired. Superintendent Nash said gently:

âI should have some breakfast if I were you, Mr. Symmington. You and Miss Holland and Miss Megan will feel much better after coffee and eggs and bacon. Murder is a nasty business on an empty stomach.â

He spoke in a comfortable family doctor kind of way.

Symmington gave a faint attempt at a smile and said:

âThank you, superintendent, Iâll take your advice.â

I followed Nash into the little morning room and he shut the door. He said then:

âYouâve got here very quickly? How did you hear?â

I told him that Megan had rung me up. I felt well-disposed towards Superintendent Nash. He, at any rate, had not forgotten that Megan, too, would be in need of breakfast.

âI hear that you telephoned last night, Mr. Burton, asking about this girl? Why was that?â

I suppose it did seem odd. I told him about Agnesâs telephone call to Partridge and her nonappearance. He said, âYes, I seeâ¦.â

He said it slowly and reflectively, rubbing his chin.

Then he sighed:

âWell,â he said. âItâs murder now, right enough. Direct physical action. The question is, what did the girl know? Did she say anything to this Partridge? Anything definite?â

âI donât think so. But you can ask her.â

âYes. I shall come up and see her when Iâve finished here.â

âWhat happened exactly?â I asked. âOr donât you know yet?â

âNear enough. It was the maidsâ day outââ

âBoth of them?â

âYes, it seems that there used to be two sisters here who liked to go out together, so Mrs. Symmington arranged it that way. Then when these two came, she kept to the same arrangement. They used to leave cold supper laid out in the dining room, and Miss Holland used to get tea.â

âI see.â

âItâs pretty clear up to a point. The cook, Rose, comes from Nether Mickford, and in order to get there on her day out she has to catch the half past two bus. So Agnes has to finish clearing up lunch always. Rose used to wash up the supper things in the evenings to even things up.

âThatâs what happened yesterday. Rose went off to catch the bus at two twenty-five, Symmington left for his office at five-and-twenty to three. Elsie Holland and the children went out at a quarter to three. Megan Hunter went out on her bicycle about five minutes later. Agnes would then be alone in the house. As far as I can make out, she normally left the house between three oâclock and half past three.â

âThe house being then left empty?â

âOh, they donât worry about that down here. Thereâs not much locking up done in these parts. As I say, at ten minutes to three Agnes was alone in the house. That she never left it is clear, for she was in her cap and apron still when we found her body.â

âI suppose you can tell roughly the time of death?â

âDoctor Griffith wonât commit himself. Between two oâclock and four thirty, is his official medical verdict.â

âHow was she killed?â

âShe was first stunned by a blow on the back of the head. Afterwards an ordinary kitchen skewer, sharpened to a fine point, was thrust in the base of the skull, causing instantaneous death.â

I lit a cigarette. It was not a nice picture.

âPretty cold-blooded,â I said.

âOh yes, yes, that was indicated.â

I inhaled deeply.

âWho did it?â I said. âAnd why?â

âI donât suppose,â said Nash slowly, âthat we shall ever know exactly why. But we can guess.â

âShe knew something?â

âShe knew something.â

âShe didnât give anyone here a hint?â

âAs far as I can make out, no. Sheâs been upset, so the cook says, ever since Mrs. Symmingtonâs death, and according to this Rose, sheâs been getting more and more worried, and kept saying she didnât know what she ought to do.â

He gave a short exasperated sigh.

âItâs always the way. They wonât come to us. Theyâve got that deep-seated prejudice against âbeing mixed up with the police.â If sheâd come along and told us what was worrying her, sheâd be alive today.â

âDidnât she give the other woman any hint?â

âNo, or so Rose says, and Iâm inclined to believe her. For if she had, Rose would have blurted it out at once with a good many fancy embellishments of her own.â

âItâs maddening,â I said, ânot to know.â

âWe can still guess, Mr. Burton. To begin with, it canât be anything very defionite. Itâs got to be the sort of thing that you think over, and as you think it over, your uneasiness grows. You see what I mean?â

âYes.â

âActually, I think I know what it was.â

I looked at him with respect.

âThatâs good work, superintendent.â

âWell, you see, Mr. Burton, I know something that you donât. On the afternoon that Mrs. Symmington committed suicide both maids were supposed to be out. It was their day out. But actually Agnes came back to the house.â

âYou know that?â

âYes. Agnes has a boyfriendâyoung Rendell from the fish shop. Wednesday is early closing and he comes along to meet Agnes and they go for a walk, or to the pictures if itâs wet. That Wednesday they had a row practically as soon as they met. Our letter writer had been active, suggesting that Agnes had other fish to fry, and young Fred Rendell was all worked up. They quarrelled violently and Agnes bolted back home and said she wasnât coming out unless Fred said he was sorry.â

âWell?â

âWell, Mr. Burton, the kitchen faces the back of the house but the pantry looks out where we are looking now. Thereâs only one entrance gate. You come through it and either up to the front door, or else along the path at the side of the house to the back door.â

He paused.

âNow Iâll tell you something. That letter that came to Mrs. Symmington that afternoon didnât come by post. It had a used stamp affixed to it, and the postmark faked quite convincingly in lampblack, so that it would seem to have been delivered by the postman with the afternoon letters. But actually it had not been through the post. You see what that means?â

I said slowly: âIt means that it was left by hand, pushed through the letter box some time before the afternoon post was delivered, so that it should be amongst the other letters.â

âExactly. The afternoon post comes round about a quarter to four. My theory is this. The girl was in the pantry looking through the window (itâs masked by shrubs but you can see through them quite well) watching out for her young man to turn up and apologize.â

I said: âAnd she saw whoever it was deliver that note?â

âThatâs my guess, Mr. Burton. I may be wrong, of course.â

âI donât think you areâ¦ Itâs simpleâand convincingâand it means that Agnes knew who the anonymous letter writer was.â

âYes.â

âBut then why didnât sheâ?â

I paused, frowning.

Nash said quickly:

âAs I see it, the girl didnât realize what she had seen. Not at first. Somebody had left a letter at the house, yesâbut that somebody was nobody she would dream of connecting with the anonymous letters. It was somebody, from that point of view, quite above suspicion.

âBut the more she thought about it, the more uneasy she grew. Ought she, perhaps, to tell someone about it? In her perplexity she thinks of Miss Bartonâs Partridge who, I gather, is a somewhat dominant personality and whose judgment Agnes would accept unhesitatingly. She decides to ask Partridge what she ought to do.â

âYes,â I said thoughtfully. âIt fits well enough. And somehow or other, Poison Pen found out. How did she find out, superintendent?â

âYouâre not used to living in the country, Mr. Burton. Itâs a kind of miracle how things get round. First of all thereâs the telephone call. Who overheard it your end?â I reflected.

âI answered the telephone originally. Then I called up the stairs to Partridge.â

âMentioning the girlâs name?â

âYesâyes, I did.â

âAnyone overhear you?â

âMy sister or Miss Griffith might have done so.â

âAh, Miss Griffith. What was she doing up there?â

I explained.

âWas she going back to the village?â

âShe was going to Mr. Pye first.â

Superintendent Nash sighed.

âThatâs two ways it could have gone all over the place.â

I was incredulous.

âDo you mean that either Miss Griffith or Mr. Pye would bother to repeat a meaningless little bit of information like that?â

âAnythingâs news in a place like this. Youâd be surprised. If the dressmakerâs mother has got a bad corn everybody hears about it! And then there is this end. Miss Holland, Roseâthey could have heard what Agnes said. And thereâs Fred Rendell. It may have gone round through him that Agnes went back to the house that afternoon.â

I gave a slight shiver. I was looking out of the window. In front of me was a neat square of grass and a path and the low prim gate.

Someone had opened the gate, had walked very correctly and quietly up to the house, and had pushed a letter through the letter box. I saw, hazily, in my mindâs eye, that vague womanâs shape. The face was blankâbut it must be a face that I knewâ¦.

Superintendent Nash was saying:

âAll the same, this narrows things down. Thatâs always the way we get âem in the end. Steady, patient elimination. There arenât so very many people it could be now.â

âYou meanâ?â

âIt knocks out any women clerks who were at their work all yesterday afternoon. It knocks out the schoolmistress. She was teaching. And the district nurse. I know where she was yesterday. Not that I ever thought it was any of them, but now weâre sure. You see, Mr. Burton, weâve got two definite times now on which to concentrateâyesterday afternoon, and the week before. On the day of Mrs. Symmingtonâs death from, say, a quarter past three (the earliest possible time at which Agnes could have been back in the house after her quarrel) and four oâclock when the post must have come (but I can get that fixed more accurately with the postman). And yesterday from ten minutes to three (when Miss Megan Hunter left the house) until half past three or more probably a quarter past three as Agnes hadnât begun to change.â

âWhat do you think happened yesterday?â

Nash made a grimace.

âWhat do I think? I think a certain lady walked up to the front door and rang the bell, quite calm and smiling, the afternoon callerâ¦ Maybe she asked for Miss Holland, or for Miss Megan, or perhaps she had brought a parcel. Anyway Agnes turns round to get a salver for cards, or to take the parcel in, and our ladylike caller bats her on the back of her unsuspecting head.â

âWhat with?â

Nash said:

âThe ladies round here usually carry large sizes in handbags. No saying what mightnât be inside it.â

âAnd then stabs her through the back of the neck and bundles her into the cupboard? Wouldnât that be a hefty job for a woman?â

Superintendent Nash looked at me with rather a queer expression.

âThe woman weâre after isnât normalânot by a long wayâand that type of mental instability goes with surprising strength. Agnes wasnât a big girl.â

He paused and then asked: âWhat made Miss Megan Hunter think of looking in that cupboard?â

âSheer instinct,â I said.

Then I asked: âWhy drag Agnes into the cupboard? What was the point?â

âThe longer it was before the body was found, the more difficult it would be to fix the time of death accurately. If Miss Holland, for instance, fell over the body as soon as she came in, a doctor might be able to fix it within ten minutes or soâwhich might be awkward for our lady friend.â

I said, frowning:

âBut if Agnes were suspicious of this personââ

Nash interrupted me.

âShe wasnât. Not to the pitch of definite suspicion. She just thought it âqueer.â She was a slow-witted girl, I imagine, and she was only vaguely suspicious with a feeling that something was wrong. She certainly didnât suspect that she was up against a woman who would do murder.â

âDid you suspect that?â I asked.

Nash shook his head. He said, with feeling:

âI ought to have known. That suicide business, you see, frightened Poison Pen. She got the wind up. Fear, Mr. Burton, is an incalculable thing.â

âYes, fear. That was the thing we ought to have foreseen. Fearâin a lunatic brainâ¦.

âYou see,â said Superintendent Nash, and somehow his words made the whole thing seem absolutely horrible. âWeâre up against someone whoâs respected and thought highly ofâsomeone, in fact, of good social position!â

III

Presently Nash said that he was going to interview Rose once more. I asked him, rather diffidently, if I might come too. Rather to my surprise he assented cordially.

âIâm very glad of your cooperation, Mr. Burton, if I may say so.â

âThat sounds suspicious,â I said. âIn books when a detective welcomes someoneâs assistance, that someone is usually the murderer.â

Nash laughed shortly. He said: âYouâre hardly the type to write anonymous letters, Mr. Burton.â

He added: âFrankly, you can be useful to us.â

âIâm glad, but I donât see how.â

âYouâre a stranger down here, thatâs why. Youâve got no preconceived ideas about the people here. But at the same time, youâve got the opportunity of getting to know things in what I may call a social way.â

âThe murderer is a person of good social position,â I murmured.

âExactly.â

âIâm to be the spy within the gates?â

âHave you any objection?â

I thought it over.

âNo,â I said, âfrankly I havenât. If thereâs a dangerous lunatic about driving inoffensive women to suicide and hitting miserable little maidservants on the head, then Iâm not averse to doing a bit of dirty work to put that lunatic under restraint.â

âThatâs sensible of you, sir. And let me tell you, the person weâre after is dangerous. Sheâs about as dangerous as a rattlesnake and a cobra and a black mamba rolled into one.â

I gave a slight shiver. I said:

âIn fact, weâve got to make haste?â

âThatâs right. Donât think weâre inactive in the force. Weâre not. Weâre working on several different lines.â

He said it grimly.

I had a vision of a fine far-flung spiderâs webâ¦.

Nash wanted to hear Roseâs story again, so he explained to me, because she had already told him two different versions, and the more versions he got from her, the more likely it was that a few grains of truth might be incorporated.

We found Rose washing up breakfast, and she stopped at once and rolled her eyes and clutched her heart and explained again how sheâd been coming over queer all the morning.

Nash was patient with her but firm. Heâd been soothing the first time, so he told me, and peremptory the second, and he now employed a mixture of the two.

Rose enlarged pleasurably on the details of the past week, of how Agnes had gone about in deadly fear, and had shivered and said, âDonât ask me,â when Rose had urged her to say what was the matter. âIt would be death if she told me,â thatâs what she said, finished Rose, rolling her eyes happily.

Had Agnes given no hint of what was troubling her?

No, except that she went in fear of her life.

Superintendent Nash sighed and abandoned the theme, contenting himself with extracting an exact account of Roseâs own activities the preceding afternoon.

This, put baldly, was that Rose had caught the 2:30 bus and had spent the afternoon and evening with her family, returning by the 8:40 bus from Nether Mickford. The recital was complicated by the extraordinary presentiments of evil Rose had had all the afternoon and how her sister had commented on it and how she hadnât been able to touch a morsel of seed cake.

From the kitchen we went in search of Elsie Holland, who was superintending the childrenâs lessons. As always, Elsie Holland was competent and obliging. She rose and said:

âNow, Colin, you and Brian will do these three sums and have the answers ready for me when I come back.â

She then led us into the night nursery. âWill this do? I thought it would be better not to talk before the children.â

âThank you, Miss Holland. Just tell me, once more, are you quite sure that Agnes never mentioned to you being worried over anythingâsince Mrs. Symmingtonâs death, I mean?â

âNo, she never said anything. She was a very quiet girl, you know, and didnât talk much.â

âA change from the other one, then!â

âYes, Rose talks much too much. I have to tell her not to be impertinent sometimes.â

âNow, will you tell me exactly what happened yesterday afternoon? Everything you can remember.â

âWell, we had lunch as usual. One oâclock, and we hurry just a little. I donât let the boys dawdle. Let me see. Mr. Symmington went back to the office, and I helped Agnes by laying the table for supperâthe boys ran out in the garden till I was ready to take them.â

âWhere did you go?â

âTowards Combeacre, by the field pathâthe boys wanted to fish. I forgot their bait and had to go back for it.â

âWhat time was that?â

âLet me see, we started about twenty to threeâor just after. Megan was coming but changed her mind. She was going out on her bicycle. Sheâs got quite a craze for bicycling.â

âI mean what time was it when you went back for the bait? Did you go into the house?â

âNo. Iâd left it in the conservatory at the back. I donât know what time it was thenâabout ten minutes to three, perhaps.â

âDid you see Megan or Agnes?â

âMegan must have started, I think. No, I didnât see Agnes. I didnât see anyone.â

âAnd after that you went fishing?â

âYes, we went along by the stream. We didnât catch anything. We hardly ever do, but the boys enjoy it. Brian got rather wet. I had to change his things when we got in.â

âYou attend to tea on Wednesdays?â

âYes. Itâs all ready in the drawing room for Mr. Symmington. I just make the tea when he comes in. The children and I have ours in the schoolroomâand Megan, of course. I have my own tea things and everything in the cupboard up there.â

âWhat time did you get in?â

âAt ten minutes to five. I took the boys up and started to lay tea. Then when Mr. Symmington came in at five I went down to make his but he said he would have it with us in the schoolroom. The boys were so pleased. We played Animal Grab afterwards. It seems so awful to think of nowâwith that poor girl in the cupboard all the time.â

âWould anybody go to that cupboard normally?â

âOh no, itâs only used for keeping junk. The hats and coats hang in the little cloakroom to the right of the front door as you come in. No one might have gone to the other cupboard for months.â

âI see. And you noticed nothing unusual, nothing abnormal at all when you came back?â

The blue eyes opened very wide.

âOh no, inspector, nothing at all. Everything was just the same as usual. Thatâs what was so awful about it.â

âAnd the week before?â

âYou mean the day Mrs. Symmingtonââ

âYes.â

âOh, that was terribleâterrible!â

âYes, yes, I know. You were out all that afternoon also?â

âOh yes, I always take the boys out in the afternoonâif itâs fine enough. We do lessons in the morning. We went up on the moor, I rememberâquite a long way. I was afraid I was late back because as I turned in at the gate I saw Mr. Symmington coming from his office at the other end of the road, and I hadnât even put the kettle on, but it was just ten minutes to five.â

âYou didnât go up to Mrs. Symmington?â

âOh no. I never did. She always rested after lunch. She had attacks of neuralgiaâand they used to come on after meals. Dr. Griffith had given her some cachets to take. She used to lie down and try to sleep.â

Nash said in a casual voice:

âSo no one would take her up the post?â

âThe afternoon post? No, Iâd look in the letter box and put the letters on the hall table when I came in. But very often Mrs. Symmington used to come down and get it herself. She didnât sleep all the afternoon. She was usually up again by four.â

âYou didnât think anything was wrong because she wasnât up that afternoon?â

âOh, no, I never dreamed of such a thing. Mr. Symmington was hanging up his coat in the hall and I said, âTeaâs not quite ready, but the kettleâs nearly boiling,â and he nodded and called out, âMona, Mona!ââand then as Mrs. Symmington didnât answer he went upstairs to her bedroom, and it must have been the most terrible shock to him. He called me and I came, and he said, âKeep the children away,â and then he phoned Dr. Griffith and we forgot all about the kettle and it burnt the bottom out! Oh dear, it was dreadful, and sheâd been so happy and cheerful at lunch.â

Nash said abruptly: âWhat is your own opinion of that letter she received, Miss Holland?â

Elsie Holland said indignantly:

âOh, I think it was wickedâwicked!â

âYes, yes, I donât mean that. Did you think it was true?â

Elsie Holland said firmly:

âNo, indeed I donât. Mrs. Symmington was very sensitiveâvery sensitive indeed. She had to take all sorts of things for her nerves. And she was veryâwell, particular.â Elsie flushed. âAnything of that sortânasty, I meanâwould have given her a great shock.â

Nash was silent for a moment, then he asked:

âHave you had any of these letters, Miss Holland?â

âNo. No, I havenât had any.â

âAre you sure? Pleaseââhe lifted a handââdonât answer in a hurry. Theyâre not pleasant things to get, I know. And sometimes people donât like to admit theyâve had them. But itâs very important in this case that we should know. Weâre quite aware that the statements in them are just a tissue of lies, so you neednât feel embarrassed.â

âBut I havenât, superintendent. Really I havenât. Not anything of the kind.â

She was indignant, almost tearful, and her denials seemed genuine enough.

When she went back to the children, Nash stood looking out of the window.

âWell,â he said, âthatâs that! She says she hasnât received any of these letters. And she sounds as though sheâs speaking the truth.â

âShe did certainly. Iâm sure she was.â

âHâm,â said Nash. âThen what I want to know is, why the devil hasnât she?â

He went on rather impatiently, as I stared at him.

âSheâs a pretty girl, isnât she?â

âRather more than pretty.â

âExactly. As a matter of fact, sheâs uncommonly good-looking. And sheâs young. In fact sheâs just the meat an anonymous letter writer would like. Then why has she been left out?â

I shook my head.

âItâs interesting, you know. I must mention it to Graves. He asked if we could tell him definitely of anyone who hadnât had one.â

âSheâs the second person,â I said. âThereâs Emily Barton, remember.â

Nash gave a faint chuckle.

âYou shouldnât believe everything youâre told, Mr. Burton. Miss Barton had one all rightâmore than one.â

âHow do you know?â

âThat devoted dragon sheâs lodging with told meâher late parlourmaid or cook. Florence Elford. Very indignant she was about it. Would like to have the writerâs blood.â

âWhy did Miss Emily say she hadnât had any?â

âDelicacy. Their language isnât nice. Little Miss Barton has spent her life avoiding the coarse and unrefined.â

âWhat did the letters say?â

âThe usual. Quite ludicrous in her case. And incidentally insinuated that she poisoned off her old mother and most of her sisters!â

I said incredulously:

âDo you mean to say thereâs really this dangerous lunatic going about and we canât spot her right away?â

âWeâll spot her,â said Nash, and his voice was grim. âSheâll write just one letter too many.â

âBut, my goodness, man, she wonât go on writing these thingsânot now.â

He looked at me.

âOh yes she will. You see, she canât stop now. Itâs a morbid craving. The letters will go on, make no mistake about that.â

Nine

I

I went and found Megan before leaving the house. She was in the garden and seemed almost back to her usual self. She greeted me quite cheerfully.

I suggested that she should come back to us again for a while, but after a momentary hesitation she shook her head.

âItâs nice of youâbut I think Iâll stay here. After all, it isâwell, I suppose, itâs my home. And I dare say I can help with the boys a bit.â

âWell,â I said, âitâs as you like.â

âThen I think Iâll stay. I couldâ I couldââ

âYes?â I prompted.

âIfâif anything awful happened, I could ring you up, couldnât I, and youâd come.â

I was touched. âOf course. But what awful thing do you think might happen?â

âOh, I donât know.â She looked vague. âThings seem rather like that just now, donât they?â

âFor Godâs sake,â I said. âDonât go nosing out anymore bodies! Itâs not good for you.â

She gave me a brief flash of a smile.

âNo, it isnât. It made me feel awfully sick.â

I didnât much like leaving her there, but after all, as she had said, it was her home. And I fancied that now Elsie Holland would feel more responsible for her.

Nash and I went up together to Little Furze. Whilst I gave Joanna an account of the morningâs doings, Nash tackled Partridge. He rejoined us looking discouraged.

âNot much help there. According to this woman, the girl only said she was worried about something and didnât know what to do and that sheâd like Miss Partridgeâs advice.â

âDid Partridge mention the fact to anyone?â asked Joanna.

Nash nodded, looking grim.

âYes, she told Mrs. Emoryâyour daily womanâon the lines, as far as I can gather, that there were some young women who were willing to take advice from their elders and didnât think they could settle everything for themselves offhand! Agnes mightnât be very bright, but she was a nice respectful girl and knew her manners.â

âPartridge preening herself, in fact,â murmured Joanna. âAnd Mrs. Emory could have passed it round the town?â

âThatâs right, Miss Burton.â

âThereâs one thing rather surprises me,â I said. âWhy were my sister and I included among the recipients of the anonymous letters? We were strangers down hereânobody could have had a grudge against us.â

âYouâre failing to allow for the mentality of a Poison Penâall is grist that comes to their mill. Their grudge, you might say, is against humanity.â

âI suppose,â said Joanna thoughtfully, âthat that is what Mrs. Dane Calthrop meant.â

Nash looked at her inquiringly, but she did not enlighten him. The superintendent said:

âI donât know if you happened to look closely at the envelope of the letter you got, Miss Burton. If so, you may have noticed that it was actually addressed to Miss Barton, and the a altered to a u afterwards.â

That remark, properly interpreted, ought to have given us a clue to the whole business. As it was, none of us saw any significance in it.

Nash went off, and I was left with Joanna. She actually said: âYou donât think that letter can really have been meant for Miss Emily, do you?â

âIt would hardly have begun âYou painted trollop,ââ I pointed out, and Joanna agreed.

Then she suggested that I should go down to the town. âYou ought to hear what everyone is saying. It will be the topic this morning!â

I suggested that she should come too, but rather to my surprise Joanna refused. She said she was going to mess about in the garden.

I paused in the doorway and said, lowering my voice:

âI suppose Partridge is all right?â

âPartridge!â

The amazement in Joannaâs voice made me feel ashamed of my idea. I said apologetically: âI just wondered. Sheâs rather âqueerâ in some waysâa grim spinsterâthe sort of person who might have religious mania.â

âThis isnât religious maniaâor so you told me Graves said.â

âWell, sex mania. Theyâre very closely tied up together, I understand. Sheâs repressed and respectable, and has been shut up here with a lot of elderly women for years.â

âWhat put the idea into your head?â

I said slowly:

âWell, weâve only her word for it, havenât we, as to what the girl Agnes said to her? Suppose Agnes asked Partridge to tell her why Partridge came and left a note that dayâand Partridge said sheâd call round that afternoon and explain.â

âAnd then camouflaged it by coming to us and asking if the girl could come here?â

âYes.â

âBut Partridge never went out that afternoon.â

âWe donât know that. We were out ourselves, remember.â

âYes, thatâs true. Itâs possible, I suppose.â Joanna turned it over in her mind. âBut I donât think so, all the same. I donât think Partridge has the mentality to cover her tracks over the letters. To wipe off fingerprints, and all that. It isnât only cunning you wantâitâs knowledge. I donât think sheâs got that. I supposeââ Joanna hesitated, then said slowly, âthey are sure it is a woman, arenât they?â

âYou donât think itâs a man?â I exclaimed incredulously.

âNotânot an ordinary manâbut a certain kind of man. Iâm thinking, really, of Mr. Pye.â

âSo Pye is your selection?â

âDonât you feel yourself that heâs a possibility? Heâs the sort of person who might be lonelyâand unhappyâand spiteful. Everyone, you see, rather laughs at him. Canât you see him secretly hating all the normal happy people, and taking a queer perverse artistic pleasure in what he was doing?â

âGraves said a middle-aged spinster.â

âMr. Pye,â said Joanna, âis a middle-aged spinster.â

âA misfit,â I said slowly.

âVery much so. Heâs rich, but money doesnât help. And I do feel he might be unbalanced. He is, really, rather a frightening little man.â

âHe got a letter himself, remember.â

âWe donât know that,â Joanna pointed out. âWe only thought so. And anyway, he might have been putting on an act.â

âFor our benefit?â

âYes. Heâs clever enough to think of thatâand not to overdo it.â

âHe must be a first-class actor.â

âBut of course, Jerry, whoever is doing this must be a first-class actor. Thatâs partly where the pleasure comes in.â

âFor Godâs sake, Joanna, donât speak so understandingly! You make me feel that youâthat you understand the mentality.â

âI think I do. I canâjustâget into the mood. If I werenât Joanna Burton, if I werenât young and reasonably attractive and able to have a good time, if I wereâhow shall I put it?âbehind bars, watching other people enjoy life, would a black evil tide rise in me, making me want to hurt, to tortureâeven to destroy?â

âJoanna!â I took her by the shoulders and shook her. She gave a little sigh and shiver, and smiled at me.

âI frightened you, didnât I, Jerry? But I have a feeling that thatâs the right way to solve this problem. Youâve got to be the person, knowing how they feel and what makes them act, and thenâand then perhaps youâll know what theyâre going to do next.â

âOh, hell!â I said. âAnd I came down here to be a vegetable and get interested in all the dear little local scandals. Dear little local scandals! Libel, vilification, obscene language and murder!â

II

Joanna was quite right. The High Street was full of interested groups. I was determined to get everyoneâs reactions in turn.

I met Griffith first. He looked terribly ill and tired. So much so that I wondered. Murder is not, certainly, all in the dayâs work to a doctor, but his profession does equip him to face most things including suffering, the ugly side of human nature, and the fact of death.

âYou look all in,â I said.

âDo I?â He was vague. âOh! Iâve had some worrying cases lately.â

âIncluding our lunatic at large?â

âThat, certainly.â He looked away from me across the street. I saw a fine nerve twitching in his eyelid.

âYouâve no suspicions as toâwho?â

âNo. No. I wish to God I had.â

He asked abruptly after Joanna, and said, hesitatingly, that he had some photographs sheâd wanted to see.

I offered to take them to her.

âOh, it doesnât matter. I shall be passing that way actually later in the morning.â

I began to be afraid that Griffith had got it badly. Curse Joanna! Griffith was too good a man to be dangled as a scalp.

I let him go, for I saw his sister coming and I wanted, for once, to talk to her.

AimÃ©e Griffith began, as it were, in the middle of a conversation.

âAbsolutely shocking!â she boomed. âI hear you were thereâquite early?â

There was a question in the words, and her eyes glinted as she stressed the word âearly.â I wasnât going to tell her that Megan had rung me up. I said instead:

âYou see, I was a bit uneasy last night. The girl was due to tea at our house and didnât turn up.â

âAnd so you feared the worst? Damned smart of you!â

âYes,â I said. âIâm quite the human bloodhound.â

âItâs the first murder weâve ever had in Lymstock. Excitement is terrific. Hope the police can handle it all right.â

âI shouldnât worry,â I said. âTheyâre an efficient body of men.â

âCanât even remember what the girl looked like, although I suppose sheâs opened the door to me dozens of times. Quiet, insignificant little thing. Knocked on the head and then stabbed through the back of the neck, so Owen tells me. Looks like a boyfriend to me. What do you think?â

âThatâs your solution?â

âSeems the most likely one. Had a quarrel, I expect. Theyâre very inbred round hereâbad heredity, a lot of them.â She paused, and then went on, âI hear Megan Hunter found the body? Must have given her a bit of a shock.â

I said shortly:

âIt did.â

âNot too good for her, I should imagine. In my opinion sheâs not too strong in the headâand a thing like this might send her completely off her onion.â

I took a sudden resolution. I had to know something.

âTell me, Miss Griffith, was it you who persuaded Megan to return home yesterday?â

âWell, I wouldnât say exactly persuaded.â

I stuck to my guns.

âBut you did say something to her?â

AimÃ©e Griffith planted her feet firmly and stared me in the eyes. She was, just slightly, on the defensive. She said:

âItâs no good that young woman shirking her responsibilities. Sheâs young and she doesnât know how tongues wag, so I felt it my duty to give her a hint.â

âTonguesâ?â I broke off because I was too angry to go on.

AimÃ©e Griffith continued with that maddeningly complacent confidence in herself which was her chief characteristic:

âOh, I dare say you donât hear all the gossip that goes round. I do! I know what people are saying. Mind you, I donât for a minute think thereâs anything in itânot for a minute! But you know what people areâif they can say something ill-natured, they do! And itâs rather hard lines on the girl when sheâs got her living to earn.â

âHer living to earn?â I said, puzzled.

AimÃ©e went on:

âItâs a difficult position for her, naturally. And I think she did the right thing. I mean, she couldnât go off at a momentâs notice and leave the children with no one to look after them. Sheâs been splendidâabsolutely splendid. I say so to everybody! But there it is, itâs an invidious position, and people will talk.â

âWho are you talking about?â I asked.

âElsie Holland, of course,â said AimÃ©e Griffith impatiently. âIn my opinion, sheâs a thoroughly nice girl, and has only been doing her duty.â

âAnd what are people saying?â

AimÃ©e Griffith laughed. It was, I thought, rather an unpleasant laugh.

âTheyâre saying that sheâs already considering the possibility of becoming Mrs. Symmington No. 2âthat sheâs all out to console the widower and make herself indispensable.â

âBut, good God,â I said, shocked, âMrs. Symmingtonâs only been dead a week!â

AimÃ©e Griffith shrugged her shoulders.

âOf course. Itâs absurd! But you know what people are! The Holland girl is young and sheâs good-lookingâthatâs enough. And mind you, being a nursery governess isnât much of a prospect for a girl. I wouldnât blame her if she wanted a settled home and a husband and was playing her cards accordingly.

âOf course,â she went on, âpoor Dick Symmington hasnât the least idea of all this! Heâs still completely knocked out by Mona Symmingtonâs death. But you know what men are! If the girl is always there, making him comfortable, looking after him, being obviously devoted to the childrenâwell, he gets to be dependent on her.â

I said quietly:

âSo you do think that Elsie Holland is a designing hussy?â

AimÃ©e Griffith flushed.

âNot at all. Iâm sorry for the girlâwith people saying nasty things! Thatâs why I more or less told Megan that she ought to go home. It looks better than having Dick Symmington and the girl alone in the house.â

I began to understand things.

AimÃ©e Griffith gave her jolly laugh.

âYouâre shocked, Mr. Burton, at hearing what our gossiping little town thinks. I can tell you thisâthey always think the worst!â

She laughed and nodded and strode away.

III

I came upon Mr. Pye by the church. He was talking to Emily Barton, who looked pink and excited.

Mr. Pye greeted me with every evidence of delight.

âAh, Burton, good morning, good morning! How is your charming sister?â

I told him that Joanna was well.

âBut not joining our village parliament? Weâre all agog over the news. Murder! Real Sunday newspaper murder in our midst! Not the most interesting of crimes, I fear. Somewhat sordid. The brutal murder of a little serving maid. No finer points about the crime, but still undeniably, news.â

Miss Barton said tremulously:

âIt is shockingâquite shocking.â

Mr. Pye turned to her.

âBut you enjoy it, dear lady, you enjoy it. Confess it now. You disapprove, you deplore, but there is the thrill. I insist, there is the thrill!â

âSuch a nice girl,â said Emily Barton. âShe came to me from St. Clotildeâs Home. Quite a raw girl. But most teachable. She turned into such a nice little maid. Partridge was very pleased with her.â

I said quickly:

âShe was coming to tea with Partridge yesterday afternoon.â I turned to Pye. âI expect AimÃ©e Griffith told you.â

My tone was quite casual. Pye responded apparently quite unsuspiciously: âShe did mention it, yes. She said, I remember, that it was something quite new for servants to ring up on their employersâ telephones.â

âPartridge would never dream of doing such a thing,â said Miss Emily, âand I am really surprised at Agnes doing so.â

âYou are behind the times, dear lady,â said Mr. Pye. âMy two terrors use the telephone constantly and smoked all over the house until I objected. But one darenât say too much. Prescott is a divine cook, though temperamental, and Mrs. Prescott is an admirable house-parlourmaid.â

âYes, indeed, we all think youâre very lucky.â

I intervened, since I did not want the conversation to become purely domestic.

âThe news of the murder has got round very quickly,â I said.

âOf course, of course,â said Mr. Pye. âThe butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues! Lymstock, alas! is going to the dogs. Anonymous letters, murders, any amount of criminal tendencies.â

Emily Barton said nervously: âThey donât thinkâthereâs no ideaâthatâthat the two are connected.â

Mr. Pye pounced on the idea.

âAn interesting speculation. The girl knew something, therefore she was murdered. Yes, yes, most promising. How clever of you to think of it.â

âIâ I canât bear it.â

Emily Barton spoke abruptly and turned away, walking very fast.

Pye looked after her. His cherubic face was pursed up quizzically.

He turned back to me and shook his head gently.

âA sensitive soul. A charming creature, donât you think? Absolutely a period piece. Sheâs not, you know, of her own generation, sheâs of the generation before that. The mother must have been a woman of a very strong character. She kept the family time ticking at about 1870, I should say. The whole family preserved under a glass case. I do like to come across that sort of thing.â

I did not want to talk about period pieces.

âWhat do you really think about all this business?â I asked.

âMeaning by that?â

âAnonymous letters, murderâ¦.â

âOur local crime wave? What do you?â

âI asked you first,â I said pleasantly.

Mr. Pye said gently:

âIâm a student, you know, of abnormalities. They interest me. Such apparently unlikely people do the most fantastic things. Take the case of Lizzie Borden. Thereâs not really a reasonable explanation of that. In this case, my advice to the police would beâstudy character. Leave your fingerprints and your measuring of handwriting and your microscopes. Notice instead what people do with their hands, and their little tricks of manner, and the way they eat their food, and if they laugh sometimes for no apparent reason.â

I raised my eyebrows. âMad?â I said.

âQuite, quite mad,â said Mr. Pye, and added, âbut youâd never know it!â

âWho?â

His eyes met mine. He smiled.

âNo, no, Burton, that would be slander. We canât add slander to all the rest of it.â

He fairly skipped off down the street.

IV

As I stood staring after him the church door opened and the Rev. Caleb Dane Calthrop came out.

He smiled vaguely at me.

âGoodâgood morning, Mrâerâerââ

I helped him. âBurton.â

âOf course, of course, you mustnât think I donât remember you. Your name had just slipped my memory for the moment. A beautiful day.â

âYes,â I said rather shortly.

He peered at me.

âBut somethingâsomethingâah, yes, that poor unfortunate child who was in service at the Symmingtons.â I find it hard to believe, I must confess, that we have a murderer in our midst, MrâerâBurton.â

âIt does seem a bit fantastic,â I said.

âSomething else has just reached my ears.â He leaned towards me. âI learn that there have been anonymous letters going about. Have you heard any rumour of such things?â

âI have heard,â I said.

âCowardly and dastardly things.â He paused and quoted an enormous stream of Latin. âThose words of Horace are very applicable, donât you think?â he said.

âAbsolutely,â I said.

V

There didnât seem anyone more I could profitably talk to, so I went home, dropping in for some tobacco and for a bottle of sherry, so as to get some of the humbler opinions on the crime.

âA narsty tramp,â seemed to be the verdict.

âCome to the door, they do, and whine and ask for money, and then if itâs a girl alone in the house, they turn narsty. My sister Dora, over to Combeacre, she had a narsty experience one dayâDrunk, he was, and selling those little printed poemsâ¦.â

The story went on, ending with the intrepid Dora courageously banging the door in the manâs face and taking refuge and barricading herself in some vague retreat, which I gathered from the delicacy in mentioning it must be the lavatory. âAnd there she stayed till her lady came home!â

I reached Little Furze just a few minutes before lunchtime. Joanna was standing in the drawing room window doing nothing at all and looking as though her thoughts were miles away.

âWhat have you been doing with yourself?â I asked.

âOh, I donât know. Nothing particular.â

I went out on the veranda. Two chairs were drawn up to an iron table and there were two empty sherry glasses. On another chair was an object at which I looked with bewilderment for some time.

âWhat on earth is this?â

âOh,â said Joanna, âI think itâs a photograph of a diseased spleen or something. Dr. Griffith seemed to think Iâd be interested to see it.â

I looked at the photograph with some interest. Every man has his own ways of courting the female sex. I should not, myself, choose to do it with photographs of spleens, diseased or otherwise. Still no doubt Joanna had asked for it!

âIt looks most unpleasant,â I said.

Joanna said it did, rather.

âHow was Griffith?â I asked.

âHe looked tired and very unhappy. I think heâs got something on his mind.â

âA spleen that wonât yield to treatment?â

âDonât be silly. I mean something real.â

âI should say the manâs got you on his mind. I wish youâd lay off him, Joanna.â

âOh, do shut up. I havenât done anything.â

âWomen always say that.â

Joanna whirled angrily out of the room.

The diseased spleen was beginning to curl up in the sun. I took it by one corner and brought it into the drawing room. I had no affection for it myself, but I presumed it was one of Griffithâs treasures.

I stooped down and pulled out a heavy book from the bottom shelf of the bookcase in order to press the photograph flat again between its leaves. It was a ponderous volume of somebodyâs sermons.

The book came open in my hand in rather a surprising way. In another minute I saw why. From the middle of it a number of pages had been neatly cut out.

VI

I stood staring at it. I looked at the title page. It had been published in 1840.

There could be no doubt at all. I was looking at the book from the pages of which the anonymous letters had been put together. Who had cut them out?

Well, to begin with, it could be Emily Barton herself. She was, perhaps, the obvious person to think of. Or it could have been Partridge.

But there were other possibilities. The pages could have been cut out by anyone who had been alone in this room, any visitor, for instance, who had sat there waiting for Miss Emily. Or even anyone who called on business.

No, that wasnât so likely. I had noticed that when, one day, a clerk from the bank had come to see me, Partridge had shown him into the little study at the back of the house. That was clearly the house routine.

A visitor, then? Someone âof good social position.â Mr. Pye? AimÃ©e Griffith? Mrs. Dane Calthrop?

VII

The gong sounded and I went in to lunch. Afterwards, in the drawing room I showed Joanna my find.

We discussed it from every aspect. Then I took it down to the police station.

They were elated at the find, and I was patted on the back for what was, after all, the sheerest piece of luck.

Graves was not there, but Nash was, and rang up the other man. They would test the book for fingerprints, though Nash was not hopeful of finding anything. I may say that he did not. There were mine, Partridgeâs and nobody elseâs, merely showing that Partridge dusted conscientiously.

Nash walked back with me up the hill. I asked how he was getting on. âWeâre narrowing it down, Mr. Burton. Weâve eliminated the people it couldnât be.â

âAh,â I said. âAnd who remains?â

âMiss Ginch. She was to meet a client at a house yesterday afternoon by appointment. The house was situated not far along the Combeacre Road, thatâs the road that goes past the Symmingtons.â She would have to pass the house both going and comingâ¦the week before, the day the anonymous letter was delivered, and Mrs. Symmington committed suicide, was her last day at Symmingtonâs office. Mr. Symmington thought at first she had not left the office at all that afternoon. He had Sir Henry Lushington with him all the afternoon and rang several times for Miss Ginch. I find, however, that she did leave the office between three and four. She went out to get some high denomination of stamp of which they had run short. The office boy could have gone, but Miss Ginch elected to go, saying she had a headache and would like the air. She was not gone long.â

âBut long enough?â

âYes, long enough to hurry along to the other end of the village, slip the letter in the box and hurry back. I must say, however, that I cannot find anybody who saw her near the Symmingtonsâ house.â

âWould they notice?â

âThey might and they might not.â

âWho else is in your bag?â

Nash looked very straight ahead of him.

âYouâll understand that we canât exclude anybodyâanybody at all.â

âNo,â I said. âI see that.â

He said gravely: âMiss Griffith went to Brenton for a meeting of Girl Guides yesterday. She arrived rather late.â

âYou donât thinkââ

âNo, I donât think. But I donât know. Miss Griffith seems an eminently sane healthy-minded womanâbut I say, I donât know.â

âWhat about the previous week? Could she have slipped the letter in the box?â

âItâs possible. She was shopping in the town that afternoon.â He paused. âThe same applies to Miss Emily Barton. She was out shopping early yesterday afternoon and she went for a walk to see some friends on the road past the Symmingtonsâ house the week before.â

I shook my head unbelievingly. Finding the cut book in Little Furze was bound, I knew, to direct attention to the owner of that house, but when I remembered Miss Emily coming in yesterday so bright and happy and excitedâ¦.

Damn it allâexcitedâ¦ Yes, excitedâpink cheeksâshining eyesâsurely not becauseânot becauseâ

I said thickly: âThis business is bad for one! One sees thingsâone imagines thingsââ

âYes, it isnât very pleasant to look upon the fellow creatures one meets as possible criminal lunatics.â

He paused for a moment, then went on:

âAnd thereâs Mr. Pyeââ

I said sharply: âSo you have considered him?â

Nash smiled.

âOh, yes, weâve considered him all right. A very curious characterânot, I should say, a very nice character. Heâs got no alibi. He was in his garden, alone, on both occasions.â

âSo youâre not only suspecting women?â

âI donât think a man wrote the lettersâin fact Iâm sure of itâand so is Gravesâalways excepting our Mr. Pye, that is to say, whoâs got an abnormally female streak in his character. But weâve checked up on everybody for yesterday afternoon. Thatâs a murder case, you see. Youâre all right,â he grinned, âand soâs your sister, and Mr. Symmington didnât leave his office after he got there and Dr. Griffith was on a round in the other direction, and Iâve checked upon his visits.â

He paused, smiled again, and said, âYou see, we are thorough.â

I said slowly, âSo your case is eliminated down to those fourâ Miss Ginch, Mr. Pye, Miss Griffith and little Miss Barton?â

âOh, no, no, weâve got a couple moreâbesides the vicarâs lady.â

âYouâve thought of her?â

âWeâve thought of everybody, but Mrs. Dane Calthrop is a little too openly mad, if you know what I mean. Still, she could have done it. She was in a wood watching birds yesterday afternoonâand the birds canât speak for her.â

He turned sharply as Owen Griffith came into the police station.

âHallo, Nash. I heard you were round asking for me this morning. Anything important?â

âInquest on Friday, if that suits you, Dr. Griffith.â

âRight. Moresby and I are doing the P.M. tonight.â

Nash said:

âThereâs just one other thing, Dr. Griffith. Mrs. Symmington was taking some cachets, powders or something, that you prescribed for herââ

He paused. Owen Griffith said interrogatively:

âYes?â

âWould an overdose of those cachets have been fatal?â

Griffith said dryly:

âCertainly not. Not unless sheâd taken about twenty-five of them!â

âBut you once warned her about exceeding the dose, so Miss Holland tells me.â

âOh that, yes. Mrs. Symmington was the sort of woman who would go and overdo anything she was givenâfancy that to take twice as much would do her twice as much good, and you donât want anyone to overdo even phenacetin or aspirinâbad for the heart. And anyway thereâs absolutely no doubt about the cause of death. It was cyanide.â

âOh, I know thatâyou donât get my meaning. I only thought that when committing suicide youâd prefer to take an overdose of a soporific rather than to feed yourself prussic acid.â

âOh quite. On the other hand, prussic acid is more dramatic and is pretty certain to do the trick. With barbiturates, for instance, you can bring the victim round if only a short time has elapsed.â

âI see, thank you, Dr. Griffith.â

Griffith departed, and I said goodbye to Nash. I went slowly up the hill home. Joanna was outâat least there was no sign of her, and there was an enigmatical memorandum scribbled on the telephone block presumably for the guidance of either Partridge or myself.

âIf Dr. Griffith rings up, I canât go on Tuesday, but could manage Wednesday or Thursday.â

I raised my eyebrows and went into the drawing room. I sat down in the most comfortable armchairâ(none of them were very comfortable, they tended to have straight backs and were reminiscent of the late Mrs. Barton)âstretched out my legs and tried to think the whole thing out.

With sudden annoyance I remembered that Owenâs arrival had interrupted my conversation with the inspector, and that he had just mentioned two other people as being possibilities.

I wondered who they were.

Partridge, perhaps, for one? After all, the cut book had been found in this house. And Agnes could have been struck down quite unsuspecting by her guide and mentor. No, you couldnât eliminate Partridge.

But who was the other?

Somebody, perhaps, that I didnât know? Mrs. Cleat? The original local suspect?

I closed my eyes. I considered four people, strangely unlikely people, in turn. Gentle, frail little Emily Barton? What points were there actually against her? A starved life? Dominated and repressed from early childhood? Too many sacrifices asked of her? Her curious horror of discussing anything ânot quite niceâ? Was that actually a sign of inner preoccupation with just these themes? Was I getting too horribly Freudian? I remembered a doctor once telling me that the mutterings of gentle maiden ladies when going off under an anaesthetic were a revelation. âYou wouldnât think they knew such words!â

AimÃ©e Griffith?

Surely nothing repressed or âinhibitedâ about her. Cheery, mannish, successful. A full, busy life. Yet Mrs. Dane Calthrop had said, âPoor thing!â

And there was somethingâsomethingâsome remembranceâ¦ Ah! Iâd got it. Owen Griffith saying something like, âWe had an outbreak of anonymous letters up North where I had a practice.â

Had that been AimÃ©e Griffithâs work too? Surely rather a coincidence. Two outbreaks of the same thing. Stop a minute, theyâd tracked down the author of those. Griffith had said so. A schoolgirl.

Cold it was suddenlyâmust be a draught, from the window. I turned uncomfortably in my chair. Why did I suddenly feel so queer and upset?

Go on thinkingâ¦ AimÃ©e Griffith? Perhaps it was AimÃ©e Griffith, not that other girl? And AimÃ©e had come down here and started her tricks again. And that was why Owen Griffith was looking so unhappy and hag ridden. He suspected. Yes, he suspectedâ¦.

Mr. Pye? Not, somehow, a very nice little man. I could imagine him staging the whole businessâ¦laughingâ¦.

That telephone message on the telephone pad in the hallâ¦why did I keep thinking of it? Griffith and Joannaâhe was falling for herâ¦ No, that wasnât why the message worried me. It was something elseâ¦.

My senses were swimming, sleep was very near. I repeated idiotically to myself, âNo smoke without fire. No smoke without fireâ¦ Thatâs itâ¦it all links up togetherâ¦.â

And then I was walking down the street with Megan and Elsie Holland passed. She was dressed as a bride, and people were murmuring:

âSheâs going to marry Dr. Griffith at last. Of course theyâve been engaged secretly for yearsâ¦.â

There we were, in the church, and Dane Calthrop was reading the service in Latin.

And in the middle of it Mrs. Dane Calthrop jumped up and cried energetically:

âItâs got to be stopped, I tell you. Itâs got to be stopped!â

For a minute or two I didnât know whether I was asleep or awake. Then my brain cleared, and I realized I was in the drawing room of Little Furze and that Mrs. Dane Calthrop had just come through the window and was standing in front of me saying with nervous violence:

âIt has got to be stopped, I tell you.â

I jumped up. I said: âI beg your pardon. Iâm afraid I was asleep. What did you say?â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop beat one fist fiercely on the palm of her other hand.

âItâs got to be stopped. These letters! Murder! You canât go on having poor innocent children like Agnes Woddell killed!â

âYouâre quite right,â I said. âBut how do you propose to set about it?â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said:

âWeâve got to do something!â

I smiled, perhaps in rather a superior fashion.

âAnd what do you suggest that we should do?â

âGet the whole thing cleared up! I said this wasnât a wicked place. I was wrong. It is.â

I felt annoyed. I said, not too politely:

âYes, my dear woman, but what are you going to do?â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said: âPut a stop to it all, of course.â

âThe police are doing their best.â

âIf Agnes could be killed yesterday, their best isnât good enough.â

âSo you know better than they do?â

âNot at all. I donât know anything at all. Thatâs why Iâm going to call in an expert.â

I shook my head.

âYou canât do that. Scotland Yard will only take over on a demand from the chief constable of the county. Actually they have sent Graves.â

âI donât mean that kind of an expert. I donât mean someone who knows about anonymous letters or even about murder. I mean someone who knows people. Donât you see? We want someone who knows a great deal about wickedness!â

It was a queer point of view. But it was, somehow, stimulating.

Before I could say anything more, Mrs. Dane Calthrop nodded her head at me and said in a quick, confident tone:

âIâm going to see about it right away.â

And she went out of the window again.

Ten

I

The next week, I think, was one of the queerest times I have ever passed through. It had an odd dream quality. Nothing seemed real.

The inquest on Agnes Woddell was held and the curious of Lymstock attended en masse. No new facts came to light and the only possible verdict was returned, âMurder by person or persons unknown.â

So poor little Agnes Woddell, having had her hour of limelight, was duly buried in the quiet old churchyard and life in Lymstock went on as before.

No, that last statement is untrue. Not as beforeâ¦.

There was a half-scared, half-avid gleam in almost everybodyâs eye. Neighbour looked at neighbour. One thing had been brought out clearly at the inquestâit was most unlikely that any stranger had killed Agnes Woddell. No tramps nor unknown men had been noticed or reported in the district. Somewhere, then, in Lymstock, walking down the High Street, shopping, passing the time of day, was a person who had cracked a defenceless girlâs skull and driven a sharp skewer home to her brain.

And no one knew who that person was.

As I say, the days went by in a kind of dream. I looked at everyone I met in a new light, the light of a possible murderer. It was not an agreeable sensation!

And in the evenings, with the curtain drawn, Joanna and I sat talking, talking, arguing, going over in turn all the various possibilities that still seemed so fantastic and incredible.

Joanna held firm to her theory of Mr. Pye. I, after wavering a little, had gone back to my original suspect, Miss Ginch. But we went over the possible names again and again.

Mr. Pye?

Miss Ginch?

Mrs. Dane Calthrop?

AimÃ©e Griffith?

Emily Barton?

Partridge?

And all the time, nervously, apprehensively, we waited for something to happen.

But nothing did happen. Nobody, so far as we knew, received anymore letters. Nash made periodic appearances in the town but what he was doing and what traps the police were setting, I had no idea. Graves had gone again.

Emily Barton came to tea. Megan came to lunch. Owen Griffith went about his practice. We went and drank sherry with Mr. Pye. And we went to tea at the vicarage.

I was glad to find Mrs. Dane Calthrop displayed none of the militant ferocity she had shown on the occasion of our last meeting. I think she had forgotten all about it.

She seemed now principally concerned with the destruction of white butterflies so as to preserve cauliflower and cabbage plants.

Our afternoon at the vicarage was really one of the most peaceful we had spent. It was an attractive old house and had a big shabby comfortable drawing room with faded rose cretonne. The Dane Calthrops had a guest staying with them, an amiable elderly lady who was knitting something with white fleecy wool. We had very good hot scones for tea, the vicar came in, and beamed placidly on us whilst he pursued his gentle erudite conversation. It was very pleasant.

I donât mean that we got away from the topic of the murder, because we didnât.

Miss Marple, the guest, was naturally thrilled by the subject. As she said apologetically: âWe have so little to talk about in the country!â She had made-up her mind that the dead girl must have been just like her Edith.

âSuch a nice little maid, and so willing, but sometimes just a little slow to take in things.â

Miss Marple also had a cousin whose nieceâs sister-in-law had had a great deal of annoyance and trouble over some anonymous letters, so the letters, also, were very interesting to the charming old lady.

âBut tell me, dear,â she said to Mrs. Dane Calthrop, âwhat do the village peopleâI mean the townspeopleâsay? What do they think?â

âMrs. Cleat still, I suppose,â said Joanna.

âOh no,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âNot now.â

Miss Marple asked who Mrs. Cleat was.

Joanna said she was the village witch.

âThatâs right, isnât it, Mrs. Dane Calthrop?â

The vicar murmured a long Latin quotation about, I think, the evil power of witches, to which we all listened in respectful and uncomprehending silence.

âSheâs a very silly woman,â said his wife. âLikes to show off. Goes out to gather herbs and things at the full of the moon and takes care that everybody in the place knows about it.â

âAnd silly girls go and consult her, I suppose?â said Miss Marple.

I saw the vicar getting ready to unload more Latin on us and I asked hastily: âBut why shouldnât people suspect her of the murder now? They thought the letters were her doing.â

Miss Marple said: âOh! But the girl was killed with a skewer, so I hearâ(very unpleasant!). Well, naturally, that takes all suspicion away from this Mrs. Cleat. Because, you see, she could ill-wish her, so that the girl would waste away and die from natural causes.â

âStrange how the old beliefs linger,â said the vicar. âIn early Christian times, local superstitions were wisely incorporated with Christian doctrines and their more unpleasant attributes gradually eliminated.â

âIt isnât superstition weâve got to deal with here,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, âbut facts.â

âAnd very unpleasant facts,â I said.

âAs you say, Mr. Burton,â said Miss Marple. âNow youâexcuse me if I am being too personalâare a stranger here, and have a knowledge of the world and of various aspects of life. It seems to me that you ought to be able to find a solution to this distasteful problem.â

I smiled. âThe best solution I have had was a dream. In my dream it all fitted in and panned out beautifully. Unfortunately when I woke up the whole thing was nonsense!â

âHow interesting, though. Do tell me how the nonsense went!â

âOh, it all started with the silly phrase âNo smoke without fire.â People have been saying that ad nauseam. And then I got it mixed up with war terms. Smoke screens, scrap of paper, telephone messagesâ No, that was another dream.â

âAnd what was that dream?â

The old lady was so eager about it, that I felt sure she was a secret reader of Napoleonâs Book of Dreams, which had been the great standby of my old nurse.

âOh! only Elsie Hollandâthe Symmingtonsâ nursery governess, you know, was getting married to Dr. Griffith and the vicar here was reading the service in Latinâ(âVery appropriate, dear,â murmured Mrs. Dane Calthrop to her spouse) and then Mrs. Dane Calthrop got up and forbade the banns and said it had got to be stopped!

âBut that part,â I added with a smile, âwas true. I woke up and found you standing over me saying it.â

âAnd I was quite right,â said Mrs. Dane Calthropâbut quite mildly, I was glad to note.

âBut where did a telephone message come in?â asked Miss Marple, crinkling her brows.

âIâm afraid Iâm being rather stupid. That wasnât in the dream. It was just before it. I came through the hall and noticed Joanna had written down a message to be given to someone if they rang upâ¦.â

Miss Marple leaned forward. There was a pink spot in each cheek. âWill you think me very inquisitive and very rude if I ask just what that message was?â She cast a glance at Joanna. âI do apologize, my dear.â

Joanna, however, was highly entertained.

âOh, I donât mind,â she assured the old lady. âI canât remember anything about it myself, but perhaps Jerry can. It must have been something quite trivial.â

Solemnly I repeated the message as best I could remember it, enormously tickled at the old ladyâs rapt attention.

I was afraid the actual words were going to disappoint her, but perhaps she had some sentimental idea of a romance, for she nodded her head and smiled and seemed pleased.

âI see,â she said. âI thought it might be something like that.â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said sharply: âLike what, Jane?â

âSomething quite ordinary,â said Miss Marple.

She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment or two, then she said unexpectedly:

âI can see you are a very clever young manâbut not quite enough confidence in yourself. You ought to have!â

Joanna gave a loud hoot.

âFor goodnessâ sake donât encourage him to feel like that. He thinks quite enough of himself as it is.â

âBe quiet, Joanna,â I said. âMiss Marple understands me.â

Miss Marple had resumed her fleecy knitting. âYou know,â she observed pensively. âTo commit a successful murder must be very much like bringing off a conjuring trick.â

âThe quickness of the hand deceives the eye?â

âNot only that. Youâve got to make people look at the wrong thing and in the wrong placeâMisdirection, they call it, I believe.â

âWell,â I remarked. âSo far everybody seems to have looked in the wrong place for our lunatic at large.â

âI should be inclined, myself,â said Miss Marple, âto look for somebody very sane.â

âYes,â I said thoughtfully. âThatâs what Nash said. I remember he stressed respectability too.â

âYes,â agreed Miss Marple. âThatâs very important.â

Well, we all seemed agreed.

I addressed Mrs. Calthrop. âNash thinks,â I said, âthat there will be more anonymous letters. What do you think?â

She said slowly: âThere may be, I suppose.â

âIf the police think that, there will have to be, no doubt,â said Miss Marple.

I went on doggedly to Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

âAre you still sorry for the writer?â

She flushed. âWhy not?â

âI donât think I agree with you, dear,â said Miss Marple. âNot in this case.â

I said hotly: âTheyâve driven one woman to suicide, and caused untold misery and heartburnings!â

âHave you had one, Miss Burton?â asked Miss Marple of Joanna.

Joanna gurgled, âOh yes! It said the most frightful things.â

âIâm afraid,â said Miss Marple, âthat the people who are young and pretty are apt to be singled out by the writer.â

âThatâs why I certainly think itâs odd that Elsie Holland hasnât had any,â I said.

âLet me see,â said Miss Marple. âIs that the Symmingtonsâ nursery governessâthe one you dreamt about, Mr. Burton?â

âYes.â

âSheâs probably had one and wonât say so,â said Joanna.

âNo,â I said, âI believe her. So does Nash.â

âDear me,â said Miss Marple. âNow thatâs very interesting. Thatâs the most interesting thing Iâve heard yet.â

II

As we were going home Joanna told me that I ought not to have repeated what Nash said about letters coming.

âWhy not?â

âBecause Mrs. Dane Calthrop might be It.â

âYou donât really believe that!â

âIâm not sure. Sheâs a queer woman.â

We began our discussion of probables all over again.

It was two nights later that I was coming back in the car from Exhampton. I had had dinner there and then started back and it was already dark before I got into Lymstock.

Something was wrong with the car lights, and after slowing up and switching on and off, I finally got out to see what I could do. I was some time fiddling, but I managed to fix them up finally.

The road was quite deserted. Nobody in Lymstock is about after dark. The first few houses were just ahead, amongst them the ugly gabled building of the Womenâs Institute. It loomed up in the dim starlight and something impelled me to go and have a look at it. I donât know whether I had caught a faint glimpse of a stealthy figure flitting through the gateâif so, it must have been so indeterminate that it did not register in my conscious mind, but I did suddenly feel a kind of overweening curiosity about the place.

The gate was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open and walked in. A short path and four steps led up to the door.

I stood there a moment hesitating. What was I really doing there? I didnât know, and then, suddenly, just near at hand, I caught the sound of a rustle. It sounded like a womanâs dress. I took a sharp turn and went round the corner of the building towards where the sound had come from.

I couldnât see anybody. I went on and again turned a corner. I was at the back of the house now and suddenly I saw, only two feet away from me, an open window.

I crept up to it and listened. I could hear nothing, but somehow or other I felt convinced that there was someone inside.

My back wasnât too good for acrobatics as yet, but I managed to hoist myself up and drop over the sill inside. I made rather a noise unfortunately.

I stood just inside the window listening. Then I walked forward, my hands outstretched. I heard then the faintest sound ahead of me to my right.

I had a torch in my pocket and I switched it on.

Immediately a low, sharp voice said: âPut that out.â

I obeyed instantly, for in that brief second I had recognized Superintendent Nash.

I felt him take my arm and propel me through a door and into a passage. Here, where there was no window to betray our presence to anyone outside, he switched on a lamp and looked at me more in sorrow than in anger.

âYou would have to butt in just that minute, Mr. Burton.â

âSorry,â I apologized. âBut I got a hunch that I was on to something.â

âAnd so you were probably. Did you see anyone?â

I hesitated. âIâm not sure,â I said slowly. âIâve got a vague feeling I saw someone sneak in through the front gate but I didnât really see anyone. Then I heard a rustle round the side of the house.â

Nash nodded.

âThatâs right. Somebody came round the house before you. They hesitated by the window, then went on quicklyâheard you, I expect.â

I apologized again. âWhatâs the big idea?â I asked.

Nash said:

âIâm banking on the fact that an anonymous letter writer canât stop writing letters. She may know itâs dangerous, but sheâll have to do it. Itâs like a craving for drink or drugs.â

I nodded.

âNow you see, Mr. Burton, I fancy whoever it is will want to keep the letters looking the same as much as possible. Sheâs got the cut-out pages of that book, and can go on using letters and words cut out of them. But the envelopes present a difficulty. Sheâll want to type them on the same machine. She canât risk using another typewriter or her own handwriting.â

âDo you really think sheâll go on with the game?â I asked incredulously.

âYes, I do. And Iâll bet you anything you like sheâs full of confidence. Theyâre always vain as hell, these people! Well, then, I figured out that whoever it was would come to the Institute after dark so as to get at the typewriter.â

âMiss Ginch,â I said.

âMaybe.â

âYou donât know yet?â

âI donât know.â

âBut you suspect?â

âYes. But somebodyâs very cunning, Mr. Burton. Somebody knows all the tricks of the game.â

I could imagine some of the network that Nash had spread abroad. I had no doubt that every letter written by a suspect and posted or left by hand was immediately inspected. Sooner or later the criminal would slip up, would grow careless.

For the third time I apologized for my zealous and unwanted presence.

âOh well,â said Nash philosophically. âIt canât be helped. Better luck next time.â

I went out into the night. A dim figure was standing beside my car. To my astonishment I recognized Megan.

âHallo!â she said. âI thought this was your car. What have you been doing?â

âWhat are you doing is much more to the point?â I said.

âIâm out for a walk. I like walking at night. Nobody stops you and says silly things, and I like the stars, and things smell better, and everyday things look all mysterious.â

âAll of that I grant you freely,â I said. âBut only cats and witches walk in the dark. Theyâll wonder about you at home.â

âNo, they wonât. They never wonder where I am or what Iâm doing.â

âHow are you getting on?â I asked.

âAll right, I suppose.â

âMiss Holland look after you and all that?â

âElsieâs all right. She canât help being a perfect fool.â

âUnkindâbut probably true,â I said. âHop in and Iâll drive you home.â

It was not quite true that Megan was never missed.

Symmington was standing on the doorstep as we drove up.

He peered towards us. âHallo, is Megan there?â

âYes,â I said. âIâve brought her home.â

Symmington said sharply:

âYou mustnât go off like this without telling us, Megan. Miss Holland has been quite worried about you.â

Megan muttered something and went past him into the house. Symmington sighed.

âA grown-up girl is a great responsibility with no mother to look after her. Sheâs too old for school, I suppose.â

He looked towards me rather suspiciously.

âI suppose you took her for a drive?â

I thought it best to leave it like that.

Eleven

I

On the following day I went mad. Looking back on it, that is really the only explanation I can find.

I was due for my monthly visit to Marcus Kentâ¦ I went up by train. To my intense surprise Joanna elected to stay behind. As a rule she was eager to come and we usually stayed up for a couple of days.

This time, however, I proposed to return the same day by the evening train, but even so I was astonished at Joanna. She merely said enigmatically that sheâd got plenty to do, and why spend hours in a nasty stuffy train when it was a lovely day in the country?

That, of course, was undeniable, but sounded very unlike Joanna.

She said she didnât want the car, so I was to drive it to the station and leave it parked there against my return.

The station of Lymstock is situated, for some obscure reason known to railway companies only, quite half a mile from Lymstock itself. Halfway along the road I overtook Megan shuffling along in an aimless manner. I pulled up.

âHallo, what are you doing?â

âJust out for a walk.â

âBut not what is called a good brisk walk, I gather. You were crawling along like a dispirited crab.â

âWell, I wasnât going anywhere particular.â

âThen youâd better come and see me off at the station.â I opened the door of the car and Megan jumped in.

âWhere are you going?â she asked.

âLondon. To see my doctor.â

âYour backâs not worse, is it?â

âNo, itâs practically all right again. Iâm expecting him to be very pleased about it.â

Megan nodded.

We drew up at the station. I parked the car and went in and bought my ticket at the booking office. There were very few people on the platform and nobody I knew.

âYou wouldnât like to lend me a penny, would you?â said Megan. âThen Iâd get a bit of chocolate out of the slot machine.â

âHere you are, baby,â I said, handing her the coin in question. âSure you wouldnât like some clear gums or some throat pastilles as well?â

âI like chocolate best,â said Megan without suspecting sarcasm.

She went off to the chocolate machine, and I looked after her with a feeling of mounting irritation.

She was wearing trodden over shoes, and coarse unattractive stockings and a particularly shapeless jumper and skirt. I donât know why all this should have infuriated me, but it did.

I said angrily as she came back:

âWhy do you wear those disgusting stockings?â

Megan looked down at them, surprised.

âWhatâs the matter with them?â

âEverythingâs the matter with them. Theyâre loathsome. And why wear a pullover like a decayed cabbage?â

âItâs all right, isnât it? Iâve had it for years.â

âSo I should imagine. And why do youââ

At this minute the train came in and interrupted my angry lecture.

I got into an empty first-class carriage, let down the window and leaned out to continue the conversation.

Megan stood below me, her face upturned. She asked me why I was so cross.

âIâm not cross.â I said untruly. âIt just infuriates me to see you so slack, and not caring how you look.â

âI couldnât look nice, anyway, so what does it matter?â

âMy God,â I said. âIâd like to see you turned out properly. Iâd like to take you to London and outfit you from tip to toe.â

âI wish you could,â said Megan.

The train began to move. I looked down into Meganâs upturned, wistful face.

And then, as I have said, madness came upon me.

I opened the door, grabbed Megan with one arm and fairly hauled her into the carriage.

There was an outraged shout from a porter, but all he could do was dexterously to bang shut the door again. I pulled Megan up from the floor where my impetuous action had landed her.

âWhat on earth did you do that for?â she demanded, rubbing one knee.

âShut up,â I said. âYouâre coming to London with me and when Iâve done with you you wonât know yourself. Iâll show you what you can look like if you try. Iâm tired of seeing you mooch about down at heel and all anyhow.â

âOh!â said Megan in an ecstatic whisper.

The ticket collector came along and I bought Megan a return ticket. She sat in her corner looking at me in a kind of awed respect.

âI say,â she said when the man had gone. âYou are sudden, arenât you?â

âVery,â I said. âIt runs in our family.â

How to explain to Megan the impulse that had come over me? She had looked like a wistful dog being left behind. She now had on her face the incredulous pleasure of the dog who has been taken on the walk after all.

âI suppose you donât know London very well?â I said to Megan.

âYes, I do,â said Megan. âI always went through it to school. And Iâve been to the dentist there and to a pantomime.â

âThis,â I said darkly, âwill be a different London.â

We arrived with half an hour to spare before my appointment in Harley Street.

I took a taxi and we drove straight to Mirotin, Joannaâs dressmaker. Mirotin is, in the flesh, an unconventional and breezy woman of forty-five, Mary Grey. She is a clever woman and very good company. I have always liked her.

I said to Megan. âYouâre my cousin.â

âWhy?â

âDonât argue,â I said.

Mary Grey was being firm with a stout Jewess who was enamoured of a skintight powder-blue evening dress. I detached her and took her aside.

âListen,â I said. âIâve brought a little cousin of mine along. Joanna was coming up but was prevented. But she said I could leave it all to you. You see what the girl looks like now?â

âMy God, I do,â said Mary Grey with feeling.

âWell, I want her turned out right in every particular from head to foot. Carte blanche. Stockings, shoes, undies, everything! By the way, the man who does Joannaâs hair is close round here, isnât he?â

âAntoine? Round the corner. Iâll see to that too.â

âYouâre a woman in a thousand.â

âOh, I shall enjoy itâapart from the moneyâand thatâs not to be sneezed at in these daysâhalf my damned brutes of women never pay their bills. But as I say, I shall enjoy it.â She shot a quick professional glance at Megan standing a little way away. âSheâs got a lovely figure.â

âYou must have X-ray eyes,â I said. âShe looks completely shapeless to me.â

Mary Grey laughed.

âItâs these schools,â she said. âThey seem to take a pride in turning out girls who preen themselves on looking like nothing on earth. They call it being sweet and unsophisticated. Sometimes it takes a whole season before a girl can pull herself together and look human. Donât worry, leave it all to me.â

âRight,â I said. âIâll come back and fetch her about six.â

II

Marcus Kent was pleased with me. He told me that I surpassed his wildest expectations.

âYou must have the constitution of an elephant,â he said, âto make a comeback like this. Oh well, wonderful what country air and no late hours or excitements will do for a man if he can only stick it.â

âI grant you your first two,â I said. âBut donât think that the country is free from excitements. Weâve had a good deal in my part.â

âWhat sort of excitement?â

âMurder,â I said.

Marcus Kent pursed up his mouth and whistled.

âSome bucolic love tragedy? Farmer lad kills his lass?â

âNot at all. A crafty, determined lunatic killer.â

âI havenât read anything about it. When did they lay him by the heels?â

âThey havenât, and itâs a she!â

âWhew! Iâm not sure that Lymstockâs quite the right place for you, old boy.â

I said firmly:

âYes, it is. And youâre not going to get me out of it.â

Marcus Kent has a low mind. He said at once:

âSo thatâs it! Found a blonde?â

âNot at all,â I said, with a guilty thought of Elsie Holland. âItâs merely that the psychology of crime interests me a good deal.â

âOh, all right. It certainly hasnât done you any harm so far, but just make sure that your lunatic killer doesnât obliterate you.â

âNo fear of that,â I said.

âWhat about dining with me this evening? You can tell me all about your revolting murder.â

âSorry. Iâm booked.â

âDate with a ladyâeh? Yes, youâre definitely on the mend.â

âI suppose you could call it that,â I said, rather tickled at the idea of Megan in the role.

I was at Mirotinâs at six oâclock when the establishment was officially closing. Mary Grey came to meet me at the top of the stairs outside the showroom. She had a finger to her lips.

âYouâre going to have a shock! If I say it myself, Iâve put in a good bit of work.â

I went into the big showroom. Megan was standing looking at herself in a long mirror. I give you my word I hardly recognized her! For the minute it took my breath away. Tall and slim as a willow with delicate ankles and feet shown off by sheer silk stockings and well-cut shoes. Yes, lovely feet and hands, small bonesâquality and distinction in every line of her. Her hair had been trimmed and shaped to her head and it was glowing like a glossy chestnut. Theyâd had the sense to leave her face alone. She was not made-up, or if she was it was so light and delicate that it did not show. Her mouth needed no lipstick.

Moreover there was about her something that I had never seen before, a new innocent pride in the arch of her neck. She looked at me gravely with a small shy smile.

âI do lookârather nice, donât I?â said Megan.

âNice?â I said. âNice isnât the word! Come on out to dinner and if every second man doesnât turn round to look at you Iâll be surprised. Youâll knock all the other girls into a cocked hat.â

Megan was not beautiful, but she was unusual and striking looking. She had personality. She walked into the restaurant ahead of me and, as the head waiter hurried towards us, I felt the thrill of idiotic pride that a man feels when he has got something out of the ordinary with him.

We had cocktails first and lingered over them. Then we dined. And later we danced. Megan was keen to dance and I didnât want to disappoint her, but for some reason or other I hadnât thought she would dance well. But she did. She was light as a feather in my arms, and her body and feet followed the rhythm perfectly.

âGosh!â I said. âYou can dance!â

She seemed a little surprised. âWell, of course I can. We had dancing class every week at school.â

âIt takes more than dancing class to make a dancer,â I said.

We went back to our table.

âIsnât this food lovely?â said Megan. âAnd everything!â

She heaved a delighted sigh.

âExactly my sentiments,â I said.

It was a delirious evening. I was still mad. Megan brought me down to earth when she said doubtfully:

âOughtnât we to be going home?â

My jaw dropped. Yes, definitely I was mad. I had forgotten everything! I was in a world divorced from reality, existing in it with the creature I had created.

âGood Lord!â I said.

I realized that the last train had gone.

âStay there,â I said. âIâm going to telephone.â

I rang up the Llewellyn Hire people and ordered their biggest and fastest car to come round as soon as possible.

I came back to Megan. âThe last train has gone,â I said. âSo weâre going home by car.â

âAre we? What fun!â

What a nice child she was, I thought. So pleased with everything, so unquestioning, accepting all my suggestions without fuss or bother.

The car came, and it was large and fast, but all the same it was very late when we came into Lymstock.

Suddenly conscience-stricken, I said, âTheyâll have been sending out search parties for you!â

But Megan seemed in an equable mood. She said vaguely:

âOh, I donât think so. I often go out and donât come home for lunch.â

âYes, my dear child, but youâve been out for tea and dinner too.â

However, Meganâs lucky star was in the ascendant. The house was dark and silent. On Meganâs advice, we went round to the back and threw stones at Roseâs window.

In due course Rose looked out and with many suppressed exclamations and palpitations came down to let us in.

âWell now, and I saying you were asleep in your bed. The master and Miss Hollandââ(slight sniff after Miss Hollandâs name)ââhad early supper and went for a drive. I said Iâd keep an eye to the boys. I thought I heard you come in when I was up in the nursery trying to quiet Colin, who was playing up, but you werenât about when I came down so I thought youâd gone to bed. And thatâs what I said when the master came in and asked for you.â

I cut short the conversation by remarking that that was where Megan had better go now.

âGood night,â said Megan, âand thank you awfully. Itâs been the loveliest day Iâve ever had.â

I drove home slightly light-headed still, and tipped the chauffeur handsomely, offering him a bed if he liked. But he preferred to drive back through the night.

The hall door had opened during our colloquy and as he drove away it was flung wide open and Joanna said:

âSo itâs you at last, is it?â

âWere you worried about me?â I asked, coming in and shutting the door.

Joanna went into the drawing room and I followed her. There was a coffee pot on the trivet and Joanna made herself coffee whilst I helped myself to a whisky and soda.

âWorried about you? No, of course not. I thought youâd decided to stay in town and have a binge.â

âIâve had a bingeâof a kind.â

I grinned and then began to laugh.

Joanna asked what I was laughing at and I told her.

âBut Jerry, you must have been madâquite mad!â

âI suppose I was.â

âBut, my dear boy, you canât do things like thatânot in a place like this. It will be all round Lymstock tomorrow.â

âI suppose it will. But, after all, Meganâs only a child.â

âShe isnât. Sheâs twenty. You canât take a girl of twenty to London and buy her clothes without a most frightful scandal. Good gracious, Jerry, youâll probably have to marry the girl.â

Joanna was half serious, half laughing.

It was at that moment that I made a very important discovery. âDamn it all,â I said. âI donât mind if I do. In factâ I should like it.â

A very funny expression came over Joannaâs face. She got up and said dryly, as she went towards the door:

âYes, Iâve known that for some timeâ¦.â

She left me standing, glass in hand, aghast at my new discovery.

Twelve

I

I donât know what the usual reactions are of a man who goes to propose marriage.

In fiction his throat is dry and his collar feels too tight and he is in a pitiable state of nervousness. I didnât feel at all like that. Having thought of a good idea I just wanted to get it all settled as soon as possible. I didnât see any particular need for embarrassment.

I went along to the Symmingtonsâ house about eleven oâclock. I rang the bell and when Rose came, I asked for Miss Megan. It was the knowing look that Rose gave me that first made me feel slightly shy.

She put me in the little morning room and whilst waiting there I hoped uneasily that they hadnât been upsetting Megan.

When the door opened and I wheeled round, I was instantly relieved. Megan was not looking shy or upset at all. Her head was still like a glossy chestnut, and she wore that air of pride and self-respect that she had acquired yesterday. She was in her old clothes again but she had managed to make them look different. Itâs wonderful what knowledge of her own attractiveness will do for a girl. Megan, I realized suddenly, had grown up.

I suppose I must really have been rather nervous, otherwise I should not have opened the conversation by saying affectionately, âHallo, catfish!â It was hardly, in the circumstances, a lover-like greeting.

It seemed to suit Megan. She grinned and said, âHallo!â

âLook here,â I said. âYou didnât get into a row about yesterday, I hope?â

Megan said with assurance, âOh, no,â and then blinked, and said vaguely, âYes, I believe I did. I mean, they said a lot of things and seemed to think it had been very oddâbut then you know what people are and what fusses they make all about nothing.â

I was relieved to find that shocked disapproval had slipped off Megan like water off a duckâs back.

âI came round this morning,â I said, âbecause Iâve a suggestion to make. You see I like you a lot, and I think you like meââ

âFrightfully,â said Megan with rather disquieting enthusiasm.

âAnd we get on awfully well together, so I think it would be a good idea if we got married.â

âOh,â said Megan.

She looked surprised. Just that. Not startled. Not shocked. Just mildly surprised.

âYou mean you really want to marry me?â she asked with the air of one getting a thing perfectly clear.

âMore than anything in the world,â I saidâand I meant it.

âYou mean, youâre in love with me?â

âIâm in love with you.â

Her eyes were steady and grave. She said:

âI think youâre the nicest person in the worldâbut Iâm not in love with you.â

âIâll make you love me.â

âThat wouldnât do. I donât want to be made.â

She paused and then said gravely: âIâm not the sort of wife for you. Iâm better at hating than at loving.â

She said it with a queer intensity.

I said, âHate doesnât last. Love does.â

âIs that true?â

âItâs what I believe.â

Again there was a silence. Then I said:

âSo itâs âNo,â is it?â

âYes, itâs no.â

âAnd you donât encourage me to hope?â

âWhat would be the good of that?â

âNone whatever,â I agreed, âquite redundant, in factâbecause Iâm going to hope whether you tell me to or not.â

II

Well, that was that. I walked away from the house feeling slightly dazed but irritatingly conscious of Roseâs passionately interested gaze following me.

Rose had had a good deal to say before I could escape.

That sheâd never felt the same since that awful day! That she wouldnât have stayed except for the children and being sorry for poor Mr. Symmington. That she wasnât going to stay unless they got another maid quickâand they wouldnât be likely to do that when there had been a murder in the house! That it was all very well for that Miss Holland to say sheâd do the housework in the meantime. Very sweet and obliging she wasâOh yes, but it was mistress of the house that she was fancying herself going to be one fine day! Mr. Symmington, poor man, never saw anythingâbut one knew what a widower was, a poor helpless creature made to be the prey of a designing woman. And that it wouldnât be for want of trying if Miss Holland didnât step into the dead mistressâs shoes!

I assented mechanically to everything, yearning to get away and unable to do so because Rose was holding firmly on to my hat whilst she indulged in her flood of spite.

I wondered if there was any truth in what she said. Had Elsie Holland envisaged the possibility of becoming the second Mrs. Symmington? Or was she just a decent kindhearted girl doing her best to look after a bereaved household?

The result would quite likely be the same in either case. And why not? Symmingtonâs young children needed a motherâElsie was a decent soulâbeside being quite indecently beautifulâa point which a man might appreciateâeven such a stuffed fish as Symmington!

I thought all this, I know, because I was trying to put off thinking about Megan.

You may say that I had gone to ask Megan to marry me in an absurdly complacent frame of mind and that I deserved what I gotâbut it was not really like that. It was because I felt so assured, so certain, that Megan belonged to meâthat she was my business, that to look after her and make her happy and keep her from harm was the only natural right way of life for me, that I had expected her to feel, too, that she and I belonged to each other.

But I was not giving up. Oh no! Megan was my woman and I was going to have her.

After a momentâs thought, I went to Symmingtonâs office. Megan might pay no attention to strictures on her conduct, but I would like to get things straight.

Mr. Symmington was disengaged, I was told, and I was shown into his room. By a pinching of the lips, and an additional stiffness of manner, I gathered that I was not exactly popular at the moment.

âGood morning,â I said. âIâm afraid this isnât a professional call, but a personal one. Iâll put it plainly. I dare say youâll have realized that Iâm in love with Megan. Iâve asked her to marry me and she has refused. But Iâm not taking that as final.â

I saw Symmingtonâs expression change, and I read his mind with ludicrous ease. Megan was a disharmonious element in his house. He was, I felt sure, a just and kindly man, and he would never have dreamed of not providing a home for his dead wifeâs daughter. But her marriage to me would certainly be a relief. The frozen halibut thawed. He gave me a pale cautious smile.

âFrankly, do you know, Burton, I had no idea of such a thing. I know youâve taken a lot of notice of her, but weâve always regarded her as such a child.â

âSheâs not a child,â I said shortly.

âNo, no, not in years.â

âShe can be her age anytime sheâs allowed to be,â I said, still slightly angry. âSheâs not twenty-one, I know, but she will be in a month or two. Iâll let you have all the information about myself you want. Iâm well off and have led quite a decent life. Iâll look after her and do all I can to make her happy.â

âQuiteâquite. Still, itâs up to Megan herself.â

âSheâll come round in time,â I said. âBut I just thought Iâd like to get straight with you about it.â

He said he appreciated that, and we parted amicably.

III

I ran into Miss Emily Barton outside. She had a shopping basket on her arm.

âGood morning, Mr. Burton, I hear you went to London yesterday.â

Yes, she had heard all right. Her eyes were, I thought, kindly, but full of curiosity, too.

âI went to see my doctor,â I said.

Miss Emily smiled.

That smile made little of Marcus Kent. She murmured:

âI hear Megan nearly missed the train. She jumped in when it was going.â

âHelped by me,â I said. âI hauled her in.â

âHow lucky you were there. Otherwise there might have been an accident.â

It is extraordinary how much of a fool one gentle inquisitive old maiden lady can make a man feel!

I was saved further suffering by the onslaught of Mrs. Dane Calthrop. She had her own tame elderly maiden lady in tow, but she herself was full of direct speech.

âGood morning,â she said. âI heard youâve made Megan buy herself some decent clothes? Very sensible of you. It takes a man to think of something really practical like that. Iâve been worried about that girl for a long time. Girls with brains are so liable to turn into morons, arenât they?â

With which remarkable statement, she shot into the fish shop.

Miss Marple, left standing by me, twinkled a little and said:

âMrs. Dane Calthrop is a very remarkable woman, you know. Sheâs nearly always right.â

âIt makes her rather alarming,â I said.

âSincerity has that effect,â said Miss Marple.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop shot out of the fish shop again and rejoined us. She was holding a large red lobster.

âHave you ever seen anything so unlike Mr. Pye?â she saidââvery virile and handsome, isnât it?â

IV

I was a little nervous of meeting Joanna but I found when I got home that I neednât have worried. She was out and she did not return for lunch. This aggrieved Partridge a good deal, who said sourly as she proffered two loin chops in an entrÃ©e dish: âMiss Burton said specially as she was going to be in.â

I ate both chops in an attempt to atone for Joannaâs lapse. All the same, I wondered where my sister was. She had taken to be very mysterious about her doings of late.

It was half past three when Joanna burst into the drawing room. I had heard a car stop outside and I half expected to see Griffith, but the car drove on and Joanna came in alone.

Her face was very red and she seemed upset. I perceived that something had happened.

âWhatâs the matter?â I asked.

Joanna opened her mouth, closed it again, sighed, plumped herself down in a chair and stared in front of her.

She said:

âIâve had the most awful day.â

âWhatâs happened?â

âIâve done the most incredible thing. It was awfulââ

âBut whatââ

âI just started out for a walk, an ordinary walkâI went up over the hill and on to the moor. I walked milesâI felt like it. Then I dropped down into a hollow. Thereâs a farm thereâA God-forsaken lonely sort of spot. I was thirsty and I wondered if theyâd got any milk or something. So I wandered into the farmyard and then the door opened and Owen came out.â

âYes?â

âHe thought it might be the district nurse. There was a woman in there having a baby. He was expecting the nurse and heâd sent word to her to get hold of another doctor. Itâthings were going wrong.â

âYes?â

âSo he saidâto me. âCome on, youâll doâbetter than nobody.â I said I couldnât, and he said what did I mean? I said Iâd never done anything like that, that I didnât know anythingâ

âHe said what the hell did that matter? And then he was awful. He turned on me. He said, âYouâre a woman, arenât you? I suppose you can do your durnedest to help another woman?â And he went on at meâsaid Iâd talked as though I was interested in doctoring and had said I wished I was a nurse. âAll pretty talk, I suppose! You didnât mean anything real by it, but this is real and youâre going to behave like a decent human being and not like a useless ornamental nitwit!â

âIâve done the most incredible things, Jerry. Held instruments and boiled them and handed things. Iâm so tired I can hardly stand up. It was dreadful. But he saved herâand the baby. It was born alive. He didnât think at one time he could save it. Oh dear!â

Joanna covered her face with her hands.

I contemplated her with a certain amount of pleasure and mentally took my hat off to Owen Griffith. Heâd brought Joanna slap up against reality for once.

I said, âThereâs a letter for you in the hall. From Paul, I think.â

âEh?â She paused for a minute and then said, âIâd no idea, Jerry, what doctors had to do. The nerve theyâve got to have!â

I went out into the hall and brought Joanna her letter. She opened it, glanced vaguely at its contents, and let it drop.

âHe wasâreallyârather wonderful. The way he foughtâthe way he wouldnât be beaten! He was rude and horrible to meâbut he was wonderful.â

I observed Paulâs disregarded letter with some pleasure. Plainly, Joanna was cured of Paul.

Thirteen

I

Things never come when they are expected.

I was full of Joannaâs and my personal affairs and was quite taken aback the next morning when Nashâs voice said over the telephone: âWeâve got her, Mr. Burton!â

I was so startled I nearly dropped the receiver.

âYou mean theââ

He interrupted.

âCan you be overheard where you are?â

âNo, I donât think soâwell, perhapsââ

It seemed to me that the baize door to the kitchen had swung open a trifle.

âPerhaps youâd care to come down to the station?â

âI will. Right away.â

I was at the police station in next to no time. In an inner room Nash and Sergeant Parkins were together. Nash was wreathed in smiles.

âItâs been a long chase,â he said. âBut weâre there at last.â

He flicked a letter across the table. This time it was all typewritten. It was, of its kind, fairly mild.

âItâs no use thinking youâre going to step into a dead womanâs shoes. The whole town is laughing at you. Get out now. Soon it will be too late. This is a warning. Remember what happened to that other girl. Get out and stay out.â

It finished with some mildly obscene language.

âThat reached Miss Holland this morning,â said Nash.

âThought it was funny she hadnât had one before,â said Sergeant Parkins.

âWho wrote it?â I asked.

Some of the exultation faded out of Nashâs face.

He looked tired and concerned. He said soberly:

âIâm sorry about it, because it will hit a decent man hard, but there it is. Perhaps heâs had his suspicions already.â

âWho wrote it?â I reiterated.

âMiss AimÃ©e Griffith.â

II

Nash and Parkins went to the Griffithsâ house that afternoon with a warrant.

By Nashâs invitation I went with them.

âThe doctor,â he said, âis very fond of you. He hasnât many friends in this place. I think if it is not too painful to you, Mr. Burton, that you might help him to bear up under the shock.â

I said I would come. I didnât relish the job, but I thought I might be some good.

We rang the bell and asked for Miss Griffith and we were shown into the drawing room. Elsie Holland, Megan and Symmington were there having tea.

Nash behaved very circumspectly.

He asked AimÃ©e if he might have a few words with her privately.

She got up and came towards us. I thought I saw just a faint hunted look in her eye. If so, it went again. She was perfectly normal and hearty.

âWant me? Not in trouble over my car lights again, I hope?â

She led the way out of the drawing room and across the hall into a small study.

As I closed the drawing room door, I saw Symmingtonâs head jerk up sharply. I supposed his legal training had brought him in contact with police cases, and he had recognized something in Nashâs manner. He half rose.

That is all I saw before I shut the door and followed the others.

Nash was saying his piece. He was very quiet and correct. He cautioned her and then told her that he must ask her to accompany him. He had a warrant for her arrest and he read out the chargeâ

I forget now the exact legal term. It was the letters, not murder yet.

AimÃ©e Griffith flung up her head and bayed with laughter. She boomed out: âWhat ridiculous nonsense! As though Iâd write a packet of indecent stuff like that. You must be mad. Iâve never written a word of the kind.â

Nash had produced the letter to Elsie Holland. He said:

âDo you deny having written this, Miss Griffith?â

If she hesitated it was only for a split second.

âOf course I do. Iâve never seen it before.â

Nash said quietly: âI must tell you, Miss Griffith, that you were observed to type that letter on the machine at the Womenâs Institute between eleven and eleven thirty p.m. on the night before last. Yesterday you entered the post office with a bunch of letters in your handââ

âI never posted this.â

âNo, you did not. Whilst waiting for stamps, you dropped it inconspicuously on the floor, so that somebody should come along unsuspectingly and pick it up and post it.â

âI neverââ

The door opened and Symmington came in. He said sharply: âWhatâs going on? AimÃ©e, if there is anything wrong, you ought to be legally represented. If you wish meââ

She broke then. Covered her face with her hands and staggered to a chair. She said:

âGo away, Dick, go away. Not you! Not you!â

âYou need a solicitor, my dear girl.â

âNot you. IâIâcouldnât bear it. I donât want you to knowâall this.â

He understood then, perhaps. He said quietly:

âIâll get hold of Mildmay, of Exhampton. Will that do?â

She nodded. She was sobbing now.

Symmington went out of the room. In the doorway he collided with Owen Griffith.

âWhatâs this?â said Owen violently. âMy sisterââ

âIâm sorry, Dr. Griffith. Very sorry. But we have no alternative.â

âYou think sheâwas responsible for those letters?â

âIâm afraid there is no doubt of it, sir,â said Nashâhe turned to AimÃ©e, âYou must come with us now, please, Miss Griffithâyou shall have every facility for seeing a solicitor, you know.â

Owen cried: âAimÃ©e?â

She brushed past him without looking at him.

She said: âDonât talk to me. Donât say anything. And for Godâs sake donât look at me!â

They went out. Owen stood like a man in a trance.

I waited a bit, then I came up to him. âIf thereâs anything I can do, Griffith, tell me.â

He said like a man in a dream:

âAimÃ©e? I donât believe it.â

âIt may be a mistake,â I suggested feebly.

He said slowly: âShe wouldnât take it like that if it were. But I would never have believed it. I canât believe it.â

He sank down on a chair. I made myself useful by finding a stiff drink and bringing it to him. He swallowed it down and it seemed to do him good.

He said: âI couldnât take it in at first. Iâm all right now. Thanks, Burton, but thereâs nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do.â

The door opened and Joanna came in. She was very white.

She came over to Owen and looked at me.

She said: âGet out, Jerry. This is my business.â

As I went out of the door, I saw her kneel down by his chair.

III

I canât tell you coherently the events of the next twenty-four hours. Various incidents stand out, unrelated to other incidents.

I remember Joanna coming home, very white and drawn, and of how I tried to cheer her up, saying:

âNow whoâs being a ministering angel?â

And of how she smiled in a pitiful twisted way and said:

âHe says he wonât have me, Jerry. Heâs very, very proud and stiff!â

And I said: âMy girl wonât have me, eitherâ¦.â

We sat there for a while, Joanna saying at last:

âThe Burton family isnât exactly in demand at the moment!â

I said, âNever mind, my sweet, we still have each other,â and Joanna said, âSomehow or other, Jerry, that doesnât comfort me much just nowâ¦.â

IV

Owen came the next day and rhapsodied in the most fulsome way about Joanna. She was wonderful, marvellous! The way sheâd come to him, the way she was willing to marry himâat once if he liked. But he wasnât going to let her do that. No, she was too good, too fine to be associated with the kind of muck that would start as soon as the papers got hold of the news.

I was fond of Joanna, and knew she was the kind whoâs all right when standing by in trouble, but I got rather bored with all this highfalutinâ stuff. I told Owen rather irritably not to be so damned noble.

I went down to the High Street and found everybodyâs tongues wagging nineteen to the dozen. Emily Barton was saying that she had never really trusted AimÃ©e Griffith. The grocerâs wife was saying with gusto that sheâd always thought Miss Griffith had a queer look in her eyeâ

They had completed the case against AimÃ©e, so I learnt from Nash. A search of the house had brought to light the cut pages of Emily Bartonâs bookâin the cupboard under the stairs, of all places, wrapped up in an old roll of wallpaper.

âAnd a jolly good place too,â said Nash appreciatively. âYou never know when a prying servant wonât tamper with a desk or a locked drawerâbut those junk cupboards full of last yearâs tennis balls and old wallpaper are never opened except to shove something more in.â

âThe lady would seem to have had a penchant for that particular hiding place,â I said.

âYes. The criminal mind seldom has much variety. By the way, talking of the dead girl, weâve got one fact to go upon. Thereâs a large heavy pestle missing from the doctorâs dispensary. Iâll bet anything you like thatâs what she was stunned with.â

âRather an awkward thing to carry about,â I objected.

âNot for Miss Griffith. She was going to the Guides that afternoon, but she was going to leave flowers and vegetables at the Red Cross stall on the way, so sheâd got a whopping great basket with her.â

âYou havenât found the skewer?â

âNo, and I shanât. The poor devil may be mad, but she wasnât mad enough to keep a bloodstained skewer just to make it easy for us, when all sheâd got to do was to wash it and return it to a kitchen drawer.â

âI suppose,â I conceded, âthat you canât have everything.â

The vicarage had been one of the last places to hear the news. Old Miss Marple was very much distressed by it. She spoke to me very earnestly on the subject.

âIt isnât true, Mr. Burton. Iâm sure it isnât true.â

âItâs true enough, Iâm afraid. They were lying in wait, you know. They actually saw her type that letter.â

âYes, yesâperhaps they did. Yes, I can understand that.â

âAnd the printed pages from which the letters were cut were found where sheâd hidden them in her house.â

Miss Marple stared at me. Then she said, in a very low voice: âBut that is horribleâreally wicked.â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop came up with a rush and joined us and said: âWhatâs the matter, Jane?â Miss Marple was murmuring helplessly:

âOh dear, oh dear, what can one do?â

âWhatâs upset you, Jane?â

Miss Marple said: âThere must be something. But I am so old and so ignorant, and I am afraid, so foolish.â

I felt rather embarrassed and was glad when Mrs. Dane Calthrop took her friend away.

I was to see Miss Marple again that afternoon, however. Much later when I was on my way home.

She was standing near the little bridge at the end of the village, near Mrs. Cleatâs cottage, and talking to Megan of all people.

I wanted to see Megan. I had been wanting to see her all day. I quickened my pace. But as I came up to them, Megan turned on her heel and went off in the other direction.

It made me angry and I would have followed her, but Miss Marple blocked my way.

She said: âI wanted to speak to you. No, donât go after Megan now. It wouldnât be wise.â

I was just going to make a sharp rejoinder when she disarmed me by saying:

âThat girl has great courageâa very high order of courage.â

I still wanted to go after Megan, but Miss Marple said:

âDonât try and see her now. I do know what I am talking about. She must keep her courage intact.â

There was something about the old ladyâs assertion that chilled me. It was as though she knew something that I didnât.

I was afraid and didnât know why I was afraid.

I didnât go home. I went back into the High Street and walked up and down aimlessly. I donât know what I was waiting for, nor what I was thinking aboutâ¦.

I got caught by that awful old bore Colonel Appleton. He asked after my pretty sister as usual and then went on:

âWhatâs all this about Griffithâs sister being mad as a hatter? They say sheâs been at the bottom of this anonymous letter business thatâs been such a confounded nuisance to everybody? Couldnât believe it at first, but they say itâs quite true.â

I said it was true enough.

âWell, wellâI must say our police force is pretty good on the whole. Give âem time, thatâs all, give âem time. Funny business this anonymous letter stuntâthese desiccated old maids are always the ones who go in for itâthough the Griffith woman wasnât bad looking even if she was a bit long in the tooth. But there arenât any decent-looking girls in this part of the worldâexcept that governess girl of the Symmingtons. Sheâs worth looking at. Pleasant girl, too. Grateful if one does any little thing for her. Came across her having a picnic or something with those kids not long ago. They were romping about in the heather and she was knittingâever so vexed sheâd run out of wool. âWell,â I said, âlike me to run you into Lymstock? Iâve got to call for a rod of mine there. I shanât be more than ten minutes getting it, then Iâll run you back again.â She was a bit doubtful about leaving the boys. âTheyâll be all right,â I said. âWhoâs to harm them?â Wasnât going to have the boys along, no fear! So I ran her in, dropped her at the wool shop, picked her up again later and that was that. Thanked me very prettily. Grateful and all that. Nice girl.â

I managed to get away from him.

It was after that, that I caught sight of Miss Marple for the third time. She was coming out of the police station.

V

Where do oneâs fears come from? Where do they shape themselves? Where do they hide before coming out into the open?

Just one short phrase. Heard and noted and never quite put aside:

âTake me awayâitâs so awful being hereâfeeling so wickedâ¦.â

Why had Megan said that? What had she to feel wicked about?

There could be nothing in Mrs. Symmingtonâs death to make Megan feel wicked.

Why had the child felt wicked? Why? Why?

Could it be because she felt responsible in anyway?

Megan? Impossible! Megan couldnât have had anything to do with those lettersâthose foul obscene letters.

Owen Griffith had known a case up Northâa schoolgirlâ¦.

What had Inspector Graves said?

Something about an adolescent mindâ¦.

Innocent middle-aged ladies on operating tables babbling words they hardly knew. Little boys chalking up things on walls.

No, no, not Megan.

Heredity? Bad blood? An unconscious inheritance of something abnormal? Her misfortune, not her fault, a curse laid upon her by a past generation?

âIâm not the wife for you. Iâm better at hating than loving.â

Oh, my Megan, my little child. Not that! Anything but that. And that old Tabby is after you, she suspects. She says you have courage. Courage to do what?

It was only a brainstorm. It passed. But I wanted to see Meganâ I wanted to see her badly.

At half past nine that night I left the house and went down to the town and along to the Symmingtons.â

It was then that an entirely new idea came into my mind. The idea of a woman whom nobody had considered for a moment.

(Or had Nash considered her?)

Wildly unlikely, wildly improbable, and I would have said up to today impossible, too. But that was not so. No, not impossible.

I redoubled my pace. Because it was now even more imperative that I should see Megan straightaway.

I passed through the Symmingtonsâ gate and up to the house. It was a dark overcast night. A little rain was beginning to fall. The visibility was bad.

I saw a line of light from one of the windows. The little morning room?

I hesitated a moment or two, then instead of going up to the front door, I swerved and crept very quietly up to the window, skirting a big bush and keeping low.

The light came from a chink in the curtains which were not quite drawn. It was easy to look through and see.

It was a strangely peaceful and domestic scene. Symmington in a big armchair, and Elsie Holland, her head bent, busily patching a boyâs torn shirt.

I could hear as well as see for the window was open at the top.

Elsie Holland was speaking.

âBut I do think, really, Mr. Symmington, that the boys are quite old enough to go to boarding school. Not that I shanât hate leaving them because I shall. Iâm ever so fond of them both.â

Symmington said: âI think perhaps youâre right about Brian, Miss Holland. Iâve decided that he shall start next term at Winhaysâmy old prep school. But Colin is a little young yet. Iâd prefer him to wait another year.â

âWell of course I see what you mean. And Colin is perhaps a little young for his ageââ

Quiet domestic talkâquiet domestic sceneâand a golden head bent over needlework.

Then the door opened and Megan came in.

She stood very straight in the doorway, and I was aware at once of something tense and strung up about her. The skin of her face was tight and drawn and her eyes were bright and resolute. There was no diffidence about her tonight and no childishness.

She said, addressing Symmington, but giving him no title (and I suddenly reflected that I never heard her call him anything. Did she address him as father or as Dick or what?)

âI would like to speak to you, please. Alone.â

Symmington looked surprised and, I fancied, not best pleased. He frowned, but Megan carried her point with a determination unusual in her.

She turned to Elsie Holland and said:

âDo you mind, Elsie?â

âOh, of course not,â Elsie Holland jumped up. She looked startled and a little flurried.

She went to the door and Megan came farther in so that Elsie passed her.

Just for a moment Elsie stood motionless in the doorway looking over her shoulder.

Her lips were closed, she stood quite still, one hand stretched out, the other clasping her needlework to her.

I caught my breath, overwhelmed by her beauty. When I think of her now, I always think of her like thatâin arrested motion, with that matchless deathless perfection that belonged to ancient Greece.

Then she went out shutting the door.

Symmington said rather fretfully:

âWell, Megan, what is it? What do you want?â

Megan had come right up to the table. She stood there looking down at Symmington. I was struck anew by the resolute determination of her face and by something elseâa hardness new to me.

Then she opened her lips and said something that startled me to the core.

âI want some money,â she said.

The request didnât improve Symmingtonâs temper. He said sharply:

âCouldnât you have waited until tomorrow morning? Whatâs the matter, do you think your allowance is inadequate?â

A fair man, I thought even then, open to reason, though not to emotional appeal.

Megan said: âI want a good deal of money.â

Symmington sat up straight in his chair. He said coldly:

âYou will come of age in a few monthsâ time. Then the money left you by your grandmother will be turned over to you by the public trustee.â

Megan said:

âYou donât understand. I want money from you.â She went on, speaking faster. âNobodyâs ever talked much to me about my father. Theyâve not wanted me to know about him. But I do know that he went to prison and I know why. It was for blackmail!â

She paused.

âWell, Iâm his daughter. And perhaps I take after him. Anyway, Iâm asking you to give me money becauseâif you donâtââshe stopped and then went on very slowly and evenlyââif you donâtâI shall say what I saw you doing to the cachet that day in my motherâs room.â

There was a pause. Then Symmington said in a completely emotionless voice:

âI donât know what you mean.â

Megan said: âI think you do.â

And she smiled. It was not a nice smile.

Symmington got up. He went over to the writing desk. He took a cheque-book from his pocket and wrote out a cheque. He blotted it carefully and then came back. He held it out to Megan.

âYouâre grown up now,â he said. âI can understand that you may feel you want to buy something rather special in the way of clothes and all that. I donât know what youâre talking about. I didnât pay attention. But hereâs a cheque.â

Megan looked at it, then she said:

âThank you. That will do to go on with.â

She turned and went out of the room. Symmington stared after her and at the closed door, then he turned round and as I saw his face I made a quick uncontrolled movement forward.

It was checked in the most extraordinary fashion. The big bush that I had noticed by the wall stopped being a bush. Superintendent Nashâs arms went round me and Superintendent Nashâs voice just breathed in my ear:

âQuiet, Burton. For Godâs sake.â

Then, with infinite caution he beat a retreat, his arm impelling me to accompany him.

Round the side of the house he straightened himself and wiped his forehead.

âOf course,â he said, âyou would have to butt in!â

âThat girl isnât safe,â I said urgently. âYou saw his face? Weâve got to get her out of here.â

Nash took a firm grip of my arm.

âNow, look here, Mr. Burton, youâve got to listen.â

VI

Well, I listened.

I didnât like itâbut I gave in.

But I insisted on being on the spot and I swore to obey orders implicitly.

So that is how I came with Nash and Parkins into the house by the back door which was already unlocked.

And I waited with Nash on the upstairs landing behind the velvet curtain masking the window alcove until the clocks in the house struck two, and Symmingtonâs door opened and he went across the landing and into Meganâs room.

I did not stir or make a move for I knew that Sergeant Parkins was inside masked by the opening door, and I knew that Parkins was a good man and knew his job, and I knew that I couldnât have trusted myself to keep quiet and not break out.

And waiting there, with my heart thudding, I saw Symmington come out with Megan in his arms and carry her downstairs, with Nash and myself a discreet distance behind him.

He carried her through to the kitchen and he had just arranged her comfortably with her head in the gas oven and had turned on the gas when Nash and I came through the kitchen door and switched on the light.

And that was the end of Richard Symmington. He collapsed. Even while I was hauling Megan out and turning off the gas I saw the collapse. He didnât even try to fight. He knew heâd played and lost.

VII

Upstairs I sat by Meganâs bed waiting for her to come round and occasionally cursing Nash.

âHow do you know sheâs all right? It was too big a risk.â

Nash was very soothing.

âJust a soporific in the milk she always had by her bed. Nothing more. It stands to reason, he couldnât risk her being poisoned. As far as heâs concerned the whole business is closed with Miss Griffithâs arrest. He canât afford to have any mysterious death. No violence, no poison. But if a rather unhappy type of girl broods over her motherâs suicide, and finally goes and puts her head in the gas ovenâwell, people just say that she was never quite normal and the shock of her motherâs death finished her.â

I said, watching Megan:

âSheâs a long time coming round.â

âYou heard what Dr. Griffith said? Heart and pulse quite all rightâsheâll just sleep and wake naturally. Stuff he gives a lot of his patients, he says.â

Megan stirred. She murmured something.

Superintendent Nash unobtrusively left the room.

Presently Megan opened her eyes. âJerry.â

âHallo, sweet.â

âDid I do it well?â

âYou might have been blackmailing ever since your cradle!â

Megan closed her eyes again. Then she murmured:

âLast nightâI was writing to youâin case anything wentâwent wrong. But I was too sleepy to finish. Itâs over there.â

I went across to the writing-table. In a shabby little blotter I found Meganâs unfinished letter.

âMy dear Jerry,â it began primly:

âI was reading my school Shakespeare and the sonnet that begins:

âSo are you to my thoughts as food to life

Or as sweet-seasonâd showers are to the ground.â

and I see that I am in love with you after all, because that is what I feelâ¦.â

Fourteen

âSo you see,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, âI was quite right to call in an expert.â

I stared at her. We were all at the vicarage. The rain was pouring down outside and there was a pleasant log fire, and Mrs. Dane Calthrop had just wandered round, beat up a sofa cushion and put it for some reason of her own on the top of the grand piano.

âBut did you?â I said, surprised. âWho was it? What did he do?â

âIt wasnât a he,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

With a sweeping gesture she indicated Miss Marple. Miss Marple had finished the fleecy knitting and was now engaged with a crochet hook and a ball of cotton.

âThatâs my expert,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âJane Marple. Look at her well. I tell you, that woman knows more about the different kinds of human wickedness than anyone Iâve ever known.â

âI donât think you should put it quite like that, dear,â murmured Miss Marple.

âBut you do.â

âOne sees a good deal of human nature living in a village all the year round,â said Miss Marple placidly.

Then, seeming to feel it was expected of her, she laid down her crochet, and delivered a gentle old-maidish dissertation on murder.

âThe great thing is in these cases to keep an absolutely open mind. Most crimes, you see, are so absurdly simple. This one was. Quite sane and straightforwardâand quite understandableâin an unpleasant way, of course.â

âVery unpleasant!â

âThe truth was really so very obvious. You saw it, you know, Mr. Burton.â

âIndeed I did not.â

âBut you did. You indicated the whole thing to me. You saw perfectly the relationship of one thing to the other, but you just hadnât enough self-confidence to see what those feelings of yours meant. To begin with, that tiresome phrase âNo smoke without fire.â It irritated you, but you proceeded quite correctly to label it for what it wasâa smoke screen. Misdirection, you seeâeverybody looking at the wrong thingâthe anonymous letters, but the whole point was that there werenât any anonymous letters!â

âBut my dear Miss Marple, I can assure you that there were. I had one.â

âOh yes, but they werenât real at all. Dear Maud here tumbled to that. Even in peaceful Lymstock there are plenty of scandals, and I can assure you any woman living in the place would have known about them and used them. But a man, you see, isnât interested in gossip in the same wayâespecially a detached logical man like Mr. Symmington. A genuine woman writer of those letters would have made her letters much more to the point.

âSo you see that if you disregard the smoke and come to the fire you know where you are. You just come down to the actual facts of what happened. And putting aside the letters, just one thing happenedâMrs. Symmington died.

âSo then, naturally, one thinks of who might have wanted Mrs. Symmington to die, and of course the very first person one thinks of in such a case is, I am afraid, the husband. And one asks oneself is there any reason?âany motive?âfor instance, another woman?

âAnd the very first thing I hear is that there is a very attractive young governess in the house. So clear, isnât it? Mr. Symmington, a rather dry repressed unemotional man, tied to a querulous and neurotic wife and then suddenly this radiant young creature comes along.

âIâm afraid, you know, that gentlemen, when they fall in love at a certain age, get the disease very badly. Itâs quite a madness. And Mr. Symmington, as far as I can make out, was never actually a good manâhe wasnât very kind or very affectionate or very sympatheticâhis qualities were all negativeâso he hadnât really the strength to fight his madness. And in a place like this, only his wifeâs death would solve his problem. He wanted to marry the girl, you see. Sheâs very respectable and so is he. And besides, heâs devoted to his children and didnât want to give them up. He wanted everything, his home, his children, his respectability and Elsie. And the price he would have to pay for that was murder.

âHe chose, I do think, a very clever way. He knew so well from his experience of criminal cases how soon suspicion falls on the husband if a wife dies unexpectedlyâand the possibility of exhumation in the case of poison. So he created a death which seemed only incidental to something else. He created a non-existent anonymous letter writer. And the clever thing was that the police were certain to suspect a womanâand they were quite right in a way. All the letters were a womanâs letters; he cribbed them very cleverly from the letters in the case last year and from a case Dr Griffith told him about. I donât mean that he was so crude as to reproduce any letter verbatim, but he took phrases and expressions from them and mixed them up, and the net result was that the letters definitely represented a womanâs mindâa half-crazed repressed personality.

âHe knew all the tricks that the police use, handwriting, typewriting tests, etc. Heâs been preparing his crime for some time. He typed all the envelopes before he gave away the typewriter to the Womenâs Institute, and he cut the pages from the book at Little Furze probably quite a long time ago when he was waiting in the drawing room one day. People donât open books of sermons much!

âAnd finally, having got his false Poison Pen well established, he staged the real thing. A fine afternoon when the governess and the boys and his stepdaughter would be out, and the servants having their regular day out. He couldnât foresee that the little maid Agnes would quarrel with her boy and come back to the house.â

Joanna asked:

âBut what did she see? Do you know that?â

âI donât know. I can only guess. My guess would be that she didnât see anything.â

âThat it was all a mareâs nest?â

âNo, no, my dear, I mean that she stood at the pantry window all the afternoon waiting for the young man to come and make it up and thatâquite literallyâshe saw nothing. That is, no one came to the house at all, not the postman, nor anybody else.

âIt would take her some time, being slow, to realize that that was very oddâbecause apparently Mrs. Symmington had received an anonymous letter that afternoon.â

âDidnât she receive one?â I asked, puzzled.

âBut of course not! As I say, this crime is so simple. Her husband just put the cyanide in the top cachet of the ones she took in the afternoon when her sciatica came on after lunch. All Symmington had to do was to get home before, or at the same time as Elsie Holland, call his wife, get no answer, go up to her room, drop a spot of cyanide in the plain glass of water she had used to swallow the cachet, toss the crumpled-up anonymous letter into the grate, and put by her hand the scrap of paper with âI canât go onâ written on it.â

Miss Marple turned to me.

âYou were quite right about that, too, Mr. Burton. A âscrap of paperâ was all wrong. People donât leave suicide notes on small torn scraps of paper. They use a sheet of paperâand very often an envelope too. Yes, the scrap of paper was wrong and you knew it.â

âYou are rating me too high,â I said. âI knew nothing.â

âBut you did, you really did, Mr. Burton. Otherwise why were you immediately impressed by the message your sister left scribbled on the telephone pad?â

I repeated slowly, ââSay that I canât go on FridayââI see! I canât go on?â

Miss Marple beamed on me.

âExactly. Mr. Symmington came across such a message and saw its possibilities. He tore off the words he wanted for when the time cameâa message genuinely in his wifeâs handwriting.â

âWas there any further brilliance on my part?â I asked.

Miss Marple twinkled at me.

âYou put me on the track, you know. You assembled those facts together for meâin sequenceâand on top of it you told me the most important thing of allâthat Elsie Holland had never received any anonymous letters.â

âDo you know,â I said, âlast night I thought that she was the letter writer and that that was why there had been no letters written to her?â

âOh dear, me, noâ¦ The person who writes anonymous letters practically always sends them to herself as well. Thatâs part of theâwell, the excitement, I suppose. No, no, the fact interested me for quite another reason. It was really, you see, Mr. Symmingtonâs one weakness. He couldnât bring himself to write a foul letter to the girl he loved. Itâs a very interesting sidelight on human natureâand a credit to him, in a wayâbut itâs where he gave himself away.â

Joanna said:

âAnd he killed Agnes? But surely that was quite unnecessary?â

âPerhaps it was, but what you donât realize, my dear (not having killed anyone), is that your judgment is distorted afterwards and everything seems exaggerated. No doubt he heard the girl telephoning to Partridge, saying sheâd been worried ever since Mrs. Symmingtonâs death, that there was something she didnât understand. He canât take any chancesâthis stupid, foolish girl has seen something, knows something.â

âYet apparently he was at his office all that afternoon?â

âI should imagine he killed her before he went. Miss Holland was in the dining room and kitchen. He just went out into the hall, opened and shut the front door as though he had gone out, then slipped into the little cloakroom. When only Agnes was left in the house, he probably rang the front door bell, slipped back into the cloakroom, came out behind her and hit her on the head as she was opening the front door, and then after thrusting the body into the cupboard, he hurried along to his office, arriving just a little late if anyone had happened to notice it, but they probably didnât. You see, no one was suspecting a man.â

âAbominable brute,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

âYouâre not sorry for him, Mrs. Dane Calthrop?â I inquired.

âNot in the least. Why?â

âIâm glad to hear it, thatâs all.â

Joanna said:

âBut why AimÃ©e Griffith? I know that the police have found the pestle taken from Owenâs dispensaryâand the skewer too. I suppose itâs not so easy for a man to return things to kitchen drawers. And guess where they were? Superintendent Nash only told me just now when I met him on my way here. In one of those musty old deed-boxes in his office. Estate of Sir Jasper Harrington-West, deceased.â

âPoor Jasper,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âHe was a cousin of mine. Such a correct old boy. He would have had a fit!â

âWasnât it madness to keep them?â I asked.

âProbably madder to throw them away,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âNo one had any suspicions about Symmington.â

âHe didnât strike her with the pestle,â said Joanna. âThere was a clock weight there too, with hair and blood on it. He pinched the pestle, they think, on the day AimÃ©e was arrested, and hid the book pages in her house. And that brings me back to my original question. What about AimÃ©e Griffith? The police actually saw her write that letter.â

âYes, of course,â said Miss Marple. âShe did write that letter.â

âBut why?â

âOh, my dear, surely you have realized that Miss Griffith had been in love with Symmington all her life?â

âPoor thing!â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop mechanically.

âTheyâd always been good friends, and I dare say she thought, after Mrs. Symmingtonâs death, that some day, perhapsâwellââ Miss Marple coughed delicately. âAnd then the gossip began spreading about Elsie Holland and I expect that upset her badly. She thought of the girl as a designing minx worming her way into Symmingtonâs affections and quite unworthy of him. And so, I think, she succumbed to temptation. Why not add one more anonymous letter, and frighten the girl out of the place? It must have seemed quite safe to her and she took, as she thought, every precaution.â

âWell?â said Joanna. âFinish the story.â

âI should imagine,â said Miss Marple slowly, âthat when Miss Holland showed that letter to Symmington he realized at once who had written it, and he saw a chance to finish the case once and for all, and make himself safe. Not very niceâno, not very nice, but he was frightened, you see. The police wouldnât be satisfied until theyâd got the anonymous letter writer. When he took the letter down to the police and he found theyâd actually seen AimÃ©e writing it, he felt heâd got a chance in a thousand of finishing the whole thing.

âHe took the family to tea there that afternoon and as he came from the office with his attachÃ© case, he could easily bring the tornout book pages to hide under the stairs and clinch the case. Hiding them under the stairs was a neat touch. It recalled the disposal of Agnesâs body, and, from the practical point of view, it was very easy for him. When he followed AimÃ©e and the police, just a minute or two in the hall passing through would be enough.â

âAll the same,â I said, âthereâs one thing I canât forgive you for, Miss Marpleâroping in Megan.â

Miss Marple put down her crochet which she had resumed. She looked at me over her spectacles and her eyes were stern.

âMy dear young man, something had to be done. There was no evidence against this very clever and unscrupulous man. I needed someone to help me, someone of high courage and good brains. I found the person I needed.â

âIt was very dangerous for her.â

âYes, it was dangerous, but we are not put into this world, Mr. Burton, to avoid danger when an innocent fellow-creatureâs life is at stake. You understand me?â

I understood.

Fifteen

I

Morning in the High Street.

Miss Emily Barton comes out of the grocerâs with her shopping bag. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are excited.

âOh, dear, Mr. Burton, I really am in such a flutter. To think I really am going on a cruise at last!â

âI hope youâll enjoy it.â

âOh, Iâm sure I shall. I should never have dared to go by myself. It does seem so providential the way everything has turned out. For a long time Iâve felt that I ought to part with Little Furze, that my means were really too straitened but I couldnât bear the idea of strangers there. But now that you have bought it and are going to live there with Meganâit is quite different. And then dear AimÃ©e, after her terrible ordeal, not quite knowing what to do with herself, and her brother getting married (how nice to think you have both settled down with us!) and agreeing to come with me. We mean to be away quite a long time. We might evenââMiss Emily dropped her voiceââgo round the world! And AimÃ©e is so splendid and so practical. I really do think, donât you, that everything turns out for the best?â

Just for a fleeting moment I thought of Mrs. Symmington and Agnes Woddell in their graves in the churchyard and wondered if they would agree, and then I remembered that Agnesâs boy hadnât been very fond of her and that Mrs. Symmington hadnât been very nice to Megan and, what the hell? weâve all got to die some time! And I agreed with happy Miss Emily that everything was for the best in the best of possible worlds.

I went along the High Street and in at the Symmingtonsâ gate and Megan came out to meet me.

It was not a romantic meeting because an out-size Old English sheepdog came out with Megan and nearly knocked me over with his ill-timed exuberance.

âIsnât he adorable?â said Megan.

âA little overwhelming. Is he ours?â

âYes, heâs a wedding present from Joanna. We have had nice wedding presents, havenât we? That fluffy woolly thing that we donât know what itâs for from Miss Marple, and the lovely Crown Derby tea set from Mr. Pye, and Elsie has sent me a toast-rackââ

âHow typical,â I interjected.

âAnd sheâs got a post with a dentist and is very happy. Andâwhere was I?â

âEnumerating wedding presents. Donât forget if you change your mind youâll have to send them all back.â

âI shanât change my mind. What else have we got? Oh, yes, Mrs. Dane Calthrop has sent an Egyptian scarab.â

âOriginal woman,â I said.

âOh! Oh! but you donât know the best. Partridge has actually sent me a present. Itâs the most hideous teacloth youâve ever seen. But I think she must like me now because she says she embroidered it all with her own hands.â

âIn a design of sour grapes and thistles, I suppose?â

âNo, true loversâ knots.â

âDear, dear,â I said, âPartridge is coming on.â

Megan had dragged me into the house.

She said:

âThereâs just one thing I canât make out. Besides the dogâs own collar and lead, Joanna has sent an extra collar and lead. What do you think thatâs for?â

âThat,â I said, âis Joannaâs little joke.â

Agatha Christie

A Murder Is Announced

A Miss Marple Mystery

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

Contents

Dedication

1. A Murder Is Announced

2. Breakfast at Little Paddocks

3. At 6:30 p.m.

4. The Royal Spa Hotel

5. Miss Blacklock and Miss Bunner

6. Julia, Mitzi and Patrick

7. Among Those Present

8. Enter Miss Marple

9. Concerning a Door

10. Pip and Emma

11. Miss Marple Comes to Tea

12. Morning Activities in Chipping Cleghorn

13. Morning Activities in Chipping Cleghorn (continued)

14. Excursion into the Past

15. Delicious Death

16. Inspector Craddock Returns

17. The Album

18. The Letters

19. Reconstruction of the Crime

20. Miss Marple Is Missing

21. Three Women

22. The Truth

23. Evening at the Vicarage

Epilogue

Credits

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

Credits

Cover illustration and design by Sara Wood

Agatha Christie

They Do It with Mirrors

A Miss Marple Mystery

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Epilogue

Credits

One

Mrs. Van Rydock moved a little back from the mirror and sighed.

âWell, thatâll have to do,â she murmured.

âThink itâs all right, Jane?â

Miss Marple eyed the Lanvanelli creation appraisingly.

âIt seems to me a very beautiful gown,â she said.

âThe gownâs all right,â said Mrs. Van Rydock and sighed.

âTake it off, Stephanie,â she said.

The elderly maid with the grey hair and the small pinched mouth, eased the gown carefully up over Mrs. Van Rydockâs up-stretched arms.

Mrs. Van Rydock stood in front of the glass in her peach satin slip. She was exquisitely corseted. Her still shapely legs were encased in fine nylon stockings. Her face, beneath a layer of cosmetics and constantly toned up by massage, appeared almost girlish at a slight distance. Her hair was less grey than tending to hydrangea blue and was perfectly set. It was practically impossible when looking at Mrs. Van Rydock, to imagine what she would be like in a natural state. Everything that money could do had been done for herâreinforced by diet, massage, and constant exercises.

Ruth Van Rydock looked humorously at her friend.

âDo you think most people would guess, Jane, that you and I are practically the same age?â

Miss Marple responded loyally.

âNot for a moment, Iâm sure,â she said reassuringly. âIâm afraid, you know, that I look every minute of my age!â

Miss Marple was white-haired, with a soft pink-and-white wrinkled face and innocent china blue eyes. She looked a very sweet old lady. Nobody would have called Mrs. Van Rydock a sweet old lady.

âI guess you do, Jane,â said Mrs. Van Rydock. She grinned suddenly, âAnd so do I. Only not in the same way. âWonderful how that old hag keeps her figure.â Thatâs what they say of me. But they know Iâm an old hag all right! And, my God, do I feel like one!â

She dropped heavily onto the satin, quilted chair.

âThatâs all right, Stephanie,â she said. âYou can go.â

Stephanie gathered up the dress and went out.

âGood old Stephanie,â said Ruth Van Rydock. âSheâs been with me for over thirty years now. Sheâs the only woman who knows what I really look like! Jane, I want to talk to you.â

Miss Marple leant forward a little. Her face took on a receptive expression. She looked, somehow, an incongruous figure in the ornate bedroom of the expensive hotel suite. She was dressed in rather dowdy black, carried a large shopping bag, and looked every inch a lady.

âIâm worried, Jane. About Carrie Louise.â

âCarrie Louise?â Miss Marple repeated the name musingly. The sound of it took her a long way back.

The pensionnat in Florence. Herself, the pink and white English girl from a Cathedral close. The two Martin girls, Americans, exciting to the English girl because of their quaint ways of speech and their forthright manner and vitality. Ruth, tall, eager, on top of the world, Carrie Louise, small, dainty, wistful.

âWhen did you see her last, Jane?â

âOh! not for many many years. It must be twenty-five at least. Of course, we still send cards at Christmas.â

Such an odd thing, friendship! She, young Jane Marple, and the two Americans. Their ways diverging almost at once, and yet the old affection persisting; occasional letters, remembrances at Christmas. Strange that Ruth whose homeâor rather homesâhad been in America should be the sister whom she had seen the more often of the two. No, perhaps not strange. Like most Americans of her class, Ruth had been cosmopolitan. Every year or two she had come over to Europe, rushing from London to Paris, on to the Riviera, and back again, and always keen to snatch a few moments wherever she was, with her old friends. There had been many meetings like this one. In Claridgeâs, or the Savoy, or the Berkeley, or the Dorchester. A recherchÃ© meal, affectionate reminiscences, and a hurried and affectionate good-bye. Ruth had never had time to visit St. Mary Mead. Miss Marple had not, indeed, ever expected it. Everyoneâs life has a tempo. Ruthâs was presto whereas Miss Marpleâs was content to be adagio.

So it was American Ruth whom she had seen most of, whereas Carrie Louise who lived in England, she had not now seen for over twenty years. Odd, but quite natural, because when one lives in the same country there is no need to arrange meetings with old friends. One assumes that, sooner or later, one will see them without contrivance. Only, if you move in different spheres, that does not happen. The paths of Jane Marple and Carrie Louise did not cross. It was as simple as that.

âWhy are you worried about Carrie Louise, Ruth?â asked Miss Marple.

âIn a way thatâs what worries me most! I just donât know.â

âSheâs not ill?â

âSheâs very delicateâalways has been. I wouldnât say sheâd been any worse than usualâconsidering that sheâs getting on just as we all are.â

âUnhappy?â

âOh no.â

No, it wouldnât be that, thought Miss Marple. It would be difficult to imagine Carrie Louise unhappyâand yet there were times in her life when she must have been. Onlyâthe picture did not come clearly. Bewilderedâyesâincredulousâyesâbut violent griefâno.

Mrs. Van Rydockâs words came appositely.

âCarrie Louise,â she said, âhas always lived right out of this world. She doesnât know what itâs like. Maybe itâs that that worries me.â

âHer circumstances,â began Miss Marple, then stopped, shaking her head. âNo,â she said.

âNo, itâs she herself,â said Ruth Van Rydock. âCarrie Louise was always the one of us who had ideals. Of course, it was the fashion when we were young to have idealsâwe all had them, it was the proper thing for young girls. You were going to nurse lepers, Jane, and I was going to be a nun. One gets over all that nonsense. Marriage, I suppose one might say, knocks it out of one. Still, take it by and large, I havenât done badly out of marriage.â

Miss Marple thought that Ruth was expressing it mildly. Ruth had been married three times, each time to an extremely wealthy man, and the resultant divorces had increased her bank balance without in the least souring her disposition.

âOf course,â said Mrs. Van Rydock, âIâve always been tough. Things donât get me down. Iâve not expected too much of life and certainly not expected too much of menâand Iâve done very well out of itâand no hard feelings. Tommy and I are still excellent friends, and Julius often asks me my opinion about the market.â Her face darkened. âI believe thatâs what worries me about Carrie Louiseâsheâs always had a tendency, you know, to marry cranks.â

âCranks?â

âPeople with ideals. Carrie Louise was always a pushover for ideals. There she was, as pretty as they make them, just seventeen and listening with her eyes as big as saucers to old Gulbrandsen holding forth about his plans for the human race. Over fifty, and she married him, a widower with a family of grown-up childrenâall because of his philanthropic ideas. She used to sit listening to him spellbound. Just like Desdemona and Othello. Only fortunately there was no Iago about to mess things upâand anyway Gulbrandsen wasnât coloured. He was a Swede or a Norwegian or something.â

Miss Marple nodded thoughtfully. The name of Gulbrandsen had an international significance. A man who with shrewd business acumen and perfect honesty had built up a fortune so colossal that really philanthropy had been the only solution to the disposal of it. The name still held significance. The Gulbrandsen Trust, the Gulbrandsen Research Fellowships, the Gulbrandsen Administrative Almshouses, and best known of all the vast educational College for the sons of working men.

âShe didnât marry him for his money, you know,â said Ruth, âI should have if Iâd married him at all. But not Carrie Louise. I donât know what would have happened if he hadnât died when she was thirty-two. Thirty-twoâs a very nice age for a widow. Sheâs got experience, but sheâs still adaptable.â

The spinster listening to her, nodded gently whilst her mind reviewed, tentatively, widows she had known in the village of St. Mary Mead.

âI was really happiest about Carrie Louise when she was married to Johnnie Restarick. Of course, he married her for her moneyâor if not exactly that, at any rate he wouldnât have married her if she hadnât had any. Johnnie was a selfish pleasure-loving lazy hound, but thatâs so much safer than a crank. All Johnnie wanted was to live soft. He wanted Carrie Louise to go to the best dressmakers and have yachts and cars and enjoy herself with him. That kind of man is so very safe. Give him comfort and luxury and heâll purr like a cat and be absolutely charming to you. I never took that scene designing and theatrical stuff of his very seriously. But Carrie Louise was thrilled by itâsaw it all as Art with a capital A and really forced him back into those surroundings and then that dreadful Yugoslavian woman got hold of him and just swept him off with her. He didnât really want to go. If Carrie Louise had waited and been sensible, he would have come back to her.â

âDid she care very much?â asked Miss Marple.

âThatâs the funny thing. I donât really believe she did. She was absolutely sweet about it allâbut then she would be. She is sweet. Quite anxious to divorce him so that he and that creature could get married. And offering to give those two boys of his by his first marriage a home with her because it would be more settled for them. So there poor Johnnie wasâhe had to marry the woman and she led him an awful six months and then drove him over a precipice in a car in a fit of rage. They said it was an accident, but I think it was just temper!â

Mrs. Van Rydock paused, took up a mirror and gazed at her face searchingly. She picked up her eyebrow tweezers and pulled out a hair.

âAnd what does Carrie Louise do next but marry this man Lewis Serrocold. Another crank! Another man with ideals! Oh I donât say he isnât devoted to herâI think he isâbut heâs bitten by that same bug of wanting to improve everybodyâs lives for them. And really, you know, nobody can do that but yourself.â

âI wonder,â said Miss Marple.

âOnly, of course, thereâs a fashion in these things, just like there is in clothes. (My dear, have you seen what Christian Dior is trying to make us wear in the way of skirts?) Where was I? Oh yes, fashion. Well, thereâs a fashion in philanthropy too. It used to be education in Gulbrandsenâs day. But thatâs out of date now. The State has stepped in. Everyone expects education as a matter of rightâand doesnât think much of it when they get it! Juvenile delinquencyâthatâs what is the rage nowadays. All these young criminals and potential criminals. Everyoneâs mad about them. You should see Lewis Serrocoldâs eyes sparkle behind those thick glasses of his. Crazy with enthusiasm! One of those men of enormous willpower who like living on a banana and a piece of toast and put all their energies into a cause. And Carrie Louise eats it upâjust as she always did. But I donât like it, Jane. Theyâve had meetings of the trustees and the whole place has been turned over to this new idea. Itâs a training establishment now for these juvenile criminals, complete with psychiatrists and psychologists and all the rest of it. There Lewis and Carrie Louise are, living there, surrounded by these boysâwho arenât perhaps quite normal. And the place stiff with occupational therapists and teachers and enthusiasts, half of them quite mad. Cranks, all the lot of them, and my little Carrie Louise in the middle of it all!â

She pausedâand stared helplessly at Miss Marple.

Miss Marple said in a faintly puzzled voice:

âBut you havenât told me yet, Ruth, what you are really afraid of.â

âI tell you, I donât know! And thatâs what worries me. Iâve just been down thereâfor a flying visit. And I felt all along that there was something wrong. In the atmosphereâin the houseâI know Iâm not mistaken. Iâm sensitive to atmosphere, always have been. Did I ever tell you how I urged Julius to sell out of Amalgamated Cereals before the crash came? And wasnât I right? Yes, something is wrong down there. But I donât know why or whatâif itâs these dreadful young jailbirdsâor if itâs nearer home. I canât say what it is. Thereâs Lewis just living for his ideas and not noticing anything else, and Carrie Louise, bless her, never seeing or hearing or thinking anything except whatâs a lovely sight, or a lovely sound, or a lovely thought. Itâs sweet but it isnât practical. There is such a thing as evilâand I want you, Jane, to go down there right away and find out just exactly whatâs the matter.â

âMe?â exclaimed Miss Marple. âWhy me?â

âBecause youâve got a nose for that sort of thing. You always had. Youâve always been a sweet innocent looking creature, Jane, and all the time underneath nothing has ever surprised you, you always believe the worst.â

âThe worst is so often true,â murmured Miss Marple.

âWhy you have such a poor idea of human nature, I canât thinkâliving in that sweet peaceful village of yours, so old world and pure.â

âYou have never lived in a village, Ruth. The things that go on in a pure peaceful village would probably surprise you.â

âOh I daresay. My point is that they donât surprise you. So you will go down to Stonygates and find out whatâs wrong, wonât you?â

âBut, Ruth dear, that would be a most difficult thing to do.â

âNo, it wouldnât. Iâve thought it all out. If you wonât be absolutely mad at me, Iâve prepared the ground already.â

Mrs. Van Rydock paused, eyed Miss Marple rather uneasily, lighted a cigarette, and plunged rather nervously into explanation.

âYouâll admit, Iâm sure, that things have been difficult in this country since the war, for people with small fixed incomesâfor people like you, that is to say, Jane.â

âOh yes, indeed. But for the kindness, the really great kindness of my nephew Raymond, I donât know really where I should be.â

âNever mind your nephew,â said Mrs. Van Rydock. âCarrie Louise knows nothing about your nephewâor if she does, she knows him as a writer and has no idea that heâs your nephew. The point, as I put it to Carrie Louise, is that itâs just too bad about dear Jane. Really sometimes hardly enough to eat, and of course far too proud ever to appeal to old friends. One couldnât, I said, suggest moneyâbut a nice long rest in lovely surroundings, with an old friend and with plenty of nourishing food, and no cares or worriesââ Ruth Van Rydock paused and then added defiantly, âNow go onâbe mad at me if you want to be.â

Miss Marple opened her china blue eyes in gentle surprise.

âBut why should I be mad at you, Ruth? A very ingenious and plausible approach. Iâm sure Carrie Louise responded.â

âSheâs writing to you. Youâll find the letter when you get back. Honestly, Jane, you donât feel that Iâve taken an unpardonable liberty? You wonât mindââ

She hesitated and Miss Marple put her thoughts deftly into words.

âGoing to Stonygates as an object of charityâmore or less under false pretences? Not in the leastâif it is necessary. You think it is necessaryâand I am inclined to agree with you.â

Mrs. Van Rydock stared at her.

âBut why? What have you heard?â

âI havenât heard anything. Itâs just your conviction. Youâre not a fanciful woman, Ruth.â

âNo, but I havenât anything definite to go upon.â

âI remember,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully, âone Sunday morning at churchâit was the second Sunday in Adventâsitting behind Grace Lamble and feeling more and more worried about her. Quite sure, you know, that something was wrongâbadly wrongâand yet being quite unable to say why. A most disturbing feeling and very, very definite.â

âAnd was there something wrong?â

âOh yes. Her father, the old admiral, had been very peculiar for some time, and the very next day he went for her with the coal hammer, roaring out that she was Antichrist masquerading as his daughter. He nearly killed her. They took him away to the asylum and she eventually recovered after months in hospitalâbut it was a very near thing.â

âAnd youâd actually had a premonition that day in church?â

âI wouldnât call it a premonition. It was founded on factâthese things usually are, though one doesnât always recognise it at the time. She was wearing her Sunday hat the wrong way round. Very significant, really, because Grace Lamble was a most precise woman, not at all vague or absentmindedâand the circumstances under which she would not notice which way her hat was put on to go to church were really extremely limited. Her father, you see, had thrown a marble paperweight at her and it had shattered the looking glass. She had caught up her hat, put it on, and hurried out of the house. Anxious to keep up appearances and for the servants not to hear anything. She put down these actions, you see, to âdear Papaâs Naval temper,â she didnât realise that his mind was definitely unhinged. Though she ought to have realised it clearly enough. He was always complaining to her of being spied upon and of enemiesâall the usual symptoms, in fact.â

Mrs. Van Rydock gazed respectfully at her friend.

âMaybe, Jane,â she said, âthat St. Mary Mead of yours isnât quite the idyllic retreat that Iâve always imagined it.â

âHuman nature, dear, is very much the same everywhere. It is more difficult to observe it closely in a city, that is all.â

âAnd youâll go to Stonygates?â

âIâll go to Stonygates. A little unfair, perhaps, on my nephew Raymond. To let it be thought that he does not assist me, I mean. Still the dear boy is in Mexico for six months. And by that time it should all be over.â

âWhat should all be over?â

âCarrie Louiseâs invitation will hardly be for an indefinite stay. Three weeks, perhapsâa month. That should be ample.â

âFor you to find out what is wrong?â

âFor me to find out what is wrong.â

âMy, Jane,â said Mrs. Van Rydock, âyouâve got a lot of confidence in yourself, havenât you?â

Miss Marple looked faintly reproachful.

âYou have confidence in me, Ruth. Or so you say â¦ I can only assure you that I shall endeavour to justify your confidence.â

Two

Before catching her train back to St. Mary Mead (Wednesday special cheap day return) Miss Marple, in a precise and businesslike fashion, collected certain data.

âCarrie Louise and I have corresponded after a fashion, but it has largely been a matter of Christmas cards or calendars. Itâs just the facts I should like, Ruth dearâand also some idea as to whom exactly I shall encounter in the household at Stonygates.â

âWell, you know about Carrie Louiseâs marriage to Gulbrandsen. There were no children and Carrie Louise took that very much to heart. Gulbrandsen was a widower, and had three grown-up sons. Eventually they adopted a child. Pippa, they called herâa lovely little creature. She was just two years old when they got her.â

âWhere did she come from? What was her background?â

âReally, now, Jane, I canât rememberâif I ever heard, that is. An adoption society, maybe? Or some unwanted child that Gulbrandsen had heard about. Why? Do you think itâs important?â

âWell, one always likes to know the background, so to speak. But please go on.â

âThe next thing that happened was that Carrie Louise found that she was going to have a baby after all. I understand from doctors that that quite often happens.â

Miss Marple nodded.

âI believe so.â

âAnyway, it did happen, and in a funny kind of way, Carrie Louise was almost disconcerted, if you can understand what I mean. Earlier, of course, sheâd have been wild with joy. As it was, sheâd given such a devoted love to Pippa that she felt quite apologetic to Pippa for putting her nose out of joint, so to speak. And then Mildred, when she arrived, was really a very unattractive child. Took after the Gulbrandsensâwho were solid and worthyâbut definitely homely. Carrie Louise was always so anxious to make no difference between the adopted child and her own child that I think she rather tended to overindulge Pippa and pass over Mildred. Sometimes I think that Mildred resented it. However I didnât see them often. Pippa grew up a very beautiful girl and Mildred grew up a plain one. Eric Gulbrandsen died when Mildred was fifteen and Pippa eighteen. At twenty Pippa married an Italian, the Marchese di San Severianoâoh quite a genuine Marcheseânot an adventurer, or anything like that. She was by way of being an heiress (naturally, or San Severiano wouldnât have married herâyou know what Italians are!). Gulbrandsen left an equal sum in trust for both his own and his adopted daughter. Mildred married a Canon Streteâa nice man but given to colds in the head. About ten or fifteen years older than she was. Quite a happy marriage, I believe.

âHe died a year ago and Mildred has come back to Stonygates to live with her mother. But thatâs getting on too fast; Iâve skipped a marriage or two. Iâll go back to them. Pippa married her Italian. Carrie Louise was quite pleased about the marriage. Guido had beautiful manners and was very handsome, and he was a fine sportsman. A year later Pippa had a daughter and died in childbirth. It was a terrible tragedy and Guido San Severiano was very cut up. Carrie Louise went to and fro between Italy and England a good deal and it was in Rome that she met Johnnie Restarick and married him. The Marchese married again and he was quite willing for his little daughter to be brought up in England by her exceedingly wealthy grandmother. So they all settled down at Stonygates, Johnnie Restarick and Carrie Louise, and Johnnieâs two boys, Alexis and Stephen (Johnnieâs first wife was a Russian), and the baby Gina. Mildred married her Canon soon afterwards. Then came all this business of Johnnie and the Yugoslavian woman and the divorce. The boys still came to Stonygates for their holidays and were devoted to Carrie Louise and then in 1938, I think it was, Carrie Louise married Lewis.â

Mrs. Van Rydock paused for breath.

âYouâve not met Lewis?â

Miss Marple shook her head.

âNo, I think I last saw Carrie Louise in 1928. She very sweetly took me to Covent Gardenâto the Opera.â

âOh yes. Well, Lewis was a very suitable person for her to marry. He was the head of a very celebrated firm of chartered accountants. I think he met her first over some question of the finances of the Gulbrandsen Trust and the College. He was well off, just about her own age, and a man of absolutely upright life. But he was a crank. He was absolutely rabid on the subject of the redemption of young criminals.â

Ruth Van Rydock sighed.

âAs I said just now, Jane, there are fashions in philanthropy. In Gulbrandsenâs time it was education. Before that it was soup kitchensââ

Miss Marple nodded.

âYes, indeed. Port wine jelly and calfâs head broth taken to the sick. My mother used to do it.â

âThatâs right. Feeding the body gave way to feeding the mind. Everyone went mad on educating the lower classes. Well, thatâs passed. Soon, I expect, the fashionable thing to do will be not to educate your children, preserve their illiteracy carefully until theyâre eighteen. Anyway the Gulbrandsen Trust and Education Fund was in some difficulties because the state was taking over its functions. Then Lewis came along with his passionate enthusiasm about constructive training for juvenile delinquents. His attention had been drawn to the subject first in the course of his professionâauditing accounts where ingenious young men had perpetrated frauds. He was more and more convinced that juvenile delinquents were not subnormalâthat they had excellent brains and abilities and only needed the right direction.â

âThere is something in that,â said Miss Marple. âBut it is not entirely true. I rememberââ

She broke off and glanced at her watch.

âOh dearâI mustnât miss the 6:30.â

Ruth Van Rydock said urgently:

âAnd you will go to Stonygates?â

Gathering up her shopping bag and her umbrella Miss Marple said:

âIf Carrie Louise asks meââ

âShe will ask you. Youâll go? Promise, Jane?â

Jane Marple promised.

Three

Miss Marple got out of the train at Market Kindle station. A kindly fellow passenger handed out her suitcase after her, and Miss Marple, clutching a string bag, a faded leather handbag and some miscellaneous wraps, uttered appreciative twitters of thanks.

âSo kind of you, Iâm sure â¦ So difficult nowadaysânot many porters. I get so flustered when I travel.â

The twitters were drowned by the booming noise of the station announcer saying loudly but indistinctly that the 3:18 was standing at Platform 1 and was about to proceed to various unidentifiable stations.

Market Kindle was a large empty windswept station with hardly any passengers or railway staff to be seen on it. Its claim to distinction lay in having six platforms and a bay where a very small train of one carriage was puffing importantly.

Miss Marple, rather more shabbily dressed than was her custom (so lucky that she hadnât given away the old speckledy), was peering around her uncertainly when a young man came up to her.

âMiss Marple?â he said. His voice had an unexpectedly dramatic quality about it, as though the utterance of her name were the first words of a part he was playing in amateur theatricals. âIâve come to meet youâfrom Stonygates.â

Miss Marple looked gratefully at him, a charming helpless looking old lady with, if he had chanced to notice it, very shrewd blue eyes. The personality of the young man did not quite match his voice. It was less important, one might almost say insignificant. His eyelids had a trick of fluttering nervously.

âOh, thank you,â said Miss Marple. âThereâs just this suitcase.â

She noticed that the young man did not pick up her suitcase himself. He flipped a finger at a porter who was trundling some packing cases past on a trolley.

âBring it out, please,â he said, and added importantly, âFor Stonygates.â

The porter said cheerfully:

âRightyho. Shanât be long.â

Miss Marple fancied that her new acquaintance was not too pleased about this. It was as if Buckingham Palace had been dismissed as no more important than 3 Laburnum Road.

He said, âThe railways get more impossible every day!â

Guiding Miss Marple towards the exit, he said: âIâm Edgar Lawson. Mrs. Serrocold asked me to meet you. I help Mr. Serrocold in his work.â

There was again the faint insinuation that a busy and important man had, very charmingly, put important affairs on one side out of chivalry to his employerâs wife.

And again the impression was not wholly convincingâit had a theatrical flavour.

Miss Marple began to wonder about Edgar Lawson.

They came out of the station and Edgar guided the old lady to where a rather elderly Ford V.8 was standing.

He was just saying, âWill you come in front with me, or would you prefer the back?â when there was a diversion.

A new gleaming two-seater Rolls Bentley came purring into the station yard and drew up in front of the Ford. A very beautiful young woman jumped out of it and came across to them. The fact that she wore dirty corduroy slacks and a simple aertex shirt open at the neck seemed somehow to enhance the fact that she was not only beautiful but expensive.

âThere you are, Edgar. I thought I wouldnât make it in time. I see youâve got Miss Marple. I came to meet her.â She smiled dazzlingly at Miss Marple showing a row of lovely teeth in a sunburnt southern face. âIâm Gina,â she said. âCarrie Louiseâs granddaughter. What was your journey like? Simply foul? What a nice string bag. I love string bags. Iâll take it and the coats and then you can get in better.â

Edgarâs face flushed. He protested.

âLook here, Gina, I came to meet Miss Marple. It was all arrangedâ¦.â

Again the teeth flashed in that wide, lazy smile.

âOh I know, Edgar, but I suddenly thought it would be nice if I came along. Iâll take her with me and you can wait and bring her cases up.â

She slammed the door on Miss Marple, ran round to the other side, jumped in the driving seat, and they purred swiftly out of the station.

Looking back, Miss Marple noticed Edgar Lawsonâs face.

âI donât think, my dear,â she said, âthat Mr. Lawson is very pleased.â

Gina laughed.

âEdgarâs a frightful idiot,â she said. âAlways so pompous about things. Youâd really think he mattered!â

Miss Marple asked, âDoesnât he matter?â

âEdgar?â There was an unconscious note of cruelty in Ginaâs scornful laugh. âOh, heâs bats anyway.â

âBats?â

âTheyâre all bats at Stonygates,â said Gina. âI donât mean Lewis and Grandam and me and the boysâand not Miss Bellever, of course. But the others. Sometimes I feel Iâm going a bit bats myself living there. Even Aunt Mildred goes out on walks and mutters to herself all the timeâand you donât expect a Canonâs widow to do that, do you?â

They swung out of the station approach and accelerated up the smooth-surfaced, empty road. Gina shot a swift, sideways glance at her companion.

âYou were at school with Grandam, werenât you? It seems so queer.â

Miss Marple knew perfectly what she meant. To youth it seems very odd to think that age was once young and pigtailed and struggled with decimals and English literature.

âIt must,â said Gina with awe in her voice, and obviously not meaning to be rude, âhave been a very long time ago.â

âYes, indeed,â said Miss Marple. âYou feel that more with me than you do with your grandmother, I expect?â

Gina nodded. âItâs cute of you saying that. Grandam, you know, gives one a curiously ageless feeling.â

âIt is a long time since Iâve seen her. I wonder if I shall find her much changed.â

âHer hairâs grey, of course,â said Gina vaguely. âAnd she walks with a stick because of her arthritis. Itâs got much worse lately. I suppose thatââ she broke off, and then asked, âHave you been to Stonygates before?â

âNo, never. Iâve heard a great deal about it, of course.â

âItâs pretty ghastly really,â said Gina cheerfully. âA sort of Gothic monstrosity. What Steve calls Best Victorian Lavatory period. But itâs fun, too, in a way. Only, of course, everythingâs madly earnest, and you tumble over psychiatrists everywhere underfoot. Enjoying themselves madly. Rather like scoutmasters, only worse. The young criminals are rather pets, some of them. One showed me how to diddle locks with a bit of wire and one angelic-faced boy gave me a lot of points about coshing people.â

Miss Marple considered this information thoughtfully.

âItâs the thugs I like best,â said Gina. âI donât fancy the queers so much. Of course, Lewis and Dr. Maverick think theyâre all queersâI mean they think itâs repressed desires and disordered home life and their mothers getting off with soldiers and all that. I donât really see it myself because some people have had awful home lives and yet have managed to turn out quite all right.â

âIâm sure it is all a very difficult problem,â said Miss Marple.

Gina laughed, again showing her magnificent teeth.

âIt doesnât worry me much. I suppose some people have these sorts of urges to make the world a better place. Lewis is quite dippy about it allâheâs going to Aberdeen next week because thereâs a case coming up in the police courtâa boy with five previous convictions.â

âThe young man who met me at the station? Mr. Lawson. He helps Mr. Serrocold, he told me. Is he his secretary?â

âOh Edgar hasnât brains enough to be a secretary. Heâs a case, really. He used to stay at hotels and pretend he was a V.C. or a fighter pilot and borrow money and then do a flit. I think heâs just a rotter. But Lewis goes through a routine with them all. Makes them feel one of the family and gives them jobs to do and all that to encourage their sense of responsibility. I daresay we shall be murdered by one of them one of these days.â Gina laughed merrily.

Miss Marple did not laugh.

They turned in through some imposing gates where a commissionaire was standing on duty in a military manner and drove up a drive flanked with rhododendrons. The drive was badly kept and the grounds seemed neglected.

Interpreting her companionâs glance, Gina said, âNo gardeners during the war, and since we havenât bothered. But it does look rather terrible.â

They came round a curve and Stonygates appeared in its full glory. It was, as Gina had said, a vast edifice of Victorian Gothicâa kind of temple to plutocracy. Philanthropy had added to it in various wings and outbuildings which, while not positively dissimilar in style, had robbed the structure as a whole of any cohesion or purpose.

âHideous, isnât it?â said Gina affectionately. âThereâs Grandam on the terrace. Iâll stop here and you can go and meet her.â

Miss Marple advanced along the terrace towards her old friend.

From a distance, the slim little figure looked curiously girlish in spite of the stick on which she leaned and her slow and obviously rather painful progress. It was as though a young girl was giving an exaggerated imitation of old age.

âJane,â said Mrs. Serrocold.

âDear Carrie Louise.â

Yes, unmistakably Carrie Louise. Strangely unchanged, strangely youthful still, although, unlike her sister, she used no cosmetics or artificial aids to youth. Her hair was grey, but it had always been of a silvery fairness and the colour had changed very little. Her skin had still a rose leaf pink and white appearance, though now it was a crumpled rose leaf. Her eyes had still their starry innocent glance. She had the slender youthful figure of a girl and her head kept its eager birdlike tilt.

âI do blame myself,â said Carrie Louise in her sweet voice, âfor letting it be so long. Years since I saw you, Jane dear. Itâs just lovely that youâve come at last to pay us a visit here.â

From the end of the terrace Gina called:

âYou ought to come in, Grandam. Itâs getting coldâand Jolly will be furious.â

Carrie Louise gave her little silvery laugh.

âThey all fuss about me so,â she said. âThey rub it in that Iâm an old woman.â

âAnd you donât feel like one.â

âNo, I donât, Jane. In spite of all my aches and painsâand Iâve got plenty. Inside I go on feeling just a chit like Gina. Perhaps everyone does. The glass shows them how old they are and they just donât believe it. It seems only a few months ago that we were at Florence. Do you remember FrÃ¤ulein Schweich and her boots?â

The two elderly women laughed together at events that had happened nearly half a century ago.

They walked together to a side door. In the doorway a gaunt, elderly lady met them. She had an arrogant nose, a short haircut and wore stout, well-cut tweeds.

She said fiercely:

âItâs absolutely crazy of you, Cara, to stay out so late. Youâre absolutely incapable of taking care of yourself. What will Mr. Serrocold say?â

âDonât scold me, Jolly,â said Carrie Louise pleadingly. She introduced Miss Bellever to Miss Marple.

âThis is Miss Bellever who is simply everything to me. Nurse, dragon, watchdog, secretary, housekeeper, and very faithful friend.â

Juliet Bellever sniffed, and the end of her big nose turned rather pink, a sign of emotion.

âI do what I can,â she said gruffly. âThis is a crazy household. You simply canât arrange any kind of planned routine.â

âDarling Jolly, of course you canât. I wonder why you ever try. Where are you putting Miss Marple?â

âIn the Blue Room. Shall I take her up?â asked Miss Bellever.

âYes, please do, Jolly. And then bring her down to tea. Itâs in the library today, I think.â

The Blue Room had heavy curtains of a rich, faded blue brocade that must have been, Miss Marple thought, about fifty years old. The furniture was mahogany, big and solid, and the bed was a vast mahogany fourposter. Miss Bellever opened a door into a connecting bathroom. This was unexpectedly modern, orchid in colouring and with much dazzling chromium.

She observed grimly:

âJohn Restarick had ten bathrooms put into the house when he married Cara. The plumbing is about the only thing thatâs ever been modernized. He wouldnât hear of the rest being alteredâsaid the whole place was a perfect period piece. Did you ever know him at all?â

âNo, I never met him. Mrs. Serrocold and I have met very seldom though we have always corresponded.â

âHe was an agreeable fellow,â said Miss Bellever. âNo good, of course! A complete rotter. But pleasant to have about the house. Great charm. Women liked him far too much. That was his undoing in the end. Not really Caraâs type.â

She added, with a brusque resumption of her practical manner:

âThe housemaid will unpack for you. Do you want a wash before tea?â

Receiving an affirmative answer, she said that Miss Marple would find her waiting at the top of the stairs.

Miss Marple went into the bathroom and washed her hands and dried them a little nervously on a very beautiful orchid coloured face towel. Then she removed her hat and patted her soft white hair into place.

Opening her door she found Miss Bellever waiting for her and was conducted down the big gloomy staircase and across a vast dark hall and into a room where bookshelves went up to the ceiling and a big window looked out over an artificial lake.

Carrie Louise was standing by the window and Miss Marple joined her.

âWhat a very imposing house this is,â said Miss Marple. âI feel quite lost in it.â

âYes, I know. Itâs ridiculous, really. It was built by a prosperous iron masterâor something of that kind. He went bankrupt not long after. I donât wonder really. There were about fourteen living roomsâall enormous. Iâve never seen what people can want with more than one sitting room. And all those huge bedrooms. Such a lot of unnecessary space. Mine is terribly overpoweringâand quite a long way to walk from the bed to the dressing table. And great heavy dark crimson curtains.â

âYou havenât had it modernized and redecorated?â

Carrie Louise looked vaguely surprised.

âNo. On the whole itâs very much as it was when I first lived here with Eric. Itâs been repainted, of course, but they always do it the same colour. Those things donât really matter, do they? I mean I shouldnât have felt justified in spending a lot of money on that kind of thing when there are so many things that are so much more important.â

âHave there been no changes at all in the house?â

âOh yesâheaps of them. Weâve just kept a kind of block in the middle of the house as it wasâthe Great Hall and the rooms off and over. Theyâre the best ones and Johnnieâmy second husbandâwas lyrical over them and said they should never be touched or alteredâand, of course, he was an artist and a designer and he knew about these things. But the East and West wings have been completely remodelled. All the rooms partitioned off and divided up, so that we have offices, and bedrooms for the teaching staff, and all that. The boys are all in the College buildingâyou can see it from here.â

Miss Marple looked out towards where large red brick buildings showed through a belt of sheltering trees. Then her eyes fell on something nearer at hand, and she smiled a little.

âWhat a very beautiful girl Gina is,â she said.

Carrie Louiseâs face lit up.

âYes, isnât she?â she said softly. âItâs so lovely to have her back here again. I sent her to America at the beginning of the warâto Ruth. Did Ruth talk about her at all?â

âNo. At least she did just mention her.â

Carrie Louise sighed.

âPoor Ruth! She was frightfully upset over Ginaâs marriage. But Iâve told her again and again that I donât blame her in the least. Ruth doesnât realise, as I do, that the old barriers and class shibboleths are goneâor at any rate are going.

âGina was doing war workâand she met this young man. He was a marine and had a very good war record. And a week later they were married. It was all far too quick, of course, no time to find out if they were really suited to each otherâbut thatâs the way of things nowadays. Young people belong to their generation. We may think theyâre unwise in many of their doings, but we have to accept their decisions. Ruth, though, was terribly upset.â

âShe didnât consider the young man suitable?â

âShe kept saying that one didnât know anything about him. He came from the middle west and he hadnât any moneyâand naturally no profession. There are hundreds of boys like that everywhereâbut it wasnât Ruthâs idea of what was right for Gina. However, the thing was done. I was so glad when Gina accepted my invitation to come over here with her husband. Thereâs so much going on hereâjobs of every kind, and if Walter wants to specialise in medicine or get a degree or anything he could do it in this country. After all, this is Ginaâs home. Itâs delightful to have her back, to have someone so warm and gay and alive in the house.â

Miss Marple nodded and looked out of the window again at the two young people standing near the lake.

âTheyâre a remarkably handsome couple, too,â she said. âI donât wonder Gina fell in love with him!â

âOh, but thatâthat isnât Wally.â There was, quite suddenly, a touch of embarrassment, or restraint, in Mrs. Serrocoldâs voice. âThatâs Steveâthe younger of Johnnie Restarickâs two boys. When Johnnieâwhen he went away, heâd no place for the boys in the holidays, so I always had them here. They look on this as their home. And Steveâs here permanently now. He runs our dramatic branch. We have a theatre, you know, and playsâwe encourage all the artistic instincts. Lewis says that so much of this juvenile crime is due to exhibitionism; most of the boys have had such a thwarted, unhappy home life, and these hold-ups and burglaries make them feel heroes. We urge them to write their own plays and act in them and design and paint their own scenery. Steve is in charge of the theatre. Heâs so keen and enthusiastic. Itâs wonderful what life heâs put into the whole thing.â

âI see,â said Miss Marple slowly.

Her long distance sight was good (as many of her neighbours knew to their cost in the village of St. Mary Mead) and she saw very clearly the dark handsome face of Stephen Restarick as he stood facing Gina, talking eagerly. Ginaâs face she could not see, since the girl had her back to them, but there was no mistaking the expression in Stephen Restarickâs face.

âIt isnât any business of mine,â said Miss Marple, âbut I suppose you realise, Carrie Louise, that heâs in love with her.â

âOh noââ Carrie Louise looked troubled. âOh no, I do hope not.â

âYou were always up in the clouds, Carrie Louise. Thereâs not the least doubt about it.â

Four

1

Before Mrs. Serrocold could say anything, her husband came in from the hall carrying some open letters in his hand.

Lewis Serrocold was a short man, not particularly impressive in appearance, but with a personality that immediately marked him out. Ruth had once said of him that he was more like a dynamo than a human being. He usually concentrated entirely on what was immediately occupying his attention and paid no attention to the objects or persons who were surrounding it.

âA bad blow, dearest,â he said. âThat boy, Jackie Flint. Back at his tricks again. And I really did think he meant to go straight this time if he got a proper chance. He was most earnest about it. You know we found heâd always been keen on railwaysâand both Maverick and I thought that if he got a job on the railways heâd stick to it and make good. But itâs the same story. Petty thieving from the parcels office. Not even stuff he could want or sell. That shows that it must be psychological. We havenât really got to the root of the trouble. But Iâm not giving up.â

âLewisâthis is my old friend, Jane Marple.â

âOh, how dâyou do,â said Mr. Serrocold absently. âSo gladâtheyâll prosecute, of course. A nice lad, too, not too many brains but a really nice boy. Unspeakable home he came from. Iââ

He suddenly broke off, and the dynamo was switched onto the guest.

âWhy, Miss Marple, Iâm so delighted youâve come to stay with us for a while. It will make such a great difference to Caroline to have a friend of old days with whom she can exchange memories. She has, in many ways, a grim time hereâso much sadness in the stories of these poor children. We do hope youâll stay with us a very long time.â

Miss Marple felt the magnetism and realised how attractive it would have been to her friend. That Lewis Serrocold was a man who would always put causes before people she did not doubt for a moment. It might have irritated some women, but not Carrie Louise.

Lewis Serrocold sorted out another letter.

âAt any rate weâve some good news. This is from the Wiltshire and Somerset Bank. Young Morris is doing extremely well. Theyâre thoroughly satisfied with him and, in fact, are promoting him next month. I always knew that all he needed was responsibilityâthat, and a thorough grasp of the handling of money and what it means.â

He turned to Miss Marple.

âHalf these boys donât know what money is. It represents to them going to the pictures or to the dogs, or buying cigarettesâand theyâre clever with figures and find it exciting to juggle them round. Well, I believe inâwhat shall I say?ârubbing their noses in the stuffâtrain them in accountancy, in figuresâshow them the whole inner romance of money, so to speak. Give them skill and then responsibilityâlet them handle it officially. Our greatest successes have been that wayâonly two out of thirty-eight have let us down. Oneâs head cashier in a firm of druggistsâa really responsible positionââ

He broke off to say: âTeaâs in, dearest,â to his wife.

âI thought we were having it here. I told Jolly.â

âNo, itâs in the Hall. The others are there.â

âI thought they were all going to be out.â

Carrie Louise linked her arm through Miss Marpleâs and they went into the Great Hall. Tea seemed a rather incongruous meal in its surroundings. The tea things were piled haphazard on a trayâwhile utility cups mixed with the remnants of what had been Rockingham and Spode tea services. There was a loaf of bread, two pots of jam, and some cheap and unwholesome-looking cakes.

A plump middle-aged woman with grey hair sat behind the tea table and Mrs. Serrocold said:

âThis is Mildred, Jane. My daughter Mildred. You havenât seen her since she was a tiny girl.â

Mildred Strete was the person most in tune with the house that Miss Marple had so far seen. She looked prosperous and dignified. She had married late in her thirties a Canon of the Church of England and was now a widow. She looked exactly like a Canonâs widow, respectable and slightly dull. She was a plain woman with a large unexpressive face and dull eyes. She had been, Miss Marple reflected, a very plain little girl.

âAnd this is Wally HuddâGinaâs husband.â

Wally was a big young man, with hair brushed up on his head and a sulky expression. He nodded awkwardly and went on cramming cake into his mouth.

Presently Gina came in with Stephen Restarick. They were both very animated.

âGinaâs got a wonderful idea for that backcloth,â said Stephen. âYou know, Gina, youâve got a very definite flair for theatrical designing.â

Gina laughed and looked pleased. Edgar Lawson came in and sat down by Lewis Serrocold. When Gina spoke to him, he made a pretence of not answering.

Miss Marple found it all a little bewildering and was glad to go to her room and lie down after tea.

There were more people still at dinner, a young Doctor Maverick who was either a psychiatrist or a psychologistâMiss Marple was rather hazy about the differenceâand whose conversation, dealing almost entirely with the jargon of his trade, was practically unintelligible to her. There were also two spectacled young men who held posts on the teaching side and a Mr. Baumgarten who was an occupational therapist and three intensely bashful youths who were doing their âhouse guestâ week. One of them, a fair-haired lad with very blue eyes was, Gina informed her in a whisper, the expert with the âcosh.â

The meal was not a particularly appetizing one. It was indifferently cooked and indifferently served. A variety of costumes was worn. Miss Bellever wore a high black dress, Mildred Strete wore an evening dress and a woollen cardigan over it. Carrie Louise had on a short dress of grey woolâGina was resplendent in a kind of peasant getup. Wally had not changed, nor had Stephen Restarick, Edgar Lawson had on a neat, dark blue suit. Lewis Serrocold wore the conventional dinner jacket. He ate very little and hardly seemed to notice what was on his plate.

After dinner Lewis Serrocold and Dr. Maverick went away to the latterâs office. The occupational therapist and the schoolmasters went away to some lair of their own. The three âcasesâ went back to the college. Gina and Stephen went to the theatre to discuss Ginaâs idea for a set. Mildred knitted an indeterminate garment and Miss Bellever darned socks. Wally sat in a chair gently tilted backwards and stared into space. Carrie Louise and Miss Marple talked about old days. The conversation seemed strangely unreal.

Edgar Lawson alone seemed unable to find a niche. He sat down and then got up restlessly.

âI wonder if I ought to go to Mr. Serrocold,â he said rather loudly. âHe may need me.â

Carrie Louise said gently, âOh, I donât think so. He was going to talk over one or two points with Dr. Maverick this evening.â

âThen I certainly wonât butt in! I shouldnât dream of going where I wasnât wanted. Iâve already wasted time today going down to the station when Mrs. Hudd meant to go herself.â

âShe ought to have told you,â said Carrie Louise. âBut I think she just decided at the last moment.â

âYou do realise, Mrs. Serrocold, that she made me look a complete fool! A complete fool!â

âNo, no,â said Carrie Louise, smiling. âYou mustnât have these ideas.â

âI know Iâm not needed or wanted â¦ Iâm perfectly aware of that. If things had been differentâif Iâd had my proper place in life it would be very different. Very different indeed. Itâs no fault of mine that I havenât got my proper place in life.â

âNow, Edgar,â said Carrie Louise. âDonât work yourself up about nothing. Jane thinks it was very kind of you to meet her. Gina always has these sudden impulsesâshe didnât mean to upset you.â

âOh yes, she did. It was done on purposeâto humiliate meââ

âOh Edgarââ

âYou donât know half of whatâs going on, Mrs. Serrocold. Well, I wonât say anymore now except good night.â

Edgar went out shutting the door with a slam behind him.

Miss Bellever snorted:

âAtrocious manners.â

âHeâs so sensitive,â said Carrie Louise vaguely.

Mildred Strete clicked her needles and said sharply:

âHe really is a most odious young man. You shouldnât put up with such behavior, Mother.â

âLewis says he canât help it.â

Mildred said sharply:

âEveryone can help behaving rudely. Of course I blame Gina very much. Sheâs so completely scatterbrained in everything she undertakes. She does nothing but make trouble. One day she encourages the young man and the next day she snubs him. What can you expect?â

Wally Hudd spoke for the first time that evening.

He said:

âThat guyâs crackers. Thatâs all there is to it! Crackers!â

2

In her bedroom that night, Miss Marple tried to review the pattern of Stonygates, but it was as yet too confused. There were currents and crosscurrents hereâbut whether they could account for Ruth Van Rydockâs uneasiness it was impossible to tell. It did not seem to Miss Marple that Carrie Louise was affected in any way by what was going on round her. Stephen was in love with Gina. Gina might or might not be in love with Stephen. Walter Hudd was clearly not enjoying himself. These were incidents that might and did occur in all places and at most times. There was, unfortunately, nothing exceptional about them. They ended in the divorce court and everybody hopefully started againâwhen fresh tangles were created. Mildred Strete was clearly jealous of Gina and disliked her. That, Miss Marple thought, was very natural.

She thought over what Ruth Van Rydock had told her. Carrie Louiseâs disappointment at not having a childâthe adoption of little Pippaâand then the discovery that, after all, a child was on the way.

âOften happens like that,â Miss Marpleâs doctor had told her. âRelief of tension, maybe, and then Nature can do its work.â

He had added that it was usually hard lines on the adopted child.

But that had not been so in this case. Both Gulbrandsen and his wife had adored little Pippa. She had made her place too firmly in their hearts to be lightly set aside. Gulbrandsen was already a father. Paternity meant nothing new to him. Carrie Louiseâs maternal yearnings had been assuaged by Pippa. Her pregnancy had been uncomfortable and the actual birth difficult and prolonged. Possibly Carrie Louise, who had never cared for reality, did not enjoy her first brush with it.

There remained two little girls growing up, one pretty and amusing, the other plain and dull. Which again, Miss Marple thought, was quite natural. For when people adopt a baby girl, they choose a pretty one. And though Mildred might have been lucky and taken after the Martins who had produced handsome Ruth and dainty Carrie Louise, Nature elected that she should take after the Gulbrandsens who were large and stolid and uncompromisingly plain.

Moreover Carrie Louise was determined that the adopted child should never feel her position and in making sure of this she was overindulgent to Pippa and sometimes less than fair to Mildred.

Pippa had married and gone away to Italy, and Mildred, for a time, had been the only daughter of the house. But then Pippa had died and Carrie Louise had brought Pippaâs baby back to Stonygates and once more Mildred had been out of it. There had been the new marriageâthe Restarick boys. In 1934 Mildred had married Canon Strete, a scholarly antiquarian about ten or fifteen years older, and had gone away to live in the south of England. Presumably she had been happyâbut one did not really know. There had been no children. And now here she was, back again in the same house where she had been brought up. And once again, Miss Marple thought, not particularly happy in it.

Gina, Stephen, Wally, Mildred, Miss Bellever who liked an ordered routine and was unable to enforce it. Lewis Serrocold, who was clearly blissfully and wholeheartedly happy, an idealist able to translate his ideals into practical measures. In none of these personalities did Miss Marple find what Ruthâs words had led her to believe she might find. Carrie Louise seemed secure, remote at the heart of the whirlpoolâas she had been all her life. What then, in that atmosphere, had Ruth felt to be wrong â¦? Did she, Jane Marple, feel it also?

What of the outer personalities of the whirlpoolâthe occupational therapists, the schoolmasters, earnest, harmless young men, confident young Dr. Maverick, the three pink-faced, innocent-eyed young delinquentsâEdgar Lawsonâ¦.

And here, just before she fell asleep, Miss Marpleâs thoughts stopped and revolved speculatively round the figure of Edgar Lawson. Edgar Lawson reminded her of someone or something. There was something a little wrong about Edgar Lawsonâperhaps more than a little. Edgar Lawson was maladjustedâthat was the phrase, wasnât it? But surely that didnât, and couldnât, touch Carrie Louise?

Mentally, Miss Marple shook her head.

What worried her was something more than that.

Five

1

Gently eluding her hostess the next morning, Miss Marple went out into the gardens. Their condition distressed her. They had once been an ambitiously set-out achievement. Clumps of rhododendrons, smooth slopes of lawn, massed borders of herbaceous plants, clipped box-hedges surrounding a formal rose garden. Now all was largely derelict, the lawns raggedly mown, the borders full of weeds with tangled flowers struggling through them, the paths moss-covered and neglected. The kitchen gardens on the other hand, enclosed by red brick walls, were prosperous and well stocked. That, presumably, was because they had a utility value. So, also, a large portion of what had once been lawn and flower garden, was now fenced off and laid out in tennis courts and a bowling green.

Surveying the herbaceous border, Miss Marple clicked her tongue vexedly and pulled up a flourishing plant of groundsel.

As she stood with it in her hand, Edgar Lawson came into view. Seeing Miss Marple, he stopped and hesitated. Miss Marple had no mind to let him escape. She called him briskly. When he came she asked him if he knew where any gardening tools were kept.

Edgar said vaguely that there was a gardener somewhere who would know.

âItâs such a pity to see this border so neglected,â twittered Miss Marple. âIâm so fond of gardens.â And since it was not her intention that Edgar should go in search of any necessary implement she went on quickly:

âItâs about all an old and useless woman can find to do. Now I donât suppose you ever bother your head about gardens, Mr. Lawson. You have so much real and important work to do. Being in a responsible position here, with Mr. Serrocold. You must find it all most interesting.â

He answered quickly, almost eagerly:

âYesâyesâit is interesting.â

âAnd you must be of the greatest assistance to Mr. Serrocold.â

His face darkened.

âI donât know. I canât be sure. Itâs whatâs behind it allââ

He broke off. Miss Marple watched him thoughtfully. A pathetic undersized young man, in a neat dark suit. A young man that few people would look at twice, or remember if they did lookâ¦.

There was a garden seat nearby and Miss Marple drifted towards it and sat. Edgar stood frowning in front of her.

âIâm sure,â said Miss Marple brightly, âthat Mr. Serrocold relies on you a great deal.â

âI donât know,â said Edgar. âI really donât know.â He frowned and almost absently sat down beside her. âIâm in a very difficult position.â

âYes?â said Miss Marple.

The young man Edgar sat staring in front of him.

âThis is all highly confidential,â he said suddenly.

âOf course,â said Miss Marple.

âIf I had my rightsââ

âYes?â

âI might as well tell you â¦ you wonât let it go any further Iâm sure?â

âOh no.â She noticed he did not wait for her disclaimer.

âMy fatherâactually, my father is a very important man.â

This time there was no need to say anything. She had only to listen.

âNobody knows except Mr. Serrocold. You see, it might prejudice my fatherâs position if the story got out.â He turned to her. He smiled. A sad, dignified smile. âYou see, Iâm Winston Churchillâs son.â

âOh,â said Miss Marple. âI see.â

And she did see. She remembered a rather sad story in St. Mary Meadâand the way it had gone.

Edgar Lawson went on, and what he said had the familiarity of a stage scene.

âThere were reasons. My mother wasnât free. Her own husband was in an asylumâthere could be no divorceâno question of marriage. I donât really blame them. At least, I think I donât â¦ Heâs done, always, everything he could. Discreetly, of course. And thatâs where the trouble has arisen. Heâs got enemiesâand theyâre against me, too. Theyâve managed to keep us apart. They watch me. Wherever I go, they spy on me. And they make things go wrong for me.â

Miss Marple shook her head.

âDear, dear,â she said.

âIn London I was studying to be a doctor. They tampered with my examsâthey altered the answers. They wanted me to fail. They followed me about the streets. They told things about me to my landlady. They hound me wherever I go.â

âOh, but you canât be sure of that,â said Miss Marple soothingly.

âI tell you I know! Oh theyâre very cunning. I never get a glimpse of them or find out who they are. But I shall find out â¦ Mr. Serrocold took me away from London and brought me down here. He was kindâvery kind. But even here, you know, Iâm not safe. Theyâre here, too. Working against me. Making the others dislike me. Mr. Serrocold says that isnât trueâbut Mr. Serrocold doesnât know. Or elseâI wonderâsometimes Iâve thoughtââ

He broke off. He got up.

âThis is all confidential,â he said. âYou do understand that, donât you? But if you notice anyone following meâspying, I meanâyou might let me know who it is!â

He went away, thenâneat, pathetic, insignificant. Miss Marple watched him and wonderedâ¦.

A voice spoke.

âNuts,â it said. âJust nuts.â

Walter Hudd was standing beside her. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets and he was frowning as he stared after Edgarâs retreating figure.

âWhat kind of a joint is this, anyway?â he said. âTheyâre all bughouse, the whole lot of them.â

Miss Marple said nothing and Walter went on.

âThat Edgar guyâwhat do you make of him? Says his fatherâs really Lord Montgomery. Doesnât seem likely to me! Not Monty! Not from all Iâve heard about him.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âIt doesnât seem very likely.â

âHe told Gina something quite differentâsome bunk about being really the heir to the Russian throneâsaid he was some Grand Dukeâs son or other. Hell, doesnât the chap know who his father really was?â

âI should imagine not,â said Miss Marple. âThat is probably just the trouble.â

Walter sat down beside her, dropping his body onto the seat with a slack movement. He repeated his former statement.

âTheyâre all bughouse here.â

âYou donât like being at Stonygates?â

The young man frowned.

âI simply donât get itâthatâs all! I donât get it. Take this placeâthe houseâthe whole setup. Theyâre rich, these people. They donât need doughâtheyâve got it. And look at the way they live. Cracked antique china and cheap plain stuff all mixed up. No proper upper class servantsâjust some casual hired help. Tapestries and drapes and chaircovers all satin and brocade and stuffâand itâs falling to pieces! Big silver tea urns and what do you knowâall yellow and tarnished for want of cleaning. Mrs. Serrocold just doesnât care. Look at that dress she had on last night. Darned under the arms, nearly worn outâand yet she could go to a store and order what she liked. Bond Street or whatever it is. Dough? Theyâre rolling in dough.â

He paused and sat, deliberating.

âI understand being poor. Thereâs nothing much wrong with it. If youâre young and strong and ready to work. I never had much money, but I was all set to get where I wanted. I was going to open a garage. Iâd got a bit of money put by. I talked to Gina about it. She listened. She seemed to understand. I didnât know much about her. All those girls in uniform, they look about the same. I mean you canât tell from looking at them whoâs got dough and who hasnât. I thought she was a cut above me, perhaps, education and all that. But it didnât seem to matter. We fell for each other. We got married. Iâd got my bit put by and Gina had some too, she told me. We were going to set up a gas station back homeâGina was willing. Just a couple of crazy kids we wereâmad about each other. Then that snooty aunt of Ginaâs started making trouble â¦ And Gina wanted to come here to England to see her grandmother. Well, that seemed fair enough. It was her home, and I was curious to see England anyway. Iâd heard a lot about it. So we came. Just a visitâthatâs what I thought.â

The frown became a scowl.

âBut it hasnât turned out like that. Weâre caught up in this crazy business. Why donât we stay hereâmake our home hereâthatâs what they say. Plenty of jobs for me. Jobs! I donât want a job feeding candy to gangster kids and helping them play at kidsâ games â¦ whatâs the sense of it all? This place could be swellâreally swellâdonât people whoâve got money understand their luck? Donât they understand that most of the world canât have a swell place like this and that theyâve got one? Isnât it plain crazy to kick your luck when youâve got it? I donât mind working if Iâve got to. But Iâll work the way I like and at what I likeâand Iâll work to get somewhere. This place makes me feel Iâm tangled up in a spiderâs web. And GinaâI canât make Gina out. Sheâs not the same girl I married over in the States. I canâtâdang it allâI canât even talk to her now. Oh hell!â

Miss Marple said gently:

âI quite see your point of view.â

Wally shot a swift glance at her.

âYouâre the only one Iâve shot my mouth off to so far. Most of the time I shut up like a clam. Donât know what it is about youâyouâre English right enough, really Englishâbut in the durndest way you remind me of my aunt Betsy back home.â

âNow thatâs very nice.â

âA lot of sense she had,â Wally continued reflectively. âLooked as frail as though you could snap her in two, but actually she was toughâyes, sir, Iâll say she was tough.â

He got up.

âSorry talking to you this way,â he apologised. For the first time, Miss Marple saw him smile. It was a very attractive smile and Wally Hudd was suddenly transfigured from an awkward sulky boy into a handsome and appealing young man. âHad to get things off my chest, I suppose. But too bad picking on you.â

âNot at all, my dear boy,â said Miss Marple. âI have a nephew of my ownâonly, of course, a great deal older than you are.â

Her mind dwelt for a moment on the sophisticated modern writer Raymond West. A greater contrast to Walter Hudd could not have been imagined.

âYouâve got other company coming,â said Walter Hudd. âThat dame doesnât like me. So Iâll quit. So long, maâam. Thanks for the talk.â

He strode away and Miss Marple watched Mildred Strete coming across the lawn to join her.

2

âI see youâve been victimised by that terrible young man,â said Mrs. Strete, rather breathlessly, as she sank down on the seat. âWhat a tragedy that is.â

âA tragedy?â

âGinaâs marriage. It all came about from sending her off to America. I told Mother at the time it was most unwise. After all, this is quite a quiet district. We had hardly any raids here. I do so dislike the way many people gave way to panic about their familiesâand themselves, too, very often.â

âIt must have been difficult to decide what was right to do,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully. âWhere children were concerned, I mean. With the prospect of possible invasion, it might have meant their being brought up under a German regimeâas well as the danger of bombs.â

âAll nonsense,â said Mrs. Strete. âI never had the least doubt that we should win. But Mother has always been quite unreasonable where Gina is concerned. The child was always spoilt and indulged in every way. There was absolutely no need to take her away from Italy in the first place.â

âHer father raised no objection, I understand?â

âOh San Severiano! You know what Italians are. Nothing matters to them but money. He married Pippa for her money, of course.â

âDear me. I always understood he was very devoted to her and was quite inconsolable at her death.â

âHe pretended to be, no doubt. Why Mother ever countenanced her marrying a foreigner, I canât imagine. Just the usual American pleasure in a title, I suppose.â

Miss Marple said mildly:

âI have always thought that dear Carrie Louise was almost too unworldly in her attitude to life.â

âOh I know. Iâve no patience with it. Motherâs fads and whims and idealistic projects. Youâve no idea, Aunt Jane, of all that it has meant. I can speak with knowledge, of course. I was brought up in the middle of it all.â

It was with a very faint shock that Miss Marple heard herself addressed as Aunt Jane. And yet that had been the convention of those times. Her Christmas presents to Carrie Louiseâs children were always labelled âWith love from Aunt Janeâ and as âAunt Janeâ they thought of her, when they thought of her at all. Which was not, Miss Marple supposed, very often.

She looked thoughtfully at the middle-aged woman sitting beside her. At the pursed tight mouth, the deep lines from the nose down, the hands tightly pressed together.

She said gently:

âYou must have hadâa difficult childhood.â

Mildred Strete turned eager grateful eyes to her.

âOh Iâm so glad that somebody appreciates that. People donât really know what children go through. Pippa, you see, was the pretty one. She was older than I was, too. It was always she who got all the attention. Both Father and Mother encouraged her to push herself forwardânot that she needed any encouragementâto show off. I was always the quiet one. I was shyâPippa didnât know what shyness was. A child can suffer a great deal, Aunt Jane.â

âI know that,â said Miss Marple.

ââMildredâs so stupidââthatâs what Pippa used to say. But I was younger than she was. Naturally I couldnât be expected to keep up with her in lessons. And itâs very unfair on a child when her sister is always put in front of her.

ââWhat a lovely little girl,â people used to say to Mamma. They never noticed me. And it was Pippa that Papa used to joke and play with. Someone ought to have seen how hard it was on me. All the notice and attention going to her. I wasnât old enough to realise that itâs character that matters.â

Her lips trembled, then hardened again.

âAnd it was unfairâreally unfairâI was their own child. Pippa was only adopted. I was the daughter of the house. She wasânobody.â

âProbably they were extra indulgent to her on that account,â said Miss Marple.

âThey liked her best,â said Mildred Strete. And added: âA child whose own parents didnât want herâor more probably illegitimate.â

She went on:

âItâs come out in Gina. Thereâs bad blood there. Blood will tell. Lewis can have what theories he likes about environment. Bad blood does tell. Look at Gina.â

âGina is a very lovely girl,â said Miss Marple.

âHardly in behaviour,â said Mrs. Strete. âEveryone but Mother notices how she is carrying on with Stephen Restarick. Quite disgusting, I call it. Admittedly she made a very unfortunate marriage, but marriage is marriage and one should be prepared to abide by it. After all, she chose to marry that dreadful young man.â

âIs he so dreadful?â

âOh dear, Aunt Jane! He really looks to me quite like a gangster. And so surly and rude. He hardly opens his mouth. And he always looks so dirty and uncouth.â

âHe is unhappy, I think,â said Miss Marple mildly.

âI really donât know why he should beâapart from Ginaâs behaviour, I mean. Everything has been done for him here. Lewis has suggested several ways in which he could try to make himself usefulâbut he prefers to skulk about doing nothing.â She burst out, âOh this whole place is impossibleâquite impossible. Lewis thinks of nothing but these horrible young criminals. And Mother thinks of nothing but him. Everything Lewis does is right. Look at the state of the gardenâthe weedsâthe overgrowth. And the houseânothing properly done. Oh, I know a domestic staff is difficult nowadays, but it can be got. Itâs not as though there were any shortage of money. Itâs just that nobody cares. If it were my houseââ She stopped.

âIâm afraid,â said Miss Marple, âthat we have all to face the fact that conditions are different. These large establishments are a great problem. It must be sad for you, in a way, to come back here and find everything so different. Do you really prefer living here toâwellâsomewhere of your own?â

Mildred Strete flushed.

âAfter all, itâs my home,â she said. âIt was my fatherâs house. Nothing can alter that. Iâve a right to be here if I choose. And I do choose. If only Mother were not so impossible! She wonât even buy herself proper clothes. It worries Jolly a lot.â

âI was going to ask you about Miss Bellever.â

âSuch a comfort having her here. She adores Mother. Sheâs been with her a long time nowâshe came in John Restarickâs time. And was wonderful, I believe, during the whole sad business. I expect you heard that he ran away with a dreadful Yugoslavian womanâa most abandoned creature. Sheâs had any amount of lovers, I believe. Mother was very fine and dignified about it all. Divorced him as quietly as possible. Even went so far as to have the Restarick boys for their holidaysâquite unnecessary, really, other arrangements could have been made. It would have been unthinkable, of course, to have let them go to their father and that woman. Anyway, Mother had them here â¦ And Miss Bellever stood by all through things and was a tower of strength. I sometimes think she makes Mother even more vague than she need be, by doing all the practical things herself. But I really donât know what Mother would do without her.â

She paused and then remarked in a tone of surprise:

âHere is Lewis. How odd. He seldom comes out in the garden.â

Mr. Serrocold came towards them in the same single-minded way that he did everything. He appeared not to notice Mildred, because it was only Miss Marple who was in his mind.

âIâm so sorry,â he said. âI wanted to take you round our institution and show you everything. Caroline asked me to. Unfortunately I have to go off to Liverpool. The case of that boy and the railways parcels office. But Maverick will take you. Heâll be here in a few minutes. I shanât be back until the day after tomorrow. It will be splendid if we can get them not to prosecute.â

Mildred Strete got up and walked away. Lewis Serrocold did not notice her go. His earnest eyes gazed at Miss Marple through thick glasses.

âYou see,â he said, âthe Magistrates nearly always take the wrong view. Sometimes theyâre too severe, but sometimes theyâre too lenient. If these boys get a sentence of a few months itâs no deterrentâthey get a kind of a kick out of it, even. Boast about it to their girlfriends. But a severe sentence often sobers them. They realise that the game isnât worth it. Or else itâs better not to serve a prison sentence at all. Corrective trainingâconstructional training like we have here.â

Miss Marple burst firmly into speech.

âMr. Serrocold,â she said. âAre you quite satisfied about young Mr. Lawson? Is heâis he quite normal?â

A disturbed expression appeared on Lewis Serrocoldâs face.

âI do hope heâs not relapsing. What has he been saying?â

âHe told me that he was Winston Churchillâs sonââ

âOf courseâof course. The usual statements. Heâs illegitimate, as youâve probably guessed, poor lad, and of very humble beginnings. He was a case recommended to me by a society in London. Heâd assaulted a man in the street who he said was spying on him. All very typicalâDr. Maverick will tell you. I went into his case history. Mother was of a poor class but a respectable family in Plymouth. Father a sailorâshe didnât even know his name â¦ child brought up in difficult circumstances. Started romancing about his father and later about himself. Wore uniform and decorations he wasnât entitled toâall quite typical. But Maverick considers the prognosis hopeful. If we can give him confidence in himself. Iâve given him responsibility here, tried to make him appreciate that itâs not a manâs birth that matters, but what he is. Iâve tried to give him confidence in his own ability. The improvement was marked. I was very happy about him. And now you sayââ

He shook his head.

âMightnât he be dangerous, Mr. Serrocold?â

âDangerous? I donât think he has shown any suicidal tendencies.â

âI wasnât thinking of suicide. He talked to me of enemiesâof persecution. Isnât that, forgive meâa dangerous sign?â

âI donât really think it has reached such a pitch. But Iâll speak to Maverick. So far, he has been hopefulâvery hopeful.â

He looked at his watch.

âI must go. Ah, here is our dear Jolly. She will take charge of you.â

Miss Bellever, arriving briskly, said, âThe car is at the door, Mr. Serrocold. Dr. Maverick rang through from the Institute. I said I would bring Miss Marple over. He will meet us at the gates.â

âThank you. I must go. My briefcase?â

âIn the car, Mr. Serrocold.â

Lewis Serrocold hurried away. Looking after him, Miss Bellever said:

âSomeday that man will drop down dead in his tracks. Itâs against human nature never to relax or rest. He only sleeps four hours a night.â

âHe is very devoted to this cause,â said Miss Marple.

âNever thinks of anything else,â said Miss Bellever grimly. âNever dreams of looking after his wife or considering her in any way. Sheâs a sweet creature, as you know, Miss Marple, and she ought to have love and attention. But nothingâs thought of or considered here except a lot of whining boys and young men who want to live easily and dishonestly and donât care about the idea of doing a little hard work. What about the decent boys from decent homes? Why isnât something done for them? Honesty just isnât interesting to cranks like Mr. Serrocold and Dr. Maverick and all the bunch of half-baked sentimentalists weâve got here. I and my brothers were brought up the hard way, Miss Marple, and we werenât encouraged to whine. Soft, thatâs what the world is nowadays!â

They had crossed the garden and passed through a palisaded gate and had come to the entrance gate which Eric Gulbrandsen had erected as an entrance to his College, a sturdily built, hideous, red brick building.

Dr. Maverick, looking, Miss Marple decided, distinctly abnormal himself, came out to meet them.

âThank you, Miss Bellever,â he said. âNow, Missâerâoh yes, Miss MarpleâIâm sure youâre going to be interested in what weâre doing here. In our splendid approach to this great problem. Mr. Serrocold is a man of great insightâgreat vision. And weâve got Sir John Stillwell behind usâmy old chief. He was at the Home Office until he retired, and his influence turned the scales in getting this started. Itâs a medical problemâthatâs what weâve got to get the legal authorities to understand. Psychiatry came into its own in the war. The one positive good that did come out of itâNow first of all I want you to see our initial approach to the problem. Look upââ

Miss Marple looked up at the words carved over the large arched doorway.

Â 

RECOVER HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE

Â 

âIsnât that splendid? Isnât that just the right note to strike? You donât want to scold these ladsâor punish them. Thatâs what theyâre hankering after half the time, punishment. We want to make them feel what fine fellows they are.â

âLike Edgar Lawson?â said Miss Marple.

âInteresting case, that. Have you been talking to him?â

âHe has been talking to me,â said Miss Marple. She added apologetically, âI wondered if, perhaps, he isnât a little mad?â

Dr. Maverick laughed cheerfully.

âWeâre all mad, dear lady,â he said as he ushered her in through the door. âThatâs the secret of existence. Weâre all a little mad.â

Six

On the whole it was rather an exhausting day. Enthusiasm in itself can be extremely wearing, Miss Marple thought. She felt vaguely dissatisfied with herself and her own reactions. There was a pattern hereâperhaps several patterns, and yet she herself could obtain no clear glimpse of it or them. Any vague disquietude she felt centered round the pathetic but inconspicuous personality of Edgar Lawson. If she could only find in her memory the right parallel.

Painstakingly she rejected the curious behaviour of Mr. Selkirkâs delivery vanâthe absentminded postmanâthe gardener who worked on Whitmondayâand that very curious affair of the summer weight combinations.

Something that she could not quite put her finger on was wrong about Edgar Lawsonâsomething that went beyond the observed and admitted facts. But for the life of her, Miss Marple did not see how that wrongness, whatever it was, affected her friend Carrie Louise. In the confused patterns of life at Stonygates, peopleâs troubles and desires impinged on each other. But none of them (again as far as she could see) impinged on Carrie Louise.

Carrie Louise â¦ Suddenly Miss Marple realised that it was she alone, except for the absent Ruth, who used that name. To her husband, she was Caroline. To Miss Bellever, Cara. Stephen Restarick usually addressed her as Madonna. To Wally she was formally Mrs. Serrocold, and Gina elected to address her as Grandamâa mixture, she had explained, of Grande Dame and Grandmamma.

Was there some significance, perhaps, in the various names that were found for Caroline Louise Serrocold? Was she to all of them a symbol and not quite a real person?

When on the following morning Carrie Louise, dragging her feet a little as she walked, came and sat down on the garden seat beside her friend and asked her what she was thinking about, Miss Marple replied promptly:

âYou, Carrie Louise.â

âWhat about me?â

âTell me honestlyâis there anything here that worries you?â

âWorries me?â The other woman raised wondering, clear blue eyes. âBut, Jane, what should worry me?â

âWell, most of us have worries.â Miss Marpleâs eyes twinkled a little. âI have. Slugs, you knowâand the difficulty of getting linen properly darnedâand not being able to get sugar candy for making my damson gin. Oh, lots of little thingsâit seems unnatural that you shouldnât have any worries at all.â

âI suppose I must have really,â said Mrs. Serrocold vaguely. âLewis works too hard, and Stephen forgets his meals slaving at the theatre and Gina is very jumpyâbut Iâve never been able to alter peopleâI donât see how you can. So it wouldnât be any good worrying, would it?â

âMildredâs not very happy, either, is she?â

âOh no,â said Carrie Louise. âMildred never is happy. She wasnât as a child. Quite unlike Pippa who was always radiant.â

âPerhaps,â suggested Miss Marple, âMildred has cause not to be happy?â

Carrie Louise said quietly:

âBecause of being jealous? Yes, I daresay. But people donât really need a cause for feeling what they do feel. Theyâre just made that way. Donât you think so, Jane?â

Miss Marple thought briefly of Miss Moncrieff, a slave to a tyrannical invalid mother. Poor Miss Moncrieff who longed for travel and to see the world. And of how St. Mary Mead in a decorous way had rejoiced when Mrs. Moncrieff was laid in the churchyard and Miss Moncrieff, with a nice little income, was free at last. And of how Miss Moncrieff, starting on her travels, had got no further than HayÃ©res where, calling to see one of âmotherâs oldest friends,â she had been so moved by the plight of an elderly hypochondriac that she had cancelled her travel reservations and taken up her abode in the villa to be bullied, overworked, and to long, wistfully, once more, for the joys of a wider horizon.

Miss Marple said:

âI expect youâre right, Carrie Louise.â

âOf course, my being so free from cares is partly due to Jolly. Dear Jolly. She came to me when Johnnie and I were just married and was wonderful from the first. She takes care of me as though I were a baby and quite helpless. Sheâd do anything for me. I feel quite ashamed sometimes. I really believe Jolly would murder someone for me, Jane. Isnât that an awful thing to say?â

âSheâs certainly very devoted,â agreed Miss Marple.

âShe gets so indignant.â Mrs. Serrocoldâs silvery laugh rang out. âSheâd like me to be always ordering wonderful clothes, and surrounding myself with luxuries, and she thinks everybody ought to put me first and to dance attendance on me. Sheâs the one person whoâs absolutely unimpressed by Lewisâ enthusiasm. All our poor boys are, in her view, pampered young criminals and not worth taking trouble over. She thinks this place is damp and bad for my rheumatism, and that I ought to go to Egypt or somewhere warm and dry.â

âDo you suffer much from rheumatism?â

âItâs got much worse lately. I find it difficult to walk. Horrid cramps in my legs. Oh wellââagain there came that bewitching elfin smile, âage must tell.â

Miss Bellever came out of the French windows and hurried across to them.

âA telegram, Cara, just came over the telephone. Arriving this afternoon, Christian Gulbrandsen.â

âChristian?â Carrie Louise looked very surprised. âIâd no idea he was in England.â

âThe Oak Suite, I suppose?â

âYes, please, Jolly. Then there will be no stairs.â

Miss Bellever nodded and turned back to the house.

âChristian Gulbrandsen is my stepson,â said Carrie Louise. âEricâs eldest son. Actually heâs two years older than I am. Herâs one of the trustees of the Instituteâthe principal trustee. How very annoying that Lewis is away. Christian hardly ever stays longer than one night. Heâs an immensely busy man. And there are sure to be so many things they would want to discuss.â

Christian Gulbrandsen arrived that afternoon in time for tea. He was a big heavy featured man, with a slow methodical way of talking. He greeted Carrie Louise with every sign of affection.

âAnd how is our little Carrie Louise? You do not look a day older. Not a day.â

His hands on her shouldersâhe stood smiling down at her. A hand tugged his sleeve.

âChristian!â

âAhââhe turnedââit is Mildred? How are you, Mildred?â

âIâve not really been at all well lately.â

âThat is bad. That is bad.â

There was a strong resemblance between Christian Gulbrandsen and his half sister Mildred. There was nearly thirty years of difference in age and they might easily have been taken for father and daughter. Mildred herself seemed particularly pleased by his arrival. She was flushed and talkative, and had talked repeatedly during the day of âmy brother,â âmy brother Christian,â âmy brother, Mr. Gulbrandsen.â

âAnd how is little Gina?â said Gulbrandsen, turning to that young woman. âYou and your husband are still here, then?â

âYes. Weâve quite settled down, havenât we, Wally?â

âLooks like it,â said Wally.

Gulbrandsenâs small shrewd eyes seemed to sum up Wally quickly. Wally, as usual, looked sullen and unfriendly.

âSo here I am with all the family again,â said Gulbrandsen.

His voice displayed a rather determined genialityâbut in actual fact, Miss Marple thought, he was not feeling particularly genial. There was a grim set to his lips and a certain preoccupation in his manner.

Introduced to Miss Marple he swept a keen look over her as though measuring and appraising this newcomer.

âWeâd no idea you were in England, Christian,â said Mrs. Serrocold.

âNo, I came over rather unexpectedly.â

âIt is too bad that Lewis is away. How long can you stay?â

âI meant to go tomorrow. When will Lewis be back?â

âTomorrow afternoon or evening.â

âIt seems, then, that I must stay another night.â

âIf youâd only let us knowââ

âMy dear Carrie Louise, my arrangements, they were made very suddenly.â

âYou will stay to see Lewis?â

âYes, it is necessary that I see Lewis.â

Miss Bellever said to Miss Marple, âMr. Gulbrandsen and Mr. Serrocold are both trustees of the Gulbrandsen Institute. The others are the Bishop of Cromer and Mr. Gilroy.â

Presumably, then, it was on business concerned with the Gulbrandsen Institute that Christian Gulbrandsen had come to Stonygates. It seemed to be assumed so by Miss Bellever and everyone else. And yet Miss Marple wondered.

Once or twice the old man cast a thoughtful puzzled look at Carrie Louise when she was not aware of itâa look that puzzled Carrie Louiseâs watching friend. From Carrie Louise he shifted his gaze to the others, examining them one and all with a kind of covert appraisal that seemed distinctly odd.

After tea Miss Marple withdrew tactfully from the others to the library, but rather to her surprise when she had settled herself with her knitting, Christian Gulbrandsen came in and sat down beside her.

âYou are a very old friend, I think, of our dear Carrie Louise?â he said.

âWe were at school together in Italy, Mr. Gulbrandsen. Many many years ago.â

âAh yes. And you are fond of her?â

âYes, indeed,â said Miss Marple warmly.

âSo, I think, is everyone. Yes, I truly think that. It should be so. For she is a very dear and enchanting person. Always, since my father married her, I and my brothers have loved her very much. She has been to us like a very dear sister. She was a faithful wife to my father and loyal to all his ideas. She has never thought of herself, but put the welfare of others first.â

âShe has always been an idealist,â said Miss Marple.

âAn idealist? Yes. Yes, that is so. And therefore it may be that she does not truly appreciate the evil that there is in the world.â

Miss Marple looked at him, surprised. His face was very stern.

âTell me,â he said. âHow is her health?â

Again Miss Marple felt surprised.

âShe seems to me very wellâapart from arthritisâor rheumatism.â

âRheumatism? Yes. And her heart? Her heart is good?â

âAs far as I know.â Miss Marple was still more surprised. âBut until yesterday I had not seen her for many years. If you want to know the state of her health, you should ask somebody in the house here. Miss Bellever, for instance.â

âMiss BelleverâYes, Miss Bellever. Or Mildred?â

âOr, as you say, Mildred.â

Miss Marple was faintly embarrassed.

Christian Gulbrandsen was staring at her very hard.

âThere is not between the mother and daughter, a very great sympathy, would you say?â

âNo, I donât think there is.â

âI agree. It is a pityâher only child, but there it is. Now this Miss Bellever, you think, is really attached to her?â

âVery much so.â

âAnd Carrie Louise leans on this Miss Bellever?â

âI think so.â

Christian Gulbrandsen was frowning. He spoke as though more to himself than to Miss Marple.

âThere is the little Ginaâbut she is so young. It is difficultââ He broke off. âSometimes,â he said simply, âit is hard to know what is best to be done. I wish very much to act for the best. I am particularly anxious that no harm and no unhappiness should come to that dear lady. But it is not easyânot easy at all.â

Mrs. Strete came into the room at that moment.

âOh there you are, Christian. We were wondering where you were. Dr. Maverick wants to know if you would like to go over anything with him.â

âThat is the new young doctor here? Noâno, I will wait until Lewis returns.â

âHeâs waiting in Lewisâ study. Shall I tell himââ

âI will have a word with him myself.â

Gulbrandsen hurried out. Mildred Strete stared after him and then stared at Miss Marple.

âI wonder if anything is wrong. Christian is very unlike himself â¦ Did he say anythingââ

âHe only asked me about your motherâs health.â

âHer health? Why should he ask you about that?â

Mildred spoke sharply, her large square face flushing unbecomingly.

âI really donât know.â

âMotherâs health is perfectly good. Surprisingly so for a woman of her age. Much better than mine as far as that goes.â She paused a moment before saying, âI hope you told him so?â

âI donât really know anything about it,â said Miss Marple. âHe asked me about her heart.â

âHer heart?â

âYes.â

âThereâs nothing wrong with Motherâs heart. Nothing at all!â

âIâm delighted to hear you say so, my dear.â

âWhat on earth put all these queer ideas into Christianâs head?â

âIâve no idea,â said Miss Marple.

Seven

1

The next day passed uneventfully to all appearances, yet to Miss Marple it seemed that there were signs of an inner tension. Christian Gulbrandsen spent his morning with Dr. Maverick in going round the Institute and in discussing the general results of the Instituteâs policy. In the early afternoon Gina took him for a drive and after that Miss Marple noticed that he induced Miss Bellever to show him something in the gardens. It seemed to her that it was a pretext for ensuring a tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte with that grim woman. And yet, if Christian Gulbrandsenâs unexpected visit had only to do with business matters, why this wish for Miss Belleverâs company, since the latter dealt only with the domestic side of matters?

But in all this, Miss Marple could tell herself that she was being fanciful. The only really disturbing incident of the day happened about four oâclock. She had rolled up her knitting and had gone out in the garden to take a little stroll before tea. Rounding a straggling rhododendron she came upon Edgar Lawson who was striding along muttering to himself and who nearly ran into her.

He said, âI beg your pardon,â hastily, but Miss Marple was startled by the queer staring expression of his eyes.

âArenât you feeling well, Mr. Lawson?â

âWell? How should I be feeling well? Iâve had a shockâa terrible shock.â

âWhat kind of a shock?â

The young man gave a swift glance past her, and then a sharp uneasy glance to either side. His doing so gave Miss Marple a nervous feeling.

âShall I tell you?â He looked at her doubtfully. âI donât know. I donât really know. Iâve been so spied upon.â

Miss Marple made up her mind. She took him firmly by the arm.

âIf we walk down this path â¦ there, now, there are no trees or bushes near. Nobody can overhear.â

âNoâno, youâre right.â He drew a deep breath, bent his head and almost whispered his next words. âIâve made a discovery. A terrible discovery.â

âWhat kind of a discovery?â

Edgar Lawson began to shake all over. He was almost weeping.

âTo have trusted someone! To have believed â¦ and it was liesâall lies. Lies to keep me from finding out the truth. I canât bear it. Itâs too wicked. You see, he was the one person I trusted, and now to find out that all the time heâs been at the bottom of it all. Itâs he whoâs been my enemy! Itâs he who has been having me followed about and spied upon. But he canât get away with it anymore. I shall speak out. I shall tell him I know what he has been doing.â

âWho is âheâ?â demanded Miss Marple.

Edgar Lawson drew himself up to his full height. He might have looked pathetic and dignified. But actually he only looked ridiculous.

âIâm speaking of my father.â

âViscount Montgomeryâor do you mean Winston Churchill?â

Edgar threw her a glance of scorn.

âThey let me think thatâjust to keep me from guessing the truth. But I know now. Iâve got a friendâa real friend. A friend who tells me the truth and lets me know just how Iâve been deceived. Well, my father will have to reckon with me. Iâll throw his lies in his face! Iâll challenge him with the truth. Weâll see what heâs got to say to that.â

And suddenly breaking away, Edgar went off at a run and disappeared in the park.

Her face grave, Miss Marple went back to the house.

âWeâre all a little mad, dear lady,â Dr. Maverick had said.

But it seemed to her that in Edgarâs case it went rather further than that.

2

Lewis Serrocold arrived back at six thirty. He stopped the car at the gates and walked to the house through the park. Looking out of her window, Miss Marple saw Christian Gulbrandsen go out to meet him and the two men, having greeted one another, turned and paced to and fro, up and down the terrace.

Miss Marple had been careful to bring her bird glasses with her. At this moment she brought them into action. Was there, or was there not, a flight of siskins by that far clump of trees?

She noted as the glasses swept down before rising that both men were looking seriously disturbed. Miss Marple leant out a little further. Scraps of conversation floated up to her now and then. If either of the men should look up, it would be quite clear that an enraptured bird-watcher had her attention fixed on a point far removed from their conversation.

ââhow to spare Carrie Louise the knowledgeââ Gulbrandsen was saying.

The next time they passed below, Lewis Serrocold was speaking.

ââif it can be kept from her. I agree that it is she who must be consideredâ¦.â

Other faint snatches came to the listener.

ââReally seriousââ âânot justifiedââ âtoo big a responsibility to takeââ âwe should, perhaps, take outside adviceââ

Finally Miss Marple heard Christian Gulbrandsen say, âAch, it grows cold. We must go inside.â

Miss Marple drew her head in through the window with a puzzled expression. What she had heard was too fragmentary to be easily pieced togetherâbut it served to confirm that vague apprehension that had been gradually growing upon her and about which Ruth Van Rydock had been so positive.

Whatever was wrong at Stonygates, it definitely affected Carrie Louise.

3

Dinner that evening was a somewhat constrained meal. Both Gulbrandsen and Lewis were absentminded and absorbed in their own thoughts. Walter Hudd glowered even more than usual and, for once, Gina and Stephen seemed to have little to say either to each other or to the company at large. Conversation was mostly sustained by Dr. Maverick who had a lengthy, technical discussion with Mr. Baumgarten, the occupational therapist.

When they moved into the Hall after dinner, Christian Gulbrandsen excused himself almost at once. He said he had an important letter to write.

âSo if you will forgive me, dear Carrie Louise, I will go now to my room.â

âYou have all you want there? Jolly?â

âYes, yes. Everything. A typewriter, I asked, and one has been put there. Miss Bellever has been most kind and attentive.â

He left the Great Hall by the door on the left which led past the foot of the main staircase and along a corridor, at the end of which was a suite of bedroom and bathroom.

When he had gone out, Carrie Louise said:

âNot going down to the theatre tonight, Gina?â

The girl shook her head. She went over and sat by the window overlooking the front drive and the court.

Stephen glanced at her, then strolled over to the big grand piano. He sat down at it and strummed very softlyâa queer melancholy little tune. The two occupational therapists, Mr. Baumgarten and Mr. Lacy, and Dr. Maverick, said good night and left. Walter turned the switch of a reading lamp and with a crackling noise half the lights in the Hall went out.

He growled.

âThat darned switch is always faulty. Iâll go and put a new fuse in.â

He left the Hall and Carrie Louise murmured, âWallyâs so clever with electrical gadgets and things like that. You remember how he fixed that toaster?â

âIt seems to be all he does do here,â said Mildred Strete. âMother, have you taken your tonic?â

Miss Bellever looked annoyed.

âI declare I completely forgot tonight.â She jumped up and went into the dining room, returning presently with a small glass containing a little rose-coloured fluid.

Smiling a little, Carrie Louise held out an obedient hand.

âSuch horrid stuff and nobody lets me forget it,â she said, making a wry face.

And then, rather unexpectedly, Lewis Serrocold said: âI donât think I should take it tonight, my dear. Iâm not sure it really agrees with you.â

Quietly, but with that controlled energy always so apparent in him, he took the glass from Miss Bellever and put it down on the big oak Welsh dresser.

Miss Bellever said sharply:

âReally, Mr. Serrocold, I canât agree with you there. Mrs. Serrocold has been very much better sinceââ

She broke off and turned sharply:

The front door was pushed violently open and allowed to swing to with a crash. Edgar Lawson came into the big dim Hall with the air of a star performer making a triumphal entry.

He stood in the middle of the floor and struck an attitude.

It was almost ridiculousâbut not quite ridiculous.

Edgar said theatrically:

âSo I have found you, O mine enemy!â

He said it to Lewis Serrocold.

Mr. Serrocold looked mildly astonished.

âWhy, Edgar, what is the matter?â

âYou can say that to meâyou! You know whatâs the matter. Youâve been deceiving me, spying on me, working with my enemies against me.â

Lewis took him by the arm.

âNow, now, my dear lad, donât excite yourself. Tell me all about it quietly. Come into my office.â

He led him across the Hall and through a door on the right closing it behind him. After he had done so, there was another sound, the sharp sound of a key being turned in the lock.

Miss Bellever looked at Miss Marple, the same idea in both their minds. It was not Lewis Serrocold who had turned the key.

Miss Bellever said sharply: âThat young man is just about to go off his head in my opinion. It isnât safe.â

Mildred said, âHeâs a most unbalanced young manâand absolutely ungrateful for everything thatâs been done for himâyou ought to put your foot down, Mother.â

With a faint sigh Carrie Louise murmured:

âThereâs no harm in him really. Heâs fond of Lewis. Heâs very fond of him.â

Miss Marple looked at her curiously. There had been no fondness in the expression that Edgar had turned on Lewis Serrocold a few moments previously, very far from it. She wondered, as she had wondered before, if Carrie Louise deliberately turned her back on reality.

Gina said sharply:

âHe had something in his pocket. Edgar, I mean. Playing with it.â

Stephen murmured as he took his hands from the keys:

âIn a film it would certainly have been a revolver.â

Miss Marple coughed.

âI think, you know,â she said apologetically, âit was a revolver.â

From behind the closed doors of Lewisâ office the sound of voices had been plainly discernible. Now, suddenly, they became clearly audible. Edgar Lawson shouted whilst Lewis Serrocoldâs voice kept its even, reasonable note.

âLiesâliesâlies, all lies. Youâre my father. Iâm your son. Youâve deprived me of my rights. I ought to own this place. You hate meâyou want to get rid of me!â

There was a soothing murmur from Lewis and then the hysterical voice rose still higher. It screamed out foul epithets. Edgar seemed rapidly losing control of himself. Occasional words came from Lewisââcalmâjust be calmâyou know none of this is trueââ But they seemed not to soothe, but on the contrary to enrage the young man still further.

Insensibly everyone in the Hall was silent, listening intently to what went on behind the locked door of Lewisâ study.

âIâll make you listen to me,â yelled Edgar. âIâll take that supercilious expression off your face. Iâll have revenge, I tell you. Revenge for all youâve made me suffer.â

The other voice came curtly, unlike Lewisâ usual unemotional tones.

âPut that revolver down!â

Gina cried sharply:

âEdgar will kill him. Heâs crazy. Canât we get the police or something?â

Carrie Louise, still unmoved, said softly:

âThereâs no need to worry, Gina. Edgar loves Lewis. Heâs just dramatising himself, thatâs all.â

Edgarâs voice sounded through the door in a laugh that Miss Marple had to admit sounded definitely insane.

âYes, Iâve got a revolverâand itâs loaded. No, donât speak, donât move. Youâre going to hear me out. Itâs you who started this conspiracy against me and now youâre going to pay for it.â

What sounded like the report of a firearm made them all start, but Carrie Louise said:

âItâs all right, itâs outsideâin the park somewhere.â

Behind the locked door, Edgar was raving in a high screaming voice.

âYou sit there looking at meâlooking at meâpretending to be unmoved. Why donât you get down on your knees and beg for mercy? Iâm going to shoot, I tell you. Iâm going to shoot you dead! Iâm your sonâyour unacknowledged despised sonâyou wanted me hidden away, out of the world altogether, perhaps. You set your spies to follow meâto hound me downâyou plotted against me. You, my father! My father. Iâm only a bastard, arenât I? Only a bastard. You went on filling me up with lies. Pretending to be kind to me, and all the timeâall the time â¦ youâre not fit to live. I wonât let you live.â

Again there came a stream of obscene profanity. Somewhere during the scene Miss Marple was conscious of Miss Bellever saying:

âWe must do something,â and leaving the Hall.

Edgar seemed to pause for breath and then he shouted out,

âYouâre going to dieâto die. Youâre going to die now. Take that, you devil, and that!â

Two sharp cracks rang outânot in the park this time, but definitely behind the locked door.

Somebody, Miss Marple thought it was Mildred, cried out:

âOh God, what shall we do?â

There was a thud from inside the room and then a sound, almost more terrible than what had gone before, the sound of slow, heavy sobbing.

Somebody strode past Miss Marple and started shaking and rattling the door.

It was Stephen Restarick.

âOpen the door. Open the door,â he shouted.

Miss Bellever came back into the Hall. In her hand she held an assortment of keys.

âTry some of these,â she said breathlessly.

At that moment the fused lights came on again. The Hall sprang into life again after its eerie dimness.

Stephen Restarick began trying the keys.

They heard the inside key fall out as he did so.

Inside, that wild desperate sobbing went on.

Walter Hudd, coming lazily back into the Hall, stopped dead and demanded:

âSay, whatâs going on round here?â

Mildred said tearfully,

âThat awful crazy young man has shot Mr. Serrocold.â

âPlease.â It was Carrie Louise who spoke. She got up and came across to the study door. Very gently she pushed Stephen Restarick aside. âLet me speak to him.â

She calledâvery softlyââEdgar â¦ Edgar â¦ let me in, will you? Please, Edgar.â

They heard the key fitted into the lock. It turned and the door was slowly opened.

But it was not Edgar who opened it. It was Lewis Serrocold. He was breathing hard as though he had been running, but otherwise he was unmoved.

âItâs all right, dearest,â he said. âDearest, itâs quite all right.â

âWe thought youâd been shot,â said Miss Bellever gruffly.

Lewis Serrocold frowned. He said with a trifle of asperity:

âOf course I havenât been shot.â

They could see into the study by now. Edgar Lawson had collapsed by the desk. He was sobbing and gasping. The revolver lay on the floor where it had dropped from his hand.

âBut we heard the shots,â said Mildred.

âOh yes, he fired twice.â

âAnd he missed you?â

âOf course he missed me,â snapped Lewis.

Miss Marple did not consider that there was any of course about it. The shots must have been fired at fairly close range.

Lewis Serrocold said irritably:

âWhereâs Maverick? Itâs Maverick we need.â

Miss Bellever said:

âIâll get him. Shall I ring up the police as well?â

âPolice? Certainly not.â

âOf course, we must ring up the police,â said Mildred. âHeâs dangerous.â

âNonsense,â said Lewis Serrocold. âPoor lad. Does he look dangerous?â

At the moment he did not look dangerous. He looked young and pathetic and rather repulsive.

His voice had lost its carefully acquired accent.

âI didnât mean to do it,â he groaned. âI dunno what came over meâtalking all that stuffâI must have been mad.â

Mildred sniffed.

âI really must have been mad. I didnât mean to. Please, Mr. Serrocold, I really didnât mean to.â

Lewis Serrocold patted him on the shoulder.

âThatâs all right, my boy. No damage done.â

âI might have killed you, Mr. Serrocold.â

Walter Hudd walked across the room and peered at the wall behind the desk.

âThe bullets went in here,â he said. His eye dropped to the desk and the chair behind it. âMust have been a near miss,â he said grimly.

âI lost my head. I didnât rightly know what I was doing. I thought heâd done me out of my rights. I thoughtââ

Miss Marple put in the question she had been wanting to ask for some time.

âWho told you,â she asked, âthat Mr. Serrocold was your father?â

Just for a second, a sly expression peeped out of Edgarâs distracted face. It was there and gone in a flash.

âNobody,â he said. âI just got it into my head.â

Walter Hudd was staring down at the revolver where it lay on the floor.

âWhere the hell did you get that gun?â he demanded.

âGun?â Edgar stared down at it.

âLooks mighty like my gun,â said Walter. He stooped down and picked it up. âBy heck, it is! You took it out of my room, you creeping louse you.â

Lewis Serrocold interposed between the cringing Edgar and the menacing American.

âAll this can be gone into later,â he said. âAh, hereâs Maverick. Take a look at him, will you, Maverick?â

Dr. Maverick advanced upon Edgar with a kind of professional zest. âThis wonât do, Edgar,â he said. âThis wonât do, you know.â

âHeâs a dangerous lunatic,â said Mildred sharply. âHeâs been shooting off a revolver and raving. He only just missed my stepfather.â

Edgar gave a little yelp and Dr. Maverick said reprovingly:

âCareful, please, Mrs. Strete.â

âIâm sick of all this. Sick of the way you all go on here! I tell you this manâs a lunatic.â

With a bound, Edgar wrenched himself away from Dr. Maverick and fell to the floor at Serrocoldâs feet.

âHelp me. Help me. Donât let them take me away and shut me up. Donât let themâ¦.â

An unpleasing scene, Miss Marple thought.

Mildred said angrily, âI tell you heâsââ

Her mother said soothingly,

âPlease, Mildred. Not now. Heâs suffering.â

Walter muttered,

âSuffering cripes! Theyâre all cuckoo round here.â

âIâll take charge of him,â said Dr. Maverick. âYou come with me, Edgar. Bed and a sedativeâand weâll talk everything over in the morning. Now you trust me, donât you?â

Rising to his feet and trembling a little, Edgar looked doubtfully at the young doctor and then at Mildred Strete.

âShe saidâI was a lunatic.â

âNo, no, youâre not a lunatic.â

Miss Belleverâs footsteps rang purposefully across the Hall. She came in with her lips pursed together and a flushed face.

âIâve telephoned the police,â she said grimly. âThey will be here in a few minutes.â

Carrie Louise cried, âJolly!â in tones of dismay.

Edgar uttered a wail.

Lewis Serrocold frowned angrily.

âI told you, Jolly, I did not want the police summoned. This is a medical matter.â

âThatâs as may be,â said Miss Bellever. âIâve my own opinion. But I had to call the police. Mr. Gulbrandsenâs been shot dead.â

Eight

It was a moment or two before anyone took in what she was saying.

Carrie Louise said incredulously:

âChristian shot? Dead? Oh, surely, thatâs impossible.â

âIf you donât believe me,â said Miss Bellever, pursing her lips, and addressing not so much Carrie Louise, as the assembled company, âgo and look for yourselves.â

She was angry. And her anger sounded in the crisp sharpness of her voice.

Slowly, unbelievingly, Carrie Louise took a step towards the door. Lewis Serrocold put a hand on her shoulder.

âNo, dearest, let me go.â

He went out through the doorway. Dr. Maverick, with a doubtful glance at Edgar, followed him. Miss Bellever went with them.

Miss Marple gently urged Carrie Louise into a chair. She sat down, her eyes looking hurt and stricken.

âChristianâshot?â she said again.

It was the bewildered, hurt tone of a child.

Walter Hudd remained close by Edgar Lawson, glowering down at him. In his hand he held the gun that he had picked up from the floor.

Mrs. Serrocold said in a wondering voice:

âBut who could possibly want to shoot Christian?â

It was not a question that demanded an answer.

Walter muttered under his breath:

âNuts! The whole lot of them.â

Stephen had moved protectively closer to Gina. Her young, startled face was the most vivid thing in the room.

Suddenly the front door opened and a rush of cold air, together with a man in a big overcoat, came in.

The heartiness of his greeting seemed incredibly shocking.

âHullo, everybody, whatâs going on tonight? A lot of fog on the road. I had to go dead slow.â

For a startled moment, Miss Marple thought that she was seeing double. Surely the same man could not be standing by Gina and coming in by the door. Then she realised that it was only a likeness and not, when you looked closely, such a very strong likeness. The two men were clearly brothers with a strong family resemblance, but no more.

Where Stephen Restarick was thin to the point of emaciation, the newcomer was sleek. The big coat with the astrakhan collar fitted the sleekness of body snugly. A handsome young man and one who bore upon him the authority and good humour of success.

But Miss Marple noted one thing about him. His eyes, as he entered the Hall, looked immediately at Gina.

He said, a little doubtfully:

âYou did expect me? You got my wire?â

He was speaking now to Carrie Louise. He came towards her.

Almost mechanically, she put up her hand to him. He took it and kissed it gently. It was an affectionate act of homage, not a mere theatrical courtesy.

She murmured:

âOf course, Alex dearâof course. Only, you seeâthings have been happeningââ

âHappening?â

Mildred gave the information, gave it with a kind of grim relish that Miss Marple found distasteful.

âChristian Gulbrandsen,â she said. âMy brother Christian Gulbrandsen has been found shot dead.â

âGood God,â Alex registered a more than life-size dismay. âSuicide, do you mean?â

Carrie Louise moved swiftly.

âOh no,â she said. âIt couldnât be suicide. Not Christian! Oh no.â

âUncle Christian would never shoot himself, Iâm sure,â said Gina.

Alex Restarick looked from one person to the other. From his brother Stephen he received a short confirmative nod. Walter Hudd stared back at him with faint resentment. Alexâs eyes rested on Miss Marple with a sudden frown. It was as though he had found some unwanted prop on a stage set.

He looked as though he would like her explained. But nobody explained her, and Miss Marple continued to look an old, fluffy and sweetly bewildered old lady.

âWhen?â asked Alex. âWhen did this happen, I mean?â

âJust before you arrived,â said Gina. âAboutâoh three or four minutes ago, I suppose. Why, of course, we actually heard the shot. Only we didnât notice itânot really.â

âDidnât notice it? Why not?â

âWell, you see, there were other things going on â¦â Gina spoke rather hesitantly.

âSure were,â said Walter with emphasis.

Juliet Bellever came into the Hall by the door from the library.

âMr. Serrocold suggests that we should all wait in the library. It would be convenient for the police. Except for Mrs. Serrocold. Youâve had a shock, Cara. Iâve ordered some hot bottles to be put in your bed. Iâll take you up andââ

Rising to her feet, Carrie Louise shook her head.

âI must see Christian first,â she said.

âOh, no, dear. Donât upset yourselfââ

Carrie Louise put her very gently to one side.

âDear Jollyâyou donât understand.â She looked round and said, âJane?â

Miss Marple had already moved towards her.

âCome with me, will you, Jane?â

They moved together towards the door. Dr. Maverick, coming in, almost collided with them.

Miss Bellever exclaimed:

âDr. Maverick. Do stop her. So foolish.â

Carrie Louise looked calmly at the young doctor. She even gave a tiny smile.

Dr. Maverick said:

âYou want to go andâsee him?â

âI must.â

âI see.â He stood aside. âIf you feel you must, Mrs. Serrocold. But afterwards, please go and lie down and let Miss Bellever look after you. At the moment you do not feel the shock, but I assure you that you will do so.â

âYes. I expect you are quite right. I will be quite sensible. Come, Jane.â

The two women moved out through the door, past the foot of the main staircase and along the corridor, past the dining room on the right and the double door, leading to the kitchen quarters on the left, past the side door to the terrace and on to the door that gave admission to the Oak Suite that had been alloted to Christian Gulbrandsen. It was a room furnished as a sitting room more than a bedroom, with a bed in an alcove to one side and a door leading into a dressing room and bathroom.

Carrie Louise stopped on the threshold. Christian Gulbrandsen had been sitting at the big mahogany desk with a small portable typewriter open in front of him. He sat there now, but slumped sideways in the chair. The high arms of the chair prevented him from slipping to the floor.

Lewis Serrocold was standing by the window. He had pulled the curtain a little aside and was gazing out into the night.

He looked round and frowned.

âMy dearest, you shouldnât have come.â

He came towards her and she stretched out a hand to him. Miss Marple retreated a step or two.

âOh yes, Lewis. I had toâsee him. One has to know just exactly how things are.â

She walked slowly towards the desk.

Lewis said warningly:

âYou mustnât touch anything. The police must have things left exactly as we found them.â

âOf course. He was shot deliberately by someone, then?â

âOh yes.â Lewis Serrocold looked a little surprised that the question had even been asked. âI thoughtâyou knew that?â

âI did really. Christian would not commit suicide, and he was such a competent person that it could not possibly have been an accident. That only leavesââshe hesitated a momentââmurder.â

She walked up behind the desk and stood looking down at the dead man. There was sorrow and affection in her face.

âDear Christian,â she said. âHe was always good to me.â

Softly, she touched the top of his head with her fingers.

âBless you and thank you, dear Christian,â she said.

Lewis Serrocold said with something more like emotion than Miss Marple had ever seen in him before:

âI wish to God I could have spared you this, Caroline.â

His wife shook her head gently.

âYou canât really spare anyone anything,â she said. âThings always have to be faced sooner or later. And therefore it had better be sooner. Iâll go and lie down now. I suppose youâll stay here, Lewis, until the police come?â

âYes.â

Carrie Louise turned away and Miss Marple slipped an arm around her.

Nine

Inspector Curry and his entourage found Miss Bellever alone in the Great Hall when they arrived.

She came forward efficiently.

âI am Juliet Bellever, companion and secretary to Mrs. Serrocold.â

âIt was you who found the body and telephoned to us?â

âYes. Most of the household are in the libraryâthrough that door there. Mr. Serrocold remained in Mr. Gulbrandsenâs room to see that nothing was disturbed. Dr. Maverick, who first examined the body, will be here very shortly. He had to take aâcase over to the other wing. Shall I lead the way?â

âIf you please.â

âCompetent woman,â thought the Inspector to himself. âSeems to have got the whole thing taped.â

He followed her along the corridor.

For the next twenty minutes the routine of police procedure was duly set in motion. The photographer took the necessary pictures. The police surgeon arrived and was joined by Dr. Maverick. Half an hour later, the ambulance had taken away the mortal remains of Christian Gulbrandsen, and Inspector Curry started his official interrogation.

Lewis Serrocold took him into the library and he glanced keenly round the assembled people making brief notes in his mind. An old lady with white hair, a middle-aged lady, the good-looking girl heâd seen driving her car round the countryside, that odd-looking American husband of hers. A couple of young men who were mixed up in the outfit somewhere or other and the capable woman, Miss Bellever, whoâd phoned him and met him on arrival.

Inspector Curry had already thought out a little speech and he now delivered it as planned.

âIâm afraid this is all very upsetting to you,â he said, âand I hope not to keep you too long this evening. We can go into things more thoroughly tomorrow. It was Miss Bellever who found Mr. Gulbrandsen dead and Iâll ask Miss Bellever to give me an outline of the general situation as that will save too much repetition. Mr. Serrocold, if you want to go up to your wife, please do and when I have finished with Miss Bellever, I should like to talk to you. Is that all quite clear? Perhaps there is some small room whereââ

Lewis Serrocold said:

âMy office, Jolly?â

Miss Bellever nodded, and said, âI was just going to suggest it.â

She led the way across the Great Hall and Inspector Curry and his attendant sergeant followed her.

Miss Bellever arranged them and herself suitably. It might have been she and not Inspector Curry who was in charge of the investigation.

The moment had come, however, when the initiative passed to him. Inspector Curry had a pleasant voice and manner. He looked quiet and serious and just a little apologetic. Some people made the mistake of underrating him. Actually he was as competent in his way as Miss Bellever was in hers. But he preferred not to make a parade of the fact.

He cleared his throat.

âIâve had the main facts from Mr. Serrocold. Mr. Christian Gulbrandsen was the eldest son of the late Eric Gulbrandsen, the founder of the Gulbrandsen Trust and Fellowship â¦ and all the rest of it. He was one of the trustees of this place and he arrived here unexpectedly yesterday. That is correct?â

âYes.â

Inspector Curry was pleased by her conciseness. He went on.

âMr. Serrocold was away in Liverpool. He returned this evening by the 6:30 train.â

âYes.â

âAfter dinner this evening, Mr. Gulbrandsen announced his intention of working in his own room and left the rest of the party here after coffee had been served. Correct?â

âYes.â

âNow, Miss Bellever, please tell me in your own words how you came to discover him dead.â

âThere was a rather unpleasant incident this evening. A young man, a psychopathic case, became very unbalanced and threatened Mr. Serrocold with a revolver. They were locked in this room. The young man eventually fired the revolverâyou can see the bullet holes in the wall there. Fortunately Mr. Serrocold was unhurt. After firing the shots, this young man went completely to pieces. Mr. Serrocold sent me to find Dr. Maverick. I got through on the house phone, but he was not in his room. I found him with one of his colleagues and gave him the message and he came here at once. On my own way back, I went to Mr. Gulbrandsenâs room. I wanted to ask him if there was anything he would likeâhot milk, or whisky before settling for the night. I knocked, but there was no response, so I opened the door. I saw that Mr. Gulbrandsen was dead. I then rang you up.â

âWhat entrances and exits are there to the house? And how are they secured? Could anyone have come in from outside without being heard or seen?â

âAnyone could have come in by the side door to the terrace. That is not locked until we all go to bed, as people come in and out that way to go to the College buildings.â

âAnd you have, I believe, between two hundred and two hundred and fifty juvenile delinquents in the College?â

âYes. But the College buildings are well secured and patrolled. I should say it was most unlikely that anyone could leave the College unsponsored.â

âWe shall have to check up on that, of course. Had Mr. Gulbrandsen given any cause forâshall we say, rancour? Any unpopular decisions as to policy?â

Miss Bellever shook her head.

âOh no, Mr. Gulbrandsen had nothing whatever to do with the running of the College, or with administrative matters.â

âWhat was the purpose of his visit?â

âI have no idea.â

âBut he was annoyed to find Mr. Serrocold absent, and immediately decided to wait until he returned?â

âYes.â

âSo his business here was definitely with Mr. Serrocold?â

âYes. But it would beâbecause it would be almost certainly business to do with the Institute.â

âYes, presumably that is so. Did he have a conference with Mr. Serrocold?â

âNo, there was no time. Mr. Serrocold only arrived just before dinner this evening.â

âBut after dinner, Mr. Gulbrandsen said he had important letters to write and went away to do so. He didnât suggest a session with Mr. Serrocold?â

Miss Bellever hesitated.

âNo. No, he didnât.â

âSurely that was rather oddâif he had waited on at inconvenience to himself to see Mr. Serrocold?â

âYes, it was odd.â

The oddness of it seemed to strike Miss Bellever for the first time.

âMr. Serrocold did not accompany him to his room?â

âNo. Mr. Serrocold remained in the Hall.â

âAnd you have no idea at what time Mr. Gulbrandsen was killed?â

âI think it is possible that we heard the shot. If so, it was at twenty-three minutes past nine.â

âYou heard a shot? And it did not alarm you?â

âThe circumstances were peculiar.â

She explained in rather more detail the scene between Lewis Serrocold and Edgar Lawson which had been in progress.

âSo it occurred to no one that the shot might actually have come from within the house?â

âNo. No, I certainly donât think so. We were all so relieved, you know, that the shot didnât come from in here.â

Miss Bellever added rather grimly:

âYou donât expect murder and attempted murder in the same house on the same night.â

Inspector Curry acknowledged the truth of that.

âAll the same,â said Miss Bellever, suddenly, âyou know I believe thatâs what made me go along to Mr. Gulbrandsenâs room later. I did mean to ask him if he would like anything, but it was a kind of excuse to reassure myself that everything was all right.â

Inspector Curry stared at her for a moment.

âWhat made you think it mightnât be all right?â

âI donât know. I think it was the shot outside. It hadnât meant anything at the time. But afterwards it came back into my mind. I told myself that it was only a backfire from Mr. Restarickâs carââ

âMr. Restarickâs car?â

âYes. Alex Restarick. He arrived by car this eveningâhe arrived just after all this happened.â

âI see. When you discovered Mr. Gulbrandsenâs body, did you touch anything in the room?â

âOf course not.â Miss Bellever sounded reproachful. âNaturally I knew that nothing must be touched or moved.â

âAnd just now, when you took us into the room, everything was exactly as it had been when you found the body?â

Miss Bellever considered. She sat back screwing up her eyes. She had, Inspector Curry thought, one of those photographic memories.

âOne thing was different,â she said. âThere was nothing in the typewriter.â

âYou mean,â said Inspector Curry, âthat when you first went in, Mr. Gulbrandsen had been writing a letter on the typewriter, and that that letter had since been removed?â

âYes, Iâm almost sure that I saw the white edge of the paper sticking up.â

âThank you, Miss Bellever. Who else went into that room before we arrived?â

âMr. Serrocold, of course. He remained there when I came to meet you. And Mrs. Serrocold and Miss Marple went there. Mrs. Serrocold insisted.â

âMrs. Serrocold and Miss Marple,â said Inspector Curry. âWhich is Miss Marple?â

âThe old lady with white hair. She was a school friend of Mrs. Serrocoldâs. She came on a visit about four days ago.â

âWell, thank you, Miss Bellever. All that you have told us is quite clear. Iâll go into things with Mr. Serrocold now. Ah, but perhapsâMiss Marpleâs an old lady, isnât she? Iâll just have a word with her first and then she can go off to bed. Rather cruel to keep an old lady like that up,â said Inspector Curry virtuously. âThis must have been a shock to her.â

âIâll tell her, shall I?â

âIf you please.â

Miss Bellever went out. Inspector Curry looked at the ceiling.

âGulbrandsen?â he said. âWhy Gulbrandsen? Two hundred odd, maladjusted youngsters on the premises. No reason any of them shouldnât have done it. Probably one of them did. But why Gulbrandsen? The stranger within the gates.â

Sergeant Lake said: âOf course, we donât know everything yet.â

Inspector Curry said:

âSo far, we donât know anything at all.â

He jumped up and was gallant when Miss Marple came in. She seemed a little flustered and he hurried to put her at her ease.

âNow donât upset yourself, Maâam.â The old ones like Maâam, he thought. To them, police officers were definitely of the lower classes and should show respect to their betters. âThis is all very distressing, I know. But weâve just got to get the facts clear. Get it all clear.â

âOh yes, I know,â said Miss Marple. âSo difficult, isnât it? To be clear about anything, I mean. Because if youâre looking at one thing, you canât be looking at another. And one so often looks at the wrong thing, though whether because one happens to do so or because youâre meant to, itâs very hard to say. Misdirection, the conjurers call it. So clever, arenât they? And I never have known how they manage with a bowl of goldfishâbecause really that cannot fold up small, can it?â

Inspector Curry blinked a little and said soothingly:

âQuite so. Now, Maâam, Iâve had an account of this eveningâs events from Miss Bellever. A most anxious time for all of you, Iâm sure.â

âYes, indeed. It was all so dramatic, you know.â

âFirst this to-do between Mr. Serrocold andââhe looked down at a note he had madeââthis Edgar Lawson.â

âA very odd young man,â said Miss Marple. âI have felt all along that there was something wrong about him.â

âIâm sure you have,â said Inspector Curry. âAnd then, after that excitement was over, there came Mr. Gulbrandsenâs death. I understand that you went with Mrs. Serrocold to see theâerâthe body.â

âYes, I did. She asked me to come with her. We are very old friends.â

âQuite so. And you went along to Mr. Gulbrandsenâs room. Did you touch anything while you were in the room, either of you?â

âOh no. Mr. Serrocold warned us not to.â

âDid you happen to notice, Maâam, whether there was a letter or a piece of paper, say, in the typewriter?â

âThere wasnât,â said Miss Marple promptly. âI noticed that at once because it seemed to me odd. Mr. Gulbrandsen was sitting there at the typewriter, so he must have been typing something. Yes, I thought it very odd.â

Inspector Curry looked at her sharply. He said:

âDid you have much conversation with Mr. Gulbrandsen while he was here?â

âVery little.â

âThere is nothing especialâor significant that you can remember?â

Miss Marple considered.

âHe asked me about Mrs. Serrocoldâs health. In particular, about her heart.â

âHer heart? Is there something wrong with her heart?â

âNothing whatever, I understand.â

Inspector Curry was silent for a moment or two, then he said:

âYou heard a shot this evening during the quarrel between Mr. Serrocold and Edgar Lawson?â

âI didnât actually hear it myself. I am a little deaf, you know. But Mrs. Serrocold mentioned it as being outside in the park.â

âMr. Gulbrandsen left the party immediately after dinner, I understand?â

âYes, he said he had letters to write.â

âHe didnât show any wish for a business conference with Mr. Serrocold?â

âNo.â

Miss Marple added:

âYou see, theyâd already had one little talk.â

âThey had? When? I understood that Mr. Serrocold only returned home just before dinner.â

âThatâs quite true, but he walked up through the park, and Mr. Gulbrandsen went out to meet him and they walked up and down the terrace together.â

âWho else knows this?â

âI shouldnât think anybody else,â said Miss Marple. âUnless, of course, Mr. Serrocold told Mrs. Serrocold. I just happened to be looking out of my windowâat some birds.â

âBirds?â

âBirds.â Miss Marple added after a moment or two, âI thought, perhaps, they might be siskins.â

Inspector Curry was uninterested in siskins.

âYou didnât,â he said delicately, âhappen toâerâoverhear anything of what they said?â

Innocent, china blue eyes met his.

âOnly fragments, Iâm afraid,â said Miss Marple gently.

âAnd those fragments?â

Miss Marple was silent a moment, then she said:

âI do not know the actual subject of their conversation, but their immediate concern was to keep whatever it was from the knowledge of Mrs. Serrocold. To spare herâthat was how Mr. Gulbrandsen put it, and Mr. Serrocold said, âI agree that it is she who must be considered.â They also mentioned a âbig responsibilityâ and that they should, perhaps, âtake outside advice.ââ

She paused.

âI think, you know, you had better ask Mr. Serrocold himself about all this.â

âWe shall do so, Maâam. Now there is nothing else that struck you as unusual this evening?â

Miss Marple considered.

âIt was all so unusual, if you know what I meanââ

âQuite so. Quite so.â

Something flickered into Miss Marpleâs memory.

âThere was one rather unusual incident. Mr. Serrocold stopped Mrs. Serrocold from taking her medicine. Miss Bellever was quite put out about it.â

She smiled in a deprecating fashion.

âBut that, of course, is such a little thingâ¦.â

âYes, of course. Well, thank you, Miss Marple.â

As Miss Marple went out of the room, Sergeant Lake said: âSheâs old, but sheâs sharpâ¦.â

Ten

Lewis Serrocold came into the office and immediately the whole focus of the room shifted. He turned to close the door behind him, and in doing so he created an atmosphere of privacy. He walked over and sat down, not in the chair Miss Marple had just vacated but in his own chair behind the desk. Miss Bellever had settled Inspector Curry in a chair drawn up to one side of the desk, as though unconsciously she had reserved Lewis Serrocoldâs chair against his coming.

When he had sat down, Lewis Serrocold looked at the two police officers thoughtfully. His face looked drawn and tired. It was the face of a man who was passing through a severe ordeal, and it surprised Inspector Curry a little because, though Christian Gulbrandsenâs death must undeniably have been a shock to Lewis Serrocold, yet Gulbrandsen had not been a close friend or relation, only a rather remote connection by marriage.

In an odd way, the tables seemed to have been turned. It did not seem as though Lewis Serrocold had come into the room to answer police questioning. It seemed rather that Lewis Serrocold had arrived to preside over a court of inquiry. It irritated Inspector Curry a little.

He said briskly: âNow, Mr. Serrocoldââ

Lewis Serrocold still seemed lost in thought. He said with a sigh, âHow difficult it is to know the right thing to do.â

Inspector Curry said:

âI think we will be the judges as to that, Mr. Serrocold. Now about Mr. Gulbrandsen, he arrived unexpectedly, I understand?â

âQuite unexpectedly.â

âYou did not know he was coming?â

âI had not the least idea of it.â

âAnd you have no idea of why he came?â

Lewis Serrocold said quietly,

âOh yes, I know why he came. He told me.â

âWhen?â

âI walked up from the station. He was watching from the house and came out to meet me. It was then that he explained what had brought him here.â

âBusiness connected with the Gulbrandsen Institute, I suppose?â

âOh no, it was nothing to do with the Gulbrandsen Institute.â

âMiss Bellever seemed to think it was.â

âNaturally. That would be the assumption. Gulbrandsen did nothing to correct that impression. Neither did I.â

âWhy, Mr. Serrocold?â

Lewis Serrocold said slowly:

âBecause it seemed to both of us important that no hint should arise as to the real purpose of his visit.â

âWhat was the real purpose?â

Lewis Serrocold was silent for a minute or two. He sighed.

âGulbrandsen came over here regularly twice a year for meetings of the trustees. The last meeting was only a month ago. Consequently he was not due to come over again for another five months. I think, therefore, that anyone might realise that the business that brought him must definitely be urgent business, but I still think that the normal assumption would be that it was a business visit, and that the matterâhowever urgentâwould be a Trust matter. As far as I know, Gulbrandsen did nothing to contradict that impressionâor thought he didnât. Yes, perhaps that is nearer the truthâhe thought he didnât.â

âIâm afraid, Mr. Serrocold, that I donât quite follow you.â

Lewis Serrocold did not answer at once. Then he said gravely:

âI fully realise that with Gulbrandsenâs deathâwhich was murder, undeniably murder, I have got to put all the facts before you. But, frankly, I am concerned for my wifeâs happiness and peace of mind. It is not for me to dictate to you, Inspector, but if you can see your way to keeping certain things from her as far as possible, I shall be grateful. You see, Inspector Curry, Christian Gulbrandsen came here expressly to tell me that he believed my wife was being slowly and cold-bloodedly poisoned.â

âWhat?â

Curry leaned forward incredulously.

Serrocold nodded.

âYes, it was, as you can imagine, a tremendous shock to me. I had had no suspicion of such a thing myself, but as soon as Christian told me, I realised that certain symptoms my wife had complained of lately, were quite compatible with that belief. What she took to be rheumatism, leg cramps, pain, and occasional sickness. All that fits in very well with the symptoms of arsenic poisoning.â

âMiss Marple told us that Christian Gulbrandsen asked her about the condition of Mrs. Serrocoldâs heart?â

âDid he now? That is interesting. I suppose he thought that a heart poison would be used since it paved the way to a sudden death without undue suspicion. But I think myself that arsenic is more likely.â

âYou definitely think, then, that Christian Gulbrandsenâs suspicions were well founded?â

âOh yes, I think so. For one thing, Gulbrandsen would hardly come to me with such a suggestion unless he was fairly sure of his facts. He was a cautious and hardheaded man, difficult to convince, but very shrewd.â

âWhat was his evidence?â

âWe had no time to go into that. Our interview was a hurried one. It served only the purpose of explaining his visit, and a mutual agreement that nothing whatever should be said to my wife about the matter until we were sure of our facts.â

âAnd whom did he suspect of administering poison?â

âHe did not say, and actually I donât think he knew. He may have suspected. I think now that he probably did suspectâotherwise why should he be killed?â

âBut he mentioned no name to you?â

âHe mentioned no name. We agreed that we must investigate the matter thoroughly, and he suggested inviting the advice and cooperation of Dr. Galbraith, the Bishop of Cromer. Dr. Galbraith is a very old friend of the Gulbrandsens and is one of the trustees of the Institute. He is a man of great wisdom and experience and would be of great help and comfort to my wife ifâif it was necessary to tell her of our suspicions. We meant to rely on his advice as to whether or not to consult the police.â

âQuite extraordinary,â said Curry.

âGulbrandsen left us after dinner to write to Dr. Galbraith. He was actually in the act of typing a letter to him when he was shot.â

âHow do you know?â

Lewis said calmly,

âBecause I took the letter out of the typewriter. I have it here.â

From his breast pocket, he drew out a folded typewritten sheet of paper and handed it to Curry.

The latter said sharply.

âYou shouldnât have taken this, or touched anything in the room.â

âI touched nothing else. I know that I committed an unpardonable offence in your eyes in moving this, but I had a very strong reason. I felt certain that my wife would insist on coming into the room and I was afraid that she might read something of what is written here. I admit myself in the wrong, but I am afraid I would do the same again. I would do anythingâanythingâto save my wife unhappiness.â

Inspector Curry said no more for the moment. He read the typewritten sheet.

Dear Dr. Galbraith. If it is at all possible, I beg that you will come to Stonygates as soon as you receive this. A crisis of extraordinary gravity has arisen and I am at a loss how to deal with it. I know how deep your affection is for our dear Carrie Louise, and how grave your concern will be for anything that affects her. How much has she got to know? How much can we keep from her? Those are the questions that I find so difficult to answer.

Not to beat about the bush, I have reason to believe that that sweet and innocent lady is being slowly poisoned. I first suspected this whenâ

Here the letter broke off abruptly.

Curry said:

âAnd when he had reached this point, Christian Gulbrandsen was shot?â

âYes.â

âBut why on earth was this letter left in the typewriter?â

âI can only conceive of two reasonsâone that the murderer had no idea to whom Gulbrandsen was writing and what was the subject of the letter. Secondlyâhe may not have had time. He may have heard someone coming and only had just time to escape unobserved.â

âAnd Gulbrandsen gave you no hint as to who he suspectedâif he did suspect anyone?â

There was, perhaps, a very slight pause before Lewis answered. âNone whatever.â

He added, rather obscurely:

âChristian was a very fair man.â

âHow do you think this poison, arsenic or whatever it may beâwas or is being administered?â

âI thought over that whilst I was changing for dinner, and it seemed to me that the most likely vehicle was some medicine, a tonic, that my wife was taking. As regards food we all partook of the same dishes and my wife has nothing specially prepared for her. But anyone could add arsenic to the medicine bottle.â

âWe must take the medicine and have it analysed.â

Lewis said quietly:

âI already have a sample of it. I took it this evening before dinner.â

From a drawer in the desk, he took out a small, corked bottle with a red fluid in it.

Inspector Curry said with a curious glance:

âYou think of everything, Mr. Serrocold.â

âI believe in acting promptly. Tonight, I stopped my wife from taking her usual dose. It is still in a glass on the oak dresser in the Hallâthe bottle of tonic itself is in the drawing room.â

Curry leaned forward across the desk. He lowered his voice and spoke confidentially and without officialdom.

âYouâll excuse me, Mr. Serrocold, but just why are you so anxious to keep this from your wife? Are you afraid sheâd panic? Surely, for her own sake, it would be as well if she were warned.â

âYesâyes, that may well be so. But I donât think you quite understand. Without knowing my wife, Caroline, it would be difficult. My wife, Inspector Curry, is an idealist, a completely trustful person. Of her it may truly be said that she sees no evil, hears no evil, and speaks no evil. It would be inconceivable to her that anyone could wish to kill her. But we have to go farther than that. It is not just âanyone.â It is a caseâsurely you see thatâof somebody possibly very near and dear to herâ¦.â

âSo thatâs what you think?â

âWe have got to face facts. Close at hand we have a couple of hundred warped and stunted personalities who have expressed themselves often enough by crude and senseless violence. But by the very nature of things, none of them can be suspect in this case. A slow poisoner is someone living in the intimacy of family life. Think of the people who are here in this house; her husband, her daughter, her granddaughter, her granddaughterâs husband, her stepson whom she regards as her own son, Miss Bellever, her devoted companion and friend of many years. All very near and dear to herâand yet the suspicion must ariseâis it one of them?â

Curry answered slowly,

âThere are outsidersââ

âYes, in a sense. There is Dr. Maverick, one or two of the staff are often with us, there are the servantsâbut, frankly, what possible motive could they have?â

Inspector Curry said,

âAnd thereâs youngâwhat is his name againâEdgar Lawson?â

âYes. But he has only been down here as a casual visitor just lately. He has no possible motive. Besides, he is deeply attached to Carolineâjust as everyone is.â

âBut heâs unbalanced. What about this attack on you tonight?â

Serrocold waved it aside impatiently.

âSheer childishness. He had no intention of harming me.â

âNot with these two bullet holes in the wall? He shot at you, didnât he?â

âHe didnât mean to hit me. It was playacting, no more.â

âRather a dangerous form of playacting, Mr. Serrocold.â

âYou donât understand. You must talk to our psychiatrist, Dr. Maverick. Edgar is an illegitimate child. He has consoled himself for his lack of a father and a humble origin by pretending to himself that he is the son of a celebrated man. Itâs a well-known phenomenon, I assure you. He was improving, improving very much. Then, for some reason, he had a setback. He identified me as his âfatherâ and made a melodramatic attack, waving a revolver and uttering threats. I was not in the least alarmed. When he had actually fired the revolver, he broke down and sobbed, and Dr. Maverick took him away and gave him a sedative. Heâll probably be quite normal tomorrow morning.â

âYou donât wish to bring a charge against him?â

âThat would be the worst thing possibleâfor him, I mean.â

âFrankly, Mr. Serrocold, it seems to me he ought to be under restraint. People who go about firing off revolvers to bolster up their egosâ! One has to think of the community, you know.â

âTalk to Dr. Maverick on the subject,â urged Lewis. âHeâll give you the professional point of view. In any case,â he added, âpoor Edgar certainly did not shoot Gulbrandsen. He was in here threatening to shoot me.â

âThatâs the point I was coming to, Mr. Serrocold. Weâve covered the outside. Anyone, it seems, could have come in from outside, and shot Mr. Gulbrandsen, since the terrace door was unlocked. But there is a narrower field inside the house, and in view of what you have been telling me, it seems to me that very close attention must be paid to that. It seems possible that, with the exception of old Missâerâyes, Marple who happened to be looking out of her bedroom window, no one was aware that you and Christian Gulbrandsen had already had a private interview. If so, Gulbrandsen may have been shot to prevent him communicating his suspicions to you. Of course, it is too early to say as yet what other motives may exist. Mr. Gulbrandsen was a wealthy man, I presume?â

âYes, he was a very wealthy man. He has sons and daughters and grandchildrenâall of whom will probably benefit by his death. But I do not think that any of his family are in this country, and they are all solid and highly respectable people. As far as I know, there are no black sheep amongst them.â

âHad he any enemies?â

âI should think it most unlikely. He wasâreally, he was not that type of man.â

âSo it boils down, doesnât it, to this house and the people in it? Who from inside the house could have killed him?â

Lewis Serrocold said slowly,

âThat is difficult for me to say. There are the servants and the members of my household and our guests. They are, from your point of view, all possibilities, I suppose. I can only tell you that, as far as I know, everyone except the servants was in the Great Hall when Christian left it and whilst I was there, nobody left it.â

âNobody at all?â

âI thinkââLewis frowned in an effort of remembranceââoh yes. Some of the lights fusedâMr. Walter Hudd went to see to it.â

âThatâs the young American gentleman?â

âYesâof course, I donât know what took place after Edgar and I came in here.â

âAnd you canât give me anything nearer than that, Mr. Serrocold?â

Lewis Serrocold shook his head.

âNo, Iâm afraid I canât help you. Itâsâitâs all quite inconceivable.â

Inspector Curry sighed. He said:

âYou can tell the party that they can all go to bed. Iâll talk to them tomorrow.â

When Serrocold had left the room, Inspector Curry said to Lake:

âWellâwhat do you think?â

âKnowsâor thinks he knows, who did it,â said Lake.

âYes. I agree with you. And he doesnât like it a bitâ¦.â

Eleven

1

Gina greeted Miss Marple with a rush as the latter came down to breakfast the next morning.

âThe police are here again,â she said. âTheyâre in the library this time. Wally is absolutely fascinated by them. He canât understand their being so quiet and so remote. I think heâs really quite thrilled by the whole thing. Iâm not. I hate it. I think itâs horrible. Why do you think Iâm so upset? Because Iâm half Italian?â

âVery possibly. At least perhaps it explains why you donât mind showing what you feel.â

Miss Marple smiled just a little as she said this.

âJollyâs frightfully cross,â said Gina, hanging on Miss Marpleâs arm and propelling her into the dining room. âI think really because the police are in charge and she canât exactly ârunâ them like she runs everybody else.

âAlex and Stephen,â continued Gina severely, as they came into the dining room where the two brothers were finishing their breakfast, âjust donât care.â

âGina dearest,â said Alex, âyou are most unkind. Good morning, Miss Marple. I care intensely. Except for the fact that I hardly knew your Uncle Christian, Iâm far and away the best suspect. You do realise that, I hope.â

âWhy?â

âWell, I was driving up to the house at about the right time, it seems. And theyâve been checking up on times and it seems that I took too much time between the lodge and the houseâtime enough, the implication is, to leave the car, run round the house, go in through the side door, shoot Christian and rush out and back to the car again.â

âAnd what were you really doing?â

âI thought little girls were taught quite young not to ask indelicate questions. Like an idiot, I stood for several minutes taking in the fog effect in the headlights and thinking what Iâd use to get that effect on a stage. For my new âLimehouseâ ballet.â

âBut you can tell them that!â

âNaturally. But you know what policemen are like. They say âthank youâ very civilly and write it all down, and youâve no idea what they are thinking except that one does feel they have rather sceptical minds.â

âIt would amuse me to see you in a spot, Alex,â said Stephen with his thin, rather cruel smile. âNow Iâm quite all right! I never left the Hall last night.â

Gina cried, âBut they couldnât possibly think it was one of us!â

Her dark eyes were round and dismayed.

âDonât say it must have been a tramp, dear,â said Alex, helping himself lavishly to marmalade. âItâs so hackneyed.â

Miss Bellever looked in at the door and said:

âMiss Marple, when you have finished your breakfast, will you go to the library?â

âYou again,â said Gina. âBefore any of us.â

She seemed a little injured.

âHi, what was that?â asked Alex.

âDidnât hear anything,â said Stephen.

âIt was a pistol shot.â

âTheyâve been firing shots in the room where Uncle Christian was killed,â said Gina. âI donât know why. And outside too.â

The door opened again and Mildred Strete came in. She was wearing black with some onyx beads.

She murmured good morning without looking at anyone and sat down.

In a hushed voice she said:

âSome tea, please, Gina. Nothing much to eatâjust some toast.â

She touched her nose and eyes delicately with the handkerchief she held in one hand. Then she raised her eyes and looked in an un-seeing way at the two brothers. Stephen and Alex became uncomfortable. Their voices dropped to almost a whisper and presently they got up and left.

Mildred Strete said, whether to the universe or Miss Marple was not quite certain, âNot even a black tie!â

âI donât suppose,â said Miss Marple apologetically, âthat they knew beforehand that a murder was going to happen.â

Gina made a smothered sound and Mildred Strete looked sharply at her.

âWhereâs Walter this morning?â she asked.

Gina flushed.

âI donât know. I havenât seen him.â

She sat there uneasily like a guilty child.

Miss Marple got up.

âIâll go to the library now,â she said.

2

Lewis Serrocold was standing by the window in the library.

There was no one else in the room.

He turned as Miss Marple came in and came forward to meet her, taking her hand in his.

âI hope,â he said, âthat you are not feeling the worse for the shock. To be at close quarters with what is undoubtedly murder must be a great strain on anyone who has not come in contact with such a thing before.â

Modesty forbade Miss Marple to reply that she was, by now, quite at home with murder. She merely said that life in St. Mary Mead was not quite so sheltered as outside people believed.

âVery nasty things go on in a village, I assure you,â she said. âOne has an opportunity of studying things there that one would never have in a town.â

Lewis Serrocold listened indulgently, but with only half an ear.

He said very simply: âI want your help.â

âBut of course, Mr. Serrocold.â

âIt is a matter that affects my wifeâaffects Caroline. I think that you are really attached to her?â

âYes, indeed. Everyone is.â

âThat is what I believed. It seems that I am wrong. With the permission of Inspector Curry, I am going to tell you something that no one else as yet knows. Or perhaps I should say what only one person knows.â

Briefly, he told her what he had told Inspector Curry the night before.

Miss Marple looked horrified.

âI canât believe it, Mr. Serrocold. I really canât believe it.â

âThat is what I felt when Christian Gulbrandsen told me.â

âI should have said that dear Carrie Louise had not got an enemy in the world.â

âIt seems incredible that she should have. But you see the implication? Poisoningâslow poisoningâis an intimate family matter. It must be one of our closely knit little householdââ

âIf it is true. Are you sure that Mr. Gulbrandsen was not mistaken?â

âChristian was not mistaken. He is too cautious a man to make such a statement without foundation. Besides, the police took away Carolineâs medicine bottle and a separate sample of its contents. There was arsenic in both of themâand arsenic was not prescribed. The actual quantitative tests will take longerâbut the actual fact of arsenic being present is established.â

âThen her rheumatismâthe difficulty in walkingâall thatââ

âYes, leg cramps are typical, I understand. Also, before you came, Caroline had had one or two severe attacks of a gastric natureâI never dreamed until Christian cameââ

He broke off. Miss Marple said softly: âSo Ruth was right!â

âRuth?â

Lewis Serrocold sounded surprised. Miss Marple flushed.

âThere is something I have not told you. My coming here was not entirely fortuitous. If you will let me explainâIâm afraid I tell things so badly. Please have patience.â

Lewis Serrocold listened whilst Miss Marple told him of Ruthâs unease and urgency.

âExtraordinary,â he commented. âI had no idea of this.â

âIt was all so vague,â said Miss Marple. âRuth herself didnât know why she had this feeling. There must be a reasonâin my experience there always isâbut âsomething wrongâ was as near as she could get.â

Lewis Serrocold said grimly:

âWell, it seems that she was right. Now, Miss Marple, you see how I am placed. Am I to tell Caroline of this?â

Miss Marple said quickly, âOh no,â in a distressed voice, and then flushed and stared doubtfully at Lewis. He nodded.

âSo you feel as I do? As Christian Gulbrandsen did. Should we feel like that with an ordinary woman?â

âCarrie Louise is not an ordinary woman. She lives by her trust, by her belief in human natureâoh dear, I am expressing myself very badly. But I do feel that until we know whoââ

âYes, that is the crux. But you do see, Miss Marple, that there is a risk in saying nothingââ

âAnd so you want me toâhow shall I put it?âwatch over her?â

âYou see, you are the only person whom I can trust,â said Lewis Serrocold simply. âEveryone here seems devoted. But are they? Now your attachment goes back many years.â

âAnd also I only arrived a few days ago,â said Miss Marple pertinently.

Lewis Serrocold smiled.

âExactly.â

âIt is a very mercenary question,â said Miss Marple apologetically. âBut who exactly would benefit if dear Carrie Louise were to die?â

âMoney!â said Lewis bitterly. âIt always boils down to money, does it?â

âWell, I really think it must in this case. Because Carrie Louise is a very sweet person with a great deal of charm, and one cannot really imagine anyone disliking her. She couldnât, I mean, have an enemy. So then it does boil down, as you put it, to a question of money, because as you donât need me to tell you, Mr. Serrocold, people will quite often do anything for money.â

âI suppose so, yes.â

He went on: âNaturally Inspector Curry has already taken up that point. Mr. Gilroy is coming down from London today and can give detailed information. Gilroy, Gilroy, Jaimes and Gilroy are a very eminent firm of lawyers. This Gilroyâs father was one of the original trustees and they drew up both Carolineâs will and the original will of Eric Gulbrandsen. I will put it in simple terms for youââ

âThank you,â said Miss Marple gratefully. âSo mystifying the law, I always think.â

âEric Gulbrandsen after endowment of the College and his various fellowships and trusts and other charitable bequests, and having settled an equal sum on his daughter Mildred and on his adopted daughter Pippa (Ginaâs mother), left the remainder of his vast fortune in trust, the income from it to be paid to Caroline for her lifetime.â

âAnd after her death?â

âAfter her death it was to be divided equally between Mildred and Pippaâor their children, if they themselves had predeceased Caroline.â

âSo that, in fact, it goes to Mrs. Strete and to Gina.â

âYes. Caroline has also quite a considerable fortune of her ownâthough not in the Gulbrandsen class. Half of this she made over to me four years ago. Of the remaining amount, she left ten thousand pounds to Juliet Bellever, and the rest equally divided between Alex and Stephen Restarick, her two stepsons.â

âOh dear,â said Miss Marple. âThatâs bad. Thatâs very bad.â

âYou mean?â

âIt means everyone in the house had a financial motive.â

âYes. And yet, you know, I canât believe that any of these people would do murder. I simply canât â¦ Mildred is her daughterâand already quite well provided for. Gina is devoted to her grandmother. She is generous and extravagant, but has no acquisitive feelings. Jolly Bellever is fanatically devoted to Caroline. The two Restaricks care for Caroline as though she were really their mother. They have no money of their own to speak of, but quite a lot of Carolineâs income has gone towards financing their enterprisesâespecially so with Alex. I simply canât believe either of those two would deliberately poison her for the sake of inheriting money at her death. I just canât believe any of it, Miss Marple.â

âThereâs Ginaâs husband, isnât there?â

âYes,â said Lewis gravely. âThere is Ginaâs husband.â

âYou donât really know much about him. And one canât help seeing that heâs a very unhappy young man.â

Lewis sighed.

âHe hasnât fitted in hereâno. Heâs no interest in or sympathy for what weâre trying to do. But after all, why should he? Heâs young, crude, and he comes from a country where a man is esteemed by the success he makes of life.â

âWhilst here we are so very fond of failures,â said Miss Marple.

Lewis Serrocold looked at her sharply and suspiciously.

She flushed a little and murmured rather incoherently:

âI think sometimes, you know, one can overdo things the other way â¦ I mean the young people with a good heredity, and brought up wisely in a good homeâand with grit and pluck and the ability to get on in lifeâwell, they are really, when one comes down to itâthe sort of people a country needs.â

Lewis frowned and Miss Marple hurried on, getting pinker and pinker and more and more incoherent.

âNot that I donât appreciateâI do indeedâyou and Carrie Louiseâa really noble workâreal compassionâand one should have compassionâbecause after all itâs what people are that countsâgood and bad luckâand much more expected (and rightly) of the lucky ones. But I do think sometimes oneâs sense of proportionâoh, I donât mean you, Mr. Serrocold. Really I donât know what I meanâbut the English are rather odd that way. Even in war, so much prouder of their defeats and their retreats than of their victories. Foreigners never can understand why weâre so proud of Dunkerque. Itâs the sort of thing theyâd prefer not to mention themselves. But we always seem to be almost embarrassed by a victoryâand treat it as though it werenât quite nice to boast about it. And look at all our poets! âThe Charge of the Light Brigade.â And the little Revenge went down in the Spanish Main. Itâs really a very odd characteristic when you come to think of it!â

Miss Marple drew a fresh breath.

âWhat I really mean is that everything here must seem rather peculiar to young Walter Hudd.â

âYes,â Lewis allowed. âI see your point. And Walter has certainly a fine war record. Thereâs no doubt about his bravery.â

âNot that that helps,â said Miss Marple candidly. âBecause war is one thing, and everyday life is quite another. And actually to commit a murder, I think you do need braveryâor perhaps, more often, just conceit. Yes, conceit.â

âBut I would hardly say that Walter Hudd had a sufficient motive.â

âWouldnât you?â said Miss Marple. âHe hates it here. He wants to get away. He wants to get Gina away. And if itâs really money he wants, it would be important for Gina to get all the money before sheâerâdefinitely forms an attachment to someone else.â

âAn attachment to someone else,â said Lewis, in an astonished voice.

Miss Marple wondered at the blindness of enthusiastic social reformers.

âThatâs what I said. Both the Restaricks are in love with her, you know.â

âOh, I donât think so,â said Lewis absently.

He went on:

âStephenâs invaluable to usâquite invaluable. The way heâs got those lads coming alongâkeenâinterested. They gave a splendid show last month. Scenery, costumes, everything. It just shows, as Iâve always said to Maverick, that itâs lack of drama in their lives that leads these boys to crime. To dramatise yourself is a childâs natural instinct. Maverick saysâah yes, Maverickââ

Lewis broke off.

âI want Maverick to see Inspector Curry about Edgar. The whole thing is so ridiculous really.â

âWhat do you really know about Edgar Lawson, Mr. Serrocold?â

âEverything,â said Lewis positively. âEverything, that is, that one needs to know. His background, upbringingâhis deep-seated lack of confidence in himselfââ

Miss Marple interrupted.

âCouldnât Edgar Lawson have poisoned Mrs. Serrocold?â she asked.

âHardly. Heâs only been here a few weeks. And anyway, itâs ridiculous! Why should Edgar want to poison my wife? What could he possibly gain by doing so?â

âNothing material, I know. But he might haveâsome odd reason. He is odd, you know.â

âYou mean unbalanced?â

âI suppose so. No, I donâtânot quite. What I mean is, heâs all wrong.â

It was not a very lucid exposition of what she felt. Lewis Serrocold accepted the words at their face value.

âYes,â he said with a sigh. âHeâs all wrong, poor lad. And he was showing such marked improvement. I canât really understand why he had this sudden setbackâ¦.â

Miss Marple leaned forward eagerly.

âYes, thatâs what I wondered. Ifââ

She broke off as Inspector Curry came into the room.

Twelve

1

Lewis Serrocold went away and Inspector Curry sat down and gave Miss Marple a rather peculiar smile.

âSo Mr. Serrocold has been asking you to act as watchdog,â he said.

âWell, yes,â she added apologetically. âI hope you donât mindââ

âI donât mind. I think itâs a very good idea. Does Mr. Serrocold know just how well qualified you are for the post?â

âI donât quite understand, Inspector.â

âI see. He thinks youâre just a very nice, elderly lady who was at school with his wife.â He shook his head at her. âWe know youâre a bit more than that, Miss Marple, arenât you? Crime is right down your street. Mr. Serrocold only knows one aspect of crimeâthe promising beginners. Makes me a bit sick, sometimes. Daresay Iâm wrong and old-fashioned. But there are plenty of good decent lads about, lads who could do with a start in life. But there, honesty has to be its own rewardâmillionaires donât leave trust funds to help the worthwhile. Wellâwell, donât pay any attention to me. Iâm old-fashioned. Iâve seen boysâand girlsâwith everything against them, bad homes, bad luck, every disadvantage, and theyâve had the grit to win through. Thatâs the kind I shall leave my packet to, if I ever have one. But then, of course, thatâs what I never shall have. Just my pension and a nice bit of garden.â

He nodded his head at Miss Marple.

âSuperintendent Blacker told me about you last night. Said youâd had a lot of experience of the seamy side of human nature. Well now, letâs have your point of view. Whoâs the nigger in the woodpile? The G.I. husband?â

âThat,â said Miss Marple, âwould be very convenient for everybody.â

Inspector Curry smiled softly to himself.

âA G.I. pinched my best girl,â he said reminiscently. âNaturally, Iâm prejudiced. His manner doesnât help. Letâs have the amateur point of view. Whoâs been secretly and systematically poisoning Mrs. Serrocold?â

âWell,â said Miss Marple judicially, âone is always inclined, human nature being what it is, to think of the husband. Or if itâs the other way round, the wife. Thatâs the first assumption, donât you think, in a poisoning case?â

âI agree with you every time,â said Inspector Curry.

âBut reallyâin this caseââ Miss Marple shook her head. âNo, franklyâI cannot seriously consider Mr. Serrocold. Because you see, Inspector, he really is devoted to his wife. Naturally he would make a parade of being soâbut it isnât a parade. Itâs very quiet, but itâs genuine. He loves his wife, and Iâm quite certain he wouldnât poison her.â

âTo say nothing of the fact that he wouldnât have any motive for doing so. Sheâs made over her money to him already.â

âOf course,â said Miss Marple primly, âthere are other reasons for a gentleman wanting his wife out of the way. An attachment to a young woman, for instance. But I really donât see any signs of it in this case. Mr. Serrocold does not act as though he had any romantic preoccupation. Iâm really afraid,â she sounded quite regretful about it, âwe shall have to wash him out.â

âRegrettable, isnât it?â said the Inspector. He grinned. âAnd anyway, he couldnât have killed Gulbrandsen. It seems to me that thereâs no doubt that the one thing hinges on the other. Whoever is poisoning Mrs. Serrocold killed Gulbrandsen to prevent him spilling the beans. What weâve got to get at now is who had an opportunity to kill Gulbrandsen last night. And our prize suspectâthereâs no doubt about itâis young Walter Hudd. It was he who switched on a reading lamp which resulted in a fuse going, thereby giving him the opportunity to leave the Hall and go to the fuse box. The fuse box is in the kitchen passage which opens off from the main corridor. It was during his absence from the Great Hall that the shot was heard. So thatâs suspect No 1 perfectly placed for committing the crime.â

âAnd suspect No 2?â asked Miss Marple.

âSuspect 2 is Alex Restarick who was alone in his car between the lodge and the house and took too long getting there.â

âAnybody else?â Miss Marple leaned forward eagerlyâremembering to add, âItâs very kind of you to tell me all this.â

âItâs not kindness,â said Inspector Curry. âIâve got to have your help. You put your finger on the spot when you said âAnybody else?â Because there Iâve got to depend on you. You were there, in the Hall last night, and you can tell me who left itâ¦.â

âYesâyes, I ought to be able to tell you â¦ but can I? You seeâthe circumstancesââ

âYou mean that you were all listening to the argument going on behind the door of Mr. Serrocoldâs study.â

Miss Marple nodded vehemently.

âYes, you see we were all really very frightened. Mr. Lawson lookedâhe really didâquite demented. Apart from Mrs. Serrocold who seemed quite unaffected, we all feared that he would do a mischief to Mr. Serrocold. He was shouting, you know, and saying the most terrible thingsâwe could hear them quite plainlyâand what with that and with most of the lights being outâI didnât really notice anything else.â

âYou mean that whilst that scene was going on, anybody could have slipped out of the Hall, gone along the corridor, shot Mr. Gulbrandsen, and slipped back again?â

âI think it would have been possibleâ¦.â

âCould you say definitely that anybody was in the Great Hall the whole time?â

Miss Marple considered.

âI could say that Mrs. Serrocold wasâbecause I was watching her. She was sitting quite close to the study door, and she never moved from her seat. It surprised me, you know, that she was able to remain so calm.â

âAnd the others?â

âMiss Bellever went outâbut I thinkâI am almost sureâthat that was after the shot. Mrs. Strete? I really donât know. She was sitting behind me, you see. Gina was over by the far window. I think she remained there the whole time but, of course, I cannot be sure. Stephen was at the piano. He stopped playing when the quarrel began to get heatedââ

âWe mustnât be misled by the time you heard the shot,â said Inspector Curry. âThatâs a trick thatâs been done before now, you know. Fake up a shot so as to fix the time of a crime, and fix it wrong. If Miss Bellever had cooked up something of that kind (farfetchedâbut you never know) then sheâd leave as she did, openly, after the shot was heard. No, we canât go by the shot. The limits are between when Christian Gulbrandsen left the Hall to the moment when Miss Bellever found him dead, and we can only eliminate those people who were known not to have had opportunity. That gives us Lewis Serrocold and young Edgar Lawson in the study, and Mrs. Serrocold in the Hall. Itâs very unfortunate, of course, that Gulbrandsen should be shot on the same evening that this schemozzle happened between Serrocold and this young Lawson.â

âJust unfortunate, you think?â murmured Miss Marple.

âOh? What do you think?â

âIt occurred to me,â murmured Miss Marple, âthat it might have been contrived.â

âSo thatâs your idea?â

âWell, everybody seems to think it very odd that Edgar Lawson should quite suddenly have a relapse, so to speak. Heâd got this curious complex, or whatever the term is, about his unknown father. Winston Churchill and Viscount Montgomeryâall quite likely in his state of mind. Just any famous man he happened to think of. But suppose somebody puts it into his head that itâs Lewis Serrocold who is really his father, that itâs Lewis Serrocold who has been persecuting himâthat he ought, by rights, to be the crown prince, as it were, of Stonygates. In his weak mental state heâll accept the ideaâwork himself up into a frenzy, and sooner or later will make the kind of scene he did make. And what a wonderful cover that will be! Everybody will have their attention fixed on the dangerous situation that is developingâespecially if somebody has thoughtfully supplied him with a revolver.â

âHm, yes. Walter Huddâs revolver.â

âOh yes,â said Miss Marple, âIâd thought of that. But you know, Walter is uncommunicative and heâs certainly sullen and ungracious, but I donât really think heâs stupid.â

âSo you donât think itâs Walter?â

âI think everybody would be very relieved if it was Walter. That sounds very unkind, but itâs because he is an outsider.â

âWhat about his wife?â asked Inspector Curry. âWould she be relieved?â

Miss Marple did not answer. She was thinking of Gina and Stephen Restarick standing together as she had seen them on her first day. And she thought of the way Alex Restarickâs eyes had gone straight to Gina as he had entered the Hall last night. What was Ginaâs own attitude?

2

Two hours later Inspector Curry tilted back his chair, stretched himself, and sighed.

âWell,â he said, âweâve cleared a good deal of ground.â

Sergeant Lake agreed.

âThe servants are out,â he said. âThey were together all through the critical periodâthose that sleep here. The ones that donât live in had gone home.â

Curry nodded. He was suffering from mental fatigue.

He had interviewed physiotherapists, members of the teaching staff, and what he called to himself, the âtwo young lagsâ whose turn it had been to dine with the family that night. All their stories dovetailed and checked. He could write them off. Their activities and habits were communal. There were no lonely souls among them. Which was useful for the purposes of alibis. Curry had kept Dr. Maverick who was, as far as he could judge, the chief person in charge of the Institute, to the end.

âBut weâll have him in now, Lake.â

So the young doctor bustled in, neat and spruce and rather inhuman-looking behind his pince-nez.

Maverick confirmed the statements of his staff, and agreed with Curryâs findings. There had been no slackness, no loophole in the College impregnability. Christian Gulbrandsenâs death could not be laid to the account of the âyoung patientsâ as Curry almost called themâso hypnotized had he become by the fervent medical atmosphere.

âBut patients is exactly what they are, Inspector,â said Dr. Maverick with a little smile.

It was a superior smile, and Inspector Curry would not have been human if he had not resented it just a little.

He said professionally:

âNow as regards your own movements, Dr. Maverick? Can you give me an account of them?â

âCertainly. I have jotted them down for you with the approximate times.â

Dr. Maverick had left the Great Hall at fifteen minutes after nine with Mr. Lacy and Mr. Baumgarten. They had gone to Mr. Baumgartenâs rooms where they had all three remained discussing certain courses of treatment until Miss Bellever had come hurrying in and asked Dr. Maverick to go to the Great Hall. That was at approximately half past nine. He had gone at once to the Hall and had found Edgar Lawson in a state of collapse.

Inspector Curry stirred a little.

âJust a minute, Dr. Maverick. Is this young man, in your opinion, definitely a mental case?â

Dr. Maverick smiled the superior smile again.

âWe are all mental cases, Inspector Curry.â

Tomfool answer, thought the Inspector. He knew quite well he wasnât a mental case, whatever Dr. Maverick might be!

âIs he responsible for his actions? He knows what he is doing, I suppose?â

âPerfectly.â

âThen when he fired that revolver at Mr. Serrocold it was definitely attempted murder.â

âNo, no, Inspector Curry. Nothing of that kind.â

âCome now, Dr. Maverick. Iâve seen the two bullet holes in the wall. They must have gone dangerously near to Mr. Serrocoldâs head.â

âPerhaps. But Lawson had no intention of killing Mr. Serrocold or even of wounding him. He is very fond of Mr. Serrocold.â

âIt seems a curious way of showing it.â

Dr. Maverick smiled again. Inspector Curry found that smile very trying.

âEverything one does is intentional. Every time you, Inspector, forget a name or a face it is because, unconsciously, you wish to forget it.â

Inspector Curry looked unbelieving.

âEvery time you make a slip of the tongue, that slip has a meaning. Edgar Lawson was standing a few feet away from Mr. Serrocold. He could easily have shot him dead. Instead, he missed him. Why did he miss him? Because he wanted to miss him. It is as simple as that. Mr. Serrocold was never in any dangerâand Mr. Serrocold himself was quite aware of that fact. He understood Edgarâs gesture for exactly what it wasâa gesture of defiance and resentment against a universe that has denied him the simple necessities of a childâs lifeâsecurity and affection.â

âI think Iâd like to see this young man.â

âCertainly if you wish. His outburst last night has had a cathartic effect. There is a great improvement today. Mr. Serrocold will be very pleased.â

Inspector Curry stared hard at him, but Dr. Maverick was serious as always.

Curry sighed.

âDo you have any arsenic?â he asked.

âArsenic?â The question took Dr. Maverick by surprise. It was clearly unexpected. âWhat a very curious question. Why arsenic?â

âJust answer the question, please.â

âNo, I have no arsenic of any kind in my possession.â

âBut you have some drugs?â

âOh certainly. Sedatives. Morphiaâthe barbiturates. The usual things.â

âDo you attend Mrs. Serrocold?â

âNo. Dr. Gunter of Market Kimble is the family physician. I hold a medical degree, of course, but I practice purely as a psychiatrist.â

âI see. Well, thank you very much, Dr. Maverick.â

As Dr. Maverick went out, Inspector Curry murmured to Lake that psychiatrists gave him a pain in the neck.

âWeâll get on to the family now,â he said. âIâll see young Walter Hudd first.â

Walter Huddâs attitude was cautious. He seemed to be studying the police officer with a slightly wary expression. But he was quite cooperative.

There was a good deal of defective wiring in Stonygatesâthe whole electric system was very old-fashioned. They wouldnât stand for a system like that in the States.

âIt was installed, I believe, by the late Mr. Gulbrandsen when electric light was a novelty,â said Inspector Curry with a faint smile.

âIâll say thatâs so! Sweet old feudal English and never been brought up to date.â

The fuse which controlled most of the lights in the Great Hall had gone, and he had gone out to the fuse box to see about it. In due course he got it repaired and came back.

âHow long were you away?â

âWhy, that I couldnât say for sure. The fuse box is in an awkward place. I had to get steps and a candle. I was maybe ten minutesâperhaps a quarter of an hour.â

âDid you hear a shot?â

âWhy no, I didnât hear anything like that. There are double doors through to the kitchen quarters, and one of them is lined with a kind of felt.â

âI see. And when you came back into the Hall, what did you see?â

âThey were all crowded round the door into Mr. Serrocoldâs study. Mrs. Strete said that Mr. Serrocold had been shotâbut actually that wasnât so. Mr. Serrocold was quite all right. The boob had missed him.â

âYou recognised the revolver?â

âSure I recognised it! It was mine.â

âWhen did you see it last?â

âTwo or three days ago.â

âWhere did you keep it?â

âIn the drawer in my room.â

âWho knew that you kept it there?â

âI wouldnât know who knows what in this house.â

âWhat do you mean by that, Mr. Hudd?â

âAw, theyâre all nuts!â

âWhen you came into the Hall, was everybody else there?â

âWhat dâyou mean by everybody?â

âThe same people who were there when you went to repair the fuse.â

âGina was there â¦ and the old lady with white hairâand Miss Bellever â¦ I didnât notice particularlyâbut I should say so.â

âMr. Gulbrandsen arrived quite unexpectedly the day before yesterday, did he not?â

âI guess so. It wasnât his usual routine, I understand.â

âDid anyone seem upset by his arrival?â

Walter Hudd took a moment or two before he answered, âWhy no, I wouldnât say so.â

Once more there was a touch of caution in his manner.

âHave you any idea why he came?â

âTheir precious Gulbrandsen Trust I suppose. The whole setup here is crazy.â

âYou have these âsetupsâ as you call it, in the States.â

âItâs one thing to endow a scheme, and another to give it the personal touch as they do here. I had enough of psychiatrists in the army. This place is stiff with them. Teaching young thugs to make raffia baskets and carve pipe racks. Kidsâ games! Itâs sissy!â

Inspector Curry did not comment on this criticism. Possibly he agreed with it.

He said, eyeing Walter carefully:

âSo you have no idea who could have killed Mr Gulbrandsen?â

âOne of the bright boys from the College practising his technique, Iâd say.â

âNo, Mr. Hudd, thatâs out. The College, in spite of its carefully produced atmosphere of freedom, is none the less a place of detention and is run on those lines. Nobody can run in and out of it after dark and commit murders.â

âI wouldnât put it past them! Wellâif you want to fix it nearer home, Iâd say your best bet was Alex Restarick.â

âWhy do you say that?â

âHe had the opportunity. He drove up through the grounds alone in his car.â

âAnd why should he kill Christian Gulbrandsen?â

Walter shrugged his shoulders.

âIâm a stranger. I donât know the family setups. Maybe the old boy had heard something about Alex and was going to spill the beans to the Serrocolds.â

âWith what result?â

âThey might cut off the dough. He can use doughâuses a good deal of it by all accounts.â

âYou meanâin theatrical enterprises?â

âThatâs what he calls it?â

âDo you suggest it was otherwise?â

Again Walter Hudd shrugged his shoulders.

âI wouldnât know,â he said.

Thirteen

1

Alex Restarick was voluble. He also gestured with his hands.

âI know, I know! Iâm the ideal suspect. I drive down here alone and on the way to the house, I get a creative fit. I canât expect you to understand. How should you?â

âI might,â Curry put in drily, but Alex Restarick swept on.

âItâs just one of those things! They come upon you thereâs no knowing when or how. An effectâan ideaâand everything else goes to the winds. Iâm producing Limehouse Nights next month. Suddenlyâlast nightâthe setup was wonderful â¦the perfect lighting. Fogâand the headlights cutting through the fog and being thrown backâand reflecting dimly a tall pile of buildings. Everything helped! The shotsâthe running footstepsâand the chug-chugging of the electric power engineâcould have been a launch on the Thames. And I thoughtâthatâs itâbut what am I going to use to get just these effects?âandââ

Inspector Curry broke in.

âYou heard shots? Where?â

âOut of the fog, Inspector.â Alex waved his hands in the airâplump, well-kept hands. âOut of the fog. That was the wonderful part about it.â

âIt didnât occur to you that anything was wrong?â

âWrong? Why should it?â

âAre shots such a usual occurrence?â

âAh, I knew you wouldnât understand! The shots fitted into the scene I was creating. I wanted shots. Dangerâopiumâcrazy business. What did I care what they were really? Backfires from a lorry on the road? A poacher after rabbits?â

âThey snare rabbits mostly round here.â

Alex swept on:

âA child letting off fireworks? I didnât even think about them asâshots. I was in Limehouseâor rather at the back of the stallsâlooking at Limehouse.â

âHow many shots?â

âI donât know,â said Alex petulantly. âTwo or three. Two close together, I do remember that.â

Inspector Curry nodded.

âAnd the sound of running footsteps, I think you said? Where were they?â

âThey came to me out of the fog. Somewhere near the house.â

Inspector Curry said gently:

âThat would suggest that the murderer of Christian Gulbrandsen came from outside.â

âOf course. Why not? You donât really suggest, do you, that he came from inside the house?â

Still very gently, Inspector Curry said:

âWe have to think of everything.â

âI suppose so,â said Alex Restarick generously. âWhat a soul-destroying job yours must be, Inspector! The details, the times and places, the pettifogging pettiness of it. And in the endâwhat good is it all? Does it bring the wretched Christian Gulbrandsen back to life?â

âThereâs quite a satisfaction in getting your man, Mr. Restarick.â

âThe Wild Western touch!â

âDid you know Mr. Gulbrandsen well?â

âNot well enough to murder him, Inspector. I had met him, off and on, since I lived here as a boy. He made brief appearances from time to time. One of our captains of industry. The type does not interest me. He has quite a collection, I believe, of Thorwaldsenâs statuaryââ Alex shuddered. âThat speaks for itself, does it not? My God, these rich men!â

Inspector Curry eyed him meditatively. Then he said, âDo you take any interest in poisons, Mr. Restarick?â

âIn poisons? My dear man, he was surely not poisoned first and shot afterwards. That would be too madly detective story.â

âHe was not poisoned. But you havenât answered my question.â

âPoison has a certain appeal â¦ It has not the crudeness of the revolver bullet or the blunt weapon. I have no special knowledge of the subject, if that is what you mean.â

âHave you ever had arsenic in your possession?â

âIn sandwichesâafter the show? The idea has its allurements. You donât know Rose Glidon? These actresses who think they have a name! No, I have never thought of arsenic. One extracts it from weed killer or flypapers, I believe.â

âHow often are you down here, Mr. Restarick?â

âIt varies, Inspector. Sometimes not for several weeks. But I try to get down for weekends whenever I can. I always regard Stonygates as my true home.â

âMrs. Serrocold has encouraged you to do so?â

âWhat I owe Mrs. Serrocold can never be repaid. Sympathy, understanding, affectionââ

âAnd quite a lot of solid cash as well, I believe?â

Alex looked faintly disgusted.

âShe treats me as a son, and she has belief in my work.â

âHas she ever spoken to you about her will?â

âCertainly. But may I ask what is the point of all these questions, Inspector? There is nothing wrong with Mrs. Serrocold.â

âThere had better not be,â said Inspector Curry grimly.

âNow what can you possibly mean by that?â

âIf you donât know, so much the better,â said Inspector Curry. âAnd if you doâIâm warning you.â

When Alex had gone Sergeant Lake said:

âPretty bogus, would you say?â

Curry shook his head.

âDifficult to say. He may have genuine creative talent. He may just like living soft and talking big. One doesnât know. Heard running footsteps, did he? Iâd be prepared to bet he made that up.â

âFor any particular reason?â

âDefinitely for a particular reason. We havenât come to it yet, but we will.â

âAfter all, sir, one of those smart lads may have got out of the College buildings unbeknownst. Probably a few cat burglars amongst them, and if soââ

âThatâs what weâre meant to think. Very convenient. But if thatâs so, Lake, Iâll eat my new soft hat.â

2

âI was at the piano,â said Stephen Restarick. âIâd been strumming softly when the row blew up. Between Lewis and Edgar.â

âWhat did you think of it?â

âWellâto tell the truth I didnât really take it seriously. The poor beggar has these fits of venom. Heâs not really loopy, you know. All this nonsense is a kind of blowing off steam. The truth is, we all get under his skinâparticularly Gina, of course.â

âGina? You mean Mrs. Hudd? Why does she get under his skin?â

âBecause sheâs a womanâand a beautiful woman, and because she thinks heâs funny! Sheâs half Italian, you know, and the Italians have that unconscious vein of cruelty. Theyâve no compassion for anyone whoâs old or ugly, or peculiar in any way. They point with their fingers and jeer. Thatâs what Gina did, metaphorically speaking. Sheâd no use for young Edgar. He was ridiculous, pompous, and, at bottom, fundamentally unsure of himself. He wanted to impress, and he only succeeded in looking silly. It wouldnât mean anything to her that the poor fellow suffered a lot.â

âAre you suggesting that Edgar Lawson is in love with Mrs. Hudd?â asked Inspector Curry.

Stephen replied cheerfully:

âOh yes. As a matter of fact we all are, more or less! She likes us that way.â

âDoes her husband like it?â

âHe takes a dim view. He suffers, too, poor fellow. The thing canât last, you know. Their marriage, I mean. It will break up before long. It was just one of these war affairs.â

âThis is all very interesting,â said the Inspector. âBut weâre getting away from our subject, which is the murder of Christian Gulbrandsen.â

âQuite,â said Stephen. âBut I canât tell you anything about it. I sat at the piano, and I didnât leave the piano until dear Jolly came in with some rusty old keys and tried to fit one to the lock of the study door.â

âYou stayed at the piano. Did you continue to play the piano?â

âA gentle obbligato to the life and death struggle in Lewisâ study? No, I stopped playing when the tempo rose. Not that I had any doubts as to the outcome. Lewis has what I can only describe as a dynamic eye. He could easily break up Edgar just by looking at him.â

âYet Edgar Lawson fired two shots at him.â

Stephen shook his head gently.

âJust putting on an act, that was. Enjoying himself. My dear mother used to do it. She died or ran away with someone when I was four, but I remember her blazing off with a pistol if anything upset her. She did it at a nightclub once. Made a pattern on the wall. She was an excellent shot. Quite a bit of trouble she caused. She was a Russian dancer, you know.â

âIndeed. Can you tell me, Mr. Restarick, who left the Hall yesterday evening whilst you were thereâduring the relevant time?â

âWallyâto fix the lights. Juliet Bellever to find a key to fit the study door. Nobody else, as far as I know.â

âWould you have noticed if somebody did?â

Stephen considered.

âProbably not. That is, if they just tiptoed out and back again. It was so dark in the Hallâand there was the fight to which we were all listening avidly.â

âIs there anyone you are sure was there the whole time?â

âMrs. Serrocoldâyes, and Gina. Iâd swear to them.â

âThank you, Mr. Restarick.â

Stephen went towards the door. Then he hesitated and came back.

âWhatâs all this,â he said, âabout arsenic?â

âWho mentioned arsenic to you?â

âMy brother.â

âAhâyes.â

Stephen said:

âHas somebody been giving Mrs. Serrocold arsenic?â

âWhy should you mention Mrs. Serrocold?â

âIâve read of the symptoms of arsenic poisoning. Peripheral neuritis, isnât it? It would square more or less with what sheâs been suffering from lately. And then Lewis snatching away her tonic last night. Is that whatâs been going on here?â

âThe matter is under investigation,â said Inspector Curry in his most official manner.

âDoes she know about it herself?â

âMr. Serrocold was particularly anxious that she should not beâalarmed.â

âAlarmed isnât the right word, Inspector. Mrs. Serrocold is never alarmed â¦ Is that what lies behind Christian Gulbrandsenâs death? Did he find out she was being poisonedâbut how could he find out? Anyway, the whole thing seems most improbable. It doesnât make sense.â

âIt surprises you very much, does it, Mr. Restarick?â

âYes, indeed. When Alex spoke to me, I could hardly believe it.â

âWho, in your opinion, would be likely to administer arsenic to Mrs. Serrocold?â

For a moment, a grin appeared upon Stephen Restarickâs handsome face.

âNot the usual person. You can wash out the husband. Lewis Serrocoldâs got nothing to gain. And also he worships that woman. He canât bear her to have an ache in her little finger.â

âWho then? Have you any idea?â

âOh yes. Iâd say it was a certainty.â

âExplain please.â

Stephen shook his head.

âItâs a certainty psychologically speaking. Not in any other way. No evidence of any kind. And you probably wouldnât agree.â

Stephen Restarick went out nonchalantly, and Inspector Curry drew cats on the sheet of paper in front of him.

He was thinking three things. A, that Stephen Restarick thought a good deal of himself, B, that Stephen Restarick and his brother presented a united front; and C, that Stephen Restarick was a handsome man where Walter Hudd was a plain one.

He wondered about two other thingsâwhat Stephen meant by âpsychologically speakingâ and whether Stephen could possibly have seen Gina from his seat at the piano. He rather thought not.

3

Into the Gothic gloom of the library, Gina brought an exotic glow. Even Inspector Curry blinked a little at the radiant young woman who sat down, leaned forward over the table and said expectantly, âWell?â

Inspector Curry, observing her scarlet shirt and dark green slacks said drily:

âI see youâre not wearing mourning, Mrs. Hudd?â

âI havenât got any,â said Gina. âI know everyone is supposed to have a little black number and wear it with pearls. But I donât. I hate black. I think itâs hideous, and only receptionists and housekeepers and people like that ought to wear it. Anyway Christian Gulbrandsen wasnât really a relation. Heâs my grandmotherâs stepson.â

âAnd I suppose you didnât know him very well?â

Gina shook her head.

âHe came here three or four times when I was a child, but then in the war I went to America, and I only came back here to live about six months ago.â

âYou have definitely come back here to live? Youâre not just on a visit?â

âI havenât really thought,â said Gina.

âYou were in the Great Hall last night, when Mr. Gulbrandsen went to his room?â

âYes. He said good night and went away. Grandam asked if he had everything he wanted and he said yesâthat Jolly had fixed him up fine. Not those words, but that kind of thing. He said he had letters to write.â

âAnd then?â

Gina described the scene between Lewis and Edgar Lawson. It was the same story as Inspector Curry had by now heard many times, but it took an added colour, a new gusto, under Ginaâs handling. It became drama.

âIt was Wallyâs revolver,â she said. âFancy Edgarâs having the guts to go and pinch it out of his room. Iâd never have believed heâd have the guts.â

âWere you alarmed when they went into the study and Edgar Lawson locked the door?â

âOh no,â said Gina, opening her enormous brown eyes very wide. âI loved it. It was so ham, you know, and so madly theatrical. Everything Edgar does is always ridiculous. One canât take him seriously for a moment.â

âHe did fire the revolver, though?â

âYes. We all thought then that heâd shot Lewis after all.â

âAnd did you enjoy that?â Inspector Curry could not refrain from asking.

âOh no, I was terrified, then. Everyone was, except Grandam. She never turned a hair.â

âThat seems rather remarkable.â

âNot really. Sheâs that kind of person. Not quite in this world. Sheâs the sort of person who never believes anything bad can happen. Sheâs sweet.â

âDuring all this scene, who was in the Hall?â

âOh, we were all there. Except Uncle Christian, of course.â

âNot all, Mrs. Hudd. People went in and out.â

âDid they?â asked Gina vaguely.

âYour husband, for instance, went out to fix the lights.â

âYes. Wallyâs great at fixing things.â

âDuring his absence, a shot was heard, I understand. A shot that you all thought came from the park?â

âI donât remember that â¦ Oh yes, it was just after the lights had come on again and Wally had come back.â

âDid anyone else leave the Hall?â

âI donât think so. I donât remember.â

âWhere were you sitting, Mrs. Hudd?â

âOver by the window.â

âNear the door to the library?â

âYes.â

âDid you yourself leave the Hall at all?â

âLeave? With all the excitement? Of course not.â

Gina sounded scandalised by the idea.

âWhere were the others sitting?â

âMostly round the fireplace, I think. Aunt Mildred was knitting and so was Aunt JaneâMiss Marple, I meanâGrandam was just sitting.â

âAnd Mr. Stephen Restarick?â

âStephen? He was playing the piano to begin with. I donât know where he went later.â

âAnd Miss Bellever?â

âFussing about, as usual. She practically never sits down. She was looking for keys or something.â

She said suddenly:

âWhatâs all this about Grandamâs tonic? Did the chemist make a mistake in making it up or something?â

âWhy should you think that?â

âBecause the bottleâs disappeared and Jollyâs been fussing round madly looking for it, in no end of a stew. Alex told her the police had taken it away. Did you?â

Instead of replying to the question, Inspector Curry said:

âMiss Bellever was upset, you say?â

âOh! Jolly always fusses,â said Gina carelessly. âShe likes fussing. Sometimes I wonder how Grandam can stand it.â

âJust one last question, Mrs. Hudd. Youâve no ideas yourself as to who killed Christian Gulbrandsen and why?â

âOne of the queers did it, I should think. The thug ones are really quite sensible. I mean they only cosh people so as to rob a till or get money or jewelryânot just for fun. But one of the queersâyou know, what they call mentally maladjustedâmight do it for fun, donât you think? Because I canât see what other reason there could be for killing Uncle Christian except fun, do you? At least I donât mean fun, exactlyâbutââ

âYou canât think of a motive?â

âYes, thatâs what I mean,â said Gina gratefully. âHe wasnât robbed or anything, was he?â

âBut you know, Mrs. Hudd, the College buildings were locked and barred. Nobody could get out from there without a pass.â

âDonât you believe it,â Gina laughed merrily. âThose boys could get out from anywhere! Theyâve taught me a lot of tricks.â

âSheâs a lively one,â said Lake when Gina had departed. âFirst time Iâve seen her close up. Lovely figure, hasnât she. Sort of a foreign figure, if you know what I mean.â

Inspector Curry threw him a cold glance. Sergeant Lake said hastily that she was a merry one. âSeems to have enjoyed it all, as you might say.â

âWhether Stephen Restarick is right or not about her marriage breaking up, I notice that she went out of her way to mention that Walter Hudd was back in the Great Hall, before that shot was heard.â

âWhich, according to everyone else, isnât so?â

âExactly.â

âShe didnât mention Miss Bellever leaving the Hall to look for keys, either.â

âNo,â said the Inspector thoughtfully, âshe didnâtâ¦.â

Fourteen

1

Mrs. Strete fitted into the library very much better than Gina Hudd had done. There was nothing exotic about Mrs. Strete. She wore black with onyx beads, and she wore a hairnet over carefully arranged grey hair.

She looked, Inspector Curry reflected, exactly as the relict of a canon of the Established Church should lookâwhich was almost odd, because so few people ever did look like what they really were.

Even the tight line of her lips had an ascetic ecclesiastical flavour. She expressed Christian Endurance, and possibly Christian Fortitude. But not, Curry thought, Christian Charity.

Moreover it was clear that Mrs. Strete was offended.

âI should have thought that you could have given me some idea of when you would want me, Inspector. I have been forced to sit around waiting all the morning.â

It was, Curry judged, her sense of importance that was hurt. He hastened to pour oil on the troubled waters.

âIâm very sorry, Mrs. Strete. Perhaps you donât quite know how we set about these things. We start, you know, with the less important evidenceâget it out of the way, so to speak. Itâs valuable to keep to the last a person on whose judgement we can relyâa good observerâby whom we can check what has been told us up to date.â

Mrs. Strete softened visibly.

âOh, I see. I hadnât quite realisedâ¦.â

âNow youâre a woman of mature judgement, Mrs. Strete. A woman of the world. And then this is your homeâyouâre the daughter of the house, and you can tell me all about the people who are in it.â

âI can certainly do that,â said Mildred Strete.

âSo you see that when we come to the question of who killed Christian Gulbrandsen, you can help us a great deal.â

âBut is there any question? Isnât it perfectly obvious who killed my brother?â

Inspector Curry leant back in his chair. His hand stroked his small neat moustache.

âWellâwe have to be careful,â he said. âYou think itâs obvious?â

âOf course. That dreadful American husband of poor Ginaâs. Heâs the only stranger here. We know absolutely nothing about him. Heâs probably one of these dreadful American gangsters.â

âBut that wouldnât quite account for his killing Christian Gulbrandsen, would it? Why should he?â

âBecause Christian had found out something about him. Thatâs what he came here for so soon after his last visit.â

âAre you sure of that, Mrs. Strete?â

âAgain it seems to me quite obvious. He let it be thought his visit was in connection with the Trustâbut thatâs nonsense. He was here for that only a month ago. And nothing of importance has arisen since. So he must have come on some private business. He saw Walter on his last visit, and he may have recognised himâor perhaps made inquiries about him in the Statesânaturally he has agents all over the worldâand found out something really damaging. Gina is a very silly girl. She always has been. It is just like her to marry a man she knows nothing aboutâsheâs always been man mad! A man wanted by the police, perhaps, or a man whoâs already married, or some bad character in the underworld. But my brother Christian wasnât an easy man to deceive. He came here, Iâm sure, to settle the whole business. Expose Walter and show him up for what he is. And so, naturally, Walter shot him.â

Inspector Curry, adding some out-sized whiskers to one of the cats on his blotting pad, said:

âYeâes.â

âDonât you agree with me that thatâs what must have happened?â

âIt could beâyes,â admitted the Inspector.

âWhat other solution could there be? Christian had no enemies. What I canât understand is why you havenât already arrested Walter?â

âWell, you see, Mrs. Strete, we have to have evidence.â

âYou could probably get that easily enough. If you wired to Americaââ

âOh yes, we shall check up on Mr. Walter Hudd. You can be sure of that. But until we can prove motive, thereâs not very much to go upon. Thereâs opportunity, of courseââ

âHe went out just after Christian, pretending the lights had fusedââ

âThey did fuse.â

âHe could easily arrange that.â

âTrue.â

âThat gave him his excuse. He followed Christian to his room, shot him and then repaired the fuse and came back to the Hall.â

âHis wife says he came back before you heard the shot from outside.â

âNot a bit of it! Gina would say anything. The Italians are never truthful. And sheâs a Roman Catholic, of course.â

Inspector Curry sidestepped the ecclesiastical angle.

âYou think his wife was in it with him?â

Mildred Strete hesitated for a moment.

âNoâno, I donât think that.â She seemed rather disappointed not to think so. She went on, âThat must have been partly the motiveâto prevent Ginaâs learning the truth about him. After all, Gina is his bread and butter.â

âAnd a very beautiful girl.â

âOh yes. Iâve always said Gina is good-looking. A very common type in Italy, of course. But if you ask me, itâs money that Walter Hudd is after. Thatâs why he came over here and has settled down living on the Serrocolds.â

âMrs. Hudd is very well off, I understand?â

âNot at present. My father settled the same sum on Ginaâs mother, as he did on me. But, of course, she took her husbandâs nationality (I believe the law is altered now) and what with the war and his being a Fascist, Gina has very little of her own. My mother spoils her, and her American aunt, Mrs. Van Rydock, spent fabulous sums on her and bought her everything she wanted during the war years. Nevertheless, from Walterâs point of view, he canât lay his hands on much until my motherâs death when a very large fortune will come to Gina.â

âAnd to you, Mrs. Strete.â

A faint colour came into Mildred Streteâs cheek.

âAnd to me, as you say. My husband and myself always lived quietly. He spent very little money except on booksâhe was a great scholar. My own money has almost doubled itself. It is more than enough for my simple needs. Still one can always use money for benefit of others. Any money that comes to me, I shall regard as a sacred trust.â

âBut it wonât be in a Trust, will it?â said Curry, wilfully misunderstanding. âIt will come to you, absolutely.â

âOh yesâin that sense. Yes, it will be mine absolutely.â

Something in the ring of that last word made Inspector Curry raise his head sharply. Mrs. Strete was not looking at him. Her eyes were shining, and her long thin mouth was curved in a triumphant smile.

Inspector Curry said in a considering voice:

âSo in your viewâand, of course, youâve had ample opportunities of judgingâMr. Walter Hudd wants the money that will come to his wife when Mrs. Serrocold dies. By the way, sheâs not very strong is she, Mrs. Strete?â

âMy mother has always been delicate.â

âQuite so. But delicate people often live as long or longer than people who have robust health.â

âYes, I suppose they do.â

âYou havenât noticed your motherâs health failing just lately?â

âShe suffers from rheumatism. But then one must have something as one grows older. Iâve no sympathy with people who make a fuss over inevitable aches and pains.â

âDoes Mrs. Serrocold make a fuss?â

Mildred Strete was silent for a moment. She said at last:

âShe does not make a fuss herself, but she is used to being made a fuss of. My stepfather is far too solicitous. And as for Miss Bellever, she makes herself positively ridiculous. In any case, Miss Bellever has had a very bad influence in this house. She came here many years ago, and her devotion to my mother, though admirable in itself, has really become somewhat of an infliction. She literally tyrannises over my mother. She runs the whole house and takes far too much upon herself. I think it annoys Lewis sometimes. I should never be surprised if he told her to go. She has no tactâno tact whatever, and it is trying for a man to find his wife completely dominated by a bossy woman.â

Inspector Curry nodded his head gently.

âI see â¦ I seeâ¦.â

He watched her speculatively.

âThereâs one thing I donât quite get, Mrs. Strete. The position of the two Restarick brothers?â

âMore foolish sentiment. Their father married my poor mother for her money. Two years afterwards, he ran away with a Yugoslavian singer of the lowest morals. He was a very unworthy person. My mother was softhearted enough to be sorry for these two boys. Since it was out of the question for them to spend their holidays with a woman of such notorious morals, she more or less adopted them. They have been hangers-on here ever since. Oh yes, weâve plenty of spongers in this house, I can tell you that.â

âAlex Restarick had an opportunity of killing Christian Gulbrandsen. He was in his car aloneâdriving from the lodge to the houseâwhat about Stephen?â

âStephen was in the Hall with us. I donât approve of Alex Restarickâhe is getting to look very coarse and I imagine he leads an irregular lifeâbut I donât really see him as a murderer. Besides, why should he kill my brother?â

âThatâs what we always come back to, isnât it?â said Inspector Curry genially. âWhat did Christian Gulbrandsen knowâabout someoneâthat made it necessary for that someone to kill him?â

âExactly,â said Mrs. Strete triumphantly. âIt must be Walter Hudd.â

âUnless itâs someone nearer home.â

Mildred said sharply:

âWhat did you mean by that?â

Inspector Curry said slowly:

âMr. Gulbrandsen seemed very concerned about Mrs. Serrocoldâs health whilst he was here.â

Mrs. Strete frowned.

âMen always fuss over Mother because she looks fragile. I think she likes them to! Or else Christian had been listening to Juliet Bellever.â

âYouâre not worried about your motherâs health yourself, Mrs. Strete?â

âNo. I hope Iâm sensible. Naturally Mother is not youngââ

âAnd death comes to all of us,â said Inspector Curry. âBut not ahead of its appointed time. Thatâs what we have to prevent.â

He spoke meaningly. Mildred Strete flared into sudden animation.

âOh itâs wickedâwicked. No one else here really seems to care. Why should they? Iâm the only person who was a blood relation to Christian. To Mother, he was only a grown-up stepson. To Gina, he isnât really any relation at all. But he was my own brother.â

âHalf brother,â suggested Inspector Curry.

âHalf brother, yes. But we were both Gulbrandsens in spite of the difference in age.â

Curry said gently, âYesâyes, I see your pointâ¦.â

Tears in her eyes, Mildred Strete marched out. Curry looked at Lake.

âSo sheâs quite sure itâs Walter Hudd,â he said. âWonât entertain for a moment the idea of its being anybody else.â

âAnd she may be right.â

âShe certainly may. Wally fits. Opportunityâand motive. Because if he wants money quick, his wifeâs grandmother would have to die. So Wally tampers with her tonic, and Christian Gulbrandsen sees him do itâor hears about it in some way. Yes, it fits very nicely.â

He paused and said:

âBy the way, Mildred Strete likes money â¦ She maynât spend it, but she likes it. Iâm not sure why â¦ She may be a miserâwith a miserâs passion. Or she may like the power that money gives. Money for benevolence, perhaps? Sheâs a Gulbrandsen. She may want to emulate Father.â

âComplex, isnât it?â said Sergeant Lake, and scratched his head.

Inspector Curry said:

âWeâd better see this screwy young man, Lawson, and after that weâll go to the Great Hall and work out who was whereâand if and whyâand when â¦ weâve heard one or two rather interesting things this morning.â

2

It was very difficult, Inspector Curry thought, to get a true estimate of someone from what other people said.

Edgar Lawson had been described by a good many different people that morning, but looking at him now, Curryâs own impressions were almost ludicrously different.

Edgar did not impress him as âqueerâ or âdangerousâ or âarrogantâ or even as âabnormal.â He seemed a very ordinary young man, very much cast down and in a state of humility approaching that of Uriah Heepâs. He looked young and slightly common and rather pathetic.

He was only too anxious to talk and to apologize.

âI know Iâve done very wrong. I donât know what came over meâreally I donât. Making that scene and kicking up such a row. And actually shooting off a pistol. At Mr. Serrocold, too, whoâs been so good to me and so patient, too.â

He twisted his hands nervously. They were rather pathetic hands, with bony wrists.

âIf Iâve got to be had up for it, Iâll come with you at once. I deserve it. Iâll plead guilty.â

âNo charge has been made against you,â said Inspector Curry crisply. âSo weâve no evidence on which to act. According to Mr. Serrocold, letting off the pistol was an accident.â

âThatâs because heâs so good. There never was a man as good as Mr. Serrocold! Heâs done everything for me. And I go and repay him by acting like this.â

âWhat made you act as you did?â

Edgar looked embarrassed.

âI made a fool of myself.â

Inspector Curry said drily:

âSo it seems. You told Mr. Serrocold in the presence of witnesses that you had discovered that he was your father. Was that true?â

âNo, it wasnât.â

âWhat put that idea into your head? Did someone suggest it to you?â

âWell, itâs a bit hard to explain.â

Inspector Curry looked at him thoughtfully, then said in a kindly voice:

âSuppose you try. We donât want to make things hard for you.â

âWell, you see, I had rather a hard time of it as a kid. The other boys jeered at me. Because I hadnât got a father. Said I was a little bastardâwhich I was, of course. Mum was usually drunk and she had men coming in all the time. My father was a foreign seaman, I believe. The house was always filthy and it was all pretty fair hell. And then I got to thinking suppose my Dad had been not just some foreign sailor, but someone importantâand I used to make up a thing or two. Kid stuff firstâchanged at birthâreally the rightful heirâthat sort of thing. And then I went to a new school and I tried it on once or twice hinting things. Said my father was really an Admiral in the navy. I got to believing it myself. I didnât feel so bad then.â

He paused and then went on.

âAnd thenâlaterâI thought up some other ideas. I used to stay at hotels and told a lot of silly stories about being a fighter pilotâor about being in military intelligence. I got all sort of mixed up. I didnât seem able to stop telling lies.

âOnly I didnât really try to get money by it. It was just swank so as to make people think a bit more of me. I didnât want to be dishonest. Mr. Serrocold will tell youâand Dr. Maverickâtheyâve got all the stuff about it.â

Inspector Curry nodded. He had already studied Edgarâs case history and his police record.

âMr. Serrocold got me clear in the end and brought me down here. He said he needed a secretary to help himâand I did help him! I really did. Only the others laughed at me. They were always laughing at me.â

âWhat others? Mrs. Serrocold?â

âNo, not Mrs. Serrocold. Sheâs a ladyâsheâs always gentle and kind. No, but Gina treated me like dirt. And Stephen Restarick. And Mrs. Strete looked down on me for not being a gentleman. So did Miss Belleverâand whatâs she? Sheâs a paid companion, isnât she?â

Curry noted the signs of rising excitement.

âSo you didnât find them very sympathetic?â

Edgar said passionately:

âIt was because of me being a bastard. If Iâd had a proper father they wouldnât have gone on like that.â

âSo you appropriated a couple of famous fathers?â

Edgar blushed.

âI always seem to get to telling lies,â he muttered.

âAnd finally, you said Mr. Serrocold was your father. Why?â

âBecause that would stop them once for all, wouldnât it? If he was my father they couldnât do anything to me!â

âYes. But you accused him of being your enemyâof persecuting you.â

âI knowââ He rubbed his forehead. âI got things all wrong. There are times when I donâtâwhen I donât get things quite right. I get muddled.â

âAnd you took the revolver from Mr. Walter Huddâs room?â

Edgar looked puzzled.

âDid I? Is that where I got it?â

âDonât you remember where you got it?â

Edgar said:

âI meant to threaten Mr. Serrocold with it. I meant to frighten him. It was kid stuff all over again.â

Inspector Curry said patiently, âHow did you get the revolver?â

âYou just saidâout of Walterâs room.â

âYou remember doing that now?â

âI must have got it from his room. I couldnât have got hold of it any other way, could I?â

âI donât know,â said Inspector Curry. âSomebodyâmight have given it to you?â

Edgar was silentâhis face a blank.

âIs that how it happened?â

Edgar said passionately:

âI donât remember. I was so worked up. I walked about the garden in a red mist of rage. I thought people were spying on me, watching me, trying to hound me down. Even that nice white-haired old lady â¦ I canât understand it all now. I feel I must have been mad. I donât remember where I was and what I was doing half of the time!â

âSurely you remember who told you Mr. Serrocold was your father?â

Edgar gave the same blank stare.

âNobody told me,â he said sullenly. âIt just came to me.â

Inspector Curry sighed. He was not satisfied. But he judged he could make no further progress at present.

âWell, watch your step in future,â he said.

âYes, sir. Yes, indeed, I will.â

As Edgar went Inspector Curry slowly shook his head.

âThese pathological cases are the devil!â

âDâyou think heâs mad, sir?â

âMuch less mad than Iâd imagined. Weak-headed, boastful, a liarâyet a certain pleasant simplicity about him. Highly suggestible I should imagineâ¦.â

âYou think someone did suggest things to him?â

âOh yes, old Miss Marple was right there. Sheâs a shrewd old bird. But I wish I knew who it was. He wonât tell. If we only knew that â¦ Come on, Lake, letâs have a thorough reconstruction of the scene in the Hall.â

3

âThat fixes it pretty well.â

Inspector Curry was sitting at the piano. Sergeant Lake was in a chair by the window overlooking the lake.

Curry went on.

âIf Iâm half-turned on the piano stool, watching the study door, I canât see you.â

Sergeant Lake rose softly and edged quietly through the door to the library.

âAll this side of the room was dark. The only lights that were on were the ones beside the study door. No, Lake, I didnât see you go. Once in the library, you could go out through the other door to the corridorâtwo minutes to run along to the Oak Suite, shoot Gulbrandsen and come back through the library to your chair by the window.

âThe women by the fire have their backs to you. Mrs. Serrocold was sitting hereâon the right of the fireplace, near the study door. Everyone agrees she didnât move and sheâs the only one whoâs in the line of direct vision. Miss Marple was here. She was looking past Mrs. Serrocold to the study. Mrs. Strete was on the left of the fireplaceâclose to the door out of the Hall to the lobby, and itâs a very dark corner. She could have gone and come back. Yes, itâs possible.â

Curry grinned suddenly.

âAnd I could go.â He slipped off the music stool and sidled along the wall and out through the door. âThe only person who might notice I wasnât still at the piano would be Gina Hudd. And you remember what Gina said, âStephen was at the piano to begin with. I donât know where he was later.ââ

âSo you think itâs Stephen?â

âI donât know who it is,â said Curry. âIt wasnât Edgar Lawson or Lewis Serrocold or Mrs. Serrocold or Miss Jane Marple. But for the restââ He sighed. âItâs probably the American. Those fused lights were a bit too convenientâa coincidence. And yet, you know, I rather like the chap. Still, that isnât evidence.â

He peered thoughtfully at some music on the side of the piano. âHindemith? Whoâs he? Never heard of him. Shostakovitch! What names these people have.â He got up and then looked down at the old-fashioned music stool. He lifted the top of it.

âHereâs the old-fashioned stuff. Handelâs Largo. Czernyâs Exercises. Dates back to old Gulbrandsen, most of this. âI know a lovely GardenââVicarâs wife used to sing that when I was a boyââ

He stoppedâthe yellow pages of the song in his hand. Beneath them, reposing on Chopinâs Preludes, was a small automatic pistol.

âStephen Restarick,â exclaimed Sergeant Lake joyfully.

âNow donât jump to conclusions,â Inspector Curry warned him. âTen to one thatâs what weâre meant to think.â

Fifteen

1

Miss Marple climbed the stairs and tapped on the door of Mrs. Serrocoldâs bedroom.

âMay I come in, Carrie Louise?â

âOf course, Jane dear.â

Carrie Louise was sitting in front of the dressing table, brushing her silvery hair. She turned her head over her shoulder.

âIs it the police? Iâll be ready in a few minutes.â

âAre you all right?â

âYes, of course. Jolly insisted on my having my breakfast in bed. And Gina came into the room with it on tiptoe as though I might be at deathâs door! I donât think people realise that tragedies like Christianâs death are much less shock to someone old. Because one knows by then how anything may happenâand how little anything really matters that happens in this world.â

âYeâes,â said Miss Marple dubiously.

âDonât you feel the same, Jane? I should have thought you would.â

Miss Marple said slowly:

âChristian was murdered.â

âYes â¦ I see what you mean. You think that does matter?â

âDonât you?â

âNot to Christian,â said Carrie Louise simply. âIt matters, of course, to whoever murdered him.â

âHave you any idea who murdered him?â

Mrs. Serrocold shook her head in a bewildered fashion.

âNo, Iâve absolutely no idea. I canât even think of a reason. It must have been something to do with his being here beforeâjust over a month ago. Because otherwise I donât think he would have come here suddenly again for no particular reason. Whatever it was must have started off then. Iâve thought and Iâve thought, but I canât remember anything unusual.â

âWho was here in the house?â

âOh! the same people who are here nowâyes, Alex was down from London about then. Andâoh yes, Ruth was here.â

âRuth?â

âHer usual flying visit.â

âRuth,â said Miss Marple again. Her mind was active. Christian Gulbrandsen and Ruth? Ruth had come away worried and apprehensive, but had not known why. Something was wrong was all that Ruth could say. Christian Gulbrandsen had also been worried and apprehensive, but Christian Gulbrandsen had known or suspected something that Ruth did not. He had known or suspected that someone was trying to poison Carrie Louise. How had Christian Gulbrandsen come to entertain those suspicions? What had he seen or heard? Was it something that Ruth also had seen or heard but which she had failed to appreciate at its rightful significance? Miss Marple wished that she knew what it could possibly have been. Her own vague hunch that it (whatever it was) had to do with Edgar Lawson seemed unlikely since Ruth had not even mentioned him.

She sighed.

âYouâre all keeping something from me, arenât you?â asked Carrie Louise.

Miss Marple jumped a little as the quiet voice spoke.

âWhy do you say that?â

âBecause you are. Not Jolly. But everyone else. Even Lewis. He came in while I was having my breakfast, and he acted very oddly. He drank some of my coffee and even had a bit of toast and marmalade. Thatâs so unlike him, because he always has tea, and he doesnât like marmalade, so he must have been thinking of something elseâand I suppose he must have forgotten to have his own breakfast. He does forget things like meals, and he looked so concerned and preoccupied.â

âMurderââ began Miss Marple.

Carrie Louise said quickly:

âOh, I know. Itâs a terrible thing. Iâve never been mixed up in it before. You have, havenât you, Jane?â

âWellâyesâactually I have,â Miss Marple admitted.

âSo Ruth told me.â

âDid she tell you that last time she was down here?â asked Miss Marple curiously.

âNo, I donât think it was then. I canât really remember.â

Carrie Louise spoke vaguely, almost absentmindedly.

âWhat are you thinking about, Carrie Louise?â

Mrs. Serrocold smiled and seemed to come back from a long way away.

âI was thinking of Gina,â she said. âAnd of what you said about Stephen Restarick. Ginaâs a dear girl, you know, and she does really love Wally. Iâm sure she does.â

Miss Marple said nothing.

âGirls like Gina like to kick up their heels a bit.â Mrs. Serrocold spoke in an almost pleading voice. âTheyâre young and they like to feel their power. Itâs natural, really. I know Wally Hudd isnât the sort of man we imagined Gina marrying. Normally sheâd never have met him. But she did meet him, and fell in love with himâand presumably she knows her own business best.â

âProbably she does,â said Miss Marple.

âBut itâs so very important that Gina should be happy.â

Miss Marple looked curiously at her friend.

âItâs important, I suppose, that everyone should be happy.â

âOh yes. But Ginaâs a very special case. When we took her motherâwhen we took Pippaâwe felt that it was an experiment that had simply got to succeed. You see, Pippaâs motherââ

Carrie Louise paused.

Miss Marple said, âWho was Pippaâs mother?â

Carrie Louise said, âEric and I agreed that we would never tell anybody that. She never knew herself.â

âIâd like to know,â said Miss Marple.

Mrs. Serrocold looked at her doubtfully.

âIt isnât just curiosity,â said Miss Marple. âI reallyâwellâneed to know. I can hold my tongue, you know.â

âYou could always keep a secret, Jane,â said Carrie Louise with a reminiscent smile. âDr. Galbraithâheâs the Bishop of Cromer nowâhe knows. But no one else. Pippaâs mother was Katherine Elsworth.â

âElsworth? Wasnât that the woman who administered arsenic to her husband? Rather a celebrated case.â

âYes.â

âShe was hanged?â

âYes. But you know itâs not at all sure that she did it. The husband was an arsenic eaterâthey didnât understand so much about those things then.â

âShe soaked flypapers.â

âThe maidâs evidence, we always thought, was definitely malicious.â

âAnd Pippa was her daughter?â

âYes. Eric and I determined to give the child a fresh start in lifeâwith love and care and all the things a child needs. We succeeded. Pippa wasâherself. The sweetest, happiest creature imaginable.â

Miss Marple was silent a long time.

Carrie Louise turned away from the dressing table.

âIâm ready now. Perhaps youâll ask the Inspector or whatever he is to come up to my sitting room. He wonât mind, Iâm sure.â

2

Inspector Curry did not mind. In fact, he rather welcomed the chance of seeing Mrs. Serrocold on her own territory.

As he stood there waiting for her, he looked round him curiously. It was not his idea of what he termed to himself âa rich womanâs boudoir.â

It had an old-fashioned couch and some rather uncomfortable looking Victorian chairs with twisted woodwork backs. The chintzes were old and faded but of an attractive pattern displaying the Crystal Palace. It was one of the smaller rooms, though even then it was larger than the drawing room of most modern houses. But it had a cosy, rather crowded appearance with its little tables, its bric-a-brac, and its photographs. Curry looked at an old snapshot of two little girls, one dark and lively, the other plain, and staring out sulkily on the world from under a heavy fringe. He had seen that same expression that morning. âPippa and Mildredâ was written on the photograph. There was a photograph of Eric Gulbrandsen hanging on the wall, with a gold mount and a heavy ebony frame. Curry had just found a photograph of a good-looking man with eyes crinkling with laughter, whom he presumed was John Restarick, when the door opened and Mrs. Serrocold came in.

She wore black, a floating and diaphanous black. Her little pink-and-white face looked unusually small under its crown of silvery hair, and there was a frailness about her that caught sharply at Inspector Curryâs heart. He understood, at that moment, a good deal that had perplexed him earlier in the morning. He understood why people were so anxious to spare Caroline Louise Serrocold everything that could be spared her.

And yet, he thought, she isnât the kind that would ever make a fussâ¦.

She greeted him, asked him to sit down, and took a chair near him. It was less he who put her at her ease than she who put him at his. He started to ask his questions and she answered them readily and without hesitation. The failure of the lights, the quarrel between Edgar Lawson and her husband, the shot they had heardâ¦.

âIt did not seem to you that the shot was in the house?â

âNo, I thought it came from outside. I thought it might have been the backfire of a car.â

âDuring the quarrel between your husband and this young fellow Lawson in the study, did you notice anybody leaving the Hall?â

âWally had already gone to see about the lights. Miss Bellever went out shortly afterwardsâto get something, but I canât remember what.â

âWho else left the Hall?â

âNobody, so far as I know.â

âWould you know, Mrs. Serrocold?â

She reflected a moment.

âNo, I donât think I should.â

âYou were completely absorbed in what you could hear going on in the study?â

âYes.â

âAnd you were apprehensive as to what might happen there?â

âNoâno, I wouldnât say that. I didnât think anything would really happen.â

âBut Lawson had a revolver?â

âYes.â

âAnd was threatening your husband with it?â

âYes. But he didnât mean it.â

Inspector Curry felt his usual slight exasperation at this statement. So she was another of them!

âYou canât possibly have been sure of that, Mrs. Serrocold.â

âWell, but I was sure. In my own mind, I mean. What is it the young people sayâputting on an act? Thatâs what I felt it was. Edgarâs only a boy. He was being melodramatic and silly and fancying himself as a bold desperate character. Seeing himself as the wronged hero in a romantic story. I was quite sure he would never fire that revolver.â

âBut he did fire it, Mrs. Serrocold.â

Carrie Louise smiled.

âI expect it went off by accident.â

Again exasperation mounted in Inspector Curry.

âIt was not by accident. Lawson fired that revolver twiceâand fired it at your husband. The bullets only just missed him.â

Carrie Louise looked startled and then grave.

âI canât really believe that. Oh yesââ she hurried on to forestall the Inspectorâs protest. âOf course, I have to believe it, if you tell me so. But I still feel there must be a simple explanation. Perhaps Dr. Maverick can explain it to me.â

âOh yes, Dr. Maverick will explain it all right,â said Curry grimly. âDr. Maverick can explain anything. Iâm sure of that.â

Unexpectedly Mrs. Serrocold said:

âI know that a lot of what we do here seems to you foolish and pointless, and psychiatrists can be very irritating sometimes. But we do achieve results, you know. We have our failures, but we have successes too. And what we try to do is worth doing. And though you probably wonât believe it, Edgar is really devoted to my husband. He started this silly business about Lewisâ being his father because he wants so much to have a father like Lewis. But what I canât understand is why he should suddenly get violent. He had been so very much betterâreally practically normal. Indeed, he has always seemed normal to me.â

The Inspector did not argue the point.

He said, âThe revolver that Edgar Lawson had was one belonging to your granddaughterâs husband. Presumably Lawson took it from Walter Huddâs room. Now tell me, have you ever seen this weapon before?â

On the palm of his hand he held out the small black automatic.

Carrie Louise looked at it.

âNo, I donât think so.â

âI found it in the piano stool. It has recently been fired. We havenât had time to check on it fully yet, but I should say that it is almost certainly the weapon with which Mr. Gulbrandsen was shot.â

She frowned.

âAnd you found it in the piano stool?â

âUnder some very old music. Music that I should say had not been played for years.â

âHidden, then?â

âYes. You remember who was at the piano last night?â

âStephen Restarick.â

âHe was playing?â

âYes. Just softly. A funny, melancholy little tune.â

âWhen did he stop playing, Mrs. Serrocold?â

âWhen did he stop? I donât know.â

âBut he did stop? He didnât go on playing all through the quarrel?â

âNo. The music just died down.â

âDid he get up from the piano stool?â

âI donât know. Iâve no idea what he did until he came over to the study door to try and fit a key to it.â

âCan you think of any reason why Stephen Restarick should shoot Mr. Gulbrandsen?â

âNone whatever,â she added thoughtfully, âI donât believe he did.â

âGulbrandsen might have found something discreditable about him.â

âThat seems to me very unlikely.â

Inspector Curry had a wild wish to reply:

âPigs may fly but theyâre very unlikely birds.â It had been a saying of his grandmotherâs. Miss Marple, he thought, was sure to know it.

3

Carrie Louise came down the broad stairway, and three people converged upon her from different directions, Gina from the long corridor, Miss Marple from the library, and Juliet Bellever from the Great Hall.

Gina spoke first.

âDarling!â she exclaimed passionately. âAre you all right? They havenât bullied you or given you third degree or anything?â

âOf course not, Gina. What odd ideas you have! Inspector Curry was charming and most considerate.â

âSo he ought to be,â said Miss Bellever. âNow, Cara, Iâve got all your letters here and a parcel. I was going to bring them up to you.â

âBring them into the library,â said Carrie Louise.

All four of them went into the library.

Carrie Louise sat down and began opening her letters. There were about twenty or thirty of them.

As she opened them, she handed them to Miss Bellever who sorted them into heaps, explaining to Miss Marple as she did so, âThree main categories. Oneâfrom relations of the boys. Those I hand over to Dr. Maverick. Begging letters I deal with myself. And the rest are personalâand Cara gives me notes on how to deal with them.â

The correspondence once disposed of, Mrs. Serrocold turned her attention to the parcel, cutting the string with scissors.

Out of the neat wrappings, there appeared an attractive box of chocolates tied up with a gold ribbon.

âSomeone must think itâs my birthday,â said Mrs. Serrocold with a smile.

She slipped off the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a visiting card. Carrie Louise looked at it with slight surprise.

âWith love from Alex,â she read. âHow odd of him to send me a box of chocolates by post on the same day he was coming down here.â

Uneasiness stirred in Miss Marpleâs mind.

She said quickly:

âWait a minute, Carrie Louise. Donât eat one yet.â

Mrs. Serrocold looked faintly surprised.

âI was going to hand them round.â

âWell, donât. Wait while I askâis Alex about the house, do you know, Gina?â

Gina said quickly, âAlex was in the Hall just now, I think.â

She went across, opened the door, and called him.

Alex Restarick appeared in the doorway a moment later.

âMadonna darling! So youâre up. None the worse?â

He came across to Mrs. Serrocold and kissed her gently on both cheeks.

Miss Marple said:

âCarrie Louise wants to thank you for the chocolates.â

Alex looked surprised.

âWhat chocolates?â

âThese chocolates,â said Carrie Louise.

âBut I never sent you any chocolates, darling.â

âThe box has got your card in,â said Miss Bellever.

Alex peered down.

âSo it has. How odd. How very odd â¦ I certainly didnât send them.â

âWhat a very extraordinary thing,â said Miss Bellever.

âThey look absolutely scrumptious,â said Gina, peering into the box. âLook, Grandam, there are your favourite Kirsch ones in the middle.â

Miss Marple gently but firmly took the box away from her. Without a word she took it out of the room and went to find Lewis Serrocold. It took her some time because he had gone over to the Collegeâshe found him in Dr. Maverickâs room there. She put the box on the table in front of him. He listened to her brief account of the circumstances. His face grew suddenly stern and hard.

Carefully, he and the doctor lifted out chocolate after chocolate and examined them.

âI think,â said Dr. Maverick, âthat these ones I have put aside have almost certainly been tampered with. You see the unevenness of the chocolate coating underneath? The next thing to do is to get them analysed.â

âBut it seems incredible,â said Miss Marple. âWhy, everyone in the house might have been poisoned!â

Lewis nodded. His face was still white and hard.

âYes. There is a ruthlessnessâa disregardââ he broke off. âActually, I think all these particular chocolates are Kirsch flavouring. That is Carolineâs favourite. So, you see, there is knowledge behind this.â

Miss Marple said quietly:

âIf it is as you suspectâif there isâpoisonâin these chocolates, then Iâm afraid Carrie Louise will have to know what is going on. She must be put upon her guard.â

Lewis Serrocold said heavily:

âYes. She will have to know that someone wants to kill her. I think that she will find it almost impossible to believe.â

Sixteen

1

ââEre, Miss. Is it true as thereâs an âideous poisoner at work?â

Gina pushed the hair back from her forehead, and jumped as the hoarse whisper reached her. There was paint on her cheek and paint on her slacks. She and her selected helpers had been busy on the backcloth of the Nile at sunset for their next theatrical production.

It was one of these helpers who was now asking the question. Ernie, the boy who had given her such valuable lessons in the manipulations of locks. Ernieâs fingers were equally dextrous at stage carpentry, and he was one of the most enthusiastic theatrical assistants.

His eyes now were bright and beady with pleasurable anticipation.

âWhere on earth did you get that idea?â asked Gina indignantly.

Ernie shut one eye.

âItâs all round the dorms,â he said. âBut look âere, Miss, it wasnât one of us. Not a thing like that. And nobody wouldnât do a thing to Mrs. Serrocold. Even Jenkins wouldnât cosh her. âTisnât as though it was the old bitch. Wouldnât âalf like to poison âer, I wouldnât.â

âDonât talk like that about Miss Bellever.â

âSorry, Miss. It slipped out. What poison was it, Miss? Strickline, was it? Makes you arch your back and die in agonies, that does. Or was it Prussian acid?â

âI donât know what youâre talking about, Ernie.â

Ernie winked again.

âNot âalf you donât. Mr. Alex it was done it, so they say. Brought them chocs down from London. But thatâs a lie. Mr. Alex wouldnât do a thing like that, would he, Miss?â

âOf course he wouldnât,â said Gina.

âMuch more likely to be Mr. Birnbaum. When heâs giving us P.T. he makes the most awful faces and Don and I think as heâs batty.â

âJust move that turpentine out of the way.â

Ernie obeyed, murmuring to himself:

âDonât âarf see life âere! Old Gulbrandsen done in yesterday and now a secret poisoner. Dâyou think itâs the same person doing both? What ud you say, Miss, if I told you as I know oo it was done âim in?â

âYou canât possibly know anything about it.â

âCoo, carnât I neither? Supposinâ I was outside last night and saw something.â

âHow could you have been out? The College is locked up after roll call at seven.â

âRoll call â¦ I can get out whenever I likes, Miss. Locks donât mean nothing to me. Get out and walk round the grounds just for the fun of it, I do.â

Gina said:

âI wish youâd stop telling lies, Ernie.â

âWhoâs telling lies?â

âYou are. You tell lies and you boast about things that youâve never done at all.â

âThatâs what you say, Miss. You wait till the coppers come round and arsk me all about what I saw last night.â

âWell, what did you see?â

âAh,â said Ernie, âwouldnât you like to know?â

Gina made a rush at him and he beat a strategic retreat. Stephen came over from the other side of the theatre and joined Gina. They discussed various technical matters and then, side by side, they walked back towards the house.

âThey all seem to know about Grandam and the chocs,â said Gina. âThe boys, I mean. How do they get to know?â

âLocal grapevine of some kind.â

âAnd they knew about Alexâs card. Stephen, surely it was very stupid to put Alexâs card in the box when he was actually coming down here.â

âYes, but who knew he was coming down here? He decided to come on the spur of the moment and sent a telegram. Probably the box was posted by then. And if he hadnât come down, putting his card in would have been quite a good idea. Because he does send Caroline chocolates sometimes.â

He went on slowly:

âWhat I simply canât understand isââ

âIs why anyone should want to poison Grandam,â Gina cut in. âI know. Itâs inconceivable! Sheâs so adorableâand absolutely everyone does adore her.â

Stephen did not answer. Gina looked at him sharply.

âI know what youâre thinking, Steve!â

âI wonder.â

âYouâre thinking that Wallyâdoesnât adore her. But Wally would never poison anyone. The ideaâs laughable.â

âThe loyal wife!â

âDonât say that in that sneering tone of voice.â

âI didnât mean to sneer. I think you are loyal. I admire you for it. But, darling Gina, you canât keep it up, you know.â

âWhat do you mean, Steve?â

âYou know quite well what I mean. You and Wally donât belong together. Itâs just one of those things that doesnât work. He knows it, too. The split is going to come any day now. And youâll both be much happier when it has come.â

Gina said:

âDonât be idiotic.â

Stephen laughed.

âCome now, you canât pretend that youâre suited to each other or that Wallyâs happy here.â

âOh, I donât know whatâs the matter with him,â cried Gina. âHe sulks the whole time. He hardly speaks. IâI donât know what to do about him. Why canât he enjoy himself here? We had such fun together onceâeverything was funâand now he might be a different person. Why do people have to change so?â

âDo I change?â

âNo, Steve darling. Youâre always Steve. Do you remember how I used to tag round after you in the holidays?â

âAnd what a nuisance I used to think youâthat miserable little kid Gina. Well, the tables are turned now. Youâve got me where you want me, havenât you, Gina?â

Gina said quickly:

âIdiot.â She went on hurriedly, âDo you think Ernie was lying? He was pretending he was roaming about in the fog last night, and hinting that he could tell things about the murder. Do you think that might be true?â

âTrue? Of course not. You know how he boasts. Anything to make himself important.â

âOh I know. I only wonderedââ

They walked along side by side without speaking.

2

The setting sun illumined the west faÃ§ade of the house. Inspector Curry looked towards it.

âIs this about the place where you stopped your car last night?â he asked.

Alex Restarick stood back a little as though considering.

âNear enough,â he said. âItâs difficult to tell exactly because of the fog. Yes, I should say this was the place.â

Inspector Curry stood looking round with an appraising eye.

The gravelled sweep of drive swept round in a slow curve, and at this point, emerging from a screen of rhododendrons, the west faÃ§ade of the house came suddenly into view with its terrace and yew hedges and steps leading down to the lawns. Thereafter the drive continued in its curving progress, sweeping through a belt of trees and round between the lake and the house until it ended in the big gravel sweep at the east side of the house.

âDodgett,â said Inspector Curry.

Police Constable Dodgett, who had been holding himself at the ready, started spasmodically into motion. He hurled himself across the intervening space of lawn in a diagonal line towards the house, reached the terrace, and went in by the side door. A few moments later, the curtains of one of the windows were violently agitated. Then Constable Dodgett reappeared out of the garden door, and ran back to rejoin them, breathing like a steam engine.

âTwo minutes and forty-two seconds,â said Inspector Curry, clicking the stop watch with which he had been timing him. âThey donât take long, these things, do they?â

His tone was pleasantly conversational.

âI donât run as fast as your constable,â said Alex. âI presume it is my supposed movements you have been timing?â

âIâm just pointing out that you had the opportunity to do murder. Thatâs all, Mr. Restarick. Iâm not making any accusationsâas yet.â

Alex Restarick said kindly to Constable Dodgett who was still panting:

âI canât run as fast as you can, but I believe Iâm in better training.â

âItâs since âaving the bronchitis last winter,â said Dodgett.

Alex turned back to the Inspector.

âSeriously, though, in spite of trying to make me uncomfortable and observing my reactionsâand you must remember that we artistic folk are oh! so sensitive, such tender plants!ââhis voice took on a mocking noteââyou canât really believe I had anything to do with all this? Iâd hardly send a box of poisoned chocolates to Mrs. Serrocold and put my card inside, would I?â

âThat might be what we are meant to think. Thereâs such a thing as a double bluff, Mr. Restarick.â

âOh, I see. How ingenious you are. By the way, those chocolates were poisoned?â

âThe six chocolates containing Kirsch flavouring in the top layer were poisoned, yes. They contained aconitine.â

âNot one of my favourite poisons, Inspector. Personally, I have a weakness for curare.â

âCurare has to be introduced into the bloodstream, Mr. Restarick, not into the stomach.â

âHow wonderfully knowledgeable the police force are,â said Alex admiringly.

Inspector Curry cast a quiet sideways glance at the young man. He noted the slightly pointed ears, the un-English Mongolian type of face. The eyes that danced with mischievous mockery. It would have been hard at any time to know what Alex Restarick was thinking. A satyrâor did he mean a faun? An overfed faun, Inspector Curry thought suddenly, and somehow there was an unpleasantness about that idea.

A twister with brainsâthatâs how he would sum up Alex Restarick. Cleverer than his brother. Mother had been a Russian or so he had heard. âRussiansâ to Inspector Curry were what âBonyâ had been in the early days of the nineteenth century and what âthe Hunsâ had been in the early twentieth century. Anything to do with Russia was bad in Inspector Curryâs opinion, and if Alex Restarick had murdered Gulbrandsen he would be a very satisfactory criminal. But unfortunately Curry was by no means convinced that he had.

Constable Dodgett, having recovered his breath, now spoke.

âI moved the curtains as you told me, sir,â he said. âAnd counted thirty. I noticed that the curtains have a hook torn off at the top. Means that thereâs a gap. Youâd see the light in the room from outside.â

Inspector Curry said to Alex:

âDid you notice light streaming out from that window last night?â

âI couldnât see the house at all because of the fog. I told you so.â

âFogâs patchy, though. Sometimes it clears for a minute here and there.â

âIt never cleared so that I could see the houseâthe main part, that is. The gymnasium building close at hand loomed up out of the mist in a deliciously unsubstantial way. It gave a perfect illusion of dock warehouses. As I told you, I am putting on a Limehouse Ballet andââ

âYou told me,â agreed Inspector Curry.

âOne gets in the habit, you know, of looking at things from the point of view of a stage set, rather than from the point of view of reality.â

âI daresay. And yet a stage setâs real enough, isnât it, Mr. Restarick?â

âI donât see exactly what you mean, Inspector.â

âWell, itâs made of real materialsâcanvas and wood and paint and cardboard. The illusion is in the eye of the beholder, not in the set itself. That, as I say, is real enough, as real behind the scenes as it is in front.â

Alex stared at him.

âNow that, you know, is a very penetrating remark, Inspector. Itâs given me an idea.â

âFor another ballet?â

âNo, not for another ballet â¦ Dear me, I wonder if weâve all been rather stupid?â

3

The Inspector and Dodgett went back to the house across the lawn. (Looking for footprints, Alex said to himself. But here he was wrong. They had looked for footprints very early that morning and had been unsuccessful because it had rained heavily at 2 A.M.) Alex walked slowly up the drive, turning over in his mind the possibilities of his new idea.

He was diverted from this however by the sight of Gina walking on the path by the lake. The house was on a slight eminence, and the ground sloped gently down from the front sweeps of gravel to the lake, which was bordered by rhododendrons and other shrubs. Alex ran down the gravel and found Gina.

âIf you could black out that absurd Victorian monstrosity,â he said, screwing up his eyes, âthis would make a very good Swan Lake, with you, Gina, as the Swan Maiden. You are more like the Snow Queen though, when I come to think of it. Ruthless, determined to have your own way, quite without pity or kindliness or the rudiments of compassion. You are very very feminine, Gina dear.â

âHow malicious you are, Alex dear!â

âBecause I refuse to be taken in by you? Youâre very pleased with yourself, arenât you, Gina? Youâve got us all where you want us. Myself, Stephen, and that large, simple husband of yours.â

âYouâre talking nonsense.â

âOh no, Iâm not. Stephenâs in love with you, Iâm in love with you, and Wallyâs desperately miserable. What more could a woman want?â

Gina looked at him and laughed.

Alex nodded his head vigorously.

âYou have the rudiments of honesty, Iâm glad to see. Thatâs the Latin in you. You donât go to the trouble of pretending that youâre not attractive to menâand that youâre terribly sorry about it if they are attracted to you. You like having men in love with you, donât you, cruel Gina? Even miserable little Edgar Lawson!â

Gina looked at him steadily.

She said in a quiet serious tone:

âIt doesnât last very long, you know. Women have a much worse time of it in the world than men do. Theyâre more vulnerable. They have children, and they mindâterriblyâabout their children. As soon as they lose their looks, the men they love donât love them anymore. Theyâre betrayed and deserted and pushed aside. I donât blame men. Iâd be the same myself. I donât like people who are old or ugly or ill, or who whine about their troubles, or who are ridiculous like Edgar, strutting about and pretending heâs important and worthwhile. You say Iâm cruel? Itâs a cruel world! Sooner or later it will be cruel to me! But now Iâm young and Iâm nice looking and people find me attractive.â Her teeth flashed out in her peculiar, warm sunny smile. âYes, I enjoy it, Alex. Why shouldnât I?â

âWhy indeed?â said Alex. âWhat I want to know is what you are going to do about it. Are you going to marry Stephen or are you going to marry me?â

âIâm married to Wally.â

âTemporarily. Every woman should make one mistake matrimoniallyâbut thereâs no need to dwell on it. Having tried out the show in the provinces, the time has come to bring it to the West End.â

âAnd youâre the West End?â

âIndubitably.â

âDo you really want to marry me? I canât imagine you married.â

âI insist on marriage. Affaires, I always think, are so very old-fashioned. Difficulties with passports and hotels and all that. I shall never have a mistress unless I canât get her any other way!â

Ginaâs laugh rang out fresh and clear.

âYou do amuse me, Alex.â

âIt is my principal asset. Stephen is much better looking than I am. Heâs extremely handsome and very intense which, of course, women adore. But intensity is fatiguing in the home. With me, Gina, you will find life entertaining.â

âArenât you going to say you love me madly?â

âHowever true that may be, I shall certainly not say it. It would be one up to you and one down to me if I did. No, all I am prepared to do is to make you a businesslike offer of marriage.â

âI shall have to think about it,â said Gina, smiling.

âNaturally. Besides, youâve got to put Wally out of his misery first. Iâve a lot of sympathy with Wally. It must be absolute hell for him to be married to you and trailed along at your chariot wheels into this heavy, family atmosphere of philanthropy.â

âWhat a beast you are, Alex!â

âA perceptive beast.â

âSometimes,â said Gina, âI donât think Wally cares for me one little bit. He just doesnât notice me anymore.â

âYouâve stirred him up with a stick and he doesnât respond? Most annoying.â

Like a flash, Gina swung her palm and delivered a ringing slap on Alexâs smooth cheek.

âTouchÃ©!â cried Alex.

With a quick, deft movement, he gathered her into his arms and before she could resist, his lips fastened on hers in a long ardent kiss. She struggled a moment and then relaxedâ¦.

âGina!â

They sprang apart. Mildred Strete, her face red, her lips quivering, glared at them balefully. For a moment, the eagerness of her words choked their utterance.

âDisgusting â¦ disgusting â¦ you abandoned beastly girl â¦ youâre just like your mother â¦ Youâre a bad lot â¦ I always knew you were a bad lot â¦ utterly depraved â¦ and youâre not only an adulteressâyouâre a murderess too. Oh yes, you are. I know what I know!â

âAnd what do you know? Donât be ridiculous, Aunt Mildred.â

âIâm no aunt of yours, thank goodness. No blood relation to you. Why you donât even know who your mother was or where she came from! But you know well enough what my father was like and my mother. What sort of a child do you think they would adopt? A criminalâs child or a prostituteâs probably! Thatâs the sort of people they were. They ought to have remembered that bad blood will tell. Though I daresay that itâs the Italian in you that makes you turn to poison.â

âHow dare you say that?â

âI shall say what I like. You canât deny now, can you, that somebody tried to poison Mother? And whoâs the most likely person to do that? Who comes into an enormous fortune if Mother dies? You do, Gina, and you may be sure that the police have not overlooked that fact.â

Still trembling, Mildred moved rapidly away.

âPathological,â said Alex. âDefinitely pathological. Really most interesting. It makes one wonder about the late Canon Strete â¦ religious scruples, perhaps?â¦ Or would you say impotent?â

âDonât be disgusting, Alex. Oh I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.â

Gina clenched her hands and shook with fury.

âLucky you hadnât got a knife in your stocking,â said Alex. âIf you had, dear Mrs. Strete might have known something about murder from the point of view of the victim. Calm down, Gina. Donât look so melodramatic and like Italian Opera.â

âHow dare she say I tried to poison Grandam?â

âWell, darling, somebody tried to poison her. And from the point of view of motive youâre well in the picture, arenât you?â

âAlex!â Gina stared at him, dismayed. âDo the police think so?â

âItâs extremely difficult to know what the police think â¦ They keep their own counsel remarkably well. Theyâre by no means fools, you know. That reminds meââ

âWhere are you going?â

âTo work out an idea of mine.â

Seventeen

1

âYou say somebody has been trying to poison me?â

Carrie Louiseâs voice held bewilderment and disbelief.

âYou know,â she said, âI canât really believe itâ¦.â

She waited a few moments, her eyes half closed.

Lewis said gently, âI wish I could have spared you this, dearest.â

Almost absently she stretched out a hand to him and he took it.

Miss Marple, sitting close by, shook her head sympathetically.

Carrie Louise opened her eyes.

âIs it really true, Jane?â she asked.

âIâm afraid so, my dear.â

âThen everythingââ Carrie Louise broke off.

She went on:

âIâve always thought I knew what was real and what wasnât â¦This doesnât seem realâbut it is â¦ so I may be wrong everywhere â¦ but who could want to do such a thing to me? Nobody in this house could want toâkill me?â

Her voice still held incredulity.

âThatâs what I would have thought,â said Lewis. âI was wrong.â

âAnd Christian knew about it? That explains it.â

âExplains what?â asked Lewis.

âHis manner,â said Carrie Louise. âIt was very odd, you know. Not at all his usual self. He seemedâupset about meâand as though he was wanting to say something to meâand then not saying it. And he asked me if my heart was strong. And if Iâd been well lately. Trying to hint to me, perhaps. But why not say something straight out? Itâs so much simpler just to say straight out.â

âHe didnât want toâcause you pain, Caroline.â

âPain? But whyâOh I see â¦â Her eyes widened. âSo thatâs what you believe. But youâre wrong, Lewis, quite wrong. I can assure you of that.â

Her husband avoided her eyes.

âIâm sorry,â said Mrs. Serrocold after a moment or two. âBut I canât believe anything of what has happened lately is true. Edgar shooting at you. Gina and Stephen. That ridiculous box of chocolates. It just isnât true.â

Nobody spoke.

Caroline Louise Serrocold sighed.

âI suppose,â she said, âthat I must have lived outside reality for a long time â¦ Please, both of you, I think I would like to be alone â¦ Iâve got to try and understandâ¦.â

2

Miss Marple came down the stairs and into the Great Hall to find Alex Restarick standing near the large, arched entrance door with his hand flung out in a somewhat flamboyant gesture.

âCome in, come in,â said Alex happily and as though he were the owner of the Great Hall. âIâm just thinking about last night.â

Lewis Serrocold, who had followed Miss Marple down from Carrie Louiseâs sitting room, crossed the Great Hall to his study and went in and shut the door.

âAre you trying to reconstruct the crime?â asked Miss Marple with subdued eagerness.

âEh?â Alex looked at her with a frown. Then his brow cleared.

âOh, that,â he said. âNo, not exactly. I was looking at the whole thing from an entirely different point of view. I was thinking of this place in the terms of the theatre. Not reality, but artificiality! Just come over here. Think of it in the terms of a stage set. Lighting, entrances, exits. Dramatis Personae. Noises off. All very interesting. Not all my own idea. The Inspector gave it to me. I think heâs rather a cruel man. He did his best to frighten me this morning.â

âAnd did he frighten you?â

âIâm not sure.â

Alex described the Inspectorâs experiment and the timing of the performance of the puffing Constable Dodgett.

âTime,â he said, âis so very misleading. One thinks things take such a long time, but really, of course, they donât.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple.

Representing the audience, she moved to a different position. The stage set now consisted of a vast, tapestry-covered wall going up to dimness, with a grand piano up L. and a window and window seat up R. Very near the window seat was the door into the library. The piano stool was only about eight feet from the door into the square lobby, which led to the corridor. Two very convenient exits! The audience, of course, had an excellent view of both of themâ¦.

But last night there had been no audience. Nobody, that is to say, had been facing the stage set that Miss Marple was now facing. The audience, last night, had been sitting with their backs to that particular stage.

How long, Miss Marple wondered, would it have taken to slip out of the room, run along the corridor, shoot Gulbrandsen and come back? Not nearly so long as one would think. Measured in minutes and seconds, a very short time indeedâ¦.

What had Carrie Louise meant when she had said to her husband: âSo thatâs what you believeâbut youâre wrong, Lewis!â

âI must say that that was a very penetrating remark of the Inspectorâs,â Alexâs voice cut in on her meditations. âAbout a stage set being real. Made of wood and cardboard and stuck together with glue and as real on the unpainted as on the painted side. âThe illusion,â he pointed out, âis in the eyes of the audience.ââ

âLike conjurers,â Miss Marple murmured vaguely. âThey do it with mirrors is, I believe, the slang phrase.â

Stephen Restarick came in, slightly out of breath.

âHullo, Alex,â he said. âThat little rat, Ernie GreggâI donât know if you remember him?â

âThe one who played Feste when you did Twelfth Night? Quite a bit of talent there I thought.â

âYes, heâs got talent of a sort. Very good with his hands, too. Does a lot of our carpentry. However, thatâs neither here nor there. Heâs been boasting to Gina that he gets out at night and wanders about the grounds. Says he was wandering round last night and boasts he saw something.â

Alex spun round.

âSaw what?â

âSays heâs not going to tell! Actually, Iâm pretty certain heâs only trying to show off and get into the limelight. Heâs an awful liar, but I thought perhaps he ought to be questioned.â

Alex said sharply, âI should leave him for a bit. Donât let him think weâre too interested.â

âPerhapsâyes I think you may be right there. This evening, perhaps.â

Stephen went on into the library.

Miss Marple, moving gently round the Hall in her character of mobile audience, collided with Alex Restarick as he stepped back suddenly.

Miss Marple said, âIâm so sorry.â

Alex frowned at her, said in an absent sort of way,

âI beg your pardon,â and then added in a surprised voice, âOh, itâs you.â

It seemed to Miss Marple an odd remark for someone with whom she had been conversing for some considerable time.

âI was thinking of something else,â said Alex Restarick. âThat boy Ernieââ He made vague motions with both hands.

Then, with a sudden change of manner, he crossed the Hall and went through the library door shutting it behind him.

The murmur of voices came from behind the closed door, but Miss Marple hardly noticed them. She was uninterested in the versatile Ernie and what he had seen or pretended to see. She had a shrewd suspicion that Ernie had seen nothing at all. She did not believe for a moment that on a cold raw foggy night like last night, Ernie would have troubled to use his picklocking activities and wander about in the park. In all probability, he never had got out at night. Boasting, that was all it had been.

âLike Johnnie Backhouse,â thought Miss Marple who always had a good storehouse of parallels to draw upon, selected from inhabitants of St. Mary Mead.

âI seen you last night,â had been Johnnie Backhouseâs unpleasant taunt to all he thought it might affect.

It had been a surprisingly successful remark. So many people, Miss Marple reflected, have been in places where they are anxious not to be seen!

She dismissed Johnnie from her mind and concentrated on a vague something which Alexâs account of Inspector Curryâs remarks had stirred to life. Those remarks had given Alex an idea. She was not sure that they had not given her an idea, too. The same idea? Or a different one?

She stood where Alex Restarick had stood. She thought to herself, âThis is not a real hall. This is only cardboard and canvas and wood. This is a stage sceneâ¦.â Scrappy phrases flashed across her mind. âIllusionââ âIn the eyes of the audience.â âThey do it with mirrorsâ¦.â Bowls of goldfish â¦ yards of coloured ribbon â¦ vanishing ladies â¦ All the panoply and misdirection of the conjurerâs artâ¦.

Something stirred in her consciousnessâa pictureâsomething that Alex had said â¦ something that he had described to her â¦ Constable Dodgett puffing and panting â¦ panting â¦ something shifted in her mindâcame into sudden focusâ¦.

âWhy of course!â said Miss Marple. âThat must be itâ¦.â

Eighteen

1

âOh, Wally, how you startled me!â

Gina, emerging from the shadows by the theatre, jumped back a little, as the figure of Wally Hudd materialised out of the gloom. It was not yet quite dark, but had that eerie half light when objects lose their reality and take on the fantastic shapes of nightmare.

âWhat are you doing down here? You never come near the theatre as a rule.â

âMaybe I was looking for you, Gina. Itâs usually the best place to find you, isnât it?â

Wallyâs soft, faintly drawling voice held no special insinuation and yet Gina flinched a little.

âItâs a job and Iâm keen on it. I like the atmosphere of paint and canvas, and backstage generally.â

âYes. It means a lot to you. Iâve seen that. Tell me, Gina, how long do you think it will be before this business is all cleared up?â

âThe inquestâs tomorrow. It will just be adjourned for a fortnight or something like that. At least, thatâs what Inspector Curry gave us to understand.â

âA fortnight,â said Wally thoughtfully. âI see. Say three weeks, perhaps. And after thatâweâre free. Iâm going back to the States then.â

âOh! but I canât run off like that,â cried Gina. âI couldnât leave Grandam. And weâve got these two new productions weâre working onââ

âI didnât say âwe.â I said I was going.â

Gina stopped and looked up at her husband. Something in the effect of the shadows made him seem very big. A big, quiet figureâand in some way, or so it seemed to her, faintly menacing â¦ standing over her. Threateningâwhat?

âDo you meanââshe hesitatedââyou donât want me to come?â

âWhy, noâI didnât say that.â

âYou donât care if I come or not? Is that it?â

She was suddenly angry.

âSee here, Gina. This is where weâve got to have a showdown. We didnât know much about each other when we marriedânot much about each otherâs backgrounds, not much about the other oneâs folks. We thought it didnât matter. We thought nothing mattered except having a swell time together. Well, stage one is over. Your folks didnâtâand donâtâthink much of me. Maybe theyâre right. Iâm not their kind. But if you think Iâm staying on here, kicking my heels, and doing odd jobs in what I consider is just a crazy setupâwell, think again! I want to live in my own country, doing the kind of job I want to do, and can do. My idea of a wife is the kind of wife who used to go along with the old pioneers, ready for anything, hardship, unfamiliar country, danger, strange surroundings â¦ Perhaps thatâs too much to ask of you, but itâs that or nothing! Maybe I hustled you into marriage. If so, youâd better get free of me and start again. Itâs up to you. If you prefer one of these arty boysâitâs your life and youâve got to choose. But Iâm going home.â

âI think youâre an absolute pig,â said Gina. âIâm enjoying myself here.â

âIs that so? Well, Iâm not. You even enjoy murder, I suppose?â

Gina drew in her breath sharply.

âThatâs a cruel, wicked thing to say. I was very fond of Uncle Christian. And donât you realise that someone has been quietly poisoning Grandam for months? Itâs horrible!â

âI told you I didnât like it here. I donât like the kind of things that go on. Iâm quitting.â

âIf youâre allowed to! Donât you realise youâll probably be arrested for Uncle Christianâs murder? I hate the way Inspector Curry looks at you. Heâs just like a cat watching a mouse with a nasty sharp-clawed paw all ready to pounce. Just because you were out of the Hall fixing those lights, and because youâre not English, Iâm sure theyâll go fastening it on you.â

âTheyâll need some evidence first.â

Gina wailed:

âIâm frightened for you, Wally. Iâve been frightened all along.â

âNo good being scared. I tell you, theyâve got nothing on me!â

They walked in silence towards the house.

Gina said:

âI donât believe you really want me to come back to America with youâ¦.â

Walter Hudd did not answer.

Gina Hudd turned on him and stamped her foot.

âI hate you. I hate you. You are horribleâa beastâa cruel, unfeeling beast. After all Iâve tried to do for you! You want to be rid of me. You donât care if you never see me again. Well, I donât care if I never see you again! I was a stupid little fool ever to marry you, and I shall get a divorce as soon as possible, and I shall marry Stephen or Alexis and be much happier than I ever could be with you. And I hope you go back to the States and marry some horrible girl who makes you really miserable!â

âFine!â said Wally. âNow we know where we are!â

2

Miss Marple saw Gina and Wally go into the house together.

She was standing at the spot where Inspector Curry had made his experiment with Constable Dodgett earlier in the afternoon.

Miss Belleverâs voice behind her made her jump.

âYouâll get a chill, Miss Marple, standing about like that after the sunâs gone down.â

Miss Marple fell meekly into step with her and they walked briskly through the house.

âI was thinking about conjuring tricks,â said Miss Marple. âSo difficult when youâre watching them to see how theyâre done, and yet, once they are explained, so absurdly simple. (Although, even now, I canât imagine how conjurers produce bowls of goldfish!) Did you ever see the Lady who is Sawn in Half?âsuch a thrilling trick. It fascinated me when I was eleven years old, I remember. And I never could think how it was done. But the other day there was an article in some paper giving the whole thing away. I donât think a newspaper should do that, do you? It seems itâs not one girlâbut two. The head of the one and the feet of the other. You think itâs one girl and itâs really twoâand the other way round would work equally well, wouldnât it?â

Miss Bellever looked at her with faint surprise. Miss Marple was not often so fluffy and incoherent as this. âItâs been too much for the old lady, all this,â she thought.

âWhen you only look at one side of a thing, you only see one side,â continued Miss Marple. âBut everything fits in perfectly well if you can only make up your mind what is reality and what is illusion.â She added abruptly, âIs Carrie Louiseâall right?â

âYes,â said Miss Bellever. âSheâs all right. But it must have been a shock, you knowâfinding out that someone wanted to kill her. I mean particularly a shock to her, because she doesnât understand violence.â

âCarrie Louise understands some things that we donât,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully. âShe always has.â

âI know what you meanâbut she doesnât live in the real world.â

âDoesnât she?â

Miss Bellever looked at her in surprise.

âThere never was a more unworldly person than Caraââ

âYou donât think that perhapsââ Miss Marple broke off, as Edgar Lawson passed them, swinging along at a great pace. He gave a kind of shamefaced nod, but averted his face as he passed.

âIâve remembered now who he reminds me of,â said Miss Marple. âIt came to me suddenly, just a few moments ago. He reminds me of a young man called Leonard Wylie. His father was a dentist, but he got old and blind and his hand used to shake, and so people preferred to go to the son. But the old man was very miserable about it, and moped, said he was no good for anything anymore, and Leonard, who was very softhearted and rather foolish, began to pretend he drank more than he should. He always smelt of whisky, and he used to sham being rather fuddled when his patients came. His idea was that theyâd go back to the father again and say the younger man was no good.â

âAnd did they?â

âOf course not,â said Miss Marple. âWhat happened was what anybody with any sense could have told him would happen! The patients went to Mr. Reilly, the rival dentist. So many people with good hearts have no sense. Besides, Leonard Wylie was so unconvincing â¦ His idea of drunkenness wasnât in the least like real drunkenness, and he overdid the whiskyâspilling it on his clothes, you know, to a perfectly impossible extent.â

They went into the house by the side door.

Nineteen

Inside the house, they found the family assembled in the library. Lewis was walking up and down, and there was an air of general tension in the atmosphere.

âIs anything the matter?â asked Miss Bellever.

Lewis said shortly, âErnie Gregg is missing from roll call tonight.â

âHas he run away?â

âWe donât know. Maverick and some of the staff are searching the grounds. If we cannot find him we must communicate with the police.â

âGrandam!â Gina ran over to Carrie Louise, startled by the whiteness of her face. âYou look ill.â

âI am unhappy. The poor boyâ¦.â

Lewis said, âI was going to question him this evening as to whether he had seen anything noteworthy last night. I have the offer of a good post for him and I thought that after discussing that, I would bring up the other topic. Nowââ he broke off.

Miss Marple murmured softly:

âFoolish boy â¦ poor, foolish boyâ¦.â

She shook her head, and Mrs. Serrocold said gently:

âSo you think so too, Jane â¦?â

Stephen Restarick came in. He said, âI missed you at the theatre, Gina. I thought you said you wouldâHullo, whatâs up?â

Lewis repeated his information, and as he finished speaking, Dr. Maverick came in with a fair-haired boy with pink cheeks and a suspiciously angelic expression. Miss Marple remembered his being at dinner on the night she had arrived at Stonygates.

âIâve brought Arthur Jenkins along,â said Dr. Maverick. âHe seems to have been the last person to talk to Ernie.â

âNow, Arthur,â said Lewis Serrocold, âplease help us if you can. Where has Ernie gone? Is this just a prank?â

âI dunno, sir. Straight, I donât. Didnât say nothing to me, he didnât. All full of the play at the theatre he was, thatâs all. Said as how heâd had a smashing idea for the scenery, what Mrs. Hudd and Mr. Stephen thought was first class.â

âThereâs another thing, Arthur. Ernie claims he was prowling about the grounds after lockup last night. Was that true?â

ââCourse it ainât. Just boasting, thatâs all. Perishing liar, Ernie. He never got out at night. Used to boast he could, but he wasnât that good with locks! He couldnât do anything with a lock as was a lock. Anyway âe was in larst night, that I do know.â

âYouâre not saying that just to satisfy us, Arthur?â

âCross my heart,â said Arthur virtuously.

Lewis did not look quite satisfied.

âListen,â said Dr. Maverick. âWhatâs that?â

A murmur of voices was approaching. The door was flung open and, looking very pale and ill, the spectacled Mr. Birnbaum staggered in.

He gasped out, âWeâve found himâthem. Itâs horribleâ¦.â

He sank down on a chair and mopped his forehead.

Mildred Strete said sharply:

âWhat do you meanâfound them?â

Birnbaum was shaking all over.

âDown at the theatre,â he said. âTheir heads crushed inâthe big counterweight must have fallen on them. Alexis Restarick and that boy Ernie Gregg. Theyâre both deadâ¦.â

Twenty

âIâve brought you a cup of strong soup, Carrie Louise,â said Miss Marple. âNow please drink it.â

Mrs. Serrocold sat up in the big carved oak four poster bed. She looked very small and childlike. Her cheeks had lost their rose pink flush, and her eyes had a curiously absent look. She took the soup obediently from Miss Marple. As she sipped it, Miss Marple sat down in a chair beside the bed.

âFirst, Christian,â said Carrie Louise, âand now Alexâand poor, sharp, silly little Ernie. Did he reallyâknow anything?â

âI donât think so,â said Miss Marple. âHe was just telling liesâmaking himself important by hinting that he had seen or knew something. The tragedy is that somebody believed his liesâ¦.â

Carrie Louise shivered. Her eyes went back to their faraway look.

âWe meant to do so much for these boys â¦ we did do something. Some of them have done wonderfully well. Several of them are in really responsible positions. A few slid backâthat canât be helped. Modern civilised conditions are so complexâtoo complex for some simple and undeveloped natures. You know Lewisâ great scheme? He always felt that transportation was a thing that had saved many a potential criminal in the past. They were shipped overseasâand they made new lives in simpler surroundings. He wants to start a modern scheme on that basis. To buy up a great tract of territoryâor a group of islands. Finance it for some years, make it a cooperative self-supporting communityâwith everyone having a stake in it. But cut off so that the early temptation to go back to cities and the bad old ways can be neutralised. Itâs his dream. But it will take a lot of money, of course, and there arenât many philanthropists with vision now. We want another Eric. Eric would have been enthusiastic.â

Miss Marple picked up a little pair of scissors and looked at them curiously.

âWhat an odd pair of scissors,â she said. âTheyâve got two finger holes on one side and one on the other.â

Carrie Louiseâs eyes came back from that frightening far distance.

âAlex gave them to me this morning,â she said. âTheyâre supposed to make it easier to cut your right-hand nails. Dear boy, he was so enthusiastic. He made me try them then and there.â

âAnd I suppose he gathered up the nail clippings and took them tidily away,â said Miss Marple.

âYes,â said Carrie Louise. âHeââ she broke off. âWhy did you say that?â

âI was thinking about Alex. He had brains. Yes, he had brains.â

âYou meanâthatâs why he died?â

âI think soâyes.â

âHe and Ernieâit doesnât bear thinking about. When do they think it happened?â

âLate this evening. Between six and seven oâclock probablyâ¦.â

âAfter theyâd knocked off work for the day?â

âYes.â

Gina had been down there that eveningâand Wally Hudd. Stephen, too, said he had been down to look for Ginaâ¦.

But as far as that went, anybody could haveâ

Miss Marpleâs train of thought was interrupted.

Carrie Louise said quietly and unexpectedly:

âHow much do you know, Jane?â

Miss Marple looked up sharply. The eyes of the two women met.

Miss Marple said slowly, âIf I was quite sureâ¦.â

âI think you are sure, Jane.â

Jane Marple said slowly, âWhat do you want me to do?â

Carrie leaned back against her pillows.

âIt is in your hands, Jane. Youâll do what you think right.â

She closed her eyes.

âTomorrowââMiss Marple hesitatedââI shall have to try and talk to Inspector Curryâif heâll listenâ¦.â

Twenty-one

Inspector Curry said rather impatiently:

âYes, Miss Marple?â

âCould we, do you think, go into the Great Hall?â

Inspector Curry looked faintly surprised.

âIs that your idea of privacy? Surely in hereââ

He looked round the study.

âItâs not privacy Iâm thinking of so much. Itâs something I want to show you. Something Alex Restarick made me see.â

Inspector Curry, stifling a sigh, got up and followed Miss Marple.

âSomebody has been talking to you?â he suggested hopefully.

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âItâs not a question of what people have said. Itâs really a question of conjuring tricks. They do it with mirrors, you knowâthat sort of thingâif you understand me.â

Inspector Curry did not understand. He stared and wondered if Miss Marple was quite right in the head.

Miss Marple took up her stand and beckoned the Inspector to stand beside her.

âI want you to think of this place as a stage set, Inspector. As it was on the night Christian Gulbrandsen was killed. Youâre here in the audience looking at the people on the stage. Mrs. Serrocold and myself and Mrs. Strete and Gina and Stephenâand just like on the stage, there are entrances and exits and the characters go out to different places. Only you donât think when youâre in the audience where they are really going to. They go out âto the front doorâ or âto the kitchenâ and when the door opens you see a little bit of painted backcloth. But really of course they go out to the wingsâor the back of the stage with carpenters and electricians, and other characters waiting to come onâthey go outâto a different world.â

âI donât quite see, Miss Marpleââ

âOh, I knowâI daresay it sounds very sillyâbut if you think of this as a play and the scene is âthe Great Hall at Stonygatesââwhat exactly is behind the scene?âI meanâwhat is backstage? The terraceâisnât it?âthe terrace and a lot of windows opening onto it.

âAnd that, you see, is how the conjuring trick was done. It was the trick of the Lady Sawn in Half that made me think of it.â

âThe Lady Sawn in Half?â Inspector Curry was now quite sure that Miss Marple was a mental case.

âA most thrilling conjuring trick. You must have seen itâonly not really one girl but two girls. The head of one and the feet of the other. It looks like one person and is really two. And so I thought it could just as well be the other way about. Two people could be really one person.â

âTwo people really one?â Inspector Curry looked desperate.

âYes. Not for long. How long did your constable take in the park to run to this house and back? Two minutes and forty-five seconds, wasnât it? This would be less than that. Well under two minutes.â

âWhat was under two minutes?â

âThe conjuring trick. The trick when it wasnât two people but one person. In thereâin the study. Weâre only looking at the visible part of the stage. Behind the scenes, there is the terrace and a row of windows. So easy when there are two people in the study to open the study window, get out, run along the terrace (those footsteps Alex heard), in at the side door, shoot Christian Gulbrandsen and run back, and during that time, the other person in the study does both voices so that weâre all quite sure there are two people in there. And so there were most of the time, but not for that little period of underâtwo minutes.â

Inspector Curry found his breath and his voice.

âDo you mean that it was Edgar Lawson who ran along the terrace and shot Gulbrandsen? Edgar Lawson who poisoned Mrs. Serrocold?â

âBut you see, Inspector, no one has been poisoning Mrs. Serrocold at all. Thatâs where the misdirection comes in. Someone very cleverly used the fact that Mrs. Serrocoldâs sufferings from arthritis were not unlike the symptoms of arsenic poisoning. Itâs the old conjurerâs trick of forcing a card on you. Quite easy to add arsenic to a bottle of tonicâquite easy to add a few lines to a typewritten letter. But the real reason for Mr. Gulbrandsenâs coming here was the most likely reasonâsomething to do with the Gulbrandsen Trust. Money, in fact. Suppose that there had been embezzlementâembezzlement on a very big scaleâyou see where that points? To just one personââ

âLewis Serrocold?â

âLewis Serrocoldâ¦.â

Twenty-two

Part of a letter from Gina Hudd to her aunt Mrs. Van Rydock:

âand so you see, darling Aunt Ruth, the whole thing has been just like a nightmareâespecially the end of it. Iâve told you all about this funny young man Edgar Lawson. He always was a complete rabbitâand when the Inspector began questioning him and breaking him down, he lost his nerve completely and scuttled like a rabbit. Just lost his nerve and ranâliterally ran. Jumped out of the window and round the house and down the drive, and then there was a policeman coming to head him off, and he swerved and ran full tilt for the lake. He leaped into a rotten old punt thatâs mouldered there for years and pushed off. Quite a mad, senseless thing to do, of course, but as I say he was just a panic-stricken rabbit. And then Lewis gave a great shout and said, âThat puntâs rottenâ and raced off to the lake, too. The punt went down and there was Edgar struggling in the water. He couldnât swim. Lewis jumped in and swam out to him. He got to him, but they were both in difficulty because theyâd got among the reeds. One of the Inspectorâs men went in with a rope round him, but he got entangled, too, and they had to pull him in. Aunt Mildred said âTheyâll drownâtheyâll drownâtheyâll both drown â¦â in a silly sort of way, and Grandam just said âYes.â I canât describe to you just how she made that one word sound. Just âyesâ and it went through you likeâlike a sword.

Am I being just silly and melodramatic? I suppose I am. But it did sound like thatâ¦.

And thenâwhen it was all over, and theyâd got them out and tried artificial respiration (but it was no good), the Inspector came to us and said to Grandam:

âIâm afraid, Mrs. Serrocold, thereâs no hope.â

Grandam said very quietly:

âThank you, Inspector.â

Then she looked at us all. Me, longing to help but not knowing how, and Jolly, looking grim and tender and ready to minister as usual, and Stephen, stretching out his hands, and funny old Miss Marple looking so sad, and tired, and even Wally looking upset. All so fond of her and wanting to do something.

But Grandam just said, âMildred.â And Aunt Mildred said, âMother.â And they went away together into the house, Grandam looking so small and frail and leaning on Aunt Mildred. I never realised, until then, how fond of each other they were. It didnât show much, you know.

Gina paused and sucked the end of her fountain pen. She resumed:

About me and Wallyâweâre coming back to the States as soon as we canâ¦.

Twenty-three

âWhat made you guess, Jane?â

Miss Marple took her time about replying. She looked thoughtfully at the other twoâCarrie Louise thinner and frailer and yet curiously untouchedâand the old man with the sweet smile and the thick white hair. Dr. Galbraith, Bishop of Cromer.

The Bishop took Carrie Louiseâs hand in his.

âThis has been a great sorrow to you, my poor child, and a great shock.â

âA sorrow, yes, but not really a shock.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âThatâs what I discovered, you know. Everyone kept saying how Carrie Louise lived in another world from this and was out of touch with reality. But actually, Carrie Louise, it was reality you were in touch with, and not the illusion. You are never deceived by illusion like most of us are. When I suddenly realised that, I saw that I must go by what you thought and felt. You were quite sure that no one would try to poison you, you couldnât believe itâand you were quite right not to believe it, because it wasnât so! You never believed that Edgar would harm Lewisâand again you were right. He never would have harmed Lewis. You were sure that Gina did not love anyone but her husbandâand that, again, was quite true.

âSo therefore, if I was to go by you, all the things that seemed to be true were only illusions. Illusions created for a definite purposeâin the same ways that conjurers create illusions, to deceive an audience. We were the audience.

âAlex Restarick got an inkling of the truth first because he had the chance of seeing things from a different angleâfrom the outside angle. He was with the Inspector in the drive, and he looked at the house and realised the possibilities of the windowsâand he remembered the sound of running feet he had heard that night, and then, the timing of the constable showed him what a very short time things take to what we should imagine they would take. The constable panted a lot, and later, thinking of a puffing constable, I remembered that Lewis Serrocold was out of breath that night when he opened the study door. Heâd just been running hard, you seeâ¦.

âBut it was Edgar Lawson that was the pivot of it all to me. There was always something wrong to me about Edgar Lawson. All the things he said and did were exactly right for what he was supposed to be, but he himself wasnât right. Because he was actually a normal young man playing the part of a schizophrenicâand he was always, as it were, a little larger than life. He was always theatrical.

âIt must have all been very carefully planned and thought out. Lewis must have realised on the occasion of Christianâs last visit that something had aroused his suspicions. And he knew Christian well enough to know that if he suspected he would not rest until he had satisfied himself that his suspicions were either justified or unfounded.â

Carrie Louise stirred.

âYes,â she said. âChristian was like that. Slow and painstaking, but actually very shrewd. I donât know what it was aroused his suspicions but he started investigatingâand he found out the truth.â

The Bishop said: âI blame myself for not having been a more conscientious trustee.â

âIt was never expected of you to understand finance,â said Carrie Louise. âThat was originally Mr. Gilroyâs province. Then, when he died, Lewisâ great experience put him in what amounted to complete control. And that, of course, was what went to his head.â

The pink colour came up in her cheeks.

âLewis was a great man,â she said. âA man of great vision, and a passionate believer in what could be accomplishedâwith money. He didnât want it for himselfâor, at least, not in the greedy vulgar senseâhe did want the power of itâhe wanted the power to do great good with itââ

âHe wanted,â said the Bishop, âto be God.â His voice was suddenly stern. âHe forgot that man is only the humble instrument of Godâs will.â

âAnd so he embezzled the Trust funds?â said Miss Marple.

Dr. Galbraith hesitated.

âIt wasnât only thatâ¦.â

âTell her,â said Carrie Louise. âShe is my oldest friend.â

The Bishop said:

âLewis Serrocold was what one might call a financial wizard. In his years of highly technical accountancy, he had amused himself by working out various methods of swindling which were practically foolproof. This had been merely an academic study, but when he once began to envisage the possibilities that a vast sum of money could encompass, he put these methods into practice. You see, he had at his disposal some first class material. Amongst the boys who passed through here, he chose out a small select band. They were boys whose bent was naturally criminal, who loved excitement, and who had a very high order of intelligence. Weâve not got nearly to the bottom of it all, but it seems clear that this esoteric circle was secret and specially trained and by and by were placed in key positions, where, by carrying out Lewisâ directions, books were falsified in such a way that large sums of money were converted without any suspicion being aroused. I gather that the operations and the ramifications are so complicated that it will be months before the auditors can unravel it all. But the net result seems to be that under various names and banking accounts and companies, Lewis Serrocold would have been able to dispose of a colossal sum with which he intended to establish an overseas colony for a cooperative experiment in which juvenile delinquents should eventually own this territory and administer it. It may have been a fantastic dreamââ

âIt was a dream that might have come true,â said Carrie Louise.

âYes, it might have come true. But the means Lewis Serrocold adopted were dishonest means, and Christian Gulbrandsen discovered that. He was very upset, particularly by the realisation of what the discovery and the probable prosecution of Lewis would mean to you, Carrie Louise.â

âThatâs why he asked me if my heart was strong, and seemed so worried about my health,â said Carrie Louise. âI couldnât understand it.â

âThen Lewis Serrocold arrived back from the North, and Christian met him outside the house and told him that he knew what was going on. Lewis took it calmly, I think. Both men agreed they must do all they could to spare you. Christian said he would write to me and ask me to come here, as a co-trustee, to discuss the position.â

âBut of course,â said Miss Marple. âLewis Serrocold had already prepared for this emergency. It was all planned. He had brought the young man who was to play the part of Edgar Lawson to the house. There was a real Edgar Lawsonâof courseâin case the police looked up his record. This false Edgar knew exactly what he had to doâact the part of a schizophrenic victim of persecutionâand give Lewis Serrocold an alibi for a few vital minutes.

âThe next step had been thought out too. Lewisâ story that you, Carrie Louise, were being slowly poisonedâwhen one actually came to think of it there was only Lewisâ story of what Christian had told himâthat, and a few lines added on the typewriter whilst he was waiting for the police. It was easy to add arsenic to the tonic. No danger for you thereâsince he was on the spot to prevent you drinking it. The chocolates were just an added touchâand of course the original chocolates werenât poisonedâonly those he substituted before turning them over to Inspector Curry.â

âAnd Alex guessed,â said Carrie Louise.

âYesâthatâs why he collected your nail parings. They would show if arsenic actually had been administered over a long period.â

âPoor Alexâpoor Ernie.â

There was a momentâs silence as the other two thought of Christian Gulbrandsen, of Alexis Restarick, and of the boy Ernieâand of how quickly the act of murder could distort and deform.

âBut surely,â said the Bishop, âLewis was taking a big risk in persuading Edgar to be his accompliceâeven if he had some hold over himââ

Carrie shook her head.

âIt wasnât exactly a hold over him. Edgar was devoted to Lewis.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âLike Leonard Wylie and his father. I wonder perhaps ifââ

She paused delicately.

âYou saw the likeness, I suppose?â said Carrie Louise.

âSo you knew that all along?â

âI guessed. I knew Lewis had once had a short infatuation for an actress, before he met me. He told me about it. It wasnât serious, she was a golddigging type of woman and she didnât care for him, but Iâve no doubt at all that Edgar was actually Lewisâ sonâ¦.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âThat explains everythingâ¦.â

âAnd he gave his life for him in the end,â said Carrie Louise. She looked pleadingly at the Bishop. âHe did, you know.â

There was a silence, and then Carrie Louise said:

âIâm glad it ended that way â¦ with his life given in the hope of saving the boy â¦ people who can be very good can be very bad, too. I always knew that was true about Lewis â¦ Butâhe loved me very muchâand I loved him.â

âDid youâever suspect him?â asked Miss Marple.

âNo,â said Carrie Louise. âBecause I was puzzled by the poisoning. I knew Lewis would never poison me, and yet that letter of Christianâs said definitely that someone was poisoning meâso I thought that everything I thought I knew about people must be wrongâ¦.â

Miss Marple said, âBut when Alex and Ernie were found killed. You suspected then?â

âYes,â said Carrie Louise. âBecause I didnât think anyone else but Lewis would have dared. And I began to be afraid of what he might do nextâ¦.â

She shivered slightly.

âI admired Lewis. I admired hisâwhat shall I call itâhis goodness? But I do see that if youâreâgood, you have to be humble as well.â

Dr. Galbraith said gently:

âThat, Carrie Louise, is what I have always admired in youâyour humility.â

The lovely blue eyes opened wide in surprise.

âBut Iâm not cleverâand not particularly good. I can only admire goodness in other people.â

âDear Carrie Louise,â said Miss Marple.

Epilogue

âI think Grandam will be quite all right with Aunt Mildred,â said Gina. âAunt Mildred seems much nicer nowânot so peculiar, if you know what I mean?â

âI know what you mean,â said Miss Marple.

âSo Wally and I will go back to the States in a fortnightâs time.â

Gina cast a look sideways at her husband.

âI shall forget all about Stonygates and Italy and all my girlish past and become a hundred percent American. Our son will be always addressed as Junior. I canât say fairer than that, can I, Wally?â

âYou certainly cannot, Kate,â said Miss Marple.

Wally, smiling indulgently at an old lady who got names wrong, corrected her gently:

âGina, not Kate.â

But Gina laughed.

âShe knows what sheâs saying! You seeâsheâll call you Petruchio in a moment!â

âI just think,â said Miss Marple to Walter, âthat you have acted very wisely, my dear boy.â

âShe thinks youâre just the right husband for me,â said Gina.

Miss Marple looked from one to the other. It was very nice, she thought, to see two young people so much in love, and Walter Hudd was completely transformed from the sulky young man she had first encountered, into a good-humoured smiling giantâ¦.

âYou two remind me,â she said, âofââ

Gina rushed forward and placed a hand firmly over Miss Marpleâs mouth.

âNo, darling,â she exclaimed. âDonât say it. Iâm suspicious of these village parallels. Theyâve always got a sting in the tail. You really are a wicked old woman, you know.â

Her eyes went misty.

âWhen I think of you, and Aunt Ruth and Grandam all being young together â¦ how I wonder what you were all like! I canât imagine it somehowâ¦.â

âI donât suppose you can,â said Miss Marple. âIt was all a long time agoâ¦.â

Credits

Cover illustration and design by Sara Wood

A Pocket Full of Rye

A Miss Marple Mystery

Agatha Christie

Dedication

For Bruce Ingram who liked and published my first short stories

Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Credits

Chapter One

It was Miss Somers’s turn to make the tea. Miss Somers was the newest and the most inefficient of the typists. She was no longer young and had a mild worried face like a sheep. The kettle was not quite boiling when Miss Somers poured the water onto the tea, but poor Miss Somers was never quite sure when a kettle was boiling. It was one of the many worries that afflicted her in life.

She poured out the tea and took the cups round with a couple of limp, sweet biscuits in each saucer.

Miss Griffith, the efficient head typist, a grey-haired martinet who had been with Consolidated Investments Trust for sixteen years, said sharply: “Water not boiling again, Somers!” and Miss Somers’s worried meek face went pink and she said, “Oh dear, I did think it was boiling this time.”

Miss Griffith thought to herself: “She’ll last for another month, perhaps, just while we’re so busy . . . But really! The mess the silly idiot made of that letter to Eastern Developments—a perfectly straightforward job, and always so stupid over the tea. If it weren’t so difficult to get hold of any intelligent typists—and the biscuit tin lid wasn’t shut tightly last time, either. Really—”

Like so many of Miss Griffith’s indignant inner communings the sentence went unfinished.

At that moment Miss Grosvenor sailed in to make Mr. Fortescue’s sacred tea. Mr. Fortescue had different tea, and different china and special biscuits. Only the kettle and the water from the cloakroom tap were the same. But on this occasion, being Mr. Fortescue’s tea, the water boiled. Miss Grosvenor saw to that.

Miss Grosvenor was an incredibly glamorous blonde. She wore an expensively cut little black suit and her shapely legs were encased in the very best and most expensive black-market nylons.

She sailed back through the typists’ room without deigning to give anyone a word or a glance. The typists might have been so many blackbeetles. Miss Grosvenor was Mr. Fortescue’s own special personal secretary; unkind rumour always hinted that she was something more, but actually this was not true. Mr. Fortescue had recently married a second wife, both glamorous and expensive, and fully capable of absorbing all his attention. Miss Grosvenor was to Mr. Fortescue just a necessary part of the office décor—which was all very luxurious and very expensive.

Miss Grosvenor sailed back with the tray held out in front of her like a ritual offering. Through the inner office and through the waiting room, where the more important clients were allowed to sit, and through her own anteroom, and finally with a light tap on the door she entered the holy of holies, Mr. Fortescue’s office.

It was a large room with a gleaming expanse of parquet floor on which were dotted expensive oriental rugs. It was delicately panelled in pale wood and there were some enormous stuffed chairs upholstered in pale buff leather. Behind a colossal sycamore desk, the centre and focus of the room, sat Mr. Fortescue himself.

Mr. Fortescue was less impressive than he should have been to match the room, but he did his best. He was a large flabby man with a gleaming bald head. It was his affectation to wear loosely cut country tweeds in his city office. He was frowning down at some papers on his desk when Miss Grosvenor glided up to him in her swanlike manner. Placing the tray on the desk at his elbow, she murmured in a low impersonal voice, “Your tea, Mr. Fortescue,” and withdrew.

Mr. Fortescue’s contribution to the ritual was a grunt.

Seated at her own desk again Miss Grosvenor proceeded with the business in hand. She made two telephone calls, corrected some letters that were lying there typed ready for Mr. Fortescue to sign and took one incoming call.

“Ay’m afraid it’s impossible just now,” she said in haughty accents. “Mr. Fortescue is in conference.”

As she laid down the receiver she glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes past eleven.

It was just then that an unusual sound penetrated through the almost soundproof door of Mr. Fortescue’s office. Muffled, it was yet fully recognizable, a strangled agonized cry. At the same moment the buzzer on Miss Grosvenor’s desk sounded in a long-drawn frenzied summons. Miss Grosvenor, startled for a moment into complete immobility, rose uncertainly to her feet. Confronted by the unexpected, her poise was shaken. However, she moved towards Mr. Fortescue’s door in her usual statuesque fashion, tapped and entered.

What she saw upset her poise still further. Her employer behind his desk seemed contorted with agony. His convulsive movements were alarming to watch.

Miss Grosvenor said, “Oh dear, Mr. Fortescue, are you ill?” and was immediately conscious of the idiocy of the question. There was no doubt but that Mr. Fortescue was very seriously ill. Even as she came up to him, his body was convulsed in a painful spasmodic movement.

Words came out in jerky gasps.

“Tea—what the hell—you put in the tea—get help—quick get a doctor—”

Miss Grosvenor fled from the room. She was no longer the supercilious blonde secretary—she was a thoroughly frightened woman who had lost her head.

She came running into the typists’ office crying out:

“Mr. Fortescue’s having a fit—he’s dying—we must get a doctor—he looks awful—I’m sure he’s dying.”

Reactions were immediate and varied a good deal.

Miss Bell, the youngest typist, said, “If it’s epilepsy we ought to put a cork in his mouth. Who’s got a cork?”

Nobody had a cork.

Miss Somers said, “At his age it’s probably apoplexy.”

Miss Griffith said, “We must get a doctor—at once.”

But she was hampered in her usual efficiency because in all her sixteen years of service it had never been necessary to call a doctor to the city office. There was her own doctor but that was at Streatham Hill. Where was there a doctor near here?

Nobody knew. Miss Bell seized a telephone directory and began looking up Doctors under D. But it was not a classified directory and doctors were not automatically listed like taxi ranks. Someone suggested a hospital—but which hospital? “It has to be the right hospital,” Miss Somers insisted, “or else they won’t come. Because of the National Health, I mean. It’s got to be in the area.”

Someone suggested 999 but Miss Griffith was shocked at that and said it would mean the police and that would never do. For citizens of a country which enjoyed the benefits of Medical Service for all, a group of quite reasonably intelligent women showed incredible ignorance of correct procedure. Miss Bell started looking up Ambulances under A. Miss Griffith said, “There’s his own doctor—he must have a doctor.” Someone rushed for the private address book. Miss Griffith instructed the office boy to go out and find a doctor—somehow, anywhere. In the private address book, Miss Griffith found Sir Edwin Sandeman with an address in Harley Street. Miss Grosvenor, collapsed in a chair, wailed in a voice whose accent was noticeably less Mayfair than usual, “I made the tea just as usual—really I did—there couldn’t have been anything wrong in it.”

“Wrong in it?” Miss Griffith paused, her hand on the dial of the telephone. “Why do you say that?”

“He said it—Mr. Fortescue—he said it was the tea—”

Miss Griffith’s hand hovered irresolutely between Welbeck and 999. Miss Bell, young and hopeful, said: “We ought to give him some mustard and water—now. Isn’t there any mustard in the office?”

There was no mustard in the office.

Some short while later Dr. Isaacs of Bethnal Green, and Sir Edwin Sandeman met in the elevator just as two different ambulances drew up in front of the building. The telephone and the office boy had done their work.

Chapter Two

Inspector Neele sat in Mr. Fortescue’s sanctum behind Mr. Fortescue’s vast sycamore desk. One of his underlings with a notebook sat unobstrusively against the wall near the door.

Inspector Neele had a smart soldierly appearance with crisp brown hair growing back from a rather low forehead. When he uttered the phrase “just a matter of routine” those addressed were wont to think spitefully: “And routine is about all you’re capable of!” They would have been quite wrong. Behind his unimaginative appearance, Inspector Neele was a highly imaginative thinker, and one of his methods of investigation was to propound to himself fantastic theories of guilt which he applied to such persons as he was interrogating at the time.

Miss Griffith, whom he had at once picked out with an unerring eye as being the most suitable person to give him a succinct account of the events which had led to his being seated where he was, had just left the room having given him an admirable résumé of the morning’s happenings. Inspector Neele propounded to himself three separate highly coloured reasons why the faithful doyenne of the typists’ room should have poisoned her employer’s mid-morning cup of tea, and rejected them as unlikely.

He classified Miss Griffith as (a) Not the type of a poisoner,
(b) Not in love with her employer, (c) No pronounced mental instability, (d) Not a woman who cherished grudges. That really seemed to dispose of Miss Griffith except as a source of accurate information.

Inspector Neele glanced at the telephone. He was expecting a call from St. Jude’s Hospital at any moment now.

It was possible, of course, that Mr. Fortescue’s sudden illness was due to natural causes, but Dr. Isaacs of Bethnal Green had not thought so and Sir Edwin Sandeman of Harley Street had not thought so.

Inspector Neele pressed a buzzer conveniently situated at his left hand and demanded that Mr. Fortescue’s personal secretary should be sent in to him.

Miss Grosvenor had recovered a little of her poise, but not much. She came in apprehensively, with nothing of the swanlike glide about her motions, and said at once defensively:

“I didn’t do it!”

Inspector Neele murmured conversationally: “No?”

He indicated the chair where Miss Grosvenor was wont to place herself, pad in hand, when summoned to take down Mr. Fortescue’s letters. She sat down now with reluctance and eyed Inspector Neele in alarm. Inspector Neele, his mind playing imaginatively on the themes Seduction? Blackmail? Platinum Blonde in Court? etc., looked reassuring and just a little stupid.

“There wasn’t anything wrong with the tea,” said Miss Grosvenor. “There couldn’t have been.”

“I see,” said Inspector Neele. “Your name and address, please?”

“Grosvenor. Irene Grosvenor.”

“How do you spell it?”

“Oh. Like the Square.”

“And your address?”

“14 Rushmoor Road, Muswell Hill.”

Inspector Neele nodded in a satisfied fashion.

“No seduction,” he said to himself. “No Love Nest. Respectable home with parents. No blackmail.”

Another good set of speculative theories washed out.

“And so it was you who made the tea?” he said pleasantly.

“Well, I had to. I always do, I mean.”

Unhurried, Inspector Neele took her closely through the morning ritual of Mr. Fortescue’s tea. The cup and saucer and teapot had already been packed up and dispatched to the appropriate quarter for analysis. Now Inspector Neele learned that Irene Grosvenor and only Irene Grosvenor had handled that cup and saucer and teapot. The kettle had been used for making the office tea and had been refilled from the cloakroom tap by Miss Grosvenor.

“And the tea itself?”

“It was Mr. Fortescue’s own tea, special China tea. It’s kept on the shelf in my room next door.”

Inspector Neele nodded. He inquired about sugar and heard that Mr. Fortescue didn’t take sugar.

The telephone rang. Inspector Neele picked up the receiver. His face changed a little.

“St. Jude’s?”

He nodded to Miss Grosvenor in dismissal.

“That’s all for now, thank you, Miss Grosvenor.”

Miss Grosvenor sped out of the room hurriedly.

Inspector Neele listened carefully to the thin unemotional tones speaking from St. Jude’s Hospital. As the voice spoke he made a few cryptic signs with a pencil on the corner of the blotter in front of him.

“Died five minutes ago, you say?” he asked. His eye went to the watch on his wrist. Twelve forty-three, he wrote on the blotter.

The unemotional voice said that Dr. Bernsdorff himself would like to speak to Inspector Neele.

Inspector Neele said, “Right. Put him through,” which rather scandalized the owner of the voice, who had allowed a certain amount of reverence to seep into the official accents.

There were then various clicks, buzzes, and far-off ghostly murmurs. Inspector Neele sat patiently waiting.

Then without warning a deep bass roar caused him to shift the receiver an inch or two away from his ear.

“Hallo, Neele, you old vulture. At it again with your corpses?”

Inspector Neele and Professor Bernsdorff of St. Jude’s had been brought together over a case of poisoning just over a year ago and had remained on friendly terms.

“Our man’s dead, I hear, doc.”

“Yes. We couldn’t do anything by the time he got here.”

“And the cause of death?”

“There will have to be an autopsy, naturally. Very interesting case. Very interesting indeed. Glad I was able to be in on it.”

The professional gusto in Bernsdorff’s rich tones told Inspector Neele one thing at least.

“I gather you don’t think it was natural death,” he said dryly.

“Not a dog’s chance of it,” said Dr. Bernsdorff robustly. “I’m speaking unofficially, of course,” he added with belated caution.

“Of course. Of course. That’s understood. He was poisoned?”

“Definitely. And what’s more—this is quite unofficial, you understand—just between you and me—I’d be prepared to make a bet on what the poison was.”

“In-deed?”

“Taxine, my boy. Taxine.”

“Taxine? Never heard of it.”

“I know. Most unusual. Really delightfully unusual! I don’t say I’d have spotted it myself if I hadn’t had a case only three or four weeks ago. Couple of kids playing dolls’ tea parties—pulled berries off a yew tree and used them for tea.”

“Is that what it is? Yew berries?”

“Berries or leaves. Highly poisonous. Taxine, of course, is the alkaloid. Don’t think I’ve heard of a case where it was used deliberately. Really most interesting and unusual . . . You’ve no idea, Neele, how tired one gets of the inevitable weed killer. Taxine is a real treat. Of course, I may be wrong—don’t quote me, for Heaven’s sake—but I don’t think so. Interesting for you, too, I should think. Varies the routine!”

“A good time is to be had by all, is that the idea? With the exception of the victim.”

“Yes, yes, poor fellow.” Dr. Bernsdorff’s tone was perfunctory. “Very bad luck on him.”

“Did he say anything before he died?”

“Well, one of your fellows was sitting by him with a notebook. He’ll have the exact details. He muttered something once about tea—that he’d been given something in his tea at the office—but that’s nonsense, of course.”

“Why is it nonsense?” Inspector Neele, who had been reviewing speculatively the picture of the glamorous Miss Grosvenor adding yew berries to a brew of tea, and finding it incongruous, spoke sharply.

“Because the stuff couldn’t possibly have worked so soon. I understand the symptoms came on immediately he had drunk the tea?”

“That’s what they say.”

“Well, there are very few poisons that act as quickly as that, apart from the cyanides, of course—and possibly pure nicotine—”

“And it definitely wasn’t cyanide or nicotine?”

“My dear fellow. He’d have been dead before the ambulance arrived. Oh no, there’s no question of anything of that kind. I did suspect strychnine, but the convulsions were not at all typical. Still unofficial, of course, but I’ll stake my reputation it’s taxine.”

“How long would that take to work?”

“Depends. An hour. Two hours, three hours. Deceased looked like a hearty eater. If he had had a big breakfast, that would slow things up.”

“Breakfast,” said Inspector Neele thoughtfully. “Yes, it looks like breakfast.”

“Breakfast with the Borgias.” Dr. Bernsdorff laughed cheerfully. “Well, good hunting, my lad.”

“Thanks, doctor. I’d like to speak to my sergeant before you ring off.”

Again there were clicks and buzzes and far-off ghostly voices. And then the sound of heavy breathing came through, an inevitable prelude to Sergeant Hay’s conversation.

“Sir,” he said urgently. “Sir.”

“Neele here. Did the deceased say anything I ought to know?”

“Said it was the tea. The tea he had at the office. But the M.O. says not. . . .”

“Yes, I know about that. Nothing else?”

“No, sir. But there’s one thing that’s odd. The suit he was wearing—I checked the contents of the pockets. The usual stuff—handkerchief, keys, change, wallet—but there was one thing that’s downright peculiar. The right-hand pocket of his jacket. It had cereal in it.”

“Cereal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you mean by cereal? Do you mean a breakfast food? Farmer’s Glory or Wheatifax. Or do you mean corn or barley—”

“That’s right, sir. Grain it was. Looked like rye to me. Quite a lot of it.”

“I see . . . Odd . . . But it might have been a sample—something to do with a business deal.”

“Quite so, sir—but I thought I’d better mention it.”

“Quite right, Hay.”

Inspector Neele sat staring ahead of him for a few moments after he had replaced the telephone receiver. His orderly mind was moving from Phase I to Phase II of the inquiry—from suspicion of poisoning to certainty of poisoning. Professor Bernsdorff’s words may have been unofficial, but Professor Bernsdorff was not a man to be mistaken in his beliefs. Rex Fortescue had been poisoned and the poison had probably been administered one to three hours before the onset of the first symptoms. It seemed probable, therefore, that the office staff could be given a clean bill of health.

Neele got up and went into the outer office. A little desultory work was being done but the typewriters were not going at full speed.

“Miss Griffith? Can I have another word with you?”

“Certainly, Mr. Neele. Could some of the girls go out to lunch? It’s long past their regular time. Or would you prefer that we get something sent in?”

“No. They can go to lunch. But they must return afterwards.”

“Of course.”

Miss Griffith followed Neele back into the private office. She sat down in her composed efficient way.

Without preamble, Inspector Neele said:

“I have heard from St. Jude’s Hospital. Mr. Fortescue died at 12:43.”

Miss Griffith received the news without surprise, merely shook her head.

“I was afraid he was very ill,” she said.

She was not, Neele noted, at all distressed.

“Will you please give me particulars of his home and family?”

“Certainly. I have already tried to get into communication with Mrs. Fortescue, but it seems she is out playing golf. She was not expected home to lunch. There is some uncertainty as to which course she is playing on.” She added in an explanatory manner, “They live at Baydon Heath, you know, which is a centre for three well-known golf courses.”

Inspector Neele nodded. Baydon Heath was almost entirely inhabited by rich city men. It had an excellent train service, was only twenty miles from London and was comparatively easy to reach by car even in the rush of morning and evening traffic.

“The exact address, please, and the telephone number?”

“Bayden Heath 3400. The name of the house is Yewtree Lodge.”

“What?” The sharp query slipped out before Inspector Neele could control it. “Did you say Yewtree Lodge?”

“Yes.”

Miss Griffith looked faintly curious, but Inspector Neele had himself in hand again.

“Can you give me particulars of his family?”

“Mrs. Fortescue is his second wife. She is much younger than he is. They were married about two years ago. The first Mrs. Fortescue has been dead a long time. There are two sons and a daughter of the first marriage. The daughter lives at home and so does the elder son, who is a partner in the firm. Unfortunately he is away in the North of England today on business. He is expected to return tomorrow.”

“When did he go away?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“Have you tried to get in touch with him?”

“Yes. After Mr. Fortescue was removed to hospital I rang up the Midland Hotel in Manchester where I thought he might be staying, but he had left early this morning. I believe he was also going to Sheffield and Leicester, but I am not sure about that. I can give you the names of certain firms in those cities whom he might be visiting.”

Certainly an efficient woman, thought the inspector, and if she murdered a man she would probably murder him very efficiently, too. But he forced himself to abandon these speculations and concentrate once more on Mr. Fortescue’s home front.

“There is a second son you said?”

“Yes. But owing to a disagreement with his father he lives abroad.”

“Are both sons married?”

“Yes. Mr. Percival has been married for three years. He and his wife occupy a self-contained flat in Yewtree Lodge, though they are moving into their own house at Baydon Heath very shortly.”

“You were not able to get in touch with Mrs. Percival Fortescue when you rang up this morning?”

“She had gone to London for the day.” Miss Griffith went on, “Mr. Lancelot got married less than a year ago. To the widow of Lord Frederick Anstice. I expect you’ve seen pictures of her. In the Tatler—with horses, you know. And at point-to-points.”

Miss Griffith sounded a little breathless and her cheeks were faintly flushed. Neele, who was quick to catch the moods of human beings, realized that this marriage had thrilled the snob and the romantic in Miss Griffith. The aristocracy was the aristocracy to Miss Griffith and the fact that the late Lord Frederick Anstice had had a somewhat unsavoury reputation in sporting circles was almost certainly not known to her. Freddie Anstice had blown his brains out just before an inquiry by the Stewards into the running of one of his horses. Neele remembered something vaguely about his wife. She had been the daughter of an Irish Peer and had been married before to an airman who had been killed in the Battle of Britain.

And now, it seemed, she was married to the black sheep of the Fortescue family, for Neele assumed that the disagreement with his father, referred to primly by Miss Griffith, stood for some disgraceful incident in young Lancelot Fortescue’s career.

Lancelot Fortescue! What a name! And what was the other son—Percival? He wondered what the first Mrs. Fortescue had been like? She’d had a curious taste in Christian names. . . .

He drew the phone towards him and dialled TOL. He asked for Baydon Heath 3400.

Presently a man’s voice said:

“Baydon Heath 3400.”

“I want to speak to Mrs. Fortescue or Miss Fortescue.”

“Sorry. They aren’t in, either of ’em.”

The voice struck Inspector Neele as slightly alcoholic.

“Are you the butler?”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Fortescue has been taken seriously ill.”

“I know. They rung up and said so. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Mr. Val’s away up North and Mrs. Fortescue’s out playing golf. Mrs. Val’s gone up to London but she’ll be back for dinner and Miss Elaine’s out with her Brownies.”

“Is there no one in the house I can speak to about Mr. Fortescue’s illness? It’s important.”

“Well—I don’t know.” The man sounded doubtful. “There’s Miss Ramsbottom—but she don’t ever speak over the phone. Or there’s Miss Dove—she’s what you might call the ’ousekeeper.”

“I’ll speak to Miss Dove, please.”

“I’ll try and get hold of her.”

His retreating footsteps were audible through the phone. Inspector Neele heard no approaching footsteps but a minute or two later a woman’s voice spoke.

“This is Miss Dove speaking.”

The voice was low and well poised, with clear-cut enunciation. Inspector Neele formed a favourable picture of Miss Dove.

“I am sorry to have to tell you, Miss Dove, that Mr. Fortescue died in St. Jude’s Hospital a short time ago. He was taken suddenly ill in his office. I am anxious to get in touch with his relatives—”

“Of course. I had no idea—” She broke off. Her voice held no agitation, but it was shocked. She went on: “It is all most unfortunate. The person you really want to get in touch with is Mr. Percival Fortescue. He would be the one to see to all the necessary arrangements. You might be able to get in touch with him at the Midland in Manchester or possibly at the Grand in Leicester. Or you might try Shearer and Bonds of Leicester. I don’t know their telephone number, I’m afraid, but I know they are a firm on whom he was going to call and they might be able to inform you where he would be likely to be today. Mrs. Fortescue will certainly be in to dinner and she may be in to tea. It will be a great shock to her. It must have been very sudden? Mr. Fortescue was quite well when he left here this morning.”

“You saw him before he left?”

“Oh yes. What was it? Heart?”

“Did he suffer from heart trouble?”

“No—no—I don’t think so—But I thought as it was so sudden—” She broke off. “Are you speaking from St. Jude’s Hospital? Are you a doctor?”

“No, Miss Dove, I’m not a doctor. I’m speaking from Mr. Fortescue’s office in the city. I am Detective Inspector Neele of the CID and I shall be coming down to see you as soon as I can get there.”

“Detective Inspector? Do you mean—what do you mean?”

“It was a case of sudden death, Miss Dove; and when there is a sudden death we get called to the scene, especially when the deceased man hasn’t seen a doctor lately—which I gather was the case?”

It was only the faintest suspicion of a question mark but the young woman responded.

“I know. Percival made an appointment twice for him, but he wouldn’t keep it. He was quite unreasonable—they’ve all been worried—”

She broke off and then resumed in her former assured manner.

“If Mrs. Fortescue returns to the house before you arrive, what do you want me to tell her?”

Practical as they make ’em, thought Inspector Neele.

Aloud he said:

“Just tell her that in a case of sudden death we have to make a few inquiries. Routine inquiries.”

He hung up.

Chapter Three

Neele pushed the telephone away and looked sharply at Miss Griffith.

“So they’ve been worried about him lately,” he said. “Wanted him to see a doctor. You didn’t tell me that.”

“I didn’t think of it,” said Miss Griffith, and added: “He never seemed to me really ill—”

“Not ill—but what?”

“Well, just off. Unlike himself. Peculiar in his manner.”

“Worried about something?”

“Oh no, not worried. It’s we who were worried—”

Inspector Neele waited patiently.

“It’s difficult to say, really,” said Miss Griffith. “He had moods, you know. Sometimes he was quite boisterous. Once or twice, frankly, I thought he had been drinking . . . He boasted and told the most extraordinary stories which I’m sure couldn’t possibly have been true. For most of the time I’ve been here he was always very close about his affairs—not giving anything away, you know. But lately he’s been quite different, expansive, and positively—well—flinging money about. Most unlike his usual manner. Why, when the office boy had to go to his grandmother’s funeral, Mr. Fortescue called him in and gave him a five pound note and told him to put it on the second favourite and then roared with laughter. He wasn’t—well, he just wasn’t like himself. That’s all I can say.”

“As though, perhaps, he had something on his mind?”

“Not in the usual meaning of the term. It was as though he were looking forward to something pleasurable—exciting—”

“Possibly a big deal that he was going to pull off?”

Miss Griffith agreed with more conviction.

“Yes—yes, that’s much more what I mean. As though everyday things didn’t matter anymore. He was excited. And some very odd-looking people came to see him on business. People who’d never been here before. It worried Mr. Percival dreadfully.”

“Oh, it worried him, did it?”

“Yes. Mr. Percival’s always been very much in his father’s confidence, you see. His father relied on him. But lately—”

“Lately they weren’t getting along so well.”

“Well, Mr. Fortescue was doing a lot of things that Mr. Percival thought unwise. Mr. Percival is always very careful and prudent. But suddenly his father didn’t listen to him anymore and Mr. Percival was very upset.”

“And they had a real row about it all?”

Inspector Neele was still probing.

“I don’t know about a row . . . Of course, I realize now Mr. Fortescue can’t have been himself—shouting like that.”

“Shouted, did he? What did he say?”

“He came right out in the typists’ room—”

“So that you all heard?”

“Well—yes.”

“And he called Percival names—abused him—swore at him.”

“What did he say Percival had done?”

“It was more that he hadn’t done anything . . . he called him a miserable pettifogging little clerk. He said he had no large outlook, no conception of doing business in a big way. He said: ‘I shall get Lance home again. He’s worth ten of you—and he’s married well. Lance has got guts even if he did risk a criminal prosecution once—’ Oh dear, I oughtn’t to have said that!” Miss Griffith, carried away as others before her had been under Inspector Neele’s expert handling, was suddenly overcome with confusion.

“Don’t worry,” said Inspector Neele comfortingly. “What’s past is past.”

“Oh yes, it was a long time ago. Mr. Lance was just young and high-spirited and didn’t really realize what he was doing.”

Inspector Neele had heard that view before and didn’t agree with it. But he passed on to fresh questions.

“Tell me a little more about the staff here.”

Miss Griffith, hurrying to get away from her indiscretion, poured out information about the various personalities in the firm. Inspector Neele thanked her and then said he would like to see Miss Grosvenor again.

Detective Constable Waite sharpened his pencil. He remarked wistfully that this was a Ritzy joint. His glance wandered appreciatively over the huge chairs, the big desk and the indirect lighting.

“All these people have got Ritzy names, too,” he said. “Grosvenor—that’s something to do with a Duke. And Fortescue—that’s a classy name, too.”

Inspector Neele smiled.

“His father’s name wasn’t Fortescue. Fontescu—and he came from somewhere in Central Europe. I suppose this man thought Fortescue sounded better.”

Detective Constable Waite looked at his superior officer with awe.

“So you know all about him?”

“I just looked up a few things before coming along on the call.”

“Not got a record, had he?”

“Oh no. Mr. Fortescue was much too clever for that. He’s had certain connections with the black market and put through one or two deals that are questionable to say the least of it, but they’ve always been just within the law.”

“I see,” said Waite. “Not a nice man.”

“A twister,” said Neele. “But we’ve got nothing on him. The Inland Revenue have been after him for a long time but he’s been too clever for them. Quite a financial genius, the late Mr. Fortescue.”

“The sort of man,” said Constable Waite, “who might have enemies?”

He spoke hopefully.

“Oh yes—certainly enemies. But he was poisoned at home, remember. Or so it would seem. You know, Waite, I see a kind of pattern emerging. An old-fashioned familiar kind of pattern. The good boy, Percival. The bad boy, Lance—attractive to women. The wife who’s younger than her husband and who’s vague about which course she’s going to play golf on. It’s all very familiar. But there’s one thing that sticks out in a most incongruous way.”

Constable Waite asked “What’s that?” just as the door opened and Miss Grosvenor, her poise restored, and once more her glamorous self, inquired haughtily:

“You wished to see me?”

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about your employer—your late employer, perhaps I should say.”

“Poor soul,” said Miss Grosvenor unconvincingly.

“I want to know if you had noticed any difference in him lately.”

“Well, yes. I did, as a matter of fact.”

“In what way?”

“I couldn’t really say . . . He seemed to talk a lot of nonsense. I couldn’t really believe half of what he said. And then he lost his temper very easily—especially with Mr. Percival. Not with me, because of course I never argue. I just say, ‘Yes, Mr. Fortescue,’ whatever peculiar thing he says—said, I mean.”

“Did he—ever—well—make any passes at you?”

Miss Grosvenor replied rather regretfully:

“Well, no, I couldn’t exactly say that.”

“There’s just one other thing, Miss Grosvenor. Was Mr. Fortescue in the habit of carrying grain about in his pocket?”

Miss Grosvenor displayed a lively surprise.

“Grain? In his pocket? Do you mean to feed pigeons or something?”

“It could have been for that purpose.”

“Oh, I’m sure he didn’t. Mr. Fortescue? Feed pigeons? Oh no.”

“Could he have had barley—or rye—in his pocket today for any special reason? A sample, perhaps? Some deal in grain?”

“Oh no. He was expecting the Asiatic Oil people this afternoon. And the President of the Atticus Building Society . . . No one else.”

“Oh well—” Neele dismissed the subject and Miss Grosvenor with a wave of the hand.

“Lovely legs she’s got,” said Constable Waite with a sigh. “And super nylons—”

“Legs are no help to me,” said Inspector Neele. “I’m left with what I had before. A pocketful of rye—and no explanation of it.”

Chapter Four

Mary Dove paused on her way downstairs and looked out through the big window on the stairs. A car had just driven up from which two men were alighting. The taller of the two stood for a moment with his back to the house surveying his surroundings. Mary Dove appraised the two men thoughtfully. Inspector Neele and presumably a subordinate.

She turned from the window and looked at herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall where the staircase turned . . . She saw a small demure figure with immaculate white collar and cuffs on a beige grey dress. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and drawn back in two shining waves to a knot in the back of the neck . . . The lipstick she used was a pale rose colour.

On the whole Mary Dove was satisfied with her appearance. A very faint smile on her lips, she went on down the stairs.

Inspector Neele, surveying the house, was saying to himself:

Call it a lodge, indeed! Yewtree Lodge! The affectation of these rich people! The house was what he, Inspector Neele, would call a mansion. He knew what a lodge was. He’d been brought up in one! The lodge at the gates of Hartington Park, that vast unwieldy Palladian house with its twenty-nine bedrooms which had now been taken over by the National Trust. The lodge had been small and attractive from the outside, and had been damp, uncomfortable and devoid of anything but the most primitive form of sanitation within. Fortunately these facts had been accepted as quite proper and fitting by Inspector Neele’s parents. They had no rent to pay and nothing whatever to do except open and shut the gates when required, and there were always plenty of rabbits and an occasional pheasant or so for the pot. Mrs. Neele had never discovered the pleasure of electric irons, slow combustion stoves, airing cupboards, hot and cold water from taps, and the switching on of light by a mere flick of a finger. In winter the Neeles had an oil lamp and in summer they went to bed when it got dark. They were a healthy family and a happy one, all thoroughly behind the times.

So when Inspector Neele heard the word Lodge, it was his childhood memories that stirred. But this place, this pretentiously named Yewtree Lodge was just the kind of mansion that rich people built themselves and then called it “their little place in the country.” It wasn’t in the country either, according to Inspector Neele’s idea of the country. The house was a large solid red-brick structure, sprawling lengthwise rather than upward, with rather too many gables, and a vast number of leaded paned windows. The gardens were highly artificial—all laid out in rose beds and pergolas and pools, and living up to the name of the house with large numbers of clipped yew hedges.

Plenty of yew here for anybody with a desire to obtain the raw material of taxine. Over on the right, behind the rose pergola, there was a bit of actual nature left—a vast yew tree of the kind one associates with churchyards, its branches held up by stakes—like a kind of Moses of the forest world. That tree, the inspector thought, had been there long before the rash of newly built red-brick houses had begun to spread over the countryside. It had been there before the golf courses had been laid out and the fashionable architects had walked round with their rich clients, pointing out the advantages of the various sites. And since it was a valuable antique, the tree had been kept and incorporated in the new setup and had, perhaps, given its name to the new desirable residence. Yewtree Lodge. And possibly the berries from that very tree—

Inspector Neele cut off these unprofitable speculations. Must get on with the job. He rang the bell.

It was opened promptly by a middle-aged man who fitted in quite accurately with the mental image Inspector Neele had formed of him over the phone. A man with a rather spurious air of smartness, a shifty eye and a rather unsteady hand.

Inspector Neele announced himself and his subordinate and had the pleasure of seeing an instant look of alarm come into the butler’s eye . . . Neele did not attach too much importance to that. It might easily have nothing to do with the death of Rex Fortescue. It was quite possibly a purely automatic reaction.

“Has Mrs. Fortescue returned yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Nor Mr. Percival Fortescue? Nor Miss Fortescue?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I would like to see Miss Dove, please.”

The man turned his head slightly.

“Here’s Miss Dove now—coming downstairs.”

Inspector Neele took in Miss Dove as she came composedly down the wide staircase. This time the mental picture did not correspond with the reality. Unconsciously the word housekeeper had conjured up a vague impression of someone large and authoritative dressed in black with somewhere concealed about her a jingle of keys.

The inspector was quite unprepared for the small trim figure descending towards him. The soft dove-coloured tones of her dress, the white collar and cuffs, the neat waves of hair, the faint Mona Lisa smile. It all seemed, somehow, just a little unreal, as though this young woman of under thirty was playing a part: not, he thought, the part of a housekeeper, but the part of Mary Dove. Her appearance was directed towards living up to her name.

She greeted him composedly.

“Inspector Neele?”

“Yes. This is Sergeant Hay. Mr. Fortescue, as I told you through the phone, died in St. Jude’s Hospital at 12:43. It seems likely that his death was the result of something he ate at breakfast this morning. I should be glad therefore if Sergeant Hay could be taken to the kitchen where he can make inquiries as to the food served.”

Her eyes met his for a moment, thoughtfully, then she nodded.

“Of course,” she said. She turned to the uneasily hovering butler. “Crump, will you take Sergeant Hay out and show him whatever he wants to see.”

The two men departed together. Mary Dove said to Neele:

“Will you come in here?”

She opened the door of a room and preceded him into it. It was a characterless apartment, clearly labelled “Smoking Room,” with panelling, rich upholstery, large stuffed chairs, and a suitable set of sporting prints on the walls.

“Please sit down.”

He sat and Mary Dove sat opposite him. She chose, he noticed, to face the light. An unusual preference for a woman. Still more unusual if a woman had anything to hide. But perhaps Mary Dove had nothing to hide.

“It is very unfortunate,” she said, “that none of the family is available. Mrs. Fortescue may return at any minute. And so may Mrs. Val. I have sent wires to Mr. Percival Fortescue at various places.”

“Thank you, Miss Dove.”

“You say that Mr. Fortescue’s death was caused by something he may have eaten for breakfast? Food poisoning, you mean?”

“Possibly.” He watched her.

She said composedly, “It seems unlikely. For breakfast this morning there were bacon and scrambled eggs, coffee, toast and marmalade. There was also a cold ham on the sideboard, but that had been cut yesterday, and no one felt any ill effects. No fish of any kind was served, no sausages—nothing like that.”

“I see you know exactly what was served.”

“Naturally. I order the meals. For dinner last night—”

“No.” Inspector Neele interrupted her. “It would not be a question of dinner last night.”

“I thought the onset of food poisoning could sometimes be delayed as much as twenty-four hours.”

“Not in this case . . . Will you tell me exactly what Mr. Fortescue ate and drank before leaving the house this morning?”

“He had early tea brought to his room at eight o’clock. Breakfast was at a quarter past nine. Mr. Fortescue, as I have told you, had scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee, toast and marmalade.”

“Any cereal?”

“No, he didn’t like cereals.”

“The sugar for the coffee—it is lump sugar or granulated?”

“Lump. But Mr. Fortescue did not take sugar in his coffee.”

“Was he in the habit of taking any medicines in the morning? Salts? A tonic? Some digestive remedy?”

“No, nothing of that kind.”

“Did you have breakfast with him also?”

“No. I do not take meals with the family.”

“Who was at breakfast?”

“Mrs. Fortescue. Miss Fortescue. Mrs. Val Fortescue. Mr. Percival Fortescue, of course, was away.”

“And Mrs. and Miss Fortescue ate the same things for breakfast?”

“Mrs. Fortescue has only coffee, orange juice and toast, Mrs. Val and Miss Fortescue always eat a hearty breakfast. Besides eating scrambled eggs and cold ham, they would probably have a cereal as well. Mrs. Val drinks tea, not coffee.”

Inspector Neele reflected for a moment. The opportunities seemed at least to be narrowing down. Three people and three people only had had breakfast with the deceased, his wife, his daughter and his daughter-in-law. Either of them might have seized an opportunity to add taxine to his cup of coffee. The bitterness of the coffee would have masked the bitter taste of the taxine. There was the early morning tea, of course, but Bernsdorff had intimated that the taste would be noticeable in tea. But perhaps, first thing in the morning, before the senses were alert . . . He looked up to find Mary Dove watching him.

“Your questions about tonic and medicines seem to me rather odd, Inspector,” she said. “It seems to imply that either there was something wrong with a medicine, or that something had been added to it. Surely neither of those processes could be described as food poisoning.”

Neele eyed her steadily.

“I did not say—definitely—that Mr. Fortescue died of food poisoning. But some kind of poisoning. In fact—just poisoning.”

She repeated softly: “Poisoning. . . .”

She appeared neither startled nor dismayed, merely interested. Her attitude was of one sampling a new experience.

In fact she said as much, remarking after a moment’s reflection: “I have never had anything to do with a poisoning case before.”

“It’s not very pleasant,” Neele informed her dryly.

“No—I suppose not. . . .”

She thought about it for a moment and then looked up at him with a sudden smile.

“I didn’t do it,” she said. “But I suppose everybody will tell you that!”

“Have you any idea who did do it, Miss Dove?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Frankly, he was an odious man. Anybody might have done it.”

“But people aren’t poisoned just for being ‘odious,’ Miss Dove. There usually has to be a pretty solid motive.”

“Yes, of course.”

She was thoughtful.

“Do you care to tell me something about the household here?”

She looked up at him. He was a little startled to find her eyes cool and amused.

“This isn’t exactly a statement you’re asking me to make, is it? No, it couldn’t be, because your sergeant is busy upsetting the domestic staff. I shouldn’t like to have what I say read out in court—but all the same I should rather like to say it—unofficially. Off the record, so to speak?”

“Go ahead then, Miss Dove. I’ve no witness, as you’ve already observed.”

She leaned back, swinging one slim foot and narrowing her eyes.

“Let me start by saying that I’ve no feeling of loyalty to my employers. I work for them because it’s a job that pays well and I insist that it should pay well.”

“I was a little surprised to find you doing this type of job. It struck me that with your brains and education—”

“I ought to be confined in an office? Or compiling files in a Ministry? My dear Inspector Neele, this is the perfect racket. People will pay anything—anything—to be spared domestic worries. To find and engage a staff is a thoroughly tedious job. Writing to agencies, putting in advertisements, interviewing people, making arrangements for interviews, and finally keeping the whole thing running smoothly—it takes a certain capacity which most of these people haven’t got.”

“And suppose your staff, when you’ve assembled it, runs out on you? I’ve heard of such things.”

Mary smiled.

“If necessary, I can make the beds, dust the rooms, cook a meal and serve it without anyone noticing the difference. Of course I don’t advertise that fact. It might give rise to ideas. But I can always be sure of tiding over any little gap. But there aren’t often gaps. I work only for the extremely rich who will pay anything to be comfortable. I pay top prices and so I get the best of what’s going.”

“Such as the butler?”

She threw him an amused, appreciative glance.

“There’s always that trouble with a couple. Crump stays because of Mrs. Crump, who is one of the best cooks I’ve ever come across. She’s a jewel and one would put up with a good deal to keep her. Our Mr. Fortescue likes his food—liked, I should say. In this household nobody has any scruples and they have plenty of money. Butter, eggs, cream, Mrs. Crump can command what she likes. As for Crump, he just makes the grade. His silver’s all right, and his waiting at table is not too bad. I keep the key of the wine cellar and a sharp eye on the whisky, and gin, and supervise his valeting.”

Inspector Neele raised his eyebrows.

“The admirable Miss Crichton.”

“I find one must know how to do everything oneself. Then—one need never do it. But you wanted to know my impressions of the family.”

“If you don’t mind.”

“They are really all quite odious. The late Mr. Fortescue was the kind of crook who is always careful to play safe. He boasted a great deal of his various smart dealings. He was rude and overbearing in manner and was a definite bully. Mrs. Fortescue, Adele—was his second wife and about thirty years younger than he was. He came across her at Brighton. She was a manicurist on the look out for big money. She is very good-looking—a real sexy piece, if you know what I mean.”

Inspector Neele was shocked but managed not to show it. A girl like Mary Dove ought not to say such things, he felt.

The young lady was continuing composedly:

“Adele married him for his money, of course, and his son, Percival, and his daughter, Elaine, were simply livid about it. They’re as nasty as they can be to her, but very wisely she doesn’t care or even notice. She knows she’s got the old man where she wants him. Oh dear, the wrong tense again. I haven’t really grasped yet that he’s dead. . . .”

“Let’s hear about the son.”

“Dear Percival? Val, as his wife calls him. Percival is a mealy-mouthed hypocrite. He’s prim and sly and cunning. He’s terrified of his father and has always let himself be bullied, but he’s quite clever at getting his own way. Unlike his father he’s mean about money. Economy is one of his passions. That’s why he’s been so long about finding a house of his own. Having a suite of rooms here saved his pocket.”

“And his wife?”

“Jennifer’s meek and seems very stupid. But I’m not so sure. She was a hospital nurse before her marriage—nursed Percival through pneumonia to a romantic conclusion. The old man was disappointed by the marriage. He was a snob and wanted Percival to make what he called a ‘good marriage.’ He despised poor Mrs. Val and snubbed her. She dislikes—disliked him a good deal, I think. Her principal interests are shopping and the cinema; her principal grievance is that her husband keeps her short of money.”

“What about the daughter?”

“Elaine? I’m rather sorry for Elaine. She’s not a bad sort. One of those great schoolgirls who never grow up. She plays games quite well, and runs Guides and Brownies and all that sort of thing. There was some sort of affair not long ago with a disgruntled young schoolmaster, but Father discovered the young man had communistic ideas and came down on the romance like a ton of bricks.”

“She hadn’t got the spirit to stand up to him?”

“She had. It was the young man who ratted. A question of money yet again, I fancy. Elaine is not particularly attractive, poor dear.”

“And the other son?”

“I’ve never seen him. He’s attractive, by all accounts, and a thoroughly bad lot. Some little matter of a forged cheque in the past. He lives in East Africa.”

“And was estranged from his father.”

“Yes, Mr. Fortescue couldn’t cut him off with a shilling because he’d already made him a junior partner in the firm, but he held no communication with him for years, and in fact if Lance was ever mentioned, he used to say: ‘Don’t talk to me of that rascal. He’s no son of mine.’ All the same—”

“Yes, Miss Dove?”

Mary said slowly: “All the same, I shouldn’t be surprised if old Fortescue hadn’t been planning to get him back here.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because, about a month ago, old Fortescue had a terrific row with Percival—he found out something that Percival had been doing behind his back—I don’t know what it was—and he was absolutely furious. Percival suddenly stopped being the white-headed boy. He’s been quite different lately, too.”

“Mr. Fortescue was quite different?”

“No. I meant Percival. He’s gone about looking worried to death.”

“Now what about servants? You’ve already described the Crumps. Who else is there?”

“Gladys Martin is the parlourmaid or waitress, as they like to call themselves nowadays. She does the downstairs rooms, lays the table, clears away and helps Crump wait at table. Quite a decent sort of girl but very nearly half-witted. The adenoidal type.”

Neele nodded.

“The housemaid is Ellen Curtis. Elderly, very crabbed, and very cross, but has been in good service and is a first-class housemaid. The rest is outside help—odd women who come in.”

“And those are the only people living here?”

“There’s old Miss Ramsbottom.”

“Who is she?”

“Mr. Fortescue’s sister-in-law—his first wife’s sister. His wife was a good deal older than he was and her sister again was a good deal older than her—which makes her well over seventy. She has a room of her own on the second floor—does her own cooking and all that, with just a woman coming in to clean. She’s rather eccentric and she never liked her brother-in-law, but she came here while her sister was alive and stayed on when she died. Mr. Fortescue never bothered about her much. She’s quite a character, though, is Aunt Effie.”

“And that is all.”

“That’s all.”

“So we come to you, Miss Dove.”

“You want particulars? I’m an orphan. I took a secretarial course at the St. Alfred’s Secretarial College. I took a job as shorthand typist, left it and took another, decided I was in the wrong racket, and started on my present career. I have been with three different employers. After about a year or eighteen months I get tired of a particular place and move on. I have been at Yewtree Lodge just over a year. I will type out the names and addresses of my various employers and give them, with a copy of my references to Sergeant—Hay, is it? Will that be satisfactory?”

“Perfectly, Miss Dove.” Neele was silent for a moment, enjoying a mental image of Miss Dove tampering with Mr. Fortescue’s breakfast. His mind went back farther, and he saw her methodically gathering yew berries in a little basket. With a sigh he returned to the present and reality. “Now, I would like to see the girl—er Gladys—and then the housemaid, Ellen.” He added as he rose: “By the way, Miss Dove, can you give me any idea why Mr. Fortescue would be carrying loose grain in his pocket?”

“Grain?” she stared at him with what appeared to be genuine surprise.

“Yes—grain. Does that suggest something to you, Miss Dove?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Who looked after his clothes?”

“Crump.”

“I see. Did Mr. Fortescue and Mrs. Fortescue occupy the same bedroom?”

“Yes. He had a dressing room and bath, of course, and so did she . . .” Mary glanced down at her wristwatch. “I really think that she ought to be back very soon now.”

The inspector had risen. He said in a pleasant voice:

“Do you know one thing, Miss Dove? It strikes me as very odd that even though there are three golf courses in the immediate neighbourhood, it has yet not been possible to find Mrs. Fortescue on one of them before now?”

“It would not be so odd, Inspector, if she did not actually happen to be playing golf at all.”

Mary’s voice was dry. The inspector said sharply:

“I was distinctly informed that she was playing golf.”

“She took her golf clubs and announced her intention of doing so. She was driving her own car, of course.”

He looked at her steadily, perceiving the inference.

“Who was she playing with? Do you know?”

“I think it possible that it might be Mr. Vivian Dubois.”

Neele contented himself by saying: “I see.”

“I’ll send Gladys in to you. She’ll probably be scared to death.” Mary paused for a moment by the door, then she said:

“I should hardly advise you to go too much by all I’ve told you. I’m a malicious creature.”

She went out. Inspector Neele looked at the closed door and wondered. Whether actuated by malice or not, what she had told him could not fail to be suggestive. If Rex Fortescue had been deliberately poisoned, and it seemed almost certain that that was the case, then the setup at Yewtree Lodge seemed highly promising. Motives appeared to be lying thick on the ground.

Chapter Five

The girl who entered the room with obvious unwillingness was an unattractive, frightened-looking girl, who managed to look faintly sluttish in spite of being tall and smartly dressed in a claret-coloured uniform.

She said at once, fixing imploring eyes upon him:

“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t really. I don’t know anything about it.”

“That’s all right,” said Neele heartily. His voice had changed slightly. It sounded more cheerful and a good deal commoner in intonation. He wanted to put the frightened rabbit Gladys at her ease.

“Sit down here,” he went on. “I just want to know about breakfast this morning.”

“I didn’t do anything at all.”

“Well, you laid the breakfast, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did that.” Even that admission came unwillingly. She looked both guilty and terrified, but Inspector Neele was used to witnesses who looked like that. He went on cheerfully, trying to put her at her ease, asking questions: who had come down first? And who next?

Elaine Fortescue had been the first down to breakfast. She’d come in just as Crump was bringing in the coffee pot. Mrs. Fortescue was down next, and then Mrs. Val, and the master last. They waited on themselves. The tea and coffee and the hot dishes were all on hot plates on the sideboard.

He learnt little of importance from her that he did not know already. The food and drink was as Mary Dove had described it. The master and Mrs. Fortescue and Miss Elaine took coffee and Mrs. Val took tea. Everything had been quite as usual.

Neele questioned her about herself and here she answered more readily. She’d been in private service first and after that in various cafés. Then she thought she’d like to go back to private service and had come to Yewtree Lodge last September. She’d been there two months.

“And you like it?”

“Well, it’s all right, I suppose.” She added: “It’s not so hard on your feet—but you don’t get so much freedom. . . .”

“Tell me about Mr. Fortescue’s clothes—his suits. Who looked after them? Brushed them and all that?”

Gladys looked faintly resentful.

“Mr. Crump’s supposed to. But half the time he makes me do it.”

“Who brushed and pressed the suit Mr. Fortescue had on today?”

“I don’t remember which one he wore. He’s got ever so many.”

“Have you ever found grain in the pocket of one of his suits?”

“Grain?” She looked puzzled.

“Rye, to be exact.”

“Rye? That’s bread, isn’t it? A sort of black bread—got a nasty taste, I always think.”

“That’s bread made from rye. Rye is the grain itself. There was some found in the pocket of your master’s coat.”

“In his coat pocket?”

“Yes. Do you know how it got there?”

“I couldn’t say I’m sure. I never saw any.”

He could get no more from her. For a moment or two he wondered if she knew more about the matter than she was willing to admit. She certainly seemed embarrassed and on the defensive—but on the whole he put it down to a natural fear of the police.

When he finally dismissed her, she asked:

“It’s really true, is it. He’s dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead.”

“Very sudden, wasn’t it? They said when they rang up from the office that he’d had a kind of fit.”

“Yes—it was a kind of fit.”

Gladys said: “A girl I used to know had fits. Come on anytime, they did. Used to scare me.”

For the moment this reminiscence seemed to overcome her suspicions.

Inspector Neele made his way to the kitchen.

His reception was immediate and alarming. A woman of vast proportions, with a red face armed with a rolling pin stepped towards him in a menacing fashion.

“Police, indeed,” she said. “Coming here and saying things like that! Nothing of the kind, I’d have you know. Anything I’ve sent in the dining room has been just what it should be. Coming here and saying I poisoned the master. I’ll have the law on you, police or no police. No bad food’s ever been served in this house.”

It was sometime before Inspector Neele could appease the irate artist. Sergeant Hay looked in grinning from the pantry and Inspector Neele gathered that he had already run the gauntlet of Mrs. Crump’s wrath.

The scene was terminated by the ringing of the telephone.

Neele went out into the hall to find Mary Dove taking the call. She was writing down a message on a pad. Turning her head over her shoulder she said: “It’s a telegram.”

The call concluded, she replaced the receiver and handed the pad on which she had been writing to the inspector. The place of origin was Paris and the message ran as follows:

Fortescue Yewtree Lodge Baydon Heath Surrey. Sorry your letter delayed. Will be with you tomorrow about teatime. Shall expect roast veal for dinner. Lance.

Inspector Neele raised his eyebrows.

“So the Prodigal Son had been summoned home,” he said.

Chapter Six

At the moment when Rex Fortescue had been drinking his last cup of tea, Lance Fortescue and his wife had been sitting under the trees on the Champs Elysées watching the people walking past.

“It’s all very well to say ‘describe him,’ Pat. I’m a rotten hand at descriptions. What do you want to know? The Guvnor’s a bit of an old crook, you know. But you won’t mind that? You must be used to that more or less.”

“Oh, yes,” said Pat. “Yes—as you say—I’m acclimatized.”

She tried to keep a certain forlornness out of her voice. Perhaps, she reflected, the whole world was really crooked—or was it just that she herself had been unfortunate?

She was a tall, long-legged girl, not beautiful but with a charm that was made-up of vitality and a warm-hearted personality. She moved well, and had lovely gleaming chestnut brown hair. Perhaps from a long association with horses, she had acquired the look of a thoroughbred filly.

Crookedness in the racing world she knew about—now, it seemed, she was to encounter crookedness in the financial world. Though for all that, it seemed that her father-in-law, whom she had not yet met, was, as far as the law was concerned, a pillar of rectitude. All these people who went about boasting of “smart work” were the same—technically they always managed to be within the law. Yet it seemed to her that her Lance, whom she loved, and who had admittedly strayed outside the ringed fence in earlier days, had an honesty that these successful practitioners of the crooked lacked.

“I don’t mean,” said Lance, “that he’s a swindler—not anything like that. But he knows how to put over a fast one.”

“Sometimes,” said Pat, “I feel I hate people who put over fast ones.” She added: “You’re fond of him.” It was a statement, not a question.

Lance considered it for a moment, and then said in a surprised kind of voice:

“Do you know, darling, I believe I am.”

Pat laughed. He turned his head to look at her. His eyes narrowed. What a darling she was! He loved her. The whole thing was worth it for her sake.

“In a way, you know,” he said, “it’s hell going back. City life. Home on the 5:18. It’s not my kind of life. I’m far more at home among the down and outs. But one’s got to settle down sometime, I suppose. And with you to hold my hand the process may even be quite a pleasant one. And since the old boy has come round, one ought to take advantage of it. I must say I was surprised when I got his letter . . . Percival, of all people, blotting his copybook. Percival, the good little boy. Mind you, Percy was always sly. Yes, he was always sly.”

“I don’t think,” said Patricia Fortescue, “that I’m going to like your brother Percival.”

“Don’t let me put you against him. Percy and I never got on—that’s all there is to it. I blued my pocket money, he saved his. I had disreputable but entertaining friends, Percy made what’s called ‘worthwhile contacts.’ Poles apart we were, he and I. I always thought him a poor fish, and he—sometimes, you know, I think he almost hated me. I don’t know why exactly. . . .”

“I think I can see why.”

“Can you, darling? You’re so brainy. You know I’ve always wondered—it’s a fantastic thing to say—but—”

“Well? Say it.”

“I’ve wondered if it wasn’t Percival who was behind that cheque business—you know, when the old man kicked me out—and was he mad that he’d given me a share in the firm and so he couldn’t disinherit me! Because the queer thing was that I never forged that cheque—though of course nobody would believe that after that time I swiped funds out of the till and put it on a horse. I was dead sure I could put it back, and anyway it was my own cash in a manner of speaking. But that cheque business—no. I don’t know why I’ve got the ridiculous idea that Percival did that—but I have, somehow.”

“But it wouldn’t have done him any good? It was paid into your account.”

“I know. So it doesn’t make sense, does it?”

Pat turned sharply towards him.

“You mean—he did it to get you chucked out of the firm?”

“I wondered. Oh well—it’s a rotten thing to say. Forget it. I wonder what old Percy will say when he sees the Prodigal returned. Those pale, boiled-gooseberry eyes of his will pop right out of his head!”

“Does he know you are coming?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t know a damned thing! The old man’s got rather a funny sense of humour, you know.”

“But what has your brother done to upset your father so much?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. Something must have made the old man livid. Writing off to me the way he did.”

“When was it you got his first letter?”

“Must be four—no five months ago. A cagey letter, but a distinct holding out of the olive branch. ‘Your elder brother has proved himself unsatisfactory in many ways.’ ‘You seem to have sown your wild oats and settled down.’ ‘I can promise you that it will be well worth your while financially.’ ‘Shall welcome you and your wife.’ You know, darling, I think my marrying you had a lot to do with it. The old boy was impressed that I’d married into a class above me.”

Pat laughed.

“What? Into the aristocratic riff-raff?”

He grinned. “That’s right. But riff-raff didn’t register and aristocracy did. You should see Percival’s wife. She’s the kind who says ‘Pass the preserves, please’ and talks about a postage stamp.”

Pat did not laugh. She was considering the women of the family into which she had married. It was a point of view which Lance had not taken into account.

“And your sister?” she asked.

“Elaine—? Oh she’s all right. She was pretty young when I left home. Sort of an earnest girl—but probably she’s grown out of that. Very intense over things.”

It did not sound very reassuring. Pat said:

“She never wrote to you—after you went away?”

“I didn’t leave an address. But she wouldn’t have, anyway. We’re not a devoted family.”

“No.”

He shot a quick look at her.

“Got the wind up? About my family? You needn’t. We’re not going to live with them, or anything like that. We’ll have our own little place, somewhere. Horses, dogs, anything you like.”

“But there will still be the 5:18.”

“For me, yes. To and fro to the city, all togged up. But don’t worry, sweet—there are rural pockets, even round London. And lately I’ve felt the sap of financial affairs rising in me. After all, it’s in my blood—from both sides of the family.”

“You hardly remember your mother, do you?”

“She always seemed to me incredibly old. She was old, of course. Nearly fifty when Elaine was born. She wore lots of clinking things and lay on a sofa and used to read me stories about knights and ladies which bored me stiff. Tennyson’s ‘Idylls of the King.’ I suppose I was fond of her . . . She was very—colourless, you know. I realize that, looking back.”

“You don’t seem to have been particularly fond of anybody,” said Pat disapprovingly.

Lance grasped and squeezed her arm.

“I’m fond of you,” he said.

Chapter Seven

Inspector Neele was still holding the telegraph message in his hand when he heard a car drive up to the front door and stop with a careless scrunching of brakes.

Mary Dove, “That will be Mrs. Fortescue now.”

Inspector Neele moved forwards to the front door. Out of the tail of his eye, he saw Mary Dove melt unobtrusively into the background and disappear. Clearly she intended to take no part in the forthcoming scene. A remarkable display of tact and discretion—and also a rather remarkable lack of curiosity. Most women, Inspector Neele decided, would have remained. . . .

As he reached the front door he was aware of the butler, Crump, coming forward from the back of the hall. So he had heard the car.

The car was a Rolls Bentley sports model coupé. Two people got out of it and came towards the house. As they reached the door, it opened. Surprised, Adele Fortescue stared at Inspector Neele.

He realized at once that she was a very beautiful woman, and he realized too the force of Mary Dove’s comment which had so shocked him at the time. Adele Fortescue was a sexy piece. In figure and type she resembled the blonde Miss Grosvenor, but whereas Miss Grosvenor was all glamour without and all respectability within, Adele Fortescue was glamour all through. Her appeal was obvious, not subtle. It said simply to every man “Here am I. I’m a woman.” She spoke and moved and breathed sex—and yet, within it all, her eyes had a shrewd appraising quality. Adele Fortescue, he thought, liked men—but she would always like money even better.

His eyes went on to the figure behind her who carried her golf clubs. He knew the type very well. It was the type that specialized in the young wives of rich and elderly men. Mr. Vivian Dubois, if this was he, had that rather forced masculinity which is, in reality, nothing of the kind. He was the type of man who “understands” women.

“Mrs. Fortescue?”

“Yes.” It was a wide blue-eyed gaze. “But I don’t know—”

“I am Inspector Neele. I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”

“Do you mean—a burglary—something of that kind?”

“No, nothing of that kind. It is about your husband. He was taken seriously ill this morning.”

“Rex? Ill?”

“We have been trying to get in touch with you since half past eleven this morning.”

“Where is he? Here? Or in hospital?”

“He was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital. I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for a shock.”

“You don’t mean—he isn’t—dead.”

She lurched forward a little and clutched his arm. Gravely feeling like someone playing a part in a stage performance, the inspector supported her into the hall. Crump was hovering eagerly.

“Brandy she’ll be needing,” he said.

The deep voice of Mr. Dubois said:

“That’s right, Crump. Get the brandy.” To the inspector he said: “In here.”

He opened a door on the left. The procession filed in. The inspector and Adele Fortescue, Vivian Dubois, and Crump with a decanter and two glasses.

Adele Fortescue sank onto an easy chair, her eyes covered with her hand. She accepted the glass that the inspector offered and took a tiny sip, then pushed it away.

“I don’t want it,” she said. “I’m all right. But tell me, what was it? A stroke, I suppose? Poor Rex.”

“It wasn’t a stroke, Mrs. Fortescue.”

“Did you say you were an inspector?” It was Mr. Dubois who made the inquiry.

Neele turned to him. “That’s right,” he said pleasantly. “Inspector Neele of the CID.”

He saw the alarm grow in the dark eyes. Mr. Dubois did not like the appearance of an inspector of the CID. He didn’t like it at all.

“What’s up?” he said. “Something wrong—eh?”

Quite unconsciously he backed away a little towards the door. Inspector Neele noted the movement.

“I’m afraid,” he said to Mrs. Fortescue, “that there will have to be an inquest.”

“An inquest? Do you mean—what do you mean?”

“I’m afraid this is all very distressing for you, Mrs. Fortescue.” The words came smoothly. “It seemed advisable to find out as soon as possible exactly what Mr. Fortescue had to eat or drink before leaving for the office this morning.”

“Do you mean he might have been poisoned?”

“Well, yes, it would seem so.”

“I can’t believe it. Oh—you mean food poisoning.”

Her voice dropped half an octave on the last words. His face wooden, his voice still smooth, Inspector Neele said:

“Madam? What did you think I meant?”

She ignored that question, hurrying on.

“But we’ve been all right—all of us.”

“You can speak for all the members of the family?”

“Well—no—of course—I can’t really.”

Dubois said with a great show of consulting his watch:

“I’ll have to push off, Adele. Dreadfully sorry. You’ll be all right, won’t you? I mean, there are the maids, and the little Dove and all that—”

“Oh, Vivian, don’t. Don’t go.”

It was quite a wail, and it affected Mr. Dubois adversely. His retreat quickened.

“Awfully sorry, old girl. Important engagement. I’m putting up at the Dormy House, by the way, Inspector. If you—er—want me for anything.”

Inspector Neele nodded. He had no wish to detain Mr. Dubois. But he recognized Mr. Dubois’s departure for what it was. Mr. Dubois was running away from trouble.

Adele Fortescue said, in an attempt to carry off the situation:

“It’s such a shock, to come back and find the police in the house.”

“I’m sure it must be. But you see, it was necessary to act promptly in order to obtain the necessary specimens of foodstuffs, coffee, tea, etc.”

“Tea and coffee? But they’re not poisonous? I expect it’s the awful bacon we sometimes get. It’s quite uneatable sometimes.”

“We shall find out, Mrs. Fortescue. Don’t worry. You’d be surprised at some of the things that can happen. We once had a case of digitalis poisoning. It turned out that foxglove leaves had been picked in mistake for horseradish.”

“You think something like that could happen here?”

“We shall know better after the autopsy, Mrs. Fortescue.”

“The autop—oh I see.” She shivered.

The inspector went on: “You’ve got a lot of yew round the house, haven’t you, madam. There’s no possibility, I suppose, of the berries or leaves having got—mixed-up in anything?”

He was watching her closely. She stared at him.

“Yew berries? Are they poisonous?”

The wonder seemed a little too wide-eyed and innocent.

“Children have been known to eat them with unfortunate results.”

Adele clasped her hands to her head.

“I can’t bear to talk about it anymore. Must I? I want to go and lie down. I can’t stand anymore. Mr. Percival Fortescue will arrange everything—I can’t—I can’t—it isn’t fair to ask me.”

“We are getting in touch with Mr. Percival Fortescue as soon as possible. Unfortunately he is away in the North of England.”

“Oh yes, I forgot.”

“There’s just one thing, Mrs. Fortescue. There was a small quantity of grain in your husband’s pocket. Could you give me some explanation of that?”

She shook her head. She appeared quite bewildered.

“Would anyone have slipped it in there as a joke?”

“I don’t see why it would be a joke?”

Inspector Neele did not see either. He said:

“I won’t trouble you any further at present, Mrs. Fortescue. Shall I send one of the maids to you? Or Miss Dove?”

“What?” The word came abstractedly. He wondered what she had been thinking about.

She fumbled with her bag and pulled out a handkerchief. Her voice trembled.

“It’s so awful,” she said unsteadily. “I’m only just beginning to take it in. I’ve really been numbed up to now. Poor Rex. Poor dear Rex.”

She sobbed in a manner that was almost convincing.

Inspector Neele watched her respectfully for a moment or two.

“It’s been very sudden, I know,” he said. “I’ll send someone to you.”

He went towards the door, opened it and passed through. He paused for a moment before looking back into the room.

Adele Fortescue still held the handkerchief to her eyes. The ends of it hung down but did not quite obscure her mouth. On her lips was a very faint smile.

Chapter Eight

I

“I’ve got what I could, sir.” So Sergeant Hay reported. “The marmalade, bit of the ham. Samples of tea, coffee and sugar, for what they’re worth. Actual brews have been thrown out by now, of course, but there’s one point. There was a good lot of coffee left over and they had it in the servants’ hall at elevenses—that’s important, I should say.”

“Yes, that’s important. Shows that if he took it in his coffee, it must have been slipped into the actual cup.”

“By one of those present. Exactly. I’ve inquired, cautious like, about the yew stuff—berries or leaves—there’s been none of it seen about the house. Nobody seems to know anything about the cereal in his pocket, either . . . It just seems daft to them. Seems daft to me, too. He doesn’t seem to have been one of those food faddists who’ll eat any mortal thing so long as it isn’t cooked. My sister’s husband’s like that. Raw carrots, raw peas, raw turnips. But even he doesn’t eat raw grain. Why, I should say it would swell up in your inside something awful.”

The telephone rang and, on a nod from the inspector, Sergeant Hay sprinted off to answer it. Following him, Neele found that it was headquarters on the line. Contact had been made with Mr. Percival Fortescue, who was returning to London immediately.

As the inspector replaced the telephone, a car drew up at the front door. Crump went to the door and opened it. The woman who stood there had her arms full of parcels. Crump took them from her.

“Thanks, Crump. Pay the taxi, will you? I’ll have tea now. Is Mrs. Fortescue or Miss Elaine in?”

The butler hesitated, looking back over his shoulder.

“We’ve had bad news, ma’am,” he said. “About the master.”

“About Mr. Fortescue?”

Neele came forward. Crump said: “This is Mrs. Percival, sir.”

“What is it? What’s happened? An accident?”

The inspector looked her over as he replied. Mrs. Percival Fortescue was a plump woman with a discontented mouth. Her age he judged to be about thirty. Her questions came with a kind of eagerness. The thought flashed across his mind that she must be very bored.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Fortescue was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital this morning seriously ill and has since died.”

“Died? You mean he’s dead?” The news was clearly even more sensational than she had hoped for. “Dear me—this is a surprise. My husband’s away. You’ll have to get in touch with him. He’s in the North somewhere. I dare say they’ll know at the office. He’ll have to see to everything. Things always happen at the most awkward moment, don’t they.”

She paused for a moment, turning things over in her mind.

“It all depends, I suppose,” she said, “where they’ll have the funeral. Down here, I suppose. Or will it be in London?”

“That will be for the family to say.”

“Of course. I only just wondered.” For the first time she took direct cognisance of the man who was speaking to her.

“Are you from the office?” she asked. “You’re not a doctor, are you?”

“I’m a police officer. Mr. Fortescue’s death was very sudden and—”

She interrupted him.

“Do you mean he was murdered?”

It was the first time that word had been spoken. Neele surveyed her eager questioning face carefully.

“Now why should you think that, madam?”

“Well, people are sometimes. You said sudden. And you’re police. Have you seen her about it? What did she say?”

“I don’t quite understand to whom you are referring?”

“Adele, of course. I always told Val his father was crazy to go marrying a woman years younger than himself. There’s no fool like an old fool. Besotted about that awful creature, he was. And now look what comes of it . . . A nice mess we’re all in. Pictures in the paper and reporters coming round.”

She paused, obviously visualizing the future in a series of crude highly coloured pictures. He thought that the prospect was still not wholly unpleasing. She turned back to him.

“What was it? Arsenic?”

In a repressive voice Inspector Neele said:

“The cause of death has yet to be ascertained. There will be an autopsy and an inquest.”

“But you know already, don’t you? Or you wouldn’t come down here.”

There was a sudden shrewdness in her plump rather foolish face.

“You’ve been asking about what he ate and drank, I suppose? Dinner last night. Breakfast this morning. And all the drinks, of course.”

He could see her mind ranging vividly over all the possibilities. He said, with caution:

“It seems possible that Mr. Fortescue’s illness resulted from something he ate at breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” She seemed surprised. “That’s difficult. I don’t see how. . . .”

She paused and shook her head.

“I don’t see how she could have done it, then . . . unless she slipped something into the coffee—when Elaine and I weren’t looking. . . .”

A quiet voice spoke softly beside them:

“Your tea is all ready in the library, Mrs. Val.”

Mrs. Val jumped.

“Oh thank you, Miss Dove. Yes, I could do with a cup of tea. Really, I feel quite bowled over. What about you, Mr.—Inspector—”

“Thank you, not just now.”

The plump figure hesitated and then went slowly away.

As she disappeared through a doorway, Mary Dove murmured softly:

“I don’t think she’s ever heard of the term slander.”

Inspector Neele did not reply.

Mary Dove went on:

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Where can I find the housemaid, Ellen?”

“I will take you to her. She’s just gone upstairs.”

II

Ellen proved to be grim but unafraid. Her sour old face looked triumphantly at the inspector.

“It’s a shocking business, sir. And I never thought I’d live to find myself in a house where that sort of thing has been going on. But in a way I can’t say that it surprises me. I ought to have given my notice in long ago and that’s a fact. I don’t like the language that’s used in this house, and I don’t like the amount of drink that’s taken, and I don’t approve of the goings on there’ve been. I’ve nothing against Mrs. Crump, but Crump and that girl Gladys just don’t know what proper service is. But it’s the goings on that I mind about most.”

“What goings on do you mean exactly?”

“You’ll soon hear about them if you don’t know already. It’s common talk all over the place. They’ve been seen here, there and everywhere. All this pretending to play golf—or tennis—And I’ve seen things—with my own eyes—in this house. The library door was open and there they were, kissing and canoodling.”

The venom of the spinster was deadly. Neele really felt it unnecessary to say “Whom do you mean?” but he said it nevertheless.

“Who should I mean? The mistress—and that man. No shame about it, they hadn’t. But if you ask me, the master had got wise to it. Put someone on to watch them, he had. Divorce, that’s what it would have come to. Instead, it’s come to this.”

“When you say this, you mean—”

“You’ve been asking questions, sir, about what the master ate and drank and who gave it to him. They’re in it together, sir, that’s what I’d say. He got the stuff from somewhere and she gave it to the master, that was the way of it, I’ve no doubt.”

“Have you ever seen any yew berries in the house—or thrown away anywhere?”

The small eyes glinted curiously.

“Yew? Nasty poisonous stuff. Never you touch those berries, my mother said to me when I was a child. Was that what was used, sir?”

“We don’t know yet what was used.”

“I’ve never seen her fiddling about with yew.” Ellen sounded disappointed. “No, I can’t say I’ve seen anything of that kind.”

Neele questioned her about the grain found in Fortescue’s pocket but here again he drew a blank.

“No, sir. I know nothing about that.”

He went on to further questions, but with no gainful result. Finally he asked if he could see Miss Ramsbottom.

Ellen looked doubtful.

“I could ask her, but it’s not everyone she’ll see. She’s a very old lady, you know, and she’s a bit odd.”

The inspector pressed his demand, and rather unwillingly Ellen led him along a passage and up a short flight of stairs to what he thought had probably been designed as a nursery suite.

He glanced out of a passage window as he followed her and saw Sergeant Hay standing by the yew tree talking to a man who was evidently a gardener.

Ellen tapped on a door, and when she received an answer, opened it and said:

“There’s a police gentleman here who would like to speak to you, miss.”

The answer was apparently in the affirmative for she drew back and motioned Neele to go in.

The room he entered was almost fantastically overfurnished. The inspector felt rather as though he had taken a step backward into not merely Edwardian but Victorian times. At a table drawn up to a gas fire an old lady was sitting laying out a patience. She wore a maroon-coloured dress and her sparse grey hair was slicked down each side of her face.

Without looking up or discontinuing her game she said impatiently:

“Well, come in, come in. Sit down if you like.”

The invitation was not easy to accept as every chair appeared to be covered with tracts or publications of a religious nature.

As he moved them slightly aside on the sofa Miss Ramsbottom asked sharply:

“Interested in mission work?”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m not very, ma’am.”

“Wrong. You should be. That’s where the Christian spirit is nowadays. Darkest Africa. Had a young clergyman here last week. Black as your hat. But a true Christian.”

Inspector Neele found it a little difficult to know what to say.

The old lady further disconcerted him by snapping:

“I haven’t got a wireless.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I thought perhaps you came about a wireless licence. Or one of these silly forms. Well, man, what is it?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you, Miss Ramsbottom, that your brother-in-law, Mr. Fortescue, was taken suddenly ill and died this morning.”

Miss Ramsbottom continued with her patience without any sign of perturbation, merely remarking in a conversational way:

“Struck down at last in his arrogance and sinful pride. Well, it had to come.”

“I hope it’s not a shock to you?”

It obviously wasn’t but the inspector wanted to hear what she would say.

Miss Ramsbottom gave him a sharp glance over the top of her spectacles and said:

“If you mean I am not distressed, that is quite right. Rex Fortescue was always a sinful man and I never liked him.”

“His death was very sudden—”

“As befits the ungodly,” said the old lady with satisfaction.

“It seems possible that he may have been poisoned—”

The inspector paused to observe the effect he had made.

He did not seem to have made any. Miss Ramsbottom merely murmured: “Red seven on black eight. Now I can move up the King.”

Struck apparently by the inspector’s silence, she stopped with a card poised in her hand and said sharply:

“Well, what did you expect me to say? I didn’t poison him if that’s what you want to know.”

“Have you any idea who might have done so?”

“That’s a very improper question,” said the old lady sharply. “Living in this house are two of my dead sister’s children. I decline to believe that anybody with Ramsbottom blood in them could be guilty of murder. Because it’s murder you’re meaning, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t say so, madam.”

“Of course it’s murder. Plenty of people have wanted to murder Rex in their time. A very unscrupulous man. And old sins have long shadows, as the saying goes.”

“Have you anyone in particular in mind?”

Miss Ramsbottom swept up the cards and rose to her feet. She was a tall woman.

“I think you’d better go now,” she said.

She spoke without anger but with a kind of cold finality.

“If you want my opinion,” she went on, “it was probably one of the servants. The butler looks to me a bit of a rascal, and that parlourmaid is definitely subnormal. Good evening.”

Inspector Neele found himself meekly walking out. Certainly a remarkable old lady. Nothing to be got out of her.

He came down the stairs into the square hall to find himself suddenly face to face with a tall dark girl. She was wearing a damp mackintosh and she stared into his face with a curious blankness.

“I’ve just come back,” she said. “And they told me—about Father—that he’s dead.”

“I’m afraid that’s true.”

She pushed out a hand behind her as though blindly seeking for support. She touched an oak chest and slowly, stiffly, she sat down on it.

“Oh no,” she said. “No. . . .”

Slowly two tears ran down her cheeks.

“It’s awful,” she said. “I didn’t think that I even liked him . . . I thought I hated him . . . But that can’t be so, or I wouldn’t mind. I do mind.”

She sat there, staring in front of her, and again tears forced themselves from her eyes and down her cheeks.

Presently she spoke again, rather breathlessly:

“The awful thing is that it makes everything come right. I mean, Gerald and I can get married now. I can do everything that I want to do. But I hate it happening this way. I don’t want Father to be dead . . . Oh I don’t. Oh Daddy—Daddy. . . .”

For the first time since he had come to Yewtree Lodge, Inspector Neele was startled by what seemed to be genuine grief for the dead man.

Chapter Nine

“Sounds like the wife to me,” said the assistant commissioner. He had been listening attentively to Inspector Neele’s report.

It had been an admirable précis of the case. Short, but with no relevant detail left out.

“Yes,” said the AC. “It looks like the wife. What do you think yourself, Neele, eh?”

Inspector Neele said that it looked like the wife to him too. He reflected cynically that it usually was the wife—or the husband as the case might be.

“She had the opportunity all right. And motive?” The AC paused. “There is motive?”

“Oh, I think so, sir. This Mr. Dubois, you know.”

“Think he was in it, too?”

“No, I shouldn’t say that, sir.” Inspector Neele weighed the idea. “A bit too fond of his own skin for that. He may have guessed what was in her mind, but I shouldn’t imagine that he instigated it.”

“No, too careful.”

“Much too careful.”

“Well, we mustn’t jump to conclusions, but it seems a good working hypothesis. What about the other two who had opportunity?”

“That’s the daughter and the daughter-in-law. The daughter was mixed-up with a young man whom her father didn’t want her to marry. And he definitely wasn’t marrying her unless she had the money. That gives her a motive. As to the daughter-in-law, I wouldn’t like to say. Don’t know enough about her yet. But any of the three of them could have poisoned him, and I don’t see how anyone else could have done so. The parlourmaid, the butler, the cook, they all handled the breakfast or brought it in, but I don’t see how any of them could have been sure of Fortescue himself getting the taxine and nobody else. That is, if it was taxine.”

The AC said: “It was taxine all right. I’ve just got the preliminary report.”

“That settles that, then,” said Inspector Neele. “We can go ahead.”

“Servants seem all right?”

“The butler and the parlourmaid both seem nervous. There’s nothing uncommon about that. Often happens. The cook’s fighting mad and the housemaid was grimly pleased. In fact all quite natural and normal.”

“There’s nobody else whom you consider suspicious in any way?”

“No, I don’t think so, sir.” Involuntarily, Inspector Neele’s mind went back to Mary Dove and her enigmatic smile. There had surely been a faint yet definite look of antagonism. Aloud he said, “Now that we know it’s taxine, there ought to be some evidence to be got as to how it was obtained or prepared.”

“Just so. Well, go ahead, Neele. By the way, Mr. Percival Fortescue is here now. I’ve had a word or two with him and he’s waiting to see you. We’ve located the other son, too. He’s in Paris at the Bristol, leaving today. You’ll have him met at the airport, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir. That was my idea. . . .”

“Well, you’d better see Percival Fortescue now.” The AC chuckled. “Percy Prim, that’s what he is.”

Mr. Percival Fortescue was a neat fair man of thirty odd, with pale hair and eyelashes and a slightly pedantic way of speech.

“This has been a terrible shock to me, Inspector Neele, as you can well imagine.”

“It must have been, Mr. Fortescue,” said Inspector Neele.

“I can only say that my father was perfectly well when I left home the day before yesterday. This food poisoning, or whatever it was, must have been very sudden?”

“It was very sudden, yes. But it wasn’t food poisoning, Mr. Fortescue.”

Percival stared and frowned.

“No? So that’s why—” he broke off.

“Your father,” said Inspector Neele, “was poisoned by the administration of taxine.”

“Taxine? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Very few people have, I should imagine. It is a poison that takes effect very suddenly and drastically.”

The frown deepened.

“Are you telling me, Inspector, that my father was deliberately poisoned by someone?”

“It would seem so, yes, sir.”

“That’s terrible!”

“Yes indeed, Mr. Fortescue.”

Percival murmured: “I understand now their attitude in the hospital—their referring me here.” He broke off. After a pause he went on, “The funeral?” He spoke interrogatively.

“The inquest is fixed for tomorrow after the postmortem. The proceedings at the inquest will be purely formal and the inquest will be adjourned.”

“I understand. That is usually the case?”

“Yes, sir. Nowadays.”

“May I ask, have you formed any ideas, any suspicions of who could—Really, I—” again he broke off.

“It’s rather early days for that, Mr. Fortescue,” murmured Neele.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“All the same it would be helpful to us, Mr. Fortescue, if you could give us some idea of your father’s testamentary dispositions. Or perhaps you could put me in touch with his solicitor.”

“His solicitors are Billingsby, Horsethorpe & Walters of Bedford Square. As far as his will goes, I think I can more or less tell you its main dispositions.”

“If you will be kind enough to do so, Mr. Fortescue. It’s a routine that has to be gone through, I’m afraid.”

“My father made a new will on the occasion of his marriage two years ago,” said Percival precisely. “My father left the sum of £100,000 to his wife absolutely and £50,000 to my sister, Elaine. I am his residuary legatee. I am already, of course, a partner in the firm.”

“There was no bequest to your brother, Lancelot Fortescue?”

“No, there is an estrangement of long standing between my father and my brother.”

Neele threw a sharp glance at him—but Percival seemed quite sure of his statement.

“So as the will stands,” said Inspector Neele, “the three people who stand to gain are Mrs. Fortescue, Miss Elaine Fortescue and yourself?”

“I don’t think I shall be much of a gainer.” Percival sighed. “There are death duties, you know, Inspector. And of late my father has been—well, all I can say is, highly injudicious in some of his financial dealings.”

“You and your father have not seen eye to eye lately about the conduct of the business?” Inspector Neele threw out the question in a genial manner.

“I put my point of view to him, but alas—” Percival shrugged his shoulders.

“Put it rather forcibly, didn’t you?” Neele inquired. “In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, there was quite a row about it, wasn’t there?”

“I should hardly say that, Inspector.” A red flush of annoyance mounted to Percival’s forehead.

“Perhaps the dispute you had was about some other matter then, Mr. Fortescue?”

“There was no dispute, Inspector.”

“Quite sure of that, Mr. Fortescue? Well, no matter. Did I understand that your father and brother are still estranged?”

“That is so.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me what this means?”

Neele handed him the telephone message Mary Dove had jotted down.

Percival read it and uttered an exclamation of surprise and annoyance. He seemed both incredulous and angry.

“I can’t understand it, I really can’t. I can hardly believe it.”

“It seems to be true, though, Mr. Fortescue. Your brother is arriving from Paris today.”

“But it’s extraordinary, quite extraordinary. No, I really can’t understand it.”

“Your father said nothing to you about it?”

“He certainly did not. How outrageous of him. To go behind my back and send for Lance.”

“You’ve no idea, I suppose, why he did such a thing?”

“Of course I haven’t. It’s all on a par with his behaviour lately—Crazy! Unaccountable. It’s got to be stopped—I—”

Percival came to an abrupt stop. The colour ebbed away again from his pale face.

“I’d forgotten—” he said. “For the moment I’d forgotten that my father was dead—”

Inspector Neele shook his head sympathetically.

Percival Fortescue prepared to take his departure—as he picked up his hat he said:

“Call upon me if there is anything I can do. But I suppose—” he paused—“you will be coming down to Yewtree Lodge?”

“Yes, Mr. Fortescue—I’ve got a man in charge there now.”

Percival shuddered in a fastidious way.

“It will all be most unpleasant. To think such a thing should happen to us—”

He sighed and moved towards the door.

“I shall be at the office most of the day. There is a lot to be seen to here. But I shall get down to Yewtree Lodge this evening.”

“Quite so, sir.”

Percival Fortescue went out.

“Percy Prim,” murmured Neele.

Sergeant Hay who was sitting unobtrusively by the wall looked up and said “Sir?” interrogatively.

Then as Neele did not reply, he asked, “What do you make of it all, sir?”

“I don’t know,” said Neele. He quoted softly, “ ‘They’re all very unpleasant people.’ ”

Sergeant Hay looked somewhat puzzled.

“Alice in Wonderland,” said Neele. “Don’t you know your Alice, Hay?”

“It’s a classic, isn’t it, sir?” said Hay. “Third Programme stuff. I don’t listen to the Third Programme.”

Chapter Ten

I

It was about five minutes after leaving Le Bourget that Lance Fortescue opened his copy of the continental Daily Mail. A minute or two later he uttered a startled exclamation. Pat, in the seat beside him, turned her head inquiringly.

“It’s the old man,” said Lance. “He’s dead.”

“Dead! Your father?”

“Yes, he seems to have been taken suddenly ill at the office, was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital and died there soon after arrival.”

“Darling, I’m so sorry. What was it, a stroke?”

“I suppose so. Sounds like it.”

“Had he ever had a stroke before?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

“I thought people never died from a first one.”

“Poor old boy,” said Lance. “I never thought I was particularly fond of him, but somehow, now that he’s dead. . . .”

“Of course you were fond of him.”

“We haven’t all got your nice nature, Pat. Oh well, it looks as though my luck’s out again, doesn’t it.”

“Yes. It’s odd that it should happen now. Just when you were on the point of coming home.”

He turned his head sharply towards her.

“Odd? What do you mean by odd, Pat?”

She looked at him with slight surprise.

“Well, a sort of coincidence.”

“You mean that whatever I set out to do goes wrong?”

“No, darling, I didn’t mean that. But there is such a thing as a run of bad luck.”

“Yes, I suppose there is.”

Pat said again: “I’m so sorry.”

When they arrived at Heathrow and were waiting to disembark from the plane, an official of the air company called out in a clear voice:

“Is Mr. Lancelot Fortescue abroad?”

“Here,” said Lance.

“Would you just step this way, Mr. Fortescue.”

Lance and Pat followed him out of the plane, preceding the other passengers. As they passed a couple in the last seat, they heard the man whisper to his wife:

“Well-known smugglers, I expect. Caught in the act.”

II

“It’s fantastic,” said Lance. “Quite fantastic.” He stared across the table at Detective Inspector Neele.

Inspector Neele nodded his head sympathetically.

“Taxine—yewberries—the whole thing seems like some kind of melodrama. I dare say this sort of thing seems ordinary enough to you, Inspector. All in the day’s work. But poisoning, in our family, seems wildly far-fetched.”

“You’ve no idea then at all,” asked Inspector Neele, “who might have poisoned your father?”

“Good lord, no. I expect the old man’s made a lot of enemies in business, lots of people who’d like to skin him alive, do him down financially—all that sort of thing. But poisoning? Anyway I wouldn’t be in the know. I’ve been abroad for a good many years and have known very little of what’s going on at home.”

“That’s really what I wanted to ask you about, Mr. Fortescue. I understand from your brother that there was an estrangement between you and your father which had lasted for many years. Would you like to tell me the circumstances that led to your coming home at this time?”

“Certainly, Inspector. I heard from my father, let me see it must be about—yes, six months ago now. It was soon after my marriage. My father wrote and hinted that he would like to let bygones be bygones. He suggested that I should come home and enter the firm. He was rather vague in his terms and I wasn’t really sure that I wanted to do what he asked. Anyway, the upshot was that I came over to England last—yes, last August, just about three months ago. I went down to see him at Yewtree Lodge and he made me, I must say, a very advantageous offer. I told him that I’d have to think about it and I’d have to consult my wife. He quite understood that. I flew back to East Africa, talked it over with Pat. The upshot was that I decided to accept the old boy’s offer. I had to wind up my affairs there, but I agreed to do so before the end of last month. I told him I would wire to him the date of my actual arrival in England.”

Inspector Neele coughed.

“Your arrival back seems to have caused your brother some surprise.”

Lance gave a sudden grin. His rather attractive face lit up with the spirit of pure mischief.

“Don’t believe old Percy knew a thing about it,” he said. “He was away on his holiday in Norway at the time. If you ask me, the old man picked that particular time on purpose. He was going behind Percy’s back. In fact I’ve a very shrewd suspicion that my father’s offer to me was actuated by the fact that he had a blazing row with poor old Percy—or Val as he prefers to be called. Val, I think, had been more or less trying to run the old man. Well, the old man would never stand for anything of that kind. What the exact row was about I don’t know, but he was furious. And I think he thought it a jolly good idea to get me there and thereby spike poor old Val’s guns. For one thing he never liked Percy’s wife much and he was rather pleased, in a snobbish way, with my marriage. It would be just his idea of a good joke to get me home and suddenly confront Percy with the accomplished fact.”

“How long were you at Yewtree Lodge on this occasion?”

“Oh, not more than an hour or two. He didn’t ask me to stay the night. The whole idea, I’m sure, was a kind of secret offensive behind Percy’s back. I don’t think he even wanted the servants to report upon it. As I say, things were left that I’d think it over, talk about it to Pat and then write him my decision, which I did. I wrote giving him the approximate date of my arrival, and I finally sent him a telegram yesterday from Paris.”

Inspector Neele nodded.

“A telegram which surprised your brother very much.”

“I bet it did. However, as usual, Percy wins. I’ve arrived too late.”

“Yes,” said Inspector Neele thoughtfully, “you’ve arrived too late.” He went on briskly: “On the occasion of your visit last August, did you meet any other members of the family?”

“My stepmother was there at tea.”

“You had not met her previously?”

“No.” He grinned suddenly. “The old boy certainly knew how to pick them. She must be thirty years younger than him at least.”

“You will excuse my asking, but did you resent your father’s remarriage, or did your brother do so?”

Lance looked surprised.

“I certainly didn’t, and I shouldn’t think Percy did either. After all, our own mother died when we were about—oh, ten, twelve years old. What I’m really surprised at is that the old man didn’t marry again before.”

Inspector Neele murmured:

“It may be considered taking rather a risk to marry a woman very much younger than yourself.”

“Did my dear brother say that to you? It sounds rather like him. Percy is a great master of the art of insinuation. Is that the setup, Inspector? Is my stepmother suspected of poisoning my father?”

Inspector Neele’s face became blank.

“It’s early days to have any definite ideas about anything, Mr. Fortescue,” he said pleasantly. “Now, may I ask you what your plans are?”

“Plans?” Lance considered. “I shall have to make new plans, I suppose. Where is the family? All down at Yewtree Lodge?”

“Yes.”

“I’d better go down there straight away.” He turned to his wife. “You’d better go to an hotel, Pat.”

She protested quickly. “No, no, Lance, I’ll come with you.”

“No, darling.”

“But I want to.”

“Really, I’d rather you didn’t. Go and stay at the—oh it’s so long since I stayed in London—Barnes’s. Barnes’s Hotel used to be a nice, quiet sort of place. That’s still going, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Fortescue.”

“Right, Pat. I’ll settle you in there if they’ve got a room, then I’ll go on down to Yewtree Lodge.”

“But why can’t I come with you, Lance?”

Lance’s face took suddenly a rather grim line.

“Frankly, Pat, I’m not sure of my welcome. It was Father who invited me there, but Father’s dead. I don’t know who the place belongs to now. Percy, I suppose, or perhaps Adele. Anyway, I’d like to see what reception I get before I bring you there. Besides—”

“Besides what?”

“I don’t want to take you to a house where there’s a poisoner at large.”

“Oh, what nonsense.”

Lance said firmly:

“Where you’re concerned, Pat, I’m taking no risks.”

Chapter Eleven

I

Mr. Dubois was annoyed. He tore Adele Fortescue’s letter angrily across and threw it into the wastepaper basket. Then, with a sudden caution, he fished out the various pieces, struck a match and watched them burn to ashes. He muttered under his breath:

“Why have women got to be such damned fools? Surely common prudence . . .” But then, Mr. Dubois reflected gloomily, women never had any prudence. Though he had profited by this lack many a time, it annoyed him now. He himself had taken every precaution. If Mrs. Fortescue rang up they had instructions to say that he was out. Already Adele Fortescue had rung him up three times, and now she had written. On the whole, writing was far worse. He reflected for a moment or two, then he went to the telephone.

“Can I speak to Mrs. Fortescue, please? Yes, Mr. Dubois.” A minute or two later he heard her voice.

“Vivian, at last!”

“Yes, yes, Adele, but be careful. Where are you speaking from?”

“From the library.”

“Sure nobody’s listening in, in the hall?”

“Why should they?”

“Well, you never know. Are the police still about the house?”

“No, they’ve gone for the moment, anyhow. Oh, Vivian dear, it’s been awful.”

“Yes, yes, it must have I’m sure. But look here, Adele, we’ve got to be careful.”

“Oh, of course, darling.”

“Don’t call me darling through the phone. It isn’t safe.”

“Aren’t you being a little bit panicky, Vivian? After all, everybody says darling nowadays.”

“Yes, yes, that’s true enough. But listen. Don’t telephone to me and don’t write.”

“But Vivian—”

“It’s just for the present, you understand. We must be careful.”

“Oh. All right.” Her voice sounded offended.

“Adele, listen. My letters to you. You did burn them, didn’t you?”

There was a momentary hesitation before Adele Fortescue said:

“Of course. I told you I was going to do so.”

“That’s all right then. Well I’ll ring off now. Don’t phone and don’t write. You’ll hear from me in good time.”

He put the receiver back in its hook. He stroked his cheek thoughtfully. He didn’t like that moment’s hesitation. Had Adele burnt his letters? Women were all the same. They promised to burn things and then didn’t.

Letters, Mr. Dubois thought to himself. Women always wanted you to write them letters. He himself tried to be careful but sometimes one could not get out of it. What had he said exactly in the few letters he had written to Adele Fortescue? “It was the usual sort of gup,” he thought, gloomily. But were there any special words—special phrases that the police could twist to make them say what they wanted them to say. He remembered the Edith Thompson case. His letters were innocent enough, he thought, but he could not be sure. His uneasiness grew. Even if Adele had not already burnt his letters, would she have the sense to burn them now? Or had the police already got hold of them? Where did she keep them, he wondered. Probably in that sitting room of hers upstairs. That gimcrack little desk, probably sham antique Louis XIV. She had said something to him once about there being a secret drawer in it. Secret drawer! That would not fool the police long. But there were no police about the house now. She had said so. They had been there that morning, and now they had all gone away.

Up to now they had probably been busy looking for possible sources of poison in the food. They would not, he hoped, have got round to a room by room search of the house. Perhaps they would have to ask permission or get a search warrant to do that. It was possible that if he acted now, at once—

He visualized the house clearly in his mind’s eye. It would be getting towards dusk. Tea would be brought in, either into the library or into the drawing room. Everyone would be assembled downstairs and the servants would be having tea in the servants’ hall. There would be no one upstairs on the first floor. Easy to walk up through the garden, skirting the yew hedges that provided such admirable cover. Then there was the little door at the side onto the terrace. That was never locked until just before bedtime. One could slip through there and, choosing one’s moment, slip upstairs.

Vivian Dubois considered very carefully what it behove him to do next. If Fortescue’s death had been put down to a seizure or to a stroke as surely it ought to have been, the position would be very different. As it was—Dubois murmured under his breath: “Better be safe than sorry.”

II

Mary Dove came slowly down the big staircase. She paused a moment at the window on the half landing, from which she had seen Inspector Neele arrive on the preceding day. Now, as she looked out in the fading light, she noticed a man’s figure just disappearing round the yew hedge. She wondered if it was Lancelot Fortescue, the prodigal son. He had, perhaps, dismissed his car at the gate and was wandering round the garden recollecting old times there before tackling a possibly hostile family. Mary Dove felt rather sympathetic towards Lance. A faint smile on her lips, she went on downstairs. In the hall she encountered Gladys, who jumped nervously at the sight of her.

“Was that the telephone I heard just now?” Mary asked. “Who was it?”

“Oh, that was a wrong number. Thought we were the laundry.” Gladys sounded breathless and rather hurried. “And before that, it was Mr. Dubois. He wanted to speak to the mistress.”

“I see.”

Mary went on across the hall. Turning her head, she said: “It’s teatime, I think. Haven’t you brought it in yet?”

Gladys said: “I don’t think it’s half past four yet, is it, miss?”

“It’s twenty minutes to five. Bring it in now, will you?”

Mary Dove went on into the library where Adele Fortescue, sitting on the sofa, was staring at the fire, picking with her fingers at a small lace handkerchief. Adele said fretfully:

“Where’s tea?”

Mary Dove said: “It’s just coming in.”

A log had fallen out of the fireplace and Mary Dove knelt down at the grate and replaced it with the tongs, adding another piece of wood and a little coal.

Gladys went out into the kitchen, where Mrs. Crump raised a red and wrathful face from the kitchen table where she was mixing pastry in a large bowl.

“The library bell’s been ringing and ringing. Time you took in the tea, my girl.”

“All right, all right, Mrs. Crump.”

“What I’ll say to Crump tonight,” muttered Mrs. Crump. “I’ll tell him off.”

Gladys went on into the pantry. She had not cut any sandwiches. Well, she jolly well wasn’t going to cut sandwiches. They’d got plenty to eat without that, hadn’t they? Two cakes, biscuits and scones and honey. Fresh black-market farm butter. Plenty without her bothering to cut tomato or fois gras sandwiches. She’d got other things to think about. Fair temper Mrs. Crump was in, all because Mr. Crump had gone out this afternoon. Well, it was his day out, wasn’t it? Quite right of him, Gladys thought. Mrs. Crump called out from the kitchen:

“The kettle’s boiling its head off. Aren’t you ever going to make that tea?”

“Coming.”

She jerked some tea without measuring it into the big silver pot, carried it into the kitchen and poured the boiling water on it. She added the teapot and the kettle to the big silver tray and carried the whole thing through to the library where she set it on the small table near the sofa. She went back hurriedly for the other tray with the eatables on it. She carried the latter as far as the hall when the sudden jarring noise of the grandfather clock preparing itself to strike made her jump.

In the library, Adele Fortescue said querulously, to Mary Dove:

“Where is everybody this afternoon?”

“I really don’t know, Mrs. Fortescue. Miss Fortescue came in sometime ago. I think Mrs. Percival’s writing letters in her room.”

Adele said pettishly: “Writing letters, writing letters. That woman never stops writing letters. She’s like all people of her class. She takes an absolute delight in death and misfortune. Ghoulish, that’s what I call it. Absolutely ghoulish.”

Mary murmured tactfully: “I’ll tell her that tea is ready.”

Going towards the door she drew back a little in the doorway as Elaine Fortescue came into the room. Elaine said:

“It’s cold,” and dropped down by the fireplace, rubbing her hands before the blaze.

Mary stood for a moment in the hall. A large tray with cakes on it was standing on one of the hall chests. Since it was getting dark in the hall, Mary switched on the light. As she did so she thought she heard Jennifer Fortescue walking along the passage upstairs. Nobody, however, came down the stairs and Mary went up the staircase and along the corridor.

Percival Fortescue and his wife occupied a self-contained suite in one wing of the house. Mary tapped on the sitting room door. Mrs. Percival liked you to tap on doors, a fact which always roused Crump’s scorn of her. Her voice said briskly:

“Come in.”

Mary opened the door and murmured:

“Tea is just coming in, Mrs. Percival.”

She was rather surprised to see Jennifer Fortescue with her outdoor clothes on. She was just divesting herself of a long camel-hair coat.

“I didn’t know you’d been out,” said Mary.

Mrs. Percival sounded slightly out of breath.

“Oh, I was just in the garden, that’s all. Just getting a little air. Really, though, it was too cold. I shall be glad to get down to the fire. The central heating here isn’t as good as it might be. Somebody must speak to the gardeners about it, Miss Dove.”

“I’ll do so,” Mary promised.

Jennifer Fortescue dropped her coat on a chair and followed Mary out of the room. She went down the stairs ahead of Mary, who drew back a little to give her precedence. In the hall, rather to Mary’s surprise, she noticed the tray of eatables was still there. She was about to go out to the pantry and call to Gladys when Adele Fortescue appeared in the door of the library, saying in an irritable voice:

“Aren’t we ever going to have anything to eat for tea?”

Quickly Mary picked up the tray and took it into the library, disposing the various things on low tables near the fireplace. She was carrying the empty tray out to the hall again when the front-door bell rang. Setting down the tray, Mary went to the door herself. If this was the prodigal son at last she was rather curious to see him. “How unlike the rest of the Fortescues,” Mary thought, as she opened the door and looked up into the dark lean face and the faint quizzical twist of the mouth. She said quietly:

“Mr. Lancelot Fortescue?”

“Himself.”

Mary peered beyond him.

“Your luggage?”

“I’ve paid off the taxi. This is all I’ve got.”

He picked up a medium-sized zip bag. Some faint feeling of surprise in her mind, Mary said:

“Oh, you did come in a taxi. I thought perhaps you’d walked up. And your wife?”

His face set in a rather grim line, Lance said:

“My wife won’t be coming. At least, not just yet.”

“I see. Come this way, will you, Mr. Fortescue. Everyone is in the library, having tea.”

She took him to the library door and left him there. She thought to herself that Lancelot Fortescue was a very attractive person. A second thought followed the first. Probably a great many other women thought so, too.

III

“Lance!”

Elaine came hurrying forward towards him. She flung her arms round his neck and hugged him with a schoolgirl abandon that Lance found quite surprising.

“Hallo. Here I am.”

He disengaged himself gently.

“This is Jennifer?”

Jennifer Fortescue looked at him with eager curiosity.

“I’m afraid Val’s been detained in town,” she said. “There’s so much to see to, you know. All the arrangements to make and everything. Of course it all comes on Val. He has to see to everything. You can really have no idea what we’re all going through.”

“It must be terrible for you,” said Lance gravely.

He turned to the woman on the sofa, who was sitting with a piece of scone and honey in her hand, quietly appraising him.

“Of course,” cried Jennifer, “you don’t know Adele, do you?”

Lance murmured, “Oh yes, I do,” as he took Adele Fortescue’s hand in his. As he looked down at her, her eyelids fluttered. She set down the scone she was eating with her left hand and just touched the arrangement of her hair. It was a feminine gesture. It marked her recognition of the entry to the room of a personable man. She said in her thick, soft voice:

“Sit down here on the sofa beside me, Lance.” She poured out a cup of tea for him. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she went on. “We badly need another man in the house.”

Lance said:

“You must let me do everything I can to help.”

“You know—but perhaps you don’t know—we’ve had the police here. They think—they think—” she broke off and cried out passionately: “Oh, it’s awful! Awful!”

“I know.” Lance was grave and sympathetic. “As a matter of fact they met me at London Airport.”

“The police met you?”

“Yes.”

“What did they say?”

“Well,” Lance was deprecating. “They told me what had happened.”

“He was poisoned,” said Adele, “that’s what they think, what they say. Not food poisoning. Real poisoning, by someone. I believe, I really do believe they think it’s one of us.”

Lance gave her a sudden quick smile.

“That’s their pigeon,” he said consolingly. “It’s no good our worrying. What a scrumptious tea! It’s a long time since I’ve seen a good English tea.”

The others fell in with his mood soon enough. Adele said suddenly:

“But your wife—haven’t you got a wife, Lance?”

“I’ve got a wife, yes. She’s in London.”

“But aren’t you—hadn’t you better bring her down here?”

“Plenty of time to make plans,” said Lance. “Pat—oh, Pat’s quite all right where she is.”

Elaine said sharply:

“You don’t mean—you don’t think—”

Lance said quickly:

“What a wonderful-looking chocolate cake. I must have some.”

Cutting himself a slice, he asked:

“Is Aunt Effie alive still?”

“Oh, yes, Lance. She won’t come down and have meals with us or anything, but she’s quite well. Only she’s getting very peculiar.”

“She always was peculiar,” said Lance. “I must go up and see her after tea.”

Jennifer Fortescue murmured:

“At her age one does really feel that she ought to be in some kind of a home. I mean somewhere where she will be properly looked after.”

“Heaven help any old ladies’ home that got Aunt Effie in their midst,” said Lance. He added, “Who’s the demure piece of goods who let me in?”

Adele looked surprised.

“Didn’t Crump let you in? The butler? Oh no, I forgot. It’s his day out today. But surely Gladys—”

Lance gave a description. “Blue eyes, hair parted in the middle, soft voice, butter wouldn’t melt in the mouth. What goes on behind it all, I wouldn’t like to say.”

“That,” said Jennifer, “would be Mary Dove.”

Elaine said:

“She sort of runs things for us.”

“Does she, now?”

Adele said:

“She’s really very useful.”

“Yes,” said Lance thoughtfully, “I should think she might be.”

“But what is so nice is,” said Jennifer, “that she knows her place. She never presumes, if you know what I mean.”

“Clever Mary Dove,” said Lance, and helped himself to another piece of chocolate cake.

Chapter Twelve

I

“So you’ve turned up again like a bad penny,” said Miss Ramsbottom.

Lance grinned at her. “Just as you say, Aunt Effie.”

“Humph!” Miss Ramsbottom sniffed disapprovingly. “You’ve chosen a nice time to do it. Your father got himself murdered yesterday, the house is full of police poking about everywhere, grubbing in the dustbins, even. I’ve seen them out of the window.” She paused, sniffed again, and asked: “Got your wife with you?”

“No. I left Pat in London.”

“That shows some sense. I shouldn’t bring her here if I were you. You never know what might happen.”

“To her? To Pat?”

“To anybody,” said Miss Ramsbottom.

Lance Fortescue looked at her thoughtfully.

“Got any ideas about it all, Aunt Effie?” he asked.

Miss Ramsbottom did not reply directly. “I had an inspector here yesterday asking me questions. He didn’t get much change out of me. But he wasn’t such a fool as he looked, not by a long way.” She added with some indignation: “What your grandfather would feel if he knew we had the police in the house—it’s enough to make him turn in his grave. A strict Plymouth Brother he was all his life. The fuss there was when he found out I’d been attending Church of England services in the evening! And I’m sure that was harmless enough compared to murder.”

Normally Lance would have smiled at this, but his long, dark face remained serious. He said:

“D’you know, I’m quite in the dark after having been away so long. What’s been going on here of late?”

Miss Ramsbottom raised her eyes to heaven.

“Godless doings,” she said firmly.

“Yes, yes, Aunt Effie, you would say that anyway. But what gives the police the idea that Dad was killed here, in this house?”

“Adultery is one thing and murder is another,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “I shouldn’t like to think it of her, I shouldn’t indeed.”

Lance looked alert. “Adele?” he asked.

“My lips are sealed,” said Miss Ramsbottom.

“Come on, old dear,” said Lance. “It’s a lovely phrase, but it doesn’t mean a thing. Adele had a boyfriend? Adele and the boyfriend fed him henbane in the morning tea. Is that the setup?”

“I’ll trouble you not to joke about it.”

“I wasn’t really joking, you know.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Miss Ramsbottom suddenly. “I believe that girl knows something about it.”

“Which girl?” Lance looked surprised.

“The one that sniffs,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “The one that ought to have brought me up my tea this afternoon, but didn’t. Gone out without leave, so they say. I shouldn’t wonder if she had gone to the police. Who let you in?”

“Someone called Mary Dove, I understand. Very meek and mild—but not really. Is she the one who’s gone to the police?”

“She wouldn’t go to the police,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “No—I mean that silly little parlourmaid. She’s been twitching and jumping like a rabbit all day. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I said. ‘Have you got a guilty conscience?’ She said: ‘I never did anything—I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ ‘I hope you wouldn’t,’ I said to her, ‘but there’s something worrying you now, isn’t there?’ Then she began to sniff and said she didn’t want to get anybody into trouble, she was sure it must be all a mistake. I said to her, I said: ‘Now, my girl, you speak the truth and shame the devil.’ That’s what I said. ‘You go to the police,’ I said, ‘and tell them anything you know, because no good ever came,’ I said, ‘of hushing up the truth, however unpleasant it is.’ Then she talked a lot of nonsense about she couldn’t go to the police, they’d never believe her and what on earth should she say? She ended up by saying anyway she didn’t know anything at all.”

“You don’t think,” Lance hesitated, “that she was just making herself important?”

“No, I don’t. I think she was scared. I think she saw something or heard something that’s given her some idea about the whole thing. It may be important, or it mayn’t be of the least consequence.”

“You don’t think she herself could’ve had a grudge against Father and—” Lance hesitated.

Miss Ramsbottom was shaking her head decidedly.

“She’s not the kind of girl your father would have taken the least notice of. No man ever will take much notice of her, poor girl. Ah, well, it’s all the better for her soul, that I dare say.”

Lance took no interest in Glady’s soul. He asked:

“You think she may have run along to the police station?”

Aunt Effie nodded vigorously.

“Yes. I think she mayn’t like to’ve said anything to them in this house in case somebody overheard her.”

Lance asked: “Do you think she may have seen someone tampering with the food?”

Aunt Effie threw him a sharp glance.

“It’s possible, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Then he added apologetically: “The whole thing still seems so wildly improbable. Like a detective story.”

“Percival’s wife is a hospital nurse,” said Miss Ramsbottom.

The remark seemed so unconnected with what had gone before that Lance looked at her in a puzzled fashion.

“Hospital nurses are used to handling drugs,” said Miss Ramsbottom.

Lance looked doubtful.

“This stuff—taxine—is it ever used in medicine?”

“They get it from yewberries, I gather. Children eat yewberries sometimes,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “Makes them very ill, too. I remember a case when I was a child. It made a great impression on me. I never forgot it. Things you remember come in useful sometimes.”

Lance raised his head sharply and stared at her.

“Natural affection is one thing,” said Miss Ramsbottom, “and I hope I’ve got as much of it as anyone. But I won’t stand for wickedness. Wickedness has to be destroyed.”

II

“Went off without a word to me,” said Mrs. Crump, raising her red, wrathful face from the pastry she was now rolling out on the board. “Slipped out without a word to anybody. Sly, that’s what it is. Sly! Afraid she’d be stopped, and I would have stopped her if I’d caught her! The idea! There’s the master dead, Mr. Lance coming home that hasn’t been home for years and I said to Crump, I said: ‘Day out or no day out, I know my duty. There’s not going to be cold supper tonight as is usual on a Thursday, but a proper dinner. A gentleman coming home from abroad with his wife, what was formerly married in the aristocracy, things must be properly done.’ You know me, miss, you know I take a pride in my work.”

Mary Dove, the recipient of these confidences, nodded her head gently.

“And what does Crump say?” Mrs. Crump’s voice rose angrily. “ ‘It’s my day off and I’m goin’ off,’ that’s what he says. ‘And a fig for the aristocracy,’ he says. No pride in his work, Crump hasn’t. So off he goes and I tell Gladys she’ll have to manage alone tonight. She just says: ‘All right, Mrs. Crump,’ then, when my back’s turned out she sneaks. It wasn’t her day out, anyway. Friday’s her day. How we’re going to manage now, I don’t know! Thank goodness Mr. Lance hasn’t brought his wife here with him today.”

“We shall manage, Mrs. Crump,” Mary’s voice was both soothing and authoritative, “if we just simplify the menu a little.” She outlined a few suggestions. Mrs. Crump nodded unwilling acquiescence. “I shall be able to serve that quite easily,” Mary concluded.

“You mean you’ll wait at table yourself, miss?” Mrs. Crump sounded doubtful.

“If Gladys doesn’t come back in time.”

“She won’t come back,” said Mrs. Crump. “Gallivanting off, wasting her money somewhere in the shops. She’s got a young man, you know, miss, though you wouldn’t think it to look at her. Albert his name is. Going to get married next spring, so she tells me. Don’t know what the married state’s like, these girls don’t. What I’ve been through with Crump.” She sighed, then said in an ordinary voice: “What about tea, miss. Who’s going to clear it away and wash it up?”

“I’ll do that,” said Mary. “I’ll go and do it now.”

The lights had not been turned on in the drawing room though Adele Fortescue was still sitting on the sofa behind the tea tray.

“Shall I switch the lights on, Mrs. Fortescue?” Mary asked. Adele did not answer.

Mary switched on the lights and went across to the window, where she pulled the curtains across. It was only then that she turned her head and saw the face of the woman who had sagged back against the cushions. A half-eaten scone spread with honey was beside her and her tea cup was still half full. Death had come to Adele Fortescue suddenly and swiftly.

III

“Well?” demanded Inspector Neele impatiently.

The doctor said promptly:

“Cyanide—potassium cyanide probably—in the tea.”

“Cyanide,” muttered Neele.

The doctor looked at him with slight curiosity.

“You’re taking this hard—any special reason—”

“She was cast as a murderess,” said Neele.

“And she turns out to be a victim. Hm. You’ll have to think again, won’t you?”

Neele nodded. His face was bitter and his jaw was grimly set.

Poisoned! Right under his nose. Taxine in Rex Fortescue’s breakfast coffee, cyanide in Adele Fortescue’s tea. Still an intimate family affair. Or so it seemed.

Adele Fortescue, Jennifer Fortescue, Elaine Fortescue and the newly arrived Lance Fortescue had had tea together in the library. Lance had gone up to see Miss Ramsbottom, Jennifer had gone to her own sitting room to write letters, Elaine had been the last to leave the library. According to her Adele had then been in perfect health and had just been pouring herself out a last cup of tea.

A last cup of tea! Yes, it had indeed been her last cup of tea.

And after that a blank twenty minutes, perhaps, until Mary Dove had come into the room and discovered the body.

And during that twenty minutes—

Inspector Neele swore to himself and went out into the kitchen.

Sitting in a chair by the kitchen table, the vast figure of Mrs. Crump, her belligerence pricked like a balloon, hardly stirred as he came in.

“Where’s that girl? Has she come back yet?”

“Gladys? No—she’s not back—Won’t be, I suspect, until eleven o’clock.”

“She made the tea, you say, and took it in.”

“I didn’t touch it, sir, as God’s my witness. And what’s more I don’t believe Gladys did anything she shouldn’t. She wouldn’t do a thing like that—not Gladys. She’s a good enough girl, sir—a bit foolish like, that’s all—not wicked.”

No, Neele did not think that Gladys was wicked. He did not think that Gladys was a poisoner. And in any case the cyanide had not been in the teapot.

“But what made her go off suddenly—like this? It wasn’t her day out, you say.”

“No, sir, tomorrow’s her day out.”

“Does Crump—”

Mrs. Crump’s belligerence suddenly revived. Her voice rose wrathfully.

“Don’t you go fastening anything on Crump. Crump’s out of it. He went off at three o’clock—and thankful I am now that he did. He’s as much out of it as Mr. Percival himself.”

Percival Fortescue had only just returned from London—to be greeted by the astounding news of this second tragedy.

“I wasn’t accusing Crump,” said Neele mildly. “I just wondered if he knew anything about Gladys’s plans.”

“She had her best nylons on,” said Mrs. Crump. “She was up to something. Don’t tell me! Didn’t cut any sandwiches for tea, either. Oh yes, she was up to something. I’ll give her a piece of my mind when she comes back.”

When she comes back—

A faint uneasiness possessed Neele. To shake it off he went upstairs to Adele Fortescue’s bedroom. A lavish apartment—all rose brocade hanging and a vast gilt bed. On one side of the room was a door into a mirror-lined bathroom with a sunk orchid-pink porcelain bath. Beyond the bathroom, reached by a communicating door, was Rex Fortescue’s dressing room. Neele went back into Adele’s bedroom, and through the door on the farther side of the room into her sitting room.

The room was furnished in Empire style with a rose pile carpet. Neele only gave it a cursory glance for that particular room had had his close attention on the preceding day—with special attention paid to the small elegant desk.

Now, however, he stiffened to sudden attention. On the centre of the rose pile carpet was a small piece of caked mud.

Neele went over to it and picked it up. The mud was still damp.

He looked round—there were no footprints visible—only this one isolated fragment of wet earth.

IV

Inspector Neele looked round the bedroom that belonged to Gladys Martin. It was past eleven o’clock—Crump had come in half an hour ago—but there was still no sign of Gladys. Inspector Neele looked round him. Whatever Gladys’s training had been, her own natural instincts were slovenly. The bed, Inspector Neele judged, was seldom made, the windows seldom opened. Gladys’s personal habits, however, were not his immediate concern. Instead, he went carefully through her possessions.

They consisted for the most part of cheap and rather pathetic finery. There was little that was durable or of good quality. The elderly Ellen, whom he had called upon to assist him, had not been helpful. She didn’t know what clothes Gladys had or hadn’t. She couldn’t say what, if anything, was missing. He turned from the clothes and the underclothes to the contents of the chest of drawers. There Gladys kept her treasures. There were picture postcards and newspaper cuttings, knitting patterns, hints on beauty culture, dressmaking and fashion advice.

Inspector Neele sorted them neatly into various categories. The picture postcards consisted mainly of views of various places where he presumed Gladys had spent her holidays. Amongst them were three picture postcards signed “Bert.” Bert, he took to be the “young man” referred to by Mrs. Crump. The first postcard said—in an illiterate hand: “All the best. Missing you a lot. Yours ever, Bert.” The second said: “Lots of nice-looking girls here but not one that’s a patch on you. Be seeing you soon. Don’t forget our date. And remember after that—it’s thumbs up and living happy ever after.” The third said merely: “Don’t forget. I’m trusting you. Love, B.”

Next, Neele looked through the newspaper cuttings and sorted them into three piles. There were the dressmaking and beauty hints, there were items about cinema stars to which Gladys had appeared greatly addicted and she had also, it appeared, been attracted by the latest marvels of science. There were cuttings about flying saucers, about secret weapons, about truth drugs used by Russians, and claims for fantastic drugs discovered by American doctors. All the witchcraft, so Neele thought, of our twentieth century. But in all the contents of the room there was nothing to give him a clue to her disappearance. She had kept no diary, not that he had expected that. It was a remote possibility. There was no unfinished letter, no record at all of anything she might have seen in the house which could have had a bearing on Rex Fortescue’s death. Whatever Gladys had seen, whatever Gladys had known, there was no record of it. It would still have to be guesswork why the second tea tray had been left in the hall, and Gladys herself had so suddenly vanished.

Sighing, Neele left the room, shutting the door behind him.

As he prepared to descend the small winding stairs he heard a noise of running feet coming along the landing below.

The agitated face of Sergeant Hay looked up at him from the bottom of the stairs. Sergeant Hay was panting a little.

“Sir,” he said urgently. “Sir! We’ve found her—”

“Found her?”

“It was the housemaid, sir—Ellen—remembered as she hadn’t brought the clothes in from where they were hanging on the line—just round the corner from the back door. So she went out with a torch to take them in and she almost fell over the body—the girl’s body—strangled, she was, with a stocking round her throat—been dead for hours, I’d say. And, sir, it’s a wicked kind of joke—there was a clothes-peg clipped on her nose—”

Chapter Thirteen

An elderly lady travelling by train had bought three morning papers, and each of them as she finished it, folded it and laid it aside, showed the same headline. It was no longer a question now of a small paragraph hidden away in the corner of the papers. There were headlines with flaring announcements of Triple Tragedy at Yewtree Lodge.

The old lady sat very upright, looking out of the window of the train, her lips pursed together, an expression of distress and disapproval on her pink and white wrinkled face. Miss Marple had left St. Mary Mead by the early train, changing at the junction and going on to London, where she took a Circle train to another London terminus and thence on to Baydon Heath.

At the station she signalled a taxi and asked to be taken to Yewtree Lodge. So charming, so innocent, such a fluffy and pink and white old lady was Miss Marple that she gained admittance to what was now practically a fortress in a state of siege far more easily than could have been believed possible. Though an army of reporters and photographers were being kept at bay by the police, Miss Marple was allowed to drive in without question, so impossible would it have been to believe that she was anyone but an elderly relative of the family.

Miss Marple paid off the taxi in a careful assortment of small change, and rang the front doorbell. Crump opened it and Miss Marple summed him up with an experienced glance. “A shifty eye,” she said to herself. “Scared to death, too.”

Crump saw a tall, elderly lady wearing an old-fashioned tweed coat and skirt, a couple of scarves and a small felt hat with a bird’s wing. The old lady carried a capacious handbag and an aged but good-quality suitcase reposed by her feet. Crump recognized a lady when he saw one and said:

“Yes, madam?” in his best and most respectful voice.

“Could I see the mistress of the house, please?” said Miss Marple.

Crump drew back to let her in. He picked up the suitcase and put it carefully down in the hall.

“Well, madam,” he said rather dubiously, “I don’t know who exactly—”

Miss Marple helped him out.

“I have come,” she said, “to speak about the poor girl who was killed. Gladys Martin.”

“Oh, I see, madam. Well in that case—” he broke off, and looked towards the library door from which a tall young woman had just emerged. “This is Mrs. Lance Fortescue, madam,” he said.

Pat came forward and she and Miss Marple looked at each other. Miss Marple was aware of a faint feeling of surprise. She had not expected to see someone like Patricia Fortescue in this particular house. Its interior was much as she had pictured it, but Pat did not somehow match with that interior.

“It’s about Gladys, madam,” said Crump helpfully.

Pat said rather hesitatingly:

“Will you come in here? We shall be quite alone.”

She led the way into the library and Miss Marple followed her.

“There wasn’t anyone specially you wanted to see, was there?” said Pat, “because perhaps I shan’t be much good. You see my husband and I only came back from Africa a few days ago. We don’t really know anything much about the household. But I can fetch my sister-in-law or my brother-in-law’s wife.”

Miss Marple looked at the girl and liked her. She liked her gravity and her simplicity. For some strange reason she felt sorry for her. A background of shabby chintz and horses and dogs, Miss Marple felt vaguely, would have been much more suitable than this richly furnished interior décor. At the pony show and gymkhanas held locally round St. Mary Mead, Miss Marple had met many Pats and knew them well. She felt at home with this rather unhappy-looking girl.

“It’s very simple, really,” said Miss Marple, taking off her gloves carefully and smoothing out the fingers of them. “I read in the paper, you see, about Gladys Martin having been killed. And of course I know all about her. She comes from my part of the country. I trained her, in fact, for domestic service. And since this terrible thing has happened to her, I felt—well, I felt that I ought to come and see if there was anything I could do about it.”

“Yes,” said Pat. “Of course. I see.”

And she did see. Miss Marple’s action appeared to her natural and inevitable.

“I think it’s a very good thing you have come,” said Pat. “Nobody seems to know very much about her. I mean relations and all that.”

“No,” said Miss Marple, “of course not. She hadn’t got any relations. She came to me from the orphanage. St. Faith’s. A very well-run place though sadly short of funds. We do our best for the girls there, try to give them a good training and all that. Gladys came to me when she was seventeen and I taught her how to wait at table and keep the silver and everything like that. Of course she didn’t stay long. They never do. As soon as she got a little experience, she went and took a job in a café. The girls nearly always want to do that. They think it’s freer, you know, and a gayer life. Perhaps it may be. I really don’t know.”

“I never even saw her,” said Pat. “Was she a pretty girl?”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Marple, “not at all. Adenoids, and a good many spots. She was rather pathetically stupid, too. I don’t suppose,” went on Miss Marple thoughtfully, “that she ever made many friends anywhere. She was very keen on men, poor girl. But men didn’t take much notice of her and other girls rather made use of her.”

“It sounds rather cruel,” said Pat.

“Yes, my dear,” said Miss Marple, “life is cruel, I’m afraid. One doesn’t really know what to do with the Gladyses. They enjoy going to the pictures and all that, but they’re always thinking of impossible things that can’t possibly happen to them. Perhaps that’s happiness of a kind. But they get disappointed. I think Gladys was disappointed in café and restaurant life. Nothing very glamorous or interesting happened to her and it was just hard on the feet. Probably that’s why she came back into private service. Do you know how long she’d been here?”

Pat shook her head.

“Not very long, I should think. Only a month or two.” Pat paused and then went on, “It seems so horrible and futile that she should have been caught up in this thing. I suppose she’d seen something or noticed something.”

“It was the clothes-peg that really worried me,” said Miss Marple in her gentle voice.

“The clothes-peg?”

“Yes. I read about it in the papers. I suppose it is true? That when she was found there was a clothes-peg clipped onto her nose.”

Pat nodded. The colour rose to Miss Marple’s pink cheeks.

“That’s what made me so very angry, if you can understand, my dear. It was such a cruel, contemptuous gesture. It gave me a kind of picture of the murderer. To do a thing like that! It’s very wicked, you know, to affront human dignity. Particularly if you’ve already killed.”

Pat said slowly:

“I think I see what you mean.” She got up. “I think you’d better come and see Inspector Neele. He’s in charge of the case and he’s here now. You’ll like him, I think. He’s a very human person.” She gave a sudden, quick shiver. “The whole thing is such a horrible nightmare. Pointless. Mad. Without rhyme or reason in it.”

“I wouldn’t say that, you know,” said Miss Marple. “No, I wouldn’t say that.”

Inspector Neele was looking tired and haggard. Three deaths and the press of the whole country whooping down the trail. A case that seemed to be shaping in well-known fashion had gone suddenly haywire. Adele Fortescue, that appropriate suspect, was now the second victim of an incomprehensible murder case. At the close of that fatal day the assistant commissioner had sent for Neele and the two men had talked far into the night.

In spite of his dismay, or rather behind it, Inspector Neele had felt a faint inward satisfaction. That pattern of the wife and the lover. It had been too slick, too easy. He had always mistrusted it. And now that mistrust of his was justified.

“The whole thing takes on an entirely different aspect,” the AC had said, striding up and down his room and frowning. “It looks to me, Neele, as though we’ve got someone mentally unhinged to deal with. First the husband, then the wife. But the very circumstances of the case seem to show that it’s an inside job. It’s all there, in the family. Someone who sat down to breakfast with Fortescue put taxine in his coffee or on his food, someone who had tea with the family that day put potassium cyanide in Adele Fortescue’s cup of tea. Someone trusted, unnoticed, one of the family. Which of ’em, Neele?”

Neele said dryly:

“Percival wasn’t there, so that lets him out again. That lets him out again,” Inspector Neele repeated.

The AC looked at him sharply. Something in the repetition had attracted his attention.

“What’s the idea, Neele? Out with it, man.”

Inspector Neele looked stolid.

“Nothing, sir. Not so much as an idea. All I say is it was very convenient for him.”

“A bit too convenient, eh?” The AC reflected and shook his head. “You think he might have managed it somehow? Can’t see how, Neele. No, I can’t see how.”

He added: “And he’s a cautious type, too.”

“But quite intelligent, sir.”

“You don’t fancy the women. Is that it? Yet the women are indicated. Elaine Fortescue and Percival’s wife. They were at breakfast and they were at tea that day. Either of them could have done it. No signs of anything abnormal about them? Well, it doesn’t always show. There might be something in their past medical record.”

Inspector Neele did not answer. He was thinking of Mary Dove. He had no definite reason for suspecting her, but that was the way his thoughts lay. There was something unexplained about her, unsatisfactory. A faint, amused antagonism. That had been her attitude after the death of Rex Fortescue. What was her attitude now? Her behaviour and manner were, as always, exemplary. There was no longer, he thought, amusement. Perhaps not even antagonism, but he wondered whether, once or twice, he had not seen a trace of fear. He had been to blame, culpably to blame, in the matter of Gladys Martin. That guilty confusion of hers he had put down to no more than a natural nervousness of the police. He had come across that guilty nervousness so often. In this case it had been something more. Gladys had seen or heard something which had aroused her suspicions. It was probably, he thought, some quite small thing, something so vague and indefinite that she had hardly liked to speak about it. And now, poor little rabbit, she would never speak.

Inspector Neele looked with some interest at the mild, earnest face of the old lady who confronted him now at Yewtree Lodge. He had been in two minds at first how to treat her, but he quickly made-up his mind. Miss Marple would be useful to him. She was upright, of unimpeachable rectitude and she had, like most old ladies, time on her hands and an old maid’s nose for scenting bits of gossip. She’d get things out of servants, and out of the women of the Fortescue family perhaps, that he and his policemen would never get. Talk, conjecture, reminiscences, repetitions of things said and done, out of it all she would pick the salient facts. So Inspector Neele was gracious.

“It’s uncommonly good of you to have come here, Miss Marple,” he said.

“It was my duty, Inspector Neele. The girl had lived in my house. I feel, in a sense, responsible for her. She was a very silly girl, you know.”

Inspector Neele looked at her appreciatively.

“Yes,” he said, “just so.”

She had gone, he felt, to the heart of the matter.

“She wouldn’t know,” said Miss Marple, “what she ought to do. If, I mean, something came up. Oh, dear, I’m expressing myself very badly.”

Inspector Neele said that he understood.

“She hadn’t got good judgement as to what was important or not, that’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, exactly, Inspector.”

“When you say that she was silly—” Inspector Neele broke off.

Miss Marple took up the theme.

“She was the credulous type. She was the sort of girl who would have given her savings to a swindler, if she’d had any savings. Of course, she never did have any savings because she always spent her money on most unsuitable clothes.”

“What about men?” asked the inspector.

“She wanted a young man badly,” said Miss Marple. “In fact that’s really, I think, why she left St. Mary Mead. The competition there is very keen. So few men. She did have hopes of the young man who delivered the fish. Young Fred had a pleasant word for all the girls, but of course he didn’t mean anything by it. That upset poor Gladys quite a lot. Still, I gather she did get herself a young man in the end?”

Inspector Neele nodded.

“It seems so. Albert Evans, I gather, his name was. She seems to have met him at some holiday camp. He didn’t give her a ring or anything so maybe she made it all up. He was a mining engineer, so she told the cook.”

“That seems most unlikely,” said Miss Marple, “but I dare say it’s what he told her. As I say, she’d believe anything. You don’t connect him with this business at all?”

Inspector Neele shook his head.

“No. I don’t think there are any complications of that kind. He never seems to have visited her. He sent her a postcard from time to time, usually from a seaport—probably 4th Engineer on a boat on the Baltic run.”

“Well,” said Miss Marple, “I’m glad she had her little romance. Since her life has been cut short in this way—” She tightened her lips. “You know, Inspector, it makes me very, very angry.” And she added, as she had said to Pat Fortescue, “Especially the clothes-peg. That, Inspector, was really wicked.”

Inspector Neele looked at her with interest.

“I know just what you mean, Miss Marple,” he said.

Miss Marple coughed apologetically.

“I wonder—I suppose it would be great presumption on my part—if only I could assist you in my very humble and, I’m afraid, very feminine way. This is a wicked murderer, Inspector Neele, and the wicked should not go unpunished.”

“That’s an unfashionable belief nowadays, Miss Marple,” Inspector Neele said rather grimly. “Not that I don’t agree with you.”

“There is an hotel near the station, or there’s the Golf Hotel,” said Miss Marple tentatively, “and I believe there’s a Miss Ramsbottom in this house who is interested in foreign missions.”

Inspector Neele looked at Miss Marple appraisingly.

“Yes,” he said. “You’ve got something there, maybe. I can’t say that I’ve had great success with the lady.”

“It’s really very kind of you, Inspector Neele,” said Miss Marple. “I’m so glad you don’t think I’m just a sensation hunter.”

Inspector Neele gave a sudden, rather unexpected smile. He was thinking to himself that Miss Marple was very unlike the popular idea of an avenging fury. And yet, he thought that was perhaps exactly what she was.

“Newspapers,” said Miss Marple, “are often so sensational in their accounts. But hardly, I fear, as accurate as one might wish.” She looked inquiringly at Inspector Neele. “If one could be sure of having just the sober facts.”

“They’re not particularly sober,” said Neele. “Shorn of undue sensation, they’re as follows. Mr. Fortescue died in his office as a result of taxine poisoning. Taxine is obtained from the berries and leaves of yew trees.”

“Very convenient,” Miss Marple said.

“Possibly,” said Inspector Neele, “but we’ve no evidence as to that. As yet, that is.” He stressed the point because it was here that he thought Miss Marple might be useful. If any brew or concoction of yewberries had been made in the house, Miss Marple was quite likely to come upon traces of it. She was the sort of old pussy who would make homemade liqueurs, cordials and herb teas herself. She would know methods of making and methods of disposal.

“And Mrs. Fortescue?”

“Mrs. Fortescue had tea with the family in the library. The last person to leave the room and the tea table was Miss Elaine Fortescue, her stepdaughter. She states that as she left the room Mrs. Fortescue was pouring herself out another cup of tea. Some twenty minutes or half hour later Miss Dove, who acts as housekeeper, went in to remove the tea tray. Mrs. Fortescue was still sitting on the sofa, dead. Beside her was a tea cup a quarter full and in the dregs of it was potassium cyanide.”

“Which is almost immediate in its action, I believe,” said Miss Marple.

“Exactly.”

“Such dangerous stuff,” murmured Miss Marple. “One has it to take wasps’ nests but I’m always very, very careful.”

“You’re quite right,” said Inspector Neele. “There was a packet of it in the gardener’s shed here.”

“Again very convenient,” said Miss Marple. She added, “Was Mrs. Fortescue eating anything?”

“Oh, yes. They’d had quite a sumptuous tea.”

“Cake, I suppose? Bread and butter? Scones, perhaps? Jam? Honey?”

“Yes, there was honey and scones, chocolate cake and swiss roll and various other plates of things.” He looked at her curiously. “The potassium cyanide was in the tea, Miss Marple.”

“Oh, yes, yes. I quite understand that. I was just getting the whole picture, so to speak. Rather significant, don’t you think?”

He looked at her in a slightly puzzled fashion. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were bright.

“And the third death, Inspector Neele?”

“Well, the facts there seem clear enough, too. The girl, Gladys, took in the tea tray, then she brought the next tray into the hall, but left it there. She’d been rather absentminded all the day, apparently. After that no one saw her. The cook, Mrs. Crump, jumped to the conclusion that the girl had gone out for the evening without telling anybody. She based her belief, I think, on the fact that the girl was wearing a good pair of nylon stockings and her best shoes. There, however, she was proved quite wrong. The girl had obviously remembered suddenly that she had not taken in some clothes that were drying outside on the clothesline. She ran out to fetch them in, had taken down half of them apparently, when somebody took her unawares by slipping a stocking round her neck and—well, that was that.”

“Someone from outside?” said Miss Marple.

“Perhaps,” said Inspector Neele. “But perhaps someone from inside. Someone who’d been waiting his or her opportunity to get the girl alone. The girl was upset, nervous, when we first questioned her, but I’m afraid we didn’t quite appreciate the importance of that.”

“Oh, but how could you,” cried Miss Marple, “because people so often do look guilty and embarrassed when they are questioned by the police.”

“That’s just it. But this time, Miss Marple, it was rather more than that. I think the girl Gladys had seen someone performing some action that seemed to her needed explanation. It can’t, I think, have been anything very definite. Otherwise she would have spoken out. But I think she did betray the fact to the person in question. That person realized that Gladys was a danger.”

“And so Gladys was strangled and a clothes-peg clipped on her nose,” murmured Miss Marple to herself.

“Yes, that’s a nasty touch. A nasty, sneering sort of touch. Just a nasty bit of unnecessary bravado.”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“Hardly unnecessary. It does all make a pattern, doesn’t it?”

Inspector Neele looked at her curiously.

“I don’t quite follow you, Miss Marple. What do you mean by a pattern?”

Miss Marple immediately became flustered.

“Well, I mean it does seem—I mean, regarded as a sequence, if you understand—well, one can’t get away from facts, can one?”

“I don’t think I quite understand.”

“Well, I mean—first we have Mr. Fortescue. Rex Fortescue. Killed in his office in the city. And then we have Mrs. Fortescue, sitting here in the library and having tea. There were scones and honey. And then poor Gladys with the clothes-peg on her nose. Just to point the whole thing. That very charming Mrs. Lance Fortescue said to me that there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason in it, but I couldn’t agree with her, because it’s the rhyme that strikes one, isn’t it?”

Inspector Neele said slowly: “I don’t think—”

Miss Marple went on quickly:

“I expect you’re about thirty-five or thirty-six, aren’t you, Inspector Neele? I think there was rather a reaction just then, when you were a little boy, I mean, against nursery rhymes. But if one has been brought up on Mother Goose—I mean it is really highly significant, isn’t it? What I wondered was,” Miss Marple paused, then appearing to take her courage in her hands went on bravely: “Of course it is great impertinence I know, on my part, saying this sort of thing to you.”

“Please say anything you like, Miss Marple.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you. I shall. Though, as I say, I do it with the utmost diffidence because I know I am very old and rather muddleheaded, and I dare say my idea is of no value at all. But what I mean to say is have you gone into the question of blackbirds?”

Chapter Fourteen

I

For about ten seconds Inspector Neele stared at Miss Marple with the utmost bewilderment. His first idea was that the old lady had gone off her head.

“Blackbirds?” he repeated.

Miss Marple nodded her head vigorously.

“Yes,” she said, and forwith recited:

“ ‘Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye,

Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened the birds began to sing.

Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?

“ ‘The king was in his counting house, counting out his money,

The queen was in the parlour eating bread and honey,

The maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes,

When there came a little dickey bird and nipped off her nose.’ ”

“Good Lord,” Inspector Neele said.

“I mean, it does fit,” said Miss Marple. “It was rye in his pocket, wasn’t it? One newspaper said so. The others just said cereal, which might mean anything. Farmer’s Glory or Cornflakes—or even maize—but it was rye?”

Inspector Neele nodded.

“There you are,” said Miss Marple, triumphantly. “Rex Fortescue. Rex means King. In his Counting House. And Mrs. Fortescue the Queen in the parlour, eating bread and honey. And so, of course, the murderer had to put that clothes-peg on poor Gladys’s nose.”

Inspector Neele said:

“You mean the whole setup is crazy?”

“Well, one mustn’t jump to conclusions—but it is certainly very odd. But you really must make inquiries about blackbirds. Because there must be blackbirds!”

It was at this point that Sergeant Hay came into the room saying urgently, “Sir.”

He broke off at sight of Miss Marple. Inspector Neele, recovering himself, said:

“Thank you, Miss Marple. I’ll look into the matter. Since you are interested in the girl, perhaps you would care to look over the things from her room. Sergeant Hay will show you them presently.”

Miss Marple, accepting her dismissal, twittered her way out.

“Blackbirds!” murmured Inspector Neele to himself.

Sergeant Hay stared.

“Yes, Hay, what is it?”

“Sir,” said Sergeant Hay, urgently again. “Look at this.”

He produced an article wrapped in a somewhat grubby handkerchief.

“Found it in the shrubbery,” said Sergeant Hay. “Could have been chucked there from one of the back windows.”

He tipped the object down on the desk in front of the inspector, who leaned forward and inspected it with rising excitement. The exhibit was a nearly full pot of marmalade.

The inspector stared at it without speech. His face assumed a peculiarly wooden and stupid appearance. In actual fact this meant that Inspector Neele’s mind was racing once more round an imaginary track. A moving picture was enacting itself before the eyes of his mind. He saw a new pot of marmalade, he saw hands carefully removing its cover, he saw a small quantity of marmalade removed, mixed with a preparation of taxine and replaced in the pot, the top smoothed over and the lid carefully replaced. He broke off at this point to ask Sergeant Hay:

“They don’t take marmalade out of the pot and put it into fancy pots?”

“No, sir. Got into the way of serving it in its own pot during the war when things were scarce, and it’s gone on like that ever since.”

Neele murmured:

“That made it easier, of course.”

“What’s more,” said Sergeant Hay, “Mr. Fortescue was the only one that took marmalade for breakfast (and Mr. Percival when he was at home). The others had jam or honey.”

Neele nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “That made it very simple, didn’t it?”

After a slight gap the moving picture went on in his mind. It was the breakfast table now. Rex Fortescue stretching out his hand for the marmalade pot, taking out a spoonful of marmalade and spreading it on his toast and butter. Easier, far easier that way than the risk and difficulty of insinuating it into his coffee cup. A foolproof method of administering the poison! And afterwards? Another gap and a picture that was not quite so clear. The replacing of that pot of marmalade by another with exactly the same amount taken from it. And then an open window. A hand and an arm flinging out that pot into the shrubbery. Whose hand and arm?

Inspector Neele said in a businesslike voice:

“Well, we’ll have of course to get this analysed. See if there are any traces of taxine. We can’t jump to conclusions.”

“No, sir. There may be fingerprints too.”

“Probably not the ones we want,” said Inspector Neele gloomily. “There’ll be Gladys’s, of course, and Crump’s and Fortescue’s own. Then probably Mrs. Crump’s, the grocer’s assistant and a few others! If anyone put taxine in here they’d take care not to go playing about with their own fingers all over the pot. Anyway, as I say, we mustn’t jump to conclusions. How do they order marmalade and where is it kept?”

The industrious Sergeant Hay had his answer pat for all these questions.

“Marmalade and jams comes in in batches of six at a time. A new pot would be taken into the pantry when the old one was getting low.”

“That means,” said Neele, “that it could have been tampered with several days before it was actually brought onto the breakfast table. And anyone who was in the house or had access to the house could have tampered with it.”

The term “access to the house” puzzled Sergeant Hay slightly. He did not see in what way his superior’s mind was working.

But Neele was postulating what seemed to him a logical assumption.

If the marmalade had been tampered with beforehand—then surely that ruled out those persons who were actually at the breakfast table on the fatal morning.

Which opened up some interesting new possibilities.

He planned in his mind interviews with various people—this time with rather a different angle of approach.

He’d keep an open mind. . . .

He’d even consider seriously that old Miss Whatshername’s suggestions about the nursery rhyme. Because there was no doubt that that nursery rhyme fitted in a rather startling way. It fitted with a point that had worried him from the beginning. The pocketful of rye.

“Blackbirds?” murmured Inspector Neele to himself.

Sergeant Hay stared.

“It’s not blackberry jelly, sir,” he said. “It’s marmalade.”

II

Inspector Neele went in search of Mary Dove.

He found her in one of the bedrooms on the first floor superintending Ellen, who was denuding the bed of what seemed to be clean sheets. A little pile of clean towels lay on a chair.

Inspector Neele looked puzzled.

“Somebody coming to stay?” he asked.

Mary Dove smiled at him. In contrast to Ellen, who looked grim and truculent, Mary was her usual imperturbable self.

“Actually,” she said, “the opposite is the case.”

Neele looked inquiringly at her.

“This is the guest room we had prepared for Mr. Gerald Wright.”

“Gerald Wright? Who is he?”

“He’s a friend of Miss Elaine Fortescue’s.” Mary’s voice was carefully devoid of inflection.

“He was coming here—when?”

“I believe he arrived at the Golf Hotel the day after Mr. Fortescue’s death.”

“The day after.”

“So Miss Fortescue said.” Mary’s voice was still impersonal: “She told me she wanted him to come and stay in the house—so I had a room prepared. Now—after these other two—tragedies—it seems more suitable that he should remain at the hotel.”

“The Golf Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“Quite,” said Inspector Neele.

Ellen gathered up the sheets and towels and went out of the room.

Mary Dove looked inquiringly at Neele.

“You wanted to see me about something?”

Neele said pleasantly:

“It’s becoming important to get exact times very clearly stated. Members of the family all seem a little vague about time—perhaps understandably. You, on the other hand, Miss Dove, I have found extremely accurate in your statements as to times.”

“Again understandably!”

“Yes—perhaps—I must certainly congratulate you on the way you have kept this house going in spite of the—well, panic—these last deaths must have caused.” He paused and then asked curiously: “How did you do it?”

He had realized, astutely, that the one chink in the armour of Mary Dove’s inscrutability was her pleasure in her own efficiency. She unbent slightly now as she answered.

“The Crumps wanted to leave at once, of course.”

“We couldn’t have allowed that.”

“I know. But I also told them that Mr. Percival Fortescue would be more likely to be—well—generous—to those who had spared him inconvenience.”

“And Ellen?”

“Ellen does not wish to leave.”

“Ellen does not wish to leave,” Neele repeated. “She has good nerves.”

“She enjoys disasters,” said Mary Dove. “Like Mrs. Percival, she finds in disaster a kind of pleasurable drama.”

“Interesting. Do you think Mrs. Percival has—enjoyed the tragedies?”

“No—of course not. That is going too far. I would merely say that it has enabled her to—well—stand up to them—”

“And how have you yourself been affected, Miss Dove?”

Mary Dove shrugged her shoulders.

“It has not been a pleasant experience,” she said dryly.

Inspector Neele felt again a longing to break down this cool young woman’s defences—to find out what was really going on behind the careful and efficient understatement of her whole attitude.

He merely said brusquely:

“Now—to recapitulate times and places: the last time you saw Gladys Martin was in the hall before tea, and that was at twenty minutes to five?”

“Yes—I told her to bring in tea.”

“You yourself were coming from where?”

“From upstairs—I thought I had heard the telephone a few minutes before.”

“Gladys, presumably, had answered the telephone?”

“Yes. It was a wrong number. Someone who wanted the Baydon Heath Laundry.”

“And that was the last time you saw her?”

“She brought the tea tray into the library about ten minutes or so later.”

“After that Miss Elaine Fortescue came in?”

“Yes, about three or four minutes later. Then I went up to tell Mrs. Percival tea was ready.”

“Did you usually do that?”

“Oh no—people came in to tea when they pleased—but Mrs. Fortescue asked where everybody was. I thought I heard Mrs. Percival coming—but that was a mistake—”

Neele interrupted. Here was something new.

“You mean you heard someone upstairs moving about?”

“Yes—at the head of the stairs, I thought. But no one came down so I went up. Mrs. Percival was in her bedroom. She had just come in. She had been out for a walk—”

“Out for a walk—I see. The time being then—”

“Oh—nearly five o’clock, I think—”

“And Mr. Lancelot Fortescue arrived—when?”

“A few minutes after I came downstairs again—I thought he had arrived earlier—but—”

Inspector Neele interrupted:

“Why did you think he had arrived earlier?”

“Because I thought I had caught sight of him through the landing window.”

“In the garden, you mean?”

“Yes—I caught a glimpse of someone through the yew hedge—and I thought it would probably be him.”

“This was when you were coming down after telling Mrs. Percival Fortescue tea was ready?”

Mary corrected him.

“No—not then—it was earlier—when I came down the first time.”

Inspector Neele stared.

“Are you sure about that, Miss Dove?”

“Yes, I’m perfectly sure. That’s why I was surprised to see him—when he actually did ring the bell.”

Inspector Neele shook his head. He kept his inner excitement out of his voice as he said:

“It couldn’t have been Lancelot Fortescue you saw in the garden. His train—which was due at 4:28, was nine minutes late. He arrived at Baydon Heath Station at 4:37. He had to wait a few minutes for a taxi—that train is always very full. It was actually nearly a quarter to five (five minutes after you had seen the man in the garden) when he left the station and it is a ten-minute drive. He paid off the taxi at the gate here at about five minutes to five at the earliest. No—it wasn’t Lancelot Fortescue you saw.”

“I’m sure I did see someone.”

“Yes, you saw someone. It was getting dark. You couldn’t have seen the man clearly?”

“Oh no—I couldn’t see his face or anything like that—just his build—tall and slender. We were expecting Lancelot Fortescue—so I jumped to the conclusion that that’s who it was.”

“He was going—which way?”

“Along behind the yew hedge towards the east side of the house.”

“There is a side door there. Is it kept locked?”

“Not until the house is locked up for the night.”

“Anyone could have come in by that side door without being observed by any of the household.”

Mary Dove considered.

“I think so. Yes.” She added quickly: “You mean—the person I heard later upstairs could have come in that way? Could have been hiding—upstairs?”

“Something of the kind.”

“But who—?”

“That remains to be seen. Thank you, Miss Dove.”

As she turned to go away Inspector Neele said in a casual voice: “By the way, you can’t tell me anything about blackbirds, I suppose?”

For the first time, so it seemed, Mary Dove was taken aback. She turned back sharply.

“I—what did you say?”

“I was just asking you about blackbirds.”

“Do you mean—”

“Blackbirds,” said Inspector Neele.

He had on his most stupid expression.

“You mean that silly business last summer? But surely that can’t . . .” She broke off.

Inspector Neele said pleasantly:

“There’s been a bit of talk about it, but I was sure I’d get a clear account from you.”

Mary Dove was her calm, practical self again.

“It must, I think, have been some silly, spiteful joke,” she said. “Four dead blackbirds were on Mr. Fortescue’s desk in his study here. It was summer and the windows were open, and we rather thought it must have been the gardener’s boy, though he insisted he’d never done anything of the kind. But they were actually blackbirds the gardener had shot which had been hanging up by the fruit bushes.”

“And somebody had cut them down and put them on Mr. Fortescue’s desk?”

“Yes.”

“Any sort of reason behind it—any association with blackbirds?”

Mary shook her head.

“I don’t think so.”

“How did Mr. Fortescue take it? Was he annoyed?”

“Naturally he was annoyed.”

“But not upset in any way?”

“I really can’t remember.”

“I see,” said Inspector Neele.

He said no more. Mary Dove once more turned away, but this time, he thought, she went rather unwillingly as though she would have liked to know more of what was in his mind. Ungratefully, all that Inspector Neele felt was annoyance with Miss Marple. She had suggested to him that there would be blackbirds and, sure enough, there the blackbirds were! Not four and twenty of them, that was true. What might be called a token consignment.

That had been as long ago as last summer and where it fitted in Inspector Neele could not imagine. He was not going to let this blackbird bogey divert him from the logical and sober investigation of murder by a sane murderer for a sane reason, but he would be forced from now on to keep the crazier possibilities of the case in mind.

Chapter Fifteen

I

“I’m sorry, Miss Fortescue, to bother you again, but I want to be quite, quite clear about this. As far as we know you were the last person—or rather the last person but one—to see Mrs. Fortescue alive. It was about twenty past five when you left the drawing room?”

“About then,” said Elaine, “I can’t say exactly.” She added defensively: “One doesn’t look at clocks the whole time.”

“No, of course not. During the time that you were alone with Mrs. Fortescue after the others had left, what did you talk about?”

“Does it matter what we talked about?”

“Probably not,” said Inspector Neele, “but it might give me some clue as to what was in Mrs. Fortescue’s mind.”

“You mean—you think she might have done it herself?”

Inspector Neele noticed the brightening on her face. It would certainly be a very convenient solution as far as the family was concerned. Inspector Neele did not think it was true for a moment. Adele Fortescue was not to his mind a suicidal type. Even if she had poisoned her husband and was convinced the crime was about to be brought home to her, she would not, he thought, have ever thought of killing herself. She would have been sure optimistically that even if she were tried for murder she would be sure to be acquitted. He was not, however, averse to Elaine Fortescue’s entertaining the hypothesis. He said, therefore, quite truthfully:

“There’s a possibility of it at least, Miss Fortescue. Now perhaps you’ll tell me just what your conversation was about?”

“Well, it was really about my affairs.” Elaine hesitated.

“Your affairs being . . . ? ” he paused questioningly with a genial expression.

“I—a friend of mine had just arrived in the neighbourhood, and I was asking Adele if she would have any objection to—to my asking him to stay here at the house.”

“Ah. And who is this friend?”

“It’s a Mr. Gerald Wright. He’s a schoolmaster. He—he’s staying at the Golf Hotel.”

“A very close friend, perhaps?”

Inspector Neele gave an avuncular beam which added at least fifteen years to his age.

“We may expect an interesting announcement shortly, perhaps?”

He felt almost compunction as he saw the awkward gesture of the girl’s hand and the flush on her face. She was in love with the fellow all right.

“We—we’re not actually engaged and of course we couldn’t have it announced just now, but—well, yes I think we do—I mean we are going to get married.”

“Congratulations,” said Inspector Neele pleasantly. “Mr. Wright is staying at the Golf Hotel, you say? How long has he been there?”

“I wired him when Father died.”

“And he came at once. I see,” said Inspector Neele.

He used this favourite phrase of his in a friendly and reassuring way.

“What did Mrs. Fortescue say when you asked her about his coming here?”

“Oh, she said, all right, I could have anybody I pleased.”

“She was nice about it then?”

“Not exactly nice. I mean, she said—”

“Yes, what else did she say?”

Again Elaine flushed.

“Oh, something stupid about my being able to do a lot better for myself now. It was the sort of thing Adele would say.”

“Ah, well,” said Inspector Neele soothingly, “relations say these sort of things.”

“Yes, yes, they do. But people often find it difficult to—to appreciate Gerald properly. He’s an intellectual, you see, and he’s got a lot of unconventional and progressive ideas that people don’t like.”

“That’s why he didn’t get on with your father?”

Elaine flushed hotly.

“Father was very prejudiced and unjust. He hurt Gerald’s feelings. In fact, Gerald was so upset by my father’s attitude that he went off and I didn’t hear from him for weeks.”

And probably wouldn’t have heard from him now if your father hadn’t died and left you a packet of money, Inspector Neele thought. Aloud he said:

“Was there any more conversation between you and Mrs. Fortescue?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

“And that was about twenty-five past five and Mrs. Fortescue was found dead at five minutes to six. You didn’t return to the room during that half hour?”

“No.”

“What were you doing?”

“I—I went out for a short walk.”

“To the Golf Hotel?”

“I—well, yes, but Gerald wasn’t in.”

Inspector Neele said “I see” again, but this time with a rather dismissive effect. Elaine Fortescue got up and said:

“Is that all?”

“That’s all, thank you, Miss Fortescue.”

As she got up to go, Neele said casually:

“You can’t tell me anything about blackbirds, can you?”

She stared at him.

“Blackbirds? You mean the ones in the pie?”

They would be in the pie, the inspector thought to himself. He merely said, “When was this?”

“Oh! Three or four months ago—and there were some on Father’s desk, too. He was furious—”

“Furious, was he? Did he ask a lot of questions?”

“Yes—of course—but we couldn’t find out who put them there.”

“Have you any idea why he was so angry?”

“Well—it was rather a horrid thing to do, wasn’t it?”

Neele looked thoughtfully at her—but he did not see any signs of evasion in her face. He said:

“Oh, just one more thing, Miss Fortescue. Do you know if your stepmother made a will at any time?”

“I’ve no idea—I—suppose so. People usually do, don’t they?”

“They should do—but it doesn’t always follow. Have you made a will yourself, Miss Fortescue?”

“No—no—I haven’t—up to now I haven’t had anything to leave—now, of course—”

He saw the realization of the changed position come into her eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “Fifty thousand pounds is quite a responsibility—
it changes a lot of things, Miss Fortescue.”

II

For some minutes after Elaine Fortescue left the room, Inspector Neele sat staring in front of him thoughtfully. He had, indeed, new food for thought. Mary Dove’s statement that she had seen a man in the garden at approximately 4:35 opened up certain new possibilities. That is, of course, if Mary Dove was speaking the truth. It was never Inspector Neele’s habit to assume that anyone was speaking the truth. But, examine her statement as he might, he could see no real reason why she should have lied. He was inclined to think that Mary Dove was speaking the truth when she spoke of having seen a man in the garden. It was quite clear that that man could not have been Lancelot Fortescue, although her reason for assuming that it was he was quite natural under the circumstances. It had not been Lancelot Fortescue, but it had been a man about the height and build of Lancelot Fortescue, and if there had been a man in the garden at that particular time, moreover a man moving furtively, as it seemed, to judge from the way he had crept behind the yew hedges, then that certainly opened up a line of thought.

Added to this statement of hers, there had been the further statement that she had heard someone moving about upstairs. That, in its turn, tied up with something else. The small piece of mud he had found on the floor of Adele Fortescue’s boudoir. Inspector Neele’s mind dwelt on the small dainty desk in that room. Pretty little sham antique with a rather obvious secret drawer in it. There had been three letters in that drawer, letters written by Vivian Dubois to Adele Fortescue. A great many love letters of one kind or another had passed through Inspector Neele’s hands in the course of his career. He was acquainted with passionate letters, foolish letters, sentimental letters and nagging letters. There had also been cautious letters. Inspector Neele was inclined to classify these three as of the latter kind. Even if read in the divorce court, they could pass as inspired by a merely platonic friendship. Though in this case: “Platonic friendship my foot!” thought the inspector inelegantly. Neele, when he had found the letters, had sent them up at once to the Yard since at that time the main question was whether the Public Prosecutor’s office thought that there was sufficient evidence to proceed with the case against Adele Fortescue or Adele Fortescue and Vivian Dubois together. Everything had pointed towards Rex Fortescue having been poisoned by his wife with or without her lover’s connivance. These letters, though cautious, made it fairly clear that Vivian Dubois was her lover, but there had not been in the wording, so far as Inspector Neele could see, any signs of incitement to crime. There might have been incitement of a spoken kind, but Vivian Dubois would be far too cautious to put anything of that kind down on paper.

Inspector Neele surmised accurately that Vivian Dubois had asked Adele Fortescue to destroy his letters and that Adele Fortescue had told him she had done so.

Well, now they had two more deaths on their hands. And that meant, or should mean, that Adele Fortescue had not killed her husband.

Unless, that is—Inspector Neele considered a new hypothesis—Adele Fortescue had wanted to marry Vivian Dubois and Vivian Dubois had wanted, not Adele Fortescue, but Adele Fortescue’s hundred thousand pounds which would come to her on the death of her husband. He had assumed, perhaps, that Rex Fortescue’s death would be put down to natural causes. Some kind of seizure or stroke. After all, everybody seemed to be worried over Rex Fortescue’s health during the last year. (Parenthetically, Inspector Neele said to himself that he must look into that question. He had a subconscious feeling that it might be important in someway.) To continue, Rex Fortescue’s death had not gone according to plan. It had been diagnosed without loss of time as poisoning, and the correct poison named.

Supposing that Adele Fortescue and Vivian Dubois had been guilty, what state would they be in then? Vivian Dubois would have been scared and Adele Fortescue would have lost her head. She might have done or said foolish things. She might have rung up Dubois on the telephone, talking indiscreetly in a way that he would have realized might have been overheard in Yewtree Lodge. What would Vivian Dubois have done next?

It was early as yet to try and answer that question, but Inspector Neele proposed very shortly to make inquiries at the Golf Hotel as to whether Dubois had been in or out of the hotel between the hours of 4:15 and 6 o’clock. Vivian Dubois was tall and dark like Lance Fortescue. He might have slipped through the garden to the side door, made his way upstairs and then what? Looked for the letters and found them gone? Waited there, perhaps, till the coast was clear, then come down into the library when tea was over and Adele Fortescue was alone?

But all this was going too fast—

Neele had questioned Mary Dove and Elaine Fortescue; he must see now what Percival Fortescue’s wife had to say.

Chapter Sixteen

I

Inspector Neele found Mrs. Percival in her own sitting room upstairs, writing letters. She got up rather nervously when he came in.

“Is there anything—what—are there—”

“Please sit down, Mrs. Fortescue. There are only just a few more questions I would like to ask you.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course, Inspector. It’s all so dreadful, isn’t it? So very dreadful.”

She sat down rather nervously in an armchair. Inspector Neele sat down in the small, straight chair near her. He studied her rather more carefully than he had done heretofore. In someways a mediocre type of woman, he thought—and thought also that she was not very happy. Restless, unsatisfied, limited in mental outlook, yet he thought she might have been efficient and skilled in her own profession of hospital nurse. Though she had achieved leisure by her marriage with a well-to-do man, leisure had not satisfied her. She bought clothes, read novels and ate sweets, but he remembered her avid excitement on the night of Rex Fortescue’s death, and he saw in it not so much a ghoulish satisfaction but rather a revelation of the arid deserts of boredom which encompassed her life. Her eyelids fluttered and fell before his searching glance. They gave her the appearance of being both nervous and guilty, but he could not be sure that that was really the case.

“I’m afraid,” he said soothingly, “we have to ask people questions again and again. It must be very tiresome for you all. I do appreciate that, but so much hangs, you understand, on the exact timing of events. You came down to tea rather late, I understand? In fact, Miss Dove came up and fetched you.”

“Yes. Yes, she did. She came and said tea was in. I had no idea it was so late. I’d been writing letters.”

Inspector Neele just glanced over at the writing desk.

“I see,” he said. “Somehow or other, I thought you’d been out for a walk.”

“Did she say so? Yes—now I believe you’re right. I had been writing letters; then it was so stuffy and my head ached so I went out and—er—went for a walk. Only round the garden.”

“I see. You didn’t meet anyone?”

“Meet anyone?” She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“I just wondered if you’d seen anybody or anybody had seen you during this walk of yours.”

“I saw the gardener in the distance, that’s all.” She was looking at him suspiciously.

“Then you came in, came up here to your room and you were just taking your things off when Miss Dove came to tell you that tea was ready?”

“Yes. Yes, and so I came down.”

“And who was there?”

“Adele and Elaine, and a minute or two later Lance arrived. My brother-in-law, you know. The one who’s come back from Kenya.”

“And then you all had tea?”

“Yes, we had tea. Then Lance went up to see Aunt Effie and I came up here to finish my letters. I left Elaine there with Adele.”

He nodded reassuringly.

“Yes. Miss Fortescue seems to have been with Mrs. Fortescue for quite five or ten minutes after you left. Your husband hadn’t come home yet?”

“Oh no. Percy—Val—didn’t get home until about half past six or seven. He’d been kept up in town.”

“He came back by train?”

“Yes. He took a taxi from the station.”

“Was it unusual for him to come back by train?”

“He does sometimes. Not very often. I think he’d been to places in the city where it’s rather difficult to park the car. It was easier for him to take a train home from Cannon Street.”

“I see,” said Inspector Neele. He went on: “I asked your husband if Mrs. Fortescue had made a will before she died. He said he thought not. I suppose you don’t happen to have any idea?”

To his surprise Jennifer Fortescue nodded vigorously.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Adele made a will. She told me so.”

“Indeed! When was this?”

“Oh, it wasn’t very long ago. About a month ago, I think.”

“That’s very interesting,” said Inspector Neele.

Mrs. Percival leant forward eagerly. Her face now was all animation. She clearly enjoyed exhibiting her superior knowledge.

“Val didn’t know about it,” she said. “Nobody knew. It just happened that I found out about it. I was in the street. I had just come out of the stationer’s, then I saw Adele coming out of the solicitor’s office. Ansell and Worrall’s, you know. In the High Street.”

“Ah,” said Neele, “the local solicitors?”

“Yes. And I said to Adele: ‘Whatever have you been doing there?’ I said. And she laughed and said: ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ And then as we walked along together she said: ‘I’ll tell you, Jennifer. I’ve been making my will.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘why are you doing that, Adele, you’re not ill or anything, are you?’ And she said no, of course she wasn’t ill. She’d never felt better. But everyone ought to make a will. She said she wasn’t going to those stuck-up family solicitors in London, Mr. Billingsley. She said the old sneak would go round and tell the family. ‘No,’ she said, ‘my will’s my own business, Jennifer, and I’ll make it my own way and nobody’s going to know about it.’ ‘Well, Adele,’ I said, ‘I shan’t tell anybody.’ She said: ‘It doesn’t matter if you do. You won’t know what’s in it.’ But I didn’t tell anyone. No, not even Percy. I do think women ought to stick together, don’t you, Inspector Neele?”

“I’m sure that’s a very nice feeling on your part, Mrs. Fortescue,” said Inspector Neele diplomatically.

“I’m sure I’m never ill-natured,” said Jennifer. “I didn’t particularly care for Adele, if you know what I mean. I always thought she was the kind of woman who would stick at nothing in order to get what she wanted. Now she’s dead, perhaps I misjudged her, poor soul.”

“Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Fortescue, for being so helpful to me.”

“You’re welcome, I’m sure. I’m only too glad to do anything I can. It’s all so very terrible, isn’t it? Who is the old lady who’s arrived this morning?”

“She’s a Miss Marple. She very kindly came here to give us what information she could about the girl Gladys. It seems Gladys Martin was once in service with her.”

“Really? How interesting.”

“There’s one other thing, Mrs. Percival. Do you know anything about blackbirds?”

Jennifer Fortescue started violently. She dropped her handbag on the floor and bent to pick it up.

“Blackbirds, Inspector? Blackbirds? What kind of blackbirds?”

Her voice was rather breathless. Smiling a little, Inspector, Neele said:

“Just blackbirds. Alive or dead or even, shall we say, symbolical?”

Jennifer Fortescue said sharply:

“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t know anything about blackbirds, then, Mrs. Fortescue?”

She said slowly:

“I suppose you mean the ones last summer in the pie. All very silly.”

“There were some left on the library table, too, weren’t there?”

“It was all a very silly practical joke. I don’t know who’s been talking to you about it. Mr. Fortescue, my father-in-law, was very much annoyed by it.”

“Just annoyed? Nothing more?”

“Oh. I see what you mean. Yes, I suppose—yes, it’s true. He asked us if there were any strangers about the place.”

“Strangers!” Inspector Neele raised his eyebrows.

“Well, that’s what he said,” said Mrs. Percival defensively.

“Strangers,” repeated Inspector Neele thoughtfully. Then he asked: “Did he seem afraid in any way?”

“Afraid? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Nervous. About strangers, I mean.”

“Yes. Yes, he did, rather. Of course I don’t remember very well. It was several months ago, you know. I don’t think it was anything except a silly practical joke. Crump perhaps. I really do think that Crump is a very unbalanced man, and I’m perfectly certain that he drinks. He’s really very insolent in his manner sometimes. I’ve sometimes wondered if he could have had a grudge against Mr. Fortescue. Do you think that’s possible, Inspector?”

“Anything’s possible,” said Inspector Neele and went away.

II

Percival Fortescue was in London, but Inspector Neele found Lancelot sitting with his wife in the library. They were playing chess together.

“I don’t want to interrupt you,” said Neele, apologetically.

“We’re only killing time, Inspector, aren’t we, Pat?”

Pat nodded.

“I expect you’ll think it’s rather a foolish question I’m asking you,” said Neele. “Do you know anything about blackbirds, Mr. Fortescue?”

“Blackbirds?” Lance looked amused. “What kind of blackbirds? Do you mean genuine birds, or the slave trade?”

Inspector Neele said with a sudden, disarming smile:

“I’m not sure what I mean, Mr. Fortescue. It’s just that a mention of blackbirds has turned up.”

“Good Lord.” Lancelot looked suddenly alert. “Not the old Blackbird Mine, I suppose?”

Inspector Neele said sharply:

“The Blackbird Mine? What was that?”

Lance frowned in a puzzled fashion.

“The trouble is, Inspector, that I can’t really remember much myself. I just have a vague idea about some shady transaction in my papa’s past. Something on the West Coast of Africa. Aunt Effie, I believe, once threw it in his teeth, but I can’t remember anything definite about it.”

“Aunt Effie? That will be Miss Ramsbottom, won’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go and ask her about it,” said Inspector Neele. He added ruefully: “She’s rather a formidable old lady, Mr. Fortescue. Always makes me feel quite nervous.”

Lance laughed.

“Yes. Aunt Effie is certainly a character, but she may be helpful to you, Inspector, if you get on the right side of her. Especially if you’re delving into the past. She’s got an excellent memory, she takes a positive pleasure in remembering anything that’s detrimental in any way.” He added thoughtfully: “There’s something else. I went up to see her, you know, soon after I got back here. Immediately after tea that day, as a matter of fact. And she was talking about Gladys. The maid who got killed. Not that we knew she was dead then, of course. But Aunt Effie was saying she was quite convinced that Gladys knew something that she hadn’t told the police.”

“That seems fairly certain,” said Inspector Neele. “She’ll never tell it now, poor girl.”

“No. It seems Aunt Effie had given her good advice as to spilling anything she knew. Pity the girl didn’t take it.”

Inspector Neele nodded. Bracing himself for the encounter he penetrated to Miss Ramsbottom’s fortress. Rather to his surprise, he found Miss Marple there. The two ladies appeared to be discussing foreign missions.

“I’ll go away, Inspector.” Miss Marple rose hurriedly to her feet.

“No need, madam,” said Inspector Neele.

“I’ve asked Miss Marple to come and stay in the house,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “No sense in spending money in that ridiculous Golf Hotel. A wicked nest of profiteers, that is. Drinking and card playing all the evening. She’d better come and stay in a decent Christian household. There’s a room next door to mine. Dr. Mary Peters, the missionary, had it last.”

“It’s very, very kind of you,” said Miss Marple, “but I really think I mustn’t intrude in a house of mourning.”

“Mourning? Fiddlesticks,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “Who’ll weep for Rex in this house? Or Adele either? Or is it the police you’re worried about? Any objections, Inspector?”

“None from me, madam.”

“There you are,” said Miss Ramsbottom.

“It’s very kind of you,” said Miss Marple gratefully. “I’ll go and telephone to the hotel to cancel my booking.” She left the room and Miss Ramsbottom said sharply to the inspector:

“Well, and what do you want?”

“I wondered if you could tell me anything about the Blackbird Mine, ma’am.”

Miss Ramsbottom uttered a sudden, shrill cackle of laughter.

“Ha. You’ve got on to that, have you! Took the hint I gave you the other day. Well, what do you want to know about it?”

“Anything you can tell me, madam.”

“I can’t tell you much. It’s a long time ago now—oh, twenty to twenty-five years maybe. Some concession or other in East Africa. My brother-in-law went into it with a man called MacKenzie. They went out there to investigate the mine together and MacKenzie died out there of fever. Rex came home and said the claim or the concession or whatever you call it was worthless. That’s all I know.”

“I think you know a little more than that, ma’am,” said Neele persuasively.

“Anything else is hearsay. You don’t like hearsay in the law, so I’ve been told.”

“We’re not in court yet, ma’am.”

“Well, I can’t tell you anything. The MacKenzies kicked up a fuss. That’s all I know. They insisted that Rex had swindled MacKenzie. I daresay he did. He was a clever, unscrupulous fellow, but I’ve no doubt whatever he did it was all legal. They couldn’t prove anything. Mrs. MacKenzie was an unbalanced sort of woman. She came here and made a lot of threats of revenge. Said Rex had murdered her husband. Silly, melodramatic fuss! I think she was a bit off her head—in fact, I believe she went into an asylum not long after. Came here dragging along a couple of young children who looked scared to death. Said she’d bring up her children to have revenge. Something like that. Tomfoolery, all of it. Well, that’s all I can tell you. And mind you, the Blackbird Mine wasn’t the only swindle that Rex put over in his lifetime. You’ll find a good many more if you look for them. What put you on to the Blackbird? Did you come across some trail leading to the MacKenzies?”

“You don’t know what became of the family, ma’am?”

“No idea,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “Mind you, I don’t think Rex would have actually murdered MacKenzie, but he might have left him to die. The same thing before the Lord, but not the same thing before the law. If he did, retribution’s caught up with him. The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small—you’d better go away now, I can’t tell you anymore and it’s no good your asking.”

“Thank you very much for what you have told me,” said Inspector Neele.

“Send that Marple woman back,” Miss Ramsbottom called after him. “She’s frivolous, like all Church of England people, but she knows how to run a charity in a sensible way.”

Inspector Neele made a couple of telephone calls, the first to Ansell and Worrall and the second to the Golf Hotel, then he summoned Sergeant Hay and told him that he was leaving the house for a short period.

“I’ve a call to pay at a solicitor’s office—after that, you can get me at the Golf Hotel if anything urgent turns up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And find out anything you can about blackbirds,” added Neele over his shoulder.

“Blackbirds, sir?” Sergeant Hay repeated, thoroughly mystified.

“That’s what I said—not blackberry jelly—blackbirds.”

“Very good, sir,” said Sergeant Hay bewilderedly.

Chapter Seventeen

I

Inspector Neele found Mr. Ansell the type of solicitor who was more easily intimidated than intimidating. A member of a small and not very prosperous firm, he was anxious not to stand upon his rights but instead to assist the police in every way possible.

Yes, he said, he had made a will for the late Mrs. Adele Fortescue. She had called at his office about five weeks previously. It had seemed to him rather a peculiar business but naturally he had not said anything. Peculiar things did happen in a solicitor’s business, and of course the inspector would understand that discretion, etc., etc. The inspector nodded to show he understood. He had already discovered Mr. Ansell had not transacted any legal business previously for Mrs. Fortescue or for any of the Fortescue family.

“Naturally,” said Mr. Ansell, “she didn’t want to go to her husband’s firm of lawyers about this.”

Shorn of verbiage, the facts were simple. Adele Fortescue had made a will leaving everything of which she died possessed to Vivian Dubois.

“But I gathered,” said Mr. Ansell, looking at Neele in an interrogating manner, “that she hadn’t actually much to leave.”

Inspector Neele nodded. At the time Adele Fortescue made her will that was true enough. But since then Rex Fortescue had died, and Adele Fortescue had inherited £100,000 and presumably that £100,000 (less death duties) now belonged to Vivian Edward Dubois.

II

At the Golf Hotel, Inspector Neele found Vivian Dubois nervously awaiting his arrival. Dubois had been on the point of leaving, indeed his bags were packed, when he had received over the telephone a civil request from Inspector Neele to remain. Inspector Neele had been very pleasant about it, quite apologetic. But behind the conventional words the request had been an order. Vivian Dubois had demurred, but not too much.

He said now:

“I do hope you realize, Inspector Neele, that it is very inconvenient for me to have to stay on. I really have urgent business that needs attending to.”

“I didn’t know you were in business, Mr. Dubois,” said Inspector Neele, genially.

“I’m afraid none of us can be as leisured as we would like to appear to be nowadays.”

“Mrs. Fortescue’s death must have been a great shock to you, Mr. Dubois. You were great friends, were you not?”

“Yes,” said Dubois, “she was a charming woman. We played golf quite often together.”

“I expect you’ll miss her very much.”

“Yes, indeed.” Dubois sighed. “The whole thing is really quite, quite terrible.”

“You actually telephoned her, I believe, on the afternoon of her death?”

“Did I? I really cannot remember now.”

“About four o’clock, I understand.”

“Yes, I believe I did.”

“Don’t you remember what your conversation was about, Mr. Dubois?”

“It wasn’t of any significance. I think I asked her how she was feeling and if there was any further news about her husband’s death—a more or less conventional inquiry.”

“I see,” said Inspector Neele. He added: “And then you went out for a walk?”

“Er—yes—yes, I—I did, I think. At least, not a walk, I played a few holes of golf.”

Inspector Neele said gently:

“I think not, Mr. Dubois . . . Not that particular day . . . The porter here noticed you walking down the road towards Yewtree Lodge.”

Dubois’s eyes met his, then shied away again nervously.

“I’m afraid I can’t remember, Inspector.”

“Perhaps you actually went to call upon Mrs. Fortescue?”

Dubois said sharply:

“No. No, I didn’t do that. I never went near the house.”

“Where did you go, then?”

“Oh, I—went on down the road, down as far as the Three Pigeons and then I turned around and came back by the links.”

“You’re quite sure you didn’t go to Yewtree Lodge?”

“Quite sure, Inspector.”

The inspector shook his head.

“Come, now, Mr. Dubois,” he said, “it’s much better to be frank with us, you know. You may have had some quite innocent reason for going there.”

“I tell you I never went to see Mrs. Fortescue that day.”

The inspector stood up.

“You know, Mr. Dubois,” he said pleasantly, “I think we’ll have to ask you for a statement and you’ll be well-advised and quite within your rights in having a solicitor present when you are making that statement.”

The colour fled from Mr. Dubois’s face, leaving it a sickly greenish colour.

“You’re threatening me,” he said. “You’re threatening me.”

“No, no, nothing of the kind.” Inspector Neele spoke in a shocked voice. “We’re not allowed to do anything of that sort. Quite the contrary. I’m actually pointing out to you that you have certain rights.”

“I had nothing to do with it at all, I tell you! Nothing to do with it.”

“Come now, Mr. Dubois, you were at Yewtree Lodge round about half past four on that day. Somebody looked out of the window, you know, and saw you.”

“I was only in the garden. I didn’t go into the house.”

“Didn’t you?” said Inspector Neele. “Are you sure? Didn’t you go in by the side door and up the stairs to Mrs. Fortescue’s sitting room on the first floor? You were looking for something, weren’t you, in the desk there?”

“You’ve got them, I suppose,” said Dubois sullenly. “That fool Adele kept them, then—she swore she burnt them—But they don’t mean what you think they mean.”

“You’re not denying, are you, Mr. Dubois, that you were a very close friend of Mrs. Fortescue’s?”

“No, of course I’m not. How can I when you’ve got the letters? All I say is, there’s no need to go reading any sinister meaning into them. Don’t think for a moment that we—that she—ever thought of getting rid of Rex Fortescue. Good God, I’m not that kind of man!”

“But perhaps she was that kind of woman?”

“Nonsense,” cried Vivian Dubois, “wasn’t she killed too?”

“Oh yes, yes.”

“Well, isn’t it natural to believe that the same person who killed her husband killed her?”

“It might be. It certainly might be. But there are other solutions. For instance—(this is quite a hypothetical case, Mr. Dubois) it’s possible that Mrs. Fortescue got rid of her husband, and that after his death she became somewhat of a danger to someone else. Someone who had, perhaps, not helped her in what she had done but who had at least encouraged her and provided, shall we say, the motive for the deed. She might be, you know, a danger to that particular person.”

Dubois stammered:

“You c-c-can’t build up a case against me. You can’t.”

“She made a will, you know,” said Inspector Neele. “She left all her money to you. Everything she possessed.”

“I don’t want the money. I don’t want a penny of it.”

“Of course, it isn’t very much really,” said Inspector Neele. “There’s jewellery and some furs, but I imagine very little actual cash.”

Dubois stared at him, his jaw dropping.

“But I thought her husband—”

He stopped dead.

“Did you, Mr. Dubois?” said Inspector Neele, and there was steel now in his voice. “That’s very interesting. I wondered if you knew the terms of Rex Fortescue’s will—”

III

Inspector Neele’s second interview at the Golf Hotel was with Mr. Gerald Wright. Mr. Gerald Wright was a thin, intellectual and very superior young man. He was, Inspector Neele noted, not unlike Vivian Dubois in build.

“What can I do for you, Inspector Neele?” he asked.

“I thought you might be able to help us with a little information, Mr. Wright.”

“Information? Really? It seems very unlikely.”

“It’s in connection with the recent events at Yewtree Lodge. You’ve heard of them, of course?”

Inspector Neele put a little irony into the question. Mr. Wright smiled patronisingly.

“Heard of them,” he said, “is hardly the right word. The newspapers appear to be full of nothing else. How incredibly bloodthirsty our public press is! What an age we live in! On one side the manufacture of atom bombs, on the other our newspapers delight in reporting brutal murders! But you said you had some questions to ask. Really, I cannot see what they can be. I know nothing about this Yewtree Lodge affair. I was actually in the Isle of Man when Mr. Rex Fortescue was killed.”

“You arrived here very shortly afterwards, didn’t you, Mr. Wright? You had a telegram, I believe, from Miss Elaine Fortescue.”

“Our police know everything, do they not? Yes, Elaine sent for me. I came, of course, at once.”

“And you are, I understand, shortly to be married?”

“Quite right, Inspector Neele. You have no objections, I hope.”

“It is entirely Miss Fortescue’s business. I understand the attachment between you dates from sometime back? Six or seven months ago, in fact?”

“Quite correct.”

“You and Miss Fortescue became engaged to be married. Mr. Fortescue refused to give his consent, informed you that if his daughter married against his wishes he did not propose to give her an income of any kind. Whereupon, I understand, you broke off the engagement and departed.”

Gerald Wright smiled rather pityingly.

“A very crude way of putting things, Inspector Neele. Actually, I was victimized for my political opinions. Rex Fortescue was the worst type of capitalist. Naturally I could not sacrifice my political beliefs and convictions for money.”

“But you have no objections to marrying a wife who has just inherited £50,000?”

Gerald Wright gave a thin satisfied smile.

“Not at all, Inspector Neele. The money will be used for the benefit of the community. But surely you did not come here to discuss with me either my financial circumstances—or my political convictions?”

“No, Mr. Wright. I wanted to talk to you about a simple question of fact. As you are aware, Mrs. Adele Fortescue died as a result of cyanide poisoning on the afternoon of November the 5th.

“Since you were in the neighbourhood of Yewtree Lodge on that afternoon I thought it possible that you might have seen or heard something that had a bearing on the case.”

“And what leads you to believe that I was, as you call it, in the neighbourhood of Yewtree Lodge at the time?”

“You left this hotel at a quarter past four on that particular afternoon, Mr. Wright. On leaving the hotel you walked down the road in the direction of Yewtree Lodge. It seems natural to suppose that you were going there.”

“I thought of it,” said Gerald Wright, “but I considered that it would be a rather pointless thing to do. I already had an arrangement to meet Miss Fortescue—Elaine—at the hotel at six o’clock. I went for a walk along a lane that branches off from the main road and returned to the Golf Hotel just before six o’clock. Elaine did not keep her appointment. Quite naturally, under the circumstances.”

“Anybody see you on this walk of yours, Mr. Wright?”

“A few cars passed me, I think, on the road. I did not see anyone I knew, if that’s what you mean. The lane was little more than a cart-track and too muddy for cars.”

“So between the time you left the hotel at a quarter past four until six o’clock when you arrived back again, I’ve only your word for it as to where you were?”

Gerald Wright continued to smile in a superior fashion.

“Very distressing for us both, Inspector, but there it is.”

Inspector Neele said softly:

“Then if someone said they looked out of a landing window and saw you in the garden of Yewtree Lodge at about 4:35—” he paused and left the sentence unfinished.

Gerald Wright raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

“Visibility must have been very bad by then,” he said. “I think it would be difficult for anyone to be sure.”

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Vivian Dubois, who is also staying here?”

“Dubois. Dubois? No, I don’t think so. Is that the tall, dark man with a pretty taste in suede shoes?”

“Yes. He also was out for a walk that afternoon, and he also left the hotel and walked past Yewtree Lodge. You did not notice him in the road by any chance?”

“No. No. I can’t say I did.”

Gerald Wright looked for the first time faintly worried. Inspector Neele said thoughtfully:

“It wasn’t really a very nice afternoon for walking, especially after dark in a muddy lane. Curious how energetic everyone seems to have felt.”

IV

On Inspector Neele’s return to the house he was greeted by Sergeant Hay with an air of satisfaction.

“I’ve found out about the blackbirds for you, sir,” he said.

“You have, have you?”

“Yes, sir, in a pie they were. Cold pie was left out for Sunday night’s supper. Somebody got at that pie in the larder or somewhere. They’d taken off the crust and they’d taken out the veal and ’am what was inside it, and what d’you think they put in instead? Some stinkin’ blackbirds they got out of the gardener’s shed. Nasty sort of trick to play, wasn’t it?”

“ ‘Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?’ ” said Inspector Neele.

He left Sergeant Hay staring after him.

Chapter Eighteen

I

“Just wait a minute,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “This patience is going to come out.”

She transferred a king and his various impedimenta into an empty space, put a red seven on a black eight, built up the four, five and six of spades on her foundation heap, made a few more rapid transfers of cards and then leaned back with a sign of satisfaction.

“That’s the Double Jester,” she said. “It doesn’t often come out.”

She leaned back in a satisfied fashion, then raised her eyes at the girl standing by the fireplace.

“So you’re Lance’s wife,” she said.

Pat, who had been summoned upstairs to Miss Ramsbottom’s presence, nodded her head.

“Yes,” she said.

“You’re a tall girl,” said Miss Ramsbottom, “and you look healthy.”

“I’m very healthy.”

Miss Ramsbottom nodded in a satisfied manner.

“Percival’s wife is pasty,” she said. “Eats too many sweets and doesn’t take enough exercise. Well, sit down, child, sit down. Where did you meet my nephew?”

“I met him out in Kenya when I was staying there with some friends.”

“You’ve been married before, I understand.”

“Yes. Twice.”

Miss Ramsbottom gave a profound sniff.

“Divorce, I suppose.”

“No,” said Pat. Her voice trembled a little. “They both—died. My first husband was a fighter pilot. He was killed in the war.”

“And your second husband? Let me see—somebody told me. Shot himself, didn’t he?”

Pat nodded.

“Your fault?”

“No,” said Pat. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Racing man, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never been on a race course in my life,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “Betting and card playing—all devices of the devil!”

Pat did not reply.

“I wouldn’t go inside a theatre or a cinema,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “Ah, well, it’s a wicked world nowadays. A lot of wickedness was going on in this house, but the Lord struck them down.”

Pat still found it difficult to say anything. She wondered if Lance’s Aunt Effie was really quite all there. She was, however, a trifle disconcerted by the old lady’s shrewd glance at her.

“How much,” demanded Aunt Effie, “do you know about the family you’ve married into?”

“I suppose,” said Pat, “as much as one ever knows of the family one marries into.”

“H’m, something in that, something in that. Well, I’ll tell you this. My sister was a fool, my brother-in-law was a rogue, Percival is a sneak, and your Lance was always the bad boy of the family.”

“I think that’s all nonsense,” said Pat robustly.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Miss Ramsbottom, unexpectedly. “You can’t just stick labels on people. But don’t underestimate Percival. There’s a tendency to believe that those who are labelled good are also stupid. Percival isn’t the least bit stupid. He’s quite clever in a sanctimonious kind of way. I’ve never cared for him. Mind you, I don’t trust Lance and I don’t approve of him, but I can’t help being fond of him . . . He’s a reckless sort of fellow—always has been. You’ve got to look after him and see he doesn’t go too far. Tell him not to underestimate Percival, my dear. Tell him not to believe everything that Percival says. They’re all liars in this house.” The old lady added with satisfaction: “Fire and brimstone shall be their portion.”

II

Inspector Neele was finishing a telephone conversation with Scotland Yard.

The assistant commissioner at the other end said:

“We ought to be able to get that information for you—by circularizing the various private sanatoriums. Of course she may be dead.”

“Probably is. It’s a long time ago.”

Old sins cast long shadows. Miss Ramsbottom had said that—said it with a significance, too—as though she was giving him a hint.

“It’s a fantastic theory,” said the AC.

“Don’t I know it, sir. But I don’t feel we can ignore it altogether. Too much fits in—”

“Yes—yes—rye—blackbirds—the man’s Christian name—”

Neele said:

“I’m concentrating on the other lines too—Dubois is a possibility—so is Wright—the girl Gladys could have caught sight of either of them outside the side door—she could have left the tea tray in the hall and gone out to see who it was and what they were doing—whoever it was could have strangled her then and there and then carried her body round to the clothesline and put the peg on her nose—”

“A crazy thing to do in all conscience! A nasty one too.”

“Yes, sir. That’s what upset the old lady—Miss Marple, I mean. Nice old lady—and very shrewd. She’s moved into the house—to be near old Miss Ramsbottom—and I’ve no doubt she’ll get to hear anything that’s going.”

“What’s your next move, Neele?”

“I’ve an appointment with the London solicitors. I want to find out a little more about Rex Fortescue’s affairs. And though it’s old history, I want to hear a little more about the Blackbird Mine.”

III

Mr. Billingsley, of Billingsley, Horsethorpe & Walters, was an urbane man whose discretion was concealed habitually by a misleadingly forthcoming manner. It was the second interview that Inspector Neele had had with him, and on this occasion Mr. Billingsley’s discretion was less noticeable than it had been on the former one. The triple tragedy at Yewtree Lodge had shaken Mr. Billingsley out of his professional reserve. He was now only too anxious to put all the facts he could before the police.

“Most extraordinary business, this whole thing,” he said. “A most extraordinary business. I don’t remember anything like it in all my professional career.”

“Frankly, Mr. Billingsley,” said Inspector Neele, “we need all the help we can get.”

“You can count on me, my dear sir. I shall be only too happy to assist you in every way I can.”

“First let me ask you how well you knew the late Mr. Fortescue, and how well do you know the affairs of his firm?”

“I knew Rex Fortescue fairly well. That is to say I’ve known him for a period of, well, sixteen years I should say. Mind you, we are not the only firm of solicitors he employed, not by a long way.”

Inspector Neele nodded. He knew that. Billingsley, Horsethorpe & Walters were what one might describe as Rex Fortescue’s reputable solicitors. For his less reputable dealings he had employed several different and slightly less scrupulous firms.

“Now what do you want to know?” continued Mr. Billingsley. “I’ve told you about his will. Percival Fortescue is the residuary legatee.”

“I’m interested now,” said Inspector Neele, “in the will of his widow. On Mr. Fortescue’s death she came into the sum of one hundred thousand pounds, I understand?”

Billingsley nodded his head.

“A considerable sum of money,” he said, “and I may tell you in confidence, Inspector, that it is one the firm could ill have afforded to pay out.”

“The firm, then, is not prosperous?”

“Frankly,” said Mr. Billingsley, “and strictly between ourselves, it’s drifting onto the rocks and has been for the last year and a half.”

“For any particular reason?”

“Why yes. I should say the reason was Rex Fortescue himself. For the last year Rex Fortescue’s been acting like a madman. Selling good stock here, buying speculative stuff there, talking big about it all the time in the most extraordinary way. Wouldn’t listen to advice. Percival—the son, you know—he came here urging me to use my influence with his father. He’d tried, apparently and been swept aside. Well, I did what I could, but Fortescue wouldn’t listen to reason. Really, he seems to have been a changed man.”

“But not, I gather, a depressed man,” said Inspector Neele.

“No, no. Quite the contrary. Flamboyant, bombastic.”

Inspector Neele nodded. An idea which had already taken form in his mind was strengthened. He thought he was beginning to understand some of the causes of friction between Percival and his father. Mr. Billingsley was continuing:

“But it’s no good asking me about the wife’s will. I didn’t make any will for her.”

“No. I know that,” said Neele. “I’m merely verifying that she had something to leave. In short, a hundred thousand pounds.”

Mr. Billingsley was shaking his head violently.

“No, no, my dear sir. You’re wrong there.”

“Do you mean the hundred thousand pounds was only left to her for her lifetime?”

“No—no—it was left to her outright. But there was a clause in the will governing that bequest. That is to say, Fortescue’s wife did not inherit the sum unless she survived him for one month. That, I may say, is a clause fairly common nowadays. It has come into operation owing to the uncertainties of air travel. If two people are killed in an air accident, it becomes exceedingly difficult to say who was the survivor and a lot of very curious problems arise.”

Inspector Neele was staring at him.

“Then Adele Fortescue had not got a hundred thousand pounds to leave. What happens to that money?”

“It goes back into the firm. Or rather, I should say, it goes to the residuary legatee.”

“And the residuary legatee is Mr. Percival Fortescue.”

“That’s right,” said Billingsley, “it goes to Percival Fortescue. And with the state the firm’s affairs are in,” he added unguardedly, “I should say that he’ll need it!”

IV

“The things you policemen want to know,” said Inspector Neele’s doctor friend.

“Come on, Bob, spill it.”

“Well, as we’re alone together you can’t quote me, fortunately! But I should say, you know, that your idea’s dead right. GPI by the sound of it all. The family suspected it and wanted to get him to see a doctor. He wouldn’t. It acts just in the way you describe. Loss of judgment, megalomania, violent fits of irritation and anger—boastfulness—delusions of grandeur—of being a great financial genius. Anyone suffering from that would soon put a solvent firm on the rocks—unless he could be restrained—and that’s not so easy to do—especially if the man himself has an idea of what you’re after. Yes—I should say it was a bit of luck for your friends that he died.”

“They’re no friends of mine,” said Neele. He repeated what he had once said before:

“They’re all very unpleasant people. . . .”

Chapter Nineteen

In the drawing room at Yewtree Lodge, the whole Fortescue family was assembled. Percival Fortescue, leaning against the mantelpiece, was addressing the meeting.

“It’s all very well,” said Percival. “But the whole position is most unsatisfactory. The police come and go and don’t tell us anything. One supposes they’re pursuing some line of research. In the meantime everything’s at a standstill. One can’t make plans, one can’t arrange things for the future.”

“It’s all so inconsiderate,” said Jennifer. “And so stupid.”

“There still seems to be this ban against anyone leaving the house,” went on Percival. “Still, I think among ourselves we might discuss future plans. What about you, Elaine? I gather you’re going to marry—what’s-his-name—Gerald Wright? Have you any idea when?”

“As soon as possible,” said Elaine.

Percival frowned.

“You mean, in about six months’ time?”

“No, I don’t. Why should we wait six months?”

“I think it would be more decent,” said Percival.

“Rubbish,” said Elaine. “A month. That’s the longest we’ll wait.”

“Well, it’s for you to say,” said Percival. “And what are your plans when you are married, if you have any?”

“We’re thinking of starting a school.”

Percival shook his head.

“That’s a very risky speculation in these times. What with the shortage of domestic labour, the difficulty of getting an adequate teaching staff—really, Elaine, it sounds all right. But I should think twice about it if I were you.”

“We have thought. Gerald feels that the whole future of this country lies in right education.”

“I am seeing Mr. Billingsley the day after tomorrow,” said Percival. “We’ve got to go into various questions of finance. He was suggesting that you might like to make this money that’s been left to you by Father into a trust for yourself and your children. It’s a very sound thing to do nowadays.”

“I don’t want to do that,” said Elaine. “We shall need the money to start up our school. There’s a very suitable house we’ve heard of for sale. It’s in Cornwall. Beautiful grounds and quite a good house. It would have to be built onto a good deal—several wings added.”

“You mean—you mean you’re going to take all your money out of the business? Really, Elaine, I don’t think you’re wise.”

“Much wiser to take it out than leave it in, I should say,” said Elaine. “Businesses are going phut all over the place. You said yourself, Val, before Father died, that things were getting into a pretty bad state.”

“One says that sort of thing,” said Percival vaguely, “but I must say, Elaine, to take out all your capital and sink it in the buying, equipping and running of a school is crazy. If it’s not a success, look what happens? You’re left without a penny.”

“It will be a success,” said Elaine, doggedly.

“I’m with you.” Lance, lying sprawled out in a chair, spoke up encouragingly. “Have a crack at it, Elaine. In my opinion it’ll be a damned odd sort of school, but it’s what you want to do—you and Gerald. If you do lose your money you’ll at any rate have had the satisfaction of doing what you wanted to do.”

“Just what one might have expected you to say, Lance,” said Percival, acidly.

“I know, I know,” said Lance. “I’m the spendthrift prodigal son. But I still think I’ve had more fun out of life than you have, Percy, old boy.”

“It depends on what you call fun,” said Percival coldly. “Which brings us to your own plans, Lance. I suppose you’ll be off again back to Kenya—or Canada—or climbing Mount Everest or something fairly fantastic?”

“Now what makes you think that?” said Lance.

“Well, you’ve never had much use for a stay-at-home life in England, have you?”

“One changes as one gets older,” said Lance. “One settles down. D’you know, Percy my boy, I’m quite looking forward to having a crack at being a sober business man.”

“Do you mean. . . .”

“I mean I’m coming into the firm with you, old boy.” Lance grinned. “Oh, you’re the senior partner, of course. You’ve got the lion’s share. I’m only a very junior partner. But I have got a holding in it that gives me the right to be in on things, doesn’t it?”

“Well—yes—of course, if you put it that way. But I can assure you, my dear boy, you’ll be very, very bored.”

“I wonder now. I don’t believe I shall be bored.”

Percival frowned.

“You don’t seriously mean, Lance, that you’re coming into the business?”

“Having a finger in the pie? Yes, that’s exactly what I am doing.”

Percival shook his head.

“Things are in a very bad way, you know. You’ll find that out. It’s going to be about all we can do to pay out Elaine her share, if she insists on having it paid out.”

“There you are, Elaine,” said Lance. “You see how wise you were to insist on grabbing your money while it’s still there to grab.”

“Really, Lance,” Percival spoke angrily, “these jokes of yours are in bad taste.”

“I do think, Lance, you might be more careful what you say,” said Jennifer.

Sitting a little way away near the window, Pat studied them one by one. If this was what Lance had meant by twisting Percival’s tail, she could see that he was achieving his object. Percival’s neat impassivity was quite ruffled. He snapped again, angrily:

“Are you serious, Lance?”

“Dead serious.”

“It won’t work, you know. You’ll soon get fed up.”

“Not me. Think what a lovely change it’ll be for me. A city office, typists coming and going. I shall have a blonde secretary like Miss Grosvenor—is it Grosvenor? I suppose you’ve snaffled her. But I shall get one just like her. ‘Yes, Mr. Lancelot; no, Mr. Lancelot. Your tea, Mr. Lancelot.’ ”

“Oh, don’t play the fool,” snapped Percival.

“Why are you so angry, my dear brother? Don’t you look forward to having me sharing your city cares?”

“You haven’t the least conception of the mess everything’s in.”

“No. You’ll have to put me wise to all that.”

“First you’ve got to understand that for the last six months—no, more, a year, Father’s not been himself. He’s done the most incredibly foolish things, financially. Sold out good stock, acquired various wildcat holdings. Sometimes he’s really thrown away money hand over fist. Just, one might say, for the fun of spending it.”

“In fact,” said Lance, “it’s just as well for the family that he had taxine in his tea.”

“That’s a very ugly way of putting it, but in essence you’re quite right. It’s about the only thing that saved us from bankruptcy. But we shall have to be extremely conservative and go very cautiously for a bit.”

Lance shook his head.

“I don’t agree with you. Caution never does anyone any good. You must take a few risks, strike out. You must go for something big.”

“I don’t agree,” said Percy. “Caution and economy. Those are our watchwords.”

“Not mine,” said Lance.

“You’re only the junior partner, remember,” said Percival.

“All right, all right. But I’ve got a little say-so all the same.”

Percival walked up and down the room agitatedly.

“It’s no good, Lance. I’m fond of you and all that—”

“Are you?” Lance interpolated. Percival did not appear to hear him.

“. . . but I really don’t think we’re going to pull together at all. Our outlooks are totally different.”

“That may be an advantage,” said Lance.

“The only sensible thing,” said Percival, “is to dissolve the partnership.”

“You’re going to buy me out—is that the idea?”

“My dear boy, it’s the only sensible thing to do, with our ideas so different.”

“If you find it hard to pay Elaine out her legacy, how are you going to manage to pay me my share?”

“Well, I didn’t mean in cash,” said Percival. “We could—er—divide up the holdings.”

“With you keeping the gilt-edged and me taking the worst of the speculative off you, I suppose?”

“They seem to be what you prefer,” said Percival.

Lance grinned suddenly.

“You’re right in a way, Percy, old boy. But I can’t indulge my own taste entirely. I’ve got Pat here to think of.”

Both men looked towards her. Pat opened her mouth, then shut it again. Whatever game Lance was playing, it was best that she should not interfere. That Lance was driving at something special, she was quite sure, but she was still a little uncertain as to what his actual object was.

“Line ’em up, Percy,” said Lance, laughing. “Bogus Diamond Mines, Inaccessible Rubies, the Oil Concessions where no oil is. Do you think I’m quite as big a fool as I look?”

Percival said:

“Of course, some of these holdings are highly speculative, but remember, they may turn out immensely valuable.”

“Changed your tune, haven’t you?” said Lance, grinning. “Going to offer me father’s latest wildcat acquisition as well as the old Blackbird Mine and things of that kind. By the way, has the inspector been asking you about this Blackbird Mine?”

Percival frowned.

“Yes, he did. I can’t imagine what he wanted to know about it. I couldn’t tell him much. You and I were children at the time. I just remember vaguely that Father went out there and came back saying the whole thing was no good.”

“What was it—a gold mine?”

“I believe so. Father came back pretty certain that there was no gold there. And, mind you, he wasn’t the sort of man to be mistaken.”

“Who got him into it? A man called MacKenzie, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. MacKenzie died out there.”

“MacKenzie died out there,” said Lance thoughtfully. “Wasn’t there a terrific scene? I seem to remember . . . Mrs. MacKenzie, wasn’t it? Came here. Ranted and stormed at Father. Hurled down curses on his head. She accused him, if I remember rightly, of murdering her husband.”

“Really,” said Percival repressively. “I can’t recollect anything of the kind.”

“I remember it, though,” said Lance. “I was a good bit younger than you, of course. Perhaps that’s why it appealed to me. As a child it struck me as full of drama. Where was Blackbird? West Africa wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I must look up the concession sometime,” said Lance, “when I’m at the office.”

“You can be quite sure,” said Percival, “that Father made no mistake. If he came back saying there was no gold, there was no gold.”

“You’re probably right there,” said Lance. “Poor Mrs. MacKenzie. I wonder what happened to her and to those two kids she brought along. Funny—they must be grown-up by now.”

Chapter Twenty

At the Pinewood Private Sanatorium, Inspector Neele, sitting in the visitors’ parlour, was facing a grey-haired, elderly lady. Helen MacKenzie was sixty-three, though she looked younger. She had pale blue, rather vacant-looking eyes, and a weak, indeterminate chin. She had a long upper lip which occasionally twitched. She held a large book in her lap and was looking down at it as Inspector Neele talked to her. In Inspector Neele’s mind was the conversation he had just had with Dr. Crosbie, the head of the establishment.

“She’s a voluntary patient, of course,” said Dr. Crosbie, “not certified.”

“She’s not dangerous, then?”

“Oh, no. Most of the time she’s as sane to talk to as you or me. It’s one of her good periods now so that you’ll be able to have a perfectly normal conversation with her.”

Bearing this in mind, Inspector Neele started his first conversational essay.

“It’s very kind of you to see me, madam,” he said. “My name is Neele. I’ve come to see you about a Mr. Fortescue who has recently died. A Mr. Rex Fortescue. I expect you know the name.”

Mrs. MacKenzie’s eyes were fixed on her book. She said:

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Fortescue, madam. Mr. Rex Fortescue.”

“No,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “No. Certainly not.”

Inspector Neele was slightly taken aback. He wondered whether this was what Dr. Crosbie called being completely normal.

“I think, Mrs. MacKenzie, you knew him a good many years ago.”

“Not really,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “It was yesterday.”

“I see,” said Inspector Neele, falling back upon this formula rather uncertainly. “I believe,” he went on, “that you paid him a visit many years ago at his residence, Yewtree Lodge.”

“A very ostentatious house,” said Mrs. MacKenzie.

“Yes. Yes, you might call it that. He had been connected with your husband, I believe, over a certain mine in Africa. The Blackbird Mine, I believe it was called.”

“I have to read my book,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “There’s not much time and I have to read my book.”

“Yes, madam. Yes, I quite see that.” There was a pause, then Inspector Neele went on, “Mr. MacKenzie and Mr. Fortescue went out together to Africa to survey the mine.”

“It was my husband’s mine,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “He found it and staked a claim to it. He wanted money to capitalize it. He went to Rex Fortescue. If I’d been wiser, if I’d known more, I wouldn’t have let him do it.”

“No, I see that. As it was, they went out together to Africa, and there your husband died of fever.”

“I must read my book,” said Mrs. MacKenzie.

“Do you think Mr. Fortescue swindled your husband over the Blackbird Mine, Mrs. MacKenzie?”

Without raising her eyes from the book, Mrs. MacKenzie said:

“How stupid you are.”

“Yes, yes, I dare say . . . But you see it’s all a long time ago and making inquiries about a thing that is over a long time ago is rather difficult.”

“Who said it was over?”

“I see. You don’t think it is over?”

“No question is ever settled until it is settled right. Kipling said that. Nobody reads Kipling nowadays, but he was a great man.”

“Do you think the question will be settled right one of these days?”

“Rex Fortescue is dead, isn’t he? You said so.”

“He was poisoned,” said Inspector Neele.

Rather disconcertingly, Mrs. MacKenzie laughed.

“What nonsense,” she said, “he died of fever.”

“I’m talking about Mr. Rex Fortescue.”

“So am I.” She looked up suddenly and her pale blue eyes fixed his. “Come now,” she said, “he died in his bed, didn’t he? He died in his bed?”

“He died in St. Jude’s Hospital,” said Inspector Neele.

“Nobody knows where my husband died,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “Nobody knows how he died or where he was buried . . . All anyone knows is what Rex Fortescue said. And Rex Fortescue was a liar!”

“Do you think there may have been foul play?”

“Foul play, foul play, fowls lay eggs, don’t they?”

“You think that Rex Fortescue was responsible for your husband’s death?”

“I had an egg for breakfast this morning,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “Quite fresh, too. Surprising, isn’t it, when one thinks that it was thirty years ago?”

Neele drew a deep breath. It seemed unlikely that he was ever going to get anywhere at this rate, but he persevered.

“Somebody put dead blackbirds on Rex Fortescue’s desk about a month or two before he died.”

“That’s interesting. That’s very, very interesting.”

“Have you any idea, madam, who might have done that?”

“Ideas aren’t any help to one. One has to have action. I brought them up for that, you know, to take action.”

“You’re talking about your children?”

She nodded her head rapidly.

“Yes. Donald and Ruby. They were nine and seven and left without a father. I told them. I told them every day. I made them swear it every night.”

Inspector Neele leant forward.

“What did you make them swear?”

“That they’d kill him, of course.”

“I see.”

Inspector Neele spoke as though it was the most reasonable remark in the world.

“Did they?”

“Donald went to Dunkirk. He never came back. They sent me a wire saying he was dead: ‘Deeply regret killed in action.’ Action, you see, the wrong kind of action.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, madam. What about your daughter?”

“I haven’t got a daughter,” said Mrs. MacKenzie.

“You spoke of her just now,” said Neele. “Your daughter, Ruby.”

“Ruby. Yes, Ruby.” She leaned forward. “Do you know what I’ve done to Ruby?”

“No, madam. What have you done to her?”

She whispered suddenly:

“Look here at the Book.”

He saw then that what she was holding in her lap was a Bible. It was a very old Bible and as she opened it, on the front page, Inspector Neele saw that various names had been written. It was obviously a family Bible in which the old-fashioned custom had been continued of entering each new birth. Mrs. MacKenzie’s thin forefinger pointed to the two last names. “Donald MacKenzie” with the date of his birth, and “Ruby MacKenzie” with the date of hers. But a thick line was drawn through Ruby MacKenzie’s name.

“You see?” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “I struck her out of the Book. I cut her off forever! The Recording Angel won’t find her name there.”

“You cut her name out of the book? Now, why, madam?”

Mrs. MacKenzie looked at him cunningly.

“You know why,” she said.

“But I don’t. Really, madam, I don’t.”

“She didn’t keep faith. You know she didn’t keep faith.”

“Where is your daughter now, madam?”

“I’ve told you. I have no daughter. There isn’t such a person as Ruby MacKenzie any longer.”

“You mean she’s dead?”

“Dead?” The woman laughed suddenly. “It would be better for her if she were dead. Much better. Much, much better.” She sighed and turned restlessly in her seat. Then her manner reverting to a kind of formal courtesy, she said: “I’m so sorry, but really I’m afraid I can’t talk to you any longer. You see, the time is getting very short, and I must read my book.”

To Inspector Neele’s further remarks Mrs. MacKenzie returned no reply. She merely made a faint gesture of annoyance and continued to read her Bible with her finger following the line of the verse she was reading.

Neele got up and left. He had another brief interview with the superintendent.

“Do any of her relations come to see her?” he asked. “A daughter, for instance?”

“I believe a daughter did come to see her in my predecessor’s time, but her visit agitated the patient so much that he advised her not to come again. Since then everything is arranged through solicitors.”

“And you’ve no idea where this Ruby MacKenzie is now?”

The superintendent shook his head.

“No idea whatsoever.”

“You’ve no idea whether she’s married, for instance?”

“I don’t know, all I can do is to give you the address of the solicitors who deal with us.”

Inspector Neele had already tracked down those solicitors. They were unable, or said they were unable, to tell him anything. A trust fund had been established for Mrs. MacKenzie which they managed. These arrangements had been made some years previously and they had not seen Miss MacKenzie since.

Inspector Neele tried to get a description of Ruby MacKenzie but the results were not encouraging. So many relations came to visit patients that after a lapse of years they were bound to be remembered dimly, with the appearance of one mixed-up with the appearance of another. The matron who had been there for many years seemed to remember that Miss MacKenzie was small and dark. The only other nurse who had been there for any length of time recalled that she was heavily built and fair.

“So there we are, sir,” said Inspector Neele as he reported to the assistant commissioner. “There’s a whole crazy setup and it fits together. It must mean something.”

The AC nodded thoughtfully.

“The blackbirds in the pie tying up with the Blackbird Mine, rye in the dead man’s pocket, bread and honey with Adele Fortescue’s tea—(not that that is conclusive. After all, anyone might have had bread and honey for tea!) The third murder, that girl strangled with a stocking and a clothes-peg nipped onto her nose. Yes, crazy as the setup is, it certainly can’t be ignored.”

“Half a minute, sir,” said Inspector Neele.

“What is it?”

Neele was frowning.

“You know, what you’ve just said. It didn’t ring true. It was wrong somewhere.” He shook his head and sighed. “No. I can’t place it.”

Chapter Twenty-One

I

Lance and Pat wandered round the well-kept grounds surrounding Yewtree Lodge.

“I hope I’m not hurting your feelings, Lance,” Pat murmured, “if I say this is quite the nastiest garden I’ve ever been in.”

“It won’t hurt my feelings,” said Lance. “Is it? Really I don’t know. It seems to have three gardeners working on it very industriously.”

Pat said:

“Probably that’s what’s wrong with it. No expense spared, no signs of an individual taste. All the right rhododendrons and all the right bedding out done in the proper season, I expect.”

“Well, what would you put in an English garden, Pat, if you had one?”

“My garden,” said Pat, “would have hollyhocks, larkspurs and Canterbury bells, no bedding out and none of these horrible yews.”

She glanced up at the dark yew hedges, disparagingly.

“Association of ideas,” said Lance easily.

“There’s something awfully frightening about a poisoner,” said Pat. “I mean it must be a horrid, brooding revengeful mind.”

“So that’s how you see it? Funny! I just think of it as businesslike and cold-blooded.”

“I suppose one could look at it that way.” She resumed, with a slight shiver, “All the same, to do three murders . . . Whoever did it must be mad.”

“Yes,” said Lance, in a low voice. “I’m afraid so.” Then breaking out sharply, he said: “For God’s sake, Pat, do go away from here. Go back to London. Go down to Devonshire or up to the Lakes. Go to Stratford-on-Avon or go and look at the Norfolk Broads. The police wouldn’t mind your going—you had nothing to do with all this. You were in Paris when the old man was killed and in London when the other two died. I tell you it worries me to death to have you here.”

Pat paused a moment before saying quietly:

“You know who it is, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“But you think you know . . . That’s why you’re frightened for me . . . I wish you’d tell me.”

“I can’t tell you. I don’t know anything. But I wish to God you’d go away from here.”

“Darling,” said Pat. “I’m not going. I’m staying here. For better, for worse. That’s how I feel about it.” She added, with a sudden catch in her voice: “Only with me it’s always for worse.”

“What on earth do you mean, Pat?”

“I bring bad luck. That’s what I mean. I bring bad luck to anybody I come in contact with.”

“My dear adorable nitwit, you haven’t brought bad luck to me. Look how after I married you the old man sent for me to come home and make friends with him.”

“Yes, and what happened when you did come home? I tell you, I’m unlucky to people.”

“Look here, my sweet, you’ve got a thing about all this. It’s superstition, pure and simple.”

“I can’t help it. Some people do bring bad luck. I’m one of them.”

Lance took her by the shoulders and shook her violently. “You’re my Pat and to be married to you is the greatest luck in the world. So get that into your silly head.” Then, calming down, he said in a more sober voice: “But, seriously, Pat, do be very careful. If there is someone unhinged round here, I don’t want you to be the one who stops the bullet or drinks the henbane.”

“Or drinks the henbane as you say.”

“When I’m not around, stick to that old lady. What’s-her-name Marple. Why do you think Aunt Effie asked her to stay here?”

“Goodness knows why Aunt Effie does anything. Lance, how long are we going to stay here?”

Lance shrugged his shoulders.

“Difficult to say.”

“I don’t think,” said Pat, “that we’re really awfully welcome.” She hesitated as she spoke the words. “The house belongs to your brother now, I suppose? He doesn’t really want us here, does he?”

Lance chuckled suddenly.

“Not he, but he’s got to stick us for the present at any rate.”

“And afterwards? What are we going to do, Lance? Are we going back to East Africa or what?”

“Is that what you’d like to do, Pat?”

She nodded vigorously.

“That’s lucky,” said Lance, “because it’s what I’d like to do, too. I don’t take much to this country nowadays.”

Pat’s face brightened.

“How lovely. From what you said the other day, I was afraid you might want to stop here.”

A devilish glint appeared in Lance’s eyes.

“You’re to hold your tongue about our plans, Pat,” he said. “I have it in my mind to twist dear brother Percival’s tail a bit.”

“Oh, Lance, do be careful.”

“I’ll be careful, my sweet, but I don’t see why old Percy should get away with everything.”

II

With her head a little on one side looking like an amiable cockatoo, Miss Marple sat in the large drawing room listening to Mrs. Percival Fortescue. Miss Marple looked particularly incongruous in the drawing room. Her light spare figure was alien to the vast brocaded sofa in which she sat with its many-hued cushions strewn around her. Miss Marple sat very upright because she had been taught to use a backboard as a girl, and not to loll. In a large armchair beside her, dressed in elaborate black, was Mrs. Percival, talking away volubly at nineteen to the dozen. “Exactly,” thought Miss Marple, “like poor Mrs. Emmett, the bank manager’s wife.” She remembered how one day Mrs. Emmett had come to call and talk about the selling arrangements for Poppy Day, and how after the preliminary business had been settled, Mrs. Emmett had suddenly begun to talk and talk and talk. Mrs. Emmett occupied rather a difficult position in St. Mary Mead. She did not belong to the old guard of ladies in reduced circumstances who lived in neat houses around the church, and who knew intimately all the ramifications of the county families even though they might not be strictly county themselves. Mr. Emmett, the bank manager, had undeniably married beneath him and the result was that his wife was in a position of great loneliness since she could not, of course, associate with the wives of the trades people. Snobbery here raised its hideous head and marooned Mrs. Emmett on a permanent island of loneliness.

The necessity to talk grew upon Mrs. Emmett, and on that particular day it had burst its bounds, and Miss Marple had received the full flood of the torrent. She had been sorry for Mrs. Emmett then, and today she was rather sorry for Mrs. Percival Fortescue.

Mrs. Percival had had a lot of grievances to bear and the relief of airing them to a more or less total stranger was enormous.

“Of course I never want to complain,” said Mrs. Percival. “I’ve never been of the complaining kind. What I always say is that one must put up with things. What can’t be cured must be endured and I’m sure I’ve never said a word to anyone. It’s really difficult to know who I could have spoken to. In someways one is very isolated here—very isolated. It’s very convenient, of course, and a great saving of expense to have our own set of rooms in this house. But of course it’s not at all like having a place of your own. I’m sure you agree.”

Miss Marple said she agreed.

“Fortunately our new house is almost ready to move into. It is a question really of getting the painters and decorators out. These men are so slow. My husband, of course, has been quite satisfied living here. But then it’s different for a man. Don’t you agree?”

Miss Marple agreed that it was very different for a man. She could say this without a qualm as it was what she really believed. “The gentlemen” were, in Miss Marple’s mind, in a totally different category to her own sex. They required two eggs plus bacon for breakfast, three good nourishing meals a day and were never to be contradicted or argued with before dinner. Mrs. Percival went on.

“My husband, you see, is away all day in the city. When he comes home he’s just tired and wants to sit down and read. But I, on the contrary, am alone here all day with no congenial company at all. I’ve been perfectly comfortable and all that. Excellent food. But what I do feel one needs is a really pleasant social circle. The people round here are really not my kind. Part of them are what I call a flashy, bridge-playing lot. Not nice bridge. I like a hand at bridge myself as well as anyone, but of course, they’re all very rich down here. They play for enormously high stakes, and there’s a great deal of drinking. In fact, the sort of life that I call really fast society. Then, of course, there’s a sprinkling of—well, you can only call them old pussies who love to potter round with a trowel and do gardening.”

Miss Marple looked slightly guilty since she was herself an inveterate gardener.

“I don’t want to say anything against the dead,” resumed Mrs. Percy rapidly, “but there’s no doubt about it, Mr. Fortescue, my father-in-law, I mean, made a very foolish second marriage. My—well I can’t call her my mother-in-law, she was the same age as I am. The real truth of it is she was man-mad. Absolutely man-mad. And the way she spent money! My father-in-law was an absolute fool about her. Didn’t care what bills she ran up. It vexed Percy very much, very much indeed. Percy is always so careful about money matters. He hates waste. And then what with Mr. Fortescue being so peculiar and so bad tempered, flashing out in these terrible rages, spending money like water backing wildcat schemes. Well—it wasn’t at all nice.”

Miss Marple ventured upon making a remark.

“That must have worried your husband, too?”

“Oh, yes, it did. For the last year Percy’s been very worried indeed. It’s really made him quite different. His manner, you know, changed even towards me. Sometimes when I talked to him he used not to answer.” Mrs. Percy sighed, then went on: “Then Elaine, my sister-in-law, you know, she’s a very odd sort of girl. Very out of doors and all that. Not exactly unfriendly, but not sympathetic, you know. She never wanted to go to London and shop, or go to a matinée or anything of that kind. She wasn’t even interested in clothes.” Mrs. Percival sighed again and murmured: “But of course I don’t want to complain in any way.” A qualm of compunction came over her. She said, hurriedly: “You must think it most odd, talking to you like this when you are a comparative stranger. But really, what with all the strain and shock—I think really it’s the shock that matters most. Delayed shock. I feel so nervous, you know, that I really—well, I really must speak to someone. You remind me so much of a dear old lady, Miss Trefusis James. She fractured her femur when she was seventy-five. It was a very long business nursing her and we became great friends. She gave me a fox fur cape when I left and I did think it was kind of her.”

“I know just how you feel,” said Miss Marple.

And this again was true. Mrs. Percival’s husband was obviously bored by her and paid very little attention to her, and the poor woman had managed to make no local friends. Running up to London and shopping, matinées and a luxurious house to live in did not make up for the lack of humanity in her relations with her husband’s family.

“I hope it’s not rude of me to say so,” said Miss Marple in a gentle old lady’s voice, “but I really feel that the late Mr. Fortescue cannot have been a very nice man.”

“He wasn’t,” said his daughter-in-law. “Quite frankly my dear, between you and me, he was a detestable old man. I don’t wonder—I really don’t—that someone put him out of the way.”

“You’ve no idea at all who—” began Miss Marple and broke off. “Oh dear, perhaps this is a question I should not ask—not even an idea who—who—well, who it might have been?”

“Oh, I think it was that horrible man Crump,” said Mrs. Percival. “I’ve always disliked him very much. He’s got a manner, not really rude, you know, but yet it is rude. Impertinent, that’s more it.”

“Still, there would have to be a motive, I suppose.”

“I really don’t know that that sort of person requires much motive. I dare say Mr. Fortescue ticked him off about something, and I rather suspect that sometimes he drinks too much. But what I really think is that he’s a bit unbalanced, you know. Like that footman, or butler, whoever it was, who went round the house shooting everybody. Of course, to be quite honest with you, I did suspect that it was Adele who poisoned Mr. Fortescue. But now, of course, one can’t suspect that since she’s been poisoned herself. She may have accused Crump, you know. And then he lost his head and perhaps managed to put something in the sandwiches and Gladys saw him do it and so he killed her too—I think it’s really dangerous having him in the house at all. Oh dear, I wish I could get away, but I suppose these horrible policemen won’t let one do anything of the kind.” She leant forward impulsively and put a plump hand on Miss Marple’s arm. “Sometimes I feel I must get away—that if it doesn’t all stop soon I shall—I shall actually run away.”

She leant back studying Miss Marple’s face.

“But perhaps—that wouldn’t be wise?”

“No—I don’t think it would be very wise—the police could soon find you, you know.”

“Could they? Could they really? You think they’re clever enough for that?”

“It is very foolish to underestimate the police. Inspector Neele strikes me as a particularly intelligent man.”

“Oh! I thought he was rather stupid.”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“I can’t help feeling”—Jennifer Fortescue hesitated—“that it’s dangerous to stay here.”

“Dangerous for you, you mean?”

“Ye-es—well, yes—”

“Because of something you—know?”

Mrs. Percival seemed to take breath.

“Oh no—of course I don’t know anything. What should I know? It’s just—just that I’m nervous. That man Crump—”

But it was not, Miss Marple thought, of Crump that Mrs. Percival Fortescue was thinking—watching the clenching and unclenching of Jennifer’s hands. Miss Marple thought that for some reason Jennifer Fortescue was very badly frightened indeed.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was growing dark. Miss Marple had taken her knitting over to the window in the library. Looking out of the glass pane she saw Pat Fortescue walking up and down the terrace outside. Miss Marple unlatched the window and called through it.

“Come in, my dear. Do come in. I’m sure it’s much too cold and damp for you to be out there without a coat on.”

Pat obeyed the summons. She came in and shut the window and turned on two of the lamps.

“Yes,” she said, “it’s not a very nice afternoon.” She sat down on the sofa by Miss Marple. “What are you knitting?”

“Oh, just a little matinée coat, dear. For a baby, you know. I always say young mothers can’t have too many matinée coats for their babies. It’s the second size. I always knit the second size. Babies so soon grow out of the first size.”

Pat stretched out long legs towards the fire.

“It’s nice in here today,” she said. “With the fire and the lamps and you knitting things for babies. It all seems cosy and homely and like England ought to be.”

“It’s like England is,” said Miss Marple. “There are not so many Yewtree Lodges, my dear.”

“I think that’s a good thing,” said Pat. “I don’t believe this was ever a happy house. I don’t believe anybody was ever happy in it, in spite of all the money they spent and the things they had.”

“No,” Miss Marple agreed. “I shouldn’t say it had been a happy house.”

“I suppose Adele may have been happy,” said Pat. “I never met her, of course, so I don’t know, but Jennifer is pretty miserable and Elaine’s been eating her heart out over a young man whom she probably knows in her heart of hearts doesn’t care for her. Oh, how I want to get away from here!” She looked at Miss Marple and smiled suddenly. “D’you know,” she said, “that Lance told me to stick as close to you as I could. He seemed to think I should be safe that way.”

“Your husband’s no fool,” said Miss Marple.

“No. Lance isn’t a fool. At least, he is in someways. But I wish he’d tell me exactly what he’s afraid of. One thing seems clear enough. Somebody in this house is mad, and madness is always frightening because you don’t know how mad people’s minds will work. You don’t know what they’ll do next.”

“My poor child,” said Miss Marple.

“Oh, I’m all right, really. I ought to be tough enough by now.”

Miss Marple said gently:

“You’ve had a good deal of unhappiness, haven’t you, my dear?”

“Oh, I’ve had some very good times, too. I had a lovely childhood in Ireland, riding, hunting, and a great big, bare, draughty house with lots and lots of sun in it. If you’ve had a happy childhood, nobody can take that away from you, can they? It was afterwards—when I grew up—that things seemed always to go wrong. To begin with, I suppose, it was the war.”

“Your husband was a fighter pilot, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. We’d only been married about a month when Don was shot down.” She stared ahead of her into the fire. “I thought at first I wanted to die too. It seemed so unfair, so cruel. And yet—in the end—I almost began to see that it had been the best thing. Don was wonderful in the war. Brave and reckless and gay. He had all the qualities that are needed, wanted in a war. But I don’t believe, somehow, peace would have suited him. He had a kind of—oh, how shall I put it?—arrogant insubordination. He wouldn’t have fitted in or settled down. He’d have fought against things. He was—well, antisocial in a way. No, he wouldn’t have fitted in.”

“It’s wise of you to see that, my dear.” Miss Marple bent over her knitting, picked up a stitch, counted under her breath, “Three plain, two purl, slip one, knit two together,” and then said aloud: “And your second husband, my dear?”

“Freddy? Freddy shot himself.”

“Oh dear. How very sad. What a tragedy.”

“We were very happy together,” said Pat. “I began to realize, about two years after we were married, that Freddy wasn’t—well, wasn’t always straight. I began to find out the sort of things that were going on. But it didn’t seem to matter, between us two, that is. Because, you see, Freddy loved me and I loved him. I tried not to know what was going on. That was cowardly of me, I suppose, but I couldn’t have changed him you know. You can’t change people.”

“No,” said Miss Marple, “you can’t change people.”

“I’d taken him and loved him and married him for what he was, and I sort of felt that I just had to—put up with it. Then things went wrong and he couldn’t face it, and he shot himself. After he died I went out to Kenya to stay with some friends there. I couldn’t stop on in England and go on meeting all—all the old crowd that knew about it all. And out in Kenya I met Lance.” Her face changed and softened. She went on looking into the fire, and Miss Marple looked at her. Presently Pat turned her head and said: “Tell me, Miss Marple, what do you really think of Percival?”

“Well, I’ve not seen very much of him. Just at breakfast usually. That’s all. I don’t think he very much likes my being here.”

Pat laughed suddenly.

“He’s mean, you know. Terribly mean about money. Lance says he always was. Jennifer complains of it, too. Goes over the housekeeping accounts with Miss Dove. Complaining of every item. But Miss Dove manages to hold her own. She’s really rather a wonderful person. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, indeed. She reminds me of Mrs. Latimer in my own village, St. Mary Mead. She ran the WVS, you know, and the Girl Guides, and indeed, she ran practically everything there. It wasn’t for quite five years that we discovered that—oh, but I mustn’t gossip. Nothing is more boring than people talking to you about places and people whom you’ve never seen and know nothing about. You must forgive me, my dear.”

“Is St. Mary Mead a very nice village?”

“Well, I don’t know what you would call a nice village, my dear. It’s quite a pretty village. There are some nice people living in it and some extremely unpleasant people as well. Very curious things go on there just as in any other village. Human nature is much the same everywhere, is it not?”

“You go up and see Miss Ramsbottom a good deal, don’t you?” said Pat. “Now she really frightens me.”

“Frightens you? Why?”

“Because I think she’s crazy. I think she’s got religious mania. You don’t think she could be—really—mad, do you?”

“In what way, mad?”

“Oh, you know what I mean, Miss Marple, well enough. She sits up there and never goes out, and broods about sin. Well, she might have felt in the end that it was her mission in life to execute judgment.”

“Is that what your husband thinks?”

“I don’t know what Lance thinks. He won’t tell me. But I’m quite sure of one thing—that he believes that it’s someone who’s mad, and it’s someone in the family. Well, Percival’s sane enough, I should say. Jennifer’s just stupid and rather pathetic. She’s a bit nervy but that’s all, and Elaine is one of those queer, tempestuous, tense girls. She’s desperately in love with this young man of hers and she’ll never admit to herself for a moment that he’s marrying her for money?”

“You think he is marrying her for money?”

“Yes, I do. Don’t you think so?”

“I should say quite certainly,” said Miss Marple. “Like young Ellis who married Marion Bates, the rich ironmonger’s daughter. She was a very plain girl and absolutely besotted about him. However, it turned out quite well. People like young Ellis and this Gerald Wright are only really disagreeable when they’ve married a poor girl for love. They are so annoyed with themselves for doing it that they take it out on the girl. But if they marry a rich girl they continue to respect her.”

“I don’t see,” went on Pat, frowning, “how it can be anybody from outside. And so—and so that accounts for the atmosphere that is here. Everyone watching everybody else. Only something’s got to happen soon—”

“There won’t be anymore deaths,” said Miss Marple. “At least, I shouldn’t think so.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I am fairly sure. The murderer’s accomplished his purpose, you see.”

“His?”

“Well, his or her. One says his for convenience.”

“You say his or her purpose. What sort of purpose?”

Miss Marple shook her head—she was not yet quite sure herself.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I

Once again Miss Somers had just made tea in the typists’ room, and once again the kettle had not been boiling when Miss Somers poured the water onto the tea. History repeats itself. Miss Griffith, accepting her cup, thought to herself: “I really must speak to Mr. Percival about Somers. I’m sure we can do better. But with all this terrible business going on, one doesn’t like to bother him over office details.”

As so often before Miss Griffith said sharply:

“Water not boiling again, Somers,” and Miss Somers, going pink, replied in her usual formula:

“Oh, dear, I was sure it was boiling this time.”

Further developments on the same line were interrupted by the entrance of Lance Fortescue. He looked round him somewhat vaguely, and Miss Griffith jumped up, came forward to meet him.

“Mr. Lance,” she exclaimed.

He swung round towards her and his face lit up in a smile.

“Hallo. Why, it’s Miss Griffith.”

Miss Griffith was delighted. Eleven years since he had seen her and he knew her name. She said in a confused voice:

“Fancy your remembering.”

And Lance said easily, with all his charm to the fore:

“Of course I remember.”

A flicker of excitement was running round the typists’ room. Miss Somers’s troubles over the tea were forgotten. She was gaping at Lance with her mouth slightly open. Miss Bell gazed eagerly over the top of her typewriter and Miss Chase unobtrusively drew out her compact and powdered her nose. Lance Fortescue looked round him.

“So everything’s still going on just the same here,” he said.

“Not many changes, Mr. Lance. How brown you look and how well! I suppose you must have had a very interesting life abroad.”

“You could call it that,” said Lance, “but perhaps I am now going to try and have an interesting life in London.”

“You’re coming back here to the office?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, but how delightful.”

“You’ll find me very rusty,” said Lance. “You’ll have to show me all the ropes, Miss Griffith.”

Miss Griffith laughed delightedly.

“It will be very nice to have you back, Mr. Lance. Very nice indeed.”

Lance threw her an appreciative glance.

“That’s sweet of you,” he said, “that’s very sweet of you.”

“We never believed—none of us thought . . .” Miss Griffith broke off and flushed.

Lance patted her on the arm.

“You didn’t believe the devil was as black as he was painted? Well, perhaps he wasn’t. But that’s all old history now. There’s no good going back over it. The future’s the thing.” He added, “Is my brother here?”

“He’s in the inner office, I think.”

Lance nodded easily and passed on. In the anteroom to the inner sanctum a hard-faced woman of middle age rose behind a desk and said forbiddingly:

“Your name and business, please?”

Lance looked at her doubtfully.

“Are you—Miss Grosvenor?” he asked.

Miss Grosvenor had been described to him as a glamorous blonde. She had indeed appeared so in the pictures that had appeared in the newspapers reporting the inquest on Rex Fortescue. This, surely, could not be Miss Grosvenor.

“Miss Grosvenor left last week. I am Mrs. Hardcastle, Mr. Percival Fortescue’s personal secretary.”

“How like old Percy,” thought Lance. “To get rid of a glamorous blonde and take on a Gordon instead. I wonder why? Was it safety or was it because this one comes cheaper?” Aloud he said easily:

“I’m Lancelot Fortescue. You haven’t met me yet.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Lancelot,” Mrs. Hardcastle apologized, “this is the first time, I think, you’ve been to the office?”

“The first time but not the last,” said Lance, smiling.

He crossed the room and opened the door of what had been his father’s private office. Somewhat to his surprise it was not Percival who was sitting behind the desk there, but Inspector Neele. Inspector Neele looked up from a large wad of papers which he was sorting, and nodded his head.

“Good morning, Mr. Fortescue, you’ve come to take up your duties, I suppose.”

“So you’ve heard I decided to come into the firm?”

“Your brother told me so.”

“He did, did he? With enthusiasm?”

Inspector Neele endeavoured to conceal a smile.

“The enthusiasm was not marked,” he said gravely.

“Poor Percy,” commented Lance.

Inspector Neele looked at him curiously.

“Are you really going to become a City man?”

“You don’t think it’s likely, Inspector Neele?”

“It doesn’t seem quite in character, Mr. Fortescue.”

“Why not? I’m my father’s son.”

“And your mother’s.”

Lance shook his head.

“You haven’t got anything there, Inspector. My mother was a Victorian romantic. Her favourite reading was the Idylls of the King, as indeed you may have deduced from our curious Christian names. She was an invalid and always, I should imagine, out of touch with reality. I’m not like that at all. I have no sentiment, very little sense of romance and I’m a realist first and last.”

“People aren’t always what they think themselves to be,” Inspector Neele pointed out.

“No, I suppose that’s true,” said Lance.

He sat down in a chair and stretched his long legs out in his own characteristic fashion. He was smiling to himself. Then he said unexpectedly:

“You’re shrewder than my brother, Inspector.”

“In what way, Mr. Fortescue?”

“I’ve put the wind up Percy all right. He thinks I’m all set for the City life. He thinks he’s going to have my fingers fiddling about his pie. He thinks I’ll launch out and spend the firm’s money and try and embroil him in wildcat schemes. It would be almost worth doing just for the fun of it! Almost, but not quite. I couldn’t really stand an office life, Inspector. I like the open air and some possibilities of adventure. I’d stifle in a place like this.” He added quickly: “This is off the record, mind. Don’t give me away to Percy, will you?”

“I don’t suppose the subject will arise, Mr. Fortescue.”

“I must have my bit of fun with Percy,” said Lance. “I want to make him sweat a bit. I’ve got to get a bit of my own back.”

“That’s rather a curious phrase, Mr. Fortescue,” said Neele. “Your own back—for what?”

Lance shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, it’s old history now. Not worth going back over.”

“There was a little matter of a cheque, I understand, in the past. Would that be what you’re referring to?”

“How much you know, Inspector!”

“There was no question of prosecution, I understand,” said Neele. “Your father wouldn’t have done that.”

“No. He just kicked me out, that’s all.”

Inspector Neele eyed him speculatively, but it was not Lance Fortescue of whom he was thinking, but of Percival. The honest, industrious, parsimonious Percival. It seemed to him that wherever he got in the case he was always coming up against the enigma of Percival Fortescue, a man of whom everybody knew the outer aspects, but whose inner personality was much harder to gauge. One would have said from observing him a somewhat colourless and insignificant character, a man who had been very much under his father’s thumb. Percy Prim in fact, as the AC had once said. Neele was trying now, through Lance, to get at a closer appreciation of Percival’s personality. He murmured in a tentative manner:

“Your brother seems always to have been very much—well, how shall I put it—under your father’s thumb.”

“I wonder.” Lance seemed definitely to be considering the point. “I wonder. Yes, that would be the effect, I think, given. But I’m not sure that it was really the truth. It’s astonishing, you know, when I look back through life, to see how Percy always got his own way without seeming to do so, if you know what I mean.”

Yes, Inspector Neele thought, it was indeed astonishing. He sorted through the papers in front of him, fished out a letter and shoved it across the desk towards Lance.

“This is a letter you wrote last August, isn’t it, Mr. Fortescue?”

Lance took it, glanced at it and returned it.

“Yes,” he said, “I wrote it after I got back to Kenya last summer. Dad kept it, did he? Where was it—here in the office?”

“No, Mr. Fortescue, it was among your father’s papers in Yewtree Lodge.”

The inspector considered it speculatively as it lay on the desk in front of him. It was not a long letter.

Dear Dad,

I’ve talked things over with Pat and I agree to your proposition. It will take me a little time to get things fixed up here, say about the end of October or beginning of November. I’ll let you know nearer the time. I hope we’ll pull together better than we used to do. Anyway, I’ll do my best. I can’t say more. Look after yourself.

Yours, Lance.

“Where did you address this letter, Mr. Fortescue. To the office or Yewtree Lodge?”

Lance frowned in an effort of recollection.

“It’s difficult. I can’t remember. You see it’s almost three months now. The office, I think. Yes, I’m almost sure. Here to the office.” He paused a moment before asking with frank curiosity: “Why?”

“I wondered,” said Inspector Neele. “Your father did not put it on the file here among his private papers. He took it back with him to Yewtree Lodge, and I found it in his desk there. I wondered why he should have done that.”

Lance laughed.

“To keep it out of Percy’s way, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Inspector Neele, “it would seem so. Your brother, then, had access to your father’s private papers here?”

“Well,” Lance hesitated and frowned, “not exactly. I mean, I suppose he could have looked through them at any time if he liked, but he wouldn’t be. . . .”

Inspector Neele finished the sentence for him.

“Wouldn’t be supposed to do so?”

Lance grinned broadly. “That’s right. Frankly, it would have been snooping. But Percy, I should imagine, always did snoop.”

Inspector Neele nodded. He also thought it probable that Percival Fortescue snooped. It would be in keeping with what the inspector was beginning to learn of his character.

“And talk of the devil,” murmured Lance, as at that moment the door opened and Percival Fortescue came in. About to speak to the inspector he stopped, frowning, as he saw Lance.

“Hallo,” he said. “You here? You didn’t tell me you were coming here today.”

“I felt a kind of zeal for work coming over me,” said Lance, “so here I am ready to make myself useful. What do you want me to do?”

Percival said testily:

“Nothing at present. Nothing at all. We shall have to come to some kind of arrangement as to what side of the business you’re going to look after. We shall have to arrange for an office for you.”

Lance inquired with a grin:

“By the way, why did you get rid of glamorous Grosvenor, old boy, and replace her by Horsefaced Hetty out there?”

“Really, Lance,” Percival protested sharply.

“Definitely a change for the worse,” said Lance. “I’ve been looking forward to the glamorous Grosvenor. Why did you sack her? Thought she knew a bit too much?”

“Of course not. What an ideal!” Percy spoke angrily, a flush mounting his pale face. He turned to the inspector. “You mustn’t pay any attention to my brother,” he said coldly. “He has a rather peculiar sense of humour.” He added: “I never had a very high opinion of Miss Grosvenor’s intelligence. Mrs. Hardcastle has excellent references and is most capable besides being very moderate in her terms.”

“Very moderate in her terms,” murmured Lance, casting his eyes towards the ceiling. “You know, Percy, I don’t really approve of skimping over the office personnel. By the way, considering how loyalty the staff has stood by us during these last tragic weeks, don’t you think we ought to raise their salaries all round?”

“Certainly not,” snapped Percival Fortescue. “Quite uncalled for and unnecessary.”

Inspector Neele noticed the gleam of devilry in Lance’s eyes. Percival, however, was far too much upset to notice it.

“You always had the most extraordinary extravagant ideas,” he stuttered. “In the state in which this firm has been left, economy is our only hope.”

Inspector Neele coughed apologetically.

“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Fortescue,” he said to Percival.

“Yes, Inspector?” Percival switched his attention to Neele.

“I want to put certain suggestions before you, Mr. Fortescue. I understand that for the past six months or longer, possibly a year, your father’s general behaviour and conduct has been a source of increasing anxiety to you.”

“He wasn’t well,” said Percival, with finality. “He certainly wasn’t at all well.”

“You tried to induce him to see a doctor but you failed. He refused categorically?”

“That is so.”

“May I ask you if you suspected that your father was suffering from what is familiarly referred to as GPI, General Paralysis of the Insane, a condition with signs of megalomania and irritability which terminates sooner or later in hopeless insanity?”

Percival looked surprised. “It is remarkably astute of you, Inspector. That is exactly what I did fear. That is why I was so anxious for my father to submit to medical treatment.”

Neele went on:

“In the meantime, until you could persuade your father to do that, he was capable of causing a great deal of havoc to the business?”

“He certainly was,” Percival agreed.

“A very unfortunate state of affairs,” said the inspector.

“Quite terrible. No one knows the anxiety I have been through.”

Neele said gently:

“From the business point of view, your father’s death was an extremely fortunate circumstance.”

Percival said sharply:

“You can hardly think I would regard my father’s death in that light.”

“It is not a question of how you regard it, Mr. Fortescue. I’m speaking merely of a question of fact. Your father died before his finances were completely on the rocks.”

Percival said impatiently:

“Yes, yes. As a matter of actual fact, you are right.”

“It was a fortunate occurrence for your whole family, since they are dependent on this business.”

“Yes. But really, Inspector, I don’t see what you’re driving at . . .” Percival broke off.

“Oh, I’m not driving at anything, Mr. Fortescue,” said Neele. “I just like getting my facts straight. Now there’s another thing. I understood you to say that you’d had no communication of any kind with your brother here since he left England many years ago.”

“Quite so,” said Percival.

“Yes, but it isn’t quite so, is it, Mr. Fortescue? I mean that last spring when you were so worried about your father’s health, you actually wrote to your brother in Africa, told him of your anxiety about your father’s behaviour. You wanted, I think, your brother to combine with you in getting your father medically examined and put under restraint, if necessary.”

“I—I—really, I don’t see . . .” Percival was badly shaken.

“That is so, isn’t it, Mr. Fortescue?”

“Well, actually, I thought it only right. After all, Lancelot was a junior partner.”

Inspector Neele transferred his gaze to Lance. Lance was grinning.

“You received that letter?” Inspector Neele asked.

Lance Fortescue nodded.

“What did you reply to it?”

Lance’s grin widened.

“I told Percy to go and boil his head and to let the old man alone. I said the old man probably knew what he was doing quite well.”

Inspector Neele’s gaze went back again to Percival.

“Were those the terms of your brother’s answer?”

“I—I—well, I suppose roughly, yes. Far more offensively couched, however.”

“I thought the inspector had better have a bowdlerized version,” said Lance. He went on, “Frankly, Inspector Neele, that is one of the reasons why, when I got a letter from my father, I came home to see for myself what I thought. In the short interview I had with my father, frankly I couldn’t see anything much wrong with him. He was slightly excitable, that was all. He appeared to me perfectly capable of managing his own affairs. Anyway, after I got back to Africa and had talked things over with Pat, I decided that I’d come home and—what shall we say—see fair play.”

He shot a glance at Percival as he spoke.

“I object,” said Percival Fortescue. “I object strongly to what you are suggesting. I was not intending to victimize my father, I was concerned for his health. I admit that I was also concerned . . .” he paused.

Lance filled the pause quickly.

“You were also concerned for your pocket, eh? For Percy’s little pocket.” He got up and all of a sudden his manner changed. “All right, Percy, I’m through. I was going to string you along a bit by pretending to work here. I wasn’t going to let you have things all your own sweet way, but I’m damned if I’m going on with it. Frankly, it makes me sick to be in the same room with you. You’ve always been a dirty, mean little skunk all your life. Prying and snooping and lying and making trouble. I’ll tell you another thing. I can’t prove it, but I’ve always believed it was you who forged that cheque there was all the row about, that got me shot out of here. For one thing it was a damn bad forgery, a forgery that drew attention to itself in letters a foot high. My record was too bad for me to be able to protest effectively, but I often wondered that the old boy didn’t realize that if I had forged his name I could have made a much better job of it than that.”

Lance swept on, his voice rising. “Well, Percy, I’m not going on with this silly game. I’m sick of this country, and of the City. I’m sick of little men like you with their pinstripe trousers and their black coats and their mincing voices and their mean, shoddy financial deals. We’ll share out as you suggested, and I’ll get back with Pat to a different country—a country where there’s room to breathe and move about. You can make your own division of securities. Keep the gilt-edged and the conservative ones, keep the safe two percent and three percent and three and a half percent. Give me father’s latest wildcat speculations as you call them. Most of them are probably duds. But I’ll bet that one or two of them will pay better in the end than all your playing safe with three percent Trustee Stocks will do. Father was a shrewd old devil. He took chances, plenty of them. Some of those chances paid five and six and seven hundred percent. I’ll back his judgment and his luck. As for you, you little worm. . . .”

Lance advanced towards his brother, who retreated rapidly, round the end of the desk towards Inspector Neele.

“All right,” said Lance, “I’m not going to touch you. You wanted me out of here, you’re getting me out of here. You ought to be satisfied.”

He added as he strode towards the door:

“You can throw in the old Blackbird Mine concession too, if you like. If we’ve got the murdering MacKenzies on our trail, I’ll draw them off to Africa.”

He added as he swung through the doorway:

“Revenge—after all these years—scarcely seems credible. But Inspector Neele seems to take it seriously, don’t you, Inspector?”

“Nonsense,” said Percival. “Such a thing is impossible!”

“Ask him,” said Lance. “Ask him why he’s making all these inquiries into blackbirds and rye in father’s pocket.”

Gently stroking his upper lip, Inspector Neele said:

“You remember the blackbirds last summer, Mr. Fortescue. There are certain grounds for inquiry.”

“Nonsense,” said Percival again. “Nobody’s heard of the MacKenzies for years.”

“And yet,” said Lance, “I’d almost dare to swear that there’s a MacKenzie in our midst. I rather imagine the inspector thinks so, too.”

II

Inspector Neele caught up Lancelot Fortescue as the latter emerged into the street below.

Lance grinned at him rather sheepishly.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he said. “But I suddenly lost my temper. Oh! well—it would have come to the same before long. I’m meeting Pat at the Savoy—are you coming my way, Inspector?”

“No, I’m returning to Baydon Heath. But there’s just something I’d like to ask you, Mr. Fortescue.”

“Yes!”

“When you came into the inner office and saw me there—you were surprised. Why?”

“Because I didn’t expect to see you, I suppose. I thought I’d find Percy there.”

“You weren’t told that he’d gone out?”

Lance looked at him curiously.

“No. They said he was in his office.”

“I see—nobody knew he’d gone out. There’s no second door out of the inner office—but there is a door leading straight into the corridor from the little antechamber—I suppose your brother went out that way—but I’m surprised Mrs. Hardcastle didn’t tell you so.”

Lance laughed.

“She’d probably been to collect her cup of tea.”

“Yes—yes—quite so.”

Lance looked at him.

“What’s the idea, Inspector?”

“Just puzzling over a few little things, that’s all, Mr. Fortescue—”

Chapter Twenty-Four

I

In the train on the way down to Baydon Heath, Inspector Neele had singularly little success doing The Times crossword. His mind was distracted by various possibilities. In the same way he read the news with only half his brain taking it in. He read of an earthquake in Japan, of the discovery of uranium deposits in Tanganyika, of the body of a merchant seaman washed up near Southampton, and of the imminent strike among the dockers. He read of the latest victims of the cosh and of a new drug that had achieved wonders in advanced cases of tuberculosis.

All these items made a queer kind of pattern in the back of his mind. Presently he returned to the crossword puzzle and was able to put down three clues in rapid succession.

When he reached Yewtree Lodge he had come to a certain decision. He said to Sergeant Hay:

“Where’s that old lady? Is she still there?”

“Miss Marple? Oh, yes, she’s here still. Great buddies with the old lady upstairs.”

“I see.” Neele paused for a moment and then said: “Where is she now? I’d like to see her.”

Miss Marple arrived in a few minutes’ time, looking rather flushed and breathing fast.

“You want to see me, Inspector Neele? I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting. Sergeant Hay couldn’t find me at first. I was in the kitchen, talking to Mrs. Crump. I was congratulating her on her pastry and how light her hand is, and telling her how delicious the soufflé was last night. I always think, you know, it’s better to approach a subject gradually, don’t you? At least, I suppose it isn’t so easy for you. You more or less have to come almost straight away to the questions you want to ask. But of course for an old lady like me who has all the time in the world, as you might say, it’s really expected of her that there should be a great deal of unnecessary talk. And the way to a cook’s heart, as they say, is through her pastry.”

“What you really wanted to talk to her about,” said Inspector Neele, “was Gladys Martin?”

Miss Marple nodded.

“Yes. Gladys. You see, Mrs. Crump could really tell me a lot about the girl. Not in connection with the murder. I don’t mean that. But about her spirits lately and the odd things she said. I don’t mean odd in the sense of peculiar. I mean just the odds and ends of conversation.”

“Did you find it helpful?” asked Inspector Neele.

“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I found it very helpful indeed. I really think, you know, that things are becoming very much clearer, don’t you?”

“I do and I don’t,” said Inspector Neele.

Sergeant Hay, he noticed, had left the room. He was glad of it because what he was about to do now was, to say the least of it, slightly unorthodox.

“Look here, Miss Marple,” he said, “I want to talk to you seriously.”

“Yes, Inspector Neele?”

“In a way,” said Inspector Neele, “you and I represent different points of view. I admit, Miss Marple, that I’ve heard something about you at the Yard.” He smiled: “It seems you’re fairly well-known there.”

“I don’t know how it is,” fluttered Miss Marple, “but I so often seem to get mixed-up in the things that are really no concern of mine. Crimes, I mean, and peculiar happenings.”

“You’ve got a reputation,” said Inspector Neele.

“Sir Henry Clithering, of course,” said Miss Marple, “is a very old friend of mine.”

“As I said before,” Neele went on, “you and I represent opposite points of view. One might almost call them sanity and insanity.”

Miss Marple put her head a little on one side.

“Now what exactly do you mean by that, I wonder, Inspector?”

“Well, Miss Marple, there’s a sane way of looking at things. This murder benefits certain people. One person, I may say, in particular. The second murder benefits the same person. The third murder one might call a murder for safety.”

“But which do you call the third murder?” Miss Marple asked.

Her eyes, a very bright china blue, looked shrewdly at the inspector. He nodded.

“Yes. You’ve got something there perhaps. You know, the other day when the AC was speaking to me of these murders, something that he said seemed to me to be wrong. That was it. I was thinking, of course, of the nursery rhyme. The King in his counting-house, the Queen in the parlour and the maid hanging out the clothes.”

“Exactly,” said Miss Marple. “A sequence in that order, but actually Gladys must have been murdered before Mrs. Fortescue, mustn’t she?”

“I think so,” said Neele. “I take it it’s quite certainly so. Her body wasn’t discovered till late that night, and of course it was difficult then to say exactly how long she’d been dead. But I think myself that she must almost certainly have been murdered round about five o’clock, because otherwise. . . .”

Miss Marple cut in. “Because otherwise she would certainly have taken the second tray into the drawing room?”

“Quite so. She took one tray in with the tea on it, she brought the second tray into the hall, and then something happened. She saw something or heard something. The question is what that something was. It might have been Dubois coming down the stairs from Mrs. Fortescue’s room. It might have been Elaine Fortescue’s young man, Gerald Wright, coming in at the side door. Whoever it was lured her away from the tea tray and out into the garden. And once that had happened I don’t see any possibility of her death being long delayed. It was cold out and she was only wearing her thin uniform.”

“Of course you’re quite right,” said Miss Marple. “I mean it was never a case of ‘the maid was in the garden hanging up the clothes.’ She wouldn’t be hanging up clothes at that time of the evening and she wouldn’t go out to the clothesline without putting a coat on. That was all camouflage, like the clothes-peg, to make the thing fit in with the rhyme.”

“Exactly,” said Inspector Neele, “crazy. That’s where I can’t yet see eye to eye with you. I can’t—I simply can’t swallow this nursery rhyme business.”

“But it fits, Inspector. You must agree it fits.”

“It fits,” said Neele heavily, “but all the same the sequence is wrong. I mean the rhyme definitely suggests that the maid was the third murder. But we know that the Queen was the third murder. Adele Fortescue was not killed until between twenty-five past five and five minutes to six. By then Gladys must already have been dead.”

“And that’s all wrong, isn’t it?” said Miss Marple. “All wrong for the nursery rhyme—that’s very significant, isn’t it?”

Inspector Neele shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s probably splitting hairs. The deaths fulfil the conditions of the rhyme, and I suppose that’s all that was needed. But I’m talking now as though I were on your side. I’m going to outline my side of the case now, Miss Marple. I’m washing out the blackbirds and the rye and all the rest of it. I’m going by sober facts and common sense and the reasons for which sane people do murders. First, the death of Rex Fortescue, and who benefits by his death. Well, it benefits quite a lot of people, but most of all it benefits his son, Percival. His son Percival wasn’t at Yewtree Lodge that morning. He couldn’t have put poison in his father’s coffee or in anything that he ate for breakfast. Or that’s what we thought at first.”

“Ah,” Miss Marple’s eyes brightened. “So there was a method, was there? I’ve been thinking about it, you know, a good deal, and I’ve had several ideas. But of course no evidence or proof.”

“There’s no harm in my letting you know,” said Inspector Neele. “Taxine was added to a new jar of marmalade. That jar of marmalade was placed on the breakfast table and the top layer of it was eaten by Mr. Fortescue at breakfast. Later that jar of marmalade was thrown out into the bushes and a similar jar with a similar amount taken out of it was placed in the pantry. The jar in the bushes was found and I’ve just had the result of the analysis. It shows definite evidence of taxine.”

“So that was it,” murmured Miss Marple. “So simple and easy to do.”

“Consolidated Investments,” Neele went on, “was in a bad way. If the firm had had to pay out a hundred thousand pounds to Adele Fortescue under her husband’s will, it would, I think, have crashed. If Mrs. Fortescue had survived her husband for a month that money would have had to be paid out to her. She would have had no feeling for the firm or its difficulties. But she didn’t survive her husband for a month. She died, and as a result of her death the gainer was the residuary legatee of Rex Fortescue’s will. In other words, Percival Fortescue again.

“Always Percival Fortescue,” the inspector continued bitterly. “And though he could have tampered with the marmalade, he couldn’t have poisoned his stepmother or strangled Gladys. According to his secretary he was in his city office at five o’clock that afternoon, and he didn’t arrive back here until nearly seven.”

“That makes it very difficult, doesn’t it?” said Miss Marple.

“It makes it impossible,” said Inspector Neele gloomily. “In other words, Percival is out.” Abandoning restraint and prudence, he spoke with some bitterness, almost unaware of his listener. “Wherever I go, wherever I turn, I always come up against the same person. Percival Fortescue! Yet it can’t be Percival Fortescue.” Calming himself a little he said: “Oh, there are other possibilities, other people who had a perfectly good motive.”

“Mr. Dubois, of course,” said Miss Marple sharply. “And that young Mr. Wright. I do so agree with you, Inspector. Wherever there is a question of gain, one has to be very suspicious. The great thing to avoid is having in any way a trustful mind.”

In spite of himself, Neele smiled.

“Always think the worst, eh?” he asked.

It seemed a curious doctrine to be proceeding from this charming and fragile-looking old lady.

“Oh yes,” said Miss Marple fervently. “I always believe the worst. What is so sad is that one is usually justified in doing so.”

“All right,” said Neele, “let’s think the worst. Dubois could have done it, Gerald Wright could have done it (that is to say if he’d been acting in collusion with Elaine Fortescue and she tampered with the marmalade), Mrs. Percival could have done it, I suppose. She was on the spot. But none of the people I have mentioned tie up with the crazy angle. They don’t tie up with blackbirds and pockets full of rye. That’s your theory and it may be that you’re right. If so, it boils down to one person, doesn’t it? Mrs. MacKenzie’s in a mental home and has been for a good number of years. She hasn’t been messing about with marmalade pots or putting cyanide in the drawing room afternoon tea. Her son Donald was killed at Dunkirk. That leaves the daughter, Ruby MacKenzie. And if your theory is correct, if this whole series of murders arises out of the old Blackbird Mine business, then Ruby MacKenzie must be here in this house, and there’s only one person that Ruby MacKenzie could be.”

“I think, you know,” said Miss Marple, “that you’re being a little too dogmatic.”

Inspector Neele paid no attention.

“Just one person,” he said grimly.

He got up and went out of the room.

II

Mary Dove was in her sitting room. It was a small, rather austerely furnished room, but comfortable. That is to say Miss Dove herself had made it comfortable. When Inspector Neele tapped at the door Mary Dove raised her head, which had been bent over a pile of tradesmen’s books, and said in her clear voice:

“Come in.”

The inspector entered.

“Do sit down, Inspector.” Miss Dove indicated a chair. “Could you wait just one moment? The total of the fishmonger’s account does not seem to be correct and I must check it.”

Inspector Neele sat in silence watching her as she totted up the column. How wonderfully calm and self-possessed the girl was, he thought. He was intrigued, as so often before, by the personality that underlay that self-assured manner. He tried to trace in her features any resemblance to those of the woman he had talked to at the Pinewood Sanatorium. The colouring was not unlike, but he could detect no real facial resemblance. Presently Mary Dove raised her head from her accounts and said:

“Yes, Inspector? What can I do for you?”

Inspector Neele said quietly:

“You know, Miss Dove, there are certain very peculiar features about this case.”

“Yes?”

“To begin with there is the odd circumstance of the rye found in Mr. Fortescue’s pocket.”

“That was very extraordinary,” Mary Dove agreed. “You know I really cannot think of any explanation for that.”

“Then there is the curious circumstance of the blackbirds. Those four blackbirds on Mr. Fortescue’s desk last summer, and also the incident of the blackbirds being substituted for the veal and ham in the pie. You were here, I think, Miss Dove, at the time of both those occurrences?”

“Yes, I was. I remember now. It was most upsetting. It seemed such a very purposeless, spiteful thing to do, especially at the time.”

“Perhaps not entirely purposeless. What do you know, Miss Dove, about the Blackbird Mine?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the Blackbird Mine.”

“Your name, you told me, is Mary Dove. Is that your real name, Miss Dove?”

Mary raised her eyebrows. Inspector Neele was almost sure that a wary expression had come into her blue eyes.

“What an extraordinary question, Inspector. Are you suggesting that my name is not Mary Dove?”

“That is exactly what I am suggesting. I’m suggesting,” said Neele pleasantly, “that your name is Ruby MacKenzie.”

She stared at him. For a moment her face was entirely blank with neither protest on it nor surprise. There was, Inspector Neele thought, a very definite effect of calculation. After a minute or two she said in a quiet, colourless voice:

“What do you expect me to say?”

“Please answer me. Is your name Ruby MacKenzie?”

“I have told you my name is Mary Dove.”

“Yes, but have you proof of that, Miss Dove?”

“What do you want to see? My birth certificate?”

“That might be helpful or it might not. You might, I mean, be in possession of the birth certificate of a Mary Dove. That Mary Dove might be a friend of yours or might be someone who had died.”

“Yes, there are a lot of possibilities, aren’t there?” Amusement had crept back into Mary Dove’s voice. “It’s really quite a dilemma for you, isn’t it, Inspector?”

“They might possibly be able to recognize you at Pinewood Sanatorium,” said Neele.

“Pinewood Sanatorium!” Mary raised her eyebrow. “What or where is Pinewood Sanatorium?”

“I think you know very well, Miss Dove.”

“I assure you I am quite in the dark.”

“And you deny categorically that you are Ruby MacKenzie?”

“I shouldn’t really like to deny anything. I think, you know, Inspector, that it’s up to you to prove I am this Ruby MacKenzie, whoever she is.” There was a definite amusement now in her blue eyes, amusement and challenge. Looking him straight in the eyes, Mary Dove said, “Yes, it’s up to you, Inspector. Prove that I’m Ruby MacKenzie if you can.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

I

“The old tabby’s looking for you, sir,” said Sergeant Hay in a conspiratorial whisper, as Inspector Neele descended the stairs. “It appears as how she’s got a lot more to say to you.”

“Hell and damnation,” said Inspector Neele.

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Hay, not a muscle of his face moving.

He was about to move away when Neele called him back.

“Go over those notes given us by Miss Dove, Hay, notes as to her former employment and situations. Check up on them—and, yes, there are just one or two other things that I would like to know. Put these inquiries in hand, will you?”

He jotted down a few lines on a sheet of paper and gave them to Sergeant Hay, who said:

“I’ll get onto it at once, sir.”

Hearing a murmur of voices in the library as he passed, Inspector Neele looked in. Whether Miss Marple had been looking for him or not, she was now fully engaged talking to Mrs. Percival Fortescue while her knitting needles clicked busily. The middle of the sentence which Inspector Neele caught was:

“. . . I have really always thought it was a vocation you needed for nursing. It certainly is very noble work.”

Inspector Neele withdrew quietly. Miss Marple had noticed him, he thought, but she had taken no notice of his presence.

She went on in her gentle, soft voice:

“I had such a charming nurse looking after me when I once broke my wrist. She went on from me to nurse Mrs. Sparrow’s son, a very nice young naval officer. Quite a romance, really, because they became engaged. So romantic I thought it. They were married and were very happy and had two dear little children.” Miss Marple sighed sentimentally. “It was pneumonia, you know. So much depends on nursing in pneumonia, does it not.”

“Oh, yes,” said Jennifer Fortescue, “nursing is nearly everything in pneumonia, though of course nowadays M and B works wonders, and it’s not the long, protracted battle it used to be.”

“I’m sure you must have been an excellent nurse, my dear,” said Miss Marple. “That was the beginning of your romance, was it not? I mean you came here to nurse Mr. Percival Fortescue, did you not?”

“Yes,” said Jennifer. “Yes, yes—that’s how it did happen.”

Her voice was not encouraging, but Miss Marple seemed to take no notice.

“I understand. One should not listen to servants’ gossip, of course, but I’m afraid an old lady like myself is always interested to hear about the people in the house. Now what was I saying? Oh, yes. There was another nurse at first, was there not, and she got sent away—something like that. Carelessness, I believe.”

“I don’t think it was carelessness,” said Jennifer. “I believe her father or something was desperately ill, and so I came to replace her.”

“I see,” said Miss Marple. “And you fell in love and that was that. Yes, very nice indeed, very nice.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Jennifer Fortescue. “I often wish”—her voice trembled—“I often wish I was back in the wards again.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. You were keen on your profession.”

“I wasn’t so much at the time, but now when I think of it—life’s so monotonous, you know. Day after day with nothing to do, and Val so absorbed in business.”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“Gentlemen have to work so hard nowadays,” she said. “There really doesn’t seem any leisure, no matter how much money there is.”

“Yes, it makes it very lonely and dull for a wife sometimes. I often wish I’d never come here,” said Jennifer. “Oh, well, I dare say it serves me right. I ought never to have done it.”

“Ought never to have done what, my dear?”

“I ought never to have married Val. Oh, well—” she sighed abruptly. “Don’t let’s talk of it anymore.”

Obligingly Miss Marple began to talk about the new skirts that were being worn in Paris.

II

“So kind of you not to interrupt just now,” said Miss Marple when, having tapped at the door of the study, Inspector Neele had told her to come in. “There were just one or two little points, you know, that I wanted to verify.” She added reproachfully: “We didn’t really finish our talk just now.”

“I’m so sorry, Miss Marple.” Inspector Neele summoned up a charming smile. “I’m afraid I was rather rude. I summoned you to a consultation and did all the talking myself.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right,” said Miss Marple immediately, “because, you see, I wasn’t really quite ready then to put all my cards on the table. I mean I wouldn’t like to make any accusation unless I was absolutely sure about it. Sure, that is, in my own mind. And I am sure, now.”

“You’re sure about what, Miss Marple?”

“Well, certainly about who killed Mr. Fortescue. What you told me about the marmalade, I mean, just clinches the matter. Showing how, I mean, as well as who, and well within the mental capacity.”

Inspector Neele blinked a little.

“I’m so sorry,” said Miss Marple, perceiving this reaction on his part, “I’m afraid I find it difficult sometimes to make myself perfectly clear.”

“I’m not quite sure yet, Miss Marple, what we’re talking about.”

“Well, perhaps,” said Miss Marple, “we’d better begin all over again. I mean if you could spare the time. I would rather like to put my own point of view before you. You see, I’ve talked a good deal to people, to old Miss Ramsbottom and to Mrs. Crump and to her husband. He, of course, is a liar, but that doesn’t really matter because, if you know liars are liars, it comes to the same thing. But I did want to get the telephone calls clear and the nylon stockings and all that.”

Inspector Neele blinked again and wondered what he had let himself in for and why he had ever thought that Miss Marple might be a desirable and clearheaded colleague. Still, he thought to himself, however muddleheaded she was, she might have picked up some useful bits of information. All Inspector Neele’s success in his profession had come from listening well. He was prepared to listen now.

“Please tell me all about it, Miss Marple,” he said, “but start at the beginning, won’t you.”

“Yes, of course,” said Miss Marple, “and the beginning is Gladys. I mean I came here because of Gladys. And you very kindly let me look through all her things. And what with that and the nylon stockings and the telephone calls and one thing and another, it did come out perfectly clear. I mean about Mr. Fortescue and the taxine.”

“You have a theory?” asked Inspector Neele, “as to who put the taxine into Mr. Fortescue’s marmalade.”

“It isn’t a theory,” said Miss Marple. “I know.”

For the third time Inspector Neele blinked.

“It was Gladys, of course,” said Miss Marple.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Inspector Neele stared at Miss Marple and slowly shook his head.

“Are you saying,” he said incredulously, “that Gladys Martin deliberately murdered Rex Fortescue? I’m sorry, Miss Marple, but I simply don’t believe it.”

“No, of course she didn’t mean to murder him,” said Miss Marple, “but she did it all the same! You said yourself that she was nervous and upset when you questioned her. And that she looked guilty.”

“Yes, but not guilty of murder.”

“Oh, no, I agree. As I say, she didn’t mean to murder anybody, but she put the taxine in the marmalade. She didn’t think it was poison, of course.”

“What did she think it was?” Inspector Neele’s voice still sounded incredulous.

“I rather imagine she thought it was a truth drug,” said Miss Marple. “It’s very interesting, you know, and very instructive—the things these girls cut out of papers and keep. It’s always been the same, you know, all through the ages. Recipes for beauty, for attracting the man you love. And witchcraft and charms and marvellous happenings. Nowadays they’re mostly lumped together under the heading of Science. Nobody believes in magicians anymore, nobody believes that anyone can come along and wave a wand and turn you into a frog. But if you read in the paper that by injecting certain glands scientists can alter your vital tissues and you’ll develop froglike characteristics, well, everybody would believe that. And having read in the papers about truth drugs, of course Gladys would believe it absolutely when he told her that that’s what it was.”

“When who told her?” said Inspector Neele.

“Albert Evans,” said Miss Marple. “Not of course that that is really his name. But anyway he met her last summer at a holiday camp, and he flattered her up and made love to her, and I should imagine told her some story of injustice or persecution, or something like that. Anyway, the point was that Rex Fortescue had to be made to confess what he had done and make restitution. I don’t know this, of course, Inspector Neele, but I’m pretty sure about it. He got her to take a post here, and it’s really very easy nowadays with the shortage of domestic staff, to obtain a post where you want one. Staffs are changing the whole time. They then arranged a date together. You remember on that last postcard he said: ‘Remember our date.’ That was to be the great day they were working for. Gladys would put the drug that he gave her into the top of the marmalade, so that Mr. Fortescue would eat it at breakfast and she would also put the rye in his pocket. I don’t know what story he told her to account for the rye, but as I told you from the beginning, Inspector Neele, Gladys Martin was a very credulous girl. In fact, there’s hardly anything she wouldn’t believe if a personable young man put it to her the right way.”

“Go on,” said Inspector Neele in a dazed voice.

“The idea probably was,” continued Miss Marple, “that Albert was going to call upon him at the office that day, and that by that time the truth drug would have worked, and that Mr. Fortescue would have confessed everything and so on and so on. You can imagine the poor girl’s feelings when she heard that Mr. Fortescue was dead.”

“But, surely,” Inspector Neele objected, “she would have told?”

Miss Marple asked sharply:

“What was the first thing she said to you when you questioned her?”

“She said: ‘I didn’t do it,’ ” Inspector Neele said.

“Exactly,” said Miss Marple, triumphantly. “Don’t you see that’s exactly what she would say? If she broke an ornament, you know, Gladys would always say: ‘I didn’t do it, Miss Marple. I can’t think how it happened.’ They can’t help it, poor dears. They’re very upset at what they’ve done and their great idea is to avoid blame. You don’t think that a nervous young woman who had murdered someone when she didn’t mean to murder him is going to admit it, do you? That would have been quite out of character.”

“Yes,” Neele said, “I suppose it would.”

He ran his mind back over his interview with Gladys. Nervous, upset, guilty, shifty-eyed, all those things. They might have had a small significance, or a big one. He could not really blame himself for having failed to come to the right conclusion.

“Her first idea, as I say,” went on Miss Marple, “would be to deny it all. Then in a confused way she would try to sort it all out in her mind. Perhaps Albert hadn’t known how strong the stuff was, or he’d made a mistake and given her too much of it. She’d think of excuses for him and explanations. She’d hope he’d get in touch with her, which, of course, he did. By telephone.”

“Do you know that?” asked Neele sharply.

Miss Marple shook her head.

“No. I admit I’m assuming it. But there were unexplained calls that day. That is to say, people rang up and, when Crump or Mrs. Crump answered, the phone was hung up. That’s what he’d do, you know. Ring up and wait until Gladys answered the phone, and then he’d make an appointment with her to meet him.”

“I see,” said Neele. “You mean she had an appointment to meet him on the day she died.”

Miss Marple nodded vigorously.

“Yes, that was indicated. Mrs. Crump was right about one thing. The girl had on her best nylon stockings and her good shoes. She was going to meet someone. Only she wasn’t going out to meet him. He was coming to Yewtree Lodge. That’s why she was on the look out that day and flustered and late with tea. Then, as she brought the second tray into the hall, I think she looked along the passage to the side door, and saw him there, beckoning to her. She put the tray down and went out to meet him.”

“And then he strangled her,” said Neele.

Miss Marple pursed her lips together. “It would only take a minute,” she said, “but he couldn’t risk her talking. She had to die, poor, silly, credulous girl. And then—he put a clothes-peg on her nose!” Stern anger vibrated the old lady’s voice. ‘To make it fit in with the rhyme. The rye, the blackbirds, the countinghouse, the bread and honey, and the clothes-peg—the nearest he could get to a little dickey bird that nipped off her nose—”

“And I suppose at the end of it all he’ll go to Broadmoor and we shan’t be able to hang him because he’s crazy!” said Neele slowly.

“I think you’ll hang him all right,” said Miss Marple. “And he’s not crazy, Inspector, not for a moment!”

Inspector Neele looked hard at her.

“Now see here, Miss Marple, you’ve outlined a theory to me. Yes—yes—although you say you know, it’s only a theory. You’re saying that a man is responsible for these crimes, who called himself Albert Evans, who picked up the girl Gladys at a holiday camp and used her for his own purposes. This Albert Evans was someone who wanted revenge for the old Blackbird Mine business. You’re suggesting, aren’t you, that Mrs. MacKenzie’s son, Don MacKenzie, didn’t die at Dunkirk. That he’s still alive, that he’s behind all this?”

But to Inspector Neele’s surprise, Miss Marple was shaking her head violently.

“Oh no!” she said, “oh no! I’m not suggesting that at all. Don’t you see, Inspector Neele, all this blackbird business is really a complete fake. It was used, that was all, used by somebody who heard about the blackbirds—the ones in the library and in the pie. The blackbirds were genuine enough. They were put there by someone who knew about the old business, who wanted revenge for it. But only the revenge of trying to frighten Mr. Fortescue or to make him uncomfortable. I don’t believe, you know, Inspector Neele, that children can really be brought up and taught to wait and brood and carry out revenge. Children, after all, have got a lot of sense. But anyone whose father had been swindled and perhaps left to die might be willing to play a malicious trick on the person who was supposed to have done it. That’s what happened, I think. And the killer used it.”

“The killer,” said Inspector Neele. “Come now, Miss Marple, let’s have your ideas about the killer. Who was he?”

“You won’t be surprised,” said Miss Marple. “Not really. Because you’ll see, as soon as I tell you who he is, or rather who I think he is, for one must be accurate must one not?—you’ll see that he’s just the type of person who would commit these murders. He’s sane, brilliant and quite unscrupulous. And he did it, of course, for money, probably for a good deal of money.”

“Percival Fortescue?” Inspector Neele spoke almost imploringly, but he knew as he spoke that he was wrong. The picture of the man that Miss Marple had built up for him had no resemblance to Percival Fortescue.

“Oh, no,” said Miss Marple. “Not Percival. Lance.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I

“It’s impossible,” said Inspector Neele.

He leaned back in his chair and watched Miss Marple with fascinated eyes. As Miss Marple had said, he was not surprised. His words were a denial, not of probability, but of possibility. Lance Fortescue fitted the description: Miss Marple had outlined it well enough. But Inspector Neele simply could not see how Lance could be the answer.

Miss Marple leaned forward in her chair and gently, persuasively, and rather in the manner of someone explaining the simple facts of arithmetic to a small child, outlined her theory.

“He’s always been like that, you see. I mean, he’s always been bad. Bad all through, although with it he’s always been attractive. Especially attractive to women. He’s got a brilliant mind and he’ll take risks. He’s always taken risks and because of his charm people have always believed the best and not the worst about him. He came home in the summer to see his father. I don’t believe for a moment that his father wrote to him or sent for him—unless, of course, you’ve got actual evidence to that effect.” She paused inquiringly.

Neele shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’ve no evidence of his father sending for him. I’ve got a letter that Lance is supposed to have written to him after being here. But Lance could quite easily have slipped that among his father’s papers in the study here the day he arrived.”

“Sharp of him,” said Miss Marple, nodding her head. “Well, as I say, he probably flew over here and attempted a reconciliation with his father, but Mr. Fortescue wouldn’t have it. You see, Lance had recently got married and the small pittance he was living on, and which he had doubtless been supplementing in various dishonest ways, was not enough for him anymore. He was very much in love with Pat (who is a dear, sweet girl) and he wanted a respectable, settled life with her—nothing shifty. And that, from his point of view, meant having a lot of money. When he was at Yewtree Lodge he must have heard about these blackbirds. Perhaps his father mentioned them. Perhaps Adele did. He jumped to the conclusion that MacKenzie’s daughter was established in the house and it occurred to him that she would make a very good scapegoat for murder. Because, you see, when he realized that he couldn’t get his father to do what he wanted, he must have cold-bloodedly decided that murder it would have to be. He may have realized that his father wasn’t—er, very well—and have feared that by the time his father died there would have been a complete crash.”

“He knew about his father’s health all right,” said the inspector.

“Ah—that explains a good deal. Perhaps the coincidence of his father’s Christian name being Rex together with the blackbird incident suggested the idea of the nursery rhyme. Make a crazy business of the whole thing—and tie it up with that old revenge threat of the MacKenzies. Then, you see, he could dispose of Adele, too, and that hundred thousand pounds going out of the firm. But there would have to be a third character, the ‘maid in the garden hanging up the clothes’—and I suppose that suggested the whole wicked plan to him. An innocent accomplice whom he could silence before she could talk. And that would give him what he wanted—a genuine alibi for the first murder. The rest was easy. He arrived here from the station just before five o’clock, which was the time when Gladys brought the second tray into the hall. He came to the side door, saw her and beckoned to her. Strangling her and carrying her body round the house to where the clotheslines were would only have taken three or four minutes. Then he rang the front doorbell, was admitted to the house, and joined the family for tea. After tea he went up to see Miss Ramsbottom. When he came down, he slipped into the drawing room, found Adele alone there drinking a last cup of tea and sat down by her on the sofa, and while he was talking to her, he managed to slip the cyanide into her tea. It wouldn’t be difficult, you know. A little piece of white stuff, like sugar. He might have stretched out his hand to the sugar basin and taken a lump and apparently dropped it into her cup. He’d laugh and say: ‘Look, I’ve dropped more sugar into your tea.’ She’d say she didn’t mind, stir it and drink it. It would be as easy and audacious as that. Yes, he’s an audacious fellow.”

Inspector Neele said slowly:

“It’s actually possible—yes. But I cannot see—really, Miss Marple, I cannot see—what he stood to gain by it. Granted that unless old Fortescue died the business would soon be on the rocks, is Lance’s share big enough to cause him to plan three murders? I don’t think so. I really don’t think so.”

“That is a little difficult,” admitted Miss Marple. “Yes, I agree with you. That does present difficulties. I suppose . . .” She hesitated, looking at the inspector. “I suppose—I am so very ignorant in financial matters—but I suppose it is really true that the Blackbird Mine is worthless?”

Neele reflected. Various scraps fitted together in his mind. Lance’s willingness to take the various speculative or worthless shares off Percival’s hands. His parting words today in London that Percival had better get rid of the Blackbird and its hoodoo. A gold mine. A worthless gold mine. But perhaps the mine had not been worthless. And yet, somehow, that seemed unlikely. Old Rex Fortescue was hardly likely to have made a mistake on that point, although of course there might have been soundings recently. Where was the mine? West Africa, Lance had said. Yes but somebody else—was it Miss Ramsbottom—had said it was in East Africa. Had Lance been deliberately misleading when he said West instead of East? Miss Ramsbottom was old and forgetful, and yet she might have been right and not Lance. East Africa. Lance had just come from East Africa. Had he perhaps some recent knowledge?

Suddenly with a click another piece fitted into the inspector’s puzzle. Sitting in the train, reading The Times. Uranium deposits found in Tanganyika. Supposing that the uranium deposits were on the site of the old Blackbird? That would explain everything. Lance had come to have knowledge of that, being on the spot, and with uranium deposits there, there was a fortune to be grasped. An enormous fortune! He sighed. He looked at Miss Marple.

“How do you think,” he asked reproachfully, “that I’m ever going to be able to prove all this?”

Miss Marple nodded at him encouragingly, as an aunt might have encouraged a bright nephew who was going in for a scholarship exam.

“You’ll prove it,” she said. “You’re a very, very clever man, Inspector Neele. I’ve seen that from the first. Now you know who it is you ought to be able to get the evidence. At that holiday camp, for instance, they’ll recognize his photograph. He’ll find it hard to explain why he stayed there for a week calling himself Albert Evans.”

Yes, Inspector Neele thought, Lance Fortescue was brilliant and unscrupulous—but he was foolhardy, too. The risks he took were just a little too great.

Neele thought to himself, “I’ll get him!” Then, doubt sweeping over him, he looked at Miss Marple.

“It’s all pure assumption, you know,” he said.

“Yes—but you are sure, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so. After all, I’ve known his kind before.”

The old lady nodded.

“Yes—that matters so much—that’s really why I’m sure.”

Neele looked at her playfully.

“Because of your knowledge of criminals.”

“Oh no—of course not. Because of Pat—a dear girl—and the kind that always marries a bad lot—that’s really what drew my attention to him at the start—”

“I may be sure—in my own mind,” said the inspector, “but there’s a lot that needs explaining—the Ruby MacKenzie business for instance. I could swear that—”

Miss Marple interrupted:

“And you’re quite right. But you’ve been thinking of the wrong person. Go and talk to Mrs. Percy.”

II

“Mrs. Fortescue,” said Inspector Neele, “do you mind telling me your name before you were married.”

“Oh!” Jennifer gasped. She looked frightened.

“You needn’t be nervous, madam,” said Inspector Neele, “but it’s much better to come out with the truth. I’m right, I think, in saying that your name before you were married was Ruby MacKenzie?”

“My—well, oh well—oh dear—well, why shouldn’t it be?” said Mrs. Percival Fortescue.

“No reason at all,” said Inspector Neele gently, and added: “I was talking to your mother a few days ago at Pinewood Sanatorium.”

“She’s very angry with me,” said Jennifer. “I never go and see her now because it only upsets her. Poor Mumsy, she was so devoted to Dad, you know.”

“And she brought you up to have very melodramatic ideas of revenge?”

“Yes,” said Jennifer. “She kept making us swear on the Bible that we’d never forget and that we’d kill him one day. Of course, once I’d gone into hospital and started my training, I began to realize that her mental balance wasn’t what it should be.”

“You yourself must have felt revengeful though, Mrs. Fortescue?”

“Well, of course I did. Rex Fortescue practically murdered my father! I don’t mean he actually shot him, or knifed him or anything like that. But I’m quite certain that he did leave Father to die. That’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“It’s the same thing morally—yes.”

“So I did want to pay him back,” said Jennifer. “When a friend of mine came to nurse his son I got her to leave and to propose my replacing her. I don’t know exactly what I meant to do . . . I didn’t, really I didn’t, Inspector, I never meant to kill Mr. Fortescue. I had some idea, I think, of nursing his son so badly that the son would die. But of course, if you are a nurse by profession you can’t do that sort of thing. Actually I had quite a job pulling Val through. And then he got fond of me and asked me to marry him and I thought, ‘Well, really that’s a far more sensible revenge than anything else.” I mean, to marry Mr. Fortescue’s eldest son and get the money he swindled Father out of back that way. I think it was a far more sensible way.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Inspector Neele, “far more sensible.” He added, “It was you, I suppose, who put the blackbirds on the desk and in the pie?”

Mrs. Percival flushed.

“Yes. I suppose it was silly of me really . . . But Mr. Fortescue had been talking about suckers one day and boasting of how he’d swindled people—got the best of them. Oh, in quite a legal way. And I thought I’d just like to give him—well, a kind of fright. And it did give him a fright! He was awfully upset.” She added anxiously, “But I didn’t do anything else! I didn’t really, Inspector. You don’t—you don’t honestly think I would murder anyone, do you?”

Inspector Neele smiled.

“No,” he said, “I don’t.” He added: “By the way, have you given Miss Dove any money lately?”

Jennifer’s jaw dropped.

“How did you know?”

“We know a lot of things,” said Inspector Neele and added to himself: “And guess a good many, too.”

Jennifer continued, speaking rapidly:

“She came to me and said that you’d accused her of being Ruby MacKenzie. She said if I’d get hold of five hundred pounds she’d let you go on thinking so. She said if you knew that I was Ruby MacKenzie, I’d be suspected of murdering Mr. Fortescue and my stepmother. I had an awful job getting the money, because of course I couldn’t tell Percival. He doesn’t know about me. I had to sell my diamond engagement ring and a very beautiful necklace Mr. Fortescue gave me.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Percival,” said Inspector Neele, “I think we can get your money back for you.”

III

It was on the following day that Inspector Neele had another interview with Miss Mary Dove.

“I wonder, Miss Dove,” he said, “if you’d give me a cheque for five hundred pounds payable to Mrs. Percival Fortescue.”

He had the pleasure of seeing Mary Dove lose countenance for once.

“The silly fool told you, I suppose,” she said.

“Yes. Blackmail, Miss Dove, is rather a serious charge.”

“It wasn’t exactly blackmail, Inspector. I think you’d find it hard to make out a case of blackmail against me. I was just doing Mrs. Percival a special service to oblige her.”

“Well, if you’ll give me that cheque, Miss Dove, we’ll leave it like that.”

Mary Dove got her cheque book and took out her fountain pen.

“It’s very annoying,” she said with a sigh. “I’m particularly hard up at the moment.”

“You’ll be looking for another job soon, I suppose?”

“Yes. This one hasn’t turned out quite according to plan. It’s all been very unfortunate from my point of view.”

Inspector Neele agreed.

“Yes, it put you in rather a difficult position, didn’t it? I mean, it was quite likely that at any moment we might have to look into your antecedents.”

Mary Dove, cool once more, allowed her eyebrows to rise.

“Really, Inspector, my past is quite blameless, I assure you.”

“Yes, it is,” Inspector Neele agreed, cheerfully. “We’ve nothing against you at all, Miss Dove. It’s a curious coincidence, though, that in the last three places which you have filled so admirably, there have happened to be robberies about three months after you left. The thieves have seemed remarkably well-informed as to where mink coats, jewels, etc., were kept. Curious coincidence, isn’t it?”

“Coincidences do happen, Inspector.”

“Oh, yes,” said Neele. “They happen. But they mustn’t happen too often, Miss Dove. I dare say,” he added, “that we may meet again in the future.”

“I hope”—said Mary Dove—“I don’t mean to be rude, Inspector Neele—but I hope we don’t.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I

Miss Marple smoothed over the top of her suitcase, tucked in an end of woolly shawl and shut the lid down. She looked round her bedroom. No, she had left nothing behind. Crump came in to fetch down her luggage. Miss Marple went into the next room to say goodbye to Miss Ramsbottom.

“I’m afraid,” said Miss Marple, “that I’ve made a very poor return for your hospitality. I hope you will be able to forgive me someday.”

“Hah,” said Miss Ramsbottom.

She was as usual playing patience.

“Black knave, red queen,” she observed, then she darted a shrewd, sideways glance at Miss Marple. “You found out what you wanted to, I suppose,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And I suppose you’ve told that police inspector all about it? Will he be able to prove a case?”

“I’m almost sure he will,” said Miss Marple. “It may take a little time.”

“I’m not asking you any questions,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “You’re a shrewd woman. I knew that as soon as I saw you. I don’t blame you for what you’ve done. Wickedness is wickedness and has got to be punished. There’s a bad streak in this family. It didn’t come from our side, I’m thankful to say. Elvira, my sister, was a fool. Nothing worse.

“Black knave,” repeated Miss Ramsbottom, fingering the card. “Handsome, but a black heart. Yes, I was afraid of it. Ah, well, you can’t always help loving a sinner. The boy always had a way with him. Even got round me . . . Told a lie about the time he left me that day. I didn’t contradict him, but I wondered . . . I’ve wondered ever since. But he was Elvira’s boy—I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. Ah well, you’re a righteous woman, Jane Marple, and right must prevail. I’m sorry for his wife, though.”

“So am I,” said Miss Marple.

In the hall Pat Fortescue was waiting to say good-bye.

“I wish you weren’t going,” she said. “I shall miss you.”

“It’s time for me to go,” said Miss Marple. “I’ve finished what I came here to do. It hasn’t been—altogether pleasant. But it’s important, you know, that wickedness shouldn’t triumph.”

Pat looked puzzled.

“I don’t understand.”

“No, my dear. But perhaps you will, someday. If I might venture to advise, if anything ever—goes wrong in your life—I think the happiest thing for you would be to go back to where you were happy as a child. Go back to Ireland, my dear. Horses and dogs. All that.”

Pat nodded.

“Sometimes I wish I’d done just that when Freddy died. But if I had”—her voice changed and softened—“I’d never have met Lance.”

Miss Marple sighed.

“We’re not staying here, you know,” said Pat. “We’re going back to East Africa as soon as everything’s cleared up. I’m so glad.”

“God bless you, dear child,” said Miss Marple. “One needs a great deal of courage to get through life. I think you have it.”

She patted the girl’s hand and, releasing it, went through the front door to the waiting taxi.

II

Miss Marple reached home late that evening.

Kitty—the latest graduate from St. Faith’s Home—let her in and greeted her with a beaming face.

“I’ve got a herring for your supper, miss. I’m so glad to see you home—you’ll find everything very nice in the house. Regular spring cleaning I’ve had.”

“That’s very nice, Kitty—I’m glad to be home.”

Six spider’s webs on the cornice, Miss Marple noted. These girls never raised their heads! She was none the less too kind to say so.

“Your letters is on the hall table, miss. And there’s one as went to Daisymead by mistake. Always doing that, aren’t they? Does look a bit alike, Dane and Daisy, and the writing’s so bad I don’t wonder this time. They’ve been away there and the house shut up, they only got back and sent it round today. Said as how they hoped it wasn’t important.”

Miss Marple picked up her correspondence. The letter to which Kitty had referred was on top of the others. A faint chord of remembrance stirred in Miss Marple’s mind at the sight of the blotted scrawled handwriting. She tore it open.

Dear Madam,

I hope as you’ll forgive me writing this but I really don’t know what to do indeed I don’t and I never meant no harm. Dear madam, you’ll have seen the newspapers it was murder they say but it wasn’t me that did it, not really, because I would never do anything wicked like that and I know as how he wouldn’t either. Albert, I mean. I’m telling this badly, but you see we met last summer and was going to be married only Bert hadn’t got his rights, he’d been done out of them, swindled by this Mr. Fortescue who’s dead. And Mr. Fortescue he just denied everything and of course everybody believed him and not Bert because he was rich and Bert was poor. But Bert had a friend who works in a place where they make these new drugs and there’s what they call a truth drug you’ve read about it perhaps in the paper and it makes people speak the truth whether they want to or not. Bert was going to see Mr. Fortescue in his office on Nov. 5th and taking a lawyer with him and I was to be sure to give him the drug at breakfast that morning and then it would work just right for when they came and he’d admit as all what Bert said was quite true. Well, madam, I put it in the marmalade but now he’s dead and I think as how it must have been too strong but it wasn’t Bert’s fault because Bert would never do a thing like that but I can’t tell the police because maybe they’d think Bert did it on purpose which I know he didn’t. Oh, madam, I don’t know what to do or what to say and the police are here in the house and it’s awful and they ask you questions and look at you so stern and I don’t know what to do and I haven’t heard from Bert. Oh, madam, I don’t like to ask it of you but if you could only come here and help me they’d listen to you and you were always so kind to me, and I didn’t mean anything wrong and Bert didn’t either. If you could only help us. Yours respectfully,

Gladys Martin.

P. S.—I’m enclosing a snap of Bert and me. One of the boys took it at the camp and give it me. Bert doesn’t know I’ve got it—he hates being snapped. But you can see, madam, what a nice boy he is.

Miss Marple, her lips pursed together, stared down at the photograph. The pair pictured there were looking at each other. Miss Marple’s eyes went from Gladys’s pathetic adoring face, the mouth slightly open, to the other face—the dark handsome smiling face of Lance Fortescue.

The last words of the pathetic letter echoed in her mind:

You can see what a nice boy he is.

The tear rose in Miss Marple’s eyes. Succeeding pity, there came anger—anger against a heartless killer.

And then, displacing both these emotions, there came a surge of triumph—the triumph some specialist might feel who has successfully reconstructed an extinct animal from a fragment of jawbone and a couple of teeth.

Credits

Cover illustration and design by Sara Wood

Agatha Christie

4:50 from Paddington

A Miss Marple Mystery

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Credit

One

Mrs. McGillicuddy panted along the platform in the wake of the porter carrying her suitcase. Mrs. McGillicuddy was short and stout, the porter was tall and free-striding. In addition, Mrs. McGillicuddy was burdened with a large quantity of parcels; the result of a dayâs Christmas shopping. The race was, therefore, an uneven one, and the porter turned the corner at the end of the platform whilst Mrs. McGillicuddy was still coming up the straight.

No. 1 Platform was not at the moment unduly crowded, since a train had just gone out, but in the no-manâs-land beyond, a milling crowd was rushing in several directions at once, to and from undergrounds, left-luggage offices, tea rooms, inquiry offices, indicator boards, and the two outlets, Arrival and Departure, to the outside world.

Mrs. McGillicuddy and her parcels were buffeted to and fro, but she arrived eventually at the entrance to No. 3 Platform, and deposited one parcel at her feet whilst she searched her bag for the ticket that would enable her to pass the stern uniformed guardian at the gate.

At that moment, a Voice, raucous yet refined, burst into speech over her head.

âThe train standing at Platform 3,â the Voice told her, âis the 4:50 for Brackhampton, Milchester, Waverton, Carvil Junction, Roxeter and stations to Chadmouth. Passengers for Brackhampton and Milchester travel at the rear of the train. Passengers for Vanequay change at Roxeter.â The Voice shut itself off with a click, and then reopened conversation by announcing the arrival at Platform 9 of the 4:35 from Birmingham and Wolverhampton.

Mrs. McGillicuddy found her ticket and presented it. The man clipped it, murmured: âOn the rightârear portion.â

Mrs. McGillicuddy padded up the platform and found her porter, looking bored and staring into space, outside the door of a third-class carriage.

âHere you are, lady.â

âIâm travelling first-class,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy.

âYou didnât say so,â grumbled the porter. His eye swept her masculine-looking pepper-and-salt tweed coat disparagingly.

Mrs. McGillicuddy, who had said so, did not argue the point. She was sadly out of breath.

The porter retrieved the suitcase and marched with it to the adjoining coach where Mrs. McGillicuddy was installed in solitary splendour. The 4:50 was not much patronized, the first-class clientele preferring either the faster morning express, or the 6:40 with dining car. Mrs. McGillicuddy handed the porter his tip which he received with disappointment, clearly considering it more applicable to third-class than to first-class travel. Mrs. McGillicuddy, though prepared to spend money on comfortable travel after a night journey from the North and a dayâs feverish shopping, was at no time an extravagant tipper.

She settled herself back on the plush cushions with a sigh and opened her magazine. Five minutes later, whistles blew, and the train started. The magazine slipped from Mrs. McGillicuddyâs hand, her head dropped sideways, three minutes later she was asleep. She slept for thirty-five minutes and awoke refreshed. Resettling her hat which had slipped askew she sat up and looked out of the window at what she could see of the flying countryside. It was quite dark now, a dreary misty December dayâChristmas was only five days ahead. London had been dark and dreary; the country was no less so, though occasionally rendered cheerful with its constant clusters of lights as the train flashed through towns and stations.

âServing last tea now,â said an attendant, whisking open the corridor door like a jinn. Mrs. McGillicuddy had already partaken of tea at a large department store. She was for the moment amply nourished. The attendant went on down the corridor uttering his monotonous cry. Mrs. McGillicuddy looked up at the rack where her various parcels reposed, with a pleased expression. The face towels had been excellent value and just what Margaret wanted, the space gun for Robby and the rabbit for Jean were highly satisfactory, and that evening coatee was just the thing she herself needed, warm but dressy. The pullover for Hector, tooâ¦her mind dwelt with approval on the soundness of her purchases.

Her satisfied gaze returned to the window, a train travelling in the opposite direction rushed by with a screech, making the windows rattle and causing her to start. The train clattered over points and passed through a station.

Then it began suddenly to slow down, presumably in obedience to a signal. For some minutes it crawled along, then stopped, presently it began to move forward again. Another up-train passed them, though with less vehemence than the first one. The train gathered speed again. At that moment another train, also on a down-line, swerved inwards towards them, for a moment with almost alarming effect. For a time the two trains ran parallel, now one gaining a little, now the other. Mrs. McGillicuddy looked from her window through the windows of the parallel carriages. Most of the blinds were down, but occasionally the occupants of the carriages were visible. The other train was not very full and there were many empty carriages.

At the moment when the two trains gave the illusion of being stationary, a blind in one of the carriages flew up with a snap. Mrs. McGillicuddy looked into the lighted first-class carriage that was only a few feet away.

Then she drew her breath in with a gasp and half-rose to her feet.

Standing with his back to the window and to her was a man. His hands were round the throat of a woman who faced him, and he was slowly, remorselessly, strangling her. Her eyes were starting from their sockets, her face was purple and congested. As Mrs. McGillicuddy watched fascinated, the end came; the body went limp and crumpled in the manâs hands.

At the same moment, Mrs. McGillicuddyâs train slowed down again and the other began to gain speed. It passed forward and a moment or two later it had vanished from sight.

Almost automatically Mrs. McGillicuddyâs hand went up to the communication cord, then paused, irresolute. After all, what use would it be ringing the cord of the train in which she was travelling? The horror of what she had seen at such close quarters, and the unusual circumstances, made her feel paralysed. Some immediate action was necessaryâbut what?

The door of her compartment was drawn back and a ticket collector said, âTicket, please.â

Mrs. McGillicuddy turned to him with vehemence.

âA woman has been strangled,â she said. âIn a train that has just passed. I saw it.â

The ticket collector looked at her doubtfully.

âI beg your pardon, madam?â

âA man strangled a woman! In a train. I saw itâthrough there.â She pointed to the window.

The ticket collector looked extremely doubtful.

âStrangled?â he said disbelievingly.

âYes, strangled! I saw it, I tell you. You must do something at once!â

The ticket collector coughed apologetically.

âYou donât think, madam, that you may have had a little nap andâerââ he broke off tactfully.

âI have had a nap, but if you think this was a dream, youâre quite wrong. I saw it, I tell you.â

The ticket collectorâs eyes dropped to the open magazine lying on the seat. On the exposed page was a girl being strangled whilst a man with a revolver threatened the pair from an open doorway.

He said persuasively: âNow donât you think, madam, that youâd been reading an exciting story, and that you just dropped off, and awaking a little confusedââ

Mrs. McGillicuddy interrupted him.

âI saw it,â she said. âI was as wide awake as you are. And I looked out of the window into the window of the train alongside, and a man was strangling a woman. And what I want to know is, what are you going to do about it?â

âWellâmadamââ

âYouâre going to do something, I suppose?â

The ticket collector sighed reluctantly and glanced at his watch.

âWe shall be in Brackhampton in exactly seven minutes. Iâll report what youâve told me. In what direction was the train you mention going?â

âThis direction, of course. You donât suppose Iâd have been able to see this if a train had flashed past going in the other direction?â

The ticket collector looked as though he thought Mrs. McGillicuddy was quite capable of seeing anything anywhere as the fancy took her. But he remained polite.

âYou can rely on me, madam,â he said. âI will report your statement. Perhaps I might have your name and addressâjust in caseâ¦.â

Mrs. McGillicuddy gave him the address where she would be staying for the next few days and her permanent address in Scotland, and he wrote them down. Then he withdrew with the air of a man who has done his duty and dealt successfully with a tiresome member of the travelling public.

Mrs. McGillicuddy remained frowning and vaguely unsatisfied. Would the ticket collector report her statement? Or had he just been soothing her down? There were, she supposed vaguely, a lot of elderly women travelling around, fully convinced that they had unmasked communist plots, were in danger of being murdered, saw flying saucers and secret space ships, and reported murders that had never taken place. If the man dismissed her as one of thoseâ¦.

The train was slowing down now, passing over points and running through the bright lights of a large town.

Mrs. McGillicuddy opened her handbag, pulled out a receipted bill which was all she could find, wrote a rapid note on the back of it with her ball-pen, put it into a spare envelope that she fortunately happened to have, stuck the envelope down and wrote on it.

The train drew slowly into a crowded platform. The usual ubiquitous Voice was intoning:

âThe train now arriving at Platform 1 is the 5:38 for Milchester, Waverton, Roxeter, and stations to Chadmouth. Passengers for Market Basing take the train now waiting at No. 3 platform. No. 1 bay for stopping train to Carbury.â

Mrs. McGillicuddy looked anxiously along the platform. So many passengers and so few porters. Ah, there was one! She hailed him authoritatively.

âPorter! Please take this at once to the Stationmasterâs office.â

She handed him the envelope, and with it a shilling.

Then, with a sigh, she leaned back. Well, she had done what she could. Her mind lingered with an instantâs regret on the shillingâ¦ Sixpence would really have been enoughâ¦.

Her mind went back to the scene she had witnessed. Horrible, quite horribleâ¦ She was a strong-nerved woman, but she shivered. What a strangeâwhat a fantastic thing to happen to her, Elspeth McGillicuddy! If the blind of the carriage had not happened to fly upâ¦ But that, of course, was Providence.

Providence had willed that she, Elspeth McGillicuddy, should be a witness of the crime. Her lips set grimly.

Voices shouted, whistles blew, doors were banged shut. The 5:38 drew slowly out of Brackhampton station. An hour and five minutes later it stopped at Milchester.

Mrs. McGillicuddy collected her parcels and her suitcase and got out. She peered up and down the platform. Her mind reiterated its former judgment: Not enough porters. Such porters as there were seemed to be engaged with mail bags and luggage vans. Passengers nowadays seemed always expected to carry their own cases. Well, she couldnât carry her suitcase and her umbrella and all her parcels. She would have to wait. In due course she secured a porter.

âTaxi?â

âThere will be something to meet me, I expect.â

Outside Milchester station, a taxi-driver who had been watching the exit came forward. He spoke in a soft local voice.

âIs it Mrs. McGillicuddy? For St. Mary Mead?â

Mrs. McGillicuddy acknowledged her identity. The porter was recompensed, adequately if not handsomely. The car, with Mrs. McGillicuddy, her suitcase, and her parcels drove off into the night. It was a nine-mile drive. Sitting bolt upright in the car, Mrs. McGillicuddy was unable to relax. Her feelings yearned for expression. At last the taxi drove along the familiar village street and finally drew up at its destination; Mrs. McGillicuddy got out and walked up the brick path to the door. The driver deposited the cases inside as the door was opened by an elderly maid. Mrs. McGillicuddy passed straight through the hall to where, at the open sitting room door, her hostess awaited her; an elderly frail old lady.

âElspeth!â

âJane!â

They kissed and, without preamble or circumlocution, Mrs. McGillicuddy burst into speech.

âOh, Jane!â she wailed. âIâve just seen a murder!â

Two

True to the precepts handed down to her by her mother and grandmotherâto wit: that a true lady can neither be shocked nor surprisedâMiss Marple merely raised her eyebrows and shook her head, as she said:

âMost distressing for you, Elspeth, and surely most unusual. I think you had better tell me about it at once.â

That was exactly what Mrs. McGillicuddy wanted to do. Allowing her hostess to draw her nearer to the fire, she sat down, pulled off her gloves and plunged into a vivid narrative.

Miss Marple listened with close attention. When Mrs. McGillicuddy at last paused for breath, Miss Marple spoke with decision.

âThe best thing, I think, my dear, is for you to go upstairs and take off your hat and have a wash. Then we will have supperâduring which we will not discuss this at all. After supper we can go into the matter thoroughly and discuss it from every aspect.â

Mrs. McGillicuddy concurred with this suggestion. The two ladies had supper, discussing, as they ate, various aspects of life as lived in the village of St. Mary Mead. Miss Marple commented on the general distrust of the new organist, related the recent scandal about the chemistâs wife, and touched on the hostility between the schoolmistress and the village institute. They then discussed Miss Marpleâs and Mrs. McGillicuddyâs gardens.

âPaeonies,â said Miss Marple as she rose from table, âare most unaccountable. Either they doâor they donât do. But if they do establish themselves, they are with you for life, so to speak, and really most beautiful varieties nowadays.â

They settled themselves by the fire again, and Miss Marple brought out two old Waterford glasses from a corner cupboard, and from another cupboard produced a bottle.

âNo coffee tonight for you, Elspeth,â she said. âYou are already overexcited (and no wonder!) and probably would not sleep. I prescribe a glass of my cowslip wine, and later, perhaps, a cup of camo-mile tea.â

Mrs. McGillicuddy acquiescing in these arrangements, Miss Marple poured out the wine.

âJane,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy, as she took an appreciative sip, âyou donât think, do you, that I dreamt it, or imagined it?â

âCertainly not,â said Miss Marple with warmth.

Mrs. McGillicuddy heaved a sigh of relief.

âThat ticket collector,â she said, âhe thought so. Quite polite, but all the sameââ

âI think, Elspeth, that that was quite natural under the circumstances. It soundedâand indeed wasâa most unlikely story. And you were a complete stranger to him. No, I have no doubt at all that you saw what youâve told me you saw. Itâs very extraordinaryâbut not at all impossible. I recollect myself being interested when a train ran parallel to one on which I was travelling, to notice what a vivid and intimate picture one got of what was going on in one or two of the carriages. A little girl, I remember once, playing with a teddy bear, and suddenly she threw it deliberately at a fat man who was asleep in the corner and he bounced up and looked most indignant, and the other passengers looked so amused. I saw them all quite vividly. I could have described afterwards exactly what they looked like and what they had on.â

Mrs. McGillicuddy nodded gratefully.

âThatâs just how it was.â

âThe man had his back to you, you say. So you didnât see his face?â

âNo.â

âAnd the woman, you can describe her? Young, old?â

âYoungish. Between thirty and thirty-five, I should think. I couldnât say closer than that.â

âGood-looking?â

âThat again, I couldnât say. Her face, you see, was all contorted andââ

Miss Marple said quickly:

âYes, yes, I quite understand. How was she dressed?â

âShe had on a fur coat of some kind, a palish fur. No hat. Her hair was blonde.â

âAnd there was nothing distinctive that you can remember about the man?â

Mrs. McGillicuddy took a little time to think carefully before she replied.

âHe was tallishâand dark, I think. He had a heavy coat on so that I couldnât judge his build very well.â She added despondently, âItâs not really very much to go on.â

âItâs something,â said Miss Marple. She paused before saying: âYou feel quite sure, in your own mind, that the girl wasâdead?â

âShe was dead, Iâm sure of it. Her tongue came out andâIâd rather not talk about itâ¦.â

âOf course not. Of course not,â said Miss Marple quickly. âWe shall know more, I expect, in the morning.â

âIn the morning?â

âI should imagine it will be in the morning papers. After this man had attacked and killed her, he would have a body on his hands. What would he do? Presumably he would leave the train quickly at the first stationâby the way, can you remember if it was a corridor carriage?â

âNo, it was not.â

âThat seems to point to a train that was not going far afield. It would almost certainly stop at Brackhampton. Let us say he leaves the train at Brackhampton, perhaps arranging the body in a corner seat, with her face hidden by the fur collar to delay discovery. YesâI think that that is what he would do. But of course it will be discovered before very longâand I should imagine that the news of a murdered woman discovered on a train would be almost certain to be in the morning papersâwe shall see.â

II

But it was not in the morning papers.

Miss Marple and Mrs. McGillicuddy, after making sure of this, finished their breakfast in silence. Both were reflecting.

After breakfast, they took a turn round the garden. But this, usually an absorbing pastime, was today somewhat halfhearted. Miss Marple did indeed call attention to some new and rare species she had acquired for her rock-garden but did so in an almost absentminded manner. And Mrs. McGillicuddy did not, as was customary, counter-attack with a list of her own recent acquisitions.

âThe garden is not looking at all as it should,â said Miss Marple, but still speaking absentmindedly. âDoctor Haydock has absolutely forbidden me to do any stooping or kneelingâand really, what can you do if you donât stoop or kneel? Thereâs old Edwards, of courseâbut so opinionated. And all this jobbing gets them into bad habits, lots of cups of tea and so much potteringânot any real work.â

âOh, I know,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy. âOf course, thereâs no question of my being forbidden to stoop, but really, especially after mealsâand having put on weightââshe looked down at her ample proportionsââit does bring on heartburn.â

There was a silence and then Mrs. McGillicuddy planted her feet sturdily, stood still, and turned on her friend.

âWell?â she said.

It was a small insignificant word, but it acquired full significance from Mrs. McGillicuddyâs tone, and Miss Marple understood its meaning perfectly.

âI know,â she said.

The two ladies looked at each other.

âI think,â said Miss Marple, âwe might walk down to the police station and talk to Sergeant Cornish. Heâs intelligent and patient, and I know him very well, and he knows me. I think heâll listenâand pass the information on to the proper quarter.â

Accordingly, some three-quarters of an hour later, Miss Marple and Mrs. McGillicuddy were talking to a fresh-faced grave man between thirty and forty who listened attentively to what they had to say.

Frank Cornish received Miss Marple with cordiality and even deference. He set chairs for the two ladies, and said: âNow what can we do for you, Miss Marple?â

Miss Marple said: âI would like you, please, to listen to my friend Mrs. McGillicuddyâs story.â

And Sergeant Cornish had listened. At the close of the recital he remained silent for a moment or two.

Then he said:

âThatâs a very extraordinary story.â His eyes, without seeming to do so, had sized Mrs. McGillicuddy up whilst she was telling it.

On the whole, he was favourably impressed. A sensible woman, able to tell a story clearly; not, so far as he could judge, an over-imaginative or a hysterical woman. Moreover, Miss Marple, so it seemed, believed in the accuracy of her friendâs story and he knew all about Miss Marple. Everybody in St. Mary Mead knew Miss Marple; fluffy and dithery in appearance, but inwardly as sharp and as shrewd as they make them.

He cleared his throat and spoke.

âOf course,â he said, âyou may have been mistakenâIâm not saying you were, mindâbut you may have been. Thereâs a lot of horse-play goes onâit maynât have been serious or fatal.â

âI know what I saw,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy grimly.

âAnd you wonât budge from it,â thought Frank Cornish, âand Iâd say that, likely or unlikely, you may be right.â

Aloud he said: âYou reported it to the railway officials, and youâve come and reported it to me. Thatâs the proper procedure and you may rely on me to have inquiries instituted.â

He stopped. Miss Marple nodded her head gently, satisfied. Mrs. McGillicuddy was not quite so satisfied, but she did not say anything. Sergeant Cornish addressed Miss Marple, not so much because he wanted her ideas, as because he wanted to hear what she would say.

âGranted the facts are as reported,â he said, âwhat do you think has happened to the body?â

âThere seems to be only two possibilities,â said Miss Marple without hesitation. âThe most likely one, of course, is that the body was left in the train, but that seems improbable now, for it would have been found some time last night, by another traveller, or by the railway staff at the trainâs ultimate destination.â

Frank Cornish nodded.

âThe only other course open to the murderer would be to push the body out of the train on to the line. It must, I suppose, be still on the track somewhere as yet undiscoveredâthough that does seem a little unlikely. But there would be, as far as I can see, no other way of dealing with it.â

âYou read about bodies being put in trunks,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy, âbut no-one travels with trunks nowadays, only suitcases, and you couldnât get a body into a suitcase.â

âYes,â said Cornish. âI agree with you both. The body, if there is a body, ought to have been discovered by now, or will be very soon. Iâll let you know any developments there areâthough I dare say youâll read about them in the papers. Thereâs the possibility, of course, that the woman, though savagely attacked, was not actually dead. She may have been able to leave the train on her own feet.â

âHardly without assistance,â said Miss Marple. âAnd if so, it will have been noticed. A man, supporting a woman whom he says is ill.â

âYes, it will have been noticed,â said Cornish. âOr if a woman was found unconscious or ill in a carriage and was removed to hospital, that, too, will be on record. I think you may rest assured that youâll hear about it all in a very short time.â

But that day passed and the next day. On that evening Miss Marple received a note from Sergeant Cornish.

In regard to the matter on which you consulted me, full inquiries have been made, with no result. No womanâs body has been found. No hospital has administered treatment to a woman such as you describe, and no case of a woman suffering from shock or taken ill, or leaving a station supported by a man has been observed. You may take it that the fullest inquiries have been made. I suggest that your friend may have witnessed a scene such as she described but that it was much less serious than she supposed.

Three

âLess serious? Fiddlesticks!â said Mrs. McGillicuddy. âIt was murder!â

She looked defiantly at Miss Marple and Miss Marple looked back at her.

âGo on, Jane,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy. âSay it was all a mistake! Say I imagined the whole thing! Thatâs what you think now, isnât it?â

âAnyone can be mistaken,â Miss Marple pointed out gently. âAnybody, Elspethâeven you. I think we must bear that in mind. But I still think, you know, that you were most probably not mistakenâ¦ You use glasses for reading, but youâve got very good far sightâand what you saw impressed you very powerfully. You were definitely suffering from shock when you arrived here.â

âItâs a thing I shall never forget,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy with a shudder. âThe trouble is, I donât see what I can do about it!â

âI donât think,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully, âthat thereâs anything more you can do about it.â (If Mrs. McGillicuddy had been alert to the tones of her friendâs voice, she might have noticed a very faint stress laid on the you.) âYouâve reported what you sawâto the railway people and to the police. No, thereâs nothing more you can do.â

âThatâs a relief, in a way,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy, âbecause as you know, Iâm going out to Ceylon immediately after Christmasâto stay with Roderick, and I certainly do not want to put that visit offâ Iâve been looking forward to it so much. Though of course I would put it off if I thought it was my duty,â she added conscientiously.

âIâm sure you would, Elspeth, but as I say, I consider youâve done everything you possibly could do.â

âItâs up to the police,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy. âAnd if the police choose to be stupidââ

Miss Marple shook her head decisively.

âOh, no,â she said, âthe police arenât stupid. And that makes it interesting, doesnât it?â

Mrs. McGillicuddy looked at her without comprehension and Miss Marple reaffirmed her judgment of her friend as a woman of excellent principles and no imagination.

âOne wants to know,â said Miss Marple, âwhat really happened.â

âShe was killed.â

âYes, but who killed her, and why, and what happened to her body? Where is it now?â

âThatâs the business of the police to find out.â

âExactlyâand they havenât found out. That means, doesnât it, that the man was cleverâvery clever. I canât imagine, you know,â said Miss Marple, knitting her brows, âhow he disposed of itâ¦ You kill a woman in a fit of passionâit must have been unpremeditated, youâd never choose to kill a woman in such circumstances just a few minutes before running into a big station. No, it must have been a quarrelâjealousyâsomething of that kind. You strangle herâand there you are, as I say, with a dead body on your hands and on the point of running into a station. What could you do except as I said at first, prop the body up in a corner as though asleep, hiding the face, and then yourself leave the train as quickly as possible. I donât see any other possibilityâand yet there must have been oneâ¦.â

Miss Marple lost herself in thought.

Mrs. McGillicuddy spoke to her twice before Miss Marple answered.

âYouâre getting deaf, Jane.â

âJust a little, perhaps. People do not seem to me to enunciate their words as clearly as they used to do. But it wasnât that I did not hear you. Iâm afraid I wasnât paying attention.â

âI just asked about the trains to London tomorrow. Would the afternoon be all right? Iâm going to Margaretâs and she isnât expecting me before teatime.â

âI wonder, Elspeth, if you would mind going up by the 12:15? We could have an early lunch.â

âOf course andââ Miss Marple went on, drowning her friendâs words:

âAnd I wonder, too, if Margaret would mind if you didnât arrive for teaâif you arrived about seven, perhaps?â

Mrs. McGillicuddy looked at her friend curiously.

âWhatâs on your mind, Jane?â

âI suggest, Elspeth, that I should travel up to London with you, and that we should travel down again as far as Brackhampton in the train you travelled by the other day. You would then return to London from Brackhampton and I would come on here as you did. I, of course, would pay the fares,â Miss Marple stressed this point firmly.

Mrs. McGillicuddy ignored the financial aspect.

âWhat on earth do you expect, Jane?â she asked. âAnother murder?â

âCertainly not,â said Miss Marple shocked. âBut I confess I should like to see for myself, under your guidance, theâtheâreally it is most difficult to find the correct termâthe terrain of the crime.â

So accordingly on the following day Miss Marple and Mrs. McGillicuddy found themselves in two opposite corners of a first-class carriage speeding out of London by the 4:50 from Paddington. Paddington had been even more crowded than on the preceding Fridayâas there were now only two days to go before Christmas, but the 4:50 was comparatively peacefulâat any rate, in the rear portion.

On this occasion no train drew level with them, or they with another train. At intervals trains flashed past them towards London. On two occasions trains flashed past them the other way going at high speed. At intervals Mrs. McGillicuddy consulted her watch doubtfully.

âItâs hard to tell just whenâweâd passed through a station I knowâ¦â But they were continually passing through stations.

âWeâre due in Brackhampton in five minutes,â said Miss Marple.

A ticket collector appeared in the doorway. Miss Marple raised her eyes interrogatively. Mrs. McGillicuddy shook her head. It was not the same ticket collector. He clipped their tickets, and passed on staggering just a little as the train swung round a long curve. It slackened speed as it did so.

âI expect weâre coming into Brackhampton,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy.

âWeâre getting into the outskirts, I think,â said Miss Marple.

There were lights flashing past outside, buildings, an occasional glimpse of streets and trams. Their speed slackened further. They began crossing points.

âWeâll be there in a minute,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy, âand I canât really see this journey has been any good at all. Has it suggested anything to you, Jane?â

âIâm afraid not,â said Miss Marple in a rather doubtful voice.

âA sad waste of good money,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy, but with less disapproval than she would have used had she been paying for herself. Miss Marple had been quite adamant on that point.

âAll the same,â said Miss Marple, âone likes to see with oneâs own eyes where a thing happened. This trainâs just a few minutes late. Was yours on time on Friday?â

âI think so. I didnât really notice.â

The train drew slowly into the busy length of Brackhampton station. The loudspeaker announced hoarsely, doors opened and shut, people got in and out, milled up and down the platform. It was a busy crowded scene.

Easy, thought Miss Marple, for a murderer to merge into that crowd, to leave the station in the midst of that pressing mass of people, or even to select another carriage and go on in the train wherever its ultimate destination might be. Easy to be one male passenger amongst many. But not so easy to make a body vanish into thin air. That body must be somewhere.

Mrs. McGillicuddy had descended. She spoke now from the platform, through the open window.

âNow take care of yourself, Jane,â she said. âDonât catch a chill. Itâs a nasty treacherous time of year, and youâre not so young as you were.â

âI know,â said Miss Marple.

âAnd donât letâs worry ourselves anymore over all this. Weâve done what we could.â

Miss Marple nodded, and said:

âDonât stand about in the cold, Elspeth. Or youâll be the one to catch a chill. Go and get yourself a good hot cup of tea in the Restaurant Room. Youâve got time, twelve minutes before your train back to town.â

âI think perhaps I will. Good-bye, Jane.â

âGood-bye, Elspeth. A happy Christmas to you. I hope you find Margaret well. Enjoy yourself in Ceylon, and give my love to dear Roderickâif he remembers me at all, which I doubt.â

âOf course he remembers youâvery well. You helped him in some way when he was at schoolâsomething to do with money that was disappearing from a lockerâheâs never forgotten it.â

âOh, that!â said Miss Marple.

Mrs. McGillicuddy turned away, a whistle blew, the train began to move. Miss Marple watched the sturdy thickset body of her friend recede. Elspeth could go to Ceylon with a clear conscienceâshe had done her duty and was freed from further obligation.

Miss Marple did not lean back as the train gathered speed. Instead she sat upright and devoted herself seriously to thought. Though in speech Miss Marple was woolly and diffuse, in mind she was clear and sharp. She had a problem to solve, the problem of her own future conduct; and, perhaps strangely, it presented itself to her as it had to Mrs. McGillicuddy, as a question of duty.

Mrs. McGillicuddy had said that they had both done all that they could do. It was true of Mrs. McGillicuddy but about herself Miss Marple did not feel so sure.

It was a question, sometimes, of using oneâs special giftsâ¦ But perhaps that was conceitedâ¦ After all, what could she do? Her friendâs words came back to her, âYouâre not so young as you wereâ¦.â

Dispassionately, like a general planning a campaign, or an accountant assessing a business, Miss Marple weighed up and set down in her mind the facts of and against further enterprise. On the credit side were the following:

1. My long experience of life and human nature.

2. Sir Henry Clithering and his godson (now at Scotland Yard, I believe), who was so very nice in the Little Paddocks case.

3. My nephew Raymondâs second boy, David, who is, I am almost sure, in British Railways.

4. Griseldaâs boy Leonard who is so very knowledgeable about maps.

Miss Marple reviewed these assets and approved them. They were all very necessary, to reinforce the weaknesses on the debit sideâin particular her own bodily weakness.

âIt is not,â thought Miss Marple, âas though I could go here, there and everywhere, making inquiries and finding out things.â

Yes, that was the chief objection, her own age and weakness. Although, for her age, her health was good, yet she was old. And if Dr. Haydock had strictly forbidden her to do practical gardening he would hardly approve of her starting out to track down a murderer. For that, in effect, was what she was planning to doâand it was there that her loophole lay. For if heretofore murder had, so to speak, been forced upon her, in this case it would be that she herself set out deliberately to seek it. And she was not sure that she wanted to do soâ¦ She was oldâold and tired. She felt at this moment, at the end of a tiring day, a great reluctance to enter upon any project at all. She wanted nothing at all but to march home and sit by the fire with a nice tray of supper, and go to bed, and potter about the next day just snipping off a few things in the garden, tidying up in a very mild way, without stooping, without exerting herselfâ¦.

âIâm too old for anymore adventures,â said Miss Marple to herself, watching absently out of the window the curving line of an embankmentâ¦.

A curveâ¦.

Very faintly something stirred in her mindâ¦ Just after the ticket collector had clipped their ticketsâ¦.

It suggested an idea. Only an idea. An entirely different ideaâ¦.

A little pink flush came into Miss Marpleâs face. Suddenly she did not feel tired at all!

âIâll write to David tomorrow morning,â she said to herself.

And at the same time another valuable asset flashed through her mind.

âOf course. My faithful Florence!â

II

Miss Marple set about her plan of campaign methodically and making due allowance for the Christmas season which was a definitely retarding factor.

She wrote to her great-nephew, David West, combining Christmas wishes with an urgent request for information.

Fortunately she was invited, as on previous years, to the vicarage for Christmas dinner, and here she was able to tackle young Leonard, home for the Christmas season, about maps.

Maps of all kinds were Leonardâs passion. The reason for the old ladyâs inquiry about a large-scale map of a particular area did not rouse his curiosity. He discoursed on maps generally with fluency, and wrote down for her exactly what would suit her purpose best. In fact, he did better. He actually found that he had such a map amongst his collection and he lent it to her, Miss Marple promising to take great care of it and return it in due course.

III

âMaps,â said his mother, Griselda, who still, although she had a grown-up son, looked strangely young and blooming to be inhabiting the shabby old vicarage. âWhat does she want with maps? I mean, what does she want them for?â

âI donât know,â said young Leonard, âI donât think she said exactly.â

âI wonder nowâ¦â said Griselda. âIt seems very fishy to meâ¦ At her age the old pet ought to give up that sort of thing.â

Leonard asked what sort of thing, and Griselda said elusively:

âOh, poking her nose into things. Why maps, I wonder?â

In due course Miss Marple received a letter from her great-nephew David West. It ran affectionately:

Dear Aunt Jane,â Now what are you up to? Iâve got the information you wanted. There are only two trains that can possibly applyâthe 4:33 and the 5 oâclock. The former is a slow train and stops at Haling Broadway, Barwell Heath, Brackhampton and then stations to Market Basing. The 5 oâclock is the Welsh express for Cardiff, Newport and Swansea. The former might be overtaken somewhere by the 4:50, although it is due in Brackhampton five minutes earlier and the latter passes the 4:50 just before Brackhampton.

In all this do I smell some village scandal of a fruity character? Did you, returning from a shopping spree in town by the 4:50, observe in a passing train the mayorâs wife being embraced by the Sanitary Inspector? But why does it matter which train it was? A weekend at Porthcawl perhaps? Thank you for the pullover. Just what I wanted. Howâs the garden? Not very active this time of year, I should imagine.

Yours ever,

David

Miss Marple smiled a little, then considered the information thus presented to her. Mrs. McGillicuddy had said definitely that the carriage had not been a corridor one. Thereforeânot the Swansea express. The 4:33 was indicated.

Also some more travelling seemed unavoidable. Miss Marple sighed, but made her plans.

She went up to London as before on the 12:15, but this time returned not by the 4:50, but by the 4:33 as far as Brackhampton. The journey was uneventful, but she registered certain details. The train was not crowdedâ4:33 was before the evening rush hour. Of the first-class carriages only one had an occupantâa very old gentleman reading the New Statesman. Miss Marple travelled in an empty compartment and at the two stops, Haling Broadway and Barwell Heath, leaned out of the window to observe passengers entering and leaving the train. A small number of third-class passengers got in at Haling Broadway. At Barwell Heath several third-class passengers got out. Nobody entered or left a first-class carriage except the old gentleman carrying his New Statesman.

As the train neared Brackhampton, sweeping around a curve of line, Miss Marple rose to her feet and stood experimentally with her back to the window over which she had drawn down the blind.

Yes, she decided, the impetus of the sudden curving of the line and the slackening of speed did throw one off oneâs balance back against the window and the blind might, in consequence, very easily fly up. She peered out into the night. It was lighter than it had been when Mrs. McGillicuddy had made the same journeyâonly just dark, but there was little to see. For observation she must make a daylight journey.

On the next day she went up by the early morning train, purchased four linen pillow-cases (tut-tutting at the price!) so as to combine investigation with the provision of household necessities, and returned by a train leaving Paddington at twelve fifteen. Again she was alone in a first-class carriage. âThis taxation,â thought Miss Marple, âthatâs what it is. No one can afford to travel first class except business men in the rush hours. I suppose because they can charge it to expenses.â

About a quarter of an hour before the train was due at Brackhampton, Miss Marple got out the map with which Leonard had supplied her and began to observe the country-side. She had studied the map very carefully beforehand, and after noting the name of a station they passed through, she was soon able to identify where she was just as the train began to slacken for a curve. It was a very considerable curve indeed. Miss Marple, her nose glued to the window, studied the ground beneath her (the train was running on a fairly high embankment) with close attention. She divided her attention between the country outside and the map until the train finally ran into Brackhampton.

That night she wrote and posted a letter addressed to Miss Florence Hill, 4 Madison Road, Brackhamptonâ¦ On the following morning, going to the County library, she studied a Brackhampton directory and gazetteer, and a County history.

Nothing so far had contradicted the very faint and sketchy idea that had come to her. What she had imagined was possible. She would go no further than that.

But the next step involved actionâa good deal of actionâthe kind of action for which she, herself, was physically unfit. If her theory were to be definitely proved or disproved, she must at this point have help from some other source. The question wasâwho? Miss Marple reviewed various names and possibilities rejecting them all with a vexed shake of the head. The intelligent people on whose intelligence she could rely were all far too busy. Not only had they all got jobs of varying importance, their leisure hours were usually apportioned long beforehand. The unintelligent who had time on their hands were simply, Miss Marple decided, no good.

She pondered in growing vexation and perplexity.

Then suddenly her forehead cleared. She ejaculated aloud a name.

âOf course!â said Miss Marple. âLucy Eyelesbarrow!â

Four

The name of Lucy Eyelesbarrow had already made itself felt in certain circles.

Lucy Eyelesbarrow was thirty-two. She had taken a First in Mathematics at Oxford, was acknowledged to have a brilliant mind and was confidently expected to take up a distinguished academic career.

But Lucy Eyelesbarrow, in addition to scholarly brilliance, had a core of good sound common sense. She could not fail to observe that a life of academic distinction was singularly ill rewarded. She had no desire whatever to teach and she took pleasure in contacts with minds much less brilliant than her own. In short, she had a taste for people, all sorts of peopleâand not the same people the whole time. She also, quite frankly, liked money. To gain money one must exploit shortage.

Lucy Eyelesbarrow hit at once upon a very serious shortageâthe shortage of any kind of skilled domestic labour. To the amazement of her friends and fellow-scholars, Lucy Eyelesbarrow entered the field of domestic labour.

Her success was immediate and assured. By now, after a lapse of some years, she was known all over the British Isles. It was quite customary for wives to say joyfully to husbands, âIt will be all right. I can go with you to the States. Iâve got Lucy Eyelesbarrow!â The point of Lucy Eyelesbarrow was that once she came into a house, all worry, anxiety and hard work went out of it. Lucy Eyelesbarrow did everything, saw to everything, arranged everything. She was unbelievably competent in every conceivable sphere. She looked after elderly parents, accepted the care of young children, nursed the sickly, cooked divinely, got on well with any old crusted servants there might happen to be (there usually werenât), was tactful with impossible people, soothed habitual drunkards, was wonderful with dogs. Best of all she never minded what she did. She scrubbed the kitchen floor, dug in the garden, cleaned up dog messes, and carried coals!

One of her rules was never to accept an engagement for any long length of time. A fortnight was her usual periodâa month at most under exceptional circumstances. For that fortnight you had to pay the earth! But, during that fortnight, your life was heaven. You could relax completely, go abroad, stay at home, do as you pleased, secure that all was going well on the home front in Lucy Eyelesbarrowâs capable hands.

Naturally the demand for her services was enormous. She could have booked herself up if she chose for about three years ahead. She had been offered enormous sums to go as a permanency. But Lucy had no intention of being a permanency, nor would she book herself for more than six months ahead. And within that period, unknown to her clamouring clients, she always kept certain free periods which enabled her either to take a short luxurious holiday (since she spent nothing otherwise and was handsomely paid and kept) or to accept any position at short notice that happened to take her fancy, either by reason of its character, or because she âliked the people.â Since she was now at liberty to pick and choose amongst the vociferous claimants for her services, she went very largely by personal liking. Mere riches would not buy you the services of Lucy Eyelesbarrow. She could pick and choose and she did pick and choose. She enjoyed her life very much and found in it a continual source of entertainment.

Lucy Eyelesbarrow read and reread the letter from Miss Marple. She had made Miss Marpleâs acquaintance two years ago when her services had been retained by Raymond West, the novelist, to go and look after his old aunt who was recovering from pneumonia. Lucy had accepted the job and had gone down to St. Mary Mead. She had liked Miss Marple very much. As for Miss Marple, once she had caught a glimpse out of her bedroom window of Lucy Eyelesbarrow really trenching for sweet peas in the proper way, she had leaned back on her pillows with a sigh of relief, eaten the tempting little meals that Lucy Eyelesbarrow brought to her, and listened, agreeably surprised, to the tales told by her elderly irascible maidservant of how âI taught that Miss Eyelesbarrow a crochet pattern what sheâd never heard of! Proper grateful, she was.â And had surprised her doctor by the rapidity of her convalescence.

Miss Marple wrote asking if Miss Eyelesbarrow could undertake a certain task for herârather an unusual one. Perhaps Miss Eyelesbarrow could arrange a meeting at which they could discuss the matter.

Lucy Eyelesbarrow frowned for a moment or two as she considered. She was in reality fully booked up. But the word unusual, and her recollection of Miss Marpleâs personality, carried the day and she rang up Miss Marple straight away explaining that she could not come down to St. Mary Mead as she was at the moment working, but that she was free from 2 to 4 on the following afternoon and could meet Miss Marple anywhere in London. She suggested her own club, a rather nondescript establishment which had the advantage of having several small dark writing rooms which were usually empty.

Miss Marple accepted the suggestion and on the following day the meeting took place.

Greetings were exchanged; Lucy Eyelesbarrow led her guest to the gloomiest of the writing rooms, and said: âIâm afraid Iâm rather booked up just at present, but perhaps youâll tell me what it is you want me to undertake?â

âItâs very simple, really,â said Miss Marple. âUnusual, but simple. I want you to find a body.â

For a moment the suspicion crossed Lucyâs mind that Miss Marple was mentally unhinged, but she rejected the idea. Miss Marple was eminently sane. She meant exactly what she had said.

âWhat kind of a body?â asked Lucy Eyelesbarrow with admirable composure.

âA womanâs body,â said Miss Marple. âThe body of a woman who was murderedâstrangled actuallyâin a train.â

Lucyâs eyebrows rose slightly.

âWell, thatâs certainly unusual. Tell me about it.â

Miss Marple told her. Lucy Eyelesbarrow listened attentively, without interrupting. At the end she said:

âIt all depends on what your friend sawâor thought she sawâ?â

She left the sentence unfinished with a question in it.

âElspeth McGillicuddy doesnât imagine things,â said Miss Marple. âThatâs why Iâm relying on what she said. If it had been Dorothy Cartwright, nowâit would have been quite a different matter. Dorothy always has a good story, and quite often believes it herself, and there is usually a kind of basis of truth but certainly no more. But Elspeth is the kind of woman who finds it very hard to make herself believe that anything at all extraordinary or out of the way could happen. Sheâs almost unsuggestible, rather like granite.â

âI see,â said Lucy thoughtfully. âWell, letâs accept it all. Where do I come in?â

âI was very much impressed by you,â said Miss Marple, âand you see, I havenât got the physical strength nowadays to get about and do things.â

âYou want me to make inquiries? That sort of thing? But wonât the police have done all that? Or do you think they have been just slack?â

âOh, no,â said Miss Marple. âThey havenât been slack. Itâs just that Iâve got a theory about the womanâs body. Itâs got to be somewhere. If it wasnât found in the train, then it must have been pushed or thrown out of the trainâbut it hasnât been discovered anywhere on the line. So I travelled down the same way to see if there was anywhere where the body could have been thrown off the train and yet wouldnât have been found on the lineâand there was. The railway line makes a big curve before getting into Brackhampton, on the edge of a high embankment. If a body were thrown out there, when the train was leaning at an angle, I think it would pitch right down the embankment.â

âBut surely it would still be foundâeven there?â

âOh, yes. It would have to be taken awayâ¦ But weâll come to that presently. Hereâs the placeâon this map?â

Lucy bent to study where Miss Marpleâs finger pointed.

âIt is right in the outskirts of Brackhampton now,â said Miss Marple, âbut originally it was a country house with extensive park and grounds and itâs still there, untouchedâringed round with building estates and small suburban houses. Itâs called Rutherford Hall. It was built by a man called Crackenthorpe, a very rich manufacturer, in 1884. The original Crackenthorpeâs son, an elderly man, is living there still with, I understand, a daughter. The railway encircles quite half of the property.â

âAnd you want me to doâwhat?â

Miss Marple replied promptly.

âI want you to get a post there. Everyone is crying out for efficient domestic helpâ I should not imagine it would be difficult.â

âNo, I donât suppose it would be difficult.â

âI understand that Mr. Crackenthorpe is said locally to be somewhat of a miser. If you accept a low salary, I will make it up to the proper figure which should, I think, be rather more than the current rate.â

âBecause of the difficulty?â

âNot the difficulty so much as the danger. It might, you know, be dangerous. Itâs only right to warn you of that.â

âI donât know,â said Lucy pensively, âthat the idea of danger would deter me.â

âI didnât think it would,â said Miss Marple. âYouâre not that kind of person.â

âI dare say you thought it might even attract me? Iâve encountered very little danger in my life. But do you really believe it might be dangerous?â

âSomebody,â Miss Marple pointed out, âhas committed a very successful crime. There has been no hue-and-cry, no real suspicion. Two elderly ladies have told a rather improbable story, the police have investigated it and found nothing in it. So everything is nice and quiet. I donât think that this somebody, whoever he may be, will care about the matter being raked upâespecially if you are successful.â

âWhat do I look for exactly?â

âAny signs along the embankment, a scrap of clothing, broken bushesâthat kind of thing.â

Lucy nodded.

âAnd then?â

âI shall be quite close at hand,â said Miss Marple. âAn old maidservant of mine, my faithful Florence, lives in Brackhampton. She has looked after her old parents for years. They are now both dead, and she takes in lodgersâall most respectable people. She has arranged for me to have rooms with her. She will look after me most devotedly, and I feel I should like to be close at hand. I would suggest that you mention you have an elderly aunt living in the neighbourhood, and that you want a post within easy distance of her, and also that you stipulate for a reasonable amount of spare time so that you can go and see her often.â

Again Lucy nodded.

âI was going to Taormina the day after tomorrow,â she said. âThe holiday can wait. But I can only promise three weeks. After that, I am booked up.â

âThree weeks should be ample,â said Miss Marple. âIf we canât find out anything in three weeks, we might as well give up the whole thing as a mareâs nest.â

Miss Marple departed, and Lucy, after a momentâs reflection, rang up a Registry Office in Brackhampton, the manageress of which she knew very well. She explained her desire for a post in the neighbourhood so as to be near her âaunt.â After turning down, with a little difficulty and a good deal of ingenuity, several more desirable places, Rutherford Hall was mentioned.

âThat sounds exactly what I want,â said Lucy firmly.

The Registry Office rang up Miss Crackenthorpe, Miss Crackenthorpe rang up Lucy.

Two days later Lucy left London en route for Rutherford Hall.

II

Driving her own small car, Lucy Eyelesbarrow drove through an imposing pair of vast iron gates. Just inside them was what had originally been a small lodge which now seemed completely derelict, whether through war damage, or merely through neglect, it was difficult to be sure. A long winding drive led through large gloomy clumps of rhododendrons up to the house. Lucy caught her breath in a slight gasp when she saw the house which was a kind of miniature Windsor Castle. The stone steps in front of the door could have done with attention and the gravel sweep was green with neglected weeds.

She pulled an old-fashioned wrought-iron bell, and its clamour sounded echoing away inside. A slatternly woman, wiping her hands on her apron, opened the door and looked at her suspiciously.

âExpected, arenât you?â she said. âMiss Somethingbarrow, she told me.â

âQuite right,â said Lucy.

The house was desperately cold inside. Her guide led her along a dark hall and opened a door on the right. Rather to Lucyâs surprise, it was quite a pleasant sitting room, with books and chintz-covered chairs.

âIâll tell her,â said the woman, and went away shutting the door after having given Lucy a look of profound disfavour.

After a few minutes the door opened again. From the first moment Lucy decided that she liked Emma Crackenthorpe.

She was a middle-aged woman with no very outstanding characteristics, neither good-looking nor plain, sensibly dressed in tweeds and pullover, with dark hair swept back from her forehead, steady hazel eyes and a very pleasant voice.

She said: âMiss Eyelesbarrow?â and held out her hand.

Then she looked doubtful.

âI wonder,â she said, âif this post is really what youâre looking for? I donât want a housekeeper, you know, to supervise things. I want someone to do the work.â

Lucy said that that was what most people needed.

Emma Crackenthorpe said apologetically:

âSo many people, you know, seem to think that just a little light dusting will answer the caseâbut I can do all the light dusting myself.â

âI quite understand,â said Lucy. âYou want cooking and washing-up, and housework and stoking the boiler. Thatâs all right. Thatâs what I do. Iâm not at all afraid of work.â

âItâs a big house, Iâm afraid, and inconvenient. Of course we only live in a portion of itâmy father and myself, that is. He is rather an invalid. We live quite quietly, and there is an Aga stove. I have several brothers, but they are not here very often. Two women come in, a Mrs. Kidder in the morning, and Mrs. Hart three days a week to do brasses and things like that. You have your own car?â

âYes. It can stand out in the open if thereâs nowhere to put it. Itâs used to it.â

âOh, there are any amount of old stables. Thereâs no trouble about that.â She frowned a moment, then said, âEyelesbarrowârather an unusual name. Some friends of mine were telling me about a Lucy Eyelesbarrowâthe Kennedys?â

âYes. I was with them in North Devon when Mrs. Kennedy was having a baby.â

Emma Crackenthorpe smiled.

âI know they said theyâd never had such a wonderful time as when you were there seeing to everything. But I had the idea that you were terribly expensive. The sum I mentionedââ

âThatâs quite all right,â said Lucy. âI want particularly, you see, to be near Brackhampton. I have an elderly aunt in a critical state of health and I want to be within easy distance of her. Thatâs why the salary is a secondary consideration. I canât afford to do nothing. If I could be sure of having some time off most days?â

âOh, of course. Every afternoon, till six, if you like?â

âThat seems perfect.â

Miss Crackenthorpe hesitated a moment before saying: âMy father is elderly and a littleâdifficult sometimes. He is very keen on economy, and he says things sometimes that upset people. I wouldnât likeââ

Lucy broke in quickly:

âIâm quite used to elderly people, of all kinds,â she said. âI always manage to get on well with them.â Emma Crackenthorpe looked relieved.

âTrouble with father!â diagnosed Lucy. âI bet heâs an old tartar.â

She was apportioned a large gloomy bedroom which a small electric heater did its inadequate best to warm, and was shown round the house, a vast uncomfortable mansion. As they passed a door in the hall a voice roared out:

âThat you, Emma? Got the new girl there? Bring her in. I want to look at her.â

Emma flushed, glanced at Lucy apologetically.

The two women entered the room. It was richly upholstered in dark velvet, the narrow windows let in very little light, and it was full of heavy mahogany Victorian furniture.

Old Mr. Crackenthorpe was stretched out in an invalid chair, a silver-headed stick by his side.

He was a big gaunt man, his flesh hanging in loose folds. He had a face rather like a bulldog, with a pugnacious chin. He had thick dark hair flecked with grey, and small suspicious eyes.

âLetâs have a look at you, young lady.â

Lucy advanced, composed and smiling.

âThereâs just one thing youâd better understand straight away. Just because we live in a big house doesnât mean weâre rich. Weâre not rich. We live simplyâdo you hear?âsimply! No good coming here with a lot of high-falutin ideas. Codâs as good a fish as turbot any day, and donât you forget it. I donât stand for waste. I live here because my father built the house and I like it. After Iâm dead they can sell it up if they want toâand I expect they will want to. No sense of family. This house is well builtâitâs solid, and weâve got our own land around us. Keeps us private. It would bring in a lot if sold for building land but not while Iâm alive. You wonât get me out of here until you take me out feet first.â

He glared at Lucy.

âYour home is your castle,â said Lucy.

âLaughing at me?â

âOf course not. I think itâs very exciting to have a real country place all surrounded by town.â

âQuite so. Canât see another house from here, can you? Fields with cows in themâright in the middle of Brackhampton. You hear the traffic a bit when the windâs that wayâbut otherwise itâs still country.â

He added, without pause or change of tone, to his daughter:

âRing up that damnâ fool of a doctor. Tell him that last medicineâs no good at all.â

Lucy and Emma retired. He shouted after them:

âAnd donât let that damned woman who sniffs dust in here. Sheâs disarranged all my books.â

Lucy asked:

âHas Mr. Crackenthorpe been an invalid long?â

Emma said, rather evasively:

âOh, for years nowâ¦ This is the kitchen.â

The kitchen was enormous. A vast kitchen range stood cold and neglected. An Aga stood demurely beside it.

Lucy asked times of meals and inspected the larder. Then she said cheerfully to Emma Crackenthorpe:

âI know everything now. Donât bother. Leave it all to me.â

Emma Crackenthorpe heaved a sigh of relief as she went up to bed that night.

âThe Kennedys were quite right,â she said. âSheâs wonderful.â

Lucy rose at six the next morning. She did the house, prepared vegetables, assembled, cooked and served breakfast. With Mrs. Kidder she made the beds and at eleven oâclock they sat down to strong tea and biscuits in the kitchen. Mollified by the fact that Lucy âhad no airs about her,â and also by the strength and sweetness of the tea, Mrs. Kidder relaxed into gossip. She was a small spare woman with a sharp eye and tight lips.

âRegular old skinflint he is. What she has to put up with! All the same, sheâs not what I call down-trodden. Can hold her own all right when she has to. When the gentlemen come down she sees to it thereâs something decent to eat.â

âThe gentlemen?â

âYes. Big family it was. The eldest, Mr. Edmund, he was killed in the war. Then thereâs Mr. Cedric, he lives abroad somewhere. Heâs not married. Paints pictures in foreign parts. Mr. Haroldâs in the City, lives in Londonâmarried an earlâs daughter. Then thereâs Mr. Alfred, heâs got a nice way with him, but heâs a bit of a black-sheep, been in trouble once or twiceâand thereâs Miss Edithâs husband, Mr. Bryan, ever so nice, he isâshe died some years ago, but heâs always stayed one of the family, and thereâs Master Alexander, Miss Edithâs little boy. Heâs at school, comes here for part of the holidays always; Miss Emmaâs terribly set on him.â

Lucy digested all this information, continuing to press tea on her informant. Finally, reluctantly, Mrs. Kidder rose to her feet.

âSeem to have got along a treat, we do, this morning,â she said wonderingly. âWant me to give you a hand with the potatoes, dear?â

âTheyâre all done ready.â

âWell, you are a one for getting on with things! I might as well be getting along myself as there doesnât seem anything else to do.â

Mrs. Kidder departed and Lucy, with time on her hands, scrubbed the kitchen table which she had been longing to do, but which she had put off so as not to offend Mrs. Kidder whose job it properly was. Then she cleaned the silver till it shone radiantly. She cooked lunch, cleared it away, washed it up, and at two-thirty was ready to start exploration. She had set out the tea things ready on a tray, with sandwiches and bread and butter covered with a damp napkin to keep them moist.

She strolled round the gardens which would be the normal thing to do. The kitchen garden was sketchily cultivated with a few vegetables. The hot-houses were in ruins. The paths everywhere were overgrown with weeds. A herbaceous border near the house was the only thing that showed free of weeds and in good condition and Lucy suspected that that had been Emmaâs hand. The gardener was a very old man, somewhat deaf, who was only making a show of working. Lucy spoke to him pleasantly. He lived in a cottage adjacent to the big stableyard.

Leading out of the stableyard a back drive led through the park which was fenced off on either side of it, and under a railway arch into a small back lane.

Every few minutes a train thundered along the main line over the railway arch. Lucy watched the trains as they slackened speed going round the sharp curve that encircled the Crackenthorpe property. She passed under the railway arch and out into the lane. It seemed a little-used track. On the one side was the railway embankment, on the other was a high wall which enclosed some tall factory buildings. Lucy followed the lane until it came out into a street of small houses. She could hear a short distance away the busy hum of main road traffic. She glanced at her watch. A woman came out of a house nearby and Lucy stopped her.

âExcuse me, can you tell me if there is a public telephone near here?â

âPost office just at the corner of the road.â

Lucy thanked her and walked along until she came to the Post Office which was a combination shop and post office. There was a telephone box at one side. Lucy went into it and made a call. She asked to speak to Miss Marple. A womanâs voice spoke in a sharp bark.

âSheâs resting. And Iâm not going to disturb her!! She needs her restâsheâs an old lady. Who shall I say called?â

âMiss Eyelesbarrow. Thereâs no need to disturb her. Just tell her that Iâve arrived and everything is going on well and that Iâll let her know when Iâve any news.â

She replaced the receiver and made her way back to Rutherford Hall.

Five

âI suppose it will be all right if I just practise a few iron shots in the park?â asked Lucy.

âOh, yes, certainly. Are you fond of golf?â

âIâm not much good, but I like to keep in practice. Itâs a more agreeable form of exercise than just going for a walk.â

âNowhere to walk outside this place,â growled Mr. Crackenthorpe. âNothing but pavements and miserable little band boxes of houses. Like to get hold of my land and build more of them. But they wonât until Iâm dead. And Iâm not going to die to oblige anybody. I can tell you that! Not to oblige anybody!â

Emma Crackenthorpe said mildly:

âNow, Father.â

âI know what they thinkâand what theyâre waiting for. All of âem. Cedric, and that sly fox Harold with his smug face. As for Alfred, I wonder he hasnât had a shot at bumping me off himself. Not sure he didnât, at Christmas-time. That was a very odd turn I had. Puzzled old Quimper. He asked me a lot of discreet questions.â

âEveryone gets these digestive upsets now and again, Father.â

âAll right, all right, say straight out that I ate too much! Thatâs what you mean. And why did I eat too much? Because there was too much food on the table, far too much. Wasteful and extravagant. And that reminds meâyou, young woman. Five potatoes you sent in for lunchâgood-sized ones too. Two potatoes are enough for anybody. So donât send in more than four in future. The extra one was wasted today.â

âIt wasnât wasted, Mr. Crackenthorpe. Iâve planned to use it in a Spanish omelette tonight.â

âUrgh!â As Lucy went out of the room carrying the coffee tray she heard him say, âSlick young woman, that, always got all the answers. Cooks well, thoughâand sheâs a handsome kind of girl.â

Lucy Eyelesbarrow took a light iron out of the set of golf clubs she had had the forethought to bring with her, and strolled out into the park, climbing over the fence.

She began playing a series of shots. After five minutes or so, a ball, apparently sliced, pitched on the side of the railway embankment. Lucy went up and began to hunt about for it. She looked back towards the house. It was a long way away and nobody was in the least interested in what she was doing. She continued to hunt for the ball. Now and then she played shots from the embankment down into the grass. During the afternoon she searched about a third of the embankment. Nothing. She played her ball back towards the house.

Then, on the next day, she came upon something. A thorn bush growing about halfway up the bank had been snapped off. Bits of it lay scattered about. Lucy examined the tree itself. Impaled on one of the thorns was a torn scrap of fur. It was almost the same colour as the wood, a pale brownish colour. Lucy looked at it for a moment, then she took a pair of scissors out of her pocket and snipped it carefully in half. The half she had snipped off she put in an envelope which she had in her pocket. She came down the steep slope searching about for anything else. She looked carefully at the rough grass of the field. She thought she could distinguish a kind of track which someone had made walking through the long grass. But it was very faintânot nearly so clear as her own tracks were. It must have been made some time ago and it was too sketchy for her to be sure that it was not merely imagination on her part.

She began to hunt carefully down in the grass at the foot of the embankment just below the broken thorn bush. Presently her search was rewarded. She found a powder compact, a small cheap enamelled affair. She wrapped it in her handkerchief and put it in her pocket. She searched on but did not find anything more.

On the following afternoon, she got into her car and went to see her invalid aunt. Emma Crackenthorpe said kindly, âDonât hurry back. We shanât want you until dinner-time.â

âThank you, but I shall be back by six at the latest.â

No. 4 Madison Road was a small drab house in a small drab street. It had very clean Nottingham lace curtains, a shining white doorstep and a well-polished brass door handle. The door was opened by a tall, grim-looking woman, dressed in black with a large knob of iron-grey hair.

She eyed Lucy in suspicious appraisal as she showed her in to Miss Marple.

Miss Marple was occupying the back sitting room which looked out on to a small tidy square of garden. It was aggressively clean with a lot of mats and doilies, a great many china ornaments, a rather big Jacobean suite and two ferns in pots. Miss Marple was sitting in a big chair by the fire busily engaged in crocheting.

Lucy came in and shut the door. She sat down in the chair facing Miss Marple.

âWell!â she said. âIt looks as though you were right.â

She produced her finds and gave details of their finding.

A faint flush of achievement came into Miss Marpleâs cheeks.

âPerhaps one ought not to feel so,â she said, âbut it is rather gratifying to form a theory and get proof that it is correct!â

She fingered the small tuft of fur. âElspeth said the woman was wearing a light-coloured fur coat. I suppose the compact was in the pocket of the coat and fell out as the body rolled down the slope. It doesnât seem distinctive in any way, but it may help. You didnât take all the fur?â

âNo, I left half of it on the thorn bush.â

Miss Marple nodded approval.

âQuite right. You are very intelligent, my dear. The police will want to check exactly.â

âYou are going to the policeâwith these things?â

âWellânot quite yetâ¦â Miss Marple considered: âIt would be better, I think, to find the body first. Donât you?â

âYes, but isnât that rather a tall order? I mean, granting that your estimate is correct. The murderer pushed the body out of the train, then presumably got out himself at Brackhampton and at some timeâprobably that same nightâcame along and removed the body. But what happened after that? He may have taken it anywhere.â

âNot anywhere,â said Miss Marple. âI donât think youâve followed the thing to its logical conclusion, my dear Miss Eyelesbarrow.â

âDo call me Lucy. Why not anywhere?â

âBecause, if so, he might much more easily have killed the girl in some lonely spot and driven the body away from there. You havenât appreciatedââ

Lucy interrupted.

âAre you sayingâdo you meanâthat this was a premeditated crime?â

âI didnât think so at first,â said Miss Marple. âOne wouldnâtânaturally. It seemed like a quarrel and a man losing control and strangling the girl and then being faced with the problem which he had to solve within a few minutes. But it really is too much of a coincidence that he should kill the girl in a fit of passion, and then look out of the window and find the train was going round a curve exactly at a spot where he could tip the body out, and where he could be sure of finding his way later and removing it! If heâd just thrown her out there by chance, heâd have done no more about it, and the body would, long before now, have been found.â

She paused. Lucy stared at her.

âYou know,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully, âitâs really quite a clever way to have planned a crimeâand I think it was very carefully planned. Thereâs something so anonymous about a train. If heâd killed her in the place where she lived, or was staying, somebody might have noticed him come or go. Or if heâd driven her out in the country somewhere, someone might have noticed the car and its number and make. But a train is full of strangers coming and going. In a non-corridor carriage, alone with her, it was quite easyâespecially if you realize that he knew exactly what he was going to do next. He knewâhe must have knownâall about Rutherford Hallâits geographical position, I mean, its queer isolationâan island bounded by railway lines.â

âIt is exactly like that,â said Lucy. âItâs an anachronism out of the past. Bustling urban life goes on all around it, but doesnât touch it. The tradespeople deliver in the mornings and thatâs all.â

âSo we assume, as you said, that the murderer comes to Rutherford Hall that night. It is already dark when the body falls and no one is likely to discover it before the next day.â

âNo, indeed.â

âThe murderer would comeâhow? In a car? Which way?â

Lucy considered.

âThereâs a rough lane, alongside a factory wall. Heâd probably come that way, turn in under the railway arch and along the back drive. Then he could climb the fence, go along at the foot of the embankment, find the body, and carry it back to the car.â

âAnd then,â continued Miss Marple, âhe took it to some place he had already chosen beforehand. This was all thought out, you know. And I donât think, as I say, that he would take it away from Rutherford Hall, or if so, not very far. The obvious thing, I suppose, would be to bury it somewhere?â She looked inquiringly at Lucy.

âI suppose so,â said Lucy considering. âBut it wouldnât be quite as easy as it sounds.â

Miss Marple agreed.

âHe couldnât bury it in the park. Too hard work and very noticeable. Somewhere where the earth was turned already?â

âThe kitchen garden, perhaps, but thatâs very close to the gardenerâs cottage. Heâs old and deafâbut still it might be risky.â

âIs there a dog?â

âNo.â

âThen in a shed, perhaps, or an outhouse?â

âThat would be simpler and quickerâ¦ There are a lot of unused old buildings; broken down pigsties, harness rooms, workshops that nobody ever goes near. Or he might perhaps thrust it into a clump of rhododendrons or shrubs somewhere.â

Miss Marple nodded.

âYes, I think thatâs much more probable.â

There was a knock on the door and the grim Florence came in with a tray.

âNice for you to have a visitor,â she said to Miss Marple, âIâve made you my special scones you used to like.â

âFlorence always made the most delicious tea cakes,â said Miss Marple.

Florence, gratified, creased her features into a totally unexpected smile and left the room.

âI think, my dear,â said Miss Marple, âwe wonât talk anymore about murder during tea. Such an unpleasant subject!â

II

After tea, Lucy rose.

âIâll be getting back,â she said. âAs Iâve already told you, thereâs no one actually living at Rutherford Hall who could be the man weâre looking for. Thereâs only an old man and a middle-aged woman, and an old deaf gardener.â

âI didnât say he was actually living there,â said Miss Marple. âAll I mean is, that heâs someone who knows Rutherford Hall very well. But we can go into that after youâve found the body.â

âYou seem to assume quite confidently that I shall find it,â said Lucy. âI donât feel nearly so optimistic.â

âIâm sure you will succeed, my dear Lucy. You are such an efficient person.â

âIn some ways, but I havenât had any experience in looking for bodies.â

âIâm sure all it needs is a little common sense,â said Miss Marple encouragingly.

Lucy looked at her, then laughed. Miss Marple smiled back at her.

Lucy set to work systematically the next afternoon.

She poked round outhouses, prodded the briars which wreathed the old pigsties, and was peering into the boiler room under the greenhouse when she heard a dry cough and turned to find old Hillman, the gardener, looking at her disapprovingly.

âYou be careful you donât get a nasty fall, miss,â he warned her. âThem steps isnât safe, and you was up in the loft just now and the floor there ainât safe neither.â

Lucy was careful to display no embarrassment.

âI expect you think Iâm very nosy,â she said cheerfully. âI was just wondering if something couldnât be made out of this placeâgrowing mushrooms for the market, that sort of thing. Everything seems to have been let go terribly.â

âThatâs the master, that is. Wonât spend a penny. Ought to have two men and a boy here, I ought, to keep the place proper, but wonât hear of it, he wonât. Had all I could do to make him get a motor mower. Wanted me to mow all that front grass by hand, he did.â

âBut if the place could be made to payâwith some repairs?â

âWonât get a place like this to payâtoo far gone. And he wouldnât care about that, anyway. Only cares about saving. Knows well enough whatâll happen after heâs goneâthe young gentlemenâll sell up as fast as they can. Only waiting for him to pop off, they are. Going to come into a tidy lot of money when he dies, so Iâve heard.â

âI suppose heâs a very rich man?â said Lucy.

âCrackenthorpeâs Fancies, thatâs what they are. The old gentleman started it, Mr. Crackenthorpeâs father. A sharp one he was, by all accounts. Made his fortune, and built this place. Hard as nails, they say, and never forgot an injury. But with all that, he was open-handed. Nothing of the miser about him. Disappointed in both his sons, so the story goes. Give âem an education and brought âem up to be gentlemenâOxford and all. But they were too much of gentlemen to want to go into the business. The younger one married an actress and then smashed himself up in a car accident when heâd been drinking. The elder one, our one here, his father never fancied so much. Abroad a lot, he was, bought a lot of heathen statues and had them sent home. Wasnât so close with his money when he was youngâcome on him more in middle age, it did. No, they never did hit it off, him and his father, so Iâve heard.â

Lucy digested this information with an air of polite interest. The old man leant against the wall and prepared to go on with his saga. He much preferred talking to doing any work.

âDied before the war, the old gentleman did. Terrible temper he had. Didnât do to give him any cause, he wouldnât stand for it.â

âAnd after he died, this Mr. Crackenthorpe came and lived here?â

âHim and his family, yes. Nigh grown up they was by then.â

âBut surelyâ¦ Oh, I see, you mean the 1914 war.â

âNo, I donât. Died in 1928, thatâs what I mean.â

Lucy supposed that 1928 qualified as âbefore the warâ though it was not the way she would have described it herself.

She said: âWell, I expect youâll be wanting to go on with your work. You mustnât let me keep you.â

âAr,â said old Hillman without enthusiasm, ânot much you can do this time of day. Lightâs too bad.â

Lucy went back to the house, pausing to investigate a likely-looking copse of birch and azalea on her way.

She found Emma Crackenthorpe standing in the hall reading a letter. The afternoon post had just been delivered.

âMy nephew will be here tomorrowâwith a school-friend. Alexanderâs room is the one over the porch. The one next to it will do for James Stoddart-West. Theyâll use the bathroom just opposite.â

âYes, Miss Crackenthorpe. Iâll see the rooms are prepared.â

âTheyâll arrive in the morning before lunch.â She hesitated. âI expect theyâll be hungry.â

âI bet they will,â said Lucy. âRoast beef, do you think? And perhaps treacle tart?â

âAlexanderâs very fond of treacle tart.â

The two boys arrived on the following morning. They both had well-brushed hair, suspiciously angelic faces, and perfect manners. Alexander Eastley had fair hair and blue eyes, Stoddart-West was dark and spectacled.

They discoursed gravely during lunch on events in the sporting world, with occasional references to the latest space fiction. Their manner was that of elderly professors discussing palaeolithic implements. In comparison with them, Lucy felt quite young.

The sirloin of beef vanished in no time and every crumb of treacle tart was consumed.

Mr. Crackenthorpe grumbled: âYou two will eat me out of house and home.â

Alexander gave him a blue-eyed reproving glance.

âWeâll have bread and cheese if you canât afford meat, Grandfather.â

âAfford it? I can afford it. I donât like waste.â

âWe havenât wasted any, sir,â said Stoddart-West, looking down at his place which bore clear testimony of that fact.

âYou boys both eat twice as much as I do.â

âWeâre at the body-building stage,â Alexander explained. âWe need a big intake of proteins.â

The old man grunted.

As the two boys left the table, Lucy heard Alexander say apologetically to his friend:

âYou mustnât pay any attention to my grandfather. Heâs on a diet or something and that makes him rather peculiar. Heâs terribly mean, too. I think it must be a complex of some kind.â

Stoddart-West said comprehendingly:

âI had an aunt who kept thinking she was going bankrupt. Really, she had oodles of money. Pathological, the doctor said. Have you got that football, Alex?â

After she had cleared away and washed up lunch, Lucy went out. She could hear the boys calling out in the distance on the lawn. She herself went in the opposite direction, down the front drive and from there she struck across to some clumped masses of rhododendron bushes. She began to hunt carefully, holding back the leaves and peering inside. She moved from clump to clump systematically, and was raking inside with a golf club when the polite voice of Alexander Eastley made her start.

âAre you looking for something, Miss Eyelesbarrow?â

âA golf ball,â said Lucy promptly. âSeveral golf balls in fact. Iâve been practising golf shots most afternoons and Iâve lost quite a lot of balls. I thought that today I really must find some of them.â

âWeâll help you,â said Alexander obligingly.

âThatâs very kind of you. I thought you were playing football.â

âOne canât go on playing footer,â explained Stoddart-West. âOne gets too hot. Do you play a lot of golf?â

âIâm quite fond of it. I donât get much opportunity.â

âI suppose you donât. You do the cooking here, donât you?â

âYes.â

âDid you cook the lunch today?â

âYes. Was it all right?â

âSimply wizard,â said Alexander. âWe get awful meat at school, all dried up. I love beef thatâs pink and juicy inside. That treacle tart was pretty smashing, too.â

âYou must tell me what things you like best.â

âCould we have apple meringue one day? Itâs my favourite thing.â

âOf course.â

Alexander sighed happily.

âThereâs a clock golf set under the stairs,â he said. âWe could fix it up on the lawn and do some putting. What about it, Stodders?â

âGood-oh!â said Stoddart-West.

âHe isnât really Australian,â explained Alexander courteously. âBut heâs practising talking that way in case his people take him out to see the Test Match next year.â

Encouraged by Lucy, they went off to get the clock golf set. Later, as she returned to the house, she found them setting it out on the lawn and arguing about the position of the numbers.

âWe donât want it like a clock,â said Stoddart-West. âThatâs kidâs stuff. We want to make a course of it. Long holes and short ones. Itâs a pity the numbers are so rusty. You can hardly see them.â

âThey need a lick of white paint,â said Lucy. âYou might get some tomorrow and paint them.â

âGood idea.â Alexanderâs face lit up. âI say, I believe there are some old pots of paint in the Long Barnâleft there by the painters last hols. Shall we see?â

âWhatâs the Long Barn?â asked Lucy.

Alexander pointed to a long stone building a little way from the house near the back drive.

âItâs quite old,â he said. âGrandfather calls it a Leak Barn and says its Elizabethan, but thatâs just swank. It belonged to the farm that was here originally. My great-grandfather pulled it down and built this awful house instead.â

He added: âA lot of grandfatherâs collection is in the barn. Things he had sent home from abroad when he was a young man. Most of them are pretty awful, too. The Long Barn is used sometimes for whist drives and things like that. Womenâs Institute stuff. And Conservative Sales of Work. Come and see it.â

Lucy accompanied them willingly.

There was a big nail-studded oak door to the barn. Alexander raised his hand and detached a key on a nail just under some ivy to the right hand of the top of the door. He turned it in the lock, pushed the door open and they went in.

At a first glance Lucy felt that she was in a singularly bad museum. The heads of two Roman emperors in marble glared at her out of bulging eyeballs, there was a huge sarcophagus of a decadent Greco-Roman period, a simpering Venus stood on a pedestal clutching her falling draperies. Besides these works of art, there were a couple of trestle tables, some stacked-up chairs, and sundry oddments such as a rusted hand mower, two buckets, a couple of motheaten car seats, and a green painted iron garden seat that had lost a leg.

âI think I saw the paint over here,â said Alexander vaguely. He went to a corner and pulled aside a tattered curtain that shut it off.

They found a couple of paint pots and brushes, the latter dry and stiff.

âYou really need some turps,â said Lucy.

They could not, however, find any turpentine. The boys suggested bicycling off to get some, and Lucy urged them to do so. Painting the clock golf numbers would keep them amused for some time, she thought.

The boys went off, leaving her in the barn.

âThis really could do with a clear up,â she had murmured.

âI shouldnât bother,â Alexander advised her. âIt gets cleaned up if itâs going to be used for anything, but itâs practically never used this time of year.â

âDo I hang the key up outside the door again? Is that where itâs kept?â

âYes. Thereâs nothing to pinch here, you see. Nobody would want those awful marble things and, anyway, they weigh a ton.â

Lucy agreed with him. She could hardly admire old Mr. Crackenthorpeâs taste in art. He seemed to have an unerring instinct for selecting the worst specimen of any period.

She stood looking round her after the boys had gone. Her eyes came to rest on the sarcophagus and stayed there.

That sarcophagusâ¦.

The air in the barn was faintly musty as though unaired for a long time. She went over to the sarcophagus. It had a heavy close-fitting lid. Lucy looked at it speculatively.

Then she left the barn, went to the kitchen, found a heavy crowbar, and returned.

It was not an easy task, but Lucy toiled doggedly.

Slowly the lid began to rise, prised up by the crowbar.

It rose sufficiently for Lucy to see what was insideâ¦.

Six

I

A few minutes later Lucy, rather pale, left the barn, locked the door and put the key back on the nail.

She went rapidly to the stables, got out her car and drove down the back drive. She stopped at the post office at the end of the road. She went into the telephone box, put in the money and dialled.

âI want to speak to Miss Marple.â

âSheâs resting, miss. Itâs Miss Eyelesbarrow, isnât it?â

âYes.â

âIâm not going to disturb her and thatâs that, miss. Sheâs an old lady and she needs her rest.â

âYou must disturb her. Itâs urgent.â

âIâm notââ

âPlease do what I say at once.â

When she chose, Lucyâs voice could be as incisive as steel. Florence knew authority when she heard it.

Presently Miss Marpleâs voice spoke.

âYes, Lucy?â

Lucy drew a deep breath.

âYou were quite right,â she said. âIâve found it.â

âA womanâs body?â

âYes. A woman in a fur coat. Itâs a stone sarcophagus in a kind of barn-cum-museum near the house. What do you want me to do? I ought to inform the police, I think.â

âYes. You must inform the police. At once.â

âBut what about the rest of it? About you? The first thing theyâll want to know is why I was prying up a lid that weighs tons for apparently no reason. Do you want me to invent a reason? I can.â

âNo. I think, you know,â said Miss Marple in her gentle serious voice, âthat the only thing to do is to tell the exact truth.â

âAbout you?â

âAbout everything.â

A sudden grin split the whiteness of Lucyâs face.

âThat will be quite simple for me,â she said. âBut I imagine theyâll find it quite hard to believe!â

She rang off, waited a moment, and then rang and got the police station.

âI have just discovered a dead body in a sarcophagus in the Long Barn at Rutherford Hall.â

âWhatâs that?â

Lucy repeated her statement and anticipating the next question gave her name.

She drove back, put the car away and entered the house.

She paused in the hall for a moment, thinking.

Then she gave a brief sharp nod of the head and went to the library where Miss Crackenthorpe was sitting helping her father to do The Times crossword.

âCan I speak to you a moment Miss Crackenthorpe?â

Emma looked up, a shade of apprehension on her face. The apprehension was, Lucy thought, purely domestic. In such words do useful household staff announce their imminent departure.

âWell, speak up, girl, speak up,â said old Mr. Crackenthorpe irritably.

Lucy said to Emma:

âIâd like to speak to you alone, please.â

âNonsense,â said Mr. Crackenthorpe. âYou say straight out here what youâve got to say.â

âJust a moment, Father.â Emma rose and went towards the door.

âAll nonsense. It can wait,â said the old man angrily.

âIâm afraid it canât wait,â said Lucy.

Mr. Crackenthorpe said, âWhat impertinence!â

Emma came out into the hall. Lucy followed her and shut the door behind them.

âYes?â said Emma. âWhat is it? If you think thereâs too much to do with the boys here, I can help you andââ

âItâs not that at all,â said Lucy. âI didnât want to speak before your father because I understand he is an invalid and it might give him a shock. You see, Iâve just discovered the body of a murdered woman in that big sarcophagus in the Long Barn.â

Emma Crackenthorpe stared at her.

âIn the sarcophagus? A murdered woman? Itâs impossible!â

âIâm afraid itâs quite true. Iâve rung up the police. They will be here at any minute.â

A slight flush came into Emmaâs cheeks.

âYou should have told me firstâbefore notifying the police.â

âIâm sorry,â said Lucy.

âI didnât hear you ring upââ Emmaâs glance went to the telephone on the hall table.

âI rang up from the post office just down the road.â

âBut how extraordinary. Why not from here?â

Lucy thought quickly.

âI was afraid the boys might be aboutâmight hearâif I rang up from the hall here.â

âI seeâ¦ Yesâ¦ I seeâ¦ They are comingâthe police, I mean?â

âTheyâre here now,â said Lucy, as with a squeal of brakes a car drew up at the front door and the front doorbell pealed through the house.

II

âIâm sorry, very sorryâto have asked this of you,â said Inspector Bacon.

His hand under her arm, he led Emma Crackenthorpe out of the barn. Emmaâs face was very pale, she looked sick, but she walked firmly erect.

âIâm quite sure that Iâve never seen the woman before in my life.â

âWeâre very grateful to you, Miss Crackenthorpe. Thatâs all I wanted to know. Perhaps youâd like to lie down?â

âI must go to my father. I telephoned Dr. Quimper as soon as I heard about this and the doctor is with him now.â

Dr. Quimper came out of the library as they crossed the hall. He was a tall genial man, with a casual offhand cynical manner that his patients found very stimulating.

He and the inspector nodded to each other.

âMiss Crackenthorpe has performed an unpleasant task very bravely,â said Bacon.

âWell done, Emma,â said the doctor, patting her on the shoulder. âYou can take things. Iâve always known that. Your fatherâs all right. Just go in and have a word with him, and then go into the dining room and get yourself a glass of brandy. Thatâs a prescription.â

Emma smiled at him gratefully and went into the library.

âThat womanâs the salt of the earth,â said the doctor, looking after her. âA thousand pities sheâs never married. The penalty of being the only female in a family of men. The other sister got clear, married at seventeen, I believe. This oneâs quite a handsome woman really. Sheâd have been a success as a wife and mother.â

âToo devoted to her father, I suppose,â said Inspector Bacon.

âSheâs not really as devoted as all thatâbut sheâs got the instinct some women have to make their menfolk happy. She sees that her father likes being an invalid, so she lets him be an invalid. Sheâs the same with her brothers. Cedric feels heâs a good painter, whatâs his nameâHaroldâknows how much she relies on his sound judgmentâshe lets Alfred shock her with his stories of his clever deals. Oh, yes, sheâs a clever womanâno fool. Well, do you want me for anything? Want me to have a look at your corpse now Johnstone has done with itâ (Johnstone was the police surgeon) âand see if it happens to be one of my medical mistakes?â

âIâd like you to have a look, yes, Doctor. We want to get her identified. I suppose itâs impossible for old Mr. Crackenthorpe? Too much of a strain?â

âStrain? Fiddlesticks. Heâd never forgive you or me if you didnât let him have a peep. Heâs all agog. Most exciting thing thatâs happened to him for fifteen years or soâand it wonât cost him anything!â

âThereâs nothing really much wrong with him then?â

âHeâs seventy-two,â said the doctor. âThatâs all, really, thatâs the matter with him. He has odd rheumatic twingesâwho doesnât? So he calls it arthritis. He has palpitations after mealsâas well he mayâhe puts them down to âheart.â But he can always do anything he wants to do! Iâve plenty of patients like that. The ones who are really ill usually insist desperately that theyâre perfectly well. Come on, letâs go and see this body of yours. Unpleasant, I suppose?â

âJohnstone estimates sheâs been dead between a fortnight and three weeks.â

âQuite unpleasant, then.â

The doctor stood by the sarcophagus and looked down with frank curiosity, professionally unmoved by what he had named the âunpleasantness.â

âNever seen her before. No patient of mine. I donât remember ever seeing her about in Brackhampton. She must have been quite good-looking onceâhmâsomebody had it in for her all right.â

They went out again into the air. Doctor Quimper glanced up at the building.

âFound in the whatâwhat do they call it?âthe Long Barnâin a sarcophagus! Fantastic! Who found her?â

âMiss Lucy Eyelesbarrow.â

âOh, the latest lady help? What was she doing, poking about in sarcophagi?â

âThat,â said Inspector Bacon grimly, âis just what I am going to ask her. Now, about Mr. Crackenthorpe. Will youâ?â

âIâll bring him along.â

Mr. Crackenthorpe, muffled in scarves, came walking at a brisk pace, the doctor beside him.

âDisgraceful,â he said. âAbsolutely disgraceful! I brought back that sarcophagus from Florence inâlet me seeâit must have been in 1908âor was it 1909?â

âSteady now,â the doctor warned him. âThis isnât going to be nice, you know.â

âNo matter how ill I am, Iâve got to do my duty, havenât I?â

A very brief visit inside the Long Barn was, however, quite long enough. Mr. Crackenthorpe shuffled out into the air again with remarkable speed.

âNever saw her before in my life!â he said. âWhatâs it mean? Absolutely disgraceful. It wasnât FlorenceâI remember nowâit was Naples. A very fine specimen. And some fool of a woman has to come and get herself killed in it!â

He clutched at the folds of his overcoat on the left side.

âToo much for meâ¦ My heartâ¦ Whereâs Emma? Doctorâ¦.â

Doctor Quimper took his arm.

âYouâll be all right,â he said. âI prescribe a little stimulant. Brandy.â

They went back together towards the house.

âSir. Please, sir.â

Inspector Bacon turned. Two boys had arrived, breathless, on bicycles. Their faces were full of eager pleading.

âPlease, sir, can we see the body?â

âNo, you canât,â said Inspector Bacon.

âOh, sir, please, sir. You never know. We might know who she was. Oh, please, sir, do be a sport. Itâs not fair. Hereâs a murder, right in our own barn. Itâs the sort of chance that might never happen again. Do be a sport, sir.â

âWho are you two?â

âIâm Alexander Eastley, and this is my friend James Stoddart-West.â

âHave you ever seen a blonde woman wearing a light-coloured dyed squirrel coat anywhere about the place?â

âWell, I canât remember exactly,â said Alexander astutely. âIf I were to have a lookââ

âTake âem in, Sanders,â said Inspector Bacon to the constable who was standing by the barn door. âOneâs only young once!â

âOh, sir, thank you, sir.â Both boys were vociferous. âItâs very kind of you, sir.â

Bacon turned away towards the house.

âAnd now,â he said to himself grimly, âfor Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow!â

III

After leading the police to the Long Barn, and giving a brief account of her actions, Lucy had retired into the background, but she was under no illusion that the police had finished with her.

She had just finished preparing potatoes for chips that evening when word was brought to her that Inspector Bacon required her presence. Putting aside the large bowl of cold water and salt in which the chips were reposing, Lucy followed the policeman to where the inspector awaited her. She sat down and awaited his questions composedly.

She gave her nameâand her address in London, and added of her own accord:

âI will give you some names and addresses of references if you want to know all about me.â

The names were very good ones. An Admiral of the Fleet, the Provost of an Oxford College, and a Dame of the British Empire. In spite of himself Inspector Bacon was impressed.

âNow, Miss Eyelesbarrow, you went into the Long Barn to find some paint. Is that right? And after having found the paint you got a crowbar, forced up the lid of this sarcophagus and found the body. What were you looking for in the sarcophagus?â

âI was looking for a body,â said Lucy.

âYou were looking for a bodyâand you found one! Doesnât that seem to you a very extraordinary story?â

âOh, yes, it is an extraordinary story. Perhaps you will let me explain it to you.â

âI certainly think you had better do so.â

Lucy gave him a precise recital of the events which had led up to her sensational discovery.

The inspector summed it up in an outraged voice.

âYou were engaged by an elderly lady to obtain a post here and to search the house and grounds for a dead body? Is that right?â

âYes.â

âWho is this elderly lady?â

âMiss Jane Marple. She is at present living at 4 Madison Road.â

The inspector wrote it down.

âYou expect me to believe this story?â

Lucy said gently:

âNot, perhaps, until after you have interviewed Miss Marple and got her confirmation of it.â

âI shall interview her all right. She must be cracked.â

Lucy forbore to point out that to be proved right is not really a proof of mental incapacity. Instead she said:

âWhat are you proposing to tell Miss Crackenthorpe? About me, I mean?â

âWhy do you ask?â

âWell, as far as Miss Marple is concerned Iâve done my job, Iâve found the body she wanted found. But Iâm still engaged by Miss Crackenthorpe, and there are two hungry boys in the house and probably some more of the family will soon be coming down after all this upset. She needs domestic help. If you go and tell her that I only took this post in order to hunt for dead bodies sheâll probably throw me out. Otherwise I can get on with my job and be useful.â

The inspector looked hard at her.

âIâm not saying anything to anyone at present,â he said. âI havenât verified your statement yet. For all I know you may be making the whole thing up.â

Lucy rose.

âThank you. Then Iâll go back to the kitchen and get on with things.â

Seven

I

âWeâd better have the Yard in on it, is that what you think, Bacon?â

The Chief Constable looked inquiringly at Inspector Bacon. The inspector was a big stolid manâhis expression was that of one utterly disgusted with humanity.

âThe woman wasnât a local, sir,â he said. âThereâs some reason to believeâfrom her underclothingâthat she might have been a foreigner. Of course,â added Inspector Bacon hastily, âIâm not letting on about that yet awhile. Weâre keeping it up our sleeves until after the inquest.â

The Chief Constable nodded.

âThe inquest will be purely formal, I suppose?â

âYes, sir. Iâve seen the Coroner.â

âAnd itâs fixed forâwhen?â

âTomorrow. I understand the other members of the Crackenthorpe family will be here for it. Thereâs just a chance one of them might be able to identify her. Theyâll all be here.â

He consulted a list he held in his hand.

âHarold Crackenthorpe, heâs something in the Cityâquite an important figure, I understand. Alfredâdonât quite know what he does. Cedricâthatâs the one who lives abroad. Paints!â The inspector invested the word with its full quota of sinister significance. The Chief Constable smiled into his moustache.

âNo reason, is there, to believe the Crackenthorpe family are connected with the crime in any way?â he asked.

âNot apart from the fact that the body was found on the premises,â said Inspector Bacon. âAnd of course itâs just possible that this artist member of the family might be able to identify her. What beats me is this extraordinary rigmarole about the train.â

âAh, yes. Youâve been to see this old lady, thisâerââ (he glanced at the memorandum lying on his desk) âMiss Marple?â

âYes, sir. And sheâs quite set and definite about the whole thing. Whether sheâs barmy or not, I donât know, but she sticks to her storyâabout what her friend saw and all the rest of it. As far as all that goes, I dare say itâs just make-believeâsort of thing old ladies do make up, like seeing flying saucers at the bottom of the garden, and Russian agents in the lending library. But it seems quite clear that she did engage this young woman, the lady help, and told her to look for a bodyâwhich the girl did.â

âAnd found one,â observed the Chief Constable. âWell, itâs all a very remarkable story. Marple, Miss Jane Marpleâthe name seems familiar somehowâ¦ Anyway, Iâll get on to the Yard. I think youâre right about its not being a local caseâthough we wonât advertise the fact just yet. For the moment weâll tell the Press as little as possible.â

II

The inquest was a purely formal affair. No one came forward to identify the dead woman. Lucy was called to give evidence of finding the body and medical evidence was given as to the cause of deathâstrangulation. The proceedings were then adjourned.

It was a cold blustery day when the Crackenthorpe family came out of the hall where the inquest had been held. There were five of them all told, Emma, Cedric, Harold, Alfred, and Bryan Eastley, the husband of the dead daughter Edith. There was also Mr. Wimborne, the senior partner of the firm of solicitors who dealt with the Crackenthorpesâ legal affairs. He had come down specially from London at great inconvenience to attend the inquest. They all stood for a moment on the pavement, shivering. Quite a crowd had assembled; the piquant details of the âBody in the Sarcophagusâ had been fully reported in both the London and the local Press.

A murmur went round: âThatâs themâ¦.â

Emma said sharply: âLetâs get away.â

The big hired Daimler drew up to the kerb. Emma got in and motioned to Lucy. Mr. Wimborne, Cedric and Harold followed. Bryan Eastley said: âIâll take Alfred with me in my little bus.â The chauffeur shut the door and the Daimler prepared to roll away.

âOh, stop!â cried Emma. âThere are the boys!â

The boys, in spite of aggrieved protests, had been left behind at Rutherford Hall, but they now appeared grinning from ear to ear.

âWe came on our bicycles,â said Stoddart-West. âThe policeman was very kind and let us in at the back of the hall. I hope you donât mind, Miss Crackenthorpe,â he added politely.

âShe doesnât mind,â said Cedric, answering for his sister. âYouâre only young once. Your first inquest, I expect?â

âIt was rather disappointing,â said Alexander. âAll over so soon.â

âWe canât stay here talking,â said Harold irritably. âThereâs quite a crowd. And all those men with cameras.â

At a sign from him, the chauffeur pulled away from the kerb. The boys waved cheerfully.

âAll over so soon!â said Cedric. âThatâs what they think, the young innocents! Itâs just beginning.â

âItâs all very unfortunate. Most unfortunate,â said Harold. âI supposeââ

He looked at Mr. Wimborne who compressed his thin lips and shook his head with distaste.

âI hope,â he said sententiously, âthat the whole matter will soon be cleared up satisfactorily. The police were very efficient. However, the whole thing, as Harold says, has been most unfortunate.â

He looked, as he spoke, at Lucy, and there was distinct disapproval in his glance. âIf it had not been for this young woman,â his eyes seemed to say, âpoking about where she had no business to beânone of this would have happened.â

This statement, or one closely resembling it, was voiced by Harold Crackenthorpe.

âBy the wayâerâMissâerâer Eyelesbarrow, just what made you go looking in that sarcophagus?â

Lucy had already wondered just when this thought would occur to one of the family. She had known that the police would ask it first thing; what surprised her was that it seemed to have occurred to no one else until this moment.

Cedric, Emma, Harold and Mr. Wimborne all looked at her.

Her reply, for what it was worth, had naturally been prepared for some time.

âReally,â she said in a hesitating voice. âI hardly knowâ¦ I did feel that the whole place needed a thorough clearing out and cleaning. And there wasââshe hesitatedââa very peculiar and disagreeable smellâ¦.â

She had counted accurately on the immediate shrinking of everyone from the unpleasantness of this ideaâ¦.

Mr. Wimborne murmured: âYes, yes, of courseâ¦about three weeks the police surgeon saidâ¦ I think, you know, we must all try and not let our minds dwell on this thing.â He smiled encouragingly at Emma who had turned very pale. âRemember,â he said, âthis wretched young woman was nothing to do with any of us.â

âAh, but you canât be so sure of that, can you?â said Cedric.

Lucy Eyelesbarrow looked at him with some interest. She had already been intrigued by the rather startling differences between the three brothers. Cedric was a big man with a weather-beaten rugged face, unkempt dark hair and a jocund manner. He had arrived from the airport unshaven, and though he had shaved in preparation for the inquest, he was still wearing the clothes in which he had arrived and which seemed to be the only ones he had; old grey flannel trousers, and a patched and rather threadbare baggy jacket. He looked the stage Bohemian to the life and proud of it.

His brother Harold, on the contrary, was the perfect picture of a City gentleman and a director of important companies. He was tall with a neat erect carriage, had dark hair going slightly bald on the temples, a small black moustache, and was impeccably dressed in a dark well-cut suit and a pearl-grey tie. He looked what he was, a shrewd and successful business man.

He now said stiffly:

âReally, Cedric, that seems a most uncalled-for remark.â

âDonât see why? She was in our barn after all. What did she come there for?â

Mr. Wimborne coughed, and said:

âPossibly someâerâassignation. I understand that it was a matter of local knowledge that the key was kept outside on a nail.â

His tone indicated outrage at the carelessness of such procedure. So clearly marked was this that Emma spoke apologetically.

âIt started during the war. For the A.R.P. wardens. There was a little spirit stove and they made themselves hot cocoa. And afterwards, since there was really nothing there anybody could have wanted to take, we went on leaving the key hanging up. It was convenient for the Womenâs Institute people. If weâd kept it in the house it might have been awkwardâwhen there was no one at home to give it them when they wanted it to get the place ready. With only daily women and no resident servantsâ¦.â

Her voice trailed away. She had spoken mechanically, giving a wordy explanation without interest, as though her mind was elsewhere.

Cedric gave her a quick puzzled glance.

âYouâre worried, sis. Whatâs up?â

Harold spoke with exasperation:

âReally, Cedric, can you ask?â

âYes, I do ask. Granted a strange young woman has got herself killed in the barn at Rutherford Hall (sounds like a Victorian melodrama) and granted it gave Emma a shock at the timeâbut Emmaâs always been a sensible girlâI donât see why she goes on being worried now. Dash it, one gets used to everything.â

âMurder takes a little more getting used to by some people than it may in your case,â said Harold acidly. âI dare say murders are two a penny in Majorca andââ

âIbiza, not Majorca.â

âItâs the same thing.â

âNot at allâitâs quite a different island.â

Harold went on talking:

âMy point is that though murder may be an everyday commonplace to you, living amongst hot-blooded Latin people, nevertheless in England we take such things seriously.â He added with increasing irritation, âAnd really, Cedric, to appear at a public inquest in those clothesââ

âWhatâs wrong with my clothes? Theyâre comfortable.â

âTheyâre unsuitable.â

âWell, anyway, theyâre the only clothes Iâve got with me. I didnât pack my wardrobe trunk when I came rushing home to stand in with the family over this business. Iâm a painter and painters like to be comfortable in their clothes.â

âSo youâre still trying to paint?â

âLook here, Harold, when you say trying to paintââ

Mr. Wimborne cleared his throat in an authoritative manner.

âThis discussion is unprofitable,â he said reprovingly. âI hope, my dear Emma, that you will tell me if there is any further way in which I can be of service to you before I return to town?â

The reproof had its effect. Emma Crackenthorpe said quickly:

âIt was most kind of you to come down.â

âNot at all. It was advisable that someone should be at the inquest to watch the proceedings on behalf of the family. I have arranged for an interview with the inspector at the house. I have no doubt that, distressing as all this has been, the situation will soon be clarified. In my own mind, there seems little doubt as to what occurred. As Emma has told us, the key to the Long Barn was known locally to hang outside the door. It seems highly probable that the place was used in the winter months as a place of assignation by local couples. No doubt there was a quarrel and some young man lost control of himself. Horrified at what he had done, his eye lit on the sarcophagus and he realized that it would make an excellent place of concealment.â

Lucy thought to herself, âYes, it sounds most plausible. Thatâs just what one might think.â

Cedric said, âYou say a local coupleâbut nobodyâs been able to identify the girl locally.â

âItâs early days yet. No doubt we shall get an identification before long. And it is possible, of course, that the man in question was a local resident, but that the girl came from elsewhere, perhaps from some other part of Brackhampton. Brackhamptonâs a big placeâitâs grown enormously in the last twenty years.â

âIf I were a girl coming to meet my young man, Iâd not stand for being taken to a freezing cold barn miles from anywhere,â Cedric objected. âIâd stand out for a nice bit of cuddle in the cinema, wouldnât you, Miss Eyelesbarrow?â

âDo we need to go into all this?â Harold demanded plaintively.

And with the voicing of the question the car drew up before the front door of Rutherford Hall and they all got out.

Eight

I

On entering the library Mr. Wimborne blinked a little as his shrewd old eyes went past Inspector Bacon whom he had already met, to the fair-haired, good-looking man beyond him.

Inspector Bacon performed introductions.

âThis is Detective-Inspector Craddock of New Scotland Yard,â he said.

âNew Scotland Yardâhm.â Mr. Wimborneâs eyebrows rose.

Dermot Craddock, who had a pleasant manner, went easily into speech.

âWe have been called in on the case, Mr. Wimborne,â he said. âAs you are representing the Crackenthorpe family, I feel it is only fair that we should give you a little confidential information.â

Nobody could make a better show of presenting a very small portion of the truth and implying that it was the whole truth than Inspector Craddock.

âInspector Bacon will agree, I am sure,â he added, glancing at his colleague.

Inspector Bacon agreed with all due solemnity and not at all as though the whole matter were prearranged.

âItâs like this,â said Craddock. âWe have reason to believe, from information that has come into our possession, that the dead woman is not a native of these parts, that she travelled down here from London and that she had recently come from abroad. Probably (though we are not sure of that) from France.â

Mr. Wimborne again raised his eyebrows.

âIndeed,â he said. âIndeed?â

âThat being the case,â explained Inspector Bacon, âthe Chief Constable felt that the Yard was better fitted to investigate the matter.â

âI can only hope,â said Mr. Wimborne, âthat the case will be solved quickly. As you can no doubt appreciate, the whole business has been a source of much distress to the family. Although not personally concerned in any way, they areââ

He paused for a bare second, but Inspector Craddock filled the gap quickly.

âItâs not a pleasant thing to find a murdered woman on your property? I couldnât agree with you more. Now I should like to have a brief interview with the various members of the familyââ

âI really cannot seeââ

âWhat they can tell me? Probably nothing of interestâbut one never knows. I dare say I can get most of the information I want from you, sir. Information about this house and the family.â

âAnd what can that possibly have to do with an unknown young woman coming from abroad and getting herself killed here?â

âWell, thatâs rather the point,â said Craddock. âWhy did she come here? Had she once had some connection with this house? >Had she been, for instance, a servant here at one time? A ladyâs maid, perhaps. Or did she come here to meet a former occupant of Rutherford Hall?â

Mr. Wimborne said coldly that Rutherford Hall had been occupied by the Crackenthorpes ever since Josiah Crackenthorpe built it in 1884.

âThatâs interesting in itself,â said Craddock. âIf youâd just give me a brief outline of the family historyââ

Mr. Wimborne shrugged his shoulders.

âThere is very little to tell. Josiah Crackenthorpe was a manufacturer of sweet and savoury biscuits, relishes, pickles, etc. He accumulated a vast fortune. He built this house. Luther Crackenthorpe, his eldest son, lives here now.â

âAny other sons?â

âOne other son, Henry, who was killed in a motor accident in 1911.â

âAnd the present Mr. Crackenthorpe has never thought of selling the house?â

âHe is unable to do so,â said the lawyer dryly. âBy the terms of his fatherâs will.â

âPerhaps youâll tell me about the will?â

âWhy should I?â

Inspector Craddock smiled.

âBecause I can look it up myself if I want to, at Somerset House.â

Against his will, Mr. Wimborne gave a crabbed little smile.

âQuite right, Inspector. I was merely protesting that the information you ask for is quite irrelevant. As to Josiah Crackenthorpeâs will, there is no mystery about it. He left his very considerable fortune in trust, the income from it to be paid to his son Luther for life, and after Lutherâs death the capital to be divided equally between Lutherâs children, Edmund, Cedric, Harold, Alfred, Emma and Edith. Edmund was killed in the war, and Edith died four years ago, so that on Luther Crackenthorpeâs decease the money will be divided between Cedric, Harold, Alfred, Emma and Edithâs son Alexander Eastley.â

âAnd the house?â

âThat will go to Luther Crackenthorpeâs eldest surviving son or his issue.â

âWas Edmund Crackenthorpe married?â

âNo.â

âSo the property will actually goâ?â

âTo the next sonâ Cedric.â

âMr. Luther Crackenthorpe himself cannot dispose of it?â

âNo.â

âAnd he has no control of the capital.â

âNo.â

âIsnât that rather unusual? I suppose,â said Inspector Craddock shrewdly, âthat his father didnât like him.â

âYou suppose correctly,â said Mr. Wimborne. âOld Josiah was disappointed that his eldest son showed no interest in the family businessâor indeed in business of any kind. Luther spent his time travelling abroad and collecting objets dâart. Old Josiah was very unsympathetic to that kind of thing. So he left his money in trust for the next generation.â

âBut in the meantime the next generation have no income except what they make or what their father allows them, and their father has a considerable income but no power of disposal of the capital.â

âExactly. And what all this has to do with the murder of an unknown young woman of foreign origin I cannot imagine!â

âIt doesnât seem to have anything to do with it,â Inspector Craddock agreed promptly, âI just wanted to ascertain all the facts.â

Mr. Wimborne looked at him sharply, then, seemingly satisfied with the result of his scrutiny, rose to his feet.

âI am proposing now to return to London,â he said. âUnless there is anything further you wish to know?â

He looked from one man to the other.

âNo, thank you, sir.â

The sound of the gong rose fortissimo from the hall outside.

âDear me,â said Mr. Wimborne. âOne of the boys, I think, must have been performing.â

Inspector Craddock raised his voice, to be heard above the clamour, as he said:

âWeâll leave the family to have lunch in peace, but Inspector Bacon and I would like to return after itâsay at two fifteenâand have a short interview with every member of the family.â

âYou think that is necessary?â

âWellâ¦â Craddock shrugged his shoulders. âItâs just an off chance. Somebody might remember something that would give us a clue to the womanâs identity.â

âI doubt it, Inspector. I doubt it very much. But I wish you good luck. As I said just now, the sooner this distasteful business is cleared up, the better for everybody.â

Shaking his head, he went slowly out of the room.

II

Lucy had gone straight to the kitchen on getting back from the inquest, and was busy with preparations for lunch when Bryan Eastley put his head in.

âCan I give you a hand in any way?â he asked. âIâm handy about the house.â

Lucy gave him a quick, slightly preoccupied glance. Bryan had arrived at the inquest direct in his small M.G. car, and she had not as yet had much time to size him up.

What she saw was likeable enough. Eastley was an amiable-looking young man of thirty-odd with brown hair, rather plaintive blue eyes and an enormous fair moustache.

âThe boys arenât back yet,â he said, coming in and sitting on the end of the kitchen table. âIt will take âem another twenty minutes on their bikes.â

Lucy smiled.

âThey were certainly determined not to miss anything.â

âCanât blame them. I mean to sayâfirst inquest in their young lives and right in the family so to speak.â

âDo you mind getting off the table, Mr. Eastley? I want to put the baking dish down there.â

Bryan obeyed.

âI say, that fatâs corking hot. What are you going to put in it?â

âYorkshire pudding.â

âGood old Yorkshire. Roast beef of old England, is that the menu for today?â

âYes.â

âThe funeral baked meats, in fact. Smells good.â He sniffed appreciatively. âDo you mind my gassing away?â

âIf you came in to help Iâd rather you helped.â She drew another pan from the oven. âHereâturn all these potatoes over so that they brown on the other sideâ¦.â

Bryan obeyed with alacrity.

âHave all these things been fizzling away in here while weâve been at the inquest? Supposing theyâd been all burnt up.â

âMost improbable. Thereâs a regulating number on the oven.â

âKind of electric brain, eh, what? Is that right?â

Lucy threw a swift look in his direction.

âQuite right. Now put the pan in the oven. Here, take the cloth. On the second shelfâ I want the top for the Yorkshire pudding.â

Bryan obeyed, but not without uttering a shrill yelp.

âBurnt yourself?â

âJust a bit. It doesnât matter. What a dangerous game cooking is!â

âI suppose you never do your own cooking?â

âAs a matter of fact I doâquite often. But not this sort of thing. I can boil an eggâif I donât forget to look at the clock. And I can do eggs and bacon. And I can put a steak under the grill or open a tin of soup. Iâve got one of those little electric whatnots in my flat.â

âYou live in London?â

âIf you call it livingâyes.â

His tone was despondent. He watched Lucy shoot in the dish with the Yorkshire pudding mixture.

âThis is awfully jolly,â he said and sighed.

Her immediate preoccupations over, Lucy looked at him with more attention.

âWhat isâthis kitchen?â

âYes. Reminds me of our kitchen at homeâwhen I was a boy.â

It struck Lucy that there was something strangely forlorn about Bryan Eastley. Looking closely at him, she realized that he was older than she had at first thought. He must be close on forty. It seemed difficult to think of him as Alexanderâs father. He reminded her of innumerable young pilots she had known during the war when she had been at the impressionable age of fourteen. She had gone on and grown up into a post-war worldâbut she felt as though Bryan had not gone on, but had been passed by in the passage of years. His next words confirmed this. He had subsided on to the kitchen table again.

âItâs a difficult sort of world,â he said, âisnât it? To get your bearings in, I mean. You see, one hasnât been trained for it.â

Lucy recalled what she had heard from Emma.

âYou were a fighter pilot, werenât you?â she said. âYouâve got a D.F.C.â

âThatâs the sort of thing that puts you wrong. Youâve got a gong and so people try to make it easy for you. Give you a job and all that. Very decent of them. But theyâre all admin. jobs, and one simply isnât any good at that sort of thing. Sitting at a desk getting tangled up in figures. Iâve had ideas of my own, you know, tried out a wheeze or two. But you canât get the backing. Canât get the chaps to come in and put down the money. If I had a bit of capitalââ

He brooded.

âYou didnât know Edie, did you? My wife. No, of course you didnât. She was quite different from all this lot. Younger, for one thing. She was in the W.A.A.F. She always said her old man was crackers. He is, you know. Mean as hell over money. And itâs not as though he could take it with him. Itâs got to be divided up when he dies. Edieâs share will go to Alexander, of course. He wonât be able to touch the capital until heâs twenty-one, though.â

âIâm sorry, but will you get off the table again? I want to dish up and make gravy.â

At that moment Alexander and Stoddart-West arrived with rosy faces and very much out of breath.

âHallo, Bryan,â said Alexander kindly to his father. âSo this is where youâve got to. I say, what a smashing piece of beef. Is there Yorkshire pudding?â

âYes, there is.â

âWe have awful Yorkshire pudding at schoolâall damp and limp.â

âGet out of my way,â said Lucy. âI want to make the gravy.â

âMake lots of gravy. Can we have two sauce-boats full?â

âYes.â

âGood-oh!â said Stoddart-West, pronouncing the word carefully.

âI donât like it pale,â said Alexander anxiously.

âIt wonât be pale.â

âSheâs a smashing cook,â said Alexander to his father.

Lucy had a momentary impression that their roles were reversed. Alexander spoke like a kindly father to his son.

âCan we help you, Miss Eyelesbarrow?â asked Stoddart-West politely.

âYes, you can. Alexander, go and sound the gong. James, will you carry this tray into the dining room? And will you take the joint in, Mr. Eastley? Iâll bring the potatoes and the Yorkshire pudding.â

âThereâs a Scotland Yard man here,â said Alexander. âDo you think he will have lunch with us?â

âThat depends on what your aunt arranged.â

âI donât suppose Aunt Emma would mindâ¦ Sheâs very hospitable. But I suppose Uncle Harold wouldnât like it. Heâs being very sticky over this murder.â Alexander went out through the door with the tray, adding a little additional information over his shoulder. âMr. Wimborneâs in the library with the Scotland Yard man now. But he isnât staying to lunch. He said he had to get back to London. Come on, Stodders. Oh, heâs gone to do the gong.â

At that moment the gong took charge. Stoddart-West was an artist. He gave it everything he had, and all further conversation was inhibited.

Bryan carried in the joint, Lucy followed with vegetablesâreturning to the kitchen to get the two brimming sauce-boats of gravy.

Mr. Wimborne was standing in the hall putting on his gloves as Emma came quickly down the stairs.

âAre you really sure you wonât stop for lunch, Mr. Wimborne? Itâs all ready.â

âNo, Iâve an important appointment in London. There is a restaurant car on the train.â

âIt was very good of you to come down,â said Emma gratefully.

The two police officers emerged from the library.

Mr. Wimborne took Emmaâs hand in his.

âThereâs nothing to worry about, my dear,â he said. âThis is Detective-Inspector Craddock from New Scotland Yard who has come to take charge of the case. He is coming back at two-fifteen to ask you for any facts that may assist him in his inquiry. But, as I say, you have nothing to worry about.â He looked towards Craddock. âI may repeat to Miss Crackenthorpe what you have told me?â

âCertainly, sir.â

âInspector Craddock has just told me that this almost certainly was not a local crime. The murdered woman is thought to have come from London and was probably a foreigner.â

Emma Crackenthorpe said sharply:

âA foreigner. Was she French?â

Mr. Wimborne had clearly meant his statement to be consoling. He looked slightly taken aback. Dermot Craddockâs glance went quickly from him to Emmaâs face.

He wondered why she had leaped to the conclusion that the murdered woman was French, and why that thought disturbed her so much?

Nine

I

The only people who really did justice to Lucyâs excellent lunch were the two boys and Cedric Crackenthorpe who appeared completely unaffected by the circumstances which had caused him to return to England. He seemed, indeed, to regard the whole thing as a rather good joke of a macabre nature.

This attitude, Lucy noted, was most unpalatable to his brother Harold. Harold seemed to take the murder as a kind of personal insult to the Crackenthorpe family and so great was his sense of outrage that he ate hardly any lunch. Emma looked worried and unhappy and also ate very little. Alfred seemed lost in a train of thought of his own and spoke very little. He was quite a good-looking man with a thin dark face and eyes set rather too close together.

After lunch the police officers returned and politely asked if they could have a few words with Mr. Cedric Crackenthorpe.

Inspector Craddock was very pleasant and friendly.

âSit down, Mr. Crackenthorpe. I understand you have just come back from the Balearics? You live out there?â

âHave done for the past six years. In Ibiza. Suits me better than this dreary country.â

âYou get a good deal more sunshine than we do, I expect,â said Inspector Craddock agreeably. âYou were home not so very long ago, I understandâfor Christmas, to be exact. What made it necessary for you to come back again so soon?â

Cedric grinned.

âGot a wire from Emmaâmy sister. Weâve never had a murder on the premises before. Didnât want to miss anythingâso along I came.â

âYou are interested in criminology?â

âOh, we neednât put it in such highbrow terms! I just like murdersâWhodunnits and all that! With a Whodunnit parked right on the family doorstep, it seemed the chance of a lifetime. Besides, I thought poor Em might need a spot of helpâmanaging the old man and the police and all the rest of it.â

âI see. It appealed to your sporting instincts and also to your family feelings. Iâve no doubt your sister will be very grateful to youâalthough her two other brothers have also come to be with her.â

âBut not to cheer and comfort,â Cedric told him. âHarold is terrifically put out. Itâs not at all the thing for a City magnate to be mixed up with the murder of a questionable female.â

Craddockâs eyebrows rose gently.

âWas sheâa questionable female?â

âWell, youâre the authority on that point. Going by the facts, it seemed to me likely.â

âI thought perhaps you might have been able to make a guess at who she was?â

âCome now, Inspector, you already knowâor your colleagues will tell you, that I havenât been able to identify her.â

âI said a guess, Mr. Crackenthorpe. You might never have seen the woman beforeâbut you might have been able to make a guess at who she wasâor who she might have been?â

Cedric shook his head.

âYouâre barking up the wrong tree. Iâve absolutely no idea. Youâre suggesting, I suppose, that she may have come to the Long Barn to keep an assignation with one of us? But we none of us live here. The only people in the house were a woman and an old man. You donât seriously believe that she came here to keep a date with my revered Pop?â

âOur point isâInspector Bacon agrees with meâthat the woman may once have had some association with this house. It may have been a considerable number of years ago. Cast your mind back, Mr. Crackenthorpe.â

Cedric thought a moment or two, then shook his head.

âWeâve had foreign help from time to time, like most people, but I canât think of any likely possibility. Better ask the othersâtheyâd know more than I would.â

âWe shall do that, of course.â

Craddock leaned back in his chair and went on:

âAs you have heard at the inquest, the medical evidence cannot fix the time of death very accurately. Longer than two weeks, less than fourâwhich brings it somewhere around Christmas-time. You have told me you came home for Christmas. When did you arrive in England and when did you leave?â

Cedric reflected.

âLet me seeâ¦ I flew. Got here on the Saturday before Christmasâthat would be the 21st.â

âYou flew straight from Majorca?â

âYes. Left at five in the morning and got here midday.â

âAnd you left?â

âI flew back on the following Friday, the 27th.â

âThank you.â

Cedric grinned.

âLeaves me well within the limit, unfortunately. But really, Inspector, strangling young women is not my favourite form of Christmas fun.â

âI hope not, Mr. Crackenthorpe.â

Inspector Bacon merely looked disapproving.

âThere would be a remarkable absence of peace and good will about such an action, donât you agree?â

Cedric addressed this question to Inspector Bacon who merely grunted. Inspector Craddock said politely:

âWell, thank you, Mr. Crackenthorpe. That will be all.â

âAnd what do you think of him?â Craddock asked as Cedric shut the door behind him.

Bacon grunted again.

âCocky enough for anything,â he said. âI donât care for the type myself. A loose-living lot, these artists, and very likely to be mixed up with a disreputable class of woman.â

Craddock smiled.

âI donât like the way he dresses, either,â went on Bacon. âNo respectâgoing to an inquest like that. Dirtiest pair of trousers Iâve seen in a long while. And did you see his tie? Looked as though it was made of coloured string. If you ask me, heâs the kind that would easily strangle a woman and make no bones about it.â

âWell, he didnât strangle this oneâif he didnât leave Majorca until the 21st. And thatâs a thing we can verify easily enough.â

Bacon threw him a sharp glance.

âI notice that youâre not tipping your hand yet about the actual date of the crime.â

âNo, weâll keep that dark for the present. I always like to have something up my sleeve in the early stages.â

Bacon nodded in full agreement.

âSpring it on âem when the time comes,â he said. âThatâs the best plan.â

âAnd now,â said Craddock, âweâll see what our correct City gentleman has to say about it all.â

Harold Crackenthorpe, thin-lipped, had very little to say about it. It was most distastefulâa very unfortunate incident. The newspapers, he was afraidâ¦ Reporters, he understood, had already been asking for interviewsâ¦ All that sort of thingâ¦ Most regrettableâ¦.

Haroldâs staccato unfinished sentences ended. He leaned back in his chair with the expression of a man confronted with a very bad smell.

The inspectorâs probing produced no result. No, he had no idea who the woman was or could be. Yes, he had been at Rutherford Hall for Christmas. He had been unable to come down until Christmas Eveâbut had stayed on over the following weekend.

âThatâs that, then,â said Inspector Craddock, without pressing his questions further. He had already made up his mind that Harold Crackenthorpe was not going to be helpful.

He passed on to Alfred, who came into the room with a nonchalance that seemed just a trifle overdone.

Craddock looked at Alfred Crackenthorpe with a faint feeling of recognition. Surely he had seen this particular member of the family somewhere before? Or had it been his picture in the paper? There was something discreditable attached to the memory. He asked Alfred his occupation and Alfredâs answer was vague.

âIâm in insurance at the moment. Until recently Iâve been interested in putting a new type of talking machine on the market. Quite revolutionary. I did very well out of that as a matter of fact.â

Inspector Craddock looked appreciativeâand no one could have had the least idea that he was noticing the superficially smart appearance of Alfredâs suit and gauging correctly the low price it had cost. Cedricâs clothes had been disreputable, almost threadbare, but they had been originally of good cut and excellent material. Here there was a cheap smartness that told its own tale. Craddock passed pleasantly on to his routine questions. Alfred seemed interestedâeven slightly amused.

âItâs quite an idea, that the woman might once have had a job here. Not as a ladyâs maid; I doubt if my sister has ever had such a thing. I donât think anyone has nowadays. But, of course, there is a good deal of foreign domestic labour floating about. Weâve had Polesâand a temperamental German or two. As Emma definitely didnât recognize the woman, I think that washes your idea out, Inspector, Emmaâs got a very good memory for a face. No, if the woman came from Londonâ¦ What gives you the idea she came from London, by the way?â

He slipped the question in quite casually, but his eyes were sharp and interested.

Inspector Craddock smiled and shook his head.

Alfred looked at him keenly.

âNot telling, eh? Return ticket in her coat pocket, perhaps, is that it?â

âIt could be, Mr. Crackenthorpe.â

âWell, granting she came from London, perhaps the chap she came to meet had the idea that the Long Barn would be a nice place to do a quiet murder. He knows the setup here, evidently. I should go looking for him if I were you, Inspector.â

âWe are,â said Inspector Craddock, and made the two little words sound quiet and confident.

He thanked Alfred and dismissed him.

âYou know,â he said to Bacon, âIâve seen that chap somewhere beforeâ¦.â

Inspector Bacon gave his verdict.

âSharp customer,â he said. âSo sharp that he cuts himself sometimes.â

II

âI donât suppose you want to see me,â said Bryan Eastley apologetically, coming into the room and hesitating by the door. âI donât exactly belong to the familyââ

âLet me see, you are Mr. Bryan Eastley, the husband of Miss Edith Crackenthorpe, who died five years ago?â

âThatâs right.â

âWell, itâs very kind of you, Mr. Eastley, especially if you know something that you think could assist us in some way?â

âBut I donât. Wish I did. Whole thing seems so ruddy peculiar, doesnât it? Coming along and meeting some fellow in that draughty old barn, in the middle of winter. Wouldnât be my cup of tea!â

âIt is certainly very perplexing,â Inspector Craddock agreed.

âIs it true that she was a foreigner? Word seems to have got round to that effect.â

âDoes that fact suggest anything to you?â The inspector looked at him sharply, but Bryan seemed amiably vacuous.

âNo, it doesnât, as a matter of fact.â

âMaybe she was French,â said Inspector Bacon, with dark suspicion.

Bryan was roused to slight animation. A look of interest came into his blue eyes, and he tugged at his big fair moustache.

âReally? Gay Paree?â He shook his head. âOn the whole it seems to make it even more unlikely, doesnât it? Messing about in the barn, I mean. You havenât had any other sarcophagus murders, have you? One of these fellows with an urgeâor a complex? Thinks heâs Caligula or someone like that?â

Inspector Craddock did not even trouble to reject this speculation. Instead he asked in a casual manner:

âNobody in the family got any French connections, orâorârelationships that you know of?â

Bryan said that the Crackenthorpes werenât a very gay lot.

âHaroldâs respectably married,â he said. âFish-faced woman, some impoverished peerâs daughter. Donât think Alfred cares about women muchâspends his life going in for shady deals which usually go wrong in the end. I dare say Cedricâs got a few Spanish seÃ±oritas jumping through hoops for him in Ibiza. Women rather fall for Cedric. Doesnât always shave and looks as though he never washes. Donât see why that should be attractive to women, but apparently it isâI say, Iâm not being very helpful, am I?â

He grinned at them.

âBetter get young Alexander on the job. He and James Stoddart- West are out hunting for clues in a big way. Bet you they turn up something.â

Inspector Craddock said he hoped they would. Then he thanked Bryan Eastley and said he would like to speak to Miss Emma Crackenthorpe.

III

Inspector Craddock looked with more attention at Emma Crackenthorpe than he had done previously. He was still wondering about the expression that he had surprised on her face before lunch.

A quiet woman. Not stupid. Not brilliant either. One of those comfortable pleasant women whom men were inclined to take for granted, and who had the art of making a house into a home, giving it an atmosphere of restfulness and quiet harmony. Such, he thought, was Emma Crackenthorpe.

Women such as this were often underrated. Behind their quiet exterior they had force of character, they were to be reckoned with. Perhaps, Craddock thought, the clue to the mystery of the dead woman in the sarcophagus was hidden away in the recesses of Emmaâs mind.

Whilst these thoughts were passing through his head, Craddock was asking various unimportant questions.

âI donât suppose there is much that you havenât already told Inspector Bacon,â he said. âSo I neednât worry you with many questions.â

âPlease ask me anything you like.â

âAs Mr. Wimborne told you, we have reached the conclusion that the dead woman was not a native of these parts. That may be a relief to youâMr. Wimborne seemed to think it would beâbut it makes it really more difficult for us. Sheâs less easily identified.â

âBut didnât she have anythingâa handbag? Papers?â

Craddock shook his head.

âNo handbag, nothing in her pockets.â

âYouâve no idea of her nameâof where she came fromâanything at all?â

Craddock thought to himself: She wants to knowâsheâs very anxious to knowâwho the woman is. Has she felt like that all along, I wonder? Bacon didnât give me that impressionâand heâs a shrewd manâ¦.

âWe know nothing about her,â he said. âThatâs why we hoped one of you could help us. Are you sure you canât? Even if you didnât recognize herâcan you think of anyone she might be?â

He thought, but perhaps he imagined it, that there was a very slight pause before she answered.

âIâve absolutely no idea,â she said.

Imperceptibly, Inspector Craddockâs manner changed. It was hardly noticeable except as a slight hardness in his voice.

âWhen Mr. Wimborne told you that the woman was a foreigner, why did you assume that she was French?â

Emma was not disconcerted. Her eyebrows rose slightly.

âDid I? Yes, I believe I did. I donât really know whyâexcept that one always tends to think foreigners are French until one finds out what nationality they really are. Most foreigners in this country are French, arenât they?â

âOh, I really wouldnât say that was so, Miss Crackenthorpe. Not nowadays. We have so many nationalities over here, Italians, Germans, Austrians, all the Scandinavian countriesââ

âYes, I suppose youâre right.â

âYou donât have some special reason for thinking that this woman was likely to be French?â

She didnât hurry to deny it. She just thought a moment and then shook her head almost regretfully.

âNo,â she said. âI really donât think so.â

Her glance met his placidly, without flinching. Craddock looked towards Inspector Bacon. The latter leaned forward and presented a small enamel powder compact.

âDo you recognize this, Miss Crackenthorpe?â

She took it and examined it.

âNo. Itâs certainly not mine.â

âYouâve no idea to whom it belonged?â

âNo.â

âThen I donât think we need worry you anymoreâfor the present.â

âThank you.â

She smiled briefly at them, got up, and left the room. Again he may have imagined it, but Craddock thought she moved rather quickly, as though a certain relief hurried her.

âThink she knows anything?â asked Bacon.

Inspector Craddock said ruefully:

âAt a certain stage one is inclined to think everyone knows a little more than they are willing to tell you.â

âThey usually do, too,â said Bacon out of the depth of his experience. âOnly,â he added, âit quite often isnât anything to do with the business in hand. Itâs some family peccadillo or some silly scrape that people are afraid is going to be dragged into the open.â

âYes, I know. Well, at leastââ

But whatever Inspector Craddock had been about to say never got said, for the door was flung open and old Mr. Crackenthorpe shuffled in in a high state of indignation.

âA pretty pass, when Scotland Yard comes down and doesnât have the courtesy to talk to the head of the family first! Whoâs the master of this house, Iâd like to know? Answer me that? Whoâs the master here?â

âYou are, of course, Mr. Crackenthorpe,â said Craddock soothingly and rising as he spoke. âBut we understood that you had already told Inspector Bacon all you know, and that, your health not being good, we must not make too many demands upon it. Dr. Quimper saidââ

âI dare sayâI dare say. Iâm not a strong manâ¦ As for Dr. Quimper, heâs a regular old womanâperfectly good doctor, understands my caseâbut inclined to wrap me up in cotton-wool. Got a bee in his bonnet about food. Went on at me Christmas-time when I had a bit of a turnâwhat did I eat? When? Who cooked it? Who served it? Fuss, fuss, fuss! But though I may have indifferent health, Iâm well enough to give you all the help thatâs in my power. Murder in my own houseâor at any rate in my own barn! Interesting building, that. Elizabethan. Local architect says notâbut fellow doesnât know what heâs talking about. Not a day later than 1580âbut thatâs not what weâre talking about. What do you want to know? Whatâs your present theory?â

âItâs a little too early for theories, Mr. Crackenthorpe. We are still trying to find out who the woman was.â

âForeigner, you say?â

âWe think so.â

âEnemy agent?â

âUnlikely, I should say.â

âYouâd sayâyouâd say! Theyâre everywhere, these people. Infiltrating! Why the Home Office lets them in beats me. Spying on industrial secrets, Iâd bet. Thatâs what she was doing.â

âIn Brackhampton?â

âFactories everywhere. One outside my own back gate.â

Craddock shot an inquiring glance at Bacon who responded.

âMetal Boxes.â

âHow do you know thatâs what theyâre really making? Canât swallow all these fellows tell you. All right, if she wasnât a spy, who do you think she was? Think she was mixed up with one of my precious sons? It would be Alfred, if so. Not Harold, heâs too careful. And Cedric doesnât condescend to live in this country. All right, then, she was Alfredâs bit of skirt. And some violent fellow followed her down here, thinking she was coming to meet him and did her in. Howâs that?â

Inspector Craddock said diplomatically that it was certainly a theory. But Mr. Alfred Crackenthorpe, he said, had not recognized her.

âPah! Afraid, thatâs all! Alfred always was a coward. But heâs a liar, remember, always was! Lie himself black in the face. None of my sons are any good. Crowd of vultures, waiting for me to die, thatâs their real occupation in life,â he chuckled. âAnd they can wait. I wonât die to oblige them! Well, if thatâs all I can do for youâ¦ Iâm tired. Got to rest.â

He shuffled out again.

âAlfredâs bit of skirt?â said Bacon questioningly. âIn my opinion the old man just made that up,â he paused, hesitated. âI think, personally, Alfredâs quite all rightâperhaps a shifty customer in some waysâbut not our present cup of tea. Mind youâI did just wonder about that Air Force chap.â

âBryan Eastley?â

âYes. Iâve run into one or two of his type. Theyâre what you might call adrift in the worldâhad danger and death and excitement too early in life. Now they find life tame. Tame and unsatisfactory. In a way, weâve given them a raw deal. Though I donât really know what we could do about it. But there they are, all past and no future, so to speak. And theyâre the kind that donât mind taking chancesâthe ordinary fellow plays safe by instinct, itâs not so much morality as prudence. But these fellows arenât afraidâplaying safe isnât really in their vocabulary. If Eastley were mixed up with a woman and wanted to kill herâ¦â He stopped, threw out a hand hopelessly. âBut why should he want to kill her? And if you do kill a woman, why plant her in your father-in-lawâs sarcophagus? No, if you ask me, none of this lot had anything to do with the murder. If they had, they wouldnât have gone to all the trouble of planting the body on their own back door step, so to speak.â

Craddock agreed that that hardly made sense.

âAnything more you want to do here?â

Craddock said there wasnât.

Bacon suggested coming back to Brackhampton and having a cup of teaâbut Inspector Craddock said that he was going to call on an old acquaintance.

Ten

I

Miss Marple, sitting erect against a background of china dogs and presents from Margate, smiled approvingly at Inspector Dermot Craddock.

âIâm so glad,â she said, âthat you have been assigned to the case. I hoped you would be.â

âWhen I got your letter,â said Craddock, âI took it straight to the A.C. As it happened he had just heard from the Brackhampton people calling us in. They seemed to think it wasnât a local crime. The A.C. was very interested in what I had to tell him about you. Heâd heard about you, I gather, from my godfather.â

âDear Sir Henry,â murmured Miss Marple affectionately.

âHe got me to tell him all about the Little Paddocks business. Do you want to hear what he said next?â

âPlease tell me if it is not a breach of confidence.â

âHe said, âWell, as this seems a completely cockeyed business, all thought up by a couple of old ladies whoâve turned out, against all probability, to be right, and since you already know one of these old ladies, Iâm sending you down on the case.â So here I am! And now, my dear Miss Marple, where do we go from here? This is not, as you probably appreciate, an official visit. I havenât got my henchmen with me. I thought you and I might take down our back hair together first.â

Miss Marple smiled at him.

âIâm sure,â she said, âthat no one who only knows you officially would ever guess that you could be so human, and better-looking than everâdonât blushâ¦ Now, what, exactly, have you been told so far?â

âIâve got everything, I think. Your friend, Mrs. McGillicuddyâs original statement to the police at St. Mary Mead, confirmation of her statement by the ticket collector, and also the note to the stationmaster at Brackhampton. I may say that all the proper inquiries were made by the people concernedâthe railway people and the police. But thereâs no doubt that you outsmarted them all by a most fantastic process of guesswork.â

âNot guesswork,â said Miss Marple. âAnd I had a great advantage. I knew Elspeth McGillicuddy. Nobody else did. There was no obvious confirmation of her story, and if there was no question of any woman being reported missing, then quite naturally they would think it was just an elderly lady imagining thingsâas elderly ladies often doâbut not Elspeth McGillicuddy.â

âNot Elspeth McGillicuddy,â agreed the inspector. âIâm looking forward to meeting her, you know. I wish she hadnât gone to Ceylon. Weâre arranging for her to be interviewed there, by the way.â

âMy own process of reasoning was not really original,â said Miss Marple. âItâs all in Mark Twain. The boy who found the horse. He just imagined where he would go if he were a horse and he went there and there was the horse.â

âYou imagined what youâd do if you were a cruel and cold-blooded murderer?â said Craddock looking thoughtfully at Miss Marpleâs pink and white elderly fragility. âReally, your mindââ

âLike a sink, my nephew Raymond used to say,â Miss Marple agreed, nodding her head briskly. âBut as I always told him, sinks are necessary domestic equipment and actually very hygienic.â

âCan you go a little further still, put yourself in the murdererâs place, and tell me just where he is now?â

Miss Marple sighed.

âI wish I could. Iâve no ideaâno idea at all. But he must be someone who has lived in, or knows all about, Rutherford Hall.â

âI agree. But that opens up a very wide field. Quite a succession of daily women have worked there. Thereâs the Womenâs Instituteâand the A.R.P. Wardens before them. They all know the Long Barn and the sarcophagus and where the key was kept. The whole setup there is widely known locally. Anybody living round about might hit on it as a good spot for his purpose.â

âYes, indeed. I quite understand your difficulties.â

Craddock said: âWeâll never get anywhere until we identify the body.â

âAnd that, too, may be difficult?â

âOh, weâll get thereâin the end. Weâre checking up on all the reported disappearances of a woman of that age and appearance. Thereâs no one outstanding who fits the bill. The M.O. puts her down as about thirty-five, healthy, probably a married woman, has had at least one child. Her fur coat is a cheap one purchased at a London store. Hundreds of such coats were sold in the last three months, about sixty per cent of them to blonde women. No sales girl can recognize the photograph of the dead woman, or is likely to if the purchase were made just before Christmas. Her other clothes seem mainly of foreign manufacture mostly purchased in Paris. There are no English laundry marks. Weâve communicated with Paris and they are checking up there for us. Sooner or later, of course, someone will come forward with a missing relative or lodger. Itâs just a matter of time.â

âThe compact wasnât any help?â

âUnfortunately, no. Itâs a type sold by the hundred in the Rue de Rivoli, quite cheap. By the way, you ought to have turned that over to the police at once, you knowâor rather Miss Eyelesbarrow should have done so.â

Miss Marple shook her head.

âBut at that moment there wasnât any question of a crime having been committed,â she pointed out. âIf a young lady, practising golf shots, picks up an old compact of no particular value in the long grass, surely she doesnât rush straight off to the police with it?â Miss Marple paused, and then added firmly: âI thought it much wiser to find the body first.â

Inspector Craddock was tickled.

âYou donât seem ever to have had any doubts but that it would be found?â

âI was sure it would. Lucy Eyelesbarrow is a most efficient and intelligent person.â

âIâll say she is! She scares the life out of me, sheâs so devastatingly efficient! No man will ever dare marry that girl.â

âNow you know, I wouldnât say thatâ¦ It would have to be a special type of man, of course.â Miss Marple brooded on this thought a moment. âHow is she getting on at Rutherford Hall?â

âTheyâre completely dependent on her as far as I can see. Eating out of her handâliterally as you might say. By the way, they know nothing about her connection with you. Weâve kept that dark.â

âShe has no connection now with me. She has done what I asked her to do.â

âSo she could hand in her notice and go if she wanted to?â

âYes.â

âBut she stops on. Why?â

âShe has not mentioned her reasons to me. She is a very intelligent girl. I suspect that she has become interested.â

âIn the problem? Or in the family?â

âIt may be,â said Miss Marple, âthat it is rather difficult to separate the two.â

Craddock looked hard at her.

âOh, noâoh, dear me, no.â

âHave you got anything particular in mind?â

âI think you have.â

Miss Marple shook her head.

Dermot Craddock sighed. âSo all I can do is to âprosecute my inquiriesââto put it in jargon. A policemanâs life is a dull one!â

âYouâll get results, Iâm sure.â

âAny ideas for me? More inspired guesswork?â

âI was thinking of things like theatrical companies,â said Miss Marple rather vaguely. âTouring from place to place and perhaps not many home ties. One of those young women would be much less likely to be missed.â

âYes. Perhaps youâve got something there. Weâll pay special attention to that angle.â He added, âWhat are you smiling about?â

âI was just thinking,â said Miss Marple, âof Elspeth McGillicuddyâs face when she hears weâve found the body!â

II

âWell!â said Mrs. McGillicuddy. âWell!â

Words failed her. She looked across at the nicely spoken pleasant young man who had called upon her with official credentials and then down at the photograph that he handed her.

âThatâs her all right,â she said. âYes, thatâs her. Poor soul. Well, I must say Iâm glad youâve found her body. Nobody believed a word I said! The police, or the railway people or anyone else. Itâs very galling not to be believed. At any rate, nobody could say I didnât do all I possibly could.â

The nice young man made sympathetic and appreciative noises.

âWhere did you say the body was found?â

âIn a barn at a house called Rutherford Hall, just outside Brackhampton.â

âNever heard of it. How did it get there, I wonder?â

The young man didnât reply.

âJane Marple found it, I suppose. Trust Jane.â

âThe body,â said the young man, referring to some notes, âwas found by a Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow.â

âNever heard of her either,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy. âI still think Jane Marple had something to do with it.â

âAnyway, Mrs. McGillicuddy, you definitely identify this picture as that of the woman whom you saw in a train?â

âBeing strangled by a man. Yes, I do.â

âNow, can you describe this man?â

âHe was a tall man,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy.

âYes?â

âAnd dark.â

âYes?â

âThatâs all I can tell you,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy. âHe had his back to me. I didnât see his face.â

âWould you be able to recognize him if you saw him?â

âOf course I shouldnât! He had his back to me. I never saw his face.â

âYouâve no idea at all as to his age?â

Mrs. McGillicuddy considered.

âNoânot really. I mean, I donât knowâ¦ He wasnât, Iâm almost sureâvery young. His shoulders lookedâwell, set, if you know what I mean.â The young man nodded. âThirty and upward, I canât get closer than that. I wasnât really looking at him, you see. It was herâwith those hands round her throat and her faceâall blueâ¦ You know, sometimes I dream of it even nowâ¦.â

âIt must have been a distressing experience,â said the young man sympathetically.

He closed his notebook and said:

âWhen are you returning to England?â

âNot for another three weeks. It isnât necessary, is it, for me?â

He quickly reassured her.

âOh, no. Thereâs nothing you could do at present. Of course, if we make an arrestââ

It was left like that.

The mail brought a letter from Miss Marple to her friend. The writing was spiky and spidery and heavily underlined. Long practice made it easy for Mrs. McGillicuddy to decipher. Miss Marple wrote a very full account to her friend who devoured every word with great satisfaction.

She and Jane had shown them all right!

Eleven

I

âI simply canât make you out,â said Cedric Crackenthorpe.

He eased himself down on the decaying wall of a long derelict pigsty and stared at Lucy Eyelesbarrow.

âWhat canât you make out?â

âWhat youâre doing here?â

âIâm earning my living.â

âAs a skivvy?â he spoke disparagingly.

âYouâre out of date,â said Lucy. âSkivvy, indeed! Iâm a Household Help, a Professional Domestician, or an Answer to Prayer, mainly the latter.â

âYou canât like all the things you have to doâcooking and making beds and whirring about with a hoopla or whatever you call it, and sinking your arms up to the elbows in greasy water.â

Lucy laughed.

âNot the details, perhaps, but cooking satisfies my creative instincts, and thereâs something in me that really revels in clearing up mess.â

âI live in a permanent mess,â said Cedric. âI like it,â he added defiantly.

âYou look as though you did.â

âMy cottage in Ibiza is run on simple straightforward lines. Three plates, two cups and saucers, a bed, a table and a couple of chairs. Thereâs dust everywhere and smears of paint and chips of stoneâI sculpt as well as paintâand nobodyâs allowed to touch a thing. I wonât have a woman near the place.â

âNot in any capacity?â

âWhat do you mean by that?â

âI was assuming that a man of such artistic tastes presumably had some kind of love life.â

âMy love life, as you call it, is my own business,â said Cedric with dignity. âWhat I wonât have is woman in her tidying-up interfering bossing capacity.â

âHow Iâd love to have a go at your cottage,â said Lucy. âIt would be a challenge!â

âYou wonât get the opportunity.â

âI suppose not.â

Some bricks fell out of the pigsty. Cedric turned his head and looked into its nettle-ridden depths.

âDear old Madge,â he said. âI remember her well. A sow of most endearing disposition and prolific mother. Seventeen in the last litter, I remember. We used to come here on fine afternoons and scratch Madgeâs back with a stick. She loved it.â

âWhy has this whole place been allowed to get into the state itâs in? It canât only be the war?â

âYouâd like to tidy this up, too, I suppose? What an interfering female you are. I quite see now why you would be the person to discover a body! You couldnât even leave a Greco-Roman sarcophagus alone.â He paused and then went on. âNo, itâs not only the war. Itâs my father. What do you think of him, by the way?â

âI havenât had much time for thinking.â

âDonât evade the issue. Heâs as mean as hell, and in my opinion a bit crazy as well. Of course he hates all of usâexcept perhaps Emma. Thatâs because of my grandfatherâs will.â

Lucy looked inquiring.

âMy grandfather was the man who madea-da-monitch. With the Crunchies and the Cracker Jacks and the Cosy Crisps. All the afternoon tea delicacies and then, being far-sighted, he switched on very early to Cheesies and CanapÃ©s so that now we cash in on cocktail parties in a big way. Well, the time came when father intimated that he had a soul above Crunchies. He travelled in Italy and the Balkans and Greece and dabbled in art. My grandfather was peeved. He decided my father was no man of business and a rather poor judge of art (quite right in both cases), so left all his money in trust for his grandchildren. Father had the income for life, but he couldnât touch the capital. Do you know what he did? He stopped spending money. He came here and began to save. Iâd say that by now heâs accumulated nearly as big a fortune as my grandfather left. And in the meantime all of us, Harold, myself, Alfred and Emma havenât got a penny of grandfatherâs money. Iâm a stony-broke painter. Harold went into business and is now a prominent man in the Cityâheâs the one with the money-making touch, though Iâve heard rumours that heâs in Queer Street lately. Alfredâwell, Alfred is usually known in the privacy of the family as Flash Alfââ

âWhy?â

âWhat a lot of things you want to know! The answer is that Alf is the black sheep of the family. Heâs not actually been to prison yet, but heâs been very near it. He was in the Ministry of Supply during the war, but left it rather abruptly under questionable circumstances. And after that there were some dubious deals in tinned fruitsâand trouble over eggs. Nothing in a big wayâjust a few doubtful deals on the side.â

âIsnât it rather unwise to tell strangers all these things?â

âWhy? Are you a police spy?â

âI might be.â

âI donât think so. You were here slaving away before the police began to take an interest in us. I should sayââ

He broke off as his sister Emma came through the door of the kitchen garden.

âHallo, Em? Youâre looking very perturbed about something?â

âI am. I want to talk to you, Cedric.â

âI must get back to the house,â said Lucy, tactfully.

âDonât go,â said Cedric. âMurder has made you practically one of the family.â

âIâve got a lot to do,â said Lucy. âI only came out to get some parsley.â

She beat a rapid retreat to the kitchen garden. Cedricâs eyes followed her.

âGood-looking girl,â he said. âWho is she really?â

âOh, sheâs quite well known,â said Emma. âSheâs made a speciality of this kind of thing. But never mind Lucy Eyelesbarrow, Cedric, Iâm terribly worried. Apparently the police think that the dead woman was a foreigner, perhaps French. Cedric, you donât think that she could possibly beâ Martine?â

II

For a moment or two Cedric stared at her as though uncomprehending.

âMartine? But who on earthâoh, you mean Martine?â

âYes. Do you thinkââ

âWhy on earth should it be Martine?â

âWell, her sending that telegram was odd when you come to think of it. It must have been roughly about the same timeâ¦ Do you think that she may, after all, have come down here andââ

âNonsense. Why should Martine come down here and find her way into the Long Barn? What for? It seems wildly unlikely to me.â

âYou donât think, perhaps, that I ought to tell Inspector Baconâor the other one?â

âTell him what?â

âWellâabout Martine. About her letter.â

âNow donât you go complicating things, sis, by bringing up a lot of irrelevant stuff that has nothing to do with all this. I was never very convinced about that letter from Martine, anyway.â

âI was.â

âYouâve always been good at believing impossible things before breakfast, old girl. My advice to you is, sit tight, and keep your mouth shut. Itâs up to the police to identify their precious corpse. And I bet Harold would say the same.â

âOh, I know Harold would. And Alfred, also. But Iâm worried, Cedric, I really am worried. I donât know what I ought to do.â

âNothing,â said Cedric promptly. âYou keep your mouth shut, Emma. Never go halfway to meet trouble, thatâs my motto.â

Emma Crackenthorpe sighed. She went slowly back to the house uneasy in her mind.

As she came into the drive, Doctor Quimper emerged from the house and opened the door of his battered Austin car. He paused when he saw her, then leaving the car he came towards her.

âWell, Emma,â he said. âYour fatherâs in splendid shape. Murder suits him. Itâs given him an interest in life. I must recommend it for more of my patients.â

Emma smiled mechanically. Dr. Quimper was always quick to notice reactions.

âAnything particular the matter?â he asked.

Emma looked up at him. She had come to rely a lot on the kindness and sympathy of the doctor. He had become a friend on whom to lean, not only a medical attendant. His calculated brusqueness did not deceive herâshe knew the kindness that lay behind it.

âI am worried, yes,â she admitted.

âCare to tell me? Donât if you donât want to.â

âIâd like to tell you. Some of it you know already. The point is I donât know what to do.â

âI should say your judgment was usually most reliable. Whatâs the trouble?â

âYou rememberâor perhaps you donâtâwhat I once told you about my brotherâthe one who was killed in the war?â

âYou mean about his having marriedâor wanting to marryâa French girl? Something of that kind?â

âYes. Almost immediately after I got that letter, he was killed. We never heard anything of or about the girl. All we knew, actually, was her christian name. We always expected her to write or to turn up, but she didnât. We never heard anythingâuntil about a month ago, just before Christmas.â

âI remember. You got a letter, didnât you?â

âYes. Saying she was in England and would like to come and see us. It was all arranged and then, at the last minute, she sent a wire that she had to return unexpectedly to France.â

âWell?â

âThe police think that this woman who was killedâwas French.â

âThey do, do they? She looked more of an English type to me, but one canât really judge. Whatâs worrying you then, is that just possibly the dead woman might be your brotherâs girl?â

âYes.â

âI think itâs most unlikely,â said Dr. Quimper, adding: âBut all the same, I understand what you feel.â

âIâm wondering if I ought not to tell the police aboutâabout it all. Cedric and the others say itâs quite unnecessary. What do you think?â

âHm.â Dr. Quimper pursed his lips. He was silent for a moment or two, deep in thought. Then he said, almost unwillingly, âItâs much simpler, of course, if you say nothing. I can understand what your brothers feel about it. All the sameââ

âYes?â

Quimper looked at her. His eyes had an affectionate twinkle in them.

âIâd go ahead and tell âem,â he said. âYouâll go on worrying if you donât. I know you.â

Emma flushed a little.

âPerhaps Iâm foolish.â

âYou do what you want to do, my dearâand let the rest of the family go hang! Iâd back your judgment against the lot of them any day.â

Twelve

I

âGirl! You, girl! Come in here.â

Lucy turned her head, surprised. Old Mr. Crackenthorpe was beckoning to her fiercely from just inside a door.

âYou want me, Mr. Crackenthorpe?â

âDonât talk so much. Come in here.â

Lucy obeyed the imperative finger. Old Mr. Crackenthorpe took hold of her arm and pulled her inside the door and shut it.

âWant to show you something,â he said.

Lucy looked round her. They were in a small room evidently designed to be used as a study, but equally evidently not used as such for a very long time. There were piles of dusty papers on the desk and cobwebs festooned from the corners of the ceiling. The air smelt damp and musty.

âDo you want me to clean this room?â she asked.

Old Mr. Crackenthorpe shook his head fiercely.

âNo, you donât! I keep this room locked up. Emma would like to fiddle about in here, but I donât let her. Itâs my room. See these stones? Theyâre geological specimens.â

Lucy looked at a collection of twelve or fourteen lumps of rock, some polished and some rough.

âLovely,â she said kindly. âMost interesting.â

âYouâre quite right. They are interesting. Youâre an intelligent girl. I donât show them to everybody. Iâll show you some more things.â

âItâs very kind of you, but I ought really to get on with what I was doing. With six people in the houseââ

âEating me out of house and homeâ¦ Thatâs all they do when they come down here! Eat. They donât offer to pay for what they eat, either. Leeches! All waiting for me to die. Well, Iâm not going to die just yetâIâm not going to die to please them. Iâm a lot stronger than even Emma knows.â

âIâm sure you are.â

âIâm not so old, either. She makes out Iâm an old man, treats me as an old man. You donât think Iâm old, do you?â

âOf course not,â said Lucy.

âSensible girl. Take a look at this.â

He indicated a large faded chart which hung on the wall. It was, Lucy saw, a genealogical tree; some of it done so finely that one would have to have a magnifying glass to read the names. The remote forebears, however, were written in large proud capitals with crowns over the names.

âDescended from Kings,â said Mr. Crackenthorpe. âMy motherâs family tree, that isânot my fatherâs. He was a vulgarian! Common old man! Didnât like me. I was a cut above him always. Took after my motherâs side. Had a natural feeling for art and classical sculptureâhe couldnât see anything in itâsilly old fool. Donât remember my motherâdied when I was two. Last of her family. They were sold up and she married my father. But you look thereâEdward the ConfessorâEthelred the Unreadyâwhole lot of them. And that was before the Normans came. Before the Normansâthatâs something isnât it?â

âIt is indeed.â

âNow Iâll show you something else.â He guided her across the room to an enormous piece of dark oak furniture. Lucy was rather uneasily conscious of the strength of the fingers clutching her arm. There certainly seemed nothing feeble about old Mr. Crackenthorpe today. âSee this? Came out of Lushingtonâthat was my motherâs peopleâs place. Elizabethan, this is. Takes four men to move it. You donât know what I keep inside it, do you? Like me to show you?â

âDo show me,â said Lucy politely.

âCurious, arenât you? All women are curious.â He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door of the lower cupboard. From this he took out a surprisingly new-looking cash box. This, again, he unlocked.

âTake a look here, my dear. Know what these are?â

He lifted out a small paper-wrapped cylinder and pulled away the paper from one end. Gold coins trickled out into his palm.

âLook at these, young lady. Look at âem, hold âem, touch âem. Know what they are? Bet you donât! Youâre too young. Sovereignsâthatâs what they are. Good golden sovereigns. What we used before all these dirty bits of paper came into fashion. Worth a lot more than silly pieces of paper. Collected them a long time back. Iâve got other things in this box, too. Lots of things put away in here. All ready for the future. Emma doesnât knowânobody knows. Itâs our secret, see, girl? Dâyou know why Iâm telling you and showing you?â

âWhy?â

âBecause I donât want you to think Iâm a played-out sick old man. Lots of life in the old dog yet. My wifeâs been dead a long time. Always objecting to everything, she was. Didnât like the names I gave the childrenâgood Saxon namesâno interest in that family tree. I never paid any attention to what she said, thoughâand she was a poor-spirited creatureâalways gave in. Now youâre a spirited fillyâa very nice filly indeed. Iâll give you some advice. Donât throw yourself away on a young man. Young men are fools! You want to take care of your future. You waitâ¦â His fingers pressed into Lucyâs arm. He leaned to her ear. âI donât say more than that. Wait. Those silly fools think Iâm going to die soon. Iâm not. Shouldnât be surprised if I outlived the lot of them. And then weâll see! Oh, yes, then weâll see. Haroldâs got no children. Cedric and Alfred arenât married. EmmaâEmma will never marry now. Sheâs a bit sweet on Quimperâbut Quimper will never think of marrying Emma. Thereâs Alexander, of course. Yes, thereâs Alexanderâ¦ But, you know, Iâm fond of Alexanderâ¦ Yes, thatâs awkward. Iâm fond of Alexander.â

He paused for a moment, frowning, then said:

âWell, girl, what about it? What about it, eh?â

âMiss Eyelesbarrowâ¦.â

Emmaâs voice came faintly through the closed study door. Lucy seized gratefully at the opportunity.

âMiss Crackenthorpeâs calling me. I must go. Thank you so much for all you have shown meâ¦.â

âDonât forgetâ¦our secretâ¦.â

âI wonât forget,â said Lucy, and hurried out into the hall not quite certain as to whether she had or had not just received a conditional proposal of marriage.

II

Dermot Craddock sat at his desk in his room at New Scotland Yard. He was slumped sideways in an easy attitude, and was talking into the telephone receiver which he held with one elbow propped up on the table. He was speaking in French, a language in which he was tolerably proficient.

âIt was only an idea, you understand,â he said.

âBut decidedly it is an idea,â said the voice at the other end, from the Prefecture in Paris. âAlready I have set inquiries in motion in those circles. My agent reports that he has two or three promising lines of inquiry. Unless there is some family lifeâor a lover, these women drop out of circulation very easily and no one troubles about them. They have gone on tour, or there is some new manâit is no oneâs business to ask. It is a pity that the photograph you sent me is so difficult for anyone to recognize. Strangulation it does not improve the appearance. Still, that cannot be helped. I go now to study the latest reports of my agents on this matter. There will be, perhaps, something. Au revoir, mon cher.â

As Craddock reiterated the farewell politely, a slip of paper was placed before him on the desk. It read:

Miss Emma Crackenthorpe.

To see Detective-Inspector Craddock.

Rutherford Hall case.

He replaced the receiver and said to the police constable:

âBring Miss Crackenthorpe up.â

As he waited, he leaned back in his chair, thinking.

So he had not been mistakenâthere was something that Emma Crackenthorpe knewânot much, perhaps, but something. And she had decided to tell him.

He rose to his feet as she was shown in, shook hands, settled her in a chair and offered her a cigarette which she refused. Then there was a momentary pause. She was trying, he decided, to find just the words she wanted. He leaned forward.

âYou have come to tell me something, Miss Crackenthorpe? Can I help you? Youâve been worried about something, havenât you? Some little thing, perhaps, that you feel probably has nothing to do with the case, but on the other hand, just might be related to it. Youâve come here to tell me about it, havenât you? Itâs to do, perhaps, with the identity of the dead woman. You think you know who she was?â

âNo, no, not quite that. I think really itâs most unlikely. Butââ

âBut there is some possibility that worries you. Youâd better tell me about itâbecause we may be able to set your mind at rest.â

Emma took a moment or two before speaking. Then she said:

âYou have seen three of my brothers. I had another brother, Edmund, who was killed in the war. Shortly before he was killed, he wrote to me from France.â

She opened her handbag and took out a worn and faded letter. She read from it:

âI hope this wonât be a shock to you, Emmie, but Iâm getting marriedâto a French girl. Itâs all been very suddenâbut I know youâll be fond of Martineâand look after her if anything happens to me. Will write you all the details in my nextâby which time I shall be a married man. Break it gently to the old man, wonât you? Heâll probably go up in smoke.â

Inspector Craddock held out a hand. Emma hesitated, then put the letter into it. She went on, speaking rapidly.

âTwo days after receiving this letter, we had a telegram saying Edmund was Missing, believed killed. Later he was definitely reported killed. It was just before Dunkirkâand a time of great confusion. There was no Army record, as far as I could find out, of his having been marriedâbut as I say, it was a confused time. I never heard anything from the girl. I tried, after the war, to make some inquiries, but I only knew her Christian name and that part of France had been occupied by the Germans and it was difficult to find out anything, without knowing the girlâs surname and more about her. In the end I assumed that the marriage had never taken place and that the girl had probably married someone else before the end of the war, or might possibly herself have been killed.â

Inspector Craddock nodded. Emma went on.

âImagine my surprise to receive a letter just about a month ago, signed Martine Crackenthorpe.â

âYou have it?â

Emma took it from her bag and handed it to him. Craddock read it with interest. It was written in a slanting French handâan educated hand.

Dear Mademoiselle,

I hope it will not be a shock to you to get this letter. I do not even know if your brother Edmund told you that we were married.

He said he was going to do so. He was killed only a few days after our marriage and at the same time the Germans occupied our village. After the war ended, I decided that I would not write to you or approach you, though Edmund had told me to do so. But by then I had made a new life for myself, and it was not necessary.

But now things have changed. For my sonâs sake I write this letter.

He is your brotherâs son, you see, and Iâ I can no longer give him the advantages he ought to have. I am coming to England early next week. Will you let me know if I can come and see you? My address for letters is 126 Elvers Crescent, N.10. I hope again this will not be the great shock to you.

I remain with assurance of my excellent sentiments,

Martine Crackenthorpe

Craddock was silent for a moment or two. He reread the letter carefully before handing it back.

âWhat did you do on receipt of this letter, Miss Crackenthorpe?â

âMy brother-in-law, Bryan Eastley, happened to be staying with me at the time and I talked to him about it. Then I rang up my brother Harold in London and consulted him about it. Harold was rather sceptical about the whole thing and advised extreme caution. We must, he said, go carefully into this womanâs credentials.â

Emma paused and then went on:

âThat, of course, was only common sense and I quite agreed. But if this girlâwomanâwas really the Martine about whom Edmund had written to me, I felt that we must make her welcome. I wrote to the address she gave in her letters, inviting her to come down to Rutherford Hall and meet us. A few days later I received a telegram from London: Very sorry forced to return to France unexpectedly. Martine. There was no further letter or news of any kind.â

âAll this took placeâwhen?â

Emma frowned.

âIt was shortly before Christmas. I know, because I wanted to suggest her spending Christmas with usâbut my father would not hear of itâso I suggested she could come down the weekend after Christmas while the family would still be there. I think the wire saying she was returning to France came actually a few days before Christmas.â

âAnd you believe that this woman whose body was found in the sarcophagus might be this Martine?â

âNo, of course I donât. But when you said she was probably a foreignerâwell, I couldnât help wonderingâ¦if perhapsâ¦.â

Her voice died away.

Craddock spoke quickly and reassuringly.

âYou did quite right to tell me about this. Weâll look into it. I should say there is probably little doubt that the woman who wrote to you actually did go back to France and is there now alive and well. On the other hand, there is a certain coincidence of dates, as you yourself have been clever enough to realize. As you heard at the inquest, the womanâs death according to the police surgeonâs evidence must have occurred about three to four weeks ago. Now donât worry, Miss Crackenthorpe, just leave it to us.â He added casually, âYou consulted Mr. Harold Crackenthorpe. What about your father and your other brothers?â

âI had to tell my father, of course. He got very worked up,â she smiled faintly. âHe was convinced it was a put up thing to get money out of us. My father gets very excited about money. He believes, or pretends to believe, that he is a very poor man, and that he must save every penny he can. I believe elderly people do get obsessions of that kind sometimes. Itâs not true, of course, he has a very large income and doesnât actually spend a quarter of itâor used not to until these days of high income tax. Certainly he has a large amount of savings put by.â She paused and then went on. âI told my other two brothers also. Alfred seemed to consider it rather a joke, though he, too, thought it was almost certainly an imposture. Cedric just wasnât interestedâheâs inclined to be self-centred. Our idea was that the family would receive Martine, and that our lawyer, Mr. Wimborne, should also be asked to be present.â

âWhat did Mr. Wimborne think about the letter?â

âWe hadnât got as far as discussing the matter with him. We were on the point of doing so when Martineâs telegram arrived.â

âYou have taken no further steps?â

âYes. I wrote to the address in London with Please forward on the envelope, but I have had no reply of any kind.â

âRather a curious businessâ¦ Hmâ¦.â

He looked at her sharply.

âWhat do you yourself think about it?â

âI donât know what to think.â

âWhat were your reactions at the time? Did you think the letter was genuineâor did you agree with your father and brothers? What about your brother-in-law, by the way, what did he think?â

âOh, Bryan thought that the letter was genuine.â

âAnd you?â

âIâwasnât sure.â

âAnd what were your feelings about itâsupposing that this girl really was your brother Edmundâs widow?â

Emmaâs face softened.

âI was very fond of Edmund. He was my favourite brother. The letter seemed to me exactly the sort of letter that a girl like Martine would write under the circumstances. The course of events she described was entirely natural. I assumed that by the time the war ended she had either married again or was with some man who was protecting her and the child. Then perhaps, this man had died, or left her, and it then seemed right to her to apply to Edmundâs familyâas he himself had wanted her to do. The letter seemed genuine and natural to meâbut, of course, Harold pointed out that if it was written by an imposter, it would be written by some woman who had known Martine and who was in possession of all the facts, and so would write a thoroughly plausible letter. I had to admit the justice of thatâbut all the sameâ¦.â

She stopped.

âYou wanted it to be true?â said Craddock gently.

She looked at him gratefully.

âYes, I wanted it to be true. I would be so glad if Edmund had left a son.â

Craddock nodded.

âAs you say, the letter, on the face of it, sounds genuine enough. What is surprising is the sequel; Martine Crackenthorpeâs abrupt departure for Paris and the fact that you have never heard from her since. You had replied kindly to her, were prepared to welcome her. Why, even if she had to return to France, did she not write again? That is, presuming her to be the genuine article. If she were an imposter, of course, itâs easier to explain. I thought perhaps that you might have consulted Mr. Wimborne, and that he might have instituted inquiries which alarmed the woman. That, you tell me, is not so. But itâs still possible that one or other of your brothers may have done something of the kind. Itâs possible that this Martine may have had a background that would not stand investigation. She may have assumed that she would be dealing only with Edmundâs affectionate sister, not with hard-headed suspicious business men. She may have hoped to get sums of money out of you for the child (hardly a child nowâa boy presumably of fifteen or sixteen) without many questions being asked. But instead she found she was going to run up against something quite different. After all, I should imagine that serious legal aspects would arise. If Edmund Crackenthorpe left a son, born in wedlock, he would be one of the heirs to your grandfatherâs estate?â

Emma nodded.

âMoreover, from what I have been told, he would in due course inherit Rutherford Hall and the land round itâvery valuable building land, probably, by now.â

Emma looked slightly startled.

âYes, I hadnât thought of that.â

âWell, I shouldnât worry,â said Inspector Craddock. âYou did quite right to come and tell me. I shall make enquiries, but it seems to me highly probable that there is no connection between the woman who wrote the letter (and who was probably trying to cash in on a swindle) and the woman whose body was found in the sarcophagus.â

Emma rose with a sigh of relief.

âIâm so glad Iâve told you. Youâve been very kind.â

Craddock accompanied her to the door.

Then he rang for Detective-Sergeant Wetherall.

âBob, Iâve got a job for you. Go to 126 Elvers Crescent, N.10. Take photographs of the Rutherford Hall woman with you. See what you can find out about a woman calling herself Mrs. Crackenthorpeâ Mrs. Martine Crackenthorpe, who was either living there, or calling for letters there, between the dates of, say, 15th to the end of December.â

âRight, sir.â

Craddock busied himself with various other matters that were waiting attention on his desk. In the afternoon he went to see a theatrical agent who was a friend of his. His inquiries were not fruitful.

Later in the day when he returned to his office he found a wire from Paris on his desk.

Particulars given by you might apply to Anna Stravinska of Ballet Maritski. Suggest you come over. Dessin, Prefecture.

Craddock heaved a big sigh of relief, and his brow cleared.

At last! So much, he thought, for the Martine Crackenthorpe hareâ¦ He decided to take the night ferry to Paris.

Thirteen

I

âItâs so very kind of you to have asked me to take tea with you,â said Miss Marple to Emma Crackenthorpe.

Miss Marple was looking particularly woolly and fluffyâa picture of a sweet old lady. She beamed as she looked round herâat Harold Crackenthorpe in his well-cut dark suit, at Alfred handing her sandwiches with a charming smile, at Cedric standing by the mantelpiece in a ragged tweed jacket scowling at the rest of his family.

âWe are very pleased that you could come,â said Emma politely.

There was no hint of the scene which had taken place after lunch that day when Emma had exclaimed: âDear me, I quite forgot. I told Miss Eyelesbarrow that she could bring her old aunt to tea today.â

âPut her off,â said Harold brusquely. âWeâve still got a lot to talk about. We donât want strangers here.â

âLet her have tea in the kitchen or somewhere with the girl,â said Alfred.

âOh, no, I couldnât do that,â said Emma firmly. âThat would be very rude.â

âOh, let her come,â said Cedric. âWe can draw her out a little about the wonderful Lucy. I should like to know more about that girl, I must say. Iâm not sure that I trust her. Too smart by half.â

âSheâs very well connected and quite genuine,â said Harold. âIâve made it my business to find out. One wanted to be sure. Poking about and finding the body the way she did.â

âIf we only knew who this damned woman was,â said Alfred.

Harold added angrily:

âI must say, Emma, that I think you were out of your senses, going and suggesting to the police that the dead woman might be Edmundâs French girl friend. It will make them convinced that she came here, and that probably one or other of us killed her.â

âOh, no, Harold. Donât exaggerate.â

âHaroldâs quite right,â said Alfred. âWhatever possessed you, I donât know. Iâve a feeling Iâm being followed everywhere I go by plainclothesmen.â

âI told her not to do it,â said Cedric. âThen Quimper backed her up.â

âItâs no business of his,â said Harold angrily. âLet him stick to pills and powders and National Health.â

âOh, do stop quarrelling,â said Emma wearily. âIâm really glad this old Miss Whatshername is coming to tea. It will do us all good to have a stranger here and be prevented from going over and over the same things again and again. I must go and tidy myself up a little.â

She left the room.

âThis Lucy Eyelesbarrow,â said Harold, and stopped. âAs Cedric says, it is odd that she should nose about in the barn and go opening up a sarcophagusâreally a Herculean task. Perhaps we ought to take steps. Her attitude, I thought, was rather antagonistic at lunchââ

âLeave her to me,â said Alfred. âIâll soon find out if sheâs up to anything.â

âI mean, why open up that sarcophagus?â

âPerhaps she isnât really Lucy Eyelesbarrow at all,â suggested Cedric.

âBut what would be the pointâ?â Harold looked thoroughly upset. âOh, damn!â

They looked at each other with worried faces.

âAnd hereâs this pestilential old woman coming to tea. Just when we want to think.â

âWeâll talk things over this evening,â said Alfred. âIn the meantime, weâll pump the old aunt about Lucy.â

So Miss Marple had duly been fetched by Lucy and installed by the fire and she was now smiling up at Alfred as he handed her sandwiches with the approval she always showed towards a good-looking man.

âThank you so muchâ¦may I askâ¦? Oh, egg and sardine, yes, that will be very nice. Iâm afraid Iâm always rather greedy over my tea. As one gets on, you knowâ¦ And, of course, at night only a very light mealâ¦ I have to be careful.â She turned to her hostess once more. âWhat a beautiful house you have. And so many beautiful things in it. Those bronzes, now, they remind me of some my father boughtâat the Paris Exhibition. Really, your grandfather did? In the classical style, arenât they? Very handsome. How delightful for you having your brothers with you? So often families are scatteredâIndia, though I suppose that is all done with nowâand Africaâthe west coast, such a bad climate.â

âTwo of my brothers live in London.â

âThat is very nice for you.â

âBut my brother Cedric is a painter and lives in Ibiza, one of the Balearic Islands.â

âPainters are so fond of islands, are they not?â said Miss Marple. âChopinâthat was Majorca, was it not? But he was a musician. It is Gauguin I am thinking of. A sad lifeâmisspent, one feels. I myself never really care for paintings of native womenâand although I know he is very much admiredâI have never cared for that lurid mustard colour. One really feels quite bilious looking at his pictures.â

She eyed Cedric with a slightly disapproving air.

âTell us about Lucy as a child, Miss Marple,â said Cedric.

She smiled up at him delightedly.

âLucy was always so clever,â she said. âYes, you were, dearânow donât interrupt. Quite remarkable at arithmetic. Why, I remember when the butcher overcharged me for top side of beefâ¦.â

Miss Marple launched full steam ahead into reminiscences of Lucyâs childhood and from there to experiences of her own in village life.

The stream of reminiscence was interrupted by the entry of Bryan and the boys rather wet and dirty as a result of an enthusiastic search for clues. Tea was brought in and with it came Dr. Quimper who raised his eyebrows slightly as he looked round after acknowledging his introduction to the old lady.

âHope your fatherâs not under the weather, Emma?â

âOh, noâthat is, he was just a little tired this afternoonââ

âAvoiding visitors, I expect,â said Miss Marple with a roguish smile. âHow well I remember my own dear father. âGot a lot of old pussies coming?â he would say to my mother. âSend my tea into the study.â Very naughty about it, he was.â

âPlease donât thinkââ began Emma, but Cedric cut in.

âItâs always tea in the study when his dear sons come down. Psychologically to be expected, eh, Doctor?â

Dr. Quimper, who was devouring sandwiches and coffee cake with the frank appreciation of a man who has usually too little time to spend on his meals, said:

âPsychologyâs all right if itâs left to the psychologists. Trouble is, everyone is an amateur psychologist nowadays. My patients tell me exactly what complexes and neuroses theyâre suffering from, without giving me a chance to tell them. Thanks, Emma, I will have another cup. No time for lunch today.â

âA doctorâs life, I always think, is so noble and self-sacrificing,â said Miss Marple.

âYou canât know many doctors,â said Dr. Quimper. âLeeches they used to be called, and leeches they often are! At any rate, we do get paid nowadays, the State sees to that. No sending in of bills that you know wonât ever be met. Trouble is that all oneâs patients are determined to get everything they can âout of the Government,â and as a result, if little Jenny coughs twice in the night, or little Tommy eats a couple of green apples, out the poor doctor has to come in the middle of the night. Oh, well! Glorious cake, Emma. What a cook you are!â

âNot mine. Miss Eyelesbarrowâs.â

âYou make âem just as good,â said Quimper loyally.

âWill you come and see Father?â

She rose and the doctor followed her. Miss Marple watched them leave the room.

âMiss Crackenthorpe is a very devoted daughter, I see,â she said.

âCanât imagine how she sticks the old man myself,â said the outspoken Cedric.

âShe has a very comfortable home here, and father is very much attached to her,â said Harold quickly.

âEmâs all right,â said Cedric. âBorn to be an old maid.â

There was a faint twinkle in Miss Marpleâs eye as she said:

âOh, do you think so?â

Harold said quickly:

âMy brother didnât use the term old maid in any derogatory sense, Miss Marple.â

âOh, I wasnât offended,â said Miss Marple. âI just wondered if he was right. I shouldnât say myself that Miss Crackenthorpe would be an old maid. Sheâs the type, I think, thatâs quite likely to marry late in lifeâand make a success of it.â

âNot very likely living here,â said Cedric. âNever sees anybody she could marry.â

Miss Marpleâs twinkle became more pronounced than ever.

âThere are always clergymenâand doctors.â

Her eyes, gentle and mischievous, went from one to another.

It was clear that she had suggested to them something that they had never thought of and which they did not find overpleasing.

Miss Marple rose to her feet, dropping as she did so, several little woolly scarves and her bag.

The three brothers were most attentive picking things up.

âSo kind of you,â fluted Miss Marple. âOh, yes, and my little blue muffler. Yesâas I sayâso kind to ask me here. Iâve been picturing, you know, just what your home was likeâso that I can visualize dear Lucy working here.â

âPerfect home conditionsâwith murder thrown in,â said Cedric.

âCedric!â Haroldâs voice was angry.

Miss Marple smiled up at Cedric.

âDo you know who you remind me of? Young Thomas Eade, our bank managerâs son. Always out to shock people. It didnât do in banking circles, of course, so he went to the West Indiesâ¦ He came home when his father died and inherited quite a lot of money. So nice for him. He was always better at spending money than making it.â

II

Lucy took Miss Marple home. On her way back a figure stepped out of the darkness and stood in the glare of the headlights just as she was about to turn into the back lane. He held up his hand and Lucy recognized Alfred Crackenthorpe.

âThatâs better,â he observed, as he got in. âBrr, itâs cold! I fancied Iâd like a nice bracing walk. I didnât. Taken the old lady home all right?â

âYes. She enjoyed herself very much.â

âOne could see that. Funny what a taste old ladies have for any kind of society, however dull. And, really, nothing could be duller than Rutherford Hall. Two days here is about as much as I can stand. How do you manage to stick it out, Lucy? Donât mind if I call you Lucy, do you?â

âNot at all. I donât find it dull. Of course with me itâs not a permanency.â

âIâve been watching youâyouâre a smart girl, Lucy. Too smart to waste yourself cooking and cleaning.â

âThank you, but I prefer cooking and cleaning to the office desk.â

âSo would I. But there are other ways of living. You could be a freelance.â

âI am.â

âNot this way. I mean, working for yourself, pitting your wits againstââ

âAgainst what?â

âThe powers that be! All the silly pettifogging rules and regulations that hamper us all nowadays. The interesting thing is thereâs always a way round them if youâre smart enough to find it. And youâre smart. Come now, does the idea appeal to you?â

âPossibly.â

Lucy manoeuvred the car into the stableyard.

âNot going to commit yourself?â

âIâd have to hear more.â

âFrankly, my dear girl, I could use you. Youâve got the sort of manner thatâs invaluableâcreates confidence.â

âDo you want me to help you sell gold bricks?â

âNothing so risky. Just a little by-passing of the lawâno more.â His hand slipped up her arm. âYouâre a damned attractive girl, Lucy. Iâd like you as a partner.â

âIâm flattered.â

âMeaning nothing doing? Think about it. Think of the fun. The pleasure youâd get out of outwitting all the sober-sides. The trouble is, one needs capital.â

âIâm afraid I havenât got any.â

âOh, it wasnât a touch! Iâll be laying my hands on some before long. My revered Papa canât live forever, mean old brute. When he pops off, I lay my hands on some real money. What about it, Lucy?â

âWhat are the terms?â

âMarriage if you fancy it. Women seem to, no matter how advanced and self-supporting they are. Besides, married women canât be made to give evidence against their husbands.â

âNot so flattering!â

âCome off it, Lucy. Donât you realize Iâve fallen for you?â

Rather to her surprise Lucy was aware of a queer fascination. There was a quality of charm about Alfred, perhaps due to sheer animal magnetism. She laughed and slipped from his encircling arm.

âThis is no time for dalliance. Thereâs dinner to think about.â

âSo there is, Lucy, and youâre a lovely cook. Whatâs for dinner?â

âWait and see! Youâre as bad as the boys!â

They entered the house and Lucy hurried to the kitchen. She was rather surprised to be interrupted in her preparations by Harold Crackenthorpe.

âMiss Eyelesbarrow, can I speak to you about something?â

âWould later do, Mr. Crackenthorpe? Iâm rather behind hand.â

âCertainly. Certainly. After dinner?â

âYes, that will do.â

Dinner was duly served and appreciated. Lucy finished washing up and came out into the hall to find Harold Crackenthorpe waiting for her.

âYes, Mr. Crackenthorpe?â

âShall we come in here?â He opened the door of the drawing room and led the way. He shut the door behind her.

âI shall be leaving early in the morning,â he explained, âbut I want to tell you how struck I have been by your ability.â

âThank you,â said Lucy, feeling a little surprised.

âI feel that your talents are wasted hereâdefinitely wasted.â

âDo you? I donât.â

At any rate, he canât ask me to marry him, thought Lucy. Heâs got a wife already.

âI suggest that having very kindly seen us through this lamentable crisis, you call upon me in London. If you will ring up and make an appointment, I will leave instructions with my secretary. The truth is that we could use someone of your outstanding ability in the firm. We could discuss fully in what field your talents would be most ably employed. I can offer you, Miss Eyelesbarrow, a very good salary indeed with brilliant prospects. I think you will be agreeably surprised.â

His smile was magnanimous.

Lucy said demurely:

âThank you, Mr. Crackenthorpe, Iâll think about it.â

âDonât wait too long. These opportunities should not be missed by a young woman anxious to make her way in the world.â

Again his teeth flashed.

âGood night, Miss Eyelesbarrow, sleep well.â

âWell,â said Lucy to herself, âwellâ¦this is all very interestingâ¦.â

On her way up to bed, Lucy encountered Cedric on the stairs.

âLook here, Lucy, thereâs something I want to say to you.â

âDo you want me to marry you and come to Ibiza and look after you?â

Cedric looked very much taken aback, and slightly alarmed.

âI never thought of such a thing.â

âSorry. My mistake.â

âI just wanted to know if youâve a timetable in the house?â

âIs that all? Thereâs one on the hall table.â

âYou know,â said Cedric, reprovingly, âyou shouldnât go about thinking everyone wants to marry you. Youâre quite a good-looking girl but not as good-looking as all that. Thereâs a name for that sort of thingâit grows on you and you get worse. Actually, youâre the last girl in the world I should care to marry. The last girl.â

âIndeed?â said Lucy. âYou neednât rub it in. Perhaps youâd prefer me as a stepmother?â

âWhatâs that?â Cedric stared at her stupefied.

âYou heard me,â said Lucy, and went into her room and shut the door.

Fourteen

I

Dermot Craddock was fraternizing with Armand Dessin of the Paris Prefecture. The two men had met on one or two occasions and got on well together. Since Craddock spoke French fluently, most of their conversation was conducted in that language.

âIt is an idea only,â Dessin warned him, âI have a picture here of the corps de balletâthat is she, the fourth from the leftâit says anything to you, yes?â

Inspector Craddock said that actually it didnât. A strangled young woman is not easy to recognize, and in this picture all the young women concerned were heavily made up and were wearing extravagant bird headdresses.

âIt could be,â he said. âI canât go further than that. Who was she? What do you know about her?â

âAlmost less than nothing,â said the other cheerfully. âShe was not important, you see. And the Ballet Maritskiâit is not important, either. It plays in suburban theatres and goes on tourâit has no real names, no stars, no famous ballerinas. But I will take you to see Madame Joilet who runs it.â

Madame Joilet was a brisk business-like Frenchwoman with a shrewd eye, a small moustache, and a good deal of adipose tissue.

âMe, I do not like the police!â She scowled at them, without camouflaging her dislike of the visit. âAlways, if they can, they make me embarrassments.â

âNo, no, Madame, you must not say that,â said Dessin, who was a tall thin melancholy-looking man. âWhen have I ever caused you embarrassments?â

âOver that little fool who drank the carbolic acid,â said Madame Joilet promptly. âAnd all because she has fallen in love with the chef dâorchestreâwho does not care for women and has other tastes. Over that you made the big brouhaha! Which is not good for my beautiful ballet.â

âOn the contrary, big box office business,â said Dessin. âAnd that was three years ago. You should not bear malice. Now about this girl, Anna Stravinska.â

âWell, what about her?â said Madame cautiously.

âIs she Russian?â asked Inspector Craddock.

âNo, indeed. You mean, because of her name? But they all call themselves names like that, these girls. She was not important, she did not dance well, she was not particularly good-looking. Elle Ã©tait assez bien, câest tout. She danced well enough for the corps de balletâbut no solos.â

âWas she French?â

âPerhaps. She had a French passport. But she told me once that she had an English husband.â

âShe told you that she had an English husband? Aliveâor dead?â

Madame Joilet shrugged her shoulders.

âDead, or he had left her. How should I know which? These girlsâthere is always some trouble with menââ

âWhen did you last see her?â

âI take my company to London for six weeks. We play at Tor-quay, at Bournemouth, at Eastbourne, at somewhere else I forget and at Hammersmith. Then we come back to France, but Annaâshe does not come. She sends a message only that she leaves the company, that she goes to live with her husbandâs familyâsome nonsense of that kind. I did not think it is true, myself. I think it more likely that she has met a man, you understand.â

Inspector Craddock nodded. He perceived that that was what Madame Joilet would invariably think.

âAnd it is no loss to me. I do not care. I can get girls just as good and better to come and dance, so I shrug the shoulders and do not think of it anymore. Why should I? They are all the same, these girls, mad about men.â

âWhat date was this?â

âWhen we return to France? It wasâyesâthe Sunday before Christmas. And Anna she leaves twoâor is it threeâdays before that? I cannot remember exactlyâ¦ But the end of the week at Hammersmith we have to dance without herâand it means rearranging thingsâ¦ It was very naughty of herâbut these girlsâthe moment they meet a man they are all the same. Only I say to everybody. âZut, I do not take her back, that one!ââ

âVery annoying for you.â

âAh! MeâI do not care. No doubt she passes the Christmas holiday with some man she has picked up. It is not my affair. I can find other girlsâgirls who will leap at the chance of dancing in the Ballet Maritski and who can dance as wellâor better than Anna.â

Madame Joilet paused and then asked with a sudden gleam of interest:

âWhy do you want to find her? Has she come into money?â

âOn the contrary,â said Inspector Craddock politely. âWe think she may have been murdered.â

Madame Joilet relapsed into indifference.

âCa se peut! It happens. Ah, well! She was a good Catholic. She went to Mass on Sundays, and no doubt to confession.â

âDid she ever speak to you, Madame, of a son?â

âA son? Do you mean she had a child? That, now, I should consider most unlikely. These girls, allâall of them know a useful address to which to go. M. Dessin knows that as well as I do.â

âShe may have had a child before she adopted a stage life,â said Craddock. âDuring the war, for instance.â

âAh! dans la guerre. That is always possible. But if so, I know nothing about it.â

âWho amongst the other girls were her closest friends?â

âI can give you two or three namesâbut she was not very intimate with anyone.â

They could get nothing else useful from Madame Joilet.

Shown the compact, she said Anna had one of that kind, but so had most of the other girls. Anna had perhaps bought a fur coat in Londonâshe did not know. âMe, I occupy myself with the rehearsals, with the stage lighting, with all the difficulties of my business. I have not time to notice what my artists wear.â

After Madame Joilet, they interviewed the girls whose names she had given them. One or two of them had known Anna fairly well, but they all said that she had not been one to talk much about herself, and that when she did, it was, so one girl said, mostly lies.

âShe liked to pretend thingsâstories about having been the mistress of a Grand Dukeâor of a great English financierâor how she worked for the Resistance in the war. Even a story about being a film star in Hollywood.â

Another girl said:

âI think that really she had had a very tame bourgeois existence. She liked to be in ballet because she thought it was romantic, but she was not a good dancer. You understand that if she were to say, âMy father was a draper in Amiens,â that would not be romantic! So instead she made up things.â

âEven in London,â said the first girl, âshe threw out hints about a very rich man who was going to take her on a cruise round the world, because she reminded him of his dead daughter who had died in a car accident. Quelle blague!â

âShe told me she was going to stay with a rich lord in Scotland,â said the second girl. âShe said she would shoot the deer there.â

None of this was helpful. All that seemed to emerge from it was that Anna Stravinska was a proficient liar. She was certainly not shooting deer with a a peer in Scotland, and it seemed equally unlikely that she was on the sun deck of a liner cruising round the world. But neither was there any real reason to believe that her body had been found in a sarcophagus at Rutherford Hall. The identification by the girls and Madame Joilet was very uncertain and hesitating. It looked something like Anna, they all agreed. But really! All swollen upâit might be anybody!

The only fact that was established was that on the 19th of December Anna Stravinska had decided not to return to France, and that on the 20th December a woman resembling her in appearance had travelled to Brackhampton by the 4:33 train and had been strangled.

If the woman in the sarcophagus was not Anna Stravinska, where was Anna now?

To that, Madame Joiletâs answer was simple and inevitable.

âWith a man!â

And it was probably the correct answer, Craddock reflected ruefully.

One other possibility had to be consideredâraised by the casual remark that Anna had once referred to having an English husband.

Had that husband been Edmund Crackenthorpe?

It seemed unlikely, considering the word picture of Anna that had been given him by those who knew her. What was much more probable was that Anna had at one time known the girl Martine sufficiently intimately to be acquainted with the necessary details. It might have been Anna who wrote that letter to Emma Crackenthorpe and, if so, Anna would have been quite likely to have taken fright at any question of an investigation. Perhaps she had even thought it prudent to sever her connection with the Ballet Maritski. Again, where was she now?

And again, inevitably, Madame Joiletâs answer seemed the most likely.

With a manâ¦.

II

Before leaving Paris, Craddock discussed with Dessin the question of the woman named Martine. Dessin was inclined to agree with his English colleague that the matter had probably no connection with the woman found in the sarcophagus. All the same, he agreed, the matter ought to be investigated.

He assured Craddock that the SÃ»retÃ© would do their best to discover if there actually was any record of a marriage between Lieutenant Edmund Crackenthorpe of the 4th Southshire Regiment and a French girl whose Christian name was Martine. Timeâjust prior to the fall of Dunkirk.

He warned Craddock, however, that a definite answer was doubtful. The area in question had not only been occupied by the Germans at almost exactly that time, but subsequently that part of France had suffered severe war damage at the time of the invasion. Many buildings and records had been destroyed.

âBut rest assured, my dear colleague, we shall do our best.â

With this, he and Craddock took leave of each other.

III

On Craddockâs return Sergeant Wetherall was waiting to report with gloomy relish:

âAccommodation address, sirâthatâs what 126 Elvers Crescent is. Quite respectable and all that.â

âAny identifications?â

âNo, nobody could recognize the photograph as that of a woman who had called for letters, but I donât think they would anywayâitâs a month ago, very near, and a good many people use the place. Itâs actually a boarding-house for students.â

âShe might have stayed there under another name.â

âIf so, they didnât recognize her as the original of the photograph.â

He added:

âWe circularized the hotelsânobody registering as Martine Crackenthorpe anywhere. On receipt of your call from Paris, we checked up on Anna Stravinska. She was registered with other members of the company in a cheap hotel off Brook Green. Mostly theatricals there. She cleared out on the night of Thursday 19th after the show. No further record.â

Craddock nodded. He suggested a line of further inquiriesâthough he had little hope of success from them.

After some thought, he rang up Wimborne, Henderson and Carstairs and asked for an appointment with Mr. Wimborne.

In due course, he was ushered into a particularly airless room where Mr. Wimborne was sitting behind a large old-fashioned desk covered with bundles of dusty-looking papers. Various deed boxes labelled Sir John ffouldes, dec., Lady Derrin, George Rowbottom, Esq., ornamented the walls; whether as relics of a bygone era or as part of present-day legal affairs, the inspector did not know.

Mr. Wimborne eyed his visitor with the polite wariness characteristic of a family lawyer towards the police.

âWhat can I do for you, Inspector?â

âThis letterâ¦â Craddock pushed Martineâs letter across the table. Mr. Wimborne touched it with a distasteful finger but did not pick it up. His colour rose very slightly and his lips tightened.

âQuite so,â he said; âquite so! I received a letter from Miss Emma Crackenthorpe yesterday morning, informing me of her visit to Scotland Yard and ofâahâall the circumstances. I may say that I am at a loss to understandâquite at a lossâwhy I was not consulted about this letter at the time of its arrival! Most extraordinary! I should have been informed immediatelyâ¦.â

Inspector Craddock repeated soothingly such platitudes as seemed best calculated to reduce Mr. Wimborne to an amenable frame of mind.

âIâd no idea that there was ever any question of Edmundâs having married,â said Mr. Wimborne in an injured voice.

Inspector Craddock said that he supposedâin war timeâand left it to trail away vaguely.

âWar time!â snapped Mr. Wimborne with waspish acerbity. âYes, indeed, we were in Lincolnâs Inn Fields at the outbreak of war and there was a direct hit on the house next door, and a great number of our records were destroyed. Not the really important documents, of course; they had been removed to the country for safety. But it caused a great deal of confusion. Of course, the Crackenthorpe business was in my fatherâs hands at that time. He died six years ago. I dare say he may have been told about this so-called marriage of Edmundâsâbut on the face of it, it looks as though that marriage, even if contemplated, never took place, and so, no doubt, my father did not consider the story of any importance. I must say, all this sounds very fishy to me. This coming forward, after all these years, and claiming a marriage and a legitimate son. Very fishy indeed. What proofs had she got, Iâd like to know?â

âJust so,â said Craddock. âWhat would her position, or her sonâs position be?â

âThe idea was, I suppose, that she would get the Crackenthorpes to provide for her and for the boy.â

âYes, but I meant, what would she and the son be entitled to, legally speakingâif she could prove her claim?â

âOh, I see.â Mr. Wimborne picked up his spectacles which he had laid aside in his irritation, and put them on, staring through them at Inspector Craddock with shrewd attention. âWell, at the moment, nothing. But if she could prove that the boy was the son of Edmund Crackenthorpe, born in lawful wedlock, then the boy would be entitled to his share of Josiah Crackenthorpeâs trust on the death of Luther Crackenthorpe. More than that, heâd inherit Rutherford Hall, since heâs the son of the eldest son.â

âWould anyone want to inherit the house?â

âTo live in? I should say, certainly not. But that estate, my dear Inspector, is worth a considerable amount of money. Very considerable. Land for industrial and building purposes. Land which is now in the heart of Brackhampton. Oh, yes, a very considerable inheritance.â

âIf Luther Crackenthorpe dies, I believe you told me that Cedric gets it?â

âHe inherits the real estateâyes, as the eldest living son.â

âCedric Crackenthorpe, I have been given to understand, is not interested in money?â

Mr. Wimborne gave Craddock a cold stare.

âIndeed? I am inclined, myself, to take statements of such a nature with what I might term a grain of salt. There are doubtless certain unworldly people who are indifferent to money. I myself have never met one.â

Mr. Wimborne obviously derived a certain satisfaction from this remark.

Inspector Craddock hastened to take advantage of this ray of sunshine.

âHarold and Alfred Crackenthorpe,â he ventured, âseem to have been a good deal upset by the arrival of this letter?â

âWell they might be,â said Mr. Wimborne. âWell they might be.â

âIt would reduce their eventual inheritance?â

âCertainly. Edmund Crackenthorpeâs sonâalways presuming there is a sonâwould be entitled to a fifth share of the trust money.â

âThat doesnât really seem a very serious loss?â

Mr. Wimborne gave him a shrewd glance.

âIt is a totally inadequate motive for murder, if that is what you mean.â

âBut I suppose theyâre both pretty hard up,â Craddock murmured.

He sustained Mr. Wimborneâs sharp glance with perfect impassivity.

âOh! So the police have been making inquiries? Yes, Alfred is almost incessantly in low water. Occasionally he is very flush of money for a short timeâbut it soon goes. Harold, as you seem to have discovered, is at present somewhat precariously situated.â

âIn spite of his appearance of financial prosperity?â

âFaÃ§ade. All faÃ§ade! Half these city concerns donât even know if theyâre solvent or not. Balance sheets can be made to look all right to the inexpert eye. But when the assets that are listed arenât really assetsâwhen those assets are trembling on the brink of a crashâwhere are you?â

âWhere, presumably, Harold Crackenthorpe is, in bad need of money.â

âWell, he wouldnât have got it by strangling his late brotherâs widow,â said Mr. Wimborne. âAnd nobodyâs murdered Luther Crackenthorpe which is the only murder that would do the family any good. So, really, Inspector, I donât quite see where your ideas are leading you?â

The worst of it was, Inspector Craddock thought, that he wasnât very sure himself.

Fifteen

I

Inspector Craddock had made an appointment with Harold Crackenthorpe at his office, and he and Sergeant Wetherall arrived there punctually. The office was on the fourth floor of a big block of City offices. Inside everything showed prosperity and the acme of modern business taste.

A neat young woman took his name, spoke in a discreet murmur through a telephone, and then, rising, showed them into Harold Crackenthorpeâs own private office.

Harold was sitting behind a large leather-topped desk and was looking as impeccable and self-confident as ever. If, as the inspectorâs private knowledge led him to surmise, he was close upon Queer Street, no trace of it showed.

He looked up with a frank welcoming interest.

âGood morning, Inspector Craddock. I hope this means that you have some definite news for us at last?â

âHardly that, I am afraid, Mr. Crackenthorpe. Itâs just a few more questions Iâd like to ask.â

âMore questions? Surely by now we have answered everything imaginable.â

âI dare say it feels like that to you, Mr. Crackenthorpe, but itâs just a question of our regular routine.â

âWell, what is it this time?â He spoke impatiently.

âI should be glad if you could tell me exactly what you were doing on the afternoon and evening of 20th December lastâsay between the hours of 3 p.m. and midnight.â

Harold Crackenthorpe went an angry shade of plum red.

âThat seems to be a most extraordinary question to ask me. What does it mean, I should like to know?â

Craddock smiled gently.

âIt just means that I should like to know where you were between the hours of 3 p.m. and midnight on Friday, 20th December.â

âWhy?â

âIt would help to narrow things down.â

âNarrow them down? You have extra information, then?â

âWe hope that weâre getting a little closer, sir.â

âIâm not at all sure that I ought to answer your question. Not, that is, without having my solicitor present.â

âThat, of course, is entirely up to you,â said Craddock. âYou are not bound to answer any questions, and you have a perfect right to have a solicitor present before you do so.â

âYou are notâlet me be quite clearâerâwarning me in any way?â

âOh, no, sir.â Inspector Craddock looked properly shocked. âNothing of that kind. The questions I am asking you, I am asking several other people as well. Thereâs nothing directly personal about this. Itâs just a matter of necessary eliminations.â

âWell, of courseâ Iâm anxious to assist in any way I can. Let me see now. Such a thing isnât easy to answer off hand, but weâre very systematic here. Miss Ellis, I expect, can help.â

He spoke briefly into one of the telephones on his desk and almost immediately a streamlined young woman in a well-cut black suit entered with a notebook.

âMy secretary, Miss Ellis, Inspector Craddock. Now, Miss Ellis, the inspector would like to know what I was doing on the afternoon and evening ofâwhat was the date?â

âFriday, 20th December.â

âFriday, 20th December. I expect you will have some record.â

âOh, yes.â Miss Ellis left the room, returned with an office memorandum calendar and turned the pages.

âYou were in the office on the morning of 20th December. You had a conference with Mr. Goldie about the Cromartie merger, you lunched with Lord Forthville at the Berkeleyââ

âAh, it was that day, yes.â

âYou returned to the office about 3 oâclock and dictated half a dozen letters. You then left to attend Sothebyâs sale rooms where you were interested in some rare manuscripts which were coming up for sale that day. You did not return to the office again, but I have a note to remind you that you were attending the Catering Club dinner that evening.â She looked up interrogatively.

âThank you, Miss Ellis.â

Miss Ellis glided from the room.

âThat is all quite clear in my mind,â said Harold. âI went to Sothebyâs that afternoon but the items I wanted there went for too high a price. I had tea in a small place in Jermyn StreetâRussellâs, I think, it was called. I dropped into a News Theatre for about half an hour or so, then went homeâI live at 43 Cardigan Gardens. The Catering Club dinner took place at seven-thirty at Catererâs Hall, and after it I returned home to bed. I think that should answer your questions.â

âThatâs all very clear, Mr. Crackenthorpe. What time was it when you returned home to dress?â

âI donât think I can remember exactly. Soon after six, I should think.â

âAnd after your dinner?â

âIt was, I think, half past eleven when I got home.â

âDid your manservant let you in? Or perhaps Lady Alice Crackenthorpeââ

âMy wife, Lady Alice, is abroad in the South of France and has been since early December. I let myself in with my latch key.â

âSo there is no one who can vouch for your returning home when you say you did?â

Harold gave him a cold stare.

âI dare say the servants heard me come in. I have a man and wife. But, really, Inspectorââ

âPlease, Mr. Crackenthorpe, I know these kind of questions are annoying, but I have nearly finished. Do you own a car?â

âYes, a Humber Hawk.â

âYou drive it yourself?â

âYes. I donât use it much except at weekends. Driving in London is quite impossible nowadays.â

âI presume you use it when you go down to see your father and sister in Brackhampton?â

âNot unless I am going to stay there for some length of time. If I just go down for the nightâas, for instance, to the inquest the other dayâI always go by train. There is an excellent train service and it is far quicker than going by car. The car my sister hires meets me at the station.â

âWhere do you keep your car?â

âI rent a garage in the mews behind Cardigan Gardens. Any more questions?â

âI think thatâs all for now,â said Inspector Craddock, smiling and rising. âIâm very sorry for having to bother you.â

When they were outside, Sergeant Wetherall, a man who lived in a state of dark suspicions of all and sundry, remarked meaningly:

âHe didnât like those questionsâdidnât like them at all. Put out, he was.â

âIf you have not committed a murder, it naturally annoys you if it seems someone thinks that you have,â said Inspector Craddock mildly. âIt would particularly annoy an ultra respectable man like Harold Crackenthorpe. Thereâs nothing in that. What weâve got to find out now is if anyone actually saw Harold Crackenthorpe at the sale that afternoon, and the same applies to the tea shop place. He could easily have travelled by the 4:33, pushed the woman out of the train and caught a train back to London in time to appear at the dinner. In the same way he could have driven his car down that night, moved the body to the sarcophagus and driven back again. Make inquiries in the mews.â

âYes, sir. Do you think thatâs what he did do?â

âHow do I know?â asked Inspector Craddock. âHeâs a tall dark man. He could have been on that train and heâs got a connection with Rutherford Hall. Heâs a possible suspect in this case. Now for Brother Alfred.â

II

Alfred Crackenthorpe had a flat in West Hampstead, in a big modern building of slightly jerry-built type with a large courtyard in which the owners of flats parked their cars with a certain lack of consideration for others.

The flat was the modern built-in type, evidently rented furnished. It had a long plywood table that led down from the wall, a divan bed, and various chairs of improbable proportions.

Alfred Crackenthorpe met them with engaging friendliness but was, the inspector thought, nervous.

âIâm intrigued,â he said. âCan I offer you a drink, Inspector Craddock?â He held up various bottles invitingly.

âNo, thank you, Mr. Crackenthorpe.â

âAs bad as that?â He laughed at his own little joke, then asked what it was all about.

Inspector Craddock said his little piece.

âWhat was I doing on the afternoon and evening of 20th December. How should I know? Why, thatâsâwhatâover three weeks ago.â

âYour brother Harold has been able to tell us very exactly.â

âBrother Harold, perhaps. Not Brother Alfred.â He added with a touch of somethingâenvious malice possibly: âHarold is the successful member of the familyâbusy, useful, fully employedâa time for everything, and everything at that time. Even if he were to commit aâmurder, shall we say?âit would be carefully timed and exact.â

âAny particular reason for using that example?â

âOh, no. It just came into my mindâas a supreme absurdity.â

âNow about yourself.â

Alfred spread out his hands.

âItâs as I tell youâIâve no memory for times or places. If you were to say Christmas Day nowâthen I should be able to answer youâthereâs a peg to hang it on. I know where I was Christmas Day. We spend that with my father at Brackhampton. I really donât know why. He grumbles at the expense of having usâand would grumble that we never came near him if we didnât come. We really do it to please my sister.â

âAnd you did it this year?â

âYes.â

âBut unfortunately your father was taken ill, was he not?â

Craddock was pursuing a sideline deliberately, led by the kind of instinct that often came to him in his profession.

âHe was taken ill. Living like a sparrow in that glorious cause of economy, sudden full eating and drinking had its effect.â

âThat was all it was, was it?â

âOf course. What else?â

âI gathered that his doctor wasâworried.â

âAh, that old fool Quimper,â Alfred spoke quickly and scornfully. âItâs no use listening to him, Inspector. Heâs an alarmist of the worst kind.â

âIndeed? He seemed a rather sensible kind of man to me.â

âHeâs a complete fool. Fatherâs not really an invalid, thereâs nothing wrong with his heart, but he takes in Quimper completely. Naturally, when father really felt ill, he made a terrific fuss, and had Quimper going and coming, asking questions, going into everything heâd eaten and drunk. The whole thing was ridiculous!â Alfred spoke with unusual heat.

Craddock was silent for a moment or two, rather effectively. Alfred fidgeted, shot him a quick glance, and then said petulantly:

âWell, what is all this? Why do you want to know where I was on a particular Friday, three or four weeks ago?â

âSo you do remember that it was a Friday?â

âI thought you said so.â

âPerhaps I did,â said Inspector Craddock. âAt any rate, Friday 20th is the day I am asking about.â

âWhy?â

âA routine inquiry.â

âThatâs nonsense. Have you found out something more about this woman? About where she came from?â

âOur information is not yet complete.â

Alfred gave him a sharp glance.

âI hope youâre not being led aside by this wild theory of Emmaâs that she might have been my brother Edmundâs widow. Thatâs complete nonsense.â

âThisâ Martine, did not at any rate apply to you?â

âTo me? Good lord, no! That would have been a laugh.â

âShe would be more likely, you think, to go to your brother Harold?â

âMuch more likely. His nameâs frequently in the papers. Heâs well off. Trying a touch there wouldnât surprise me. Not that sheâd have got anything. Haroldâs as tight-fisted as the old man himself. Emma, of course, is the soft-hearted one of the family, and she was Edmundâs favourite sister. All the same, Emma isnât credulous. She was quite alive to the possibility of this woman being phoney. She had it all laid on for the entire family to be thereâand a hard-headed solicitor as well.â

âVery wise,â said Craddock. âWas there a definite date fixed for this meeting?â

âIt was to be soon after Christmasâthe weekend of the 27thâ¦â he stopped.

âAh,â said Craddock pleasantly. âSo I see some dates have a meaning to you.â

âIâve told youâno definite date was fixed.â

âBut you talked about itâwhen?â

âI really canât remember.â

âAnd you canât tell me what you yourself were doing on Friday, 20th December?â

âSorryâmy mindâs an absolute blank.â

âYou donât keep an engagement book?â

âCanât stand the things.â

âThe Friday before Christmasâit shouldnât be too difficult.â

âI played golf one day with a likely prospect.â Alfred shook his head. âNo, that was the week before. I probably just mooched around. I spend a lot of my time doing that. I find oneâs business gets done in bars more than anywhere else.â

âPerhaps the people here, or some of your friends, may be able to help?â

âMaybe. Iâll ask them. Do what I can.â

Alfred seemed more sure of himself now.

âI canât tell you what I was doing that day,â he said; âbut I can tell you what I wasnât doing. I wasnât murdering anyone in the Long Barn.â

âWhy should you say that, Mr. Crackenthorpe?â

âCome now, my dear Inspector. Youâre investigating this murder, arenât you? And when you begin to ask âWhere were you on such and such a day at such and such a time?â youâre narrowing down things. Iâd very much like to know why youâve hit on Friday the 20th betweenâwhat? Lunchtime and midnight? It couldnât be medical evidence, not after all this time. Did somebody see the deceased sneaking into the barn that afternoon? She went in and she never came out, etc.? Is that it?â

The sharp black eyes were watching him narrowly, but Inspector Craddock was far too old a hand to react to that sort of thing.

âIâm afraid weâll have to let you guess about that,â he said pleasantly.

âThe police are so secretive.â

âNot only the police. I think, Mr. Crackenthorpe, you could remember what you were doing on that Friday if you tried. Of course you may have reasons for not wishing to rememberââ

âYou wonât catch me that way, Inspector. Itâs very suspicious, of course, very suspicious, indeed, that I canât rememberâbut there it is! Wait a minute nowâI went to Leeds that weekâstayed at a hotel close to the Town Hallâcanât remember its nameâbut youâd find it easy enough. That might have been on the Friday.â

âWeâll check up,â said the inspector unemotionally.

He rose. âIâm sorry you couldnât have been more cooperative, Mr. Crackenthorpe.â

âMost unfortunate for me! Thereâs Cedric with a safe alibi in Ibiza, and Harold, no doubt, checked with business appointments and public dinners every hourâand here am I with no alibi at all. Very sad. And all so silly. Iâve already told you I donât murder people. And why should I murder an unknown woman, anyway? What for? Even if the corpse is the corpse of Edmundâs widow, why should any of us wish to do away with her? Now if sheâd been married to Harold in the war, and had suddenly reappearedâthen it might have been awkward for the respectable Haroldâbigamy and all that. But Edmund! Why weâd all have enjoyed making Father stump up a bit to give her an allowance and send the boy to a decent school. Father would have been wild, but he couldnât in decency refuse to do something. Wonât you have a drink before you go, Inspector? Sure? Too bad I havenât been able to help you.â

III

âSir, listen, do you know what?â

Inspector Craddock looked at his excited sergeant.

âYes, Wetherall, what is it?â

âIâve placed him, sir. That chap. All the time I was trying to fix it and suddenly it came. He was mixed up in that tinned food business with Dicky Rogers. Never got anything on himâtoo cagey for that. And heâs been in with one or more of the Soho lot. Watches and that Italian sovereign business.â

Of course! Craddock realized now why Alfredâs face had seemed vaguely familiar from the first. It had all been small-time stuffânever anything that could be proved. Alfred had always been on the outskirts of the racket with a plausible innocent reason for having been mixed up in it at all. But the police had been quite sure that a small steady profit came his way.

âThat throws rather a light on things,â Craddock said.

âThink he did it?â

âI shouldnât have said he was the type to do murder. But it explains other thingsâthe reason why he couldnât come up with an alibi.â

âYes, that looked bad for him.â

âNot really,â said Craddock. âItâs quite a clever lineâjust to say firmly you canât remember. Lots of people canât remember what they did and where they were even a week ago. Itâs especially useful if you donât particularly want to call attention to the way you spend your timeâinteresting rendezvous at lorry pull-ups with the Dicky Rogers crowd, for instance.â

âSo you think heâs all right?â

âIâm not prepared to think anyoneâs all right just yet,â said Inspector Craddock. âYouâve got to work on it, Wetherall.â

Back at his desk, Craddock sat frowning, and making little notes on the pad in front of him.

Murderer (he wrote)â¦ A tall dark man!!!

Victim?â¦ Could have been Martine, Edmund

Crackenthorpeâs girlfriend or widow.

Or

Could have been Anna Stravinska. Went out of circulation at appropriate time, right age and appearance, clothing, etc. No connections with Rutherford Hall as far as is known. Could be Haroldâs first wife! Bigamy!

" " first mistress. Blackmail!

If connection with Alfred, might be blackmail. Had knowledge that could have sent him to gaol? If Cedricâmight have had connections with him abroadâ Paris? Balearics?

Or

Victim could be Anna S. posing as Martine

or

Victim is unknown woman killed by unknown murderer!

âAnd most probably the latter,â said Craddock aloud.

He reflected gloomily on the situation. You couldnât get far with a case until you had the motive. All the motives suggested so far seemed either inadequate or far fetched.

Now if only it had been the murder of old Mr. Crackenthorpeâ¦ Plenty of motive thereâ¦.

Something stirred in his memoryâ¦.

He made further notes on his pad.

Ask Dr. Q. about Christmas illness.

Cedricâalibi.

Consult Miss M. for the latest gossip.

Sixteen

When Craddock got to 4 Madison Road he found Lucy Eyelesbarrow with Miss Marple.

He hesitated for a moment in his plan of campaign and then decided that Lucy Eyelesbarrow might prove a valuable ally.

After greetings, he solemnly drew out his notecase, extracting three pound notes, added three shillings and pushed them across the table to Miss Marple.

âWhatâs this, Inspector?â

âConsultation fee. Youâre a consultantâon murder! Pulse, temperature, local reactions, possible deepseated cause of said murder. Iâm just the poor harassed local G.P.â

Miss Marple looked at him and twinkled. He grinned at her. Lucy Eyelesbarrow gave a faint gasp and then laughed.

âWhy, Inspector Craddockâyouâre human after all.â

âOh, well, Iâm not strictly on duty this afternoon.â

âI told you we had met before,â said Miss Marple to Lucy. âSir Henry Clithering is his godfatherâa very old friend of mine.â

âWould you like to hear, Miss Eyelesbarrow, what my godfather said about herâthe first time we met? He described her as just the finest detective God ever madeânatural genius cultivated in a suitable soil. He told me never to despise theââDermot Craddock paused for a moment to seek for a synonym for âold pussiesââââer elderly ladies. He said they could usually tell you what might have happened, what ought to have happened, and even what actually did happen! And,â he said, âthey can tell you why it happened. He added that this particularâerâelderly ladyâwas at the top of the class.â

âWell!â said Lucy. âThat seems to be a testimonial all right.â

Miss Marple was pink and confused and looked unusually dithery.

âDear Sir Henry,â she murmured. âAlways so kind. Really Iâm not at all cleverâjust perhaps, a slight knowledge of human natureâliving, you know, in a villageââ

She added, with more composure:

âOf course, I am somewhat handicapped, by not actually being on the spot. It is so helpful, I always feel, when people remind you of other peopleâbecause types are alike everywhere and that is such a valuable guide.â

Lucy looked a little puzzled, but Craddock nodded comprehendingly.

âBut youâve been to tea there, havenât you?â he said.

âYes, indeed. Most pleasant. I was a little disappointed that I didnât see old Mr. Crackenthorpeâbut one canât have everything.â

âDo you feel that if you saw the person who had done the murder, youâd know?â asked Lucy.

âOh, I wouldnât say that, dear. One is always inclined to guessâand guessing would be very wrong when it is a question of anything as serious as murder. All one can do is to observe the people concernedâor who might have been concernedâand see of whom they remind you.â

âLike Cedric and the bank manager?â

Miss Marple corrected her.

âThe bank managerâs son, dear. Mr. Eade himself was far more like Mr. Haroldâa very conservative manâbut perhaps a little too fond of moneyâthe sort of man, too, who could go a long way to avoid scandal.â

Craddock smiled, and said:

âAnd Alfred?â

âJenkins at the garage,â Miss Marple replied promptly. âHe didnât exactly appropriate tools?âbut he used to exchange a broken or inferior jack for a good one. And I believe he wasnât very honest over batteriesâthough I donât understand these things very well. I know Raymond left off dealing with him and went to the garage on the Milchester road. As for Emma,â continued Miss Marple thoughtfully, âshe reminds me very much of Geraldine Webbâalways very quiet, almost dowdyâand bullied a good deal by her elderly mother. Quite a surprise to everybody when the mother died unexpectedly and Geraldine came into a nice sum of money and went and had her hair cut and permed, and went off on a cruise, and came back married to a very nice barrister. They had two children.â

The parallel was clear enough. Lucy said, rather uneasily: âDo you think you ought to have said what you did about Emma marrying? It seemed to upset the brothers.â

Miss Marple nodded.

âYes,â she said. âSo like menâquite unable to see whatâs going on under their eyes. I donât believe you noticed yourself.â

âNo,â admitted Lucy. âI never thought of anything of that kind. They both seemed to meââ

âSo old?â said Miss Marple smiling a little. âBut Dr. Quimper isnât much over forty, I should say, though heâs going grey on the temples, and itâs obvious that heâs longing for some kind of home life; and Emma Crackenthorpe is under fortyânot too old to marry and have a family. The doctorâs wife died quite young having a baby, so I have heard.â

âI believe she did. Emma said something about it one day.â

âHe must be lonely,â said Miss Marple. âA busy hard-working doctor needs a wifeâsomeone sympatheticânot too young.â

âListen, darling,â said Lucy. âAre we investigating crime, or are we match-making?â

Miss Marple twinkled.

âIâm afraid I am rather romantic. Because I am an old maid, perhaps. You know, dear Lucy, that, as far as I am concerned, you have fulfilled your contract. If you really want a holiday abroad before taking up your next engagement, you would have time still for a short trip.â

âAnd leave Rutherford Hall? Never! Iâm the complete sleuth by now. Almost as bad as the boys. They spend their entire time looking for clues. They looked all through the dustbins yesterday. Most unsavouryâand they havenât really the faintest idea what they were looking for. If they come to you in triumph, Inspector Craddock, bearing a torn scrap of paper with Martineâif you value your life keep away from the Long Barn! on it, youâll know that Iâve taken pity on them and concealed it in the pigsty!â

âWhy the pigsty, dear?â asked Miss Marple with interest. âDo they keep pigs?â

âOh, no, not nowadays. Itâs justâ I go there sometimes.â

For some reason Lucy blushed. Miss Marple looked at her with increased interest.

âWhoâs at the house now?â asked Craddock.

âCedricâs there, and Bryanâs down for the weekend. Harold and Alfred are coming down tomorrow. They rang up this morning. I somehow got the impression that you had been putting the cat among the pigeons, Inspector Craddock.â

Craddock smiled.

âI shook them up a little. Asked them to account for their movements on Friday, 20th December.â

âAnd could they?â

âHarold could. Alfred couldnâtâor wouldnât.â

âI think alibis must be terribly difficult,â said Lucy. âTimes and places and dates. They must be hard to check up on, too.â

âIt takes time and patienceâbut we manage.â He glanced at his watch. âIâll be coming to Rutherford Hall presently to have a word with Cedric, but I want to get hold of Dr. Quimper first.â

âYouâll be just about right. He has his surgery at six and heâs usually finished about half past. I must get back and deal with dinner.â

âIâd like your opinion on one thing, Miss Eyelesbarrow. Whatâs the family view about this Martine businessâamongst themselves?â

Lucy replied promptly.

âTheyâre all furious with Emma for going to you about itâand with Dr. Quimper who, it seemed, encouraged her to do so. Harold and Alfred think it was a try on and not genuine. Emma isnât sure. Cedric thinks it was phoney, too, but he doesnât take it as seriously as the other two. Bryan, on the other hand, seems quite sure that itâs genuine.â

âWhy, I wonder?â

âWell, Bryanâs rather like that. Just accepts things at their face value. He thinks it was Edmundâs wifeâor rather widowâand that she had suddenly to go back to France, but that theyâll hear from her again sometime. The fact that she hasnât written, or anything, up to now, seems to him to be quite natural because he never writes letters himself. Bryanâs rather sweet. Just like a dog that wants to be taken for a walk.â

âAnd do you take him for a walk, dear?â asked Miss Marple. âTo the pigsties, perhaps?â

Lucy shot a keen glance at her.

âSo many gentlemen in the house, coming and going,â mused Miss Marple.

When Miss Marple uttered the word âgentlemenâ she always gave it its full Victorian flavourâan echo from an era actually before her own time. You were conscious at once of dashing full-blooded (and probably whiskered) males, sometimes wicked, but always gallant.

âYouâre such a handsome girl,â pursued Miss Marple, appraising Lucy. âI expect they pay you a good deal of attention, donât they?â

Lucy flushed slightly. Scrappy remembrances passed across her mind. Cedric, leaning against the pigsty wall. Bryan sitting disconsolately on the kitchen table. Alfredâs fingers touching hers as he helped her collect the coffee cups.

âGentlemen,â said Miss Marple, in the tone of one speaking of some alien and dangerous species, âare all very much alike in some waysâeven if they are quite old.â¦â

âDarling,â cried Lucy. âA hundred years ago you would certainly have been burned as a witch!â

And she told her story of old Mr. Crackenthorpeâs conditional proposal of marriage.

âIn fact,â said Lucy, âtheyâve all made what you might call advances to me in a way. Haroldâs was very correctâan advantageous financial position in the City. I donât think itâs my attractive appearanceâthey must think I know something.â

She laughed.

But Inspector Craddock did not laugh.

âBe careful,â he said. âThey might murder you instead of making advances to you.â

âI suppose it might be simpler,â Lucy agreed.

Then she gave a slight shiver.

âOne forgets,â she said. âThe boys have been having such fun that one almost thought of it all as a game. But itâs not a game.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âMurder isnât a game.â

She was silent for a moment or two before she said:

âDonât the boys go back to school soon?â

âYes, next week. They go tomorrow to James Stoddart-Westâs home for the last few days of the holidays.â

âIâm glad of that,â said Miss Marple gravely. âI shouldnât like anything to happen while theyâre there.â

âYou mean to old Mr. Crackenthorpe. Do you think heâs going to be murdered next?â

âOh, no,â said Miss Marple. âHeâll be all right. I meant to the boys.â

âWell, to Alexander.â

âBut surelyââ

âHunting about, you knowâlooking for clues. Boys love that sort of thingâbut it might be very dangerous.â

Craddock looked at her thoughtfully.

âYouâre not prepared to believe, are you, Miss Marple, that itâs a case of an unknown woman murdered by an unknown man? You tie it up definitely with Rutherford Hall?â

âI think thereâs a definite connection, yes.â

âAll we know about the murderer is that heâs a tall dark man. Thatâs what your friend says and all she can say. There are three tall dark men at Rutherford Hall. On the day of the inquest, you know, I came out to see the three brothers standing waiting on the pavement for the car to draw up. They had their backs to me and it was astonishing how, in their heavy overcoats, they looked all alike. Three tall dark men. And yet, actually, theyâre all three quite different types.â He sighed. âIt makes it very difficult.â

âI wonder,â murmured Miss Marple. âI have been wonderingâwhether it might perhaps be all much simpler than we suppose. Murders so often are quite simpleâwith an obvious rather sordid motiveâ¦.â

âDo you believe in the mysterious Martine, Miss Marple?â

âIâm quite ready to believe that Edmund Crackenthorpe either married, or meant to marry, a girl called Martine. Emma Crackenthorpe showed you his letter, I understand, and from what Iâve seen of her and from what Lucy tells me, I should say Emma Crackenthorpe is quite incapable of making up a thing of that kindâindeed, why should she?â

âSo granted Martine,â said Craddock thoughtfully, âthere is a motive of a kind. Martineâs reappearance with a son would diminish the Crackenthorpe inheritanceâthough hardly to a point, one would think, to activate murder. Theyâre all very hard upââ

âEven Harold?â Lucy demanded incredulously.

âEven the prosperous-looking Harold Crackenthorpe is not the sober and conservative financier he appears to be. Heâs been plunging heavily and mixing himself up in some rather undesirable ventures. A large sum of money, soon, might avoid a crash.â

âBut if soââ said Lucy, and stopped.

âYes, Miss Eyelesbarrowââ

âI know, dear,â said Miss Marple. âThe wrong murder, thatâs what you mean.â

âYes. Martineâs death wouldnât do Haroldâor any of the othersâany good. Not untilââ

âNot until Luther Crackenthorpe died. Exactly. That occurred to me. And Mr. Crackenthorpe, senior, I gather from his doctor, is a much better life than any outsider would imagine.â

âHeâll last for years,â said Lucy. Then she frowned.

âYes?â Craddock spoke encouragingly.

âHe was rather ill at Christmas-time,â said Lucy. âHe said the doctor made a lot of fuss about itââAnyone would have thought Iâd been poisoned by the fuss he made.â Thatâs what he said.â

She looked inquiringly at Craddock.

âYes,â said Craddock. âThatâs really what I want to ask Dr. Quimper about.â

âWell, I must go,â said Lucy. âHeavens, itâs late.â

Miss Marple put down her knitting and picked up The Times with a half-done crossword puzzle.

âI wish I had a dictionary here,â she murmured. âTontine and Tokayâ I always mix those two words up. One, I believe, is a Hungarian wine.â

âThatâs Tokay,â said Lucy, looking back from the door. âBut oneâs a five-letter word and oneâs a seven. Whatâs the clue?â

âOh, it wasnât in the crossword,â said Miss Marple vaguely. âIt was in my head.â

Inspector Craddock looked at her very hard. Then he said goodbye and went.

Seventeen

I

Craddock had to wait a few minutes whilst Quimper finished his evening surgery, and then the doctor came to him. He looked tired and depressed.

He offered Craddock a drink and when the latter accepted he mixed one for himself as well.

âPoor devils,â he said as he sank down in a worn easy-chair. âSo scared and so stupidâno sense. Had a painful case this evening. Woman who ought to have come to me a year ago. If sheâd come then, she might have been operated on successfully. Now itâs too late. Makes me mad. The truth is people are an extraordinary mixture of heroism and cowardice. Sheâs suffering agony, and borne it without a word, just because she was too scared to come and find out that what she feared might be true. At the other end of the scale are the people who come and waste my time because theyâve got a dangerous swelling causing them agony on their little finger which they think may be cancer and which turns out to be a common or garden chilblain! Well, donât mind me. Iâve blown off steam now. What did you want to see me about?â

âFirst, Iâve got you to thank, I believe, for advising Miss Crackenthorpe to come to me with the letter that purported to be from her brotherâs widow.â

âOh, that? Anything in it? I didnât exactly advise her to come. She wanted to. She was worried. All the dear little brothers were trying to hold her back, of course.â

âWhy should they?â

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

âAfraid the lady might be proved genuine, I suppose.â

âDo you think the letter was genuine?â

âNo idea. Never actually saw it. I should say it was someone who knew the facts, just trying to make a touch. Hoping to work on Emmaâs feelings. They were dead wrong, there. Emmaâs no fool. She wouldnât take an unknown sister-in-law to her bosom without asking a few practical questions first.â

He added with some curiosity:

âBut why ask my views? Iâve got nothing to do with it?â

âI really came to ask you something quite differentâbut I donât quite know how to put it.â

Dr. Quimper looked interested.

âI understand that not long agoâat Christmas-time, I think it wasâMr. Crackenthorpe had rather a bad turn of illness.â

He saw a change at once in the doctorâs face. It hardened.

âYes.â

âI gather a gastric disturbance of some kind?â

âYes.â

âThis is difficultâ¦ Mr. Crackenthorpe was boasting of his health, saying he intended to outlive most of his family. He referred to youâyouâll excuse me, Doctorâ¦.â

âOh, donât mind me. Iâm not sensitive as to what my patients say about me!â

âHe spoke of you as an old fuss-pot.â Quimper smiled. âHe said you had asked him all sorts of questions, not only as to what he had eaten, but as to who prepared it and served it.â

The doctor was not smiling now. His face was hard again.

âGo on.â

âHe used some such phrase asââTalked as though he believed someone had poisoned me.ââ

There was a pause.

âHad youâany suspicion of that kind?â

Quimper did not answer at once. He got up and walked up and down. Finally, he wheeled round on Craddock.

âWhat the devil do you expect me to say? Do you think a doctor can go about flinging accusations of poisoning here and there without any real evidence?â

âIâd just like to know, off the record, ifâthat ideaâdid enter your head?â

Dr. Quimper said evasively:

âOld Crackenthorpe leads a fairly frugal life. When the family comes down, Emma steps up the food. Resultâa nasty attack of gastro-enteritis. The symptoms were consistent with that diagnosis.â

Craddock persisted.

âI see. You were quite satisfied? You were not at allâshall we sayâpuzzled?â

âAll right. All right. Yes, I was Yours Truly Puzzled! Does that please you?â

âIt interests me,â said Craddock. âWhat actually did you suspectâor fear?â

âGastric cases vary, of course, but there were certain indications that would have been, shall we say, more consistent with arsenic poisoning than with plain gastro-enteritis. Mind you, the two things are very much alike. Better men than myself have failed to recognize arsenic poisoningâand have given a certificate in all good faith.â

âAnd what was the result of your inquiries?â

âIt seemed that what I suspected could not possibly be true. Mr. Crackenthorpe assured me that he had similar attacks before I attended himâand from the same cause, he said. They had always taken place when there was too much rich food about.â

âWhich was when the house was full? With the family? Or guests?â

âYes. That seemed reasonable enough. But frankly, Craddock, I wasnât happy. I went so far as to write to old Dr. Morris. He was my senior partner and retired soon after I joined him. Crackenthorpe was his patient originally. I asked about these earlier attacks that the old man had had.â

âAnd what response did you get?â

Quimper grinned.

âI got a flea in the ear. I was more or less told not to be a damned fool. Wellââhe shrugged his shouldersââpresumably I was a damned fool.â

âI wonder,â Craddock was thoughtful.

Then he decided to speak frankly.

âThrowing discretion aside, Doctor, there are people who stand to benefit pretty considerably from Luther Crackenthorpeâs death.â The doctor nodded. âHeâs an old manâand a hale and hearty one. He may live to be ninety odd?â

âEasily. He spends his life taking care of himself, and his constitution is sound.â

âAnd his sonsâand daughterâare all getting on, and they are all feeling the pinch?â

âYou leave Emma out of it. Sheâs no poisoner. These attacks only happen when the others are thereânot when she and he are alone.â

âAn elementary precautionâif sheâs the one,â the inspector thought, but was careful not to say aloud.

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

âSurelyâIâm ignorant on these mattersâbut supposing just as a hypothesis that arsenic was administeredâhasnât Crackenthorpe been very lucky not to succumb?â

âNow there,â said the doctor, âyou have got something odd. It is exactly that fact that leads me to believe that I have been, as old Morris puts it, a damned fool. You see, itâs obviously not a case of small doses of arsenic administered regularlyâwhich is what you might call the classic method of arsenic poisoning. Crackenthorpe has never had any chronic gastric trouble. In a way, thatâs what makes these sudden violent attacks seem unlikely. So, assuming they are not due to natural causes, it looks as though the poisoner is muffing it every timeâwhich hardly makes sense.â

âGiving an inadequate dose, you mean?â

âYes. On the other hand, Crackenthorpeâs got a strong constitution and what might do in another man, doesnât do him in. Thereâs always personal idiosyncrasy to be reckoned with. But youâd think that by now the poisonerâunless heâs unusually timidâwould have stepped up the dose. Why hasnât he?

âThat is,â he added, âif there is a poisoner which there probably isnât! Probably all my ruddy imagination from start to finish.â

âItâs an odd problem,â the inspector agreed. âIt doesnât seem to make sense.â

II

âInspector Craddock!â

The eager whisper made the inspector jump.

He had been just on the point of ringing the front doorbell. Alexander and his friend Stoddart-West emerged cautiously from the shadows.

âWe heard your car, and we wanted to get hold of you.â

âWell, letâs come inside.â Craddockâs hand went out to the door bell again, but Alexander pulled at his coat with the eagerness of a pawing dog.

âWeâve found a clue,â he breathed.

âYes, weâve found a clue,â Stoddart-West echoed.

âDamn that girl,â thought Craddock unamiably.

âSplendid,â he said in a perfunctory manner. âLetâs go inside the house and look at it.â

âNo,â Alexander was insistent. âSomeoneâs sure to interrupt. Come to the harness room. Weâll guide you.â

Somewhat unwillingly, Craddock allowed himself to be guided round the corner of the house and along to the stableyard. Stoddart-West pushed open a heavy door, stretched up, and turned on a rather feeble electric light. The harness room, once the acme of Victorian spit and polish, was now the sad repository of everything that no one wanted. Broken garden chairs, rusted old garden implements, a vast decrepit mowing-machine, rusted spring mattresses, hammocks, and disintegrated tennis nets.

âWe come here a good deal,â said Alexander. âOne can really be private here.â

There were certain tokens of occupancy about. The decayed mattresses had been piled up to make a kind of divan, there was an old rusted table on which reposed a large tin of chocolate biscuits, there was a hoard of apples, a tin of toffees, and a jig-saw puzzle.

âIt really is a clue, sir,â said Stoddart-West eagerly, his eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. âWe found it this afternoon.â

âWeâve been hunting for days. In the bushesââ

âAnd inside hollow treesââ

âAnd we went through the ash binsââ

âThere were some jolly interesting things there, as a matter of factââ

âAnd then we went into the boiler houseââ

âOld Hillman keeps a great galvanized tub there full of waste paperââ

âFor when the boiler goes out and he wants to start it againââ

âAny odd paper thatâs blowing about. He picks it up and shoves it in thereââ

âAnd thatâs where we found itââ

âFound WHAT?â Craddock interrupted the duet.

âThe clue. Careful, Stodders, get your gloves on.â

Importantly, Stoddart-West, in the best detective story tradition, drew on a pair of rather dirty gloves and took from his pocket a Kodak photographic folder. From this he extracted in his gloved fingers with the utmost care a soiled and crumpled envelope which he handed importantly to the inspector.

Both boys held their breath in excitement.

Craddock took it with due solemnity. He liked the boys and he was ready to enter into the spirit of the thing.

The letter had been through the post, there was no enclosure inside, it was just a torn envelopeâaddressed to Mrs. Martine Crackenthorpe, 126 Elvers Crescent, N.10.

âYou see?â said Alexander breathlessly. âIt shows she was hereâ Uncle Edmundâs French wife, I meanâthe one thereâs all the fuss about. She must have actually been here and dropped out somewhere. So it looks, doesnât itââ

Stoddart-West broke in:

âIt looks as though she was the one who got murderedâ I mean, donât you think, sir, that it simply must have been her in the sarcophagus?â

They waited anxiously.

Craddock played up.

âPossible, very possible,â he said.

âThis is important, isnât it?â

âYouâll test it for fingerprints, wonât you, sir?â

âOf course,â said Craddock.

Stoddart-West gave a deep sigh.

âSmashing luck for us, wasnât it?â he said. âOn our last day, too.â

âLast day?â

âYes,â said Alexander. âIâm going to Stoddersâ place tomorrow for the last few days of the holidays. Stoddersâ people have got a smashing houseâ Queen Anne, isnât it?â

âWilliam and Mary,â said Stoddart-West.

âI thought your mother saidââ

âMumâs French. She doesnât really know about English architecture.â

âBut your father said it was builtââ

Craddock was examining the envelope.

Clever of Lucy Eyelesbarrow. How had she managed to fake the post mark? He peered closely, but the light was too feeble. Great fun for the boys, of course, but rather awkward for him. Lucy, drat her, hadnât considered that angle. If this were genuine, it would enforce a course of action. Thereâ¦.

Beside him a learned architectural argument was being hotly pursued. He was deaf to it.

âCome on, boys,â he said, âweâll go into the house. Youâve been very helpful.â

Eighteen

I

Craddock was escorted by the boys through the back door into the house. This was, it seemed, their common mode of entrance. The kitchen was bright and cheerful. Lucy, in a large white apron, was rolling out pastry. Leaning against the dresser, watching her with a kind of dog-like attention, was Bryan Eastley. With one hand he tugged at his large fair moustache.

âHallo, Dad,â said Alexander kindly. âYou out here again?â

âI like it out here,â said Bryan, and added: âMiss Eyelesbarrow doesnât mind.â

âOh, I donât mind,â said Lucy. âGood evening, Inspector Craddock.â

âComing to detect in the kitchen?â asked Bryan with interest.

âNot exactly. Mr. Cedric Crackenthorpe is still here, isnât he?â

âOh, yes, Cedricâs here. Do you want him?â

âIâd like a word with himâyes, please.â

âIâll go and see if heâs in,â said Bryan. âHe may have gone round to the local.â

He unpropped himself from the dresser.

âThank you so much,â said Lucy to him. âMy hands are all over flour or Iâd go.â

âWhat are you making?â asked Stoddart-West anxiously.

âPeach flan.â

âGood-oh,â said Stoddart-West.

âIs it nearly suppertime?â asked Alexander.

âNo.â

âGosh! Iâm terribly hungry.â

âThereâs the end of the ginger cake in the larder.â

The boys made a concerted rush and collided in the door.

âTheyâre just like locusts,â said Lucy.

âMy congratulations to you,â said Craddock.

âWhat onâexactly?â

âYour ingenuityâover this!â

âOver what!â

Craddock indicated the folder containing the letter.

âVery nicely done,â he said.

âWhat are you talking about?â

âThis, my dear girlâthis.â He half-drew it out.

She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

Craddock felt suddenly dizzy.

âDidnât you fake this clueâand put it in the boiler room, for the boys to find? Quickâtell me.â

âI havenât the faintest idea what youâre talking about,â said Lucy. âDo you mean thatâ?â

Craddock slipped the folder quickly back in his pocket as Bryan returned.

âCedricâs in the library,â he said. âGo on in.â

He resumed his place on the dresser. Inspector Craddock went to the library.

II

Cedric Crackenthorpe seemed delighted to see the inspector.

âDoing a spot more sleuthing down here?â he asked. âGot any further?â

âI think I can say we are a little further on, Mr. Crackenthorpe.â

âFound out who the corpse was?â

âWeâve not got a definite identification, but we have a fairly shrewd idea.â

âGood for you.â

âArising out of our latest information, we want to get a few statements. Iâm starting with you, Mr. Crackenthorpe, as youâre on the spot.â

âI shanât be much longer. Iâm going back to Ibiza in a day or two.â

âThen I seem to be just in time.â

âGo ahead.â

âI should like a detailed account, please, of exactly where you were and what you were doing on Friday, 20th December.â

Cedric shot a quick glance at him. Then he leaned back, yawned, assumed an air of great nonchalance, and appeared to be lost in the effort of remembrance.

âWell, as Iâve already told you, I was in Ibiza. Trouble is, one day there is so like another. Painting in the morning, siesta from three p.m. to five. Perhaps a spot of sketching if the lightâs suitable. Then an apÃ©ritif, sometimes with the mayor, sometimes with the doctor, at the cafÃ© in the Piazza. After that some kind of a scratch meal. Most of the evening in Scottyâs Bar with some of my lower-class friends. Will that do you?â

âIâd rather have the truth, Mr. Crackenthorpe.â

Cedric sat up.

âThatâs a most offensive remark, Inspector.â

âDo you think so? You told me, Mr. Crackenthorpe, that you left Ibiza on 21st December and arrived in England that same day?â

âSo I did. Em! Hi, Em?â

Emma Crackenthorpe came through the adjoining door from the small morning room. She looked inquiringly from Cedric to the inspector.

âLook here, Em. I arrived here for Christmas on the Saturday before, didnât I? Came straight from the airport?â

âYes,â said Emma wonderingly. âYou got here about lunchtime.â

âThere you are,â said Cedric to the inspector.

âYou must think us very foolish, Mr. Crackenthorpe,â said Craddock pleasantly. âWe can check on these things, you know. I think, if youâll show me your passportââ

He paused expectantly.

âCanât find the damned thing,â said Cedric. âWas looking for it this morning. Wanted to send it to Cookâs.â

âI think you could find it, Mr. Crackenthorpe. But itâs not really necessary. The records show that you actually entered this country on the evening of 19th December. Perhaps you will now account to me for your movements between that time until lunchtime on 21st December when you arrived here.â

Cedric looked very cross indeed.

âThatâs the hell of life nowadays,â he said angrily. âAll this red tape and form-filling. Thatâs what comes of a bureaucratic state. Canât go where you like and do as you please anymore! Somebodyâs always asking questions. Whatâs all this fuss about the 20th, anyway? Whatâs special about the 20th?â

âIt happens to be the day we believe the murder was committed. You can refuse to answer, of course, butââ

âWho says I refuse to answer? Give a chap time. And you were vague enough about the date of the murder at the inquest. Whatâs turned up new since then?â

Craddock did not reply.

Cedric said, with a sidelong glance at Emma:

âShall we go into the other room?â

Emma said quickly: âIâll leave you.â At the door, she paused and turned.

âThis is serious, you know, Cedric. If the 20th was the day of murder, then you must tell Inspector Craddock exactly what you were doing.â

She went through into the next room and closed the door behind her.

âGood old Em,â said Cedric. âWell, here goes. Yes, I left Ibiza on the 19th all right. Planned to break the journey in Paris, and spend a couple of days routing up some old friends on the Left Bank. But, as a matter of fact, there was a very attractive woman on the planeâ¦ Quite a dish. To put it plainly, she and I got off together. She was on her way to the States, had to spend a couple of nights in London to see about some business or other. We got to London on the 19th. We stayed at the Kingsway Palace in case your spies havenât found that out yet! Called myself John Brownânever does to use your own name on these occasions.â

âAnd on the 20th?â

Cedric made a grimace.

âMorning pretty well occupied by a terrific hangover.â

âAnd the afternoon. From three oâclock onwards?â

âLet me see. Well, I mooned about, as you might say. Went into the National Galleyâthatâs respectable enough. Saw a film. Rowenna of the Range. Iâve always had a passion for Westerns. This was a corkerâ¦ Then a drink or two in the bar and a bit of a sleep in my room, and out about ten oâclock with the girl-friend and a round of various hot spotsâcanât even remember most of their namesâ Jumping Frog was one, I think. She knew âem all. Got pretty well plastered and to tell the truth, donât remember much more till I woke up the next morningâwith an even worse hangover. Girlfriend hopped off to catch her plane and I poured cold water over my head, got a chemist to give me a devilsâ brew, and then started off for this place, pretending Iâd just arrived at Heathrow. No need to upset Emma, I thought. You know what women areâalways hurt if you donât come straight home. I had to borrow money from her to pay the taxi. I was completely cleaned out. No use asking the old man. Heâd never cough up. Mean old brute. Well, Inspector, satisfied?â

âCan any of this be substantiated, Mr. Crackenthorpe? Say between 3 p.m. and 7 p.m.â

âMost unlikely, I should think,â said Cedric cheerfully. âNational Gallery where the attendants look at you with lack-lustre eyes and a crowded picture show. No, not likely.â

Emma reentered. She held a small engagement book in her hand.

âYou want to know what everyone was doing on 20th December, is that right, Inspector Craddock?â

âWellâerâyes, Miss Crackenthorpe.â

âI have just been looking in my engagement book. On the 20th I went into Brackhampton to attend a meeting of the Church Restoration Fund. That finished about a quarter to one and I lunched with Lady Adington and Miss Bartlett who were also on the committee, at the Cadena CafÃ©. After lunch I did some shopping, stores for Christmas, and also Christmas presents. I went to Greenfordâs and Lyall and Swiftâs, Bootsâ, and probably several other shops. I had tea about a quarter to five in the Shamrock Tea Rooms and then went to the station to meet Bryan who was coming by train. I got home about six oâclock and found my father in a very bad temper. I had left lunch ready for him, but Mrs. Hart who was to come in in the afternoon and give him his tea had not arrived. He was so angry that he had shut himself in his room and would not let me in or speak to me. He does not like my going out in the afternoon, but I make a point of doing so now and then.â

âYouâre probably wise. Thank you, Miss Crackenthorpe.â

He could hardly tell her that as she was a woman, height five foot seven, her movements that afternoon were of no great importance. Instead he said:

âYour other two brothers came down later, I understand?â

âAlfred came down late on Saturday evening. He tells me he tried to ring me on the telephone that afternoon I was outâbut my father, if he is upset, will never answer the telephone. My brother Harold did not come down until Christmas Eve.â

âThank you, Miss Crackenthorpe.â

âI suppose I mustnât askââshe hesitatedââwhat has come up new that prompts these inquiries?â

Craddock took the folder from his pocket. Using the tips of his fingers, he extracted the envelope.

âDonât touch it, please, but do you recognize this?â

âButâ¦â Emma stared at him, bewildered. âThatâs my handwriting. Thatâs the letter I wrote to Martine.â

âI thought it might be.â

âBut how did you get it? Did sheâ? Have you found her?â

âIt would seem possible that we haveâfound her. This empty envelope was found here.â

âIn the house?â

âIn the grounds.â

âThenâshe did come here! Sheâ¦ You meanâit was Martine thereâin the sarcophagus?â

âIt would seem very likely, Miss Crackenthorpe,â said Craddock gently.

Â 

It seemed even more likely when he got back to town. A message was awaiting him from Armand Dessin.

âOne of the girl-friends has had a postcard from Anna Stravinska.

Apparently the cruise story was true! She has reached Jamaica and is having, in your phrase, a wonderful time!â

Craddock crumpled up the message and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

III

âI must say,â said Alexander, sitting up in bed, thoughtfully consuming a chocolate bar, âthat this has been the most smashing day ever. Actually finding a real clue!â

His voice was awed.

âIn fact the whole holidays have been smashing,â he added happily. âI donât suppose such a thing will ever happen again.â

âI hope it wonât happen again to me,â said Lucy who was on her knees packing Alexanderâs clothes into a suitcase. âDo you want all this space fiction with you?â

âNot those two top ones. Iâve read them. The football and my football boots, and the gum-boots can go separately.â

âWhat difficult things you boys do travel with.â

âIt wonât matter. Theyâre sending the Rolls for us. Theyâve got a smashing Rolls. Theyâve got one of the new Mercedes- Benzes too.â

âThey must be rich.â

âRolling! Jolly nice, too. All the same, I rather wish we werenât leaving here. Another body might turn up.â

âI sincerely hope not.â

âWell, it often does in books. I mean somebody whoâs seen something or heard something gets done in, too. It might be you,â he added, unrolling a second chocolate bar.

âThank you!â

âI donât want it to be you,â Alexander assured her. âI like you very much and so does Stodders. We think youâre out of this world as a cook. Absolutely lovely grub. Youâre very sensible, too.â

This last was clearly an expression of high approval. Lucy took it as such, and said: âThank you. But I donât intend to get killed just to please you.â

âWell, youâd better be careful, then,â Alexander told her.

He paused to consume more nourishment and then said in a slightly offhand voice:

âIf Dad turns up from time to time, youâll look after him, wonât you?â

âYes, of course,â said Lucy, a little surprised.

âThe trouble with Dad is,â Alexander informed her, âthat London life doesnât suit him. He gets in, you know, with quite the wrong type of women.â He shook his head in a worried manner.

âIâm very fond of him,â he added; âbut he needs someone to look after him. He drifts about and gets in with the wrong people. Itâs a great pity Mum died when she did. Bryan needs a proper home life.â

He looked solemnly at Lucy and reached out for another chocolate bar.

âNot a fourth one, Alexander,â Lucy pleaded. âYouâll be sick.â

âOh, I donât think so. I ate six running once and I wasnât. Iâm not the bilious type.â He paused and then said:

âBryan likes you, you know.â

âThatâs very nice of him.â

âHeâs a bit of an ass in some ways,â said Bryanâs son; âbut he was a jolly good fighter pilot. Heâs awfully brave. And heâs awfully good-natured.â

He paused. Then, averting his eyes to the ceiling, he said rather self-consciously:

âI think, really, you know, it would be a good thing if he married againâ¦ Somebody decentâ¦ I shouldnât, myself, mind at all having a stepmotherâ¦not, I mean, if she was a decent sortâ¦.â

With a sense of shock Lucy realized that there was a definite point in Alexanderâs conversation.

âAll this stepmother bosh,â went on Alexander, still addressing the ceiling, âis really quite out of date. Lots of chaps Stodders and I know have stepmothersâdivorce and all thatâand they get on quite well together. Depends on the stepmother, of course. And of course, it does make a bit of confusion taking you out and on Sports Day, and all that. I mean if there are two sets of parents. Though again it helps if you want to cash in!â He paused, confronted with the problems of modern life. âItâs nicest to have your own home and your own parentsâbut if your motherâs deadâwell, you see what I mean? If sheâs a decent sort,â said Alexander for the third time.

Lucy felt touched.

âI think youâre very sensible, Alexander,â she said. âWe must try and find a nice wife for your father.â

âYes,â said Alexander noncommittally.

He added in an offhand manner:

âI thought Iâd just mention it. Bryan likes you very much. He told me soâ¦.â

âReally,â thought Lucy to herself. âThereâs too much match-making round here. First Miss Marple and now Alexander!â

For some reason or other, pigsties came into her mind.

She stood up.

âGood night, Alexander. There will be only your washing things and pyjamas to put in in the morning. Good night.â

âGood night,â said Alexander. He slid down in bed, laid his head on the pillow, closed his eyes, giving a perfect picture of a sleeping angel; and was immediately asleep.

Nineteen

I

âNot what youâd call conclusive,â said Sergeant Wetherall with his usual gloom.

Craddock was reading through the report on Harold Crackenthorpeâs alibi for 20th December.

He had been noticed at Sothebyâs about three-thirty, but was thought to have left shortly after that. His photograph had not been recognized at Russellâs tea shop, but as they did a busy trade there at teatime, and he was not an habituÃ©, that was hardly surprising. His manservant confirmed that he had returned to Cardigan Gardens to dress for his dinner-party at a quarter to sevenârather late, since the dinner was at seven-thirty, and Mr. Crackenthorpe had been somewhat irritable in consequence. Did not remember hearing him come in that evening, but, as it was some time ago, could not remember accurately and, in any case, he frequently did not hear Mr. Crackenthorpe come in. He and his wife liked to retire early whenever they could. The garage in the mews where Harold kept his car was a private lockup that he rented and there was no one to notice who came and went or any reason to remember one evening in particular.

âAll negative,â said Craddock, with a sigh.

âHe was at the Caterersâ Dinner all right, but left rather early before the end of the speeches.â

âWhat about the railway stations?â

But there was nothing there, either at Brackhampton or at Paddington. It was nearly four weeks ago, and it was highly unlikely that anything would have been remembered.

Craddock sighed, and stretched out his hand for the data on Cedric. That again was negative, though a taxi-driver had made a doubtful recognition of having taken a fare to Paddington that day some time in the afternoon âwhat looked something like that bloke. Dirty trousers and a shock of hair. Cussed and swore a bit because fares had gone up since he was last in England.â He identified the day because a horse called Crawler had won the two-thirty and heâd had a tidy bit on. Just after dropping the gent, heâd heard it on the radio in his cab and had gone home forthwith to celebrate.

âThank God for racing!â said Craddock, and put the report aside.

âAnd hereâs Alfred,â said Sergeant Wetherall.

Some nuance in his voice made Craddock look up sharply. Wetherall had the pleased appearance of a man who has kept a titbit until the end.

In the main the check was unsatisfactory. Alfred lived alone in his flat and came and went at unspecified times. His neighbours were not the inquisitive kind and were in any case office workers who were out all day. But towards the end of the report, Wetherallâs large finger indicated the final paragraph.

Sergeant Leakie, assigned to a case of thefts from lorries, had been at the Load of Bricks, a lorry pull-up on the Waddington- Brackhampton Road, keeping certain lorry drivers under observation. He had noticed at an adjoining table, Chick Evans, one of the Dicky Rogers mob. With him had been Alfred Crackenthorpe whom he knew by sight, having seen him give evidence in the Dicky Rogers case. Heâd wondered what they were cooking up together. Time, 9:30 p.m., Friday, 20th December. Alfred Crackenthorpe had boarded a bus a few minutes later, going in the direction of Brackhampton. William Baker, ticket collector at Brackhampton station, had clipped ticket of gentleman whom he recognized by sight as one of Miss Crackenthorpeâs brothers, just before departure of eleven-fifty-five train for Paddington. Remembers day as there had been story of some batty old lady who swore she had seen somebody murdered in a train that afternoon.

âAlfred?â said Craddock as he laid the report down. âAlfred? I wonder.â

âPuts him right on the spot, there,â Wetherall pointed out.

Craddock nodded. Yes, Alfred could have travelled down by the 4:33 to Brackhampton committing murder on the way. Then he could have gone out by bus to the Load of Bricks. He could have left there at nine-thirty and would have had plenty of time to go to Rutherford Hall, move the body from the embankment to the sarcophagus, and get into Brackhampton in time to catch the 11:55 back to London. One of the Dicky Rogers gang might even have helped move the body, though Craddock doubted this. An unpleasant lot, but not killers.

âAlfred?â he repeated speculatively.

II

At Rutherford Hall there had been a gathering of the Crackenthorpe family. Harold and Alfred had come down from London and very soon voices were raised and tempers were running high.

On her own initiative, Lucy mixed cocktails in a jug with ice and then took them towards the library. The voices sounded clearly in the hall, and indicated that a good deal of acrimony was being directed towards Emma.

âEntirely your fault, Emma,â Haroldâs bass voice rang out angrily. âHow you could be so shortsighted and foolish beats me. If you hadnât taken that letter to Scotland Yardâand started all thisââ

Alfredâs high-pitched voice said: âYou must have been out of your senses!â

âNow donât bully her,â said Cedric. âWhatâs done is done. Much more fishy if theyâd identified the woman as the missing Martine and weâd all kept mum about having heard from her.â

âItâs all very well for you, Cedric,â said Harold angrily. âYou were out of the country on the 20th which seems to be the day they are inquiring about. But itâs very embarrassing for Alfred and myself. Fortunately, I can remember where I was that afternoon and what I was doing.â

âI bet you can,â said Alfred. âIf youâd arranged a murder, Harold, youâd arrange your alibi very carefully, Iâm sure.â

âI gather you are not so fortunate,â said Harold coldly.

âThat depends,â said Alfred. âAnythingâs better than presenting a cast-iron alibi to the police if it isnât really cast-iron. Theyâre so clever at breaking these things down.â

âIf you are insinuating that I killed the womanââ

âOh, do stop, all of you,â cried Emma. âOf course none of you killed the woman.â

âAnd just for your information, I wasnât out of England on the 20th,â said Cedric. âAnd the police are wise to it! So weâre all under suspicion.â

âIf it hadnât been for Emmaââ

âOh, donât begin again, Harold,â cried Emma.

Dr. Quimper came out of the study where he had been closeted with old Mr. Crackenthorpe. His eye fell on the jug in Lucyâs hand.

âWhatâs this? A celebration?â

âMore in the nature of oil on troubled waters. Theyâre at it hammer and tongs in there.â

âRecriminations?â

âMostly abusing Emma.â

Dr. Quimperâs eyebrows rose.

âIndeed?â He took the jug from Lucyâs hand, opened the library door and went in.

âGood evening.â

âAh, Dr. Quimper, I should like a word with you.â It was Haroldâs voice, raised and irritable. âI should like to know what you meant by interfering in a private and family matter, and telling my sister to go to Scotland Yard about it.â

Dr. Quimper said calmly:

âMiss Crackenthorpe asked my advice. I gave it to her. In my opinion she did perfectly right.â

âYou dare to sayââ

âGirl!â

It was old Mr. Crackenthorpeâs familiar salutation. He was peering out of the study door just behind Lucy.

Lucy turned rather reluctantly.

âYes, Mr. Crackenthorpe?â

âWhat are you giving us for dinner tonight? I want curry. You make a very good curry. Itâs ages since weâve had curry.â

âThe boys donât care much for curry, you see.â

âThe boysâthe boys. What do the boys matter? Iâm the one who matters. And, anyway, the boys have goneâgood riddance. I want a nice hot curry, do you hear?â

âAll right, Mr. Crackenthorpe, you shall have it.â

âThatâs right. Youâre a good girl, Lucy. You look after me and Iâll look after you.â

Lucy went back to the kitchen. Abandoning the fricassÃ©e of chicken which she had planned, she began to assemble the preparations for curry. The front door banged and from the window she saw Dr. Quimper stride angrily from the house to his car and drive away.

Lucy sighed. She missed the boys. And in a way she missed Bryan, too.

Oh, well. She sat down and began to peel mushrooms.

At any rate sheâd give the family a rattling good dinner.

Feed the brutes!

III

It was 3 a.m. when Dr. Quimper drove his car into the garage, closed the doors and came in pulling the front door behind him rather wearily. Well, Mrs. Josh Simpkins had a fine healthy pair of twins to add to her present family of eight. Mr. Simpkins had expressed no elation over the arrival. âTwins,â he had said gloomily. âWhatâs the good of they? Quads now, theyâre good for something. All sorts of things you get sent, and the Press comes round and thereâs pictures in the paper, and they do say as Her Majesty sends you a telegram. But whatâs twins except two mouths to feed instead of one? Never been twins in our family, nor in the missusâs either. Donât seem fair, somehow.â

Dr. Quimper walked upstairs to his bedroom and started throwing off his clothes. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes past three. It had proved an unexpectedly tricky business bringing those twins into the world, but all had gone well. He yawned. He was tiredâvery tired. He looked appreciatively at his bed.

Then the telephone rang.

Dr. Quimper swore, and picked up the receiver.

âDr. Quimper?â

âSpeaking.â

âThis is Lucy Eyelesbarrow from Rutherford Hall. I think youâd better come over. Everybody seems to have taken ill.â

âTaken ill? How? What symptoms?â

Lucy detailed them.

âIâll be over straight away. In the meantimeâ¦â He gave her short sharp instructions.

Then he quickly resumed his clothes, flung a few extra things into his emergency bag, and hurried down to his car.

IV

It was some three hours later when the doctor and Lucy, both of them somewhat exhausted, sat down by the kitchen table to drink large cups of black coffee.

âHa,â Dr. Quimper drained his cup, set it down with a clatter on the saucer. âI needed that. Now, Miss Eyelesbarrow, letâs get down to brass tacks.â

Lucy looked at him. The lines of fatigue showed clearly on his face making him look older than his forty-four years, the dark hair on his temples was flecked with grey, and there were lines under his eyes.

âAs far as I can judge,â said the doctor, âtheyâll be all right now. But how come? Thatâs what I want to know. Who cooked the dinner?â

âI did,â said Lucy.

âAnd what was it? In detail.â

âMushroom soup. Curried chicken and rice. Syllabubs. A savoury of chicken livers and bacon.â

âCanapÃ©s Diane,â said Dr. Quimper unexpectedly.

Lucy smiled faintly.

âYes, CanapÃ©s Diane.â

âAll rightâletâs go through it. Mushroom soupâout of a tin, I suppose?â

âCertainly not. I made it.â

âYou made it. Out of what?â

âHalf a pound of mushrooms, chicken stock, milk, a roux of butter and flour, and lemon juice.â

âAh. And oneâs supposed to say âIt must have been the mushrooms.ââ

âIt wasnât the mushrooms. I had some of the soup myself and Iâm quite all right.â

âYes, youâre quite all right. I hadnât forgotten that.â

Lucy flushed.

âIf you meanââ

âI donât mean. Youâre a highly intelligent girl. Youâd be groaning upstairs, too, if Iâd meant what you thought I meant. Anyway, I know all about you. Iâve taken the trouble to find out.â

âWhy on earth did you do that?â

Dr. Quimperâs lips were set in a grim line.

âBecause Iâm making it my business to find out about the people who come here and settle themselves in. Youâre a bona fide young woman who does this particular job for a livelihood and you seem never to have had any contact with the Crackenthorpe family previous to coming here. So youâre not a girl-friend of either Cedric, Harold or Alfredâhelping them to do a bit of dirty work.â

âDo you really thinkâ?â

âI think quite a lot of things,â said Quimper. âBut I have to be careful. Thatâs the worst of being a doctor. Now letâs get on. Curried chicken. Did you have some of that?â

âNo. When youâve cooked a curry, youâve dined off the smell, I find. I tasted it, of course. I had soup and some syllabub.â

âHow did you serve the syllabub?â

âIn individual glasses.â

âNow, then, how much of all this is cleared up?â

âIf you mean washing up, everything was washed up and put away.â

Dr. Quimper groaned.

âThereâs such a thing as being overzealous,â he said.

âYes, I can see that, as things have turned out, but there it is, Iâm afraid.â

âWhat do you have still?â

âThereâs some of the curry leftâin a bowl in the larder. I was planning to use it as a basis for mulligatawny soup this evening. Thereâs some mushroom soup left, too. No syllabub and none of the savoury.â

âIâll take the curry and the soup. What about chutney? Did they have chutney with it?â

âYes. In one of those stone jars.â

âIâll have some of that, too.â

He rose. âIâll go up and have a look at them again. After that, can you hold the fort until morning? Keep an eye on them all? I can have a nurse round, with full instructions, by eight oâclock.â

âI wish youâd tell me straight out. Do you think itâs food poisoningâorâorâwell, poisoning.â

âIâve told you already. Doctors canât thinkâthey have to be sure. If thereâs a positive result from these food specimens I can go ahead. Otherwiseââ

âOtherwise?â Lucy repeated.

Dr. Quimper laid a hand on her shoulder.

âLook after two people in particular,â he said. âLook after Emma. Iâm not going to have anything happen to Emmaâ¦.â

There was emotion in his voice that could not be disguised. âSheâs not even begun to live yet,â he said. âAnd you know, people like Emma Crackenthorpe are the salt of the earthâ¦ Emmaâwell, Emma means a lot to me. Iâve never told her so, but I shall. Look after Emma.â

âYou bet I will,â said Lucy.

âAnd look after the old man. I canât say that heâs ever been my favourite patient, but he is my patient, and Iâm damned if Iâm going to let him be hustled out of the world because one or other of his unpleasant sonsâor all three of them, maybeâwant him out of the way so that they can handle his money.â

He threw her a sudden quizzical glance.

âThere,â he said. âIâve opened my mouth too wide. But keep your eyes skinned, thereâs a good girl, and incidentally keep your mouth shut.â

V

Inspector Bacon was looking upset.

âArsenic?â he said. âArsenic?â

âYes. It was in the curry. Hereâs the rest of the curryâfor your fellow to have a go at. Iâve only done a very rough test on a little of it, but the result was quite definite.â

âSo thereâs a poisoner at work?â

âIt would seem so,â said Dr. Quimper dryly.

âAnd theyâre all affected, you sayâexcept that Miss Eyelesbarrow.â

âExcept Miss Eyelesbarrow.â

âLooks a bit fishy for herâ¦.â

âWhat motive could she possibly have?â

âMight be barmy,â suggested Bacon. âSeem all right, they do, sometimes, and yet all the time theyâre right off their rocker, so to speak.â

âMiss Eyelesbarrow isnât off her rocker. Speaking as a medical man, Miss Eyelesbarrow is as sane as you or I are. If Miss Eyelesbarrow is feeding the family arsenic in their curry, sheâs doing it for a reason. Moreover, being a highly intelligent young woman, sheâd be careful not to be the only one unaffected. What sheâd do, what any intelligent poisoner would do, would be to eat a very little of the poisoned curry, and then exaggerate the symptoms.â

âAnd then you wouldnât be able to tell?â

âThat sheâd had less than the others? Probably not. People donât all react alike to poisons anywayâthe same amount will upset some people more than others. Of course,â added Dr. Quimper cheerfully, âonce the patientâs dead, you can estimate fairly closely how much was taken.â

âThen it might beâ¦â Inspector Bacon paused to consolidate his idea. âIt might be that thereâs one of the family now whoâs making more fuss than he needâsomeone who you might say is mucking in with the rest so as to avoid causing suspicion? Howâs that?â

âThe idea has already occurred to me. Thatâs why Iâm reporting to you. Itâs in your hands now. Iâve got a nurse on the job that I can trust, but she canât be everywhere at once. In my opinion, nobodyâs had enough to cause death.â

âMade a mistake, the poisoner did?â

âNo. It seems to me more likely that the idea was to put enough in the curry to cause signs of food poisoningâfor which probably the mushrooms would be blamed. People are always obsessed with the idea of mushroom poisoning. Then one person would probably take a turn for the worse and die.â

âBecause heâd been given a second dose?â

The doctor nodded.

âThatâs why Iâm reporting to you at once, and why Iâve put a special nurse on the job.â

âShe knows about the arsenic?â

âOf course. She knows and so does Miss Eyelesbarrow. You know your own job best, of course, but if I were you, Iâd get out there and make it quite clear to them all that theyâre suffering from arsenic poisoning. That will probably put the fear of the Lord into our murderer and he wonât dare to carry out his plan. Heâs probably been banking on the food-poisoning theory.â

The telephone rang on the inspectorâs desk. He picked it up and said:

âOK. Put her through.â He said to Quimper, âItâs your nurse on the phone. Yes, halloâspeakingâ¦ Whatâs that? Serious relapseâ¦ Yesâ¦ Dr. Quimperâs with me nowâ¦ If youâd like a word with himâ¦.â

He handed the receiver to the doctor.

âQuimper speakingâ¦ I seeâ¦ Yesâ¦ Quite rightâ¦ Yes, carry on with that. Weâll be along.â

He put the receiver down and turned to Bacon.

âWho is it?â

âItâs Alfred,â said Dr. Quimper. âAnd heâs dead.â

Twenty

I

Over the telephone, Craddockâs voice came in sharp disbelief.

âAlfred?â he said. âAlfred?â

Inspector Bacon, shifting the telephone receiver a little, said: âYou didnât expect that?â

âNo, indeed. As a matter of fact, Iâd just got him taped for the murderer!â

âI heard about him being spotted by the ticket collector. Looked bad for him all right. Yes, looked as though weâd got our man.â

âWell,â said Craddock flatly, âwe were wrong.â

There was a momentâs silence. Then Craddock asked:

âThere was a nurse in charge. How did she come to slip up?â

âCanât blame her. Miss Eyelesbarrow was all in and went to get a bit of sleep. The nurse had five patients on her hands, the old man, Emma, Cedric, Harold and Alfred. She couldnât be everywhere at once. It seems old Mr. Crackenthorpe started creating in a big way. Said he was dying. She went in, got him soothed down, came back again and took Alfred in some tea with glucose. He drank it and that was that.â

âArsenic again?â

âSeems so. Of course it could have been a relapse, but Quimper doesnât think so and Johnstone agrees.â

âI suppose,â said Craddock, doubtfully, âthat Alfred was meant to be the victim?â

Bacon sounded interested. âYou mean that whereas Alfredâs death wouldnât do anyone a pennâorth of good, the old manâs death would benefit the lot of them? I suppose it might have been a mistakeâsomebody might have thought the tea was intended for the old man.â

âAre they sure that thatâs the way the stuff was administered?â

âNo, of course they arenât sure. The nurse, like a good nurse, washed up the whole contraption. Cups, spoons, teapotâeverything. But it seems the only feasible method.â

âMeaning,â said Craddock thoughtfully, âthat one of the patients wasnât as ill as the others? Saw his chance and doped the cup?â

âWell, there wonât be anymore funny business,â said Inspector Bacon grimly. âWeâve got two nurses on the job now, to say nothing of Miss Eyelesbarrow, and Iâve got a couple of men there too. You coming down?â

âAs fast as I can make it!â

II

Lucy Eyelesbarrow came across the hall to meet Inspector Craddock. She looked pale and drawn.

âYouâve been having a bad time of it,â said Craddock.

âItâs been like one long ghastly nightmare,â said Lucy. âI really thought last night that they were all dying.â

âAbout this curryââ

âIt was the curry?â

âYes, very nicely laced with arsenicâquite the Borgia touch.â

âIf thatâs true,â said Lucy. âIt mustâitâs got to beâone of the family.â

âNo other possibility?â

âNo, you see I only started making that damned curry quite lateâafter six oâclockâbecause Mr. Crackenthorpe specially asked for curry. And I had to open a new tin of curry powderâso that couldnât have been tampered with. I suppose curry would disguise the taste?â

âArsenic hasnât any taste,â said Craddock absently. âNow, opportunity. Which of them had the chance to tamper with the curry while it was cooking?â

Lucy considered.

âActually,â she said, âanyone could have sneaked into the kitchen whilst I was laying the table in the dining room.â

âI see. Now, who was here in the house? Old Mr. Crackenthorpe, Emma, Cedricââ

âHarold and Alfred. Theyâd come down from London in the afternoon. Oh, and BryanâBryan Eastley. But he left just before dinner. He had to meet a man in Brackhampton.â

Craddock said thoughtfully, âIt ties up with the old manâs illness at Christmas. Quimper suspected that that was arsenic. Did they all seem equally ill last night?â

Lucy considered. âI think old Mr. Crackenthorpe seemed the worst. Dr. Quimper had to work like a maniac on him. Heâs a jolly good doctor, I will say. Cedric made by far the most fuss. Of course, strong healthy people always do.â

âWhat about Emma?â

âShe has been pretty bad.â

âWhy Alfred, I wonder?â said Craddock.

âI know,â said Lucy. âI suppose it was meant to be Alfred?â

âFunnyâ I asked that too!â

âIt seems, somehow, so pointless.â

âIf I could only get at the motive for all this business,â said Craddock. âIt doesnât seem to tie up. The strangled woman in the sarcophagus was Edmund Crackenthorpeâs widow, Martine. Letâs assume that. Itâs pretty well proved by now. There must be a connection between that and the deliberate poisoning of Alfred. Itâs all here, in the family somewhere. Even saying one of themâs mad doesnât help.â

âNot really,â Lucy agreed.

âWell, look after yourself,â said Craddock warningly. âThereâs a poisoner in this house, remember, and one of your patients upstairs probably isnât as ill as he pretends to be.â

Lucy went upstairs again slowly after Craddockâs departure. An imperious voice, somewhat weakened by illness, called to her as she passed old Mr. Crackenthorpeâs room.

âGirlâgirlâis that you? Come here.â

Lucy entered the room. Mr. Crackenthorpe was lying in bed well propped up with pillows. For a sick man he was looking Lucy thought, remarkably cheerful.

âThe house is full of damned hospital nurses,â complained Mr. Crackenthorpe. âRustling about, making themselves important, taking my temperature, not giving me what I want to eatâa pretty penny all that must be costing. Tell Emma to send âem away. You could look after me quite well.â

âEverybodyâs been taken ill, Mr. Crackenthorpe,â said Lucy. âI canât look after everybody, you know.â

âMushrooms,â said Mr. Crackenthorpe. âDamned dangerous things, mushrooms. It was that soup we had last night. You made it,â he added accusingly.

âThe mushrooms were quite all right, Mr. Crackenthorpe.â

âIâm not blaming you, girl, Iâm not blaming you. Itâs happened before. One blasted fungus slips in and does it. Nobody can tell. I know youâre a good girl. You wouldnât do it on purpose. Howâs Emma?â

âFeeling rather better this afternoon.â

âAh, and Harold?â

âHeâs better too.â

âWhatâs this about Alfred having kicked the bucket?â

âNobodyâs supposed to have told you that, Mr. Crackenthorpe.â

Mr. Crackenthorpe laughed, a high, whinnying laugh of intense amusement. âI hear things,â he said. âCanât keep things from the old man. They try to. So Alfredâs dead, is he? He wonât sponge on me anymore, and he wonât get any of the money either. Theyâve all been waiting for me to die, you knowâAlfred in particular. Now heâs dead. I call that rather a good joke.â

âThatâs not very kind of you, Mr. Crackenthorpe,â said Lucy severely.

Mr. Crackenthorpe laughed again. âIâll outlive them all,â he crowed. âYou see if I donât, my girl. You see if I donât.â

Lucy went to her room, she took out her dictionary and looked up the word âtontine.â She closed the book thoughtfully and stared ahead of her.

III

âDonât see why you want to come to me,â said Dr. Morris, irritably.

âYouâve known the Crackenthorpe family a long time,â said Inspector Craddock.

âYes, yes, I knew all the Crackenthorpes. I remember old Josiah Crackenthorpe. He was a hard nutâshrewd man, though. Made a lot of money,â he shifted his aged form in his chair and peered under bushy eyebrows at Inspector Craddock. âSo youâve been listening to that young fool, Quimper,â he said. âThese zealous young doctors! Always getting ideas in their heads. Got it into his head that somebody was trying to poison Luther Crackenthorpe. Nonsense! Melodrama! Of course, he had gastric attacks. I treated him for them. Didnât happen very oftenânothing peculiar about them.â

âDr. Quimper,â said Craddock, âseemed to think there was.â

âDoesnât do for a doctor to go thinking. After all, I should hope I could recognize arsenical poisoning when I saw it.â

âQuite a lot of well-known doctors havenât noticed it,â Craddock pointed out. âThere wasââhe drew upon his memoryââthe Greenbarrow case, Mrs. Teney, Charles Leeds, three people in the Westbury family, all buried nicely and tidily without the doctors who attended them having the least suspicion. Those doctors were all good, reputable men.â

âAll right, all right,â said Doctor Morris, âyouâre saying that I could have made a mistake. Well, I donât think I did.â He paused a minute and then said, âWho did Quimper think was doing itâif it was being done?â

âHe didnât know,â said Craddock. âHe was worried. After all, you know,â he added, âthereâs a great deal of money there.â

âYes, yes, I know, which theyâll get when Luther Crackenthorpe dies. And they want it pretty badly. That is true enough, but it doesnât follow that theyâd kill the old man to get it.â

âNot necessarily,â agreed Inspector Craddock.

âAnyway,â said Dr. Morris, âmy principle is not to go about suspecting things without due cause. Due cause,â he repeated. âIâll admit that what youâve just told me has shaken me up a bit. Arsenic on a big scale, apparentlyâbut I still donât see why you come to me. All I can tell you is that I didnât suspect it. Maybe I should have. Maybe I should have taken those gastric attacks of Luther Crackenthorpeâs much more seriously. But youâve got a long way beyond that now.â

Craddock agreed. âWhat I really need,â he said, âis to know a little more about the Crackenthorpe family. Is there any queer mental strain in themâa kink of any kind?â

The eyes under the bushy eyebrows looked at him sharply. âYes, I can see your thoughts might run that way. Well, old Josiah was sane enough. Hard as nails, very much all there. His wife was neurotic, had a tendency to melancholia. Came of an inbred family. She died soon after her second son was born. Iâd say, you know, that Luther inherited a certainâwell, instability, from her. He was commonplace enough as a young man, but he was always at loggerheads with his father. His father was disappointed in him and I think he resented that and brooded on it, and in the end got a kind of obsession about it. He carried that on into his married life. Youâll notice, if you talk to him at all, that heâs got a hearty dislike for all his own sons. His daughters he was fond of. Both Emma and Edieâthe one who died.â

âWhy does he dislike the sons so much?â asked Craddock.

âYouâll have to go to one of these new-fashioned psychiatrists to find that out. Iâd just say that Luther has never felt very adequate as a man himself, and that he bitterly resents his financial position. He has possession of an income but no power of appointment of capital. If he had the power to disinherit his sons he probably wouldnât dislike them as much. Being powerless in that respect gives him a feeling of humiliation.â

âThatâs why heâs so pleased at the idea of outliving them all?â said Inspector Craddock.

âPossibly. It is the root, too, of his parsimony, I think. I should say that heâs managed to save a considerable sum out of his large incomeâmostly, of course, before taxation rose to its present giddy heights.â

A new idea struck Inspector Craddock. âI suppose heâs left his savings by will to someone? That he can do.â

âOh, yes, though God knows who he has left it to. Maybe to Emma, but I should rather doubt it. Sheâll get her share of the old manâs property. Maybe to Alexander, the grandson.â

âHeâs fond of him, is he?â said Craddock.

âUsed to be. Of course he was his daughterâs child, not a sonâs child. That may have made a difference. And he had quite an affection for Bryan Eastley, Edieâs husband. Of course I donât know Bryan well, itâs some years since Iâve seen any of the family. But it struck me that he was going to be very much at a loose end after the war. Heâs got those qualities that you need in wartime; courage, dash, and a tendency to let the future take care of itself. But I donât think heâs got any stability. Heâll probably turn into a drifter.â

âAs far as you know thereâs no peculiar kink in any of the younger generation?â

âCedricâs an eccentric type, one of those natural rebels. I wouldnât say he was perfectly normal, but you might say, who is? Haroldâs fairly orthodox, not what I call a very pleasant character, coldhearted, eye to the main chance. Alfredâs got a touch of the delinquent about him. Heâs a wrong âun, always was. Saw him taking money out of a missionary box once that they used to keep in the hall. That type of thing. Ah, well, the poor fellowâs dead, I suppose I shouldnât be talking against him.â

âWhat aboutâ¦â Craddock hesitated. âEmma Crackenthorpe?â

âNice girl, quiet, one doesnât always know what sheâs thinking. Has her own plans and her own ideas, but she keeps them to herself. Sheâs more character than you might think from her general appearance.â

âYou knew Edmund, I suppose, the son who was killed in France?â

âYes. He was the best of the bunch Iâd say. Goodhearted, gay, a nice boy.â

âDid you ever hear that he was going to marry, or had married, a French girl just before he was killed?â

Dr. Morris frowned. âIt seems as though I remember something about it,â he said, âbut itâs a long time ago.â

âQuite early on in the war, wasnât it?â

âYes. Ah, well, I dare say heâd have lived to regret it if he had married a foreign wife.â

âThereâs some reason to believe that he did do just that,â said Craddock.

In a few brief sentences he gave an account of recent happenings.

âI remember seeing something in the papers about a woman found in a sarcophagus. So it was at Rutherford Hall.â

âAnd thereâs reason to believe that the woman was Edmund Crackenthorpeâs widow.â

âWell, well, that seems extraordinary. More like a novel than real life. But whoâd want to kill the poor thingâI mean, how does it tie up with arsenical poisoning in the Crackenthorpe family?â

âIn one of two ways,â said Craddock; âbut they are both very farfetched. Somebody perhaps is greedy and wants the whole of Josiah Crackenthorpeâs fortune.â

âDamn fool if he does,â said Dr. Morris. âHeâll only have to pay the most stupendous taxes on the income from it.â

Twenty-one

âNasty things, mushrooms,â said Mrs. Kidder.

Mrs. Kidder had made the same remark about ten times in the last few days. Lucy did not reply.

âNever touch âem myself,â said Mrs. Kidder, âmuch too dangerous. Itâs a merciful Providence as thereâs only been one death. The whole lot might have gone, and you, too, miss. A wonderful escape, youâve had.â

âIt wasnât the mushrooms,â said Lucy. âThey were perfectly all right.â

âDonât you believe it,â said Mrs. Kidder. âDangerous they are, mushrooms. One toadstool in among the lot and youâve had it.â

âFunny,â went on Mrs. Kidder, among the rattle of plates and dishes in the sink, âhow things seem to come all together, as it were. My sisterâs eldest had measles and our Ernie fell down and broke âis arm, and my âusband came out all over with boils. All in the same week! Youâd hardly believe it, would you? Itâs been the same thing here,â went on Mrs. Kidder, âfirst that nasty murder and now Mr. Alfred dead with mushroom-poisoning. Whoâll be the next, Iâd like to know?â

Lucy felt rather uncomfortably that she would like to know too.

âMy husband, he doesnât like me coming here now,â said Mrs. Kidder, âthinks itâs unlucky, but what I say is Iâve known Miss Crackenthorpe a long time now and sheâs a nice lady and she depends on me. And I couldnât leave poor Miss Eyelesbarrow, I said, not to do everything herself in the house. Pretty hard it is on you, miss, all these trays.â

Lucy was forced to agree that life did seem to consist very largely of trays at the moment. She was at the moment arranging trays to take to the various invalids.

âAs for them nurses, they never do a handâs turn,â said Mrs. Kidder. âAll they want is pots and pots of tea made strong. And meals prepared. Wore out, thatâs what I am.â She spoke in a tone of great satisfaction, though actually she had done very little more than her normal morningâs work.

Lucy said solemnly, âYou never spare yourself, Mrs. Kidder.â

Mrs. Kidder looked pleased. Lucy picked up the first of the trays and started off up the stairs.

âWhatâs this?â said Mr. Crackenthorpe disapprovingly.

âBeef tea and baked custard,â said Lucy.

âTake it away,â said Mr. Crackenthorpe. âI wonât touch that stuff. I told that nurse I wanted a beef steak.â

âDr. Quimper thinks you ought not to have beef steak just yet,â said Lucy.

Mr. Crackenthorpe snorted. âIâm practically well again. Iâm getting up tomorrow. How are the others?â

âMr. Haroldâs much better,â said Lucy. âHeâs going back to London tomorrow.â

âGood riddance,â said Mr. Crackenthorpe. âWhat about Cedricâany hope that heâs going back to his island tomorrow?â

âHe wonât be going just yet.â

âPity. Whatâs Emma doing? Why doesnât she come and see me?â

âSheâs still in bed, Mr. Crackenthorpe.â

âWomen always coddle themselves,â said Mr. Crackenthorpe. âBut youâre a good strong girl,â he added approvingly. âRun about all day, donât you?â

âI get plenty of exercise,â said Lucy.

Old Mr. Crackenthorpe nodded his head approvingly. âYouâre a good strong girl,â he said, âand donât think Iâve forgotten what I talked to you about before. One of these days youâll see what youâll see. Emma isnât always going to have things her own way. And donât listen to the others when they tell you Iâm a mean old man. Iâm careful of my money. Iâve got a nice little packet put by and I know who Iâm going to spend it on when the time comes.â He leered at her affectionately.

Lucy went rather quickly out of the room, avoiding his clutching hand.

The next tray was taken in to Emma.

âOh, thank you, Lucy. Iâm really feeling quite myself again by now. Iâm hungry, and thatâs a good sign, isnât it? My dear,â went on Emma as Lucy settled the tray on her knees, âIâm really feeling very upset about your aunt. You havenât had any time to go and see her, I suppose?â

âNo, I havenât, as a matter of fact.â

âIâm afraid she must be missing you.â

âOh, donât worry, Miss Crackenthorpe. She understands what a terrible time weâve been through.â

âHave you rung her up?â

âNo, I havenât just lately.â

âWell, do. Ring her up every day. It makes such a difference to old people to get news.â

âYouâre very kind,â said Lucy. Her conscience smote her a little as she went down to fetch the next tray. The complications of illness in a house had kept her thoroughly absorbed and she had had no time to think of anything else. She decided that she would ring Miss Marple up as soon as she had taken Cedric his meal.

There was only one nurse in the house now and she passed Lucy on the landing, exchanging greetings.

Cedric, looking incredibly tidied up and neat, was sitting up in bed writing busily on sheets of paper.

âHallo, Lucy,â he said, âwhat hell brew have you got for me today? I wish youâd get rid of that god-awful nurse, sheâs simply too arch for words. Calls me âweâ for some reason. âAnd how are we this morning? Have we slept well? Oh, dear, weâre very naughty, throwing off the bedclothes like that.ââ He imitated the refined accents of the nurse in a high falsetto voice.

âYou seem very cheerful,â said Lucy. âWhat are you busy with?â

âPlans,â said Cedric. âPlans for what to do with this place when the old man pops off. Itâs a jolly good bit of land here, you know. I canât make up my mind whether Iâd like to develop some of it myself, or whether Iâll sell it in lots all in one go. Very valuable for industrial purposes. The house will do for a nursing home or a school. Iâm not sure I shanât sell half the land and use the money to do something rather outrageous with the other half. What do you think?â

âYou havenât got it yet,â said Lucy, dryly.

âI shall have it, though,â said Cedric. âItâs not divided up like the other stuff. I get it outright. And if I sell it for a good fat price the money will be capital, not income, so I shanât have to pay taxes on it. Money to burn. Think of it.â

âI always understood you rather despised money,â said Lucy.

âOf course I despise money when I havenât got any,â said Cedric. âItâs the only dignified thing to do. What a lovely girl you are, Lucy, or do I just think so because I havenât seen any good-looking women for such a long time?â

âI expect thatâs it,â said Lucy.

âStill busy tidying everyone and everything up?â

âSomebody seems to have been tidying you up,â said Lucy, looking at him.

âThatâs that damned nurse,â said Cedric with feeling. âHave you had the inquest on Alfred yet? What happened?â

âIt was adjourned,â said Lucy.

âPolice being cagey. This mass poisoning does give one a bit of a turn, doesnât it? Mentally, I mean. Iâm not referring to more obvious aspects.â He added: âBetter look after yourself, my girl.â

âI do,â said Lucy.

âHas young Alexander gone back to school yet?â

âI think heâs still with the Stoddart-Wests. I think itâs the day after tomorrow that school begins.â

Before getting her own lunch Lucy went to the telephone and rang up Miss Marple.

âIâm so terribly sorry I havenât been able to come over, but Iâve been really very busy.â

âOf course, my dear, of course. Besides, thereâs nothing that can be done just now. We just have to wait.â

âYes, but what are we waiting for?â

âElspeth McGillicuddy ought to be home very soon now,â said Miss Marple. âI wrote to her to fly home at once. I said it was her duty. So donât worry too much, my dear.â Her voice was kindly and reassuring.

âYou donât thinkâ¦â Lucy began, but stopped.

âThat there will be anymore deaths? Oh, I hope not, my dear. But one never knows, does one? When anyone is really wicked, I mean. And I think there is great wickedness here.â

âOr madness,â said Lucy.

âOf course I know that is the modern way of looking at things. I donât agree myself.â

Lucy rang off, went into the kitchen and picked up her tray of lunch. Mrs. Kidder had divested herself of her apron and was about to leave.

âYouâll be all right, miss, I hope?â she asked solicitously.

âOf course I shall be all right,â snapped Lucy.

She took her tray not into the big, gloomy dining room but into the small study. She was just finishing her meal when the door opened and Bryan Eastley came in.

âHallo,â said Lucy, âthis is very unexpected.â

âI suppose it is,â said Bryan. âHow is everybody?â

âOh, much better. Haroldâs going back to London tomorrow.â

âWhat do you think about it all? Was it really arsenic?â

âIt was arsenic all right,â said Lucy.

âIt hasnât been in the papers yet.â

âNo, I think the police are keeping it up their sleeves for the moment.â

âSomebody must have a pretty good down on the family,â said Bryan. âWhoâs likely to have sneaked in and tampered with the food?â

âI suppose Iâm the most likely person really,â said Lucy.

Bryan looked at her anxiously. âBut you didnât, did you?â he asked. He sounded slightly shocked.

âNo. I didnât,â said Lucy.

Nobody could have tampered with the curry. She had made itâalone in the kitchen, and brought it to table, and the only person who could have tampered with it was one of the five people who sat down to the meal.

âI meanâwhy should you?â said Bryan. âTheyâre nothing to you, are they? I say,â he added, âI hope you donât mind my coming back here like this?â

âNo, no, of course I donât. Have you come to stay?â

âWell, Iâd like to, if it wouldnât be an awful bore to you.â

âNo. No, we can manage.â

âYou see, Iâm out of a job at the moment and Iâwell, I get rather fed up. Are you really sure you donât mind?â

âOh, Iâm not the person to mind, anyway. Itâs Emma.â

âOh, Emmaâs all right,â said Bryan. âEmmaâs always been very nice to me. In her own way, you know. She keeps things to herself a lot, in fact, sheâs rather a dark horse, old Emma. This living here and looking after the old man would get most people down. Pity she never married. Too late now, I suppose.â

âI donât think itâs too late, at all,â said Lucy.

âWellâ¦â Bryan considered. âA clergyman perhaps,â he said hopefully. âSheâd be useful in the parish and tactful with the Mothersâ Union. I do mean the Mothersâ Union, donât I? Not that I know what it really is, but you come across it sometimes in books. And sheâd wear a hat in church on Sundays,â he added.

âDoesnât sound much of a prospect to me,â said Lucy, rising and picking up the tray.

âIâll do that,â said Bryan, taking the tray from her. They went into the kitchen together. âShall I help you wash up? I do like this kitchen,â he added. âIn fact, I know it isnât the sort of thing that people do like nowadays, but I like this whole house. Shocking taste, I suppose, but there it is. You could land a plane quite easily in the park,â he added with enthusiasm.

He picked up a glass-cloth and began to wipe the spoons and forks.

âSeems a waste, its coming to Cedric,â he remarked. âFirst thing heâll do is to sell the whole thing and go breaking off abroad again. Canât see, myself, why England isnât good enough for anybody. Harold wouldnât want this house either, and of course itâs much too big for Emma. Now, if only it came to Alexander, he and I would be as happy together here as a couple of sand boys. Of course it would be nice to have a woman about the house.â He looked thoughtfully at Lucy. âOh, well, whatâs the good of talking? If Alexander were to get this place it would mean the whole lot of them would have to die first, and thatâs not really likely, is it? Though from what Iâve seen of the old boy he might easily live to be a hundred, just to annoy them all. I donât suppose he was much cut up by Alfredâs death, was he?â

Lucy said shortly, âNo, he wasnât.â

âCantankerous old devil,â said Bryan Eastley cheerfully.

Twenty-two

âDreadful, the things people go about saying,â said Mrs. Kidder. âI donât listen, mind you, more than I can help. But youâd hardly believe it.â She waited hopefully.

âYes, I suppose so,â said Lucy.

âAbout that body that was found in the Long Barn,â went on Mrs. Kidder, moving crablike backwards on her hands and knees, as she scrubbed the kitchen floor, âsaying as how sheâd been Mr. Edmundâs fancy piece during the war, and how she come over here and a jealous husband followed her, and did her in. It is a likely thing as a foreigner would do, but it wouldnât be likely after all these years, would it?â

âIt sounds most unlikely to me.â

âBut thereâs worse things than that, they say,â said Mrs. Kidder. âSay anything, people will. Youâd be surprised. Thereâs those that say Mr. Harold married somewhere abroad and that she come over and found out that heâs committed bigamy with that lady Alice, and that she was going to bring âim to court and that he met her down here and did her in, and hid her body in the sarcoffus. Did you ever!â

âShocking,â said Lucy vaguely, her mind elsewhere.

âOf course I didnât listen,â said Mrs. Kidder virtuously, âI wouldnât put no stock in such tales myself. It beats me how people think up such things, let alone say them. All I hope is none of it gets to Miss Emmaâs ears. It might upset her and I wouldnât like that. Sheâs a very nice lady, Miss Emma is, and Iâve not heard a word against her, not a word. And of course Mr. Alfred being dead nobody says anything against him now. Not even that itâs a judgment, which they well might do. But itâs awful, miss, isnât it, the wicked talk there is.â

Mrs. Kidder spoke with immense enjoyment.

âIt must be quite painful for you to listen to it,â said Lucy.

âOh, it is,â said Mrs. Kidder. âIt is indeed. I says to my husband, I says, however can they?â

The bell rang.

âThereâs the doctor, miss. Will you let âim in, or shall I?â

âIâll go,â said Lucy.

But it was not the doctor. On the doorstep stood a tall, elegant woman in a mink coat. Drawn up to the gravel sweep was a purring Rolls with a chauffeur at the wheel.

âCan I see Miss Emma Crackenthorpe, please?â

It was an attractive voice, the Râs slightly blurred. The woman was attractive too. About thirty-five, with dark hair and expensively and beautifully made up.

âIâm sorry,â said Lucy, âMiss Crackenthorpe is ill in bed and canât see anyone.â

âI know she has been ill, yes; but it is very important that I should see her.â

âIâm afraid,â Lucy began.

The visitor interrupted her. âI think you are Miss Eyelesbarrow, are you not?â She smiled, an attractive smile. âMy son has spoken of you, so I know. I am Lady Stoddart-West and Alexander is staying with me now.â

âOh, I see,â said Lucy.

âAnd it is really important that I should see Miss Crackenthorpe,â continued the other. âI know all about her illness and I assure you this is not just a social call. It is because of something that the boys have said to meâthat my son has said to me. It is, I think, a matter of grave importance and I would like to speak to Miss Crackenthorpe about it. Please, will you ask her?â

âCome in.â Lucy ushered her visitor into the hall and into the drawing room. Then she said, âIâll go up and ask Miss Crackenthorpe.â

She went upstairs, knocked on Emmaâs door and entered.

âLady Stoddart-West is here,â she said. âShe wants to see you very particularly.â

âLady Stoddart-West?â Emma looked surprised. A look of alarm came into her face. âThereâs nothing wrong, is there, with the boysâwith Alexander?â

âNo, no,â Lucy reassured her. âIâm sure the boys are all right. It seemed to be something the boys have told her or said to her.â

âOh. Wellâ¦â Emma hesitated. âPerhaps I ought to see her. Do I look all right, Lucy?â

âYou look very nice,â said Lucy.

Emma was sitting up in bed, a soft pink shawl was round her shoulders and brought out the faint rose-pink of her cheeks. Her dark hair had been neatly brushed and combed by Nurse. Lucy had placed a bowl of autumn leaves on the dressing table the day before. Her room looked attractive and quite unlike a sick room.

âIâm really quite well enough to get up,â said Emma. âDr. Quimper said I could tomorrow.â

âYou look really quite like yourself again,â said Lucy. âShall I bring Lady Stoddart-West up?â

âYes, do.â

Lucy went downstairs again. âWill you come up to Miss Crackenthorpeâs room?â

She escorted the visitor upstairs, opened the door for her to pass in and then shut it. Lady Stoddart-West approached the bed with outstretched hand.

âMiss Crackenthorpe? I really do apologize for breaking in on you like this. I have seen you, I think, at the sports at the school.â

âYes,â said Emma, âI remember you quite well. Do sit down.â

In the chair conveniently placed by the bed Lady Stoddart-West sat down. She said in a quiet low voice:

âYou must think it very strange of me coming here like this, but I have reason. I think it is an important reason. You see, the boys have been telling me things. You can understand that they were very excited about the murder that happened here. I confess I did not like it at the time. I was nervous. I wanted to bring James home at once. But my husband laughed. He said that obviously it was a murder that had nothing to do with the house and the family, and he said that from what he remembered from his boyhood, and from Jamesâs letters, both he and Alexander were enjoying themselves so wildly that it would be sheer cruelty to bring them back. So I gave in and agreed that they should stay on until the time arranged for James to bring Alexander back with him.â

Emma said: âYou think we ought to have sent your son home earlier?â

âNo, no, that is not what I mean at all. Oh, it is difficult for me, this! But what I have to say must be said. You see, they have picked up a good deal, the boys. They told me that this womanâthe murdered womanâthat the police have an idea that she may be a French girl whom your eldest brotherâwho was killed in the warâknew in France. That is so?â

âIt is a possibility,â said Emma, her voice breaking slightly, âthat we are forced to consider. It may have been so.â

âThere is some reason for believing that the body is that of this girl, this Martine?â

âI have told you, it is a possibility.â

âBut whyâwhy should they think that she was Martine? Did she have letters on herâpapers?â

âNo. Nothing of that kind. But you see, I had had a letter, from this Martine.â

âYou had had a letterâfrom Martine?â

âYes. A letter telling me she was in England and would like to come and see me. I invited her down here, but got a telegram saying she was going back to France. Perhaps she did go back to France. We do not know. But since then an envelope was found here addressed to her. That seems to show that she had come down here. But I really donât seeâ¦â She broke off.

Lady Stoddart-West broke in quickly:

âYou really do not see what concern it is of mine? That is very true. I should not in your place. But when I heard thisâor rather, a garbled account of thisâI had to come to make sure it was really so because, if it isââ

âYes?â said Emma.

âThen I must tell you something that I had never intended to tell you. You see, I am Martine Dubois.â

Emma stared at her guest as though she could hardly take in the sense of her words.

âYou!â she said. âYou are Martine?â

The other nodded vigorously. âBut, yes. It surprises you, I am sure, but it is true. I met your brother Edmund in the first days of the war. He was indeed billeted at our house. Well, you know the rest. We fell in love. We intended to be married, and then there was the retreat to Dunkirk, Edmund was reported missing. Later he was reported killed. I will not speak to you of that time. It was long ago and it is over. But I will say to you that I loved your brother very muchâ¦.

âThen came the grim realities of war. The Germans occupied France. I became a worker for the Resistance. I was one of those who was assigned to pass Englishmen through France to England. It was in that way that I met my present husband. He was an Air Force officer, parachuted into France to do special work. When the war ended we were married. I considered once or twice whether I should write to you or come and see you, but I decided against it. It could do no good, I thought, to take up old memories. I had a new life and I had no wish to recall the old.â She paused and then said: âBut it gave me, I will tell you, a strange pleasure when I found that my son Jamesâs greatest friend at his school was a boy whom I found to be Edmundâs nephew. Alexander, I may say, is very like Edmund, as I dare say you yourself appreciate. It seemed to me a very happy state of affairs that James and Alexander should be such friends.â

She leaned forward and placed her hand on Emmaâs arm. âBut you see, dear Emma, do you not, that when I heard this story about the murder, about this dead woman being suspected to be the Martine that Edmund had known, that I had to come and tell you the truth. Either you or I must inform the police of the fact. Whoever the dead woman is, she is not Martine.â

âI can hardly take it in,â said Emma, âthat you, you should be the Martine that dear Edmund wrote to me about.â She sighed, shaking her head, then she frowned perplexedly. âBut I donât understand. Was it you, then, who wrote to me?â

Lady Stoddart-West shook a vigorous head. âNo, no, of course I did not write to you.â

âThenâ¦â Emma stopped.

âThen there was someone pretending to be Martine who wanted perhaps to get money out of you? That is what it must have been. But who can it be?â

Emma said slowly: âI suppose there were people at the time, who knew?â

The other shrugged her shoulders. âProbably, yes. But there was no one intimate with me, no one very close to me. I have never spoken of it since I came to England. And why wait all this time? It is curious, very curious.â

Emma said: âI donât understand it. We will have to see what Inspector Craddock has to say.â She looked with suddenly softened eyes at her visitor. âIâm so glad to know you at last, my dear.â

âAnd I youâ¦ Edmund spoke of you very often. He was very fond of you. I am happy in my new life, but all the same, I donât quite forget.â

Emma leaned back and heaved a sigh. âItâs a terrible relief,â she said. âAs long as we feared that the dead woman might be Martineâit seemed to be tied up with the family. But nowâoh, itâs an absolute load off my back. I donât know who the poor soul was but she canât have had anything to do with us!â

Twenty-three

The streamlined secretary brought Harold Crackenthorpe his usual afternoon cup of tea.

âThanks, Miss Ellis, I shall be going home early today.â

âIâm sure you ought really not to have come at all, Mr. Crackenthorpe,â said Miss Ellis. âYou look quite pulled down still.â

âIâm all right,â said Harold Crackenthorpe, but he did feel pulled down. No doubt about it, heâd had a very nasty turn. Ah, well, that was over.

Extraordinary, he thought broodingly, that Alfred should have succumbed and the old man should have come through. After all, what was heâseventy-threeâseventy-four? Been an invalid for years. If there was one person youâd have thought would have been taken off, it would have been the old man. But no. It had to be Alfred. Alfred who, as far as Harold knew, was a healthy wiry sort of chap. Nothing much the matter with him.

He leaned back in his chair sighing. That girl was right. He didnât feel up to things yet, but he had wanted to come down to the office. Wanted to get the hang of how affairs were going. Touch and go. All thisâhe looked round himâthe richly appointed office, the pale gleaming wood, the expensive modern chairs, it all looked prosperous enough, and a good thing too! Thatâs where Alfred had always gone wrong. If you looked prosperous, people thought you were prosperous. There were no rumours going around as yet about his financial stability. All the same, the crash couldnât be delayed very long. Now, if only his father had passed out instead of Alfred, as surely, surely he ought to have done. Practically seemed to thrive on arsenic! Yes, if his father had succumbedâwell, there wouldnât have been anything to worry about.

Still, the great thing was not to seem worried. A prosperous appearance. Not like poor old Alfred who always looked seedy and shiftless, who looked in fact exactly what he was. One of those small-time speculators, never going all out boldly for the big money. In with a shady crowd here, doing a doubtful deal there, never quite rendering himself liable to prosecution but going very near the edge. And where had it got him? Short periods of affluence and then back to seediness and shabbiness, once more. No broad outlook about Alfred. Taken all in all, you couldnât say Alfred was much loss. Heâd never been particularly fond of Alfred and with Alfred out of the way the money that was coming to him from that old curmudgeon, his grandfather, would be sensibly increased, divided not into five shares but into four shares. Very much better.

Haroldâs face brightened a little. He rose, took his hat and coat and left the office. Better take it easy for a day or two. He wasnât feeling too strong yet. His car was waiting below and very soon he was weaving through London traffic to his house.

Darwin, his manservant, opened the door.

âHer ladyship has just arrived, sir,â he said.

For a moment Harold stared at him. Alice! Good heavens, was it today that Alice was coming home? Heâd forgotten all about it. Good thing Darwin had warned him. It wouldnât have looked so good if heâd gone upstairs and looked too astonished at seeing her. Not that it really mattered, he supposed. Neither Alice nor he had any illusions about the feeling they had for each other. Perhaps Alice was fond of himâhe didnât know.

All in all, Alice was a great disappointment to him. He hadnât been in love with her, of course, but though a plain woman she was quite a pleasant one. And her family and connections had undoubtedly been useful. Not perhaps as useful as they might have been, because in marrying Alice he had been considering the position of hypothetical children. Nice relations for his boys to have. But there hadnât been any boys, or girls either, and all that had remained had been he and Alice growing older together without much to say to each other and with no particular pleasure in each otherâs company.

She stayed away a good deal with relations and usually went to the Riviera in the winter. It suited her and it didnât worry him.

He went upstairs now into the drawing room and greeted her punctiliously.

âSo youâre back, my dear. Sorry I couldnât meet you, but I was held up in the City. I got back as early as I could. How was San Raphael?â

Alice told him how San Raphael was. She was a thin woman with sandy-coloured hair, a well-arched nose and vague, hazel eyes. She talked in a well-bred, monotonous and rather depressing voice. It had been a good journey back, the Channel a little rough. The Customs, as usual, very trying at Dover.

âYou should come by air,â said Harold, as he always did. âSo much simpler.â

âI dare say, but I donât really like air travel. I never have. Makes me nervous.â

âSaves a lot of time,â said Harold.

Lady Alice Crackenthorpe did not answer. It was possible that her problem in life was not to save time but to occupy it. She inquired politely after her husbandâs health.

âEmmaâs telegram quite alarmed me,â she said. âYou were all taken ill, I understand.â

âYes, yes,â said Harold.

âI read in the paper the other day,â said Alice, âof forty people in a hotel going down with food poisoning at the same time. All this refrigeration is dangerous, I think. People keep things too long in them.â

âPossibly,â said Harold. Should he, or should he not mention arsenic? Somehow, looking at Alice, he felt himself quite unable to do so. In Aliceâs world, he felt, there was no place for poisoning by arsenic. It was a thing you read about in the papers. It didnât happen to you or your own family. But it had happened in the Crackenthorpe familyâ¦.

He went up to his room and lay down for an hour or two before dressing for dinner. At dinner, tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte with his wife, the conversation ran on much the same lines. Desultory, polite. The mention of acquaintances and friends at San Raphael.

âThereâs a parcel for you on the hall table, a small one,â Alice said.

âIs there? I didnât notice it.â

âItâs an extraordinary thing but somebody was telling me about a murdered woman having been found in a barn, or something like that. She said it was at Rutherford Hall. I suppose it must be some other Rutherford Hall.â

âNo,â said Harold, âno, it isnât. It was in our barn, as a matter of fact.â

âReally, Harold! A murdered woman in the barn at Rutherford Hallâand you never told me anything about it.â

âWell, there hasnât been much time, really,â said Harold, âand it was all rather unpleasant. Nothing to do with us, of course. The Press milled around a good deal. Of course we had to deal with the police and all that sort of thing.â

âVery unpleasant,â said Alice. âDid they find out who did it?â she added, with rather perfunctory interest.

âNot yet,â said Harold.

âWhat sort of woman was she?â

âNobody knows. French, apparently.â

âOh, French,â said Alice, and allowing for the difference in class, her tone was not unlike that of Inspector Bacon. âVery annoying for you all,â she agreed.

They went out from the dining room and crossed into the small study where they usually sat when they were alone. Harold was feeling quite exhausted by now. âIâll go up to bed early,â he thought.

He picked up the small parcel from the hall table, about which his wife had spoken to him. It was a small neatly waxed parcel, done up with meticulous exactness. Harold ripped it open as he came to sit down in his usual chair by the fire.

Inside was a small tablet box bearing the label, âTwo to be taken nightly.â With it was a small piece of paper with the chemistâs heading in Brackhampton. âSent by request of Doctor Quimperâ was written on it.

Harold Crackenthorpe frowned. He opened the box and looked at the tablets. Yes, they seemed to be the same tablets he had been having. But surely, surely Quimper had said that he neednât take anymore? âYou wonât want them, now.â Thatâs what Quimper had said.

âWhat is it, dear?â said Alice. âYou look worried.â

âOh, itâs justâsome tablets. Iâve been taking them at night. But I rather thought the doctor said donât take anymore.â

His wife said placidly: âHe probably said donât forget to take them.â

âHe may have done, I suppose,â said Harold doubtfully.

He looked across at her. She was watching him. Just for a moment or two he wonderedâhe didnât often wonder about Aliceâexactly what she was thinking. That mild gaze of hers told him nothing. Her eyes were like windows in an empty house. What did Alice think about him, feel about him? Had she been in love with him once? He supposed she had. Or did she marry him because she thought he was doing well in the City, and she was tired of her own impecunious existence? Well, on the whole, sheâd done quite well out of it. Sheâd got a car and a house in London, she could travel abroad when she felt like it and get herself expensive clothes, though goodness knows they never looked like anything on Alice. Yes, on the whole sheâd done pretty well. He wondered if she thought so. She wasnât really fond of him, of course, but then he wasnât really fond of her. They had nothing in common, nothing to talk about, no memories to share. If there had been childrenâbut there hadnât been any childrenâodd that there were no children in the family except young Edieâs boy. Young Edie. Sheâd been a silly girl, making that foolish, hasty war-time marriage. Well, heâd given her good advice.

Heâd said: âItâs all very well, these dashing young pilots, glamour, courage, all that, but heâll be no good in peace time, you know. Probably be barely able to support you.â

And Edie had said, what did it matter? She loved Bryan and Bryan loved her, and heâd probably be killed quite soon. Why shouldnât they have some happiness? What was the good of looking to the future when they might well be bombed any minute. And after all, Edie had said, the future doesnât really matter because some day thereâll be all grandfatherâs money.

Harold squirmed uneasily in his chair. Really, that will of his grandfatherâs had been iniquitous! Keeping them all dangling on a string. The will hadnât pleased anybody. It didnât please the grandchildren and it made their father quite livid. The old boy was absolutely determined not to die. Thatâs what made him take so much care of himself. But heâd have to die soon. Surely, surely heâd have to die soon. Otherwiseâall Haroldâs worries swept over him once more making him feel sick and tired and giddy.

Alice was still watching him, he noticed. Those pale, thoughtful eyes, they made him uneasy somehow.

âI think I shall go to bed,â he said. âItâs been my first day out in the City.â

âYes,â said Alice, âI think thatâs a good idea. Iâm sure the doctor told you to take things easily at first.â

âDoctors always tell you that,â said Harold.

âAnd donât forget to take your tablets, dear,â said Alice. She picked up the box and handed it to him.

He said good night and went upstairs. Yes, he needed the tablets. It would have been a mistake to leave them off too soon. He took two of them and swallowed them with a glass of water.

Twenty-four

âNobody could have made more of a muck of it than I seem to have done,â said Dermot Craddock gloomily.

He sat, his long legs stretched out, looking somehow incongruous in faithful Florenceâs somewhat overfurnished parlour. He was thoroughly tired, upset and dispirited.

Miss Marple made soft, soothing noises of dissent. âNo, no, youâve done very good work, my dear boy. Very good work indeed.â

âIâve done very good work, have I? Iâve let a whole family be poisoned. Alfred Crackenthorpeâs dead and now Haroldâs dead too. What the hellâs going on here. Thatâs what I should like to know.â

âPoisoned tablets,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

âYes. Devilishly cunning, really. They looked just like the tablets that heâd been having. There was a printed slip sent in with them âby Doctor Quimperâs instructions.â Well, Quimper never ordered them. There were chemistâs labels used. The chemist knew nothing about it, either. No. That box of tablets came from Rutherford Hall.â

âDo you actually know it came from Rutherford Hall?â

âYes. Weâve had a thorough check up. Actually, itâs the box that held the sedative tablets prescribed for Emma.â

âOh, I see. For Emmaâ¦.â

âYes. Itâs got her fingerprints on it and the fingerprints of both the nurses and the fingerprint of the chemist who made it up. Nobody elseâs, naturally. The person who sent them was careful.â

âAnd the sedative tablets were removed and something else substituted?â

âYes. That of course is the devil with tablets. One tablet looks exactly like another.â

âYou are so right,â agreed Miss Marple. âI remember so very well in my young days, the black mixture and the brown mixture (the cough mixture that was) and the white mixture, and Doctor So-and- Soâs pink mixture. People didnât mix those up nearly as much. In fact, you know, in my village of St. Mary Mead we still like that kind of medicine. Itâs a bottle they always want, not tablets. What were the tablets?â she asked.

âAconite. They were the kind of tablets that are usually kept in a poison bottle, diluted one in a hundred for outside application.â

âAnd so Harold took them, and died,â Miss Marple said thoughtfully. Dermot Craddock uttered something like a groan.

âYou mustnât mind my letting off steam to you,â he said. âTell it all to Aunt Jane; thatâs how I feel!â

âThatâs very, very nice of you,â said Miss Marple, âand I do appreciate it. I feel towards you, as Sir Henryâs godson, quite differently from the way I feel to any ordinary detective-inspector.â

Dermot Craddock gave her a fleeting grin. âBut the fact remains that Iâve made the most ghastly mess of things all along the line,â he said. âThe Chief Constable down here calls in Scotland Yard, and what do they get? They get me making a prize ass of myself!â

âNo, no,â said Miss Marple.

âYes, yes. I donât know who poisoned Alfred, I donât know who poisoned Harold, and, to cap it all, I havenât the least idea who the original murdered woman was! This Martine business seemed a perfectly safe bet. The whole thing seemed to tie up. And now what happens? The real Martine shows up and turns out, most improbably, to be the wife of Sir Robert Stoddart-West. So, whoâs the woman in the barn now? Goodness knows. First I go all out on the idea sheâs Anna Stravinska, and then sheâs out of itââ

He was arrested by Miss Marple giving one of her small peculiarly significant coughs.

âBut is she?â she murmured.

Craddock stared at her. âWell, that postcard from Jamaicaââ

âYes,â said Miss Marple; âbut that isnât really evidence, is it? I mean, anyone can get a postcard sent from almost anywhere, I suppose. I remember Mrs. Brierly, such a very bad nervous breakdown. Finally, they said she ought to go to the mental hospital for observation, and she was so worried about the children knowing about it and so she wrote fourteen postcards and arranged that they should be posted from different places abroad, and told them that Mummy was going abroad on a holiday.â She added, looking at Dermot Craddock, âYou see what I mean.â

âYes, of course,â said Craddock, staring at her. âNaturally weâd have checked that postcard if it hadnât been for the Martine business fitting the bill so well.â

âSo convenient,â murmured Miss Marple.

âIt tied up,â said Craddock. âAfter all, thereâs the letter Emma received signed Martine Crackenthorpe. Lady Stoddart-West didnât send that, but somebody did. Somebody who was going to pretend to be Martine, and who was going to cash in, if possible, on being Martine. You canât deny that.â

âNo, no.â

âAnd then, the envelope of the letter Emma wrote to her with the London address on it. Found at Rutherford Hall, showing sheâd actually been there.â

âBut the murdered woman hadnât been there!â Miss Marple pointed out. âNot in the sense you mean. She only came to Rutherford Hall after she was dead. Pushed out of a train on to the railway embankment.â

âOh, yes.â

âWhat the envelope really proves is that the murderer was there. Presumably he took that envelope off her with her other papers and things, and then dropped it by mistakeâorâI wonder now, was it a mistake? Surely Inspector Bacon, and your men too, made a thorough search of the place, didnât they, and didnât find it. It only turned up later in the boiler house.â

âThatâs understandable,â said Craddock. âThe old gardener chap used to spear up any odd stuff that was blowing about and shove it in there.â

âWhere it was very convenient for the boys to find,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

âYou think we were meant to find it?â

âWell, I just wonder. After all, it would be fairly easy to know where the boys were going to look next, or even to suggest to themâ¦ Yes, I do wonder. It stopped you thinking about Anna Stravinska anymore, didnât it?â

Craddock said: âAnd you think it really may be her all the time?â

âI think someone may have got alarmed when you started making inquiries about her, thatâs allâ¦ I think somebody didnât want those inquiries made.â

âLetâs hold on to the basic fact that someone was going to impersonate Martine,â said Craddock. âAnd then for some reasonâdidnât. Why?â

âThatâs a very interesting question,â said Miss Marple.

âSomebody sent a note saying Martine was going back to France, then arranged to travel down with the girl and kill her on the way. You agree so far?â

âNot exactly,â said Miss Marple. âI donât think, really, youâre making it simple enough.â

âSimple!â exclaimed Craddock. âYouâre mixing me up,â he complained.

Miss Marple said in a distressed voice that she wouldnât think of doing anything like that.

âCome, tell me,â said Craddock, âdo you or do you not think you know who the murdered woman was?â Miss Marple sighed. âItâs so difficult,â she said, âto put it the right way. I mean, I donât know who she was, but at the same time Iâm fairly sure who she was, if you know what I mean.â

Craddock threw up his head. âKnow what you mean? I havenât the faintest idea.â He looked out through the window. âThereâs your Lucy Eyelesbarrow coming to see you,â he said. âWell, Iâll be off. My amour propre is very low this afternoon and having a young woman coming in, radiant with efficiency and success, is more than I can bear.â

Twenty-five

âI looked up tontine in the dictionary,â said Lucy.

The first greetings were over and now Lucy was wandering rather aimlessly round the room, touching a china dog here, an antimacassar there, the plastic work-box in the window.

âI thought you probably would,â said Miss Marple equably.

Lucy spoke slowly, quoting the words. âLorenzo Tonti, Italian banker, originator, 1653, of a form of annuity in which the shares of subscribers who die are added to the profit shares of the survivors.â She paused. âThatâs it, isnât it? That fits well enough, and you were thinking of it even then before the last two deaths.â

She took up once more her restless, almost aimless prowl round the room. Miss Marple sat watching her. This was a very different Lucy Eyelesbarrow from the one she knew.

âI suppose it was asking for it really,â said Lucy. âA will of that kind, ending so that if there was only one survivor left heâd get the lot. And yetâthere was quite a lot of money, wasnât there? Youâd think it would be enough shared outâ¦â She paused, the words trailing off.

âThe trouble is,â said Miss Marple, âthat people are greedy. Some people. Thatâs so often, you know, how things start. You donât start with murder, with wanting to do murder, or even thinking of it. You just start by being greedy, by wanting more than youâre going to have.â She laid her knitting down on her knee and stared ahead of her into space. âThatâs how I came across Inspector Craddock first, you know. A case in the country. Near Medenham Spa. That began the same way, just a weak amiable character who wanted a great deal of money. Money that that person wasnât entitled to, but there seemed an easy way to get it. Not murder then. Just something so easy and simple that it hadnât seemed wrong. Thatâs how things beginâ¦ But it ended with three murders.â

âJust like this,â said Lucy. âWeâve had three murders now. The woman who impersonated Martine and who would have been able to claim a share for her son, and then Alfred, and then Harold. And now it only leaves two, doesnât it?â

âYou mean,â said Miss Marple, âthere are only Cedric and Emma left?â

âNot Emma. Emma isnât a tall dark man. No. I mean Cedric and Bryan Eastley. I never thought of Bryan because heâs fair. Heâs got a fair moustache and blue eyes, but you seeâthe other dayâ¦â She paused.

âYes, go on,â said Miss Marple. âTell me. Something has upset you very badly, hasnât it?â

âIt was when Lady Stoddart-West was going away. She had said good-bye and then suddenly turned to me just as she was getting into the car and asked: âWho was that tall dark man who was standing on the terrace as I came in?â

âI couldnât imagine who she meant at first, because Cedric was still laid up. So I said, rather puzzled, âYou donât mean Bryan Eastley?â and she said, âOf course, thatâs who it was, Squadron Leader Eastley. He was hidden in our loft once in France during the Resistance. I remembered the way he stood, and the set of his shoulders,â and she said, âI should like to meet him again,â but we couldnât find him.â

Miss Marple said nothing, just waited.

âAnd then,â said Lucy, âlater I looked at himâ¦ He was standing with his back to me and I saw what I ought to have seen before. That even when a manâs fair his hair looks dark because he plasters it down with stuff. Bryanâs hair is a sort of medium brown, I suppose, but it can look dark. So you see, it might have been Bryan that your friend saw in the train. It mightâ¦.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âI had thought of that.â

âI suppose you think of everything!â said Lucy bitterly.

âWell, dear, one has to really.â

âBut I canât see what Bryan would get out of it. I mean the money would come to Alexander, not to him. I suppose it would make an easier life, they could have a bit more luxury, but he wouldnât be able to tap the capital for his schemes, or anything like that.â

âBut if anything happened to Alexander before he was twenty-one, then Bryan would get the money as his father and next of kin,â Miss Marple pointed out.

Lucy cast a look of horror at her.

âHeâd never do that. No father would ever do that justâjust to get the money.â

Miss Marple sighed. âPeople do, my dear. Itâs very sad and very terrible, but they do.

âPeople do very terrible things,â went on Miss Marple. âI know a woman who poisoned three of her children just for a little bit of insurance money. And then there was an old woman, quite a nice old woman apparently, who poisoned her son when he came home on leave. Then there was that old Mrs. Stanwich. That case was in the papers. I dare say you read about it. Her daughter died and her son, and then she said she was poisoned herself. There was poison in the gruel, but it came out, you know, that sheâd put it there herself. She was just planning to poison the last daughter. That wasnât exactly for money. She was jealous of them for being younger than she was and alive, and she was afraidâitâs a terrible thing to say but itâs trueâthey would enjoy themselves after she was gone. Sheâd always kept a very tight hold on the purse strings. Yes, of course she was a little peculiar, as they say, but I never see myself that thatâs any real excuse. I mean you can be a little peculiar in so many different ways. Sometimes you just go about giving all your possessions away and writing cheques on bank accounts that donât exist, just so as to benefit people. It shows, you see, that behind being peculiar you have quite a nice disposition. But of course if youâre peculiar and behind it you have a bad dispositionâwell, there you are. Now, does that help you at all, my dear Lucy?â

âDoes what help me?â asked Lucy, bewildered.

âWhat Iâve been telling you,â said Miss Marple. She added gently, âYou mustnât worry, you know. You really mustnât worry. Elspeth McGillicuddy will be here any day now.â

âI donât see what that has to do with it.â

âNo, dear, perhaps not. But I think itâs important myself.â

âI canât help worrying,â said Lucy. âYou see, Iâve got interested in the family.â

âI know, dear, itâs very difficult for you because you are quite strongly attracted to both of them, arenât you, in very different ways.â

âWhat do you mean?â said Lucy. Her tone was sharp.

âI was talking about the two sons of the house,â said Miss Marple. âOr rather the son and the son-in-law. Itâs unfortunate that the two more unpleasant members of the family have died and the two more attractive ones are left. I can see that Cedric Crackenthorpe is very attractive. He is inclined to make himself out worse than he is and has a provocative way with him.â

âHe makes me fighting mad sometimes,â said Lucy.

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âand you enjoy that, donât you? Youâre a girl with a lot of spirit and you enjoy a battle. Yes, I can see where that attraction lies. And then Mr. Eastley is a rather plaintive type, rather like an unhappy little boy. That, of course, is attractive, too.â

âAnd one of themâs a murderer,â said Lucy bitterly, âand it may be either of them. Thereâs nothing to choose between them really. Thereâs Cedric, not caring a bit about his brother Alfredâs death or about Haroldâs. He just sits back looking thoroughly pleased making plans for what heâll do with Rutherford Hall, and he keeps saying that itâll need a lot of money to develop it in the way he wants to do. Of course I know heâs the sort of person who exaggerates his own callousness and all that. But that could be a cover, too. I mean everyone says that youâre more callous than you really are. But you mightnât be. You might be even more callous than you seem!â

âDear, dear Lucy, Iâm so sorry about all this.â

âAnd then Bryan,â went on Lucy. âItâs extraordinary, but Bryan really seems to want to live there. He thinks he and Alexander could find it awfully jolly and heâs full of schemes.â

âHeâs always full of schemes of one kind or another, isnât he?â

âYes, I think he is. They all sound rather wonderfulâbut Iâve got an uneasy feeling that theyâd never really work. I mean, theyâre not practical. The idea sounds all rightâbut I donât think he ever considers the actual working difficulties.â

âThey are up in the air, so to speak?â

âYes, in more ways than one. I mean they are usually literally up in the air. They are all air schemes. Perhaps a really good fighter pilot never does quite come down to earth againâ¦.â

She added: âAnd he likes Rutherford Hall so much because it reminds him of the big rambling Victorian house he lived in when he was a child.â

âI see,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully. âYes, I seeâ¦.â

Then, with a quick sideways glance at Lucy, she said with a kind of verbal pounce, âBut that isnât all of it, is it, dear? Thereâs something else.â

âOh, yes, thereâs something else. Just something that I didnât realize until just a couple of days ago. Bryan could actually have been on that train.â

âOn the 4:33 from Paddington?â

âYes. You see Emma thought she was required to account for her movements on 20th December and she went over it all very carefullyâa committee meeting in the morning, and then shopping in the afternoon and tea at the Green Shamrock, and then, she said, she went to meet Bryan at the station. The train she met was the 4:50 from Paddington, but he could have been on the earlier train and pretended to come by the later one. He told me quite casually that his car had had a biff and was being repaired and so he had to come down by trainâan awful bore, he said, he hates trains. He seemed quite natural about it allâ¦ It may be quite all rightâbut I wish, somehow, he hadnât come down by train.â

âActually on the train,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

âIt doesnât really prove anything. The awful thing is all this suspicion. Not to know. And perhaps we never shall know!â

âOf course we shall know, dear,â said Miss Marple briskly. âI meanâall this isnât going to stop just at this point. The one thing I do know about murderers is that they can never let well alone. Or perhaps one should sayâill alone. At any rate,â said Miss Marple with finality, âthey canât once theyâve done a second murder. Now donât get too upset, Lucy. The police are doing all they can, and looking after everybodyâand the great thing is that Elspeth McGillicuddy will be here very soon now!â

Twenty-six

I

âNow, Elspeth, youâre quite clear as to what I want you to do?â

âIâm clear enough,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy, âbut what I say to you is, Jane, that it seems very odd.â

âItâs not odd at all,â said Miss Marple.

âWell, I think so. To arrive at the house and to ask almost immediately whether I canâerâgo upstairs.â

âItâs very cold weather,â Miss Marple pointed out, âand after all, you might have eaten something that disagreed with you andâerâhave to ask to go upstairs. I mean, these things happen. I remember poor Louisa Felby came to see me once and she had to ask to go upstairs five times during one little half hour. That,â added Miss Marple parenthetically, âwas a bad Cornish pasty.â

âIf youâd just tell me what youâre driving at, Jane,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy.

âThatâs just what I donât want to do,â said Miss Marple.

âHow irritating you are, Jane. First you make me come all the way back to England before I needââ

âIâm sorry about that,â said Miss Marple; âbut I couldnât do anything else. Someone, you see, may be killed at any moment. Oh, I know theyâre all on their guard and the police are taking all the precautions they can, but thereâs always the outside chance that the murderer might be too clever for them. So you see, Elspeth, it was your duty to come back. After all, you and I were brought up to do our duty, werenât we?â

âWe certainly were,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy, âno laxness in our young days.â

âSo thatâs quite all right,â said Miss Marple, âand thatâs the taxi now,â she added, as a faint hoot was heard outside the house.

Mrs. McGillicuddy donned her heavy pepper-and-salt coat and Miss Marple wrapped herself up with a good many shawls and scarves. Then the two ladies got into the taxi and were driven to Rutherford Hall.

II

âWho can this be driving up?â Emma asked, looking out of the window, as the taxi swept past it. âI do believe itâs Lucyâs old aunt.â

âWhat a bore,â said Cedric.

He was lying back in a long chair looking at Country Life with his feet reposing on the side of the mantelpiece.

âTell her youâre not at home.â

âWhen you say tell her Iâm not at home, do you mean that I should go out and say so? Or that I should tell Lucy to tell her aunt so?â

âHadnât thought of that,â said Cedric. âI suppose I was thinking of our butler and footman days, if we ever had them. I seem to remember a footman before the war. He had an affair with the kitchen maid and there was a terrific rumpus about it. Isnât there one of those old hags about the place cleaning?â

But at that moment the door was opened by Mrs. Hart, whose afternoon it was for cleaning the brasses, and Miss Marple came in, very fluttery, in a whirl of shawls and scarves, with an uncompromising figure behind her.

âI do hope,â said Miss Marple, taking Emmaâs hand, âthat we are not intruding. But you see, Iâm going home the day after tomorrow, and I couldnât bear not to come over and see you and say good-bye, and thank you again for your goodness to Lucy. Oh, I forgot. May I introduce my friend, Mrs. McGillicuddy, who is staying with me?â

âHow dâyou do,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy, looking at Emma with complete attention and then shifting her gaze to Cedric, who had now risen to his feet. Lucy entered the room at this moment.

âAunt Jane, I had no ideaâ¦.â

âI had to come and say good-bye to Miss Crackenthorpe,â said Miss Marple, turning to her, âwho has been so very, very kind to you, Lucy.â

âItâs Lucy whoâs been very kind to us,â said Emma.

âYes, indeed,â said Cedric. âWeâve worked her like a galley slave. Waiting on the sick room, running up and down the stairs, cooking little invalid messesâ¦.â

Miss Marple broke in. âI was so very, very sorry to hear of your illness. I do hope youâre quite recovered now, Miss Crackenthorpe?â

âOh, weâre quite well again now,â said Emma.

âLucy told me you were all very ill. So dangerous, isnât it, food poisoning? Mushrooms, I understand.â

âThe cause remains rather mysterious,â said Emma.

âDonât you believe it,â said Cedric. âI bet youâve heard the rumours that are flying round, Missâerââ

âMarple,â said Miss Marple.

âWell, as I say, I bet youâve heard the rumours that are flying round. Nothing like arsenic for raising a little flutter in the neighbourhood.â

âCedric,â said Emma, âI wish you wouldnât. You know Inspector Craddock saidâ¦.â

âBah,â said Cedric, âeverybody knows. Even youâve heard something, havenât you?â he turned to Miss Marple and Mrs. McGillicuddy.

âI myself,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy, âhave only just returned from abroadâthe day before yesterday,â she added.

âAh, well, youâre not up on our local scandal then,â said Cedric. âArsenic in the curry, thatâs what it was. Lucyâs aunt knows all about it, I bet.â

âWell,â said Miss Marple, âI did just hearâI mean, it was just a hint, but of course I didnât want to embarrass you in any way, Miss Crackenthorpe.â

âYou must pay no attention to my brother,â said Emma. âHe just likes making people uncomfortable.â She gave him an affectionate smile as she spoke.

The door opened and Mr. Crackenthorpe came in, tapping angrily with his stick.

âWhereâs tea?â he said, âwhy isnât tea ready? You! Girl!â he addressed Lucy, âwhy havenât you brought tea in?â

âItâs just ready, Mr. Crackenthorpe. Iâm bringing it in now. I was just setting the table ready.â

Lucy went out of the room again and Mr. Crackenthorpe was introduced to Miss Marple and Mrs. McGillicuddy.

âLike my meals on time,â said Mr. Crackenthorpe. âPunctuality and economy. Those are my watchwords.â

âVery necessary, Iâm sure,â said Miss Marple, âespecially in these times with taxation and everything.â

Mr. Crackenthorpe snorted. âTaxation! Donât talk to me of those robbers. A miserable pauperâthatâs what I am. And itâs going to get worse, not better. You wait, my boy,â he addressed Cedric, âwhen you get this place ten to one the Socialists will have it off you and turn it into a Welfare Centre or something. And take all your income to keep it up with!â

Lucy reappeared with a tea tray, Bryan Eastley followed her carrying a tray of sandwiches, bread and butter and cake.

âWhatâs this? Whatâs this?â Mr. Crackenthorpe inspected the tray. âFrosted cake? We having a party today? Nobody told me about it.â

A faint flush came into Emmaâs face.

âDr. Quimperâs coming to tea, Father. Itâs his birthday today andââ

âBirthday?â snorted the old man. âWhatâs he doing with a birthday? Birthdays are only for children. I never count my birthdays and I wonât let anyone else celebrate them either.â

âMuch cheaper,â agreed Cedric. âYou save the price of candles on your cake.â

âThatâs enough from you, boy,â said Mr. Crackenthorpe.

Miss Marple was shaking hands with Bryan Eastley. âIâve heard about you, of course,â she said, âfrom Lucy. Dear me, you remind me so of someone I used to know at St. Mary Mead. Thatâs the village where Iâve lived for so many years, you know. Ronnie Wells, the solicitorâs son. Couldnât seem to settle somehow when he went into his fatherâs business. He went out to East Africa and started a series of cargo boats on the lake out there. Victoria Nyanza, or is it Albert, I mean? Anyway, Iâm sorry to say that it wasnât a success, and he lost all his capital. Most unfortunate! Not any relation of yours, I suppose? The likeness is so great.â

âNo,â said Bryan, âI donât think Iâve any relations called Wells.â

âHe was engaged to a very nice girl,â said Miss Marple. âVery sensible. She tried to dissuade him, but he wouldnât listen to her. He was wrong of course. Women have a lot of sense, you know, when it comes to money matters. Not high finance, of course. No woman can hope to understand that, my dear father said. But everyday L.s.d.âthat sort of thing. What a delightful view you have from this window,â she added, making her way across and looking out.

Emma joined her.

âSuch an expanse of parkland! How picturesque the cattle look against the trees. One would never dream that one was in the middle of a town.â

âWeâre rather an anachronism, I think,â said Emma. âIf the windows were open now youâd hear far off the noise of the traffic.â

âOh, of course,â said Miss Marple, âthereâs noise everywhere, isnât there? Even in St. Mary Mead. Weâre now quite close to an airfield, you know, and really the way those jet planes fly over! Most frightening. Two panes in my little greenhouse broken the other day. Going through the sound barrier, or so I understand, though what it means I never have known.â

âItâs quite simple, really,â said Bryan, approaching amiably. âYou see, itâs like this.â

Miss Marple dropped her handbag and Bryan politely picked it up. At the same moment Mrs. McGillicuddy approached Emma and murmured, in an anguished voiceâthe anguish was quite genuine since Mrs. McGillicuddy deeply disliked the task which she was now performing:

âI wonderâcould I go upstairs for a moment?â

âOf course,â said Emma.

âIâll take you,â said Lucy.

Lucy and Mrs. McGillicuddy left the room together.

âVery cold, driving today,â said Miss Marple in a vaguely explanatory manner.

âAbout the sound barrier,â said Bryan, âyou see itâs like thisâ¦ Oh, hallo, thereâs Quimper.â

The doctor drove up in his car. He came in rubbing his hands and looking very cold.

âGoing to snow,â he said, âthatâs my guess. Hallo, Emma, how are you? Good lord, whatâs all this?â

âWe made you a birthday cake,â said Emma. âDâyou remember? You told me today was your birthday.â

âI didnât expect all this,â said Quimper. âYou know itâs yearsâwhy, it must beâyes sixteen years since anyoneâs remembered my birthday.â He looked almost uncomfortably touched.

âDo you know Miss Marple?â Emma introduced him.

âOh, yes,â said Miss Marple, âI met Dr. Quimper here before and he came and saw me when I had a very nasty chill the other day and he was most kind.â

âAll right again now, I hope?â said the doctor.

Miss Marple assured him that she was quite all right now.

âYou havenât been to see me lately, Quimper,â said Mr. Crackenthorpe. âI might be dying for all the notice you take of me!â

âI donât see you dying yet awhile,â said Dr. Quimper.

âI donât mean to,â said Mr. Crackenthorpe. âCome on, letâs have tea. Whatâre we waiting for?â

âOh, please,â said Miss Marple, âdonât wait for my friend. She would be most upset if you did.â

They sat down and started tea. Miss Marple accepted a piece of bread and butter first, and then went on to a sandwich.

âAre theyâ?â she hesitated.

âFish,â said Bryan. âI helped make âem.â

Mr. Crackenthorpe gave a cackle of laughter.

âPoisoned fishpaste,â he said. âThatâs what they are. Eat âem at your peril.â

âPlease, Father!â

âYouâve got to be careful what you eat in this house,â said Mr. Crackenthorpe to Miss Marple. âTwo of my sons have been murdered like flies. Whoâs doing itâthatâs what I want to know.â

âDonât let him put you off,â said Cedric, handing the plate once more to Miss Marple. âA touch of arsenic improves the complexion, they say, so long as you donât have too much.â

âEat one yourself, boy,â said old Mr. Crackenthorpe.

âWant me to be official taster?â said Cedric. âHere goes.â

He took a sandwich and put it whole into his mouth. Miss Marple gave a gentle, ladylike little laugh and took a sandwich. She took a bite, and said:

âI do think itâs so brave of you all to make these jokes. Yes, really, I think itâs very brave indeed. I do admire bravery so much.â

She gave a sudden gasp and began to choke. âA fish bone,â she gasped out, âin my throat.â

Quimper rose quickly. He went across to her, moved her backwards towards the window and told her to open her mouth. He pulled out a case from his pocket, selecting some forceps from it. With quick professional skill he peered down the old ladyâs throat. At that moment the door opened and Mrs. McGillicuddy, followed by Lucy, came in. Mrs. McGillicuddy gave a sudden gasp as her eyes fell on the tableau in front of her, Miss Marple leaning back and the doctor holding her throat and tilting up her head.

âBut thatâs him,â cried Mrs. McGillicuddy. âThatâs the man in the trainâ¦.â

With incredible swiftness Miss Marple slipped from the doctorâs grasp and came towards her friend.

âI thought youâd recognize him, Elspeth!â she said. âNo. Donât say another word.â She turned triumphantly round to Dr. Quimper. âYou didnât know, did you, Doctor, when you strangled that woman in the train, that somebody actually saw you do it? It was my friend here. Mrs. McGillicuddy. She saw you. Do you understand? Saw you with her own eyes. She was in another train that was running parallel with yours.â

âWhat the hell?â Dr. Quimper made a quick step towards Mrs. McGillicuddy but again, swiftly, Miss Marple was between him and her.

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âShe saw you, and she recognizes you, and sheâll swear to it in court. Itâs not often, I believe,â went on Miss Marple in her gentle plaintive voice, âthat anyone actually sees a murder committed. Itâs usually circumstantial evidence of course. But in this case the conditions were very unusual. There was actually an eyewitness to murder.â

âYou devilish old hag,â said Dr. Quimper. He lunged forward at Miss Marple but this time it was Cedric who caught him by the shoulder.

âSo youâre the murdering devil, are you?â said Cedric as he swung him round. âI never liked you and I always thought you were a wrong âun, but lord knows, I never suspected you.â

Bryan Eastley came quickly to Cedricâs assistance. Inspector Craddock and Inspector Bacon entered the room from the farther door.

âDr. Quimper,â said Bacon, âI must caution you thatâ¦.â

âYou can take your caution to hell,â said Dr. Quimper. âDo you think anyoneâs going to believe what a couple of old women say? Whoâs ever heard of all this rigmarole about a train!â

Miss Marple said: âElspeth McGillicuddy reported the murder to the police at once on the 20th December and gave a description of the man.â

Dr. Quimper gave a sudden heave of the shoulders. âIf ever a man had the devilâs own luck,â said Dr. Quimper.

âButââ said Mrs. McGillicuddy.

âBe quiet, Elspeth,â said Miss Marple.

âWhy should I want to murder a perfectly strange woman?â said Dr. Quimper.

âShe wasnât a strange woman,â said Inspector Craddock. âShe was your wife.â

Twenty-seven

âSo you see,â said Miss Marple, âit really turned out to be, as I began to suspect, very, very simple. The simplest kind of crime. So many men seem to murder their wives.â

Mrs. McGillicuddy looked at Miss Marple and Inspector Craddock. âIâd be obliged,â she said, âif youâd put me a little more up to date.â

âHe saw a chance, you see,â said Miss Marple, âof marrying a rich wife, Emma Crackenthorpe. Only he couldnât marry her because he had a wife already. Theyâd been separated for years but she wouldnât divorce him. That fitted in very well with what Inspector Craddock told me of this girl who called herself Anna Stravinska. She had an English husband, so she told one of her friends, and it was also said she was a very devout Catholic. Dr. Quimper couldnât risk marrying Emma bigamously, so he decided, being a very ruthless and cold-blooded man, that he would get rid of his wife. The idea of murdering her in the train and later putting her body in the sarcophagus in the barn was really rather a clever one. He meant it to tie up, you see, with the Crackenthorpe family. Before that heâd written a letter to Emma which purported to be from the girl Martine whom Edmund Crackenthorpe had talked of marrying. Emma had told Dr. Quimper all about her brother, you see. Then, when the moment arose he encouraged her to go to the police with her story. He wanted the dead woman identified as Martine. I think he may have heard that inquiries were being made by the Paris police about Anna Stravinska, and so he arranged to have a postcard come from her from Jamaica.

âIt was easy for him to arrange to meet his wife in London, to tell her that he hoped to be reconciled with her and that he would like her to come down and âmeet his family.â We wonât talk about the next part of it, which is very unpleasant to think about. Of course he was a greedy man. When he thought about taxation, and how much it cuts into income, he began thinking that it would be nice to have a good deal more capital. Perhaps heâd already thought of that before he decided to murder his wife. Anyway, he started spreading rumours that someone was trying to poison old Mr. Crackenthorpe so as to get the ground prepared, and then he ended by administering arsenic to the family. Not too much, of course, for he didnât want old Mr. Crackenthorpe to die.â

âBut I still donât see how he managed,â said Craddock. âHe wasnât in the house when the curry was being prepared.â

âOh, but there wasnât any arsenic in the curry then,â said Miss Marple. âHe added it to the curry afterwards when he took it away to be tested. He probably put the arsenic in the cocktail jug earlier. Then, of course, it was quite easy for him, in his role of medical attendant, to poison off Alfred Crackenthorpe and also to send the tablets to Harold in London, having safeguarded himself by telling Harold that he wouldnât need anymore tablets. Everything he did was bold and audacious and cruel and greedy, and I am really very, very sorry,â finished Miss Marple, looking as fierce as a fluffy old lady can look, âthat they have abolished capital punishment because I do feel that if there is anyone who ought to hang, itâs Dr. Quimper.â

âHear, hear,â said Inspector Craddock.

âIt occurred to me, you know,â continued Miss Marple, âthat even if you only see anybody from the back view, so to speak, nevertheless a back view is characteristic. I thought that if Elspeth were to see Dr. Quimper in exactly the same position as sheâd seen him in the train in, that is, with his back to her, bent over a woman whom he was holding by the throat, then I was almost sure she would recognize him, or would make some kind of startled exclamation. That is why I had to lay my little plan with Lucyâs kind assistance.â

âI must say,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy, âit gave me quite a turn. I said, âThatâs himâ before I could stop myself. And yet, you know, I hadnât actually seen the manâs face andââ

âI was terribly afraid that you were going to say so, Elspeth,â said Miss Marple.

âI was,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy. âI was going to say that of course I hadnât seen his face.â

âThat,â said Miss Marple, âwould have been quite fatal. You see, dear, he thought you really did recognize him. I mean, he couldnât know that you hadnât seen his face.â

âA good thing I held my tongue then,â said Mrs. McGillicuddy.

âI wasnât going to let you say another word,â said Miss Marple.

Craddock laughed suddenly. âYou two!â he said. âYouâre a marvellous pair. What next, Miss Marple? Whatâs the happy ending? What happens to poor Emma Crackenthorpe, for instance?â

âSheâll get over the doctor, of course,â said Miss Marple, âand I dare say if her father were to dieâand I donât think heâs quite so robust as he thinks he isâthat sheâd go on a cruise or perhaps to stay abroad like Geraldine Webb, and I dare say something might come of it. A nicer man than Dr. Quimper, I hope.â

âWhat about Lucy Eyelesbarrow? Wedding bells there too?â

âPerhaps,â said Miss Marple, âI shouldnât wonder.â

âWhich of âem is she going to choose?â said Dermot Craddock.

âDonât you know?â said Miss Marple.

âNo, I donât,â said Craddock. âDo you?â

âOh, yes, I think so,â said Miss Marple.

And she twinkled at him.

Credits

Cover illustration and design by Sara Wood

Agatha Christie

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Miss Marple Mystery

To
Margaret Rutherford in admiration

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crackâd from side to side;

âThe curse is come upon me,â cried

The Lady of Shalott

Alfred Tennyson

One

I

Miss Jane Marple was sitting by her window. The window looked over her garden, once a source of pride to her. That was no longer so. Nowadays she looked out of the window and winced. Active gardening had been forbidden her for some time now. No stooping, no digging, no plantingâat most a little light pruning. Old Laycock who came three times a week, did his best, no doubt. But his best, such as it was (which was not much) was only the best according to his lights, and not according to those of his employer. Miss Marple knew exactly what she wanted done, and when she wanted it done, and instructed him duly. Old Laycock then displayed his particular genius which was that of enthusiastic agreement and subsequent lack of performance.

âThatâs right, missus. Weâll have them mecosoapies there and the Canterburys along the wall and as you say it ought to be got on with first thing next week.â

Laycockâs excuses were always reasonable, and strongly resembled those of Captain Georgeâs in Three Men in a Boat for avoiding going to sea. In the captainâs case the wind was always wrong, either blowing off shore or in shore, or coming from the unreliable west, or the even more treacherous east. Laycockâs was the weather. Too dryâtoo wetâwaterloggedâa nip of frost in the air. Or else something of great importance had to come first (usually to do with cabbages or brussels sprouts of which he liked to grow inordinate quantities). Laycockâs own principles of gardening were simple and no employer, however knowledgeable, could wean him from them.

They consisted of a great many cups of tea, sweet and strong, as an encouragement to effort, a good deal of sweeping up of leaves in the autumn, and a certain amount of bedding out of his own favourite plants, mainly asters and salviasâto âmake a nice show,â as he put it, in summer. He was all in favour of syringeing roses for green-fly, but was slow to get around to it, and a demand for deep trenching for sweet peas was usually countered by the remark that you ought to see his own sweet peas! A proper treat last year, and no fancy stuff done beforehand.

To be fair, he was attached to his employers, humoured their fancies in horticulture (so far as no actual hard work was involved) but vegetables he knew to be the real stuff of life; a nice Savoy, or a bit of curly kale; flowers were fancy stuff such as ladies liked to go in for, having nothing better to do with their time. He showed his affection by producing presents of the aforementioned asters, salvias, lobelia edging, and summer chrysanthemums.

âBeen doing some work at them new houses over at the Development. Want their gardens laid out nice, they do. More plants than they needed so I brought along a few, and Iâve put âem in where them old-fashioned roses ainât looking so well.â

Thinking of these things, Miss Marple averted her eyes from the garden, and picked up her knitting.

One had to face the fact: St. Mary Mead was not the place it had been. In a sense, of course, nothing was what it had been. You could blame the war (both the wars) or the younger generation, or women going out to work, or the atom bomb, or just the Governmentâbut what one really meant was the simple fact that one was growing old. Miss Marple, who was a very sensible lady, knew that quite well. It was just that, in a queer way, she felt it more in St. Mary Mead, because it had been her home for so long.

St. Mary Mead, the old world core of it, was still there. The Blue Boar was there, and the church and the vicarage and the little nest of Queen Anne and Georgian houses, of which hers was one. Miss Hartnellâs house was still there, and also Miss Hartnell, fighting progress to the last gasp. Miss Wetherby had passed on and her house was now inhabited by the bank manager and his family, having been given a face-lift by the painting of doors and windows a bright royal blue. There were new people in most of the other old houses, but the houses themselves were little changed in appearances since the people who had bought them had done so because they liked what the house agent called âold world charm.â They just added another bathroom, and spent a good deal of money on plumbing, electric cookers, and dishwashers.

But though the houses looked much as before, the same could hardly be said of the village street. When shops changed hands there, it was with a view to immediate and intemperate modernization. The fishmonger was unrecognizable with new super windows behind which the refrigerated fish gleamed. The butcher had remained conservativeâgood meat is good meat, if you have the money to pay for it. If not, you take the cheaper cuts and the tough joints and like it! Barnes, the grocer, was still there, unchanged, for which Miss Hartnell and Miss Marple and others daily thanked Heaven. So obliging, comfortable chairs to sit in by the counter, and cosy discussions as to cuts of bacon, and varieties of cheese. At the end of the street, however, where Mr. Toms had once had his basket shop stood a glittering new supermarketâanathema to the elderly ladies of St. Mary Mead.

âPackets of things oneâs never even heard of,â exclaimed Miss Hartnell. âAll these great packets of breakfast cereal instead of cooking a child a proper breakfast of bacon and eggs. And youâre expected to take a basket yourself and go round looking for thingsâit takes a quarter of an hour sometimes to find all one wantsâand usually made up in inconvenient sizes, too much or too little. And then a long queue waiting to pay as you go out. Most tiring. Of course itâs all very well for the people from the Developmentââ

At this point she stopped.

Because, as was now usual, the sentence came to an end there. The Development, Period, as they would say in modern terms. It had an entity of its own, and a capital letter.

II

Miss Marple uttered a sharp exclamation of annoyance. Sheâd dropped a stitch again. Not only that, she must have dropped it some time ago. Not until now, when she had to decrease for the neck and count the stitches, had she realized the fact. She took up a spare pin, held the knitting sideways to the light and peered anxiously. Even her new spectacles didnât seem to do any good. And that, she reflected, was because obviously there came a time when oculists, in spite of their luxurious waiting rooms, the up-to-date instruments, the bright lights they flashed into your eyes, and the very high fees they charged, couldnât do anything much more for you. Miss Marple reflected with some nostalgia on how good her eyesight had been a few (well, not perhaps a few) years ago. From the vantage point of her garden, so admirably placed to see all that was going on in St. Mary Mead, how little had escaped her noticing eye! And with the help of her bird glassesâ(an interest in birds was so useful!)âshe had been able to seeâShe broke off there and let her thoughts run back over the past. Ann Protheroe in her summer frock going along to the Vicarage garden. And Colonel Protheroeâpoor manâa very tiresome and unpleasant man, to be sureâbut to be murdered like thatâShe shook her head and went on to thoughts of Griselda, the vicarâs pretty young wife. Dear Griseldaâsuch a faithful friendâa Christmas card every year. That attractive baby of hers was a strapping young man now, and with a very good job. Engineering, was it? He always had enjoyed taking his mechanical trains to pieces. Beyond the Vicarage, there had been the stile and the field path with Farmer Gilesâs cattle beyond in the meadows where nowânowâ¦.

The Development.

And why not? Miss Marple asked herself sternly. These things had to be. The houses were necessary, and they were very well built, or so she had been told. âPlanning,â or whatever they called it. Though why everything had to be called a Close she couldnât imagine. Aubrey Close and Longwood Close, and Grandison Close and all the rest of them. Not really Closes at all. Miss Marple knew what a Close was perfectly. Her uncle had been a Canon of Chichester Cathedral. As a child she had gone to stay with him in the Close.

It was like Cherry Baker who always called Miss Marpleâs oldworld overcrowded drawing room the âlounge.â Miss Marple corrected her gently, âItâs the drawing room, Cherry.â And Cherry, because she was young and kind, endeavoured to remember, though it was obvious to her âdrawing roomâ was a very funny word to useâand âloungeâ came slipping out. She had of late, however, compromised on âliving-room.â Miss Marple liked Cherry very much. Her name was Mrs. Baker and she came from the Development. She was one of the detachment of young wives who shopped at the supermarket and wheeled prams about the quiet streets of St. Mary Mead. They were all smart and well turned out. Their hair was crisp and curled. They laughed and talked and called to one another. They were like a happy flock of birds. Owing to the insidious snares of Hire Purchase, they were always in need of ready money, though their husbands all earned good wages; and so they came and did housework or cooking. Cherry was a quick and efficient cook, she was an intelligent girl, took telephone calls correctly and was quick to spot inaccuracies in the tradesmenâs books. She was not much given to turning mattresses, and as far as washing up went Miss Marple always now passed the pantry door with her head turned away so as not to observe Cherryâs method which was that of thrusting everything into the sink together and letting loose a snowstorm of detergent on it. Miss Marple had quietly removed her old Worcester tea set from daily circulation and put it in the corner cabinet whence it only emerged on special occasions. Instead she had purchased a modern service with a pattern of pale grey on white and no gilt on it whatsoever to be washed away in the sink.

How different it had been in the pastâ¦ Faithful Florence, for instance, that grenadier of a parlourmaidâand there had been Amy and Clara and Alice, those ânice little maidsââarriving from St. Faithâs Orphanage, to be âtrained,â and then going on to betterpaid jobs elsewhere. Rather simple, some of them had been, and frequently adenoidal, and Amy distinctly moronic. They had gossiped and chattered with the other maids in the village and walked out with the fishmongerâs assistant, or the undergardener at the Hall, or one of Mr. Barnes the grocerâs numerous assistants. Miss Marpleâs mind went back over them affectionately thinking of all the little woolly coats she had knitted for their subsequent offspring. They had not been very good with the telephone, and no good at all at arithmetic. On the other hand, they knew how to wash up, and how to make a bed. They had had skills, rather than education. It was odd that nowadays it should be the educated girls who went in for all the domestic chores. Students from abroad, girls au pair, university students in the vacation, young married women like Cherry Baker, who lived in spurious Closes on new building developments.

There were still, of course, people like Miss Knight. This last thought came suddenly as Miss Knightâs tread overhead made the lustres on the mantelpiece tinkle warningly. Miss Knight had obviously had her afternoon rest and would now go out for her afternoon walk. In a moment she would come to ask Miss Marple if she could get her anything in the town. The thought of Miss Knight brought the usual reaction to Miss Marpleâs mind. Of course, it was very generous of dear Raymond (her nephew) and nobody could be kinder than Miss Knight, and of course that attack of bronchitis had left her very weak, and Dr. Haydock had said very firmly that she must not go on sleeping alone in the house with only someone coming in daily, butâShe stopped there. Because it was no use going on with the thought which was âIf only it could have been someone other than Miss Knight.â But there wasnât much choice for elderly ladies nowadays. Devoted maidservants had gone out of fashion. In real illness you could have a proper hospital nurse, at vast expense and procured with difficulty, or you could go to hospital. But after the critical phase of illness had passed, you were down to the Miss Knights.

There wasnât, Miss Marple reflected, anything wrong about the Miss Knights other than the fact that they were madly irritating. They were full of kindness, ready to feel affection towards their charges, to humour them, to be bright and cheerful with them and in general to treat them as slightly mentally afflicted children.

âBut I,â said Miss Marple to herself, âalthough I may be old, am not a mentally retarded child.â

At this moment, breathing rather heavily, as was her custom, Miss Knight bounced brightly into the room. She was a big, rather flabby woman of fifty-six with yellowing grey hair very elaborately arranged, glasses, a long thin nose, and below it a good-natured mouth and a weak chin.

âHere we are!â she exclaimed with a kind of beaming boisterousness, meant to cheer and enliven the sad twilight of the aged. âI hope weâve had our little snooze?â

âI have been knitting,â Miss Marple replied, putting some emphasis on the pronoun, âand,â she went on, confessing her weakness with distaste and shame, âIâve dropped a stitch.â

âOh dear, dear,â said Miss Knight. âWell, weâll soon put that right, wonât we?â

âYou will,â said Miss Marple. âI, alas, am unable to do so.â

The slight acerbity of her tone passed quite unnoticed. Miss Knight, as always, was eager to help.

âThere,â she said after a few moments. âThere you are, dear. Quite all right now.â

Though Miss Marple was perfectly agreeable to be called âdearâ (and even âducksâ) by the woman at the greengrocer or the girl at the paper shop, it annoyed her intensely to be called âdearâ by Miss Knight. Another of those things that elderly ladies have to bear. She thanked Miss Knight politely.

âAnd now Iâm just going out for my wee toddle,â said Miss Knight humorously. âShanât be long.â

âPlease donât dream of hurrying back,â said Miss Marple politely and sincerely.

âWell, I donât like to leave you too long on your own, dear, in case you get moped.â

âI assure you I am quite happy,â said Miss Marple. âI probably shall haveâ (she closed her eyes) âa little nap.â

âThatâs right, dear. Anything I can get you?â

Miss Marple opened her eyes and considered.

âYou might go into Longdonâs and see if the curtains are ready. And perhaps another skein of the blue wool from Mrs. Wisley. And a box of black currant lozenges at the chemistâs. And change my book at the libraryâbut donât let them give you anything that isnât on my list. This last one was too terrible. I couldnât read it.â She held out The Spring Awakens.

âOh dear dear! Didnât you like it? I thought youâd love it. Such a pretty story.â

âAnd if it isnât too far for you, perhaps you wouldnât mind going as far as Halletts and see if they have one of those up-and-down egg whisksânot the turn-the-handle kind.â

(She knew very well they had nothing of the kind, but Halletts was the farthest shop possible.)

âIf all this isnât too muchââ she murmured.

But Miss Knight replied with obvious sincerity.

âNot at all. I shall be delighted.â

Miss Knight loved shopping. It was the breath of life to her. One met acquaintances, and had the chance of a chat, one gossiped with the assistants, and had the opportunity of examining various articles in the various shops. And one could spend quite a long time engaged in these pleasant occupations without any guilty feeling that it was oneâs duty to hurry back.

So Miss Knight started off happily, after a last glance at the frail old lady resting so peacefully by the window.

After waiting a few minutes in case Miss Knight should return for a shopping bag, or her purse, or a handkerchief (she was a great forgetter and returner), and also to recover from the slight mental fatigue induced by thinking of so many unwanted things to ask Miss Knight to get, Miss Marple rose briskly to her feet, cast aside her knitting and strode purposefully across the room and into the hall. She took down her summer coat from its peg, a stick from the hall stand and exchanged her bedroom slippers for a pair of stout walking shoes. Then she left the house by the side door.

âIt will take her at least an hour and a half,â Miss Marple estimated to herself. âQuite thatâwith all the people from the Development doing their shopping.â

Miss Marple visualized Miss Knight at Longdonâs making abortive inquiries re curtains. Her surmises were remarkably accurate. At this moment Miss Knight was exclaiming, âOf course, I felt quite sure in my own mind they wouldnât be ready yet. But of course I said Iâd come along and see when the old lady spoke about it. Poor old dears, theyâve got so little to look forward to. One must humour them. And sheâs a sweet old lady. Failing a little now, itâs only to be expectedâtheir faculties get dimmed. Now thatâs a pretty material youâve got there. Do you have it in any other colours?â

A pleasant twenty minutes passed. When Miss Knight had finally departed, the senior assistant remarked with a sniff, âFailing, is she? Iâll believe that when I see it for myself. Old Miss Marple has always been as sharp as a needle, and Iâd say she still is.â She then gave her attention to a young woman in tight trousers and a sailcloth jersey who wanted plastic material with crabs on it for bathroom curtains.

âEmily Waters, thatâs who she reminds me of,â Miss Marple was saying to herself, with the satisfaction it always gave her to match up a human personality with one known in the past. âJust the same bird brain. Let me see, what happened to Emily?â

Nothing much, was her conclusion. She had once nearly got engaged to a curate, but after an understanding of several years the affair had fizzled out. Miss Marple dismissed her nurse attendant from her mind and gave her attention to her surroundings. She had traversed the garden rapidly only observing as it were from the corner of her eye that Laycock had cut down the old-fashioned roses in a way more suitable to hybrid teas, but she did not allow this to distress her, or distract her from the delicious pleasure of having escaped for an outing entirely on her own. She had a happy feeling of adventure. She turned to the right, entered the Vicarage gate, took the path through the Vicarage garden and came out on the right of way. Where the stile had been there was now an iron swing gate giving on to a tarred asphalt path. This led to a neat little bridge over the stream and on the other side of the stream where once there had been meadows with cows, there was the Development.

Two

With the feeling of Columbus setting out to discover a new world, Miss Marple passed over the bridge, continued on to the path and within four minutes was actually in Aubrey Close.

Of course Miss Marple had seen the Development from the Market Basing Road, that is, had seen from afar its Closes and rows of neat well-built houses, with their television masts and their blue and pink and yellow and green painted doors and windows. But until now it had only had the reality of a map, as it were. She had not been in it and of it. But now she was here, observing the brave new world that was springing up, the world that by all accounts was foreign to all she had known. It was like a neat model built with childâs bricks. It hardly seemed real to Miss Marple.

The people, too, looked unreal. The trousered young women, the rather sinister-looking young men and boys, the exuberant bosoms of the fifteen-year-old girls. Miss Marple couldnât help thinking that it all looked terribly depraved. Nobody noticed her much as she trudged along. She turned out of Aubrey Close and was presently in Darlington Close. She went slowly and as she went she listened avidly to the snippets of conversation between mothers wheeling prams, to the girls addressing young men, to the sinister-looking Teds (she supposed they were Teds) exchanging dark remarks with each other. Mothers came out on doorsteps calling to their children who, as usual, were busy doing all the things they had been told not to do. Children, Miss Marple reflected gratefully, never changed. And presently she began to smile, and noted down in her mind her usual series of recognitions.

That woman is just like Carry Edwardsâand the dark one is just like that Hooper girlâsheâll make a mess of her marriage just like Mary Hooper did. Those boysâthe dark one is just like Edward Leeke, a lot of wild talk but no harm in himâa nice boy reallyâthe fair one is Mrs. Bedwellâs Josh all over again. Nice boys, both of them. The one like Gregory Binns wonât do very well, Iâm afraid. I expect heâs got the same sort of motherâ¦.

She turned a corner into Walsingham Close and her spirits rose every moment.

The new world was the same as the old. The houses were different, the streets were called Closes, the clothes were different, the voices were different, but the human beings were the same as they always had been. And though using slightly different phraseology, the subjects of conversation were the same.

By dint of turning corners in her exploration, Miss Marple had rather lost her sense of direction and had arrived at the edge of the housing estate again. She was now in Carrisbrook Close, half of which was still âunder construction.â At the first floor window of a nearly finished house a young couple were standing. Their voices floated down as they discussed the amenities.

âYou must admit itâs a nice position, Harry.â

âOther one was just as good.â

âThis oneâs got two more rooms.â

âAnd youâve got to pay for them.â

âWell, I like this one.â

âYou would!â

âOw, donât be such a spoilsport. You know what Mum said.â

âYour Mum never stops saying.â

âDonât you say nothing against Mum. Whereâd I have been without her? And she might have cut up nastier than she did. She could have taken you to court.â

âOh, come off it, Lily.â

âItâs a good view of the hills. You can almost seeââ She leaned far out, twisting her body to the left. âYou can almost see the reservoirââ

She leant farther still, not realizing that she was resting her weight on loose boards that had been laid across the sill. They slipped under the pressure of her body, sliding outwards, carrying her with them. She screamed, trying to regain her balance.

âHarryââ

The young man stood motionlessâa foot or two behind her. He took one step backwardsâ

Desperately, clawing at the wall, the girl righted herself. âOo!â She let out a frightened breath. âI near as nothing fell out. Why didnât you get hold of me?â

âIt was all so quick. Anyway youâre all right.â

âThatâs all you know about it. I nearly went, I tell you. And look at the front of my jumper, itâs all mussed.â

Miss Marple went on a little way, then on impulse, she turned back.

Lily was outside in the road waiting for the young man to lock up the house.

Miss Marple went up to her and spoke rapidly in a low voice.

âIf I were you, my dear, I shouldnât marry that young man. You want someone whom you can rely upon if youâre in danger. You must excuse me for saying this to youâbut I feel you ought to be warned.â

She turned away and Lily stared after her.

âWell, of all theââ

Her young man approached.

âWhat was she saying to you, Lil?â

Lily opened her mouthâthen shut it again.

âGiving me the gipsyâs warning if you want to know.â

She eyed him in a thoughtful manner.

Miss Marple in her anxiety to get away quickly, turned a corner, stumbled over some loose stones and fell.

A woman came running out of one of the houses.

âOh dear, what a nasty spill! I hope you havenât hurt yourself?â

With almost excessive goodwill she put her arms round Miss Marple and tugged her to her feet.

âNo bones broken, I hope? There we are. I expect you feel rather shaken.â

Her voice was loud and friendly. She was a plump squarely built woman of about forty, brown hair just turning grey, blue eyes, and a big generous mouth that seemed to Miss Marpleâs rather shaken gaze to be far too full of white shining teeth.

âYouâd better come inside and sit down and rest a bit. Iâll make you a cup of tea.â

Miss Marple thanked her. She allowed herself to be led through the blue-painted door and into a small room full of bright cretonne-covered chairs and sofas.

âThere you are,â said her rescuer, establishing her on a cushioned armchair. âYou sit quiet and Iâll put the kettle on.â

She hurried out of the room which seemed rather restfully quiet after her departure. Miss Marple took a deep breath. She was not really hurt, but the fall had shaken her. Falls at her age were not to be encouraged. With luck, however, she thought guiltily, Miss Knight need never know. She moved her arms and legs gingerly. Nothing broken. If she could only get home all right. Perhaps, after a cup of teaâ

The cup of tea arrived almost as the thought came to her. Brought on a tray with four sweet biscuits on a little plate.

âThere you are.â It was placed on a small table in front of her. âShall I pour it out for you? Better have plenty of sugar.â

âNo sugar, thank you.â

âYou must have sugar. Shock, you know. I was abroad with ambulances during the war. Sugarâs wonderful for shock.â She put four lumps in the cup and stirred vigorously. âNow you get that down, and youâll feel as right as rain.â

Miss Marple accepted the dictum.

âA kind woman,â she thought. âShe reminds me of someoneânow who is it?â

âYouâve been very kind to me,â she said, smiling.

âOh, thatâs nothing. The little ministering angel, thatâs me. I love helping people.â She looked out of the window as the latch of the outer gate clicked. âHereâs my husband home. Arthurâweâve got a visitor.â

She went out into the hall and returned with Arthur who looked rather bewildered. He was a thin pale man, rather slow in speech.

âThis lady fell downâright outside our gate, so of course I brought her in.â

âYour wife is very kind, Mr.ââ

âBadcockâs the name.â

âMr. Badcock, Iâm afraid Iâve given her a lot of trouble.â

âOh, no trouble to Heather. Heather enjoys doing things for people.â He looked at her curiously. âWere you on your way anywhere in particular?â

âNo, I was just taking a walk. I live in St. Mary Mead, the house beyond the Vicarage. My name is Marple.â

âWell, I never!â exclaimed Heather. âSo youâre Miss Marple. Iâve heard about you. Youâre the one who does all the murders.â

âHeather! What do youââ

âOh, you know what I mean. Not actually do murdersâfind out about them. Thatâs right, isnât it?â

Miss Marple murmured modestly that she had been mixed-up in murders once or twice.

âI heard there have been murders here, in this village. They were talking about it the other night at the Bingo Club. There was one at Gossington Hall. I wouldnât buy a place where thereâd been a murder. Iâd be sure it was haunted.â

âThe murder wasnât committed in Gossington Hall. A dead body was brought there.â

âFound in the library on the hearthrug, thatâs what they said?â

Miss Marple nodded.

âDid you ever? Perhaps theyâre going to make a film of it. Perhaps thatâs why Marina Gregg has bought Gossington Hall.â

âMarina Gregg?â

âYes. She and her husband. I forget his nameâheâs a producer, I think, or a directorâJason something. But Marina Gregg, sheâs lovely, isnât she? Of course she hasnât been in so many pictures of late yearsâshe was ill for a long time. But I still think thereâs never anybody like her. Did you see her in Carmenella. And The Price of Love, and Mary of Scotland? Sheâs not so young anymore, but sheâll always be a wonderful actress. Iâve always been a terrific fan of hers. When I was a teenager I used to dream about her. The big thrill of my life was when there was a big show in aid of the St. John Ambulance in Bermuda, and Marina Gregg came to open it. I was mad with excitement, and then on the very day I went down with a temperature and the doctor said I couldnât go. But I wasnât going to be beaten. I didnât actually feel too bad. So I got up and put a lot of makeup on my face and went along. I was introduced to her and she talked to me for quite three minutes and gave me her autograph. It was wonderful. Iâve never forgotten that day.â

Miss Marple stared at her. âI hope there were noâunfortunate aftereffects?â she said anxiously.

Heather Badcock laughed.

âNone at all. Never felt better. What I say is, if you want a thing youâve got to take risks. I always do.â

She laughed again, a happy strident laugh.

Arthur Badcock said admiringly. âThereâs never any holding Heather. She always gets away with things.â

âAlison Wilde,â murmured Miss Marple, with a nod of satisfaction.

âPardon?â said Mr. Badcock.

âNothing. Just someone I used to know.â

Heather looked at her inquiringly.

âYou reminded me of her, that is all.â

âDid I? I hope she was nice.â

âShe was very nice indeed,â said Miss Marple slowly. âKind, healthy, full of life.â

âBut she had her faults, I suppose?â laughed Heather. âI have.â

âWell, Alison always saw her own point of view so clearly that she didnât always see how things might appear to, or affect, other people.â

âLike the time you took in that evacuated family from a condemned cottage and they went off with all our teaspoons,â Arthur said.

âBut Arthur!âI couldnât have turned them away. It wouldnât have been kind.â

âThey were family spoons,â said Mr. Badcock sadly. âGeorgian. Belonged to my motherâs grandmother.â

âOh, do forget those old spoons, Arthur. You do harp so.â

âIâm not very good at forgetting, Iâm afraid.â

Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully.

âWhatâs your friend doing now?â asked Heather of Miss Marple with kindly interest.

Miss Marple paused a moment before answering.

âAlison Wilde? Ohâshe died.â

Three

I

âIâm glad to be back,â said Mrs. Bantry. âAlthough, of course, Iâve had a wonderful time.â

Miss Marple nodded appreciatively, and accepted a cup of tea from her friendâs hand.

When her husband, Colonel Bantry, had died some years ago, Mrs. Bantry had sold Gossington Hall and the considerable amount of land attached to it, retaining for herself what had been the East Lodge, a charming porticoed little building replete with inconvenience, where even a gardener had refused to live. Mrs. Bantry had added to it the essentials of modern life, a built-on kitchen of the latest type, a new water supply from the main, electricity, and a bathroom. This had all cost her a great deal, but not nearly so much as an attempt to live at Gossington Hall would have done. She had also retained the essentials of privacy, about three quarters of an acre of garden nicely ringed with trees, so that, as she explained. âWhatever they do with Gossington I shanât really see it or worry.â

For the last few years she had spent a good deal of the year travelling about, visiting children and grandchildren in various parts of the globe, and coming back from time to time to enjoy the privacies of her own home. Gossington Hall itself had changed hands once or twice. It had been run as a guest house, failed, and been bought by four people who had shared it as four roughly divided flats and subsequently quarrelled. Finally the Ministry of Health had bought it for some obscure purpose for which they eventually did not want it. The Ministry had now resold itâand it was this sale which the two friends were discussing.

âI have heard rumours, of course,â said Miss Marple.

âNaturally,â said Mrs. Bantry. âIt was even said that Charlie Chaplin and all his children were coming to live here. That would have been wonderful fun; unfortunately there isnât a word of truth in it. No, itâs definitely Marina Gregg.â

âHow very lovely she was,â said Miss Marple with a sigh. âI always remember those early films of hers. Bird of Passage with that handsome Joel Roberts. And the Mary, Queen of Scots film. And of course it was very sentimental, but I did enjoy Cominâ thru the Rye. Oh dear, that was a long time ago.â

âYes,â said Mrs. Bantry. âShe must beâwhat do you think? Forty-five? Fifty?â

Miss Marple thought nearer fifty.

âHas she been in anything lately? Of course I donât go very often to the cinema nowadays.â

âOnly small parts, I think,â said Mrs. Bantry. âShe hasnât been a star for quite a long time. She had that bad nervous breakdown. After one of her divorces.â

âSuch a lot of husbands they all have,â said Miss Marple. âIt must really be quite tiring.â

âIt wouldnât suit me,â said Mrs. Bantry. âAfter youâve fallen in love with a man and married him and got used to his ways and settled down comfortablyâto go and throw it all up and start again! It seems to me madness.â

âI canât presume to speak,â said Miss Marple with a little spin-sterish cough, ânever having married. But it seems, you know, a pity.â

âI suppose they canât help it really,â said Mrs. Bantry vaguely. âWith the kind of lives they have to live. So public, you know. I met her,â she added. âMarina Gregg, I mean, when I was in California.â

âWhat was she like?â Miss Marple asked with interest.

âCharming,â said Mrs. Bantry. âSo natural and unspoiled.â She added thoughtfully, âItâs like a kind of livery really.â

âWhat is?â

âBeing unspoiled and natural. You learn how to do it, and then you have to go on being it all the time. Just think of the hell of itânever to be able to chuck something, and say, âOh, for the Lordâs sake stop bothering me.â I dare say that in sheer self-defence you have to have drunken parties or orgies.â

âSheâs had five husbands, hasnât she?â Miss Marple asked.

âAt least. An early one that didnât count, and then a foreign Prince or Count, and then another film star, Robert Truscott, wasnât it? That was built up as a great romance. But it only lasted four years. And then Isidore Wright, the playwright. That was rather serious and quiet, and she had a babyâapparently sheâd always longed to have a childâsheâs even half-adopted a few straysâanyway this was the real thing. Very much built up. Motherhood with a capital M. And then, I believe, it was an imbecile, or queer or somethingâand it was after that, that she had this breakdown and started to take drugs and all that, and threw up her parts.â

âYou seem to know a lot about her,â said Miss Marple.

âWell, naturally,â said Mrs. Bantry. âWhen she bought Gossington I was interested. She married the present man about two years ago, and they say sheâs quite all right again now. Heâs a producerâor do I mean a director? I always get mixed. He was in love with her when they were quite young, but he didnât amount to very much in those days. But now, I believe, heâs got quite famous. Whatâs his name now? JasonâJason somethingâJason Hudd, no Rudd, thatâs it. Theyâve bought Gossington because itâs handy forââshe hesitatedââElstree?â she hazarded.

Miss Marple shook her head.

âI donât think so,â she said. âElstreeâs in North London.â

âItâs the fairly new studios. Hellingforthâthatâs it. Sounds so Finnish, I always think. About six miles from Market Basing. Sheâs going to do a film on Elizabeth of Austria, I believe.â

âWhat a lot you know,â said Miss Marple. âAbout the private lives of film stars. Did you learn it all in California?â

âNot really,â said Mrs. Bantry. âActually I get it from the extraordinary magazines I read at my hairdresserâs. Most of the stars I donât even know by name, but as I said because Marina Gregg and her husband have bought Gossington, I was interested. Really the things those magazines say! I donât suppose half of it is trueâprobably not a quarter. I donât believe Marina Gregg is a nymphomaniac, I donât think she drinks, pobably she doesnât even take drugs, and quite likely she just went away to have a nice rest and didnât have a nervous breakdown at all!âbut itâs true that she is coming here to live.â

âNext week, I heard,â said Miss Marple.

âAs soon as that? I know sheâs lending Gossington for a big fÃªte on the twenty-third in aid of the St. John Ambulance Corps. I suppose theyâve done a lot to the house?â

âPractically everything,â said Miss Marple. âReally it would have been much simpler, and probably cheaper, to have pulled it down and built a new house.â

âBathrooms, I suppose?â

âSix new ones, I hear. And a palm court. And a pool. And what I believe they call picture windows, and theyâve knocked your husbandâs study and the library into one to make a music room.â

âArthur will turn in his grave. You know how he hated music. Tone deaf, poor dear. His face, when some kind friend took us to the opera! Heâll probably come back and haunt them.â She stopped and then said abruptly, âDoes anyone ever hint that Gossington might be haunted?â

Miss Marple shook her head.

âIt isnât,â she said with certainty.

âThat wouldnât prevent people saying it was,â Mrs. Bantry pointed out.

âNobody ever has said so.â Miss Marple paused and then said, âPeople arenât really foolish, you know. Not in villages.â

Mrs. Bantry shot her a quick look. âYouâve always stuck to that, Jane. And I wonât say that youâre not right.â

She suddenly smiled.

âMarina Gregg asked me, very sweetly and delicately, if I wouldnât find it very painful to see my old home occupied by strangers. I assured her that it wouldnât hurt me at all. I donât think she quite believed me. But after all, as you know, Jane, Gossington wasnât our home. We werenât brought up there as childrenâthatâs what really counts. It was just a house with a nice bit of shooting and fishing attached, that we bought when Arthur retired. We thought of it, I remember, as a house that would be nice and easy to run! How we can ever have thought that, I canât imagine! All those staircases and passages. Only four servants! Only! Those were the days, ha ha!â She added suddenly: âWhatâs all this about your falling down? That Knight woman ought not to let you go out by yourself.â

âIt wasnât poor Miss Knightâs fault. I gave her a lot of shopping to do and then Iââ

âDeliberately gave her the slip? I see. Well, you shouldnât do it, Jane. Not at your age.â

âHow did you hear about it?â

Mrs. Bantry grinned.

âYou canât keep any secrets in St. Mary Mead. Youâve often told me so. Mrs. Meavy told me.â

âMrs. Meavy?â Miss Marple looked at sea.

âShe comes in daily. Sheâs from the Development.â

âOh, the Development.â The usual pause happened.

âWhat were you doing in the Development?â asked Mrs. Bantry, curiously.

âI just wanted to see it. To see what the people were like.â

âAnd what did you think they were like?â

âJust the same as everyone else. I donât quite know if that was disappointing or reassuring.â

âDisappointing, I should think.â

âNo. I think itâs reassuring. It makes youâwellârecognize certain typesâso that when anything occursâone will understand quite well why and for what reason.â

âMurder, do you mean?â

Miss Marple looked shocked.

âI donât know why you should assume that I think of murder all the time.â

âNonsense, Jane. Why donât you come out boldly and call yourself a criminologist and have done with it?â

âBecause I am nothing of the sort,â said Miss Marple with spirit. âIt is simply that I have a certain knowledge of human natureâthat is only natural after having lived in a small village all my life.â

âYou probably have something there,â said Mrs. Bantry thoughtfully, âthough most people wouldnât agree, of course. Your nephew Raymond always used to say this place was a complete backwater.â

âDear Raymond,â said Miss Marple indulgently. She added: âHeâs always been so kind. Heâs paying for Miss Knight, you know.â

The thought of Miss Knight induced a new train of thought and she arose and said: âIâd better be going back now, I suppose.â

âYou didnât walk all the way here, did you?â

âOf course not. I came in Inch.â

This somewhat enigmatic pronouncement was received with complete understanding. In days very long past, Mr. Inch had been the proprietor of two cabs, which met trains at the local station and which were also hired by the local ladies to take them âcalling,â out to tea parties, and occasionally, with their daughters, to such frivolous entertainments as dances. In the fulness of time Inch, a cheery red-faced man of seventy odd, gave place to his sonâknown as âyoung Inchâ (he was then aged forty-five) though old Inch still continued to drive such elderly ladies as considered his son too young and irresponsible. To keep up with the times, young Inch abandoned horse vehicles for motor cars. He was not very good with machinery and in due course a certain Mr. Bardwell took over from him. The name Inch persisted. Mr. Bardwell in due course sold out to Mr. Roberts, but in the telephone book Inchâs Taxi Service was still the official name, and the older ladies of the community continued to refer to their journeys as going somewhere âin Inch,â as though they were Jonah and Inch was a whale.

II

âDr. Haydock called,â said Miss Knight reproachfully. âI told him youâd gone to tea with Mrs. Bantry. He said heâd call in again tomorrow.â

She helped Miss Marple off with her wraps.

âAnd now, I expect, weâre tired out,â she said accusingly.

âYou may be,â said Miss Marple. âI am not.â

âYou come and sit cosy by the fire,â said Miss Knight, as usual paying no attention. (âYou donât need to take much notice of what the old dears say. I just humour them.â) âAnd how would we fancy a nice cup of Ovaltine? Or Horlicks for a change?â

Miss Marple thanked her and said she would like a small glass of dry sherry. Miss Knight looked disapproving.

âI donât know what the doctor would say to that, Iâm sure,â she said, when she returned with the glass.

âWe will make a point of asking him tomorrow morning,â said Miss Marple.

On the following morning Miss Knight met Dr. Haydock in the hall, and did some agitated whispering.

The elderly doctor came into the room rubbing his hands, for it was a chilly morning.

âHereâs our doctor to see us,â said Miss Knight gaily. âCan I take your gloves, Doctor?â

âTheyâll be all right here,â said Haydock, casting them carelessly on a table. âQuite a nippy morning.â

âA little glass of sherry perhaps?â suggested Miss Marple.

âI heard you were taking to drink. Well, you should never drink alone.â

The decanter and the glasses were already on a small table by Miss Marple. Miss Knight left the room.

Dr. Haydock was a very old friend. He had semiretired, but came to attend certain of his old patients.

âI hear youâve been falling about,â he said as he finished his glass. âIt wonât do, you know, not at your age. Iâm warning you. And I hear you didnât want to send for Sandford.â

Sandford was Haydockâs partner.

âThat Miss Knight of yours sent for him anywayâand she was quite right.â

âI was only bruised and shaken a little. Dr. Sandford said so. I could have waited quite well until you were back.â

âNow look here, my dear. I canât go on forever. And Sandford, let me tell you, has better qualifications than I have. Heâs a first class man.â

âThe young doctors are all the same,â said Miss Marple. âThey take your blood pressure, and whateverâs the matter with you, you get some kind of mass produced variety of new pills. Pink ones, yellow ones, brown ones. Medicine nowadays is just like a supermarketâall packaged up.â

âServe you right if I prescribed leeches, and black draught, and rubbed your chest with camphorated oil.â

âI do that myself when Iâve got a cough,â said Miss Marple with spirit, âand very comforting it is.â

âWe donât like getting old, thatâs what it is,â said Haydock gently. âI hate it.â

âYouâre quite a young man compared to me,â said Miss Marple. âAnd I donât really mind getting oldânot that in itself. Itâs the lesser indignities.â

âI think I know what you mean.â

âNever being alone! The difficulty of geting out for a few minutes by oneself. And even my knittingâsuch a comfort that has always been, and I really am a good knitter. Now I drop stitches all the timeâand quite often I donât even know Iâve dropped them.â

Haydock looked at her thoughtfully.

Then his eyes twinkled.

âThereâs always the opposite.â

âNow what do you mean by that?â

âIf you canât knit, what about unravelling for a change? Penelope did.â

âIâm hardly in her position.â

âBut unravellingâs rather in your line, isnât it?â

He rose to his feet.

âI must be getting along. What Iâd prescribe for you is a nice juicy murder.â

âThatâs an outrageous thing to say!â

âIsnât it? However, you can always make do with the depth the parsley sank into the butter on a summerâs day. I always wondered about that. Good old Holmes. A period piece, nowadays, I suppose. But heâll never be forgotten.â

Miss Knight bustled in after the doctor had gone.

âThere,â she said, âwe look much more cheerful. Did the doctor recommend a tonic?â

âHe recommended me to take an interest in murder.â

âA nice detective story?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âReal life.â

âGoodness,â exclaimed Miss Knight. âBut thereâs not likely to be a murder in this quiet spot.â

âMurders,â said Miss Marple, âcan happen anywhere. And do.â

âAt the Development, perhaps?â mused Miss Knight. âA lot of those Teddy-looking boys carry knives.â

But the murder, when it came, was not at the Development.

Four

Mrs. Bantry stepped back a foot or two, surveyed herself in the glass, made a slight adjustment to her hat (she was not used to wearing hats), drew on a pair of good quality leather gloves and left the lodge, closing the door carefully behind her. She had the most pleasurable anticipations of what lay in front of her. Some three weeks had passed since her talk with Miss Marple. Marina Gregg and her husband had arrived at Gossington Hall and were now more or less installed there.

There was to be a meeting there this afternoon of the main persons involved in the arrangements for the fÃªte in aid of the St. John Ambulance. Mrs. Bantry was not among those on the committee, but she had received a note from Marina Gregg asking her to come and have tea beforehand. It had recalled their meeting in California and had been signed, âCordially, Marina Gregg.â It had been handwritten, not typewritten. There is no denying that Mrs. Bantry was both pleased and flattered. After all, a celebrated film star is a celebrated film star and elderly ladies, though they may be of local importance, are aware of their complete unimportance in the world of celebrities. So Mrs. Bantry had the pleased feeling of a child for whom a special treat had been arranged.

As she walked up the drive Mrs. Bantryâs keen eyes went from side to side registering her impressions. The place had been smartened up since the days when it had passed from hand to hand. âNo expense spared,â said Mrs. Bantry to herself, nodding in satisfaction. The drive afforded no view of the flower garden and for that Mrs. Bantry was just as pleased. The flower garden and its special herbaceous border had been her own particular delight in the far-off days when she had lived at Gossington Hall. She permitted regretful and nostalgic memories of her irises. The best iris garden of any in the country, she told herself with a fierce pride.

Faced by a new front door in a blaze of new paint she pressed the bell. The door was opened with gratifying promptness by what was undeniably an Italian butler. She was ushered by him straight to the room which had been Colonel Bantryâs library. This, as she had already heard, had been thrown into one with the study. The result was impressive. The walls were panelled, the floor was parquet. At one end was a grand piano and halfway along the wall was a superb record player. At the other end of the room was a small island, as it were, which comprised Persian rugs, a tea table and some chairs. By the tea table sat Marina Gregg, and leaning against the mantelpiece was what Mrs. Bantry at first thought to be the ugliest man she had ever seen.

Just a few moments previously when Mrs. Bantryâs hand had been advanced to press the bell, Marina Gregg had been saying in a soft, enthusiastic voice, to her husband:

âThis place is right for me, Jinks, just right. Itâs what Iâve always wanted. Quiet. English quiet and the English countryside. I can see myself living here, living here all my life if need be. And weâll adopt the English way of life. Weâll have afternoon tea every afternoon with China tea and my lovely Georgian tea service. And weâll look out of the window on those lawns and that English herbaceous border. Iâve come home at last, thatâs what I feel. I feel that I can settle down here, that I can be quiet and happy. Itâs going to be home, this place. Thatâs what I feel. Home.â

And Jason Rudd (known to his wife as Jinks) had smiled at her. It was an acquiescent smile, indulgent, but it held its reserve because, after all, he had heard it very often before. Perhaps this time it would be true. Perhaps this was the place that Marina Gregg might feel at home. But he knew her early enthusiasms so well. She was always so sure that at last she had found exactly what she wanted. He said in his deep voice:

âThatâs grand, honey. Thatâs just grand. Iâm glad you like it.â

âLike it? I adore it. Donât you adore it too?â

âSure,â said Jason Rudd. âSure.â

It wasnât too bad, he reflected to himself. Good, solidly built, rather ugly Victorian. It had, he admitted, a feeling of solidity and security. Now that the worst of its fantastic inconveniences had been ironed out, it would be quite reasonably comfortable to live in. Not a bad place to come back to from time to time. With luck, he thought, Marina wouldnât start taking a dislike to it for perhaps two years to two years and a half. It all depended.

Marina said, sighing softly:

âItâs so wonderful to feel well again. Well and strong. Able to cope with things.â

And he said again: âSure, honey, sure.â

And it was at that moment that the door opened and the Italian butler had ushered in Mrs. Bantry.

Marina Greggâs welcome was all that was charming. She came forward, hands outstretched, saying how delightful it was to meet Mrs. Bantry again. And what a coincidence that they should have met that time in San Fransisco and that two years later she and Jinks should actually buy the house that had once belonged to Mrs. Bantry. And she did hope, she really did hope that Mrs. Bantry wouldnât mind terribly the way theyâd pulled the house about and done things to it and she hoped she wouldnât feel that they were terrible intruders living here.

âYour coming to live here is one of the most exciting things that has ever happened to this place,â said Mrs. Bantry cheerfully and she looked towards the mantelpiece. Whereupon, almost as an afterthought, Marina Gregg said:

âYou donât know my husband, do you? Jason, this is Mrs. Bantry.â

Mrs. Bantry looked at Jason Rudd with some interest. Her first impression that this was one of the ugliest men she had ever seen became qualified. He had interesting eyes. They were, she thought, more deeply sunk in his head than any eyes she had seen. Deep quiet pools, said Mrs. Bantry to herself, and felt like a romantic lady novelist. The rest of his face was distinctly craggy, almost ludicrously out of proportion. His nose jutted upwards and a little red paint would have transformed it into the nose of a clown very easily. He had, too, a clownâs big sad mouth. Whether he was at this moment in a furious temper or whether he always looked as though he were in a furious temper she did not quite know. His voice when he spoke was unexpectedly pleasant. Deep and slow.

âA husband,â he said, âis always an afterthought. But let me say with my wife that weâre very glad to welcome you here. I hope you donât feel that it ought to be the other way about.â

âYou must get it out of your head,â said Mrs. Bantry, âthat Iâve been driven forth from my old home. It never was my old home. Iâve been congratulating myself ever since I sold it. It was a most inconvenient house to run. I liked the garden but the house became more and more of a worry. Iâve had a perfectly splendid time ever since travelling abroad and going and seeing my married daughters and my grandchildren and my friends in all different parts of the world.â

âDaughters,â said Marina Gregg, âyou have daughters and sons?â

âTwo sons and two daughters,â said Mrs. Bantry, âand pretty widely spaced. One in Kenya, one in South Africa. One near Texas and the other, thank goodness, in London.â

âFour,â said Marina Gregg. âFourâand grandchildren?â

âNine up-to-date,â said Mrs. Bantry. âItâs great fun being a grandmother. You donât have any of the worry of parental responsibility. You can spoil them in the most unbridled wayââ

Jason Rudd interrupted her. âIâm afraid the sun catches your eyes,â he said, and went to a window to adjust the blind. âYou must tell us all about this delightful village,â he said as he came back.

He handed her a cup of tea.

âWill you have a hot scone or a sandwich, or this cake? We have an Italian cook and she makes quite good pastry and cakes. You see we have quite taken to your English afternoon tea.â

âDelicious tea too,â said Mrs. Bantry, sipping the fragrant beverage.

Marina Gregg smiled and looked pleased. The sudden nervous movement of her fingers which Jason Ruddâs eyes had noticed a minute or two previously, was stilled again. Mrs. Bantry looked at her hostess with great admiration. Marina Greggâs heyday had been before the rise to supreme importance of vital statistics. She could not have been described as Sex Incarnate, or âThe Bustâ or âThe Torso.â She had been long and slim and willowy. The bones of her face and head had had some of the beauty associated with those of Garbo. She had brought personality to her pictures rather than mere sex. The sudden turn of her head, the opening of the deep lovely eyes, the faint quiver of her mouth, all these were what brought to one suddenly that feeling of breathtaking loveliness that comes not from regularity of feature but from sudden magic of the flesh that catches the onlooker unawares. She still had this quality though it was not now so easily apparent. Like many film and stage actresses she had what seemed to be a habit of turning off personality at will. She could retire into herself, be quiet, gentle, aloof, disappointing to an eager fan. And then suddenly the turn of the head, the movement of the hands, the sudden smile and the magic was there.

One of her greatest pictures had been Mary, Queen of Scots, and it was of her performance in that picture that Mrs. Bantry was reminded now as she watched her. Mrs. Bantryâs eye switched to the husband. He too was watching Marina. Off guard for a moment, his face expressed clearly his feelings. âGood Lord,â said Mrs. Bantry to herself, âthe man adores her.â

She didnât know why she should feel so surprised. Perhaps because film stars and their love affairs and their devotion were so written up in the Press that one never expected to see the real thing with oneâs own eyes. On an impulse she said:

âI do hope youâll enjoy it here and that youâll be able to stay here some time. Do you expect to have the house for long?â

Marina opened wide surprised eyes as she turned her head. âI want to stay here always,â she said. âOh, I donât mean that I shanât have to go away a lot. I shall, of course. Thereâs a possibility of making a film in North Africa next year although nothingâs settled yet. No, but this will be my home. I shall come back here. I shall always be able to come back here.â She sighed. âThatâs whatâs so wonderful. To have found a home at last.â

âI see,â said Mrs. Bantry, but at the same time she thought to herself, âAll the same I donât believe for a moment that it will be like that. I donât believe youâre the kind that can ever settle down.â

Again she shot a quick surreptitious glance at Jason Rudd. He was not scowling now. Instead he was smiling, a sudden very sweet and unexpected smile, but it was a sad smile. âHe knows it too,â thought Mrs. Bantry.

The door opened and a woman came in. âBartletts want you on the telephone, Jason,â she said.

âTell them to call back.â

âThey said it was urgent.â

He sighed and rose. âLet me introduce you to Mrs. Bantry,â he said. âElla Zielinsky, my secretary.â

âHave a cup of tea, Ella,â said Marina as Ella Zielinsky acknowledged the introduction with a smiling âPleased to meet you.â

âIâll have a sandwich,â said Ella. âI donât go for China tea.â

Ella Zielinsky was at a guess thirty-five. She wore a well cut suit, a ruffled blouse and appeared to breathe self-confidence. She had short-cut black hair and a wide forehead.

âYou used to live here, so they tell me,â she said to Mrs. Bantry.

âItâs a good many years ago now,â said Mrs. Bantry. âAfter my husbandâs death I sold it and itâs passed through several hands since then.â

âMrs. Bantry really says she doesnât hate the things weâve done to it,â said Marina.

âI should be frightfully disappointed if you hadnât,â said Mrs. Bantry. âI came up here all agog. I can tell you the most splendid rumours have been going around the village.â

âNever knew how difficult it was to get hold of plumbers in this country,â said Miss Zielinsky, champing a sandwich in a businesslike way. âNot that thatâs been really my job,â she went on.

âEverything is your job,â said Marina, âand you know it is, Ella. The domestic staff and the plumbing and arguing with the builders.â

âThey donât seem ever to have heard of a picture window in this country.â

Ella looked towards the window. âItâs a nice view, I must admit.â

âA lovely old-fashioned rural English scene,â said Marina. âThis house has got atmosphere.â

âIt wouldnât look so rural if it wasnât for the trees,â said Ella Zielinsky. âThat housing estate down there grows while you look at it.â

âThatâs new since my time,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âYou mean there was nothing but the village when you lived here?â

Mrs. Bantry nodded.

âIt must have been hard to do your shopping.â

âI donât think so,â said Mrs. Bantry. âI think it was frightfully easy.â

âI understand having a flower garden,â said Ella Zielinsky, âbut you folk over here seem to grow all your vegetables as well. Wouldnât it be much easier to buy themâthereâs a supermarket?â

âItâs probably coming to that,â said Mrs. Bantry, with a sigh. âThey donât taste the same, though.â

âDonât spoil the atmosphere, Ella,â said Marina.

The door opened and Jason looked in. âDarling,â he said to Marina, âI hate to bother you but would you mind? They just want your private view about this.â

Marina sighed and rose. She trailed languidly towards the door. âAlways something,â she murmured. âIâm so sorry, Mrs. Bantry. I donât really think that this will take longer than a minute or two.â

âAtmosphere,â said Ella Zielinsky, as Marina went out and closed the door. âDo you think the house has got atmosphere?â

âI canât say I ever thought of it that way,â said Mrs. Bantry. âIt was just a house. Rather inconvenient in some ways and very nice and cosy in other ways.â

âThatâs what I should have thought,â said Ella Zielinsky. She cast a quick direct look at Mrs. Bantry. âTalking of atmosphere, when did the murder take place here?â

âNo murder ever took place here,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âOh come now. The stories Iâve heard. There are always stories, Mrs. Bantry. On the hearthrug, right there, wasnât it?â said Miss Zielinsky nodding towards the fireplace.

âYes,â said Mrs. Bantry. âThat was the place.â

âSo there was a murder?â

Mrs. Bantry shook her head. âThe murder didnât take place here. The girl who had been killed was brought here and planted in this room. Sheâd nothing to do with us.â

Miss Zielinsky looked interested.

âPossibly you had a bit of difficulty making people believe that?â she remarked.

âYouâre quite right there,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âWhen did you find it?â

âThe housemaid came in in the morning,â said Mrs. Bantry, âwith early morning tea. We had housemaids then, you know.â

âI know,â said Miss Zielinksy, âwearing print dresses that rustled.â

âIâm not sure about the print dress,â said Mrs. Bantry, âit may have been overalls by then. At any rate, she burst in and said there was a body in the library. I said ânonsense,â then I woke up my husband and we came down to see.â

âAnd there it was,â said Miss Zielinsky. âMy, the way things happen.â She turned her head sharply towards the door and then back again. âDonât talk about it to Miss Gregg, if you donât mind,â she said. âItâs not good for her, that sort of thing.â

âOf course. I wonât say a word,â said Mrs. Bantry. âI never do talk about it, as a matter of fact. It all happened so long ago. But wonât sheâMiss Gregg I meanâwonât she hear it anyway?â

âShe doesnât come very much in contact with reality,â said Ella Zielinsky. âFilm stars can lead a fairly insulated life, you know. In fact very often one has to take care that they do. Things upset them. Things upset her. Sheâs been seriously ill the last year or two, you know. She only started making a comeback a year ago.â

âShe seems to like the house,â said Mrs. Bantry, âand to feel she will be happy here.â

âI expect itâll last a year or two,â said Ella Zielinsky.

âNot longer than that?â

âWell, I rather doubt it. Marina is one of those people, you know, who are always thinking theyâve found their heartâs desire. But life isnât as easy as that, is it?â

âNo,â said Mrs. Bantry forcefully, âit isnât.â

âItâll mean a lot to him if sheâs happy here,â said Miss Zielinsky. She ate two more sandwiches in an absorbed, rather gobbling fashion in the manner of one who crams food into themselves as though they had an important train to catch. âHeâs a genius, you know,â she went on. âHave you seen any of the pictures heâs directed?â

Mrs. Bantry felt slightly embarrassed. She was of the type of woman who when she went to the cinema went entirely for the picture. The long lists of casts, directors, producers, photography and the rest of it passed her by. Very frequently, indeed, she did not even notice the names of the stars. She was not, however, anxious to call attention to this failing on her part.

âI get mixed-up,â she said.

âOf course heâs got a lot to contend with,â said Ella Zielinsky. âHeâs got her as well as everything else and sheâs not easy. Youâve got to keep her happy, you see; and itâs not really easy, I suppose, to keep people happy. Unlessâthat isâtheyâthey areââ she hesitated.

âUnless theyâre the happy kind,â suggested Mrs. Bantry. âSome people,â she added thoughtfully, âenjoy being miserable.â

âOh, Marina isnât like that,â said Ella Zielinsky, shaking her head. âItâs more that her ups and downs are so violent. You knowâfar too happy one moment, far too pleased with everything and delighted with everything and how wonderful she feels. Then of course some little thing happens and down she goes to the opposite extreme.â

âI suppose thatâs temperament,â said Mrs. Bantry vaguely.

âThatâs right,â said Ella Zielinsky. âTemperament. Theyâve all got it, more or less, but Marina Gregg has got it more than most people. Donât we know it! The stories I could tell you!â She ate the last sandwich. âThank God Iâm only the social secretary.â

Five

The throwing open of the grounds of Gossington Hall for the benefit of the St. John Ambulance Association was attended by a quite unprecedented number of people. Shilling admission fees mounted up in a highly satisfactory fashion. For one thing, the weather was good, a clear sunny day. But the preponderant attraction was undoubtedly the enormous local curiosity to know exactly what these âfilm peopleâ had done to Gossington Hall. The most extravagant assumptions were entertained. The swimming pool in particular caused immense satisfaction. Most peopleâs ideas of Hollywood stars were of sunbathing by a pool in exotic surroundings and in exotic company. That the climate of Hollywood might be more suited to swimming pools than that of St. Mary Mead failed to be considered. After all, England always has one fine hot week in the summer and there is always one day that the Sunday papers publish articles on How to Keep Cool, How to Have Cool Suppers and How to Make Cool Drinks. The pool was almost exactly what everyone had imagined it might be. It was large, its waters were blue, it had a kind of exotic pavilion for changing and was surrounded with a highly artificial plantation of hedges and shrubs. The reactions of the multitude were exactly as might have been expected and hovered over a wide range of remarks.

âO-oh, isnât it lovely!â

âTwo pennâorth of splash here, all right!â

âReminds me of that holiday camp I went to.â

âWicked luxury I call it. It oughtnât to be allowed.â

âLook at all that fancy marble. It must have cost the earth!â

âDonât see why these people think they can come over here and spend all the money they like.â

âPerhaps thisâll be on the telly sometime. Thatâll be fun.â

Even Mr. Sampson, the oldest man in St. Mary Mead, boasting proudly of being ninety-six though his relations insisted firmly that he was only eighty-six, had staggered along supporting his rheumatic legs with a stick, to see this excitement. He gave it his highest praise: âAh, thereâll be a lot of wickedness here, I donât doubt. Naked men and women drinking and smoking what they call in the papers them reefers. Thereâll be all that, I expect. Ah yes,â said Mr. Sampson with enormous pleasure, âthereâll be a lot of wickedness.â

It was felt that the final seal of approval had been set on the afternoonâs entertainment. For an extra shilling people were allowed to go into the house, and study the new music room, the drawing room, the completely unrecognizable dining room, now done in dark oak and Spanish leather, and a few other joys.

âNever think this was Gossington Hall, would you, now?â said Mr. Sampsonâs daughter-in-law.

Mrs. Bantry strolled up fairly late and observed with pleasure that the money was coming in well and that the attendance was phenomenal.

The large marquee in which tea was being served was jammed with people. Mrs. Bantry hoped the buns were going to go round. There seemed some very competent women, however, in charge. She herself made a beeline for the herbaceous border and regarded it with a jealous eye. No expense had been spared on the herbacous border, she was glad to note, and it was a proper herbaceous border, well planned and arranged and expensively stocked. No personal labours had gone into it, she was sure of that. Some good gardening firm had been given the contract, no doubt. But aided by carte blanche and the weather, they had turned out a very good job.

Looking round her, she felt there was a faint flavour of a Buckingham Palace garden party about the scene. Everybody was craning to see all they could see, and from time to time a chosen few were led into one of the more secret recesses of the house. She herself was presently approached by a willowy young man with long wavy hair.

âMrs. Bantry? You are Mrs. Bantry?â

âIâm Mrs. Bantry, yes.â

âHailey Preston.â He shook hands with her. âI work for Mr. Rudd. Will you come up to the second floor? Mr. and Mrs. Rudd are asking a few special friends up there.â

Duly honoured Mrs. Bantry followed him. They went in through what had been called in her time the garden door. A red cord cordoned off the bottom of the main stairs. Hailey Preston unhooked it and she passed through. Just in front of her Mrs. Bantry observed Councillor and Mrs. Allcock. The latter who was stout was breathing heavily.

âWonderful what theyâve done, isnât it, Mrs. Bantry?â panted Mrs. Allcock. âIâd like to have a look at the bathrooms, I must say, but I suppose I shanât get the chance.â Her voice was wistful.

At the top of the stairs Marina Gregg and Jason Rudd were receiving this specially chosen Ã©lite. What had once been a spare bedroom had been thrown into the landing so as to make a wide lounge-like effect. Giuseppe the butler was officiating with drinks.

A stout man in livery was announcing guests.

âCouncillor and Mrs. Allcock,â he boomed.

Marina Gregg was being, as Mrs. Bantry had described her to Miss Marple, completely natural and charming. She could already hear Mrs. Allcock saying later: ââand so unspoiled, you know, in spite of being so famous.â

How very nice of Mrs. Allcock to come, and the Councillor, and she did hope theyâd enjoy their afternoon. âJason please look after Mrs. Allcock.â

Councillor and Mrs. Allcock were passed on to Jason and drinks.

âOh, Mrs. Bantry, it is nice of you to come.â

âI wouldnât have missed it for the world,â said Mrs. Bantry and moved on purposefully towards the Martinis.

The young man called Hailey Preston ministered to her in a tender manner and then made off, consulting a little list in his hand, to fetch, no doubt, more of the Chosen to the Presence. It was all being managed very well, Mrs. Bantry thought, turning, Martini in hand, to watch the next arrivals. The vicar, a lean, ascetic man, was looking vague and slightly bewildered. He said earnestly to Marina Gregg:

âVery nice of you to ask me. Iâm afraid, you know, I havenât got a television set myself, but of course IâerâIâwell, of course my young people keep me up to the mark.â

Nobody knew what he meant. Miss Zielinsky, who was also on duty, administered a lemonade to him with a kindly smile. Mr. and Mrs. Badcock were next up the stairs. Heather Badcock, flushed and triumphant, came a little ahead of her husband.

âMr. and Mrs. Badcock,â boomed the man in livery.

âMrs. Badcock,â said the vicar, turning back, lemonade in his hand, âthe indefatigable secretary of the association. Sheâs one of our hardest workers. In fact I donât know what the St. John would do without her.â

âIâm sure youâve been wonderful,â said Marina.

âYou donât remember me?â said Heather, in an arch manner. âHow should you, with all the hundreds of people you meet. And anyway, it was years ago. In Bermuda of all places in the world. I was there with one of our ambulance units. Oh, itâs a long time ago now.â

âOf course,â said Marina Gregg, once more all charm and smiles.

âI remember it all so well,â said Mrs. Badcock. âI was thrilled, you know, absolutely thrilled. I was only a girl at the time. To think there was a chance of seeing Marina Gregg in the fleshâoh! I was a mad fan of yours always.â

âItâs too kind of you, really too kind of you,â said Marina sweetly, her eyes beginning to hover faintly over Heatherâs shoulder towards the next arrivals.

âIâm not going to detain you,â said Heatherââbut I mustââ

âPoor Marina Gregg,â said Mrs. Bantry to herself. âI suppose this kind of thing is always happening to her! The patience they need!â

Heather was continuing in a determined manner with her story.

Mrs. Allcock breathed heavily at Mrs. Bantryâs shoulder.

âThe changes theyâve made here! You wouldnât believe till you saw for yourself. What it must have costâ¦.â

âIâdidnât feel really illâand I thought I just mustââ

âThis is vodka,â Mrs. Allcock regarded her glass suspiciously. âMr. Rudd asked if Iâd like to try it. Sounds very Russian. I donât think I like it very muchâ¦.â

ââI said to myself: I wonât be beaten! I put a lot of makeup on my faceââ

âI suppose it would be rude if I just put it down somewhere.â Mrs. Allcock sounded desperate.

Mrs. Bantry reassured her gently.

âNot at all. Vodka ought really to be thrown straight down the throatââMrs. Allcock looked startledââbut that needs practice. Put it down on the table and get yourself a Martini from that tray the butlerâs carrying.â

She turned back to hear Heather Badcockâs triumphant peroration.

âIâve never forgotten how wonderful you were that day. It was a hundred times worth it.â

Marinaâs response was this time not so automatic. Her eyes which had wavered over Heather Badcockâs shoulder, now seemed to be fixed on the wall midway up the stairs. She was staring and there was something so ghastly in her expression that Mrs. Bantry half took a step forward. Was the woman going to faint? What on earth could she be seeing that gave her that basilisk look? But before she could reach Marinaâs side the latter had recovered herself. Her eyes, vague and unfocussed, returned to Heather and the charm of manner was turned on once more, albeit a shade mechanically.

âWhat a nice little story. Now, what will you have to drink? Jason! A cocktail?â

âWell, really I usually have a lemonade or orange juice.â

âYou must have something better than that,â said Marina. âThis is a feast day, remember.â

âLet me persuade you to an American daiquiri,â said Jason, appearing with a couple in his hand. âTheyâre Marinaâs favourites, too.â

He handed one to his wife.

âI shouldnât drink anymore,â said Marina, âIâve had three already.â But she accepted the glass.

Heather took her drink from Jason. Marina turned away to meet the next person who was arriving.

Mrs. Bantry said to Mrs. Allcock, âLetâs go and see the bathrooms.â

âOh, do you think we can? Wouldnât it look rather rude?â

âIâm sure it wouldnât,â said Mrs. Bantry. She spoke to Jason Rudd. âWe want to explore your wonderful new bathrooms, Mr. Rudd. May we satisfy this purely domestic curiosity?â

âSure,â said Jason, grinning. âGo and enjoy yourselves, girls. Draw yourselves baths if you like.â

Mrs. Allcock followed Mrs. Bantry along the passage.

âThat was ever so kind of you, Mrs. Bantry. I must say I wouldnât have dared myself.â

âOne has to dare if one wants to get anywhere,â said Mrs. Bantry.

They went along the passage, opening various doors. Presently âAhsâ and âOhsâ began to escape Mrs. Allcock and two other women who had joined the party.

âI do like the pink one,â said Mrs. Allcock. âOh, I like the pink one a lot.â

âI like the one with the dolphin tiles,â said one of the other women.

Mrs. Bantry acted the part of hostess with complete enjoyment. For a moment she had really forgotten that the house no longer belonged to her.

âAll those showers!â said Mrs. Allcock with awe. âNot that I really like showers. I never know how you keep your head dry.â

âItâd be nice to have a peep into the bedrooms,â said one of the other women, wistfully, âbut I suppose itâd be a bit too nosy. What do you think?â

âOh, I donât think we could do that,â said Mrs. Allcock. They both looked hopefully at Mrs. Bantry.

âWell,â said Mrs. Bantry, âno, I suppose we oughtnât toââ then she took pity on them, âbutâI donât think anyone would know if we have one peep.â She put her hand on a door handle.

But that had been attended to. The bedrooms were locked. Everyone was very disappointed.

âI suppose theyâve got to have some privacy,â said Mrs. Bantry kindly.

They retraced their steps along the corridors. Mrs. Bantry looked out of one of the landing windows. She noted below her Mrs. Meavy (from the Development) looking incredibly smart in a ruffled organdie dress. With Mrs. Meavy, she noticed, was Miss Marpleâs Cherry, whose last name for the moment Mrs. Bantry could not remember. They seemed to be enjoying themselves and were laughing and talking.

Suddenly the house felt to Mrs. Bantry old, worn-out and highly artificial. In spite of its new gleaming paint, its alterations, it was in essence a tired old Victorian mansion. âI was wise to go,â thought Mrs. Bantry. âHouses are like everything else. There comes a time when theyâve just had their day. This has had its day. Itâs been given a face-lift, but I donât really think itâs done it any good.â

Suddenly a slight rise in the hum of voices reached her. The two women with her started forward.

âWhatâs happening?â said one. âIt sounds as though somethingâs happening.â

They stepped back along the corridor towards the stairs. Ella Zielinksy came rapidly along and passed them. She tried a bedroom door and said quickly, âOh, damn. Of course theyâve locked them all.â

âIs anything the matter?â asked Mrs. Bantry.

âSomeoneâs taken ill,â said Miss Zielinsky shortly.

âOh dear, Iâm sorry. Can I do anything?â

âI suppose thereâs a doctor here somewhere?â

âI havenât seen any of our local doctors,â said Mrs. Bantry, âbut thereâs almost sure to be one here.â

âJasonâs telephoning,â said Ella Zielinsky, âbut she seems pretty bad.â

âWho is it?â asked Mrs. Bantry.

âA Mrs. Badcock, I think.â

âHeather Badcock? But she looked so well just now.â

Ella Zielinksy said impatiently, âSheâs had a seizure, or a fit, or something. Do you know if thereâs anything wrong with her heart or anything like that?â

âI donât really know anything about her,â said Mrs. Bantry. âSheâs new since my day. She comes from the Development.â

âThe Development? Oh, you mean that housing estate. I donât even know where her husband is or what he looks like.â

âMiddle-aged, fair, unobtrusive,â said Mrs. Bantry. âHe came with her so he must be about somewhere.â

Ella Zielinsky went into a bathroom. âI donât know really what to give her,â she said. âSal volatile, do you think, something like that?â

âIs she faint?â said Mrs. Bantry.

âItâs more than that,â said Ella Zielinsky.

âIâll see if thereâs anything I can do,â said Mrs. Bantry. She turned away and walked rapidly back towards the head of the stairs. Turning a corner she cannoned into Jason Rudd.

âHave you seen Ella?â he said. âElla Zielinsky?â

âShe went along there into one of the bathrooms. She was looking for something. Sal volatileâsomething like that.â

âShe neednât bother,â said Jason Rudd.

Something in his tone struck Mrs. Bantry. She looked up sharply. âIs it bad?â she said, âreally bad?â

âYou could call it that,â said Jason Rudd. âThe poor womanâs dead.â

âDead!â Mrs. Bantry was really shocked. She said, as she had said before, âBut she looked so well just now.â

âI know. I know,â said Jason. He stood there, scowling. âWhat a thing to happen!â

Six

I

âHere we are,â said Miss Knight, settling a breakfast tray on the bed table beside Miss Marple. âAnd how are we this morning? I see weâve got our curtains pulled back,â she added with a slight note of disapproval in her voice.

âI wake early,â said Miss Marple. âYou probably will, when youâre my age,â she added.

âMrs. Bantry rang up,â said Miss Knight, âabout half an hour ago. She wanted to talk to you but I said sheâd better ring up again after youâd had your breakfast. I wasnât going to disturb you at that hour, before youâd even had a cup of tea or anything to eat.â

âWhen my friends ring up,â said Miss Marple, âI prefer to be told.â

âIâm sorry, Iâm sure,â said Miss Knight, âbut it seemed to me very inconsiderate. When youâve had your nice tea and your boiled egg and your toast and butter, weâll see.â

âHalf an hour ago,â said Miss Marple, thoughtfully, âthat would have beenâlet me seeâeight oâclock.â

âMuch too early,â reiterated Miss Knight.

âI donât believe Mrs. Bantry would have rung me up then unless it was for some particular reason,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully. âShe doesnât usually ring up in the early morning.â

âOh well, dear, donât fuss your head about it,â said Miss Knight soothingly. âI expect sheâll be ringing up again very shortly. Or would you like me to get her for you?â

âNo, thank you,â said Miss Marple. âI prefer to eat my breakfast while itâs hot.â

âHope I havenât forgotten anything,â said Miss Knight, cheerfully.

But nothing had been forgotten. The tea had been properly made with boiling water, the egg had been boiled exactly three and three-quarter minutes, the toast was evenly browned, the butter was arranged in a nice little pat and the small jar of honey stood beside it. In many ways undeniably Miss Knight was a treasure. Miss Marple ate her breakfast and enjoyed it. Presently the whirr of a vacuum cleaner began below. Cherry had arrived.

Competing with the whirr of the vacuum cleaner was a fresh tuneful voice singing one of the latest popular tunes of the day. Miss Knight, coming in for the breakfast tray, shook her head.

âI really wish that young woman wouldnât go singing all over the house,â she said. âItâs not what I call respectful.â

Miss Marple smiled a little. âIt would never enter Cherryâs head that she would have to be respectful,â she remarked. âWhy should she?â

Miss Knight sniffed and said, âVery different to what things used to be.â

âNaturally,â said Miss Marple. âTimes change. That is a thing which has to be accepted.â She added, âPerhaps youâll ring up Mrs. Bantry now and find out what it was she wanted.â

Miss Knight bustled away. A minute or two later there was a rap on the door and Cherry entered. She was looking bright and excited and extremely pretty. A plastic overall rakishly patterned with sailors and naval emblems was tied round her dark blue dress.

âYour hair looks nice,â said Miss Marple.

âWent for a perm yesterday,â said Cherry. âA bit stiff still, but itâs going to be all right. I came up to see if youâd heard the news.â

âWhat news?â said Miss Marple.

âAbout what happened at Gossington Hall yesterday. You know there was a big do there for the St. John Ambulance?â

Miss Marple nodded. âWhat happened?â she asked.

âSomebody died in the middle of it. A Mrs. Badcock. Lives round the corner from us. I donât suppose youâd know her.â

âMrs. Badcock?â Miss Marple sounded alert. âBut I do know her. I thinkâyes, that was the nameâshe came out and picked me up when I fell down the other day. She was very kind.â

âOh, Heather Badcockâs kind all right,â said Cherry. âOverkind, some people say. They call it interfering. Well, anyway, she up and died. Just like that.â

âDied! But what of?â

âSearch me,â said Cherry. âSheâd been taken into the house because of her being the secretary of the St. John Ambulance, I suppose. She and the mayor and a lot of others. As far as I heard, she had a glass of something and about five minutes later she was took bad and died before you could snap your fingers.â

âWhat a shocking occurrence,â said Miss Marple. âDid she suffer from heart trouble?â

âSound as a bell, so they say,â Cherry said. âOf course, you never know, do you? I suppose you can have something wrong with your heart and nobody knowing about it. Anyway, I can tell you this. Theyâve not sent her home.â

Miss Marple looked puzzled. âWhat do you mean, not sent her home?â

âThe body,â said Cherry, her cheerfulness unimpaired. âThe doctor said thereâd have to be an autopsy. Postmortemâwhatever you call it. He said he hadnât attended her for anything and there was nothing to show the cause of death. Looks funny to me,â she added.

âNow what do you mean by funny?â said Miss Marple.

âWell.â Cherry considered. âFunny. As though there was something behind it.â

âIs her husband terribly upset?â

âLooks as white as a sheet. Never saw a man as badly hit, to look atâthat is to say.â

Miss Marpleâs ears, long attuned to delicate nuances, led her to cock her head slightly on one side like an inquisitive bird.

âWas he so very devoted to her?â

âHe did what she told him and gave her her own way,â said Cherry, âbut that doesnât always mean youâre devoted, does it? It may mean you havenât got the courage to stick up for yourself.â

âYou didnât like her?â asked Miss Marple.

âI hardly know her really,â said Cherry. âKnew her, I mean. I donâtâdidnâtâdislike her. But sheâs just not my type. Too interfering.â

âYou mean inquisitive, nosy?â

âNo, I donât,â said Cherry. âI donât mean that at all. She was a very kind woman and she was always doing things for people. And she was always quite sure she knew the best thing to do. What they thought about it wouldnât have mattered. I had an aunt like that. Very fond of seed cake herself and she used to bake seed cakes for people and take them to them, and she never troubled to find out whether they liked seed cake or not. There are people canât bear it, just canât stand the flavour of caraway. Well, Heather Badcock was a bit like that.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully, âyes, she would have been. I knew someone a little like that. Such people,â she added, âlive dangerouslyâthough they donât know it themselves.â

Cherry stared at her. âThatâs a funny thing to say. I donât quite get what you mean.â

Miss Knight bustled in. âMrs. Bantry seems to have gone out,â she said. âShe didnât say where she was going.â

âI can guess where sheâs going,â said Miss Marple. âSheâs coming here. I shall get up now,â she added.

II

Miss Marple had just ensconced herself in her favourite chair by the window when Mrs. Bantry arrived. She was slightly out of breath.

âIâve got plenty to tell you, Jane,â she said.

âAbout the fÃªte?â asked Miss Knight. âYou went to the fÃªte yesterday, didnât you? I was there myself for a short time early in the afternoon. The tea tent was very crowded. An astonishing lot of people seemed to be there. I didnât catch a glimpse of Marina Gregg, though, which was rather disappointing.â

She flicked a little dust off a table and said brightly, âNow Iâm sure you two want to have a nice little chat together,â and went out of the room.

âShe doesnât seem to know anything about it,â said Mrs. Bantry. She fixed her friend with a keen glance. âJane, I believe you do know.â

âYou mean about the death yesterday?â

âYou always know everything,â said Mrs. Bantry. âI cannot think how.â

âWell, really dear,â said Miss Marple, âin the same way one always has known everything. My daily helper, Cherry Baker, brought the news. I expect the butcher will be telling Miss Knight presently.â

âAnd what do you think of it?â said Mrs. Bantry.

âWhat do I think of what?â said Miss Marple.

âNow donât be aggravating, Jane, you know perfectly what I mean. Thereâs this womanâwhatever her name isââ

âHeather Badcock,â said Miss Marple.

âShe arrives full of life and spirit. I was there when she came. And about a quarter of an hour later she sits down in a chair, says she doesnât feel well, gasps a bit and dies. What do you think of that?â

âOne mustnât jump to conclusions,â said Miss Marple. âThe point is, of course, what did a medical man think of it?â

Mrs. Bantry nodded. âThereâs to be an inquest and a postmortem,â she said. âThat shows what they think of it, doesnât it?â

âNot necessarily,â said Miss Marple. âAnyone may be taken ill and die suddenly and they have to have a postmortem to find out the cause.â

âItâs more than that,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âHow do you know?â said Miss Marple.

âDr. Sandford went home and rang up the police.â

âWho told you that?â said Miss Marple, with great interest.

âOld Briggs,â said Mrs. Bantry. âAt least, he didnât tell me. You know he goes down after hours in the evening to see to Dr. Sandfordâs garden, and he was clipping something quite close to the study and he heard the doctor ringing up the police station in Much Benham. Briggs told his daughter and his daughter mentioned it to the postwoman and she told me,â said Mrs. Bantry.

Miss Marple smiled. âI see,â she said, âthat St. Mary Mead has not changed very much from what it used to be.â

âThe grapevine is much the same,â agreed Mrs. Bantry. âWell, now, Jane, tell me what you think.â

âOne thinks, of course, of the husband,â said Miss Marple reflectively. âWas he there?â

âYes, he was there. You donât think it would be suicide,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âCertainly not suicide,â said Miss Marple decisively. âShe wasnât the type.â

âHow did you come across her, Jane?â

âIt was the day I went for a walk to the Development, and fell down near her house. She was kindness itself. She was a very kind woman.â

âDid you see the husband? Did he look as though heâd like to poison her?

âYou know what I mean,â Mrs. Bantry went on as Miss Marple showed some slight signs of protesting. âDid he remind you of Major Smith or Bertie Jones or someone youâve known years ago who did poison a wife, or tried to?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âhe didnât remind me of anyone I know.â She added, âBut she did.â

âWhoâMrs. Badcock?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âshe reminded me of someone called Alison Wilde.â

âAnd what was Alison Wilde like?â

âShe didnât know at all,â said Miss Marple slowly, âwhat the world was like. She didnât know what people were like. Sheâd never thought about them. And so, you see, she couldnât guard against things happening to her.â

âI donât really think I understand a word of what youâre saying,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âItâs very difficult to explain exactly,â said Miss Marple, apologetically. âIt comes really from being self-centred, and I donât mean selfish by that,â she added. âYou can be kind and unselfish and even thoughtful. But if youâre like Alison Wilde, you never really know what you may be doing. And so you never know what may happen to you.â

âCanât you make that a little clearer?â said Mrs. Bantry.

âWell, I suppose I could give you a sort of figurative example. This isnât anything that actually happened, itâs just something Iâm inventing.â

âGo on,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âWell, supposing you went into a shop, say, and you knew the proprietress had a son who was the spivvy young juvenile delinquent type. He was there listening while you told his mother about some money you had in the house, or some silver or a piece of jewellery. It was something you were excited and pleased about and you wanted to talk about it. And you also perhaps mention an evening that you were going out. You even say that you never lock the house. Youâre interested in what youâre saying, what youâre telling her, because itâs so very much in your mind. And then, say, on that particular evening you come home because youâve forgotten something and thereâs this bad lot of a boy in the house, caught in the act, and he turns round and coshes you.â

âThat might happen to almost anybody nowadays,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âNot quite,â said Miss Marple, âmost people have a sense of protection. They realise when itâs unwise to say or do something because of the person or persons who are taking in what you say, and because of the kind of character that those people have. But as I say, Alison Wilde never thought of anybody else but herselfâ She was the sort of person who tells you what theyâve done and what theyâve seen and what theyâve felt and what theyâve heard. They never mention what any other people said or did. Life is a kind of one-way trackâjust their own progress through it. Other people seem to them just likeâlike wallpaper in a room.â She paused and then said, âI think Heather Badcock was that kind of person.â

Mrs. Bantry said, âYou think she was the sort of person who might have butted into something without knowing what she was doing?â

âAnd without realising that it was a dangerous thing to do,â said Miss Marple. She added, âItâs the only reason I can possibly think of why she should have been killed. If of course,â added Miss Marple, âwe are right in assuming that murder has been committed.â

âYou donât think she was blackmailing someone?â Mrs. Bantry suggested.

âOh, no,â Miss Marple assured her. âShe was a kind, good woman. Sheâd never have done anything of that kind.â She added vexedly, âThe whole thing seems to me very unlikely. I suppose it canât have beenââ

âWell?â Mrs. Bantry urged her.

âI just wondered if it might have been the wrong murder,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

The door opened and Dr. Haydock breezed in, Miss Knight twittering behind him.

âAh, at it already, I see,â said Dr. Haydock, looking at the two ladies. âI came in to see how your health was,â he said to Miss Marple, âbut I neednât ask. I see youâve begun to adopt the treatment that I suggested.â

âTreatment, Doctor?â

Dr. Haydock pointed a finger at the knitting that lay on the table beside her. âUnravelling,â he said. âIâm right, arenât I?â

Miss Marple twinkled very slightly in a discreet, old-fashioned kind of way.

âYou will have your joke, Doctor Haydock,â she said.

âYou canât pull the wool over my eyes, my dear lady. Iâve known you too many years. Sudden death at Gossington Hall and all the tongues of St. Mary Mead are wagging. Isnât that so? Murder suggested long before anybody even knows the result of the inquest.â

âWhen is the inquest to be held?â asked Miss Marple.

âThe day after tomorrow,â said Dr. Haydock, âand by that time,â he said, âyou ladies will have reviewed the whole story, decided on the verdict and decided on a good many other points too, I expect. Well,â he added, âI shanât waste my time here. Itâs no good wasting time on a patient that doesnât need my ministrations. Your cheeks are pink, your eyes are bright, youâve begun to enjoy yourself. Nothing like having an interest in life. Iâll be on my way.â He stomped out again.

âIâd rather have him than Sandford any day,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âSo would I,â said Miss Marple. âHeâs a good friend, too,â she added thoughtfully. âHe came, I think, to give me the go-ahead sign.â

âThen it was murder,â said Mrs. Bantry. They looked at each other. âAt any rate, the doctors think so.â

Miss Knight brought in cups of coffee. For once in their lives, both ladies were too impatient to welcome this interruption. When Miss Knight had gone Miss Marple started immediately.

âNow then, Dolly, you were thereââ

âI practically saw it happen,â said Mrs. Bantry, with modest pride.

âSplendid,â said Miss Marple. âI meanâwell, you know what I mean. So you can tell me just exactly what happened from the moment she arrived.â

âIâd been taken into the house,â said Mrs. Bantry. âSnob status.â

âWho took you in?â

âOh, a willowy-looking young man. I think heâs Marina Greggâs secretary or something like that. He took me in, up the staircase. They were having a kind of reunion reception committee at the top of the stairs.â

âOn the landing?â said Miss Marple, surprised.

âOh, theyâve altered all that. Theyâve knocked the dressing room and bedroom down so that youâve got a big sort of alcove, practically a room. Itâs very attractive looking.â

âI see. And who was there?â

âMarina Gregg, being natural and charming, looking lovely in a sort of willowy grey-green dress. And the husband, of course, and that woman Ella Zielinsky I told you about. Sheâs their social secretary. And there were aboutâoh, eight or ten people I should think. Some of them I knew, some of them I didnât. Some I think were from the studiosâthe ones I didnât know. There was the vicar and Doctor Sandfordâs wife. He wasnât there himself until later, and Colonel and Mrs. Clittering and the High Sheriff. And I think there was someone from the press there. And a young woman with a big camera taking photographs.â

Miss Marple nodded.

âGo on.â

âHeather Badcock and her husband arrived just after me. Marina Gregg said nice things to me, then to somebody else, oh yes,âthe vicarâand then Heather Badcock and her husband came. Sheâs the secretary, you know, of the St. John Ambulance. Somebody said something about that and how hard she worked and how valuable she was. And Marina Gregg said some pretty things. Then Mrs. Badcock, who struck me, I must say, Jane, as rather a tiresome sort of woman, began some long rigmarole of how years before sheâd met Marina Gregg somewhere. She wasnât awfully tactful about it since she urged exactly how long ago and the year it was and everything like that. Iâm sure that actresses and film stars and people donât really like being reminded of the exact age they are. Still, she wouldnât think of that I suppose.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âshe wasnât the kind of woman who would have thought of that. Well?â

âWell, there was nothing particular in that except for the fact that Marina Gregg didnât do her usual stuff.â

âYou mean she was annoyed?â

âNo, no, I donât mean that. As a matter of fact Iâm not at all sure that she heard a word of it. She was staring, you know, over Mrs. Badcockâs shoulder and when Mrs. Badcock had finished her rather silly story of how she got out of a bed of sickness and sneaked out of the house to go and meet Marina and get her autograph, there was a sort of odd silence. Then I saw her face.â

âWhose face? Mrs. Badcockâs?â

âNo. Marina Greggâs. It was as though she hadnât heard a word the Badcock woman was saying. She was staring over her shoulder right at the wall opposite. Staring withâI canât explain it to youââ

âBut do try, Dolly,â said Miss Marple, âbecause I think perhaps that this might be important.â

âShe had a kind of frozen look,â said Mrs. Bantry, struggling with words, âas though sheâd seen something thatâoh dear me, how hard it is to describe things. Do you remember the Lady of Shalott? The mirror crackâd from side to side: âThe doom has come upon me,â cried the Lady of Shalott. Well, thatâs what she looked like. People laugh at Tennyson nowadays, but the Lady of Shalott always thrilled me when I was young and it still does.â

âShe had a frozen look,â repeated Miss Marple thoughtfully. âAnd she was looking over Mrs. Badcockâs shoulder at the wall. What was on the wall?â

âOh! A picture of some kind, I think,â said Mrs. Bantry. âYou know, Italian. I think it was a copy of a Bellini Madonna, but Iâm not sure. A picture where the Virgin is holding up a laughing child.â

Miss Marple frowned. âI canât see that a picture could give her that expression.â

âEspecially as she must see it every day,â agreed Mrs. Bantry.

âThere were people coming up the stairs still, I suppose?â

âOh yes, there were.â

âWho were they, do you remember?â

âYou mean she might have been looking at one of the people coming up the stairs?â

âWell, itâs possible, isnât it?â said Miss Marple.

âYesâof courseânow let me see. There was the mayor, all dressed up too with his chains and all, and his wife, and there was a man with long hair and one of those funny beards they wear nowadays. Quite a young man. And there was the girl with the camera. Sheâd taken her position on the stairs so as to get photos of people coming up and having their hands shaken by Marina, andâlet me see, two people I didnât know. Studio people, I think, and the Grices from Lower Farm. There may have been others, but thatâs all I can remember now.â

âDoesnât sound very promising,â said Miss Marple. âWhat happened next?â

âI think Jason Rudd nudged her or something because all of a sudden she seemed to pull herself together and she smiled at Mrs. Badcock, and she began to say all the usual things. You know, sweet, unspoilt, natural, charming, the usual bag of tricks.â

âAnd then?â

âAnd then Jason Rudd gave them drinks.â

âWhat kind of drinks?â

âDaiquiris, I think. He said they were his wifeâs favourites. He gave one to her and one to the Badcock woman.â

âThatâs very interesting,â said Miss Marple. âVery interesting indeed. And what happened after that?â

âI donât know, because I took a gaggle of women to look at the bathrooms. The next thing I knew was when the secretary woman came rushing along and said someone had been taken ill.â

Seven

The inquest, when it was held, was short and disappointing. Evidence of identification was given by the husband, and the only other evidence was medical. Heather Badcock had died as a result of four grains of hy-ethyl-dexyl-barbo-quinde-lorytate, or, let us be frank, some such name. There was no evidence to show how the drug was administered.

The inquest was adjourned for a fortnight.

After it was concluded, Detective-Inspector Frank Cornish joined Arthur Badcock.

âCould I have a word with you, Mr. Badcock?â

âOf course, of course.â

Arthur Badcock looked more like a chewed-out bit of string than ever. âI canât understand it,â he muttered. âI simply canât understand it.â

âIâve got a car here,â said Cornish. âWeâll drive back to your house, shall we? Nicer and more private there.â

âThank you, sir. Yes, yes, Iâm sure that would be much better.â

They drew up at the neat little blue-painted gate of No. 3 Arlington Close. Arthur Badcock led the way and the inspector followed him. He drew out his latchkey but before he had inserted it into the door, it was opened from inside. The woman who opened it stood back looking slightly embarrassed. Arthur Badcock looked startled.

âMary,â he said.

âI was just getting you ready some tea, Arthur. I thought youâd need it when you came back from the inquest.â

âThatâs very kind of you, Iâm sure,â said Arthur Badcock gratefully. âErââ he hesitated. âThis is Inspector Cornish, Mrs. Bain. Sheâs a neighbour of mine.â

âI see,â said Inspector Cornish.

âIâll get another cup,â said Mrs. Bain.

She disappeared and rather doubtfully Arthur Badcock showed the inspector into the bright cretonne-covered sitting room to the right of the hall.

âSheâs very kind,â said Arthur Badcock. âVery kind always.â

âYouâve known her a long time?â

âOh, no. Only since we came here.â

âYouâve been here two years, I believe, or is it three?â

âJust about three now,â said Arthur. âMrs. Bain only got here six months ago,â he explained. âHer son works near here and so, after her husbandâs death, she came down to live here and he boards with her.â

Mrs. Bain appeared at this point bringing the tray from the kitchen. She was a dark, rather intense-looking woman of about forty years of age. She had gipsy colouring that went with her dark hair and eyes. There was something a little odd about her eyes. They had a watchful look. She put down the tray on the table and Inspector Cornish said something pleasant and noncommittal. Something in him, some professional instinct, was on the alert. The watchful look in the womanâs eyes, the slight start she had given when Arthur introduced him had not passed unnoticed. He was familiar with that slight uneasiness in the presence of the kind of natural alarm and distrust as of those who might have offended unwittingly against the majesty of the law, but there was a second kind. And it was the second kind that he felt sure was present here. Mrs. Bain, he thought, had had at some time some connection with the police, something that had left her wary and ill at ease. He made a mental note to find out a little more about Mary Bain. Having set down the tea tray, and refused to partake herself saying she had to get home, she departed.

âSeems a nice woman,â said Inspector Cornish.

âYes, indeed. Sheâs very kind, a very good neighbour, a very sympathetic woman,â said Arthur Badcock.

âWas she a great friend of your wife?â

âNo. No, I wouldnât say that. They were neighbourly and on pleasant terms. Nothing special about it though.â

âI see. Now, Mr. Badcock, we want as much information as we can from you. The findings of the inquest have been a shock to you, I expect?â

âOh, they have, Inspector. Of course I realized that you must think something was wrong and I almost thought so myself because Heather has always been such a healthy woman. Practically never a dayâs illness. I said to myself, âThere must be something wrong.â But it seems so incredible, if you understand what I mean, Inspector. Really quite incredible. What is this stuffâthis Bi-ethyl-hexââ He came to a stop.

âThere is an easier name for it,â said the inspector. âItâs sold under a trade name, the trade name of Calmo. Ever come across it?â

Arthur Badcock shook his head, perplexed.

âItâs more used in America than here,â said the inspector. âThey prescribe it very freely over there, I understand.â

âWhatâs it for?â

âIt induces, or so I understand, a happy and tranquil state of mind,â said Cornish. âItâs prescribed for those under strain; suffering anxiety, depression, melancholy, sleeplessness and a good many other things. The properly prescribed dose is not dangerous, but overdoses are not to be advised. It would seem that your wife took something like six times the ordinary dose.â

Badcock stared. âHeather never took anything like that in her life,â he said. âIâm sure of it. She wasnât one for taking medicines anyway. She was never depressed or worried. She was one of the most cheerful women you could possibly imagine.â

The inspector nodded. âI see. And no doctor had prescribed anything of this kind for her?â

âNo. Certainly not. Iâm sure of that.â

âWho was her doctor?â

âShe was on Dr. Simâs panel, but I donât think sheâs been to him once since weâve been here.â

Inspector Cornish said thoughtfully, âSo she doesnât seem the kind of woman to have been likely to need such a thing, or to have taken it?â

âShe didnât, Inspector, Iâm sure she didnât. She must have taken it by a mistake of some kind.â

âItâs a very difficult mistake to imagine,â said Inspector Cornish. âWhat did she have to eat and drink that afternoon?â

âWell, let me see. For lunchââ

âYou neednât go back as far as lunch,â said Cornish. âGiven in such quantity the drug would act quickly and suddenly. Tea. Go back to tea.â

âWell, we went into the marquee in the grounds. It was a terrible scrum in there, but we managed in the end to get a bun each and a cup of tea. We finished it as quickly as possible because it was very hot in the marquee and we came out again.â

âAnd thatâs all she had, a bun and a cup of tea there?â

âThatâs right, sir.â

âAnd after that you went into the house. Is that right?â

âYes. The young lady came and said that Miss Marina Gregg would be very pleased to see my wife if she would like to come into the house. Of course my wife was delighted. She had been talking about Marina Gregg for days. Everybody was excited. Oh well, you know that, Inspector, as well as anyone does.â

âYes, indeed,â said Cornish. âMy wife was excited, too. Why, from all around people were paying their shilling to go in and see Gossington Hall and what had been done there, and hoped to catch a glimpse of Marina Gregg herself.â

âThe young lady took us into the house,â said Arthur Badcock, âand up the stairs. Thatâs where the party was. On the landing up there. But it looked quite different from what it used to look like, so I understand. It was more like a room, a sort of big hollowed out place with chairs and tables with drinks on them. There were about ten or twelve people there, I suppose.â

Inspector Cornish nodded. âAnd you were received thereâby whom?â

âBy Miss Marina Gregg herself. Her husband was with her. Iâve forgotten his name now.â

âJason Rudd,â said Inspector Cornish.

âOh, yes, not that I noticed him at first. Well, anyway, Miss Gregg greeted Heather very nicely and seemed very pleased to see her, and Heather was talking and telling a story of how sheâd once met Miss Gregg years ago in the West Indies and everything seemed as right as rain.â

âEverything seemed as right as rain,â echoed the inspector. âAnd then?â

âAnd then Miss Gregg said what would we have? And Miss Greggâs husband, Mr. Rudd, got Heather a kind of cocktail, a dickery or something like that.â

âA daiquiri.â

âThatâs right, sir. He brought two. One for her and one for Miss Gregg.â

âAnd you, what did you have?â

âI had a sherry.â

âI see. And you three stood there drinking together?â

âWell, not quite like that. You see there were more people coming up the stairs. There was the mayor, for one, and some other peopleâan American gentleman and lady, I thinkâso we moved off a bit.â

âAnd your wife drank her daiquiri then?â

âWell, no, not then, she didnât.â

âWell, if she didnât drink it then, when did she drink it?â

Arthur Badcock stood frowning in remembrance. âI thinkâshe set it down on one of the tables. She saw some friends there. I think it was someone to do with the St. John Ambulance whoâd driven over there from Much Benham or somewhere like that. Anyway they got to talking together.â

âAnd when did she drink her drink?â

Arthur Badcock again frowned. âIt was a little after that,â he said. âIt was getting rather more crowded by then. Somebody jogged Heatherâs elbow and her glass got spilt.â

âWhatâs that?â Inspector Cornish looked up sharply. âHer glass was spilt?â

âYes, thatâs how I remember itâ¦ Sheâd picked it up and I think she took a little sip and made rather a face. She didnât really like cocktails, you know, but all the same she wasnât going to be downed by that. Anyway, as she stood there, somebody jogged her elbow and the glass spilled over. It went down her dress and I think it went on Miss Greggâs dress too. Miss Gregg couldnât have been nicer. She said it didnât matter at all and it would make no stain and she gave Heather her handkerchief to wipe up Heatherâs dress, and then she passed over the drink she was holding and said, âHave this, I havenât touched it yet.ââ

âShe handed over her own drink, did she?â said the inspector. âYouâre quite sure of that?â

Arthur Badcock paused a moment while he thought. âYes, Iâm quite sure of that,â he said.

âAnd your wife took the drink?â

âWell, she didnât want to at first, sir. She said âOh no, I couldnât do thatâ and Miss Gregg laughed and said, âIâve had far too much to drink already.ââ

âAnd so your wife took that glass and did what with it?â

âShe turned away a little and drank it, rather quickly, I think. And then we walked a little way along the corridor looking at some of the pictures and the curtains. Lovely curtain stuff it was, like nothing weâd seen before. Then I met a pal of mine, Councillor Allcock, and I was just passing the time of day with him when I looked round and saw Heather was sitting on a chair looking rather odd, so I came to her and said, âWhatâs the matter?â She said she felt a little queer.â

âWhat kind of queerness?â

âI donât know, sir. I didnât have time. Her voice sounded very queer and thick and her head was rolling a little. All of a sudden she made a great half gasp and her head fell forward. She was dead, sir, dead.â

Eight

I

âSt. Mary Mead, you say?â Chief-Inspector Craddock looked up sharply.

The assistant commissioner was a little surprised.

âYes,â he said, âSt. Mary Mead. Why? Does itââ

âNothing really,â said Dermot Craddock.

âItâs quite a small place, I understand,â went on the other. âThough of course thereâs a great deal of building development going on there now. Practically all the way from St. Mary Mead to Much Benham, I understand. Hellingforth Studios,â he added, âare on the other side of St. Mary Mead, towards Market Basing.â He was still looking slightly inquiring. Dermot Craddock felt that he should perhaps explain.

âI know someone living there,â he said. âAt St. Mary Mead. An old lady. A very old lady by now. Perhaps sheâs dead, I donât know. But if notââ

The assistant commissioner took his subordinateâs point, or at any rate he thought he did.

âYes,â he said, âit would give you an âinâ in a way. One needs a bit of local gossip. The whole thing is a curious business.â

âThe County have called us in?â Dermot asked.

âYes. Iâve got the chief constableâs letter here. They donât seem to feel that itâs necessarily a local affair. The largest house in the neighbourhood, Gossington Hall, was recently sold as a residence for Marina Gregg, the film star, and her husband. Theyâre shooting a film at their new studios, at Hellingforth, in which she is starring. A fÃªte was held in the grounds in aid of the St. John Ambulance. The dead womanâher name is Mrs. Heather Badcockâwas the local secretary of this and had done most of the administrative work for the fÃªte. She seems to have been a competent, sensible person, well liked locally.â

âOne of those bossy women?â suggested Craddock.

âVery possibly,â said the assistant commissioner. âStill in my experience, bossy women seldom get themselves murdered. I canât think why not. When you come to think of it, itâs rather a pity. There was a record attendance at the fÃªte, it seems, good weather, everything running to plan. Marina Gregg and her husband held a kind of small private reception in Gossington Hall. About thirty or forty people attended this. The local notables, various people connected with the St. John Ambulance Association, several friends of Marina Gregg herself, and a few people connected with the studios. All very peaceful, nice and happy. But, fantastically and improbably, Heather Badcock was poisoned there.â

Dermot Craddock said thoughtfully, âAn odd place to choose.â

âThatâs the chief constableâs point of view. If anyone wanted to poison Heather Badcock, why choose that particular afternoon and circumstances? Hundreds of much simpler ways of doing it. A risky business anyway, you know, to slip a dose of deadly poison into a cocktail in the middle of twenty or thirty people milling about. Somebody ought to have seen something.â

âIt definitely was in the drink?â

âYes, it was definitely in the drink. We have the particulars here. One of those inexplicable names that doctors delight in, but actually a fairly common prescription in America.â

âIn America. I see.â

âOh, this country too. But these things are handed out much more freely on the other side of the Atlantic. Taken in small doses, beneficial.â

âSupplied on prescription or can it be bought freely?â

âNo. You have to have a prescription.â

âYes, itâs odd,â said Dermot. âHeather Badcock have any connection with these film people?â

âNone whatever.â

âAny member of her own family at this do?â

âHer husband.â

âHer husband,â said Dermot thoughtfully.

âYes, one always thinks that way,â agreed his superior officer, âbut the local manâCornish, I think his name isâdoesnât seem to think thereâs anything in that, although he does report that Badcock seemed ill at ease and nervous, but he agrees that respectable people often are like that when interviewed by the police. They appear to have been quite a devoted couple.â

âIn other words, the police there donât think itâs their pigeon. Well, it ought to be interesting. I take it Iâm going down there, sir?â

âYes. Better get there as soon as possible, Dermot. Who do you want with you?â

Dermot considered for a moment or two.

âTiddler, I think,â he said thoughtfully. âHeâs a good man and, whatâs more, heâs a film star. That might come in useful.â

The assistant commissioner nodded. âGood luck to you,â he said.

II

âWell!â exclaimed Miss Marple, going pink with pleasure and surprise. âThis is a surprise. How are you, my dear boyâthough youâre hardly a boy now. What are youâa Chief-Inspector or this new thing they call a Commander?â

Dermot explained his present rank.

âI suppose I need hardly ask what you are doing down here,â said Miss Marple. âOur local murder is considered worthy of the attention of Scotland Yard.â

âThey handed it over to us,â said Dermot, âand so, naturally, as soon as I got down here I came to headquarters.â

âDo you meanââ Miss Marple fluttered a little.

âYes, Aunty,â said Dermot disrespectfully. âI mean you.â

âIâm afraid,â said Miss Marple regretfully, âIâm very much out of things nowadays. I donât get out much.â

âYou get out enough to fall down and be picked up by a woman whoâs going to be murdered ten days later,â said Dermot Craddock.

Miss Marple made the kind of noise that would once have been written down as âtut-tut.â

âI donât know where you hear these things,â she said.

âYou should know,â said Dermot Craddock. âYou told me yourself that in a village everybody knows everything.

âAnd just off the record,â he added, âdid you think she was going to be murdered as soon as you looked at her?â

âOf course not, of course not,â exclaimed Miss Marple. âWhat an idea!â

âYou didnât see that look in her husbandâs eye that reminded you of Harry Simpson or David Jones or somebody youâve known years ago, and subsequently pushed his wife off a precipice.â

âNo, I did not!â said Miss Marple. âIâm sure Mr. Badcock would never do a wicked thing of that kind. At least,â she added thoughtfully, âIâm nearly sure.â

âBut human nature being what it isââ murmured Craddock, wickedly.

âExactly,â said Miss Marple. She added, âI daresay, after the first natural grief, he wonât miss her very muchâ¦.â

âWhy? Did she bully him?â

âOh no,â said Miss Marple, âbut I donât think that sheâwell, she wasnât a considerate woman. Kind, yes. Considerateâno. She would be fond of him and look after him when he was ill and see to his meals and be a good housekeeper, but I donât think she would everâwell, that she would ever even know what he might be feeling or thinking. That makes rather a lonely life for a man.â

âAh,â said Dermot, âand is his life less likely to be lonely in future?â

âI expect heâll marry again,â said Miss Marple. âPerhaps quite soon. And probably, which is such a pity, a woman of much the same type. I mean heâll marry someone with a stronger personality than his own.â

âAnyone in view?â asked Dermot.

âNot that I know of,â said Miss Marple. She added regretfully, âBut I know so little.â

âWell, what do you think?â urged Dermot Craddock. âYouâve never been backward in thinking things.â

âI think,â said Miss Marple, unexpectedly, âthat you ought to go and see Mrs. Bantry.â

âMrs. Bantry? Who is she? One of the film lot?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âshe lives in the East Lodge at Gossington. She was at the party that day. She used to own Gossington at one time. She and her husband, Colonel Bantry.â

âShe was at the party. And she saw something?â

âI think she must tell you herself what it was she saw. You maynât think it has any bearing on the matter, but I think it might beâjust might beâsuggestive. Tell her I sent you to her andâah yes, perhaps youâd better just mention the Lady of Shalott.â

Dermot Craddock looked at her with his head just slightly on one side.

âThe Lady of Shalott,â he said. âThose are the code words, are they?â

âI donât know that I should put it that way,â said Miss Marple, âbut it will remind her of what I mean.â

Dermot Craddock got up. âI shall be back,â he warned her.

âThat is very nice of you,â said Miss Marple. âPerhaps if you have time, you would come and have tea with me one day. If you still drink tea,â she added rather wistfully. âI know that so many young people nowadays only go out to drinks and things. They think that afternoon tea is a very outmoded affair.â

âIâm not as young as all that,â said Dermot Craddock. âYes, Iâll come and have tea with you one day. Weâll have tea and gossip and talk about the village. Do you know any of the film stars, by the way, or any of the studio lot?â

âNot a thing,â said Miss Marple, âexcept what I hear,â she added.

âWell, you usually hear a good deal,â said Dermot Craddock. âGoodbye. Itâs been very nice to see you.â

III

âOh, how do you do?â said Mrs. Bantry, looking slightly taken aback when Dermot Craddock had introduced himself and explained who he was. âHow very exciting to see you. Donât you always have sergeants with you?â

âIâve got a sergeant down here, yes,â said Craddock. âBut heâs busy.â

âOn routine inquiries?â asked Mrs. Bantry, hopefully.

âSomething of the kind,â said Dermot gravely.

âAnd Jane Marple sent you to me,â said Mrs. Bantry, as she ushered him into her small sitting room. âI was just arranging some flowers,â she explained. âItâs one of those days when flowers wonât do anything you want them to. They fall out, or stick up where they shouldnât stick up or wonât lie down where you want them to lie down. So Iâm thankful to have a distraction, and especially such an exciting one. So it really was murder, was it?â

âDid you think it was murder?â

âWell, it could have been an accident, I suppose,â said Mrs. Bantry. âNobodyâs said anything definite, officially, that is. Just that rather silly piece about no evidence to show by whom or in what way the poison was administered. But, of course, we all talk about it as murder.â

âAnd about who did it?â

âThatâs the odd part of it,â said Mrs. Bantry. âWe donât. Because I really donât see who can have done it.â

âYou mean as a matter of definite physical fact you donât see who could have done it?â

âWell, no, not that. I suppose it would have been difficult but not impossible. No, I mean, I donât see who could have wanted to do it.â

âNobody, you think, could have wanted to kill Heather Badcock?â

âWell, frankly,â said Mrs. Bantry, âI canât imagine anybody wanting to kill Heather Badcock. Iâve seen her quite a few times, on local things, you know. Girl guides and the St. John Ambulance, and various parish things. I found her a rather trying sort of woman. Very enthusiastic about everything and a bit given to over-statement, and just a little bit of a gusher. But you donât want to murder people for that. She was the kind of woman who in the old days if youâd seen her approaching the front door, youâd have hurried out to say to your parlourmaidâwhich was an institution we had in those days, and very useful tooâand told her to say ânot at homeâ or ânot at home to visitors,â if she had conscientious scruples about the truth.â

âYou mean that one might take pains to avoid Mrs. Badcock, but one would have no urge to remove her permanently.â

âVery well put,â said Mrs. Bantry, nodding approval.

âShe had no money to speak of,â mused Dermot, âso nobody stood to gain by her death. Nobody seems to have disliked her to the point of hatred. I donât suppose she was blackmailing anybody?â

âShe wouldnât have dreamed of doing such a thing, Iâm sure,â said Mrs. Bantry. âShe was the conscientious and high-principled kind.â

âAnd her husband wasnât having an affair with someone else?â

âI shouldnât think so,â said Mrs. Bantry. âI only saw him at the party. He looked like a bit of chewed string. Nice but wet.â

âDoesnât leave much, does it?â said Dermot Craddock. âOne falls back on the assumption she knew something.â

âKnew something?â

âTo the detriment of somebody else.â

Mrs. Bantry shook her head again. âI doubt it,â she said. âI doubt it very much. She struck me as the kind of woman who if she had known anything about anyone, couldnât have helped talking about it.â

âWell, that washes that out,â said Dermot Craddock, âso weâll come, if we may, to my reasons for coming to see you. Miss Marple, for whom I have the greatest admiration and respect, told me that I was to say to you the Lady of Shalott.â

âOh, that!â said Mrs. Bantry.

âYes,â said Craddock. âThat! Whatever it is.â

âPeople donât read much Tennyson nowadays,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âA few echoes come back to me,â said Dermot Craddock. âShe looked out to Camelot, didnât she?

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The Mirror crackâd from side to side;

âThe curse has come upon me,â cried

The Lady of Shalott.â

âExactly. She did,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âI beg your pardon. Who did? Did what?â

âLooked like that,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âWho looked like what?â

âMarina Gregg.â

âAh, Marina Gregg. When was this?â

âDidnât Jane Marple tell you?â

âShe didnât tell me anything. She sent me to you.â

âThatâs tiresome of her,â said Mrs. Bantry, âbecause she can always tell things better than I can. My husband always used to say that I was so abrupt that he didnât know what I was talking about. Anyway, it may have been only my fancy. But when you see anyone looking like that you canât help remembering it.â

âPlease tell me,â said Dermot Craddock.

âWell, it was at the party. I call it a party because what can one call things? But it was just a sort of reception up at the top of the stairs where theyâve made a kind of recess. Marina Gregg was there and her husband. They fetched some of us in. They fetched me, I suppose, because I once owned the house, and they fetched Heather Badcock and her husband because sheâd done all the running of the fÃªte, and the arrangements. And we happened to go up the stairs at about the same time, so I was standing there, you see, when I noticed it.â

âQuite. When you noticed what?â

âWell, Mrs. Badcock went into a long spiel as people do when they meet celebrities. You know, how wonderful it was, and what a thrill and theyâd always hoped to see them. And she went into a long story of how sheâd once met her years ago and how exciting it had been. And I thought, in my own mind, you know, what a bore it must be for these poor celebrities to have to say all the right things. And then I noticed that Marina Gregg wasnât saying the right things. She was just staring.â

âStaringâat Mrs. Badcock?â

âNoâno, it looked as though sheâd forgotten Mrs. Badcock altogether. I mean, I donât believe sheâd even heard what Mrs. Badcock was saying. She was just staring with what I call this Lady of Shalott look, as though sheâd seen something awful. Something frightening, something that she could hardly believe she saw and couldnât bear to see.â

âThe curse has come upon me?â suggested Dermot Craddock.

âYes, just that. Thatâs why I call it the Lady of Shalott look.â

âBut what was she looking at, Mrs. Bantry?â

âWell, I wish I knew,â said Mrs. Bantry.

âShe was at the top of the stairs, you say?â

âShe was looking over Mrs. Badcockâs headâno, more over one shoulder, I think.â

âStraight at the middle of the staircase?â

âIt might have been a little to one side.â

âAnd there were people coming up the staircase?â

âOh yes, I should think about five or six people.â

âWas she looking at one of these people in particular?â

âI canât possibly tell,â said Mrs. Bantry. âYou see, I wasnât facing that way. I was looking at her. My back was to the stairs. I thought perhaps she was looking at one of the pictures.â

âBut she must know the pictures quite well if sheâs living in the house.â

âYes, yes, of course. No, I suppose she must have been looking at one of the people. I wonder which.â

âWe have to try and find out,â said Dermot Craddock. âCan you remember at all who the people were?â

âWell, I know the mayor was one of them with his wife. There was someone who I think was a reporter, with red hair, because I was introduced to him later, but I canât remember his name. I never hear names. Galbraithâsomething like that. Then there was a big black man. I donât mean a negroâI just mean very dark, forceful looking. And an actress with him. A bit over-blonde and the minky kind. And old General Barnstaple from Much Benham. Heâs practically ga-ga now, poor old boy. I donât think he could have been anybodyâs doom. Oh! and the Grices from the farm.â

âThose are all the people you can remember?â

âWell, there may have been others. But you see I wasnâtâwell, I mean I wasnât noticing particularly. I know that the mayor and General Barnstaple and the Americans did arrive about that time. And there were people taking photographs. One I think was a local man, and there was a girl from London, an arty-looking girl with long hair and a rather large camera.â

âAnd you think it was one of those people who brought that look to Marina Greggâs face?â

âI didnât really think anything,â said Mrs. Bantry with complete frankness. âI just wondered what on earth made her look like that and then I didnât think of it anymore. But afterwards one remembers about these things. But of course,â added Mrs. Bantry with honesty, âI may have imagined it. After all, she may have had a sudden toothache or a safety pin run into her or a sudden violent colic. The sort of thing where you try to go on as usual and not to show anything, but your face canât help looking awful.â

Dermot Craddock laughed. âIâm glad to see youâre a realist, Mrs. Bantry,â he said. âAs you say, it may have been something of that kind. But itâs certainly just one interesting little fact that might be a pointer.â

He shook his head and departed to present his official credentials in Much Benham.

Nine

I

âSo locally youâve drawn a blank?â said Craddock, offering his cigarette case to Frank Cornish.

âCompletely,â said Cornish. âNo enemies, no quarrels, on good terms with her husband.â

âNo question of another woman or another man?â

The other shook his head. âNothing of that kind. No hint of scandal anywhere. She wasnât what youâd call the sexy kind. She was on a lot of committees and things like that and there were some small local rivalries, but nothing beyond that.â

âThere wasnât anyone else the husband wanted to marry? No one in the office where he worked?â

âHeâs in Biddle & Russell, the estate agents and valuers. Thereâs Florrie West with adenoids, and Miss Grundle, who is at least fifty and as plain as a haystackânothing much there to excite a man. Though for all that I shouldnât be surprised if he did marry again soon.â

Craddock looked interested.

âA neighbour,â explained Cornish. âA widow. When I went back with him from the inquest sheâd gone in and was making him tea and looking after him generally. He seemed surprised and grateful. If you ask me, sheâs made up her mind to marry him, but he doesnât know it yet, poor chap.â

âWhat sort of a woman is she?â

âGood looking,â admitted the other. âNot young but handsome in a gipsyish sort of way. High colour. Dark eyes.â

âWhatâs her name?â

âBain. Mrs. Mary Bain. Mary Bain. Sheâs a widow.â

âWhatâd her husband do?â

âNo idea. Sheâs got a son working near here who lives with her. She seems a quiet, respectable woman. All the same, Iâve a feeling Iâve seen her before.â He looked at his watch. âTen to twelve. Iâve made an appointment for you at Gossington Hall at twelve oâclock. Weâd best be going.â

II

Dermot Craddockâs eyes, which always looked gently inattentive, were in actuality making a close mental note of the features of Gossington Hall. Inspector Cornish had taken him there, had delivered him over to a young man called Hailey Preston, and had then taken a tactful leave. Since then, Dermot Craddock had been gently nodding at Mr. Preston. Hailey Preston, he gathered, was a kind of public relations or personal assistant, or private secretary, or more likely, a mixture of all three, to Jason Rudd. He talked. He talked freely and at length without much modulation and managing miraculously not to repeat himself too often. He was a pleasant young man, anxious that his own views, reminiscent of those of Dr. Pangloss that all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds, should be shared by anyone in whose company he happened to be. He said several times and in different ways what a terrible shame this had been, how worried everyone had been, how Marina was absolutely prostrated, how Mr. Rudd was more upset than he could possibly say, how it absolutely beat anything that a thing like that should happen, didnât it? Possibly there might have been some kind of allergy to some particular kind of substance? He just put that forward as an ideaâallergies were extraordinary things. Chief-Inspector Craddock was to count on every possible co-operation that Hellingforth Studios or any of their staff could give. He was to ask any questions he wanted, go anywhere he liked. If they could help in anyway they would do so. They all had had the greatest respect for Mrs. Badcock and appreciated her strong social sense and the valuable work she had done for the St. John Ambulance Association.

He then started again, not in the same words but using the same motifs. No one could have been more eagerly co-operative. At the same time he endeavoured to convey how very far this was from the cellophane world of studios; and Mr. Jason Rudd and Miss Marina Gregg, or any of the people in the house who surely were going to do their utmost to help in anyway they possibly could. Then he nodded gently some forty-four times. Dermot Craddock took advantage of the pause to say:

âThank you very much.â

It was said quietly but with a kind of finality that brought Mr. Hailey Preston up with a jerk. He said:

âWellââ and paused inquiringly.

âYou said I might ask questions?â

âSure. Sure. Fire ahead.â

âIs this the place where she died?â

âMrs. Badcock?â

âMrs. Badcock. Is this the place?â

âYes, sure. Right here. At least, well actually I can show you the chair.â

They were standing on the landing recess. Hailey Preston walked a short way along the corridor and pointed out a rather phony-looking oak armchair.

âShe was sitting right there,â he said. âShe said she didnât feel well. Someone went to get her something, and then she just died, right there.â

âI see.â

âI donât know if sheâd seen a physician lately. If sheâd been warned that she had anything wrong with her heartââ

âShe had nothing wrong with her heart,â said Dermot Craddock. âShe was a healthy woman. She died of six times the maximum dose of a substance whose official name I will not try to pronounce but which I understand is generally known as Calmo.â

âI know, I know,â said Hailey Preston. âI take it myself sometimes.â

âIndeed? Thatâs very interesting. You find it has a good effect?â

âMarvellous. Marvellous. It bucks you up and it soothes you down, if you understand what I mean. Naturally,â he added, âyou would have to take it in the proper dosage.â

âWould there be supplies of this substance in the house?â

He knew the answer to the question, but he put it as though he did not. Hailey Prestonâs answer was frankness itself.

âLoads of it, I should say. Thereâll be a bottle of it in most of the bathroom cupboards here.â

âWhich doesnât make our task easier.â

âOf course,â said Hailey Preston, âshe might have used the stuff herself and taken a dose, and as I say, had an allergy.â

Craddock looked unconvincedâHailey Preston sighed and said:

âYouâre quite definite about the dosage?â

âOh yes. It was a lethal dose and Mrs. Badcock did not take any such things herself. As far as we can make out the only things she ever took were bicarbonate of soda or aspirin.â

Hailey Preston shook his head and said, âThat sure gives us a problem. Yes, it sure does.â

âWhere did Mr. Rudd and Miss Gregg receive their guests?â

âRight here.â Hailey Preston went to the spot at the top of the stairs.

Chief-Inspector Craddock stood beside him. He looked at the wall opposite him. In the centre was an Italian Madonna and child. A good copy, he presumed, of some well-known picture. The blue-robed Madonna held aloft the infant Jesus and both child and mother were laughing. Little groups of people stood on either side, their eyes upraised to the child. One of the more pleasing Madonnas, Dermot Craddock thought. To the right and left of this picture were two narrow windows. The whole effect was very charming but it seemed to him that there was emphatically nothing there that would cause a woman to look like the Lady of Shalott whose doom had come upon her.

âPeople, of course, were coming up the stairs?â he asked.

âYes. They came in driblets, you know. Not too many at once. I shepherded up some, Ella Zielinsky, thatâs Mr. Ruddâs secretary, brought some of the others. We wanted to make it all pleasant and informal.â

âWere you here yourself at the time Mrs. Badcock came up?â

âIâm ashamed to tell you, Chief-Inspector Craddock, that I just canât remember. I had a list of names, I went out and I shepherded people in. I introduced them, saw to drinks, then Iâd go out and come up with the next batch. At the time I didnât know this Mrs. Badcock by sight, and she wasnât one of the ones on my list to bring up.â

âWhat about a Mrs. Bantry?â

âAh yes, sheâs the former owner of this place, isnât she? I believe she, and Mrs. Badcock and her husband, did come up about the same time.â He paused. âAnd the mayor came just about them. He had a big chain on and a wife with yellow hair, wearing royal blue with frills. I remember all of them. I didnât pour drinks for any of them because I had to go down and bring up the next lot.â

âWho did pour drinks for them?â

âWhy, I canât exactly say. There were three or four of us on duty. I know I went down the stairs just as the mayor was coming up.â

âWho else was on the stairs as you went down, if you can remember?â

âJim Galbraith, one of the newspaper boys who was covering this, three or four others whom I didnât know. There were a couple of photographers, one of the locals, I donât remember his name, and an arty girl from London, who rather specialises in queer angle shots. Her camera was set right up in that corner so that she could get a view of Miss Gregg receiving. Ah, now let me think, I rather fancy that that was when Ardwyck Fenn arrived.â

âAnd who is Ardwyck Fenn?â

Hailey Preston looked shocked. âHeâs a big shot, Chief-Inspector. A very big shot in the television and moving picture world. We didnât even know he was in this country.â

âHis turning up was a surprise?â

âIâll say it was,â said Preston. âNice of him to come and quite unexpected.â

âWas he an old friend of Miss Greggâs and Mr. Ruddâs?â

âHe was an old friend of Marinaâs a good many years ago when she was married to her second husband. I donât know how well Jason knew him.â

âAnyway, it was a pleasant surprise when he arrived?â

âSure it was. We were all delighted.â

Craddock nodded and passed from that to other subjects. He made meticulous inquiries about the drinks, their ingredients, how they were served, who served them, what servants and hired servants were on duty. The answers seemed to be, as Inspector Cornish had already hinted was the case that, although anyone of thirty people could have poisoned Heather Badcock with the utmost ease, yet at the same time anyone of the thirty might have been seen doing so! It was, Craddock reflected, a big chance to take.

âThank you,â he said at last. âNow I would like, if I may, to speak to Miss Marina Gregg.â

Hailey Preston shook his head.

âIâm sorry,â he said. âI really am sorry but thatâs right out of the question.â

Craddockâs eyebrows rose.

âSurely!â

âSheâs prostrated. Sheâs absolutely prostrated. Sheâs got her own physician here looking after her. He wrote out a certificate. Iâve got it here. Iâll show it to you.â

Craddock took it and read it.

âI see,â he said. He asked, âDoes Marina Gregg always have a physician in attendance?â

âTheyâre very high strung, all these actors and actresses. Itâs a big strain, this life. Itâs usually considered desirable in the case of the big shots that they should have a physician who understands their constitution and their nerves. Maurice Gilchrist has a very big reputation. Heâs looked after Miss Gregg for many years now. Sheâs had a great deal of illness, as you may have read, in the last four years. She was hospitalized for a very long time. Itâs only about a year ago that she got her strength and health back.â

âI see.â

Hailey Preston seemed relieved that Craddock was not making anymore protests.

âYouâll want to see Mr. Rudd?â he suggested. âHeâll beââ he looked at his watch, ââheâll be back from the studios in about ten minutes if thatâs all right for you.â

âThatâll do admirably,â said Craddock. âIn the meantime is Dr. Gilchrist in the house?â

âHe is.â

âThen Iâd like to talk to him.â

âWhy, certainly. Iâll fetch him right away.â

The young man bustled away. Dermot Craddock stood thoughtfully at the top of the stairs. Of course this frozen look that Mrs. Bantry had described might have been entirely Mrs. Bantryâs imagination. She was, he thought, a woman who would jump to conclusions. At the same time he thought it quite likely that the conclusion to which she had jumped was a just one. Without going so far as to look like the Lady of Shalott seeing doom coming down upon her, Marina Gregg might have seen something that vexed or annoyed her. Something that had caused her to have been negligent to a guest to whom she was talking. Somebody had come up those stairs, perhaps, who could be described as an unexpected guestâan unwelcome guest?

He turned at the sound of footsteps. Hailey Preston was back and with him was Dr. Maurice Gilchrist. Dr. Gilchrist was not at all as Dermot Craddock had imagined him. He had no suave bedside manner, neither was he theatrical in appearance. He seemed on the face of it a blunt, hearty, matter-of-fact man. He was dressed in tweeds, slightly florid tweeds to the English idea. He had a thatch of brown hair and observant, keen dark eyes.

âDoctor Gilchrist? I am Chief-Inspector Dermot Craddock. May I have a word or two with you in private?â

The doctor nodded. He turned along the corridor and went along it almost to the end, then he pushed the door open and invited Craddock to enter.

âNo one will disturb us here,â he said.

It was obviously the doctorâs own bedroom, a very comfortably appointed one. Dr. Gilchrist indicated a chair and then sat down himself.

âI understand,â said Craddock, âthat Miss Marina Gregg, according to you, is unable to be interviewed. Whatâs the matter with her, Doctor?â

Gilchrist shrugged his shoulders very slightly.

âNerves,â he said. âIf you were to ask her questions now sheâd be in a state bordering on hysteria within ten minutes. I canât permit that. If you like to send your police doctor to see me, Iâd be willing to give him my views. She was unable to be present at the inquest for the same reason.â

âHow long,â asked Craddock, âis such a state of things likely to continue?â

Dr. Gilchrist looked at him and smiled. It was a likeable smile.

âIf you want my opinion,â he said, âa human opinion, that is, not a medical one, anytime within the next forty-eight hours, and sheâll be not only willing, but asking to see you! Sheâll be wanting to ask questions. Sheâll be wanting to answer your questions. Theyâre like that!â He leaned forward. âIâd like to try and make you understand if I can, Chief-Inspector, a little bit what makes these people act the way they do. The motion picture life is a life of continuous strain, and the more successful you are, the greater the strain. You live always, all day, in the public eye. When youâre on location, when youâre working, itâs hard monotonous work with long hours. Youâre there in the morning, you sit and you wait. You do your small bit, the bit thatâs being shot over and over again. If youâre rehearsing on the stage youâd be rehearsing as likely as not a whole act, or at any rate a part of an act. The thing would be in sequence, it would be more or less human and credible. But when youâre shooting a picture everythingâs taken out of sequence. Itâs a monotonous, grinding business. Itâs exhausting. You live in luxury, of course, you have soothing drugs, you have baths and creams and powders and medical attention, you have relaxations and parties and people, but youâre always in the public eye. You canât enjoy yourself quietly. You canât reallyâever relax.â

âI can understand that,â said Dermot. âYes, I can understand.â

âAnd thereâs another thing,â went on Gilchrist. âIf you adopt this career, and especially if youâre any good at it, you are a certain kind of person. Youâre a personâor so Iâve found in my experienceâwith a skin too fewâa person who is plagued the whole time with diffidence. A terrible feeling of inadequacy, of apprehension that you canât do whatâs required of you. People say that actors and actresses are vain. That isnât true. Theyâre not conceited about themselves; theyâre obsessed with themselves, yes, but they need reassurance the whole time. They must be continually reassured. Ask Jason Rudd. Heâll tell you the same. You have to make them feel they can do it, to assure them they can do it, take them over and over again over the same thing encouraging them the whole time until you get the effect you want. But they are always doubtful of themselves. And that makes them, in an ordinary human, unprofessional word: nervy. Damned nervy! A mass of nerves. And the worse their nerves are the better they are at the job.â

âThatâs interesting,â said Craddock. âVery interesting.â He paused, adding: âThough I donât see quite why youââ

âIâm trying to make you understand Marina Gregg,â said Maurice Gilchrist. âYouâve seen her pictures, no doubt.â

âSheâs a wonderful actress,â said Dermot, âwonderful. She has a personality, a beauty, a sympathy.â

âYes,â said Gilchrist, âshe has all those, and sheâs had to work like the devil to produce the effects that she has produced. In the process her nerves get shot to pieces, and sheâs not actually a strong woman physically. Not as strong as you need to be. Sheâs got one of those temperaments that swing to and fro between despair and rapture. She canât help it. Sheâs made that way. Sheâs suffered a great deal in her life. A large part of the suffering has been her own fault, but some of it hasnât. None of her marriages has been happy, except, Iâd say, this last one. Sheâs married to a man now who loves her dearly and whoâs loved her for years. Sheâs sheltering in that love and sheâs happy in it. At least, at the moment sheâs happy in it. One canât say how long all that will last. The trouble with her is that either she thinks that at last sheâs got to that spot or place or that moment in her life where everythingâs like a fairy tale come true, that nothing can go wrong, that sheâll never be unhappy again; or else sheâs down in the dumps, a woman whose life is ruined, whoâs never known love and happiness and who never will again.â He added dryly, âIf she could only stop halfway between the two itâd be wonderful for her; and the world would lose a fine actress.â

He paused, but Dermot Craddock did not speak. He was wondering why Maurice Gilchrist was saying what he did. Why this close detailed analysis of Marina Gregg? Gilchrist was looking at him. It was as though he was urging Dermot to ask one particular question. Dermot wondered very much what the question was that he ought to ask. He said at last slowly, with the air of one feeling his way:

âSheâs been very much upset by this tragedy happening here?â

âYes,â said Gilchrist, âshe has.â

âAlmost unnaturally so?â

âThat depends,â said Dr. Gilchrist.

âOn what does it depend?â

âOn her reason for being so upset.â

âI suppose,â said Dermot, feeling his way, âthat it was a shock, a sudden death happening like that in the midst of a party.â

He saw very little response in the face opposite him âOr might it,â he said, âbe something more than that?â

âYou canât tell, of course,â said Dr. Gilchrist, âhow people are going to react. You canât tell however well you know them. They can always surprise you. Marina might have taken this in her stride. Sheâs a soft-hearted creature. She might say, âOh, poor, poor woman, how tragic. I wonder how it could have happened.â She could have been sympathetic without really caring. After all deaths do occasionally occur at studio parties. Or she might, if there wasnât anything very interesting going on, chooseâchoose unconsciously, mind youâto dramatize herself over it. She might decide to throw a scene. Or there might be some quite different reason.â

Dermot decided to take the bull by the horns. âI wish,â he said, âyou would tell me what you really think?â

âI donât know,â said Dr. Gilchrist. âI canât be sure.â He paused and then said, âThereâs professional etiquette, you know. Thereâs the relationship between doctor and patient.â

âShe has told you something?â

âI donât think I could go as far as that.â

âDid Marina Gregg know this woman, Heather Badcock? Had she met her before?â

âI donât think she knew her from Adam,â said Dr. Gilchrist. âNo. Thatâs not the trouble. If you ask me itâs nothing to do with Heather Badcock.â

Dermot said, âThis stuff, this Calmo. Does Marina Gregg ever use it herself?â

âLives on it, pretty well,â said Dr. Gilchrist. âSo does everyone else around here,â he added. âElla Zielinsky takes it, Hailey Preston takes it, half the boiling takes itâitâs the fashion at this moment. Theyâre all much the same, these things. People get tired of one and they try a new one that comes out and they think itâs wonderful, and that it makes all the difference.â

âAnd does it make all the difference?â

âWell,â said Gilchrist, âit makes a difference. It does its work. It calms you or it peps you up, makes you feel you could do things which otherwise you might fancy that you couldnât. I donât prescribe them more than I can help, but theyâre not dangerous taken properly. They help people who canât help themselves.â

âI wish I knew,â said Dermot Craddock, âwhat it is that you are trying to tell me.â

âIâm trying to decide,â said Gilchrist, âwhat is my duty. There are two duties. Thereâs the duty of a doctor to his patient. What his patient says to him is confidential and must be kept so. But thereâs another point of view. You can fancy that there is a danger to a patient. You have to take steps to avoid that danger.â

He stopped. Craddock looked at him and waited.

âYes,â said Dr. Gilchrist. âI think I know what I must do. I must ask you, Chief-Inspector Craddock, to keep what I am telling you confidential. Not from your colleagues, of course. But as far as regards the outer world, particularly in the house here. Do you agree?â

âI canât bind myself,â said Craddock. âI donât know what will arise. In general terms, yes, I agree. That is to say, I imagine that any piece of information you gave me I should prefer to keep to myself and my colleagues.â

âNow listen,â said Gilchrist, âthis maynât mean anything at all. Women say anything when theyâre in the state of nerves Marina Gregg is now. Iâm telling you something which she said to me. There may be nothing in it at all.â

âWhat did she say?â asked Craddock.

âShe broke down after this thing happened. She sent for me. I gave her a sedative. I stayed there beside her, holding her hand, telling her to calm down, telling her things were going to be all right. Then, just before she went off into unconsciousness she said, âIt was meant for me, Doctor.ââ

Craddock stared. âShe said that, did she? And afterwardsâthe next day?â

âShe never alluded to it again. I raised the point once. She evaded it. She said, âOh, you must have made a mistake. Iâm sure I never said anything like that. I expect I was half doped at the time.ââ

âBut you think she meant it?â

âShe meant it all right,â said Gilchrist. âThatâs not to say that it is so,â he added warningly. âWhether someone meant to poison her or meant to poison Heather Badcock I donât know. Youâd probably know better than I would. All I do say is that Marina Gregg definitely thought and believed that that dose was meant for her.â

Craddock was silent for some moments. Then he said, âThank you, Doctor Gilchrist. I appreciate what you have told me and I realize your motive. If what Marina Gregg said to you was founded on fact it may mean, may it not, that there is still danger to her?â

âThatâs the point,â said Gilchrist. âThatâs the whole point.â

âHave you any reason to believe that that might be so?â

âNo, I havenât.â

âNo idea what her reason for thinking so was?â

âNo.â

âThank you.â

Craddock got up. âJust one thing more, Doctor. Do you know if she said the same thing to her husband?â

Slowly Gilchrist shook his head. âNo,â he said, âIâm quite sure of that. She didnât tell her husband.â

His eyes met Dermotâs for a few moments then he gave a brief nod of his head and said, âYou donât want me anymore? All right. Iâll go back and have a look at the patient. You shall talk to her as soon as itâs possible.â

He left the room and Craddock remained, pursing his lips up and whistling very softly beneath his breath.

Ten

âJasonâs back now,â said Hailey Preston. âWill you come with me, Chief-Inspector, Iâll take you to his room.â

The room which Jason Rudd used partly for office and partly for a sitting room, was on the first floor. It was comfortably but not luxuriously furnished. It was a room which had little personality and no indication of the private tastes or predilection of its user. Jason Rudd rose from the desk at which he was sitting, and came forward to meet Dermot. It was wholly unnecessary, Dermot thought, for the room to have a personality; the user of it had so much. Hailey Preston had been an efficient and voluble gasbag. Gilchrist had force and magnetism. But here was a man whom, as Dermot immediately admitted to himself, it would not be easy to read. In the course of his career, Craddock had met and summed up many people. By now he was fully adept in realizing the potentialities and very often reading the thoughts of most of the people with whom he came in contact. But he felt at once that one would be able to gauge only as much of Jason Ruddâs thoughts as Jason Rudd himself permitted. The eyes, deepset and thoughtful, perceived but would not easily reveal. The ugly, rugged head spoke of an excellent intellect. The clownâs face could repel you or attract you. Here, thought Dermot Craddock to himself, is where I sit and listen and take very careful notes.

âSorry, Chief-Inspector, if youâve had to wait for me. I was held up by some small complication over at the Studios. Can I offer you a drink?â

âNot just now, thank you, Mr. Rudd.â

The clownâs face suddenly crinkled into a kind of ironic amusement.

âNot the house to take a drink in, is that what youâre thinking?â

âAs a matter of fact it wasnât what I was thinking.â

âNo, no I suppose not. Well, Chief-Inspector, what do you want to know? What can I tell you?â

âMr. Preston has answered very adequately all the questions I have put to him.â

âAnd that has been helpful to you?â

âNot as helpful as I could wish.â

Jason Rudd looked inquiring.

âIâve also seen Dr. Gilchrist. He informs me that your wife is not yet strong enough to be asked questions.â

âMarina,â said Jason Rudd, âis very sensitive. Sheâs subject, frankly, to nervous storms. And murder at such close quarters is, as you will admit, likely to produce a nerve storm.â

âIt is not a pleasant experience,â Dermot Craddock agreed, dryly.

âIn any case I doubt if there is anything my wife could tell you that you could not learn equally well from me. I was standing beside her when the thing happened, and frankly I would say that I am a better observer than my wife.â

âThe first question I would like to ask,â said Dermot, â(and it is a question that you have probably answered already but for all that I would like to ask again), had you or your wife any previous acquaintance with Heather Badcock?â

Jason Rudd shook his head.

âNone whatever. I certainly have never seen the woman before in my life. I had two letters from her on behalf of the St. John Ambulance Association, but I had not met her personally until about five minutes before her death.â

âBut she claimed to have met your wife?â

Jason Rudd nodded.

âYes, some twelve or thirteen years ago, I gather. In Bermuda. Some big garden party in aid of ambulances, which Marina opened for them, I think, and Mrs. Badcock, as soon as she was introduced, burst into some long rigmarole of how although she was in bed with flu, she had got up and had managed to come to this affair and had asked for and got my wifeâs autograph.â

Again the ironical smile crinkled his face.

âThat, I may say, is a very common occurrence, Chief-Inspector. Large mobs of people are usually lined up to obtain my wifeâs autograph and it is a moment that they treasure and remember. Quite understandably, it is an event in their lives. Equally naturally it is not likely that my wife would remember one out of a thousand or so autograph hunters. She had, quite frankly, no recollection of ever having seen Mrs. Badcock before.â

âThat I can well understand,â said Craddock. âNow I have been told, Mr. Rudd, by an onlooker that your wife was slightly distraite during the few moments that Heather Badcock was speaking to her. Would you agree that such was the case?â

âVery possibly,â said Jason Rudd. âMarina is not particularly strong. She was, of course, used to what I may describe as her public social work, and could carry out her duties in that line almost automatically. But towards the end of a long day she was inclined occasionally to flag. This may have been such a moment. I did not, I may say, observe anything of the kind myself. No, wait a minute, that is not quite true. I do remember that she was a little slow in making her reply to Mrs. Badcock. In fact I think I nudged her very gently in the ribs.â

âSomething had perhaps distracted her attention?â said Dermot.

âPossibly, but it may have been just a momentary lapse through fatigue.â

Dermot Craddock was silent for a few minutes. He looked out of the window where the view was the somewhat sombre one over the woods surrounding Gossington Hall. He looked at the pictures on the walls, and finally he looked at Jason Rudd. Jason Ruddâs face was attentive but nothing more. There was no guide to his feelings. He appeared courteous and completely at ease, but he might, Craddock thought, be actually nothing of the kind. This was a man of very high mental calibre. One would not, Dermot thought, get anything out of him that he was not prepared to say unless one put oneâs cards on the table. Dermot took his decision. He would do just that.

âHas it occurred to you, Mr. Rudd, that the poisoning of Heather Badcock may have been entirely accidental? That the real intended victim was your wife?â

There was a silence. Jason Ruddâs face did not change its expression. Dermot waited. Finally Jason Rudd gave a deep sigh and appeared to relax.

âYes,â he said quietly, âyouâre quite right, Chief-Inspector. I have been sure of it all along.â

âBut you have said nothing to that effect, not to Inspector Cornish, not at the inquest?â

âNo.â

âWhy not, Mr. Rudd?â

âI could answer you very adequately by saying that it was merely a belief on my part unsupported by any kind of evidence. The facts that led me to deduce it, were facts equally accessible to the law which was probably better qualified to decide than I was. I knew nothing about Mrs. Badcock personally. She might have enemies, someone might have decided to administer a fatal dose to her on this particular occasion, though it would seem a very curious and far-fetched decision. But it might have been chosen conceivably for the reason that at a public occasion of this kind the issues would be more confused, the number of strangers present would be considerable and just for that reason it would be more difficult to bring home to the person in question the commission of such a crime. All that is true, but I am going to be frank with you, Chief-Inspector. That was not my reason for keeping silent. I will tell you what the reason was. I didnât want my wife to suspect for one moment that it was she who had narrowly escaped dying by poison.â

âThank you for your frankness,â said Dermot. âNot that I quite understand your motive in keeping silent.â

âNo? Perhaps it is a little difficult to explain. You would have to know Marina to understand. She is a person who badly needs happiness and security. Her life has been highly successful in the material sense. She has won renown artistically but her personal life has been one of deep unhappiness. Again and again she has thought that she has found happiness and was wildly and unduly elated thereby, and has had her hopes dashed to the ground. She is incapable, Mr. Craddock, of taking a rational, prudent view of life. In her previous marriages she has expected, like a child reading a fairy story, to live happy ever afterwards.â

Again the ironic smile changed the ugliness of the clownâs face into a strange, sudden sweetness.

âBut marriage is not like that, Chief-Inspector. There can be no rapture continued indefinitely. We are fortunate indeed if we can achieve a life of quiet content, affection, and serene and sober happiness.â He added. âPerhaps you are married, Chief-Inspector?â

Dermot Craddock shook his head.

âI have not so far that good, or bad fortune,â he murmured.

âIn our world, the moving picture world, marriage is a fully occupational hazard. Film stars marry often. Sometimes happily, sometimes disastrously, but seldom permanently. In that respect I should not say that Marina has had any undue cause to complain, but to one of her temperament things of that kind matter very deeply. She imbued herself with the idea that she was unlucky, that nothing would ever go right for her. She has always been looking desperately for the same things, love, happiness, affection, security. She was wildly anxious to have children. According to some medical opinion, the very strength of that anxiety frustrated its object. One very celebrated physician advised the adoption of a child. He said it is often the case that when an intense desire for maternity is assuaged by having adopted a baby, a child is born naturally shortly afterwards. Marina adopted no less than three children. For a time she got a certain amount of happiness and serenity, but it was not the real thing. You can imagine her delight when eleven years ago she found she was going to have a child. Her pleasure and delight were quite indescribable. She was in good health and the doctors assured her that there was every reason to believe that everything would go well. As you may or may not know, the result was tragedy. The child, a boy, was born mentally deficient, imbecile. The result was disastrous. Marina had a complete breakdown and was severely ill for years, confined to a sanatorium. Though her recovery was slow she did recover. Shortly after that we married and she began once more to take an interest in life and to feel that perhaps she could be happy. It was difficult at first for her to get a worthwhile contract for a picture. Everyone was inclined to doubt whether her health would stand the strain. I had to battle for that.â Jason Ruddâs lips set firmly together. âWell, the battle was successful. We have started shooting the picture. In the meantime we bought this house and set about altering it. Only about a fortnight ago Marina was saying to me how happy she was, and how she felt at last she was going to be able to settle down to a happy home life, her troubles behind her. I was a little nervous because, as usual, her expectations were too optimistic. But there was no doubt that she was happy. Her nervous symptoms disappeared, there was a calmness and a quietness about her that I had never seen before. Everything was going well untilââ He paused. His voice became suddenly bitter. âUntil this happened! That woman had to dieâhere! That in itself was shock enough. I couldnât riskâI was determined not to riskâMarinaâs knowing that an attempt had been made on her life. That would have been a second, perhaps fatal, shock. It might have precipitated another mental collapse.â

He looked directly at Dermot.

âDo you understandânow?â

âI see your point of view,â said Craddock, âbut forgive me, isnât there one aspect that you are neglecting? You give me your conviction that an attempt was made to poison your wife. Doesnât that danger still remain? If a poisoner does not succeed, isnât it likely that the attempt may be repeated?â

âNaturally Iâve considered that,â said Jason Rudd, âbut I am confident that, being forewarned so to speak, I can take all reasonable precautions for my wifeâs safety. I shall watch over her and arrange that others shall watch over her. The great thing, I feel, is that she herself should not know that any danger threatened her.â

âAnd you think,â said Dermot cautiously, âthat she does not know?â

âOf course not. She has no idea.â

âYouâre sure of that?â

âCertain. Such an idea would never occur to her.â

âBut it occurred to you,â Dermot pointed out.

âThatâs very different,â said Jason Rudd. âLogically it was the only solution. But my wife isnât logical, and to begin with she could not possibly imagine that anyone would want to do away with her. Such a possibility would simply not occur to her mind.â

âYou may be right,â said Dermot slowly, âbut that leaves us now with several other questions. Again, let me put this bluntly. Whom do you suspect?â

âI canât tell you.â

âExcuse me, Mr. Rudd, do you mean by that you canât or that you wonât?â

Jason Rudd spoke quickly. âCanât. Canât every time. It seems to me just as impossible as it would seem to her that anyone would dislike her enoughâshould have a sufficient grudge against herâto do such a thing. On the other hand, on the sheer, downright evidence of the facts, that is exactly what must have occurred.â

âWill you outline the facts to me as you see them?â

âIf you like. The circumstances are quite clear. I poured out two daiquiri cocktails from an already prepared jug. I took them to Marina and Mrs. Badcock. What Mrs. Badcock did I do not know. She moved on, I presume, to speak to someone she knew. My wife had her drink in her hand. At that moment the mayor and his wife were approaching. She put down her glass, as yet untouched, and greeted them. Then there were more greetings. An old friend weâd not seen for years, some other locals and one or two people from the studios. During that time the glass containing the cocktail stood on the table which was situated at that time behind us since we had both moved forward a little to the top of the stairs. One or two photographs were taken of my wife talking to the mayor, which we hoped would please the local population, at the special request of the representatives of the local newspaper. While this was being done I brought some fresh drinks to a few of the last arrivals. During that time my wifeâs glass must have been poisoned. Donât ask me how it was done, it cannot have been easy to do. On the other hand, it is startling, if anyone has the nerve to do an action openly and unconcernedly, how little people are likely to notice it! You ask me if I have suspicions; all I can say is that at least one of about twenty people might have done it. People, you see, were moving about in little groups, talking, occasionally going off to have a look at the alterations which had been done to the house. There was movement, continual movement. Iâve thought and Iâve thought, Iâve racked my brains but there is nothing, absolutely nothing to direct my suspicions to any particular person.â

He paused and gave an exasperated sigh.

âI understand,â said Dermot. âGo on, please.â

âI dare say youâve heard the next part before.â

âI should like to hear it again from you.â

âWell, I had come back towards the head of the stairs. My wife had turned towards the table and was just picking up her glass. There was a slight exclamation from Mrs. Badcock. Somebody must have jogged her arm and the glass slipped out of her fingers and was broken on the floor. Marina did the natural hostessâs act. Her own skirt had been slightly touched with the liquid. She insisted no harm was done, used her own handkerchief to wipe Mrs. Badcockâs skirt and insisted on her having her own drink. If I remember she said âIâve had far too much already.â So that was that. But I can assure you of this. The fatal dose could not have been added after that for Mrs. Badcock immediately began to drink from the glass. As you know, four or five minutes later she was dead. I wonderâhow I wonderâwhat the poisoner must have felt when he realised how badly his scheme had failedâ¦.â

âAll this occurred to you at the time?â

âOf course not. At the time I concluded, naturally enough, this woman had had some kind of a seizure. Perhaps heart, coronary thrombosis, something of that sort. It never occurred to me that poisoning was involved. Would it occur to youâwould it occur to anybody?â

âProbably not,â said Dermot. âWell your account is clear enough and you seem sure of your facts. You say you have no suspicion of any particular person. I canât quite accept that, you know.â

âI assure you itâs the truth.â

âLet us approach it from another angle. Who is there who could wish to harm your wife? It all sounds melodramatic if you put it this way, but what enemies had she got?â

Jason Rudd made an expressive gesture.

âEnemies? Enemies? Itâs so hard to define what one means by an enemy. Thereâs plenty of envy and jealousy in the world my wife and I occupy. There are always people who say malicious things, whoâll start a whispering campaign, who will do someone they are jealous of a bad turn if the opportunity occurs. But that doesnât mean that any of those people is a murderer, or indeed even a likely murderer. Donât you agree?â

âYes, I agree. There must be something beyond petty dislikes or envies. Is there anyone whom your wife has injured, say, in the past?â

Jason Rudd did not rebut this easily. Instead he frowned.

âHonestly, I donât think so,â he said at last, âand I may say Iâve given a lot of thought to that point.â

âAnything in the nature of a love affair, an association with some man?â

âThere have of course been affairs of that kind. It may be considered, I suppose, that Marina has occasionally treated some man badly. But there is nothing to cause any lasting ill will. Iâm sure of it.â

âWhat about women? Any woman who has had a lasting grudge against Miss Gregg?â

âWell,â said Jason Rudd, âyou can never tell with women. I canât think of any particular one offhand.â

âWhoâd benefit financially by your wifeâs death?â

âHer will benefits various people but not to any large extent. I suppose the people whoâd benefit, as you put it, financially, would be myself as her husband, from another angle, possibly the star who might replace her in this film. Though, of course, the film might be abandoned altogether. These things are very uncertain.â

âWell, we need not go into all that now,â said Dermot.

âAnd I have your assurance that Marina will not be told that she is in possible danger?â

âWe shall have to go into that matter,â said Dermot. âI want to impress upon you that you are taking quite a considerable risk there. However, the matter will not arise for some days since your wife is still under medical care. Now there is one more thing I would like you to do. I would like you to write down for me as accurately as you can every single person who was in that recess at the top of the stairs, or whom you saw coming up the stairs at the time of the murder.â

âIâll do my best, but Iâm rather doubtful. Youâd do far better to consult my secretary, Ella Zielinsky. She has a most accurate memory and also lists of the local lads who were there. If youâd like to see her nowââ

âI would like to talk to Miss Ella Zielinsky very much,â said Dermot.

Eleven

I

Surveying Dermot Craddock unemotionally through her large horn-rimmed spectacles, Ella Zielinsky seemed to him almost too good to be true. With quiet businesslike alacrity she whipped out of a drawer a typewritten sheet and passed it across to him.

âI think I can be fairly sure that there are no omissions,â she said. âBut it is just possible that I may have included one or two namesâlocal names they will beâwho were not actually there. That is to say who may have left earlier or who may not have been found and brought up. Actually, Iâm pretty sure that it is correct.â

âA very efficient piece of work if I may say so,â said Dermot.

âThank you.â

âI supposeâI am quite an ignoramus in such thingsâthat you have to attain a high standard of efficiency in your job?â

âOne has to have things pretty well taped, yes.â

âWhat else does your job comprise? Are you a kind of liaison officer, so to speak, between the studios and Gossington Hall?â

âNo. Iâve nothing to do with the studios, actually, though of course I naturally take messages from there on the telephone or send them. My job is to look after Miss Greggâs social life, her public and private engagements, and to supervise in some degree the running of the house.â

âYou like the job?â

âItâs extremely well paid and I find it reasonably interesting. I didnât however bargain for murder,â she added dryly.

âDid it seem very incredible to you?â

âSo much so that I am going to ask you if you are really sure it is murder?â

âSix times the close of di-ethyl-mexine etc. etc., could hardly be anything else.â

âIt might have been an accident of some kind.â

âAnd how would you suggest such an accident could have occurred?â

âMore easily than youâd imagine, since you donât know the setup. This house is simply full of drugs of all kinds. I donât mean dope when I say drugs. I mean properly prescribed remedies, but, like most of these things, what they call, I understand, the lethal dose is not very far removed from the therapeutic dose.â

Dermot nodded.

âThese theatrical and picture people have the most curious lapses in their intelligence. Sometimes it seems to me that the more of an artistic genius you are, the less common sense you have in everyday life.â

âThat may well be.â

âWhat with all the bottles, cachets, powders, capsules, and little boxes that they carry about with them; what with popping in a tranquillizer here and a tonic there and a pep pill somewhere else, donât you think it would be easy enough that the whole thing might get mixed-up?â

âI donât see how it could apply in this case.â

âWell, I think it could. Somebody, one of the guests, may have wanted a sedative, or a reviver, and whipped out his or her little container which they carry around and possibly because they hadnât remembered the dose because they hadnât had one for some time, might have put too much in a glass. Then their mind was distracted and they went off somewhere, and letâs say this Mrs. Whatâs-her-name comes along, thinks itâs her glass, picks it up and drinks it. Thatâs surely a more feasible idea than anything else?â

âYou donât think that all those possibilities havenât been gone into, do you?â

âNo, I suppose not. But there were a lot of people there and a lot of glasses standing about with drinks in them. It happens often enough, you know, that you pick up the wrong glass and drink out of it.â

âThen you donât think that Heather Badcock was deliberately poisoned? You think that she drank out of somebody elseâs glass?â

âI canât imagine anything more likely to happen.â

âIn that case,â said Dermot speaking carefully, âit would have had to be Marina Greggâs glass. You realise that? Marina handed her her own glass.â

âOr what she thought was her own glass,â Ella Zielinsky corrected him. âYou havenât talked to Marina yet, have you? Sheâs extremely vague. Sheâd pick up any glass that looked as though it were hers, and drink it. Iâve seen her do it again and again.â

âShe takes Calmo?â

âOh yes, we all do.â

âYou too, Miss Zielinsky?â

âIâm driven to it sometimes,â said Ella Zielinsky. âThese things are rather imitative, you know.â

âI shall be glad,â said Dermot, âwhen I am able to talk to Miss Gregg. Sheâerâseems to be prostrated for a very long time.â

âThatâs just throwing a temperament,â said Ella Zielinsky. âShe just dramatizes herself a good deal, you know. Sheâd never take murder in her stride.â

âAs you manage to do, Miss Zielinsky?â

âWhen everybody about you is in a continual state of agitation,â said Ella dryly, âit develops in you a desire to go to the opposite extreme.â

âYou learn to take a pride in not turning a hair when some shocking tragedy occurs?â

She considered. âItâs not a really nice trait, perhaps. But I think if you didnât develop that sense youâd probably go round the bend yourself.â

âWas Miss Greggâis Miss Gregg a difficult person to work for?â

It was something of a personal question but Dermot Craddock regarded it as a kind of test. If Ella Zielinsky raised her eyebrows and tacitly demanded what this had to do with the murder of Mrs. Badcock, he would be forced to admit that it had nothing to do with it. But he wondered if Ella Zielinsky might perhaps enjoy telling him what she thought of Marina Gregg.

âSheâs a great artist. Sheâs got a personal magnetism that comes over on the screen in the most extraordinary way. Because of that one feels itâs rather a privilege to work with her. Taken purely personally, of course, sheâs hell!â

âAh,â said Dermot.

âSheâs no kind of moderation, you see. Sheâs up in the air or down in the dumps and everything is always terrifically exaggerated, and she changes her mind and there are an enormous lot of things that one must never mention or allude to because they upset her.â

âSuch as?â

âWell, naturally, mental breakdown, or sanatoriums for mental cases. I think it is quite to be understood that she should be sensitive about that. And anything to do with children.â

âChildren? In what way?â

âWell, it upsets her to see children, or to hear of people being happy with children. If she hears someone is going to have a baby or has just had a baby, it throws her into a state of misery at once. She can never have another child herself, you see, and the only one she did have is batty. I donât know if you knew that?â

âI had heard it, yes. Itâs all very sad and unfortunate. But after a good many years youâd think sheâd forget about it a little.â

âShe doesnât. Itâs an obsession with her. She broods on it.â

âWhat does Mr. Rudd feel about it?â

âOh, it wasnât his child. It was her last husbandâs, Isidore Wrightâs.â

âAh yes, her last husband. Where is he now?â

âHe married again and lives in Florida,â said Ella Zielinsky promptly.

âWould you say that Marina Gregg had made many enemies in her life?â

âNot unduly so. Not more than most, that is to say. There are always rows over other women or other men or over contracts or jealousyâall of those things.â

âShe wasnât as far as you know afraid of anyone?â

âMarina? Afraid of anyone? I donât think so. Why? Should she be?â

âI donât know,â said Dermot. He picked up the list of names. âThank you very much, Miss Zielinsky. If thereâs anything else I want to know Iâll come back. May I?â

âCertainly. Iâm only too anxiousâweâre all only too anxiousâto do anything we can to help.â

II

âWell, Tom, what have you got for me?â

Detective-Sergeant Tiddler grinned appreciatively. His name was not Tom, it was William, but the combination of Tom Tiddler had always been too much for his colleagues.

âWhat gold and silver have you picked up for me?â continued Dermot Craddock.

The two were staying at the Blue Boar and Tiddler had just come back from a day spent at the studios.

âThe proportion of gold is very small,â said Tiddler. âNot much gossip. No startling rumours. One or two suggestions of suicide.â

âWhy suicide?â

âThey thought she might have had a row with her husband and be trying to make him sorry. That line of country. But that she didnât really mean to go so far as doing herself in.â

âI canât see that thatâs a very helpful line,â said Dermot.

âNo, of course it isnât. They know nothing about it, you see. They donât know anything except what theyâre busy on. Itâs all highly technical and thereâs an atmosphere of âthe show must go on,â or as I suppose one ought to say the picture must go on, or the shooting must go on. I donât know any of the right terms. All theyâre concerned about is when Marina Gregg will get back to the set. Sheâs mucked up a picture once or twice before by staging a nervous breakdown.â

âDo they like her on the whole?â

âI should say they consider her the devil of a nuisance but for all that they canât help being fascinated by her when sheâs in the mood to fascinate them. Her husbandâs besotted about her, by the way.â

âWhat do they think of him?â

âThey think heâs the finest director or producer or whatever it is that thereâs ever been.â

âNo rumours of his being mixed-up with some other star or some woman of some kind?â

Tom Tiddler stared. âNo,â he said, âno. Not a hint of such a thing. Why, do you think there might be?â

âI wondered,â said Dermot. âMarina Gregg is convinced that that lethal dose was meant for her.â

âIs she now? Is she right?â

âAlmost certainly, I should say,â Dermot replied. âBut thatâs not the point. The point is that she hasnât told her husband so, only her doctor.â

âDo you think she would have told him ifââ

âI just wondered,â said Craddock, âwhether she might have had at the back of her mind an idea that her husband had been responsible. The doctorâs manner was a little peculiar. I may have imagined it but I donât think I did.â

âWell, there were no such rumours going about at the studios,â said Tom. âYou hear that sort of thing soon enough.â

âShe herself is not embroiled with any other man?â

âNo, she seems to be devoted to Rudd.â

âNo interesting snippets about her past?â

Tiddler grinned. âNothing to what you can read in a film magazine any day of the week.â

âI think Iâll have to read a few,â said Dermot, âto get the atmosphere.â

âThe things they say and hint!â said Tiddler.

âI wonder,â said Dermot thoughtfully, âif my Miss Marple reads film magazines.â

âIs that the old lady who lives in the house by the church?â

âThatâs right.â

âThey say sheâs sharp,â said Tiddler. âThey say thereâs nothing goes on here that Miss Marple doesnât hear about. She may not know much about the film people, but she ought to be able to give you the lowdown on the Badcocks all right.â

âItâs not as simple as it used to be,â said Dermot. âThereâs a new social life springing up here. A housing estate, big building development. The Badcocks are fairly new and come from there.â

âI didnât hear much about the locals, of course,â said Tiddler. âI concentrated on the sex life of film stars and such things.â

âYou havenât brought back very much,â grumbled Dermot. âWhat about Marina Greggâs past, anything about that?â

âDone a bit of marrying in her time but not more than most. Her first husband didnât like getting the chuck, so they said, but he was a very ordinary sort of bloke. He was a realtor or something like that. What is a realtor, by the way?â

âI think it means in the real estate business.â

âOh well, anyway, he didnât line up as very glamorous so she got rid of him and married a foreign count or prince. That lasted hardly anytime at all but there donât seem to be any bones broken. She just shook him off and teamed up with number three. Film star Robert Truscott. That was said to be a passionate love match. His wife didnât much like letting go of him, but she had to take it in the end. Big alimony. As far as I can make out everybodyâs hard up because theyâve got to pay so much alimony to all their ex-wives.â

âBut it went wrong?â

âYes. She was the broken-hearted one, I gather. But another big romance came along a year or two later. Isidore Somebodyâa playwright.â

âItâs an exotic life,â said Dermot. âWell, weâll call it a day now. Tomorrow weâve got to get down to a bit of hard work.â

âSuch as?â

âSuch as checking a list Iâve got here. Out of twenty-odd names we ought to be able to do some elimination and out of whatâs left weâll have to look for X.â

âAny idea who X is?â

âNot in the least. If it isnât Jason Rudd, that is.â He added with a wry and ironic smile, âI shall have to go to Miss Marple and get briefed on local matters.â

Twelve

Miss Marple was pursuing her own methods of research.

âItâs very kind, Mrs. Jameson, very kind of you indeed. I canât tell you how grateful I am.â

âOh, donât mention it, Miss Marple. Iâm sure Iâm glad to oblige you. I suppose youâll want the latest ones?â

âNo, no, not particularly,â said Miss Marple. âIn fact I think Iâd rather have some of the old numbers.â

âWell, here you are then,â said Mrs. Jameson, âthereâs a nice armful and I can assure you we shanât miss them. Keep them as long as you like. Now itâs too heavy for you to carry. Jenny, howâs your perm doing?â

âSheâs all right, Mrs. Jameson. Sheâs had her rinse and now sheâs having a good dry-out.â

âIn that case, dear, you might just run along with Miss Marple here, and carry these magazines for her. No, really, Miss Marple, itâs no trouble at all. Always pleased to do anything we can for you.â

How kind people were, Miss Marple thought, especially when theyâd known you practically all their lives. Mrs. Jameson, after long years of running a hairdressing parlour had steeled herself to going as far in the cause of progress as to repaint her sign and call herself

âDIANE. Hair Stylist.â

Otherwise the shop remained much as before and catered in much the same way to the needs of its clients. It turned you out with a nice firm perm: it accepted the task of shaping and cutting for the younger generation and the resultant mess was accepted without too much recrimination. But the bulk of Mrs. Jamesonâs clientele was a bunch of solid, stick in the mud middle-aged ladies who found it extremely hard to get their hair done the way they wanted it anywhere else.

âWell, I never,â said Cherry the next morning, as she prepared to run a virulent Hoover round the lounge as she still called it in her mind. âWhatâs all this?â

âI am trying,â said Miss Marple, âto instruct myself a little in the moving picture world.â

She laid aside Movie News and picked up Amongst the Stars.

âItâs really very interesting. It reminds one so much of so many things.â

âFantastic lives they must lead,â said Cherry.

âSpecialized lives,â said Miss Marple. âHighly specialized. It reminds me very much of the things a friend of mine used to tell me. She was a hospital nurse. The same simplicity of outlook and all the gossip and the rumours. And good-looking doctors causing any amount of havoc.â

âRather sudden, isnât it, this interest of yours?â said Cherry.

âIâm finding it difficult to knit nowadays,â said Miss Marple. âOf course the print of these is rather small, but I can always use a magnifying glass.â

Cherry looked on curiously.

âYouâre always surprising me,â she said. âThe things you take an interest in.â

âI take an interest in everything,â said Miss Marple.

âI mean taking up new subjects at your age.â

Miss Marple shook her head.

âThey arenât really new subjects. Itâs human nature Iâm interested in, you know, and human nature is much the same whether itâs film stars or hospital nurses or people in St. Mary Mead or,â she added thoughtfully, âpeople who live in the Development.â

âCanât see much likeness between me and a film star,â said Cherry laughing, âmoreâs the pity. I suppose itâs Marina Gregg and her husband coming to live at Gossington Hall that set you off on this.â

âThat and the very sad event that occurred there,â said Miss Marple.

âMrs. Badcock, you mean? It was bad luck that.â

âWhat do you think of it in theââ Miss Marple paused with the âDâ hovering on her lips. âWhat do you and your friends think about it?â she amended the question.

âItâs a queer do,â said Cherry. âLooks as though it were murder, doesnât it, though of course the police are too cagey to say so outright. Still, thatâs what it looks like.â

âI donât see what else it could be,â said Miss Marple.

âIt couldnât be suicide,â agreed Cherry, ânot with Heather Badcock.â

âDid you know her well?â

âNo, not really. Hardly at all. She was a bit of a nosy parker you know. Always wanting you to join this, join that, turn up for meetings at so-and-so. Too much energy. Her husband got a bit sick of it sometimes, I think.â

âShe doesnât seem to have had any real enemies.â

âPeople used to get a bit fed up with her sometimes. The point is, I donât see who could have murdered her unless it was her husband. And heâs a very meek type. Still, the worm will turn, or so they say. Iâve always heard that Crippen was ever so nice a man and that man, Haigh, who pickled them all in acidâthey say he couldnât have been more charming! So one never knows, does one?â

âPoor Mr. Badcock,â said Miss Marple.

âAnd people say he was upset and nervy at the fÃªte that dayâbefore it happened, I meanâbut people always say that kind of thing afterwards. If you ask me, heâs looking better now than heâs looked for years. Seems to have got a bit more spirit and go in him.â

âIndeed?â said Miss Marple.

âNobody really thinks he did it,â said Cherry. âOnly if he didnât, who did? I canât help thinking myself it must have been an accident of some kind. Accidents do happen. You think you know all about mushrooms and go out and pick some. One fungus gets in among them and there you are, rolling about in agony and lucky if the doctor gets to you in time.â

âCocktails and glasses of sherry donât seem to lend themselves to accident,â said Miss Marple.

âOh, I donât know,â said Cherry. âA bottle of something or other could have got in by mistake. Somebody I knew took a dose of concentrated DDT once. Horribly ill they were.â

âAccident,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully. âYes, it certainly seems the best solution. I must say I canât believe that in the case of Heather Badcock it could have been deliberate murder. I wonât say itâs impossible. Nothing is impossible, but it doesnât seem like it. No, I think the truth lies somewhere here.â She rustled her magazines and picked up another one.

âYou mean youâre looking for some special story about someone?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âIâm just looking for odd mentions of people and a way of life and somethingâsome little something that might help.â She returned to her perusal of the magazines and Cherry removed her vacuum cleaner to the upper floor. Miss Marpleâs face was pink and interested, and being slightly deaf now, she did not hear the footsteps that came along the garden path towards the drawing room window. It was only when a slight shadow fell on the page that she looked up. Dermot Craddock was standing smiling at her.

âDoing your homework, I see,â he remarked.

âInspector Craddock, how very nice to see you. And how kind to spare time to come and see me. Would you like a cup of coffee, or possibly a glass of sherry?â

âA glass of sherry would be splendid,â said Dermot. âDonât you move,â he added. âIâll ask for it as I come in.â

He went round by the side door and presently joined Miss Marple.

âWell,â he said, âis that bumph giving you ideas?â

âRather too many ideas,â said Miss Marple. âIâm not often shocked, you know, but this does shock me a little.â

âWhat, the private lives of film stars?â

âOh no,â said Miss Marple, ânot that! That all seems to be most natural, given the circumstances and the money involved and the opportunities for propinquity. Oh, no, thatâs natural enough. I mean the way theyâre written about. Iâm rather old-fashioned, you know, and I feel that that really shouldnât be allowed.â

âItâs news,â said Dermot Craddock, âand some pretty nasty things can be said in the way of fair comment.â

âI know,â said Miss Marple. âIt makes me sometimes very angry. I expect you think itâs silly of me reading all these. But one does so badly want to be in things and of course sitting here in the house I canât really know as much about things as I would like to.â

âThatâs just what I thought,â said Dermot Craddock, âand thatâs why Iâve come to tell you about them.â

âBut, my dear boy, excuse me, would your superiors really approve of that?â

âI donât see why not,â said Dermot. âHere,â he added, âI have a list. A list of people who were there on that landing during the short time of Heather Badcockâs arrival until her death. Weâve eliminated a lot of people, perhaps precipitately, but I donât think so. Weâve eliminated the mayor and his wife and Alderman somebody and his wife and a great many of the locals, though weâve kept in the husband. If I remember rightly you were always very suspicious of husbands.â

âThey are often the obvious suspects,â said Miss Marple, apologetically, âand the obvious is so often right.â

âI couldnât agree with you more,â said Craddock.

âBut which husband, my dear boy, are you referring to?â

âWhich one do you think?â asked Dermot. He eyed her sharply.

Miss Marple looked at him.

âJason Rudd?â she asked.

âAh!â said Craddock. âYour mind works just as mine does. I donât think it was Arthur Badcock, because you see, I donât think that Heather Badcock was meant to be killed. I think the intended victim was Marina Gregg.â

âThat would seem almost certain, wouldnât it?â said Miss Marple.

âAnd so,â said Craddock, âas we both agree on that, the field widens. To tell you who was there on that day, what they saw or said they saw, and where they were or said they were, is only a thing you could have observed for yourself if youâd been there. So my superiors, as you call them, couldnât possibly object to my discussing that with you, could they?â

âThatâs very nicely put, my dear boy,â said Miss Marple.

âIâll give you a little prÃ©cis of what I was told and then weâll come to the list.â

He gave a brief rÃ©sumÃ© of what he had heard, and then he produced his list.

âIt must be one of these,â he said. âMy godfather, Sir Henry Clithering, told me that you once had a club here. You called it the Tuesday Night Club. You all dined with each other in turn and then someone would tell a storyâa story of some real life happening which had ended in mystery. A mystery of which only the teller of the tale knew the answer. And every time, so my godfather told me, you guessed right. So I thought Iâd come along and see if youâd do a bit of guessing for me this morning.â

âI think that is rather a frivolous way of putting it,â said Miss Marple, reproving, âbut there is one question I should like to ask.â

âYes?â

âWhat about the children?â

âThe children? Thereâs only one. An imbecile child in a sanatorium in America. Is that what you mean?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âthatâs not what I mean. Itâs very sad of course. One of those tragedies that seem to happen and thereâs no one to blame for it. No, I meant the children that Iâve seen mentioned in some article here.â She tapped the papers in front of her. âChildren that Marina Gregg adopted. Two boys, I think, and a girl. In one case a mother with a lot of children and very little money to bring them up in this country, wrote to her, and asked if she couldnât take a child. There was a lot of very silly false sentiment written about that. About the motherâs unselfishness and the wonderful home and education and future the child was going to have. I canât find out much about the other two. One I think was a foreign refugee and the other was some American child. Marina Gregg adopted them at different times. Iâd like to know whatâs happened to them.â

Dermot Craddock looked at her curiously. âItâs odd that you should think of that,â he said. âI did just vaguely wonder about those children myself. But how do you connect them up?â

âWell,â said Miss Marple, âas far as I can hear or find out, theyâre not living with her now, are they?â

âI expect they were provided for,â said Craddock. âIn fact, I think that the adoption laws would insist on that. There was probably money settled on them in trust.â

âSo when she gotâtired of them,â said Miss Marple with a very faint pause before the word âtired,â âthey were dismissed! After being brought up in luxury with every advantage. Is that it?â

âProbably,â said Craddock. âI donât know exactly.â He continued to look at her curiously.

âChildren feel things, you know,â said Miss Marple, nodding her head. âThey feel things more than the people around them ever imagine. The sense of hurt, of being rejected, of not belonging. Itâs a thing that you donât get over just because of advantages. Education is no substitute for it, or comfortable living, or an assured income, or a start in a profession. Itâs the sort of thing that might rankle.â

âYes. But all the same, isnât it rather far-fetched to think thatâwell, what exactly do you think?â

âI havenât got as far as that,â said Miss Marple. âI just wondered where they were now and how old they would be now? Grown-up, I should imagine, from what Iâve read here.â

âI could find out, I suppose,â said Dermot Craddock slowly.

âOh, I donât want to bother you in anyway, or even to suggest that my little ideaâs worthwhile at all.â

âThereâs no harm,â said Dermot Craddock, âin having that checked up on.â He made a note in his little book. âNow do you want to look at my little list?â

âI donât really think I should be able to do anything useful about that. You see, I wouldnât know who the people were.â

âOh, I could give you a running commentary,â said Craddock. âHere we are. Jason Rudd, husband, (husbands always highly suspicious). Everyone says that Jason Rudd adores her. That is suspicious in itself, donât you think?â

âNot necessarily,â said Miss Marple with dignity.

âHeâs been very active in trying to conceal the fact that his wife was the object of attack. He hasnât hinted any suspicion of such a thing to the police. I donât know why he thinks weâre such asses as not to think of it for ourselves. Weâve considered it from the first. But anyway, thatâs his story. He was afraid that knowledge of that fact might get to his wifeâs ears and that sheâd go into a panic about it.â

âIs she the sort of woman who goes into panics?â

âYes, sheâs neurasthenic, throws temperaments, has nervous breakdowns, gets in states.â

âThat might not mean any lack of courage,â Miss Marple objected.

âOn the other hand,â said Craddock, âif she knows quite well that she was the object of attack, itâs also possible that she may know who did it.â

âYou mean she knows who did itâbut does not want to disclose the fact?â

âI just say itâs a possibility, and if so, one rather wonders why not? It looks as though the motive, the root of the matter, was something she didnât want to come to her husbandâs ear.â

âThat is certainly an interesting thought,â said Miss Marple.

âHere are a few more names. The secretary, Ella Zielinsky. An extremely competent and efficient young woman.â

âIn love with the husband, do you think?â asked Miss Marple.

âI should think definitely,â answered Craddock, âbut why should you think so?â

âWell, it so often happens,â said Miss Marple. âAnd therefore not very fond of poor Marina Gregg, I expect?â

âTherefore possible motive for murder,â said Craddock.

âA lot of secretaries and employees are in love with their employersâ husbands,â said Miss Marple, âbut very, very few of them try to poison them.â

âWell, we must allow for exceptions,â said Craddock. âThen there were two local and one London photographer, and two members of the Press. None of them seems likely but we will follow them up. There was the woman who was formerly married to Marina Greggâs second or third husband. She didnât like it when Marina Gregg took her husband away. Still, thatâs about eleven or twelve years ago. It seems unlikely that sheâd make a visit here at this juncture on purpose to poison Marina because of that. Then thereâs a man called Ardwyck Fenn. He was once a very close friend of Marina Greggâs. He hasnât seen her for years. He was not known to be in this part of the world and it was a great surprise when he turned up on this occasion.â

âShe would be startled then when she saw him?â

âPresumably yes.â

âStartledâand possibly frightened.â

ââThe doom has come upon me,ââ said Craddock. âThatâs the idea. Then there was young Hailey Preston dodging about that day, doing his stuff. Talks a good deal but definitely heard nothing, saw nothing and knew nothing. Almost too anxious to say so. Does anything there ring a bell?â

âNot exactly,â said Miss Marple. âPlenty of interesting possibilities. But Iâd still like to know a little more about the children.â

He looked at her curiously. âYouâve got quite a bee in your bonnet about that, havenât you?â he said. âAll right, Iâll find out.â

Thirteen

I

âI suppose it couldnât possibly have been the mayor?â said Inspector Cornish wistfully.

He tapped the paper with the list of names on it with his pencil. Dermot Craddock grinned.

âWishful thinking?â he asked.

âYou could certainly call it that,â said Cornish. âPompous, canting old hypocrite!â he went on. âEverybodyâs got it in for him. Throws his weight about, ultra sanctimonious, and neck deep in graft for years past!â

âCanât you ever bring it home to him?â

âNo,â said Cornish. âHeâs too slick for that. Heâs always just on the right side of the law.â

âItâs tempting, I agree,â said Dermot Craddock, âbut I think youâll have to banish that rosy picture from your mind, Frank.â

âI know, I know,â said Cornish. âHeâs a possible, but a wildly improbable. Who else have we got?â

Both men studied the list again. There were still eight names on it.

âWeâre pretty well agreed,â said Craddock, âthat thereâs nobody missed out from here?â There was a faint question in his voice. Cornish answered it.

âI think you can be pretty sure thatâs the lot. After Mrs. Bantry came the vicar, and after that the Badcocks. There were then eight people on the stairs. The mayor and his wife, Joshua Grice and wife from Lower Farm. Donald McNeil of the Much Benham Herald & Argus. Ardwyck Fenn, USA, Miss Lola Brewster, USA, Moving Picture Star. There you are. In addition there was an arty photographer from London with a camera set up on the angle of the stairs. If, as you suggest, this Mrs. Bantryâs story of Marina Gregg having a âfrozen lookâ was occasioned by someone she saw on the stairs, youâve got to take your pick among that lot. Mayor regretfully out. Grices outânever been away from St. Mary Mead I should say. That leaves four. Local journalist unlikely, photographer girl had been there for half an hour already, so why should Marina react so late in the day? What does that leave?â

âSinister strangers from America,â said Craddock with a faint smile.

âYouâve said it.â

âTheyâre our best suspects by far, I agree,â said Craddock. âThey turned up unexpectedly. Ardwyck Fenn was an old flame of Marinaâs whom she had not seen for years. Lola Brewster was once married to Marina Greggâs third husband, who got a divorce from her in order to marry Marina. It was not, I gather, a very amicable divorce.â

âIâd put her down as Suspect Number One,â said Cornish.

âWould you, Frank? After a lapse of about fifteen years or so, and having remarried twice herself since then?â

Cornish said that you never knew with women. Dermot accepted that as a general dictum, but remarked that it seemed odd to him to say the least of it.

âBut you agree that it lies between them?â

âPossibly. But I donât like it very much. What about the hired help who were serving the drinks?â

âDiscounting the âfrozen lookâ weâve heard so much about? Well, weâve checked up in a general way. Local catering firm from Market Basing had the jobâfor the fÃªte, I mean. Actually in the house, there was the butler, Giuseppe, in charge; and two local girls from the studios canteen. I know both of them. Not over bright, but harmless.â

âPushing it back at me, are you? Iâll go and have a word with the reporter chap. He might have seen something helpful. Then to London. Ardwyck Fenn, Lola Brewsterâand the photographer girlâwhatâs her name?âMargot Bence. She also might have seen something.â

Cornish nodded. âLola Brewster is my best bet,â he said. He looked curiously at Craddock. âYou donât seem as sold on her as I am.â

âIâm thinking of the difficulties,â said Dermot slowly.

âDifficulties?â

âOf putting poison into Marinaâs glass without anybody seeing her.â

âWell, thatâs the same for everybody, isnât it? It was a mad thing to do.â

âAgreed it was a mad thing to do, but it would be a madder thing for someone like Lola Brewster than for anybody else.â

âWhy?â asked Cornish.

âBecause she was a guest of importance. Sheâs a somebody, a big name. Everyone would be looking at her.â

âTrue enough,â Cornish admitted.

âThe locals would nudge each other and whisper and stare, and after Marina Gregg and Jason Rudd greeted her sheâd have been passed on for the secretaries to look after. It wouldnât be easy, Frank. However adroit you were, you couldnât be sure someone wouldnât see you. Thatâs the snag there, and itâs a big snag.â

âAs I say, isnât that snag the same for everybody?â

âNo,â said Craddock. âOh no. Far from it. Take the butler now, Giuseppe. Heâs busy with the drinks and glasses, with pouring things out, with handing them. He could put a pinch or a tablet or two of Calmo in a glass easily enough.â

âGiuseppe?â Frank Cornish reflected. âDo you think he did?â

âNo reason to believe so,â said Craddock, âbut we might find a reason. A nice solid bit of motive, that is to say. Yes, he could have done it. Or one of the catering staff could have done itâunfortunately they werenât on the spotâa pity.â

âSomeone might have managed to get himself or herself deliberately planted in the firm for the purpose.â

âYou mean it might have been as premeditated as all that?â

âWe donât know anything about it yet,â said Craddock, vexedly. âWe absolutely donât know the first thing about it. Not until we can prise what we want to know out of Marina Gregg, or out of her husband. They must know or suspectâbut theyâre not telling. And we donât know yet why theyâre not telling. Weâve a long way to go.â

He paused and then resumed: âDiscounting the âfrozen lookâ which may have been pure coincidence, there are other people who could have done it fairly easily. The secretary woman, Ella Zielinsky. She was also busy with glasses, with handing things to people. Nobody would be watching her with any particular interest. The same applies to that willow wand of a young manâIâve forgotten his name. HaileyâHailey Preston? Thatâs right. There would have been a good opportunity for either of them. In fact if either of them had wanted to do away with Marina Gregg it would have been far safer to do so on a public occasion.â

âAnyone else?â

âWell, thereâs always the husband,â said Craddock.

âBack to the husbands again,â said Cornish, with a faint smile. âWe thought it was that poor devil, Badcock, before we realised that Marina was the intended victim. Now weâve transferred our suspicions to Jason Rudd. He seems devoted enough though, I must say.â

âHe has the reputation of being so,â said Craddock, âbut one never knows.â

âIf he wanted to get rid of her, wouldnât divorce be much easier?â

âIt would be far more usual,â agreed Dermot, âbut there may be a lot of ins and outs to this business that we donât know yet.â

The telephone rang. Cornish took up the receiver.

âWhat? Yes? Put them through. Yes, heâs here.â He listened for a moment then put his hand over the receiver and looked at Dermot. âMiss Marina Gregg,â he said, âis feeling very much better. She is quite ready to be interviewed.â

âIâd better hurry along,â said Dermot Craddock, âbefore she changes her mind.â

II

At Gossington Hall Dermot Craddock was received by Ella Zielinsky. She was, as usual, brisk and efficient.

âMiss Gregg is waiting for you, Mr. Craddock,â she said.

Dermot looked at her with some interest. From the beginning he had found Ella Zielinsky an intriguing personality. He had said to himself, âA poker face if I ever saw one.â She had answered any questions he had asked with the utmost readiness. She had shown no signs of keeping anything back, but what she really thought or felt or even knew about the business, he still had no idea. There seemed to be no chink in the armour of her bright efficiency. She might know more than she said she did; she might know a good deal. The only thing he was sure ofâand he had to admit to himself that he had no reasons to adduce for that suretyâwas that she was in love with Jason Rudd. It was, as he had said, an occupational disease of secretaries. It probably meant nothing. But the fact did at least suggest a motive and he was sure, quite sure, that she was concealing something. It might be love, it might be hate. It might, quite simply, be guilt. She might have taken her opportunity that afternoon, or she might have deliberately planned what she was going to do. He could see her in the part quite easily, as far as the execution of it went. Her swift but unhurried movements, moving here and there, looking after guests, handing glasses to one or another, taking glasses away, her eyes marking the spot where Marina had put her glass down on the table. And then, perhaps at the very moment when Marina had been greeting the arrivals from the States, with surprise and joyous cries and everybodyâs eyes turned towards their meeting, she could have quietly and unobtrusively dropped the fatal dose into that glass. It would require audacity, nerve, swiftness. She would have had all those. Whatever she had done, she would not have looked guilty whilst she was doing it. It would have been a simple, brilliant crime, a crime that could hardly fail to be successful. But chance had ruled otherwise. In the rather crowded floorspace someone had joggled Heather Badcockâs arm. Her drink had been spilt, and Marina, with her natural impulsive grace, had quickly proffered her own glass, standing there untouched. And so the wrong woman had died.

A lot of pure theory, and probably hooey at that, said Dermot Craddock to himself at the same time as he was making polite remarks to Ella Zielinsky.

âOne thing I wanted to ask you, Miss Zielinsky. The catering was done by a Market Basing firm, I understand?â

âYes.â

âWhy was that particular firm chosen?â

âI really donât know,â said Ella. âThat doesnât lie amongst my duties. I know Mr. Rudd thought it would be more tactful to employ somebody local rather than to employ a firm from London. The whole thing was really quite a small affair from our point of view.â

âQuite.â He watched her as she stood frowning a little and looking down. A good forehead, a determined chin, a figure which could look quite voluptuous if it was allowed to do so, a hard mouth, an acquisitive mouth. The eyes? He looked at them in surprise. The lids were reddened. He wondered. Had she been crying? It looked like it. And yet he could have sworn she was not the type of young woman to cry. She looked up at him, and as though she read his thoughts, she took out her handkerchief and blew her nose heartily.

âYouâve got a cold,â he said.

âNot a cold. Hay fever. Itâs an allergy of some kind, really. I always get at it this time of year.â

There was a low buzz. There were two phones in the room, one on the table and one on another table in the corner. It was the latter one that was beginning to buzz. Ella Zielinsky went over to it and picked up the receiver.

âYes,â she said, âheâs here. Iâll bring him up at once.â She put the receiver down again. âMarinaâs ready for you,â she said.

III

Marina Gregg received Craddock in a room on the first floor, which was obviously her own private sitting room opening out of her bedroom. After the accounts of her prostration and her nervous state, Dermot Craddock had expected to find a fluttering invalid. But although Marina was half reclining on a sofa her voice was vigorous and her eyes were bright. She had very little makeup on, but in spite of this she did not look her age, and he was struck very forcibly by the subdued radiance of her beauty. It was the exquisite line of cheek and jawbone, the way the hair fell loosely and naturally to frame her face. The long sea-green eyes, the pencilled eyebrows, owing something to art but more to nature, and the warmth and sweetness of her smile, all had a subtle magic. She said:

âChief-Inspector Craddock? Iâve been behaving disgracefully. I do apologize. I just let myself go to pieces after this awful thing. I could have snapped out of it but I didnât. Iâm ashamed of myself.â The smile came, rueful, sweet, turning up the corners of the mouth. She extended a hand and he took it.

âIt was only natural,â he said, âthat you should feel upset.â

âWell, everyone was upset,â said Marina. âIâd no business to make out it was worse for me than anyone else.â

âHadnât you?â

She looked at him for a minute and then nodded. âYes,â she said, âyouâre very perceptive. Yes, I had.â She looked down and with one long forefinger gently stroked the arm of the sofa. It was a gesture he had noticed in one of her films. It was a meaningless gesture, yet it seemed fraught with significance. It had a kind of musing gentleness.

âIâm a coward,â she said, her eyes still cast down. âSomebody wanted to kill me and I didnât want to die.â

âWhy do you think someone wanted to kill you?â

Her eyes opened wide. âBecause it was my glassâmy drinkâthat had been tampered with. It was just a mistake that that poor stupid woman got it. Thatâs whatâs so horrible and so tragic. Besidesââ

âYes, Miss Gregg?â

She seemed a little uncertain about saying more.

âYou had other reasons perhaps for believing that you were the intended victim?â

She nodded.

âWhat reasons, Miss Gregg?â

She paused a minute longer before saying, âJason says I must tell you all about it.â

âYouâve confided in him then?â

âYesâ¦ I didnât want to at firstâbut Dr. Gilchrist put it to me that I must. And then I found that he thought so too. Heâd thought it all along butâitâs rather funny reallyâârueful smile curled her lips againââhe didnât want to alarm me by telling me. Really!â Marina sat up with a sudden vigorous movement. âDarling Jinks! Does he think Iâm a complete fool?â

âYou havenât told me yet, Miss Gregg, why you should think anyone wanted to kill you.â

She was silent for a moment and then with a sudden brusque gesture, she stretched out for her handbag, opened it, took out a piece of paper and thrust it into his hand. He read it. Typed on it was one line of writing.

Donât think youâll escape next time.

Craddock said sharply, âWhen did you get this?â âIt was on my dressing table when I came back from the bath.â

âSo someone in the houseââ

âNot necessarily. Someone could have climbed up the balcony outside my window and pushed it through there. I think they meant it to frighten me still more, but actually it didnât. I just felt furiously angry and sent word to you to come and see me.â

Dermot Craddock smiled. âPossibly a rather unexpected result for whoever sent it. Is this the first kind of message like that youâve had?â

Again Marina hesitated. Then she said, âNo, it isnât.â

âWill you tell me about any other?â

âIt was three weeks ago, when we first came here. It came to the studio, not here. It was quite ridiculous. It was just a message. Not typewritten that time. In capital letters. It said, âPrepare to die.ââ She laughed. There was perhaps a very faint tinge of hysteria in the laugh. The mirth was genuine enough. âIt was so silly,â she said. âOf course one often gets crank messages, threats, things like that. I thought it was probably religious you know. Someone who didnât approve of film actresses. I just tore it up and threw it into the wastepaper basket.â

âDid you tell anyone about it, Miss Gregg?â

Marina shook her head. âNo, I never said a word to anyone. As a matter of fact, we were having a bit of worry at the moment about the scene we were shooting. I just couldnât have thought of anything but that at the moment. Anyway, as I say, I thought it was either a silly joke or one of those religious cranks who write and disapprove of playacting and things like that.â

âAnd after that, was there another?â

âYes. On the day of the fÃªte. One of the gardeners brought it to me, I think. He said someone had left a note for me and was there any answer? I thought perhaps it had to do with the arrangements. I just tore it open. It said âToday will be your last day on earth.â I just crumpled it up and said, âNo answer.â Then I called the man back and asked him who gave it to him. He said it was a man with spectacles on a bicycle. Well, I mean, what could you think about that? I thought it was more silliness. I didnât thinkâI didnât think for a moment, it was a real genuine threat.â

âWhereâs that note now, Miss Gregg?â

âIâve no idea. I was wearing one of those coloured Italian silk coats and I think, as far as I remember, that I crumpled it up and shoved it into the pocket of it. But itâs not there now. It probably fell out.â

âAnd youâve no idea who wrote these silly notes, Miss Gregg? Who inspired them? Not even now?â

Her eyes opened widely. There was a kind of innocent wonder in them that he took note of. He admired it, but he did not believe in it.

âHow can I tell? How can I possibly tell?â

âI think you might have quite a good idea, Miss Gregg.â

âI havenât. I assure you I havenât.â

âYouâre a very famous person,â said Dermot. âYouâve had great successes. Successes in your profession, and personal successes, too. Men have fallen in love with you, wanted to marry you, have married you. Women have been jealous and envied you. Men have been in love with you and been rebuffed by you. Itâs a pretty wild field, I agree, but I should think you must have some idea who could have written these notes.â

âIt could have been anybody.â

âNo, Miss Gregg, it couldnât have been anybody. It could possibly have been one of quite a lot of people. It could be someone quite humble, a dresser, an electrician, a servant; or it could be someone among the ranks of your friends, or so-called friends. But you must have some idea. Some name, more than one name, perhaps, to suggest.â

The door opened and Jason Rudd came in. Marina turned to him. She swept out an arm appealingly.

âJinks, darling, Mr. Craddock is insisting that I must know who wrote those horrid notes. And I donât. You know I donât. Neither of us knows. We havenât got the least idea.â

âVery urgent about that,â thought Craddock. âVery urgent. Is Marina Gregg afraid of what her husband might say?â

Jason Rudd, his eyes dark with fatigue and the scowl on his face deeper than usual, came over to join them. He took Marinaâs hand in his.

âI know it sounds unbelievable to you, Inspector,â he said, âbut honestly neither Marina nor I have any idea about this business.â

âSo youâre in the happy position of having no enemies, is that it?â The irony was manifest in Dermotâs voice.

Jason Rudd flushed a little. âEnemies? Thatâs a very biblical word, Inspector. In that sense, I can assure you I can think of no enemies. People who dislike one, would like to get the better of one, would do a mean turn to one if they could, in malice and uncharitableness, yes. But itâs a long step from that to putting an overdose of poison in a drink.â

âJust now, in speaking to your wife, I asked her who could have written or inspired those letters. She said she didnât know. But when we come to the actual action, it narrows it down. Somebody actually put the poison in that glass. And thatâs a fairly limited field, you know.â

âI saw nothing,â said Jason Rudd.

âI certainly didnât,â said Marina. âWell, I meanâif I had seen anyone putting anything in my glass, I wouldnât have drunk the stuff, would I?â

âI canât help believing, you know,â said Dermot Craddock gently, âthat you do know a little more than youâre telling me.â

âItâs not true,â said Marina. âTell him that that isnât true, Jason.â

âI assure you,â said Jason Rudd, âthat I am completely and absolutely at a loss. The whole thingâs fantastic. I might believe it was a jokeâa joke that had somehow gone wrongâthat had proved dangerous, done by a person who never dreamt that it would be dangerousâ¦.â

There was a slight question in his voice, then he shook his head. âNo. I see that idea doesnât appeal to you.â

âThereâs one more thing I should like to ask you,â said Dermot Craddock. âYou remember Mr. and Mrs. Badcockâs arrival, of course. They came immediately after the vicar. You greeted them, I understand, Miss Gregg, in the same charming way as you had received all your guests. But I am told by an eyewitness that immediately after greeting them you looked over Mrs. Badcockâs shoulder and that you saw something which seemed to alarm you. Is that true, and if so, what was it?â

Marina said quickly, âOf course it isnât true. Alarm meâwhat should have alarmed me?â

âThatâs what we want to know,â said Dermot Craddock patiently. âMy witness is very insistent on the point, you know.â

âWho was your witness? What did he or she say she saw?â

âYou were looking at the staircase,â said Dermot Craddock. âThere were people coming up the staircase. There was a journalist, there was Mr. Grice and his wife, elderly residents in this place, there was Mr. Ardwyck Fenn who had just arrived from the States and there was Miss Lola Brewster. Was it the sight of one of those people that upset you, Miss Gregg?â

âI tell you I wasnât upset.â She almost barked the words.

âAnd yet your attention wavered from greeting Mrs. Badcock. She had said something to you which you left unanswered because you were staring past her at something else.â

Marina Gregg took hold on herself. She spoke quickly and convincingly.

âI can explain, I really can. If you knew anything about acting youâd be able to understand quite easily. There comes a moment, even when you know a part wellâin fact it usually happens when you do know a part wellâwhen you go on with it mechanically. Smiling, making the proper movements and gestures, saying the words with the usual inflexions. But your mind isnât on it. And quite suddenly thereâs a horrible blank moment when you donât know where you are, where youâve got to in the play, what your next lines are! Drying up, thatâs what we call it. Well, thatâs what happened to me. Iâm not terribly strong, as my husband will tell you. Iâve had rather a strenuous time, and a good deal of nervous apprehension about this film. I wanted to make a success of this fÃªte and to be nice and pleasant and welcoming to everybody. But one does say the same things over and over again, mechanically, to the people who are always saying the same things to you. You know, how theyâve always wanted to meet you. How they once saw you outside a theatre in San Franciscoâor travelled in a plane with you. Something silly really, but one has to be nice about it and say things. Well, as Iâm telling you, one does that automatically. One doesnât need to think what to say because oneâs said it so often before. Suddenly, I think, a wave of tiredness came over me. My brain went blank. Then I realized that Mrs. Badcock had been telling me a long story which I hadnât really heard at all, and was now looking at me in an eager sort of way and that I hadnât answered her or said any of the proper things. It was just tiredness.â

âJust tiredness,â said Dermot Craddock slowly. âYou insist on that, Miss Gregg?â

âYes, I do. I canât see why you donât believe me.â

Dermot Craddock turned towards Jason Rudd. âMr. Rudd,â he said, âI think youâre more likely to understand my meaning than your wife is. I am concerned, very much concerned, for your wifeâs safety. There has been an attempt on her life, there have been threatening letters. That means, doesnât it, that there is someone who was here on the day of the fÃªte and possibly is still here, someone in very close touch with this house and what goes on in it. That person, whoever it is, may be slightly insane. Itâs not just a question of threats. Threatened men live long, as they say. The same goes for women. But whoever it was didnât stop at threats. A deliberate attempt was made to poison Miss Gregg. Donât you see in the whole nature of things, that the attempt is bound to be repeated? Thereâs only one way to achieve safety. That is to give me all the clues you possibly can. I donât say that you know who that person is, but I think that you must be able to give a guess or to have a vague idea. Wonât you tell me the truth? Or if, which is possible, you yourself do not know the truth, wonât you urge your wife to do so. Itâs in the interests of her own safety that Iâm asking you.â

Jason Rudd turned his head slowly. âYou hear what Inspector Craddock says, Marina,â he said. âItâs possible, as he says, that you may know something that I do not. If so, for Godâs sake, donât be foolish about it. If youâve the least suspicion of anyone, tell it to us now.â

âBut I havenât.â Her voice rose in a wail. âYou must believe me.â

âWho were you afraid of that day?â asked Dermot.

âI wasnât afraid of anyone.â

âListen, Miss Gregg, of the people on the stairs or coming up it, there were two friends whom you were surprised to see, whom you had not seen for a long time and whom you did not expect to see that day. Mr. Ardwyck Fenn and Miss Brewster. Had you any special emotions when you suddenly saw them coming up the stairs? You didnât know they were coming, did you?â

âNo, weâd no idea they were even in England,â said Jason Rudd.

âI was delighted,â said Marina, âabsolutely delighted!â

âDelighted to see Miss Brewster?â

âWellââ She shot him a quick, faintly suspicious glance.

Craddock said, âLola Brewster was, I believe, originally married to your third husband Robert Truscott?â

âYes, thatâs so.â

âHe divorced her in order to marry you.â

âOh, everyone knows about that,â said Marina Gregg impatiently. âYou neednât think itâs anything youâve found out. There was a bit of a rumpus at the time, but there wasnât any bad feeling about it in the end.â

âDid she make threats against you?â

âWellâin a way, yes. But, oh dear, I wish I could explain. No one takes those sort of threats seriously. It was at a party, sheâd had a lot of drink. She might have taken a pot-shot at me with a pistol if sheâd had one. But luckily she didnât. All that was years ago! None of these things last, these emotions! They donât, really they donât. Thatâs true, isnât it, Jason?â

âIâd say it was true enough,â said Jason Rudd, âand I can assure you, Mr. Craddock, that Lola Brewster had no opportunity on the day of the fÃªte of poisoning my wifeâs drink. I was close beside her most of the time. The idea that Lola would suddenly, after a long period of friendliness, come to England, and arrive at our house all prepared to poison my wifeâs drinkâwhy the whole ideaâs absurd.â

âI appreciate your point of view,â said Craddock.

âItâs not only that, itâs a matter of fact as well. She was nowhere near Marinaâs glass.â

âAnd your other visitorâ Ardwyck Fenn?â

There was, he thought, a very slight pause before Jason Rudd spoke.

âHeâs a very old friend of ours,â he said. âWe havenât seen him for a good many years now, though we occasionally correspond. Heâs quite a big figure in American television.â

âWas he an old friend of yours too?â Dermot Craddock asked Marina.

Her breath came rather quickly as she replied. âYes, oh yes. Heâhe was quite a friend of mine always, but Iâve rather lost sight of him of late years.â Then with a sudden quick rush of words, she went on, âIf you think that I looked up and saw Ardwyck and was frightened of him, itâs nonsense. Itâs absolute nonsense. Why should I be frightened of him, what reason would I have to be frightened of him? We were great friends. I was just very, very pleased when I suddenly saw him. It was a delightful surprise, as I told you. Yes, a delightful surprise.â She raised her head, looking at him, her face vivid and defiant.

âThank you, Miss Gregg,â said Craddock quietly. âIf you should feel inclined at any moment to take me a little further into your confidence I should strongly advise you to do so.â

Fourteen

I

Mrs. Bantry was on her knees. A good day for hoeing. Nice dry soil. But hoeing wouldnât do everything. Thistles now, and dandelions. She dealt vigorously with these pests.

She rose to her feet, breathless but triumphant, and looked out over the hedge on to the road. She was faintly surprised to see the dark-haired secretary whose name she couldnât remember coming out of the public call box that was situated near the bus stop on the other side of the road.

What was her name now. It began with a Bâor was it an R? No, Zielinsky, that was it. Mrs. Bantry remembered just in time, as Ella crossed the road into the drive past the Lodge.

âGood morning, Miss Zielinsky,â she called in a friendly tone.

Ella Zielinsky jumped. It was not so much a jump, as a shyâthe shy of a frightened horse. It surprised Mrs. Bantry.

âGood morning,â said Ella, and added quickly: âI came down to telephone. Thereâs something wrong with our line today.â

Mrs. Bantry felt more surprise. She wondered why Ella Zielinsky bothered to explain her action. She responded civilly. âHow annoying for you. Do come in and telephone anytime you want to.â

âOhâthank you very muchâ¦â Ella was interrupted by a fit of sneezing.

âYouâve got hay fever,â said Mrs. Bantry with immediate diagnosis. âTry weak bicarbonate of soda and water.â

âOh, thatâs all right. I have some very good patent stuff in an atomizer. Thank you all the same.â

She sneezed again as she moved away, walking briskly up the drive.

Mrs. Bantry looked after her. Then her eyes returned to her garden. She looked at it in a dissatisfied fashion. Not a weed to be seen anywhere.

âOthelloâs occupationâs gone,â Mrs. Bantry murmured to herself confusedly. âI dare say Iâm a nosy old woman but I would like to know ifââ

A moment of irresolution and then Mrs. Bantry yielded to temptation. She was going to be a nosy old woman and the hell with it! She strode indoors to the telephone, lifted the receiver and dialled it. A brisk transatlantic voice spoke.

âGossington Hall.â

âThis is Mrs. Bantry, at the East Lodge.â

âOh, good morning, Mrs. Bantry. This is Hailey Preston. I met you on the day of the fÃªte. What can I do for you?â

âI thought perhaps I could do something for you. If your telephoneâs out of orderââ

His astonished voice interrupted her.

âOur telephone out of order? Thereâs been nothing wrong with it. Why did you think so?â

âI must have made a mistake,â said Mrs. Bantry. âI donât always hear very well,â she explained unblushingly.

She put the receiver back, waited a minute, then dialled once more.

âJane? Dolly here.â

âYes, Dolly. What is it?â

âWell, it seems rather odd. The secretary woman was dialling from the public call box in the road. She took the trouble to explain to me quite unnecessarily that she was doing so because the line at Gossington Hall was out of order. But Iâve rung up there, and it isnâtâ¦.â

She paused, and waited for intelligence to pronounce.

âIndeed,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully. âInteresting.â

âFor what reason, do you think?â

âWell, clearly, she didnât want to be overheardââ

âExactly.â

âAnd there might be quite a number of reasons for that.â

âYes.â

âInteresting,â said Miss Marple again.

II

Nobody could have been more ready to talk than Donald McNeil. He was an amiable red-headed young man. He greeted Dermot Craddock with pleasure and curiosity.

âHow are you getting along,â he asked cheerfully, âgot any little special titbit for me?â

âNot as yet. Later perhaps.â

âStalling as usual. Youâre all the same. Affable oysters! Havenât you come to the stage yet of inviting someone to come and âassist you in your inquiriesâ?â

âIâve come to you,â said Dermot Craddock with a grin.

âIs there a nasty double entendre in that remark? Are you really suspicious that I murdered Heather Badcock and do you think I did it in mistake for Marina Gregg or that I meant to murder Heather Badcock and do you think I did it in mistake for Marina Gregg or that I meant to murder Heather Badcock all the time?â

âI havenât suggested anything,â said Craddock.

âNo, no, you wouldnât do that, would you? Youâd be very correct. All right. Letâs go into it. I was there. I had opportunity but had I any motive? Ah, thatâs what youâd like to know. What was my motive?â

âI havenât been able to find one so far,â said Craddock.

âThatâs very gratifying. I feel safer.â

âIâm just interested in what you may have seen that day.â

âYouâve had that already. The local police had that straight away. Itâs humiliating. There I was on the scene of a murder. I practically saw the murder committed, must have done, and yet Iâve no idea who did it. Iâm ashamed to confess that the first I knew about it was seeing the poor, dear woman sitting on a chair gasping for breath and then pegging out. Of course it made a very good eyewitness account. It was a good scoop for meâand all that. But Iâll confess to you that I feel humiliated that I donât know more. I ought to know more. And you canât kid me that the dose was meant for Heather Badcock. She was a nice woman who talked too much, but nobody gets murdered for thatâunless of course they give away secrets. But I donât think anybody would ever have told Heather Badcock a secret. She wasnât the kind of woman whoâd have been interested in other peopleâs secrets. My view of her is of a woman who invariably talked about herself.â

âThat seems to be the generally accepted view,â agreed Craddock.

âSo we come to the famous Marina Gregg. Iâm sure there are lots of wonderful motives for murdering Marina. Envy and jealousy and love tanglesâall the stuff of drama. But who did it? Someone with a screw loose, I presume. There! Youâve had my valuable opinion. Is that what you wanted?â

âNot that alone. I understand that you arrived and came up the stairs about the same time as the vicar and the mayor.â

âQuite correct. But that wasnât the first time Iâd arrived. Iâd been there earlier.â

âI didnât know that.â

âYes. I was on a kind of roving commission, you know, going here and there. I had a photographer with me. Iâd gone down to take a few local shots of the mayor arriving and throwing a hoopla and putting in a peg for buried treasure and that kind of thing. Then I went back up again, not so much on the job as to get a drink or two. The drink was good.â

âI see. Now can you remember who else was on the staircase when you went up?â

âMargot Bence from London was there with her camera.â

âYou know her well?â

âOh I just run against her quite often. Sheâs a clever girl, who makes a success of her stuff. She takes all the fashionable thingsâ First Nights, Gala Performancesâspecializes in photographs from unusual angles. Arty! She was in a corner of the half landing very well placed for taking anyone who came up and for taking the greetings going on at the top. Lola Brewster was just ahead of me on the stairs. Didnât know her at first. Sheâs got a new rust-red hairdo. The very latest Fiji Islander type. Last time I saw her it was lank waves falling round her face and chin in a nice shade of auburn. There was a big dark man with her, American. I donât know who he was but he looked important.â

âDid you look at Marina Gregg herself at all as you were coming up?â

âYes, of course I did.â

âShe didnât look upset or as though sheâd had a shock or was frightened?â

âItâs odd you should say that. I did think for a moment or two she was going to faint.â

âI see,â said Craddock thoughtfully. âThanks. Thereâs nothing else youâd like to tell me?â

McNeil gave him a wide innocent stare.

âWhat could there be?â

âI donât trust you,â said Craddock.

âBut you seem quite sure I didnât do it. Disappointing. Suppose I turn out to be her first husband. Nobody knows who he was except that he was so insignicant that even his nameâs been forgotten.â

Dermot grinned.

âMarried from your prep school?â he asked. âOr possibly in rompers! I must hurry. Iâve got a train to catch.â

III

There was a neatly docketed pile of papers on Craddockâs desk at New Scotland Yard. He gave a perfunctory glance through them, then threw a question over his shoulder.

âWhereâs Lola Brewster staying?â

âAt the Savoy, sir. Suite 1800. Sheâs expecting you.â

âAnd Ardwyck Fenn?â

âHeâs at the Dorchester. First floor, 190.â

âGood.â

He picked up some cablegrams and read through them again before shoving them into his pocket. He smiled a moment to himself over the last one. âDonât say I donât do my stuff, Aunt Jane,â he murmured under his breath.

He went out and made his way to the Savoy.

In Lola Brewsterâs suite Lola went out of her way to welcome him effusively. With the report he had just read in his mind, he studied her carefully. Quite a beauty still, he thought, in a lush kind of way, what you might call a trifie overblown, perhaps, but they still liked them that way. A completely different type, of course, from Marina Gregg. The amenities over, Lola pushed back her Fiji Islander hair, drew her generous lipsticked mouth into a provocative pout, and flickering blue eyelids over wide brown eyes, said:

âHave you come to ask me a lot more horrible questions? Like that local inspector did.â

âI hope they wonât be too horrible, Miss Brewster.â

âOh, but Iâm sure they will be, and Iâm sure the whole thing must have been some terrible mistake.â

âDo you really think so?â

âYes. Itâs all such nonsense. Do you really mean that someone tried to poison Marina? Who on earth would poison Marina? Sheâs an absolute sweetie, you know. Everybody loves her.â

âIncluding you?â

âIâve always been devoted to Marina.â

âOh come now, Miss Brewster, wasnât there a little trouble about eleven or twelve years ago?â

âOh that.â Lola waved it away. âI was terribly nervy and distraught, and Rob and I had been having the most frightful quarrels. We were neither of us normal at the moment. Marina just fell wildly in love with him and rushed him off his feet, the poor pet.â

âAnd you minded very much?â

âWell, I thought I did, Inspector. Of course I see now it was one of the best things that ever happened for me. I was really worried about the children, you know. Breaking up our home. Iâm afraid Iâd already realized that Rob and I were incompatible. I expect you know I got married to Eddie Groves as soon as the divorce went through? I think really Iâd been in love with him for a long time, but of course I didnât want to break up my marriage, because of the children. Itâs so important, isnât it, that children should have a home?â

âYet people say that actually you were terribly upset.â

âOh, people always say things,â said Lola vaguely.

âYou said quite a lot, didnât you, Miss Brewster? You went about threatening to shoot Marina Gregg, or so I understand.â

âIâve told you one says things. Oneâs supposed to say things like that. Of course I wouldnât really shoot anyone.â

âIn spite of taking a pot-shot at Eddie Groves some few years later?â

âOh, that was because weâd had an argument,â said Lola. âI lost my temper.â

âI have it on very good authority, Miss Brewster, that you saidâand these are your exact words or so Iâm told,â (he read from a notebook)ââThat bitch neednât think sheâll get away with it. If I donât shoot her now Iâll wait and get her in some other way. I donât care how long I wait, years if need be, but Iâll get even with her in the end.ââ

âOh, Iâm sure I never said anything of the kind,â Lola laughed.

âIâm sure, Miss Brewster, that you did.â

âPeople exaggerate so.â A charming smile broke over her face. âI was just mad at the moment, you know,â she murmured confidentially. âOne says all sorts of things when oneâs mad with people. But you donât really think Iâd wait fourteen years and come across to England, and look up Marina and drop some deadly poison into her cocktail glass within three minutes of seeing her again?â

Dermot Craddock didnât really think so. It seemed to him wildly improbable. He merely said:

âIâm only pointing out to you, Miss Brewster, that there had been threats in the past and that Marina Gregg was certainly startled and frightened to see someone who came up the stairs that day. Naturally one feels that that someone must have been you.â

âBut darling Marina was delighted to see me! She kissed me and exclaimed how wonderful it was. Oh really, Inspector, I do think youâre being very, very silly.â

âIn fact, you were all one big happy family?â

âWell, thatâs really much more true than all the things youâve been thinking.â

âAnd youâve no ideas that could help us in anyway? No ideas who might have killed her?â

âI tell you nobody would have wanted to kill Marina. Sheâs a very silly woman anyway. Always making terrible fusses about her health, and changing her mind and wanting this, that and the other, and when sheâs got it being dissatisfied with it! I canât think why people are as fond of her as they are. Jasonâs always been absolutely mad about her. What that man has to put up with! But there it is. Everybody puts up with Marina, puts themselves out for her. Then she gives them a sad, sweet smile and thanks them! And apparently that makes them feel that all the trouble is worthwhile. I really donât know how she does it. Youâd better put the idea that somebody wanted to kill her right out of your head.â

âI should like to,â said Dermot Craddock. âUnfortunately I canât put it out of my head because, you see, it happened.â

âWhat do you mean, it happened, nobody has killed Marina, have they?â

âNo. But the attempt was made.â

âI donât believe it for a moment! I expect whoever it was meant to kill the other woman all the timeâthe one who was killed. I expect someone comes into money when she dies.â

âShe hadnât any money, Miss Brewster.â

âOh well, there was some other reason. Anyway, I shouldnât worry about Marina if I were you. Marina is always all right!â

âIs she? She doesnât look a very happy woman to me.â

âOh, thatâs because she makes such a song and dance about everything. Unhappy love affairs. Not being able to have any children.â

âShe adopted some children, didnât she?â said Dermot with a lively remembrance of Miss Marpleâs urgent voice.

âI believe she did once. It wasnât a great success I believe. She does these impulsive things and then wishes she hadnât.â

âWhat happened to the children she adopted?â

âIâve no idea. They just sort of vanished after a bit. She got tired of them, I suppose, like everything else.â

âI see,â said Dermot Craddock.

IV

Nextâthe Dorchester. Suite 190.

âWell, Chief-Inspectorââ Ardwyck Fenn looked down at the card in his hand.

âCraddock.â

âWhat can I do for you?â

âI hope you wonât mind if I ask you a few questions.â

âNot at all. Itâs this business at Much Benham. Noâwhatâs the actual name, St. Mary Mead?â

âYes. Thatâs right. Gossington Hall.â

âCanât think what Jason Rudd wanted to buy a place like that for. Plenty of good Georgian houses in Englandâor even Queen Anne. Gossington Hall is a purely Victorian mansion. Whereâs the attraction in that, I wonder?â

âOh, thereâs some attractionâfor some people, that is, in Victorian stability.â

âStability? Well, perhaps youâve got something there. Marina, I suppose, had a feeling for stability. Itâs a thing she never had herself, poor girl, so I suppose thatâs why she always covets it. Perhaps this place will satisfy her for a bit.â

âYou know her well, Mr. Fenn?â

Ardwyck Fenn shrugged his shoulders.

âWell? I donât know that Iâd say that. Iâve known her over a long period of years. Known her off and on, that is to say.â

Craddock looked at him appraisingly. A dark man, heavily built, shrewd eyes behind thick glasses, heavy jowl and chin, Ardwyck Fenn went on:

âThe idea is, I gather, from what I read in the newspapers, that this Mrs. Whatever-her-name-was, was poisoned by mistake. That the dose was intended for Marina. Is that right?â

âYes. Thatâs it. The dose was in Marina Greggâs cocktail. Mrs. Badcock spilt hers and Marina handed over her drink to her.â

âWell that seems pretty conclusive. I really canât think, though, who would want to poison Marina. Especially as Lynette Brown wasnât there.â

âLynette Brown?â Craddock looked slightly at sea.

Ardwyck Fenn smiled. âIf Marina breaks this contract, throws up the partâLynette will get it and it would mean a good deal to Lynette to get it. But for all that, I donât imagine sheâd send some emissary along with poison. Much too melodramatic an idea.â

âIt seems a little far-fetched,â said Dermot dryly.

âAh, youâd be surprised what women will do when theyâre ambitious,â said Ardwyck Fenn. âMind you, death maynât have been intended. It may have been just to give her a frightâEnough to knock her out but not to finish her.â

Craddock shook his head. âIt wasnât a borderline dose,â he said.

âPeople make mistakes in doses, quite big ones.â

âIs this really your theory?â

âOh no, it isnât. It was only a suggestion. Iâve no theory. I was only an innocent bystander.â

âWas Marina Gregg very surprised to see you?â

âYes, it was a complete surprise to her.â He laughed amusedly. âJust couldnât believe her eyes when she saw me coming up the stairs. She gave me a very nice welcome, I must say.â

âYou hadnât seen her for a long time?â

âNot for four or five years, I should say.â

âAnd some years before that there was a time when you and she were very close friends, I believe?â

âAre you insinuating anything in particular by that remark, Inspector Craddock?â

There was very little change in the voice but there was something there that had not been there before. A hint of steel, of menace. Dermot felt suddenly that this man would be a very ruthless opponent.

âIt would be as well, I think,â said Ardwyck Fenn, âthat you said exactly what you do mean.â

âIâm quite prepared to do so, Mr. Fenn. I have to inquire into the past relations of everyone who was there on that day with Marina Gregg. It seems to have been a matter of common gossip that at the time I have just referred to, you were wildly in love with Marina Gregg.â

Ardwyck Fenn shrugged his shoulders.

âOne has these infatuations, Inspector. Fortunately, they pass.â

âIt is said that she encouraged you and that later she turned you down and that you resented the fact.â

âIt is saidâit is said! I suppose you read all that in Confidential?â

âIt has been told me by quite well-informed and sensible people.â

Ardwyck Fenn threw back his head, showing the bull-like line of his neck.

âI had a yen for her at one time, yes,â he admitted. âShe was a beautiful and attractive woman and still is. To say that I ever threatened her is going a little too far. Iâm never pleased to be thwarted, Chief-Inspector, and most people who thwart me tend to be sorry that they have done so. But that principle applies mainly in my business life.â

âYou did, I believe, use your influence to have her dropped from a picture that she was making?â

Fenn shrugged his shoulders.

âShe was unsuitable for the role. There was conflict between her and the director. I had money in that picture and I had no intention of jeopardizing it. It was, I assure you, purely a business transaction.â

âBut perhaps Marina Gregg did not think so?â

âOh, naturally she did not think so. She would always think that anything like that was personal.â

âShe actually told certain friends of hers that she was afraid of you, I believe?â

âDid she? How childish. I expect she enjoyed the sensation.â

âYou think there was no need for her to be afraid of you?â

âOf course not. Whatever personal disappointment I might have had, I soon put it behind me. Iâve always gone on the principle that where women are concerned there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.â

âA very satisfactory way to go through life, Mr. Fenn.â

âYes, I think it is.â

âYou have a wide knowledge of the moving picture world?â

âI have financial interests in it.â

âAnd therefore you are bound to know a lot about it?â

âPerhaps.â

âYou are a man whose judgement would be worth listening to. Can you suggest to me any person who is likely to have such a deep grudge against Marina Gregg that they would be willing to do away with her?â

âProbably a dozen,â said Ardwyck Fenn, âthat is to say, if they hadnât got to do anything about it personally. If it was a mere matter of pressing a button in a wall, I dare say thereâd be a lot of willing fingers.â

âYou were there that day. You saw her and talked to her. Do you think that amongst any of the people who were around you in that brief space of timeâfrom when you arrived to the moment when Heather Badcock diedâdo you think that amongst them you can suggestâonly suggest, mind you, Iâm asking you for nothing more than a guessâanyone who might poison Marina Gregg?â

âI wouldnât like to say,â said Ardwyck Fenn.

âThat means that you have some idea?â

âIt means that I have nothing to say on that subject. And that, Chief-Inspector Craddock, is all youâll get out of me.â

Fifteen

Dermot Craddock looked down at the last name and address he had written down in his notebook. The telephone number had been rung twice for him but there had been no response. He tried it now once more. He shrugged his shoulders, got up and decided to go and see for himself.

Margot Benceâs studio was in a cul-de-sac off the Tottenham Court Road. Beyond the name on a plate on the side of a door, there was little to identify it, and certainly no form of advertising. Craddock groped his way to the first floor. There was a large notice here painted in black on a white board. âMargot Bence, Personality Photographer. Please enter.â

Craddock entered. There was a small waiting room but nobody in charge of it. He stood there hesitating, then cleared his throat in a loud and theatrical manner. Since that drew no attention he raised his voice.

âAnybody here?â

He heard a flap of slippers behind a velvet curtain, the curtain was pushed aside and a young man with exuberant hair and a pink and white face, peered round it.

âTerribly sorry, my dear,â he said. âI didnât hear you. I had an absolutely new idea and I was just trying it out.â

He pushed the velvet curtain farther aside and Craddock followed him into an inner room. This proved to be unexpectedly large. It was clearly the working studio. There were cameras, lights, arc-lights, piles of drapery, screens on wheels.

âSuch a mess,â said the young man, who was almost as willowy as Hailey Preston. âBut one finds it very hard to work, I think, unless one does get into a mess. Now what were you wanting to see us about?â

âI wanted to see Miss Margot Bence.â

âAh, Margot. Now what a pity. If youâd been half an hour earlier youâd have found her here. Sheâs gone off to produce some photographs of models for Fashion Dream. You should have rung up, you know, to make an appointment. Margotâs terribly busy these days.â

âI did ring up. There was no reply.â

âOf course,â said the young man. âWe took the receiver off. I remember now. It disturbed us.â He smoothed down a kind of lilac smock that he was wearing. âCan I do anything for you? Make an appointment? I do a lot of Margotâs business arrangements for her. You wanted to arrange for some photography somewhere? Private or business?â

âFrom that point of view, neither,â said Dermot Craddock. He handed his card to the young man.

âHow perfectly rapturous,â said the young man. âCID! I believe, you know, Iâve seen pictures of you. Are you one of the Big Four or the Big Five, or is it perhaps the Big Six nowadays? Thereâs so much crime about, theyâd have to increase the numbers, wouldnât they? Oh dear, is that disrespectful? Iâm afraid it is. I didnât mean to be disrespectful at all. Now, what do you want Margot forânot to arrest her, I hope.â

âI just wanted to ask her one or two questions.â

âShe doesnât do indecent photographs or anything like that,â said the young man anxiously. âI hope nobodyâs been telling you any stories of that kind because it isnât true. Margotâs very artistic. She does a lot of stage work and studio work. But her studies are terribly, terribly pureâalmost prudish, Iâd say.â

âI can tell you quite simply why I want to speak to Miss Bence,â said Dermot. âShe was recently an eyewitness of a crime that took place near Much Benham, at a village called St. Mary Mead.â

âOh, my dear, of course! I know about that. Margot came back and told me all about it. Hemlock in the cocktails, wasnât it? Something of that kind. So bleak it sounded! But all mixed-up with the St. John Ambulance which doesnât seem so bleak, does it? But havenât you already asked Margot questions about thatâor was it somebody else?â

âOne always finds there are more questions, as the case goes on,â said Dermot.

âYou mean it develops. Yes, I can quite see that. Murder develops. Yes, like a photograph, isnât it?â

âItâs very much like photography really,â said Dermot. âQuite a good comparison of yours.â

âWell, itâs very nice of you to say so, Iâm sure. Now about Margot. Would you like to get hold of her right away?â

âIf you can help me to do so, yes.â

âWell, at the moment,â said the young man, consulting his watch, âat the moment sheâll be outside Keatsâ house at Hampstead Heath. My carâs outside. Shall I run you up there?â

âThat would be very kind of you, Mrââ

âJethroe,â said the young man, âJohnny Jethroe.â

As they went down the stairs Dermot asked:

âWhy Keatsâ house?â

âWell, you know we donât pose fashion photographs in the studio anymore. We like them to seem natural, blown about by the wind. And if possible some rather unlikely background. You know, an Ascot frock against Wandsworth Prison, or a frivolous suit outside a poetâs house.â

Mr. Jethroe drove rapidly but skilfully up Tottenham Court Road, through Camden Town and finally to the neighbourhood of Hampstead Heath. On the pavement near Keatsâ house a pretty little scene was being enacted. A slim girl, wearing diaphanous organdie, was standing clutching an immense black hat. On her knees, a little way behind her, a second girl was holding the first girlâs skirt well pulled back so that it clung around her knees and legs. In a deep hoarse voice a girl with a camera was directing operations.

âFor goodnessâ sake, Jane, get your behind down. Itâs showing behind her right knee. Get down flatter. Thatâs it. No, more to the left. Thatâs right. Now youâre masked by the bush. Thatâll do. Hold it. Weâll have one more. Both hands on the back of the hat this time. Head up. Goodânow turn round, Elsie. Bend over. More. Bend! Bend, youâve got to pick up that cigarette case. Thatâs right. Thatâs heaven! Got it! Now move over to the left. Same pose, only just turn your head over your shoulder. So.â

âI canât see what you want to go taking photographs of my behind for,â said the girl called Elsie rather sulkily.

âItâs a lovely behind, dear. It looks smashing,â said the photographer. âAnd when you turn your head your chin comes up like the rising moon over a mountain. I donât think we need bother with anymore.â

âHiâ Margot,â said Mr. Jethroe.

She turned her head. âOh, itâs you. What are you doing here?â

âI brought someone along to see you. Chief-Inspector Craddock, CID.â

The girlâs eyes turned swiftly on to Dermot. He thought they had a wary, searching look but that, as he well knew, was nothing extraordinary. It was a fairly common reaction to detective-inspectors. She was a thin girl, all elbows and angles, but was an interesting shape for all that. A heavy curtain of black hair fell down either side of her face. She looked dirty as well as sallow and not particularly prepossessing, to his eyes. But he acknowledged that there was character there. She raised her eyebrows which were slightly raised by art already and remarked:

âAnd what can I do for you, Detective-Inspector Craddock?â

âHow do you do, Miss Bence. I wanted to ask you if you would be so kind as to answer a few questions about that very unfortuante business at Gossington Hall, near Much Benham. You went there, if I remember, to take some photographs.â

The girl nodded. âOf course. I remember quite well.â She shot him a quick searching look. âI didnât see you there. Surely it was somebody else. InspectorâInspectorââ

âInspector Cornish?â said Dermot.

âThatâs right.â

âWe were called in later.â

âYouâre from Scotland Yard?â

âYes.â

âYou butted in and took over from the local people. Is that it?â

âWell, it isnât quite a question of butting in, you know. Itâs up to the Chief Constable of the County to decide whether he wants to keep it in his own hands or whether he thinks itâll be better handled by us.â

âWhat makes him decide?â

âIt very often turns on whether the case has a local background or whether itâs a moreâuniversal one. Sometimes, perhaps, an international one.â

âAnd he decided, did he, that this was an international one?â

âTransatlantic, perhaps, would be a better word.â

âTheyâve been hinting that in the papers, havenât they? Hinting that the killer, whoever he was, was out to get Marina Gregg and got some wretched local woman by mistake. Is that true or is it a bit of publicity for their film?â

âIâm afraid there isnât much doubt about it, Miss Bence.â

âWhat do you want to ask me? Have I got to come to Scotland Yard?â

He shook his head. âNot unless you like. Weâll go back to your studio if you prefer.â

âAll right, letâs do that. My carâs just up the street.â

She walked rapidly along the footpath. Dermot went with her. Jethroe called after them.

âSo long darling, I wonât butt in. Iâm sure you and the Inspector are going to talk big secrets.â He joined the two models on the pavement and began an animated discussion with them.

Margot got into the car, unlocked the door on the other side, and Dermot Craddock got in beside her. She said nothing at all during the drive back to Tottenham Court Road. She turned down the cul-de-sac and at the bottom of it drove through an open doorway.

âGot my own parking place here,â she remarked. âItâs a furniture depository place really, but they rent me a bit of space. Parking a car is one of the big headaches in London, as you probably know only too well, though I donât suppose you deal with traffic, do you?â

âNo, thatâs not one of my troubles.â

âI should think murder would be infinitely preferable,â said Margot Bence.

She led the way back to the studio, motioned him to a chair, offered him a cigarette and sank down on the large pouffe opposite him. From behind the curtain of dark hair she looked at him in a sombre questioning way.

âShoot, stranger,â she said.

âYou were taking photographs on the occasion of this death, I understand.â

âYes.â

âYouâd been engaged professionally?â

âYes. They wanted someone to do a few specialized shots. I do quite a lot of that stuff. I do some work for film studios sometimes, but this time I was just taking photographs of the fÃªte, and afterwards a few shots of special people being greeted by Marina Gregg and Jason Rudd. Local notabilities or other personalities. That sort of thing.â

âYes. I understand that. You had your camera on the stairs, I understand?â

âA part of the time, yes. I got a very good angle from there. You get people coming up the stairs below you and you could swivel round and get Marina shaking hands with them. You could get a lot of different angles without having to move much.â

âI know, of course, that you answered some questions at the time as to whether youâd seen anything unusual, anything that might be helpful. They were general questions.â

âHave you got more specialized ones?â

âA little more specialized, I think. You had a good view of Marina Gregg from where you were standing?â

She nodded. âExcellent.â

âAnd of Jason Rudd?â

âOccasionally. But he was moving about more. Drinks and things and introducing people to one another. The locals to the celebrities. That kind of thing, I should imagine. I didnât see this Mrs. Baddeleyââ

âBadcock.â

âSorry, Badcock. I didnât see her drink the fatal draught or anything like that. In fact I donât think I really know which she was.â

âDo you remember the arrival of the mayor?â

âOh, yes. I remember the mayor all right. He had on his chain and his robes of office. I got one of him coming up the stairsâa close-upârather a cruel profile, and then I got him shaking hands with Marina.â

âThen you can fix that time at least in your mind. Mrs. Badcock and her husband came up the stairs to Marina Gregg immediately in front of him.â

She shook her head. âSorry. I still donât remember her.â

âThat doesnât matter so much. I presume that you had a pretty good view of Marina Gregg and that you had your eyes on her and were pointing the camera at her fairly often.â

âQuite right. Most of the time. Iâd wait till I got just the right moment.â

âDo you know a man called Ardwyck Fenn by sight?â

âOh yes. I know him well enough. Television networkâfilms too.â

âDid you take a photograph of him?â

âYes. I got him coming up with Lola Brewster.â

âThat would be just after the mayor?â

She thought a minute then agreed. âYes, about then.â

âDid you notice that about that time Marina Gregg seemed to feel suddenly ill? Did you notice any unusual expression on her face?â

Margot Bence leant forward, opened a cigarette box and took out a cigarette. She lit it. Although she had not answered Dermot did not press her. He waited, wondering what it was she was turning over in her mind. She said at last, abruptly:

âWhy do you ask me that?â

âBecause itâs a question to which I am very anxious to have an answerâa reliable answer.â

âDo you think my answerâs likely to be reliable?â

âYes I do, as a matter of fact. You must have the habit of watching peopleâs faces very closely, waiting for certain expressions, certain propitious moments.â

She nodded her head.

âDid you see anything of that kind?â

âSomebody else saw it too, did they?â

âYes. More than one person, but itâs been described rather differently.â

âHow did the other people describe it?â

âOne person has told me that she was taken faint.â

Margot Bence shook her head slowly.

âSomeone else said that she was startled.â He paused a moment then went on, âAnd somebody else describes her as having a frozen look on her face.â

âFrozen,â said Margot Bence thoughtfully.

âDo you agree to that last statement?â

âI donât know. Perhaps.â

âIt was put rather more fancifully still,â said Dermot. âIn the words of the late poet, Tennyson. âThe mirror crackâd from side to side; âThe doom has come upon me,â cried the Lady of Shalott.ââ

âThere wasnât any mirror,â said Margot Bence, âbut if there had been it might have cracked.â She got up abruptly. âWait,â she said. âIâll do something better than describe it to you. Iâll show you.â

She pushed aside the curtain at the far end and disappeared for some moments. He could hear her uttering impatient mutterings under her breath.

âWhat hell it is,â she said as she emerged again, âone never can find things when one wants them. Iâve got it now though.â

She came across to him and put a glossy print into his hand. He looked down at it. It was a very good photograph of Marina Gregg. Her hand was clasped in the hand of a woman standing in front of her, and therefore with her back to the camera. But Marina Gregg was not looking at the woman. Her eyes stared not quite into the camera but slightly obliquely to the left. The interesting thing to Dermot Craddock was that the face expressed nothing whatever. There was no fear on it, no pain. The woman portrayed there was staring at something, something she saw, and the emotion it aroused in her was so great that she was physically unable to express it by any kind of facial expression. Dermot Craddock had seen such a look once on a manâs face, a man who a second later had been shot deadâ¦.

âSatisfied?â asked Margot Bence.

Craddock gave a deep sigh. âYes, thank you. Itâs hard, you know, to make up oneâs mind if witnesses are exaggerating, if they are imagining they see things. But thatâs not so in this case. There was something to see and she saw it.â He asked, âCan I keep this picture?â

âOh, yes you can have the print. Iâve got the negative.â

âYou didnât send it to the Press?â

Margot Bence shook her head.

âI rather wonder why you didnât. After all, itâs rather a dramatic photograph. Some paper might have paid a good price for it.â

âI wouldnât care to do that,â said Margot Bence. âIf you look into somebodyâs soul by accident, you feel a bit embarrassed about cashing in.â

âDid you know Marina Gregg at all?â

âNo.â

âYou come from the States, donât you?â

âI was born in England. I was trained in America though. I came over here, oh, about three years ago.â

Dermot Craddock nodded. He had known the answers to his questions. They had been waiting for him among the other lists of information on his office table. The girl seemed straightforward enough. He asked:

âWhere did you train?â

âReingarden Studios. I was with Andrew Quilp for a time. He taught me a lot.â

âReingarden Studios and Andrew Quilp.â Dermot Craddock was suddenly alert. The names struck a chord of remembrance.

âYou lived in Seven Springs, didnât you?â

She looked amused.

âYou seem to know a lot about me. Have you been checking up?â

âYouâre a very well-known photographer, Miss Bence. There have been articles written about you, you know. Why did you come to England?â

She shrugged her shoulders.

âOh, I like a change. Besides, as I tell you, I was born in England although I went to the States as a child.â

âQuite a young child, I think.â

âFive years old if youâre interested.â

âI am interested. I think, Miss Bence, you could tell me a little more than you have done.â

Her face hardened. She stared at him.

âWhat do you mean by that?â

Dermot Craddock looked at her and risked it. It wasnât much to go on. Reingarden Studios and Andrew Quilp and the name of one town. But he felt rather as if old Miss Marple were at his shoulder egging him on.

âI think you knew Marina Gregg better than you say.â

She laughed. âProve it. Youâre imagining things.â

âAm I? I donât think I am. And it could be proved, you know, with a little time and care. Come now, Miss Bence, hadnât you better admit the truth? Admit that Marina Gregg adopted you as a child and that you lived with her for four years.â

She drew her breath in sharply with a hiss.

âYou nosy bastard!â she said.

It startled him a little, it was such a contrast to her former manner. She got up, shaking her black head of hair.

âAll right, all right, itâs true enough! Yes Marina Gregg took me over to America with her. My mother had eight kids. She lived in a slum somewhere. She was one of hundreds of people, I suppose, who wrote to any film actress that they happen to see or hear about, spilling a hard-luck story, begging her to adopt the child a mother couldnât give advantages to. Oh, itâs such a sickening business, all of it.â

âThere were three of you,â said Dermot. âThree children adopted at different times from different places.â

âThatâs right. Me and Rod and Angus. Angus was older than I was, Rod was practically a baby. We had a wonderful life. Oh, a wonderful life! All the advantages!â Her voice rose mockingly. âClothes and cars and a wonderful house to live in and people to look after us, good schooling and teaching, and delicious food. Everything piled on! And she herself, our âMom.â âMomâ in inverted commas, playing her part, crooning over us, being photographed with us! Ah, such a pretty sentimental picture.â

âBut she really wanted children,â said Dermot Craddock. âThat was real enough, wasnât it? It wasnât just a publicity stunt.â

âOh, perhaps. Yes, I think that was true. She wanted children. But she didnât want us! Not really. It was just a glorious bit of playacting. âMy family.â âSo lovely to have a family of my own.â And Izzy let her do it. He ought to have known better.â

âIzzy was Isidore Wright?â

âYes, her third husband or her fourth, I forget which. He was a wonderful man really. He understood her, I think, and he was worried sometimes about us. He was kind to us, but he didnât pretend to be a father. He didnât feel like a father. He only cared really about his own writing. Iâve read some of his things since. Theyâre sordid and rather cruel, but theyâre powerful. I think people will call him a great writer one day.â

âAnd this went on until when?â

Margot Benceâs smile curved suddenly. âUntil she got sick of that particular bit of playacting. No, thatâs not quite trueâ¦ She found she was going to have a child of her own.â

She laughed with sudden bitterness. âThen weâd had it! We werenât wanted anymore. Weâd done very well as little stopgaps, but she didnât care a damn about us really, not a damn. Oh, she pensioned us off very prettily. With a home and a foster-mother and money for our education and a nice little sum to start us off in the world. Nobody can say that she didnât behave correctly and handsomely. But sheâd never wanted usâall she wanted was a child of her own.â

âYou canât blame her for that,â said Dermot gently.

âI donât blame her for wanting a child of her own, no! But what about us? She took us away from our own parents, from the place where we belonged. My mother sold me for a mess of pottage, if you like, but she didnât sell me for advantage to herself. She sold me because she was a damnâ silly woman who thought Iâd get âadvantagesâ and âeducationâ and have a wonderful life. She thought she was doing the best for me. Best for me? If she only knew.â

âYouâre still very bitter, I see.â

âNo, Iâm not bitter now. Iâve got over that. Iâm bitter because Iâm remembering, because Iâve gone back to those days. We were all pretty bitter.â

âAll of you?â

âWell, not Rod. Rod never cared about anything. Besides he was rather small. But Angus felt like I did, only I think he was more revengeful. He said that when he was grown-up he would go and kill that baby she was going to have.â

âYou knew about the baby?â

âOh, of course I knew. And everyone knows what happened. She went crazy with rapture about having it and then when it was born it was an idiot! Serve her right. Idiot or no idiot, she didnât want us back again.â

âYou hate her very much.â

âWhy shouldnât I hate her? She did the worst thing to me that anyone can do to anyone else. Let them believe that theyâre loved and wanted and then show them that itâs all a sham.â

âWhat happened to your twoâIâll call them brothers, for the sake of convenience.â

âOh, we all drifted apart later. Rodâs farming somewhere in the Middle West. Heâs got a happy nature, and always had. Angus? I donât know. I lost sight of him.â

âDid he continue to feel regretful?â

âI shouldnât think so,â said Margot. âItâs not the sort of thing you can go on feeling. The last time I saw him, he said he was going on the stage. I donât know whether he did.â

âYouâve remembered, though,â said Dermot.

âYes. Iâve remembered,â said Margot Bence.

âWas Marina Gregg surprised to see you on that day or did she make the arrangements for your photography on purpose to please you?â

âShe?â The girl smiled scornfully. âShe knew nothing about the arrangements. I was curious to see her, so I did a bit of lobbying to get the job. As I say Iâve got some influence with studio people. I wanted to see what she looked like nowadays.â She stroked the surface of the table. âShe didnât even recognize me. What do you think of that? I was with her for four years. From five years old to nine and she didnât recognize me.â

âChildren change,â said Dermot Craddock, âthey change so much that youâd hardly know them. I have a niece I met the other day and I assure you Iâd have passed her in the street.â

âAre you saying that to make me feel better? I donât care really. Oh, what the hell, letâs be honest. I do care. I did. She had a magic, you know. Marina! A wonderful calamitous magic that took hold of you. You can hate a person and still mind.â

âYou didnât tell her who you were?â

She shook her head. âNo, I didnât tell her. Thatâs the last thing Iâd do.â

âDid you try and poison her, Miss Bence?â

Her mood changed. She got up and laughed.

âWhat ridiculous questions you do ask! But I suppose you have to. Itâs part of your job. No. I can assure you I didnât kill her.â

âThat isnât what I asked you, Miss Bence.â

She looked at him, frowning, puzzled.

âMarina Gregg,â he said, âis still alive.â

âFor how long?â

âWhat do you mean by that?â

âDonât you think itâs likely, Inspector, that someone will try again, and this timeâthis time, perhapsâtheyâll succeed?â

âPrecautions will be taken.â

âOh, Iâm sure they will. The adoring husband will look after her, wonât he, and make sure that no harm comes to her?â

He was listening carefully to the mockery in her voice.

âWhat did you mean when you said you didnât ask me that?â she said, harking back suddenly.

âI asked you if you tried to kill her. You replied that you didnât kill her. Thatâs true enough, but someone died, someone was killed.â

âYou mean I tried to kill Marina and instead I killed Mrs. Whatâs-her-name. If youâd like me to make it quite clear, I didnât try to poison Marina and I didnât poison Mrs. Badcock.â

âBut you know perhaps who did?â

âI donât know anything, Inspector, I assure you.â

âBut you have some idea?â

âOh, one always has ideas.â She smiled at him, a mocking smile. âAmong so many people it might be, mightnât it, the black-haired robot of a secretary, the elegant Hailey Preston, servants, maids, a masseur, the hairdresser, someone at the studios, so many peopleâand one of them mightnât be what he or she pretended to be.â

Then as he took an unconscious step towards her she shook her head vehemently.

âRelax, Inspector,â she said. âIâm only teasing you. Somebodyâs out for Marinaâs blood, but who it is Iâve no idea. Really. Iâve no idea at all.â

Sixteen

I

At No. 16 Aubrey Close, young Mrs. Baker was talking to her husband. Jim Baker, a big good-looking blond giant of a man, was intent on assembling a model construction unit.

âNeighbours!â said Cherry. She gave a toss of her black curly head. âNeighbours!â she said with venom.

She carefully lifted the frying pan from the stove, then neatly shot its contents onto two plates, one rather fuller than the other. She placed the fuller one before her husband.

âMixed grill,â she announced.

Jim looked up and sniffed appreciatively.

âThatâs something like,â he said. âWhat is today? My birthday?â

âYou have to be well nourished,â said Cherry.

She was looking very pretty in a cerise and white striped apron with little frills on it. Jim Baker shifted the component parts of a strato-cruiser to make room for his meal. He grinned at his wife and asked:

âWho says so?â

âMy Miss Marple for one!â said Cherry. âAnd if it comes to that,â she added, sitting down opposite Jim and pulling her plate towards her, âI should say she could do with a bit more solid nourishment herself. That old cat of a White Knight of hers, gives her nothing but carbohydrates. Itâs all she can think of! A ânice custard,â a ânice bread and butter pudding,â a ânice macaroni cheese.â Squashy puddings with pink sauce. And gas, gas, gas, all day. Talks her head off she does.â

âOh well,â said Jim vaguely, âitâs invalid diet, I suppose.â

âInvalid diet!â said Cherry and snorted. âMiss Marple isnât an invalidâsheâs just old. Always interfering, too.â

âWho, Miss Marple?â

âNo. That Miss Knight. Telling me how to do things! She even tries to tell me how to cook! I know a lot more about cooking than she does.â

âYouâre tops for cooking, Cherry,â said Jim appreciatively.

âThereâs something to cooking,â said Cherry, âsomething you can get your teeth into.â

Jim laughed. âIâm getting my teeth into this all right. Why did your Miss Marple say that I needed nourishing? Did she think I looked run-down, the other day when I came in to fix the bathroom shelf?â

Cherry laughed. âIâll tell you what she said to me. She said, âYouâve got a handsome husband, my dear. A very handsome husband.â Sounds like one of those period books they read aloud on the telly.â

âI hope you agreed with her?â said Jim with a grin.

âI said you were all right.â

âAll right indeed! Thatâs a nice lukewarm way of talking.â

âAnd then she said âYou must take care of your husband, my dear. Be sure you feed him properly. Men need plenty of good meat meals, well cooked.ââ

âHear, hear!â

âAnd she told me to be sure and prepare fresh food for you and not to buy ready-made pies and things and slip them in the oven to warm up. Not that I do that often,â added Cherry virtuously.

âYou canât do it too seldom for me,â said Jim. âThey donât taste a bit the same.â

âSo long as you notice what you eat,â said Cherry, âand arenât so taken up with those strato-cruisers and things youâre always building. And donât tell me you bought that set as a Christmas present for your nephew Michael. You bought it so that you could play with it yourself.â

âHeâs not quite old enough for it yet,â said Jim apologetically.

âAnd I suppose youâre going on dithering about with it all the evening. What about some music? Did you get that new record you were talking about?â

âYes, I did. Tchaikovski 1812.â

âThatâs the loud one with the battle, isnât it?â said Cherry. She made a face. âOur Mrs. Hartwell wonât half like that! Neighbours! Iâm fed up with neighbours. Always grousing and complaining. I donât know which is the worst. The Hartwells or the Barnabys. The Hartwells start rapping on the wall as early as twenty to eleven sometimes. Itâs a bit thick! After all even the telly and the BBC go on later than that. Why shouldnât we have a bit of music if we like? And always asking us to turn it down low.â

âYou canât turn these things down low,â said Jim with authority. âYou donât get the tone unless youâve got the volume. Everyone knows that. Itâs absolutely recognized in musical circles. And what about their catâalways coming over into our garden, digging up the beds, just when Iâve got it nice.â

âI tell you what, Jim. Iâm fed up with this place.â

âYou didnât mind your neighbours up in Huddersfield,â remarked Jim.

âIt wasnât the same there,â said Cherry. âI mean, youâre all independent there. If youâre in trouble, somebodyâd give you a hand and youâd give a hand to them. But you donât interfere. Thereâs something about a new estate like this that makes people look sideways at their neighbours. Because weâre all new I suppose. The amount of backbiting and tale-telling and writing to the council and one thing and another round here beats me! People in real towns are too busy for it.â

âYou may have something there, my girl.â

âDâyou like it here, Jim?â

âThe jobâs all right. And after all, this is a brand new house. I wish there was a bit more room in it so that I could spread myself a bit more. It would be fine if I could have a workshop.â

âI thought it was lovely at first,â said Cherry, âbut now Iâm not so sure. The house is all right and I love the blue paint and the bathroomâs nice, but I donât like the people and the feeling round here. Did I tell you that Lily Price and that Harry of hers have broken off? It was a funny business that day in that house they went to look over. You know when she more or less fell out of the window. She said Harry just stood there like a stuck pig.â

âIâm glad sheâs broken off with him. Heâs a no-good if I ever saw one,â said Jim.

âNo good marrying a chap just because a babyâs on the way,â said Cherry. âHe didnât want to marry her, you know. Heâs not a very nice fellow. Miss Marple said he wasnât,â she added thoughtfully. âShe spoke to Lily about him. Lily thought she was crackers.â

âMiss Marple? I didnât know sheâd ever seen him?â

âOh yes, she was round here walking the day she fell down and Mrs. Badcock picked her up and took her into her house. Do you think Arthur and Mrs. Bain will make a match of it?â

Jim frowned as he picked up a bit of strato-cruiser and consulted the instructional diagram.

âI do wish youâd listen when Iâm talking,â said Cherry.

âWhat did you say?â

âArthur Badcock and Mary Bain.â

âFor the Lordâs sake, Cherry, his wifeâs only just dead! You women! Iâve heard heâs in a terrible state of nerves stillâjumps if you speak to him.â

âI wonder whyâ¦ I shouldnât have thought heâd take it that way, would you?â

âCan you clear off this end of the table a bit?â said Jim, relinquishing even a passing interest in the affairs of his neighbours. âJust so that I can spread some of these pieces out a bit.â

Cherry heaved an exasperated sigh.

âTo get any attention round here, you have to be a super jet, or a turbo prop,â she said bitterly. âYou and your construction models!â

She piled the tray with the remains of supper and carried it over to the sink. She decided not to wash up, a necessity of daily life she always put off as long as possible. Instead, she piled everything into the sink, haphazard, slipped on a corduroy jacket and went out of the house, pausing to call over her shoulder:

âIâm just going to slip along to see Gladys Dixon. I want to borrow one of her Vogue patterns.â

âAll right, old girl.â Jim bent over his model.

Casting a venomous look at her next-door neighbourâs front door as she passed, Cherry went round the corner into Blenheim Close and stopped at No. 16. The door was open and Cherry tapped on it and went into the hall calling out:

âIs Gladdy about?â

âIs that you, Cherry?â Mrs. Dixon looked out of the kitchen. âSheâs upstairs in her room, dressmaking.â

âRight. Iâll go up.â

Cherry went upstairs to a small bedroom in which Gladys, a plump girl with a plain face, was kneeling on the floor, her cheeks flushed, and several pins in her mouth, tacking up a paper pattern.

âHallo, Cherry. Look, I got a lovely bit of stuff at Harperâs sale at Much Benham. Iâm going to do that crossover pattern with frills again, the one I did in Terylene before.â

âThatâll be nice,â said Cherry.

Gladys rose to her feet, panting a little.

âGot indigestion now,â she said.

âYou oughtnât to do dressmaking right after supper,â said Cherry, âbending over like that.â

âI suppose I ought to slim a bit,â said Gladys. She sat down on the bed.

âAny news from the studios?â asked Cherry, always avid for film news.

âNothing much. Thereâs a lot of talk still. Marina Gregg came back on the set yesterdayâand she created something frightful.â

âWhat about?â

âShe didnât like the taste of her coffee. You know, they have coffee in the middle of the morning. She took one sip and said there was something wrong with it. Which was nonsense, of course. There couldnât have been. It comes in a jug straight from the canteen. Of course I always put hers in a special china cup, rather poshâdifferent from the othersâbut itâs the same coffee. So there couldnât have been anything wrong with it, could there?â

âNerves, I suppose,â said Cherry. âWhat happened?â

âOh, nothing. Mr. Rudd just calmed everyone down. Heâs wonderful that way. He took the coffee from her and poured it down the sink.â

âThat seems to be rather stupid,â said Cherry slowly.

âWhyâwhat do you mean?â

âWell, if there was anything wrong with itânow nobody will ever know.â

âDo you think there really might have been?â asked Gladys looking alarmed.

âWellââ Cherry shrugged her shoulders, ââthere was something wrong with her cocktail the day of the fÃªte, wasnât there, so why not the coffee? If at first you donât succeed, try, try, try again.â

Gladys shivered.

âI donât half like it, Cherry,â she said. âSomebodyâs got it in for her all right. Sheâs had more letters, you know, threatening herâand there was that bust business the other day.â

âWhat bust business?â

âA marble bust. On the set. Itâs a corner of a room in some Austrian palace or other. Funny name like Shotbrown. Pictures and china and marble busts. This one was up on a bracketâsuppose it hadnât been pushed back enough. Anway, a heavy lorry went past out in the road and jarred it offâright onto the chair where Marina sits for her big scene with Count Somebody-or-other. Smashed to smithereens! Lucky they werenât shooting at the time. Mr. Rudd, he said not to say a word to her, and he put another chair there, and when she came yesterday and asked why the chair had been changed, he said the other chair was the wrong period, and this gave a better angle for the camera. But he didnât half like itâI can tell you that.â

The two girls looked at each other.

âItâs exciting in a way,â said Cherry slowly. âAnd yetâit isnâtâ¦.â

âI think Iâm going to give up working in the canteen at the studios,â said Gladys.

âWhy? Nobody wants to poison you or drop marble busts on your head!â

âNo. But itâs not always the person whoâs meant to get done in who gets done in. It may be someone else. Like Heather Badcock that day.â

âTrue enough,â said Cherry.

âYou know,â said Gladys, âIâve been thinking. I was at the Hall that day, helping. I was quite close to them at the time.â

âWhen Heather died?â

âNo, when she spilt the cocktail. All down her dress. A lovely dress it was, too, royal blue nylon taffeta. Sheâd got it quite new for the occasion. And it was funny.â

âWhat was funny?â

âI didnât think anything of it at the time. But it does seem funny when I think it over.â

Cherry looked at her expectantly. She accepted the adjective âfunnyâ in the sense that it was meant. It was not intended humorously.

âFor goodnessâ sake, what was funny?â she demanded.

âIâm almost sure she did it on purpose.â

âSpilt the cocktail on purpose?â

âYes. And I do think that was funny, donât you?â

âOn a brand-new dress? I donât believe it.â

âI wonder now,â said Gladys, âwhat Arthur Badcock will do with all Heatherâs clothes. That dress would clean all right. Or I could take out half a breadth, itâs a lovely full skirt. Do you think Arthur Badcock would think it very awful of me if I wanted to buy it off him? It would need hardly any alterationâand itâs lovely stuff.â

âYou wouldnâtââ Cherry hesitated ââmind?â

âMind what?â

âWellâhaving a dress that a woman had died inâI mean died that wayâ¦.â

Gladys stared at her.

âI hadnât thought of that,â she admitted. She considered for a moment or two. Then she cheered up.

âI canât see that it really matters,â she said. âAfter all, every time you buy something secondhand, somebodyâs usually worn it who has died, havenât they?â

âYes. But itâs not quite the same.â

âI think youâre being fanciful,â said Gladys. âItâs a lovely bright shade of blue, and really expensive stuff. About that funny business,â she continued thoughtfully, âI think Iâll go up to the hall tomorrow morning on my way to work and have a word with Mr. Giuseppe about it.â

âIs he the Italian butler?â

âYes. Heâs awfully handsome. Flashing eyes. Heâs got a terrible temper. When we go and help there, he chivvies us girls something terrible.â She giggled. âBut none of us really mind. He can be awfully nice sometimesâ¦ Anyway, I might just tell him about it, and ask him what I ought to do.â

âI donât see that youâve got anything to tell,â said Cherry.

âWell, it was funny,â said Gladys, defiantly clinging to her favourite adjective.

âI think,â said Cherry, âthat you just want an excuse to go and talk to Mr. Giuseppeâand youâd better be careful, my girl. You know what these wops are like! Affiliation orders all over the place. Hot-blooded and passionate, thatâs what these Italians are.â

Gladys sighed ecstatically.

Cherry looked at her friendâs fat slightly spotted face and decided that her warnings were unnecessary. Mr. Giuseppe, she thought, would have better fish to fry elsewhere.

II

âAha!â said Dr. Haydock, âunravelling, I see.â

He looked from Miss Marple to a pile of fluffy white fleecy wool.

âYou advised me to try unravelling if I couldnât knit,â said Miss Marple.

âYou seem to have been very thorough about it.â

âI made a mistake in the pattern right at the beginning. That made the whole thing go out of proportion, so Iâve had to unravel it all. Itâs a very elaborate pattern, you see.â

âWhat are elaborate patterns to you? Nothing at all.â

âI ought really, I suppose, with my bad eyesight, to stick to plain knitting.â

âYouâd find that very boring. Well, Iâm flattered that you took my advice.â

âDonât I always take your advice, Doctor Haydock?â

âYou do when it suits you,â said Dr. Haydock.

âTell me, Doctor, was it really knitting you had in mind when you gave me that advice?â

He met the twinkle in her eyes and twinkled back at her.

âHow are you getting on with unravelling the murder?â he asked.

âIâm afraid my faculties arenât quite what they were,â said Miss Marple, shaking her head with a sigh.

âNonsense,â said Dr. Haydock. âDonât tell me you havenât formed some conclusions.â

âOf course I have formed conclusions. Very definite ones.â

âSuch as?â asked Haydock inquiringly.

âIf the cocktail glass was tampered with that dayâand I donât see quite how that could have been doneââ

âMight have had the stuff ready in an eyedropper,â suggested Haydock.

âYou are so professional,â said Miss Marple admiringly. âBut even then it seems to me so very peculiar that nobody saw it happen.â

âMurder should not only be done, but be seen done! Is that it?â

âYou know exactly what I mean,â said Miss Marple.

âThat was a chance the murderer had to take,â said Haydock.

âOh quite so. Iâm not disputing that for a moment. But there were, I have found by inquiry and adding up the persons, at least eighteen to twenty people on the spot. It seems to me that amongst twenty people somebody must have seen that action occur.â

Haydock nodded. âOne would think so, certainly. But obviously no one did.â

âI wonder,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

âWhat have you got in mind exactly?â

âWell, there are three possibilities. Iâm assuming that at least one person would have seen something. One out of twenty. I think itâs only reasonable to assume that.â

âI think youâre begging the question,â said Haydock, âand I can see looming ahead one of those terrible exercises in probability where six men have white hats and six men have black and you have to work it out by mathematics how likely it is that the hats will get mixed-up and in what proportion. If you start thinking about things like that you would go round the bend. Let me assure you of that!â

âI wasnât thinking of anything like that,â said Miss Marple. âI was just thinking of what is likelyââ

âYes,â said Haydock thoughtfully, âyouâre very good at that. You always have been.â

âIt is likely, you know,â said Miss Marple, âthat out of twenty people one at least should be an observant one.â

âI give in,â said Haydock. âLetâs have the three possibilities.â

âIâm afraid Iâll have to put them in rather sketchily,â said Miss Marple. âI havenât quite thought it out. Inspector Craddock, and probably Frank Cornish before him, will have questioned everybody who was there so the natural thing would be that whoever saw anything of the kind would have said so at once.â

âIs that one of the possibilities?â

âNo, of course it isnât,â said Miss Marple, âbecause it hasnât happened. What you have to account for is if one person did see something why didnât that person say so?â

âIâm listening.â

âPossibility One,â said Miss Marple, her cheeks going pink with animation. âThe person who saw it didnât realise what they had seen. That would mean, of course, that it would have to be rather a stupid person. Someone, let us say, who can use their eyes but not their brain. The sort of person who, if you asked them. âDid you see anyone put anything in Marina Greggâs glass?â would answer, âOh, no,â but if you said âDid you see anyone put their hand over the top of Marina Greggâs glass?â would say âOh, yes, of course I did.ââ

Haydock laughed. âI admit,â he said, âthat one never quite allows for the moron in our midst. All right, I grant you Possibility One. The moron saw it, the moron didnât grasp what the action meant. And the second possibility?â

âThis oneâs far-fetched, but I do think it is just a possibility. It might have been a person whose action in putting something in a glass was natural.â

âWait, wait, explain that a little more clearly.â

âIt seems to me nowadays,â said Miss Marple, âthat people are always adding things to what they eat and drink. In my young days it was considered to be very bad manners to take medicines with oneâs meals. It was on a par with blowing your nose at the dinner table. It just wasnât done. If you had to take pills or capsules, or a spoonful of something, you went out of the room to do so. Thatâs not the case now. When staying with my nephew Raymond, I observed some of his guests seemed to arrive with quite a quantity of little bottles of pills and tablets. They take them with food, or before food, or after food. They keep aspirins and such things in their handbags and take them the whole timeâwith cups of tea or with their after-dinner coffee. You understand what I mean?â

âOh, yes,â said Dr. Haydock, âIâve got your meaning now and itâs interesting. You mean that someoneââ He stopped. âLetâs have it in your own words.â

âI meant,â said Miss Marple, âthat it would be quite possible, audacious but possible, for someone to pick up that glass which as soon as it was in his or her hand, of course, would be assumed to be his or her own drink and to add whatever was added quite openly. In that case, you see, people wouldnât think twice of it.â

âHeâor sheâcouldnât be sure of that, though,â Haydock pointed out.

âNo,â agreed Miss Marple, âit would be a gamble, a riskâbut it could happen. And then,â she went on, âthereâs the third possibility.â

âPossibility One, a moron,â said the doctor. âPossibility Two, a gamblerâwhatâs Possibility Three?â

âSomebody saw what happened, and has held their tongue deliberately.â

Haydock frowned. âFor what reason?â he asked. âAre you suggesting blackmail? If soââ

âIf so,â said Miss Marple, âitâs a very dangerous thing to do.â

âYes, indeed.â He looked sharply at the placid old lady with the white fleecy garment on her lap. âIs the third possibility the one you consider the most probable one?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âI wouldnât go so far as that. I have, at the moment, insufficient grounds. Unless,â she added carefully, âsomeone else gets killed.â

âDo you think someone else is going to get killed?â

âI hope not,â said Miss Marple. âI trust and pray not. But it so often happens, Doctor Haydock. Thatâs the sad and frightening thing. It so often happens.â

Seventeen

Ella put down the telephone receiver, smiled to herself and came out of the public telephone box. She was pleased with herself.

âChief-Inspector God Almighty Craddock!â she said to herself. âIâm twice as good as he is at the job. Variations on the theme of: âFly, all is discovered!ââ

She pictured to herself with a good deal of pleasure the reactions recently suffered by the person at the other end of the line. That faint menacing whisper coming through the receiver. âI saw youâ¦.â

She laughed silently, the corners of her mouth curving up in a feline cruel line. A student of psychology might have watched her with some interest. Never until the last few days had she had this feeling of power. She was hardly aware herself of how much the heady intoxication of it affected herâ¦.

âDamn that old woman,â thought Ella. She could feel Mrs. Bantryâs eyes following her as she walked up the drive.

A phrase came into her head for no particular reason.

The pitcher goes to the well once too oftenâ¦.

Nonsense. Nobody could suspect that it was she who had whispered those menacing wordsâ¦.

She sneezed.

âDamn this hay fever,â said Ella Zielinsky.

When she came into her office, Jason Rudd was standing by the window.

He wheeled round.

âI couldnât think where you were.â

âI had to go and speak to the gardener. There wereââ she broke off as she caught sight of his face.

She asked sharply: âWhat is it?â

His eyes seemed set deeper in his face than ever. All the gaiety of the clown was gone. This was a man under strain. She had seen him under strain before but never looking like this.

She said again: âWhat is it?â

He held a sheet of paper out to her. âItâs the analysis of that coffee. The coffee that Marina complained about and wouldnât drink.â

âYou sent it to be analysed?â She was startled. âBut you poured it away down the sink. I saw you.â

His wide mouth curled up in a smile. âIâm pretty good at sleight of hand, Ella,â he said. âYou didnât know that, did you? Yes, I poured most of it away but I kept a little and I took it along to be analysed.â

She looked down at the paper in her hand.

âArsenic.â She sounded incredulous.

âYes, arsenic.â

âSo Marina was right about it tasting bitter?â

âShe wasnât right about that. Arsenic has no taste. But her instinct was quite right.â

âAnd we thought she was just being hysterical!â

âShe is hysterical! Who wouldnât be? She has a woman drop dead at her feet practically. She gets threatening notesâone after anotherâthereâs not been anything today, has there?â

Ella shook her head.

âWho plants the damned things? Oh well, I suppose itâs easy enoughâall these open windows. Anyone could slip in.â

âYou mean we ought to keep the house barred and locked? But itâs such hot weather. Thereâs a man posted in the grounds, after all.â

âYes, and I donât want to frighten her more than sheâs frightened already. Threatening notes donât matter two hoots. But arsenic, Ella, arsenicâs differentâ¦.â

âNobody could tamper with food here in the house.â

âCouldnât they, Ella? Couldnât they?â

âNot without being seen. No unauthorized personââ

He interrupted.

âPeople will do things for money, Ella.â

âHardly murder!â

âEven that. And they mightnât realize it was murderâ¦ The servantsâ¦.â

âIâm sure the servants are all right.â

âGiuseppe now. I doubt if Iâd trust Giuseppe very far if it came to the question of moneyâ¦ Heâs been with us some time, of course, butââ

âMust you torture yourself like this, Jason?â

He flung himself down in the chair. He leaned forward, his long arms hanging down between his knees.

âWhat to do?â he said slowly and softly. âMy God, what to do?â

Ella did not speak. She sat there watching him.

âShe was happy here,â said Jason. He was speaking more to himself than to Ella. He stared down between his knees at the carpet. If he had looked up, the expression on her face might perhaps have surprised him.

âShe was happy,â he said again. âShe hoped to be happy and she was happy. She was saying so that day, the day Mrs. Whatâs-her-nameââ

âBantry?â

âYes. The day Mrs. Bantry came to tea. She said it was âso peaceful.â She said that at last sheâd found a place where she could settle down and be happy and feel secure. My goodness, secure!â

âHappy ever after?â Ellaâs voice held a slight tone of irony. âYes, put like that, it sounds just like a fairy story.â

âAt any rate she believed it.â

âBut you didnât,â said Ella. âYou never thought it would be like that?â

Jason Rudd smiled. âNo. I didnât go the whole hog. But I did think for a while, a yearâtwo yearsâthere might be a period of calm and content. It might have made a new woman of her. It might have given her confidence in herself. She can be happy, you know. When she is happy sheâs like a child. Just like a child. And nowâthis had to happen to her.â

Ella moved restlessly. âThings have to happen to all of us,â she said brusquely. âThatâs the way life is. You just have to take it. Some of us can, some of us canât. Sheâs the kind that canât.â

She sneezed.

âYour hay fever bad again?â

âYes. By the way, Giuseppeâs gone to London.â

Jason looked faintly surprised.

âTo London? Why?â

âSome kind of family trouble. Heâs got relations in Soho, and one of themâs desperately ill. He went to Marina about it and she said it was all right, so I gave him the day off. Heâll be back sometime tonight. You donât mind do you?â

âNo,â said Jason, âI donât mindâ¦.â

He got up and walked up and down.

âIf I could take her awayâ¦nowâ¦at once.â

âScrap the picture? But just think.â

His voice rose.

âI canât think of anything but Marina. Donât you understand? Sheâs in danger. Thatâs all I can think about.â

She opened her mouth impulsively, then closed it.

She gave another muffled sneeze and rose.

âIâd better get my atomizer.â

She left the room and went to her bedroom, a word echoing in her mind.

Marinaâ¦ Marinaâ¦ Marinaâ¦ Always Marinaâ¦.

Fury rose up in her. She stilled it. She went into the bathroom and picked up the spray she used.

She inserted the nozzle into one nostril and squeezed.

The warning came a second too lateâ¦ Her brain recognized the unfamiliar odour of bitter almondsâ¦but not in time to paralyse the squeezing fingers.

Eighteen

I

Frank Cornish replaced the receiver.

âMiss Brewster is out of London for the day,â he announced.

âIs she now?â said Craddock.

âDo you think sheââ

âI donât know. I shouldnât think so, but I donât know. Ardwyck Fenn?â

âOut. I left word for him to ring you. And Margot Bence, Personality Photographer, has got an assignment somewhere in the country. Her pansy partner didnât know whereâor said he didnât. And the butlerâs hooked it to London.â

âI wonder,â said Craddock thoughtfully, âif the butler has hooked it for good. I always suspect dying relatives. Why was he suddenly anxious to go to London today?â

âHe could have put the cyanide in the atomizer easily enough before he left.â

âAnybody could.â

âBut I think heâs indicated. It could hardly be someone from outside.â

âOh, yes, it could. Youâd have to judge your moment. You could leave a car in one of the side drives, wait until everyone is in the dining room, say, and slip in through a window and upstairs. The shrubberies come close up to the house.â

âDamnâ risky.â

âThis murderer doesnât mind taking risks, you know. Thatâs been apparent all along.â

âWeâve had a man on duty in the grounds.â

âI know. One man wasnât enough. So long as it was a question of these anonymous letters I didnât feel so much urgency. Marina Gregg herself is being well guarded. It never occurred to me that anyone else was in danger. Iââ

The telephone rang. Cornish took the call.

âItâs the Dorchester. Mr. Ardwyck Fenn is on the line.â

He proffered the receiver to Craddock who took it.

âMr. Fenn? This is Craddock here.â

âAh, yes. I heard you had rung me. I have been out all day.â

âI am sorry to tell you, Mr. Fenn, that Miss Zielinsky died this morningâof cyanide poisoning.â

âIndeed? I am shocked to hear it. An accident? Or not an accident?â

âNot an accident. Prussic acid had been put in an atomizer she was in the habit of using.â

âI see. Yes, I seeâ¦â There was a short pause. âAnd why, may I ask, should you ring me about this distressing occurrence?â

âYou knew Miss Zielinsky, Mr. Fenn?â

âCertainly I knew her. I have known her for some years. But she was not an intimate friend.â

âWe hoped that you could, perhaps, assist us?â

âIn what way?â

âWe wondered if you could suggest any motive for her death. She is a stranger in this country. We know very little about her friends and associates and the circumstances of her life.â

âI would suggest that Jason Rudd is the person to question about that.â

âNaturally. We have done so. But there might be an off-chance that you might know something about her that he does not.â

âIâm afraid that is not so. I know next to nothing about Ella Zielinsky except that she was a most capable young woman, and first-class at her job. About her private life I know nothing at all.â

âSo you have no suggestions to make?â

Craddock was ready for the decisive negative, but to his surprise it did not come. Instead there was a pause. He could hear Ardwyck Fenn breathing rather heavily at the other end.

âAre you still there, Chief-Inspector?â

âYes, Mr. Fenn. Iâm here.â

âI have decided to tell you something that may be of assistance to you. When you hear what it is, you will realize that I have every reason to keep it to myself. But I judge that in the end that might be unwise. The facts are these. A couple of days ago I received a telephone call. A voice spoke to me in a whisper. It saidâI am quoting nowâI saw youâ¦ I saw you put the tablets in the glassâ¦ You didnât know there had been an eyewitness, did you? Thatâs all for nowâvery soon you will be told what you have to do.â

Craddock uttered an ejaculation of astonishment.

âSurprising, was it not, Mr. Craddock? I will assure you categorically that the accusation was entirely unfounded. I did not put tablets in anybodyâs glass. I defy anyone to prove that I did. The suggestion is utterly absurd. But it would seem, would it not, that Miss Zielinsky was embarking on blackmail.â

âYou recognized her voice?â

âYou cannot recognize a whisper. But it was Ella Zielinsky all right.â

âHow do you know?â

âThe whisperer sneezed heavily before ringing off. I knew that Miss Zielinsky suffered from hay fever.â

âAnd you thinkâwhat?â

âI think that Miss Zielinsky got hold of the wrong person at her first attempt. It seems to me possible that she was more successful later. Blackmail can be a dangerous game.â

Craddock pulled himself together.

âI must thank you for your statement, Mr. Fenn. As a matter of form, I shall have to check upon your movements today.â

âNaturally. My chauffeur will be able to give you precise information.â

Craddock rang off and repeated what Fenn had said. Cornish whistled.

âEither that lets him out completely. Or elseââ

âOr else itâs a magnificent piece of bluff. It could be. Heâs the kind of man who has the nerve for it. If thereâs the least chance that Ella Zielinsky left a record of her suspicions, then this taking of the bull by the horns is a magnificent bluff.â

âAnd his alibi?â

âWeâve come across some very good faked alibis in our time,â said Craddock. âHe could afford to pay a good sum for one.â

II

It was past midnight when Giuseppe returned to Gossington. He took a taxi from Much Benham, as the last train on the branch line to St. Mary Mead had gone.

He was in very good spirits. He paid off the taxi at the gate, and took a short cut through the shrubbery. He opened the back door with his key. The house was dark and silent. Giuseppe shut and bolted the door. As he turned to the stair which led to his own comfortable suite of bed and bath, he noticed that there was a draught. A window open somewhere, perhaps. He decided not to bother. He went upstairs smiling and fitted a key into his door. He always kept his suite locked. As he turned the key and pushed the door open, he felt the pressure of a hard round ring in his back. A voice said, âPut your hands up and donât scream.â

Giuseppe threw his hands up quickly. He was taking no chances. Actually there was no chance to take.

The trigger was pressedâonceâtwice.

Giuseppe fell forwardâ¦.

III

Bianca lifted her head from her pillow.

Was that a shotâ¦ She was almost sure she had heard a shotâ¦ She waited some minutes. Then she decided she had been mistaken and lay down again.

Nineteen

I

âItâs too dreadful,â said Miss Knight. She put down her parcels and gasped for breath.

âSomething has happened?â asked Miss Marple.

âI really donât like to tell you about it, dear, I really donât. It might be a shock to you.â

âIf you donât tell me,â said Miss Marple, âsomebody else will.â

âDear, dear, thatâs true enough,â said Miss Knight. âYes, thatâs terribly true. Everybody talks too much, they say. And Iâm sure thereâs a lot in that. I never repeat anything myself. Very careful I am.â

âYou were saying,â said Miss Marple, âthat something rather terrible had happened?â

âIt really quite bowled me over,â said Miss Knight. âAre you sure you donât feel the draught from that window, dear?â

âI like a little fresh air,â said Miss Marple.

âAh, but we mustnât catch cold, must we?â said Miss Knight archly. âIâll tell you what. Iâll just pop out and make you a nice eggnog. Weâd like that, wouldnât we?â

âI donât know whether you would like it,â said Miss Marple. âI should be delighted for you to have it if you would like it.â

âNow, now,â said Miss Knight, shaking her finger, âso fond of our joke, arenât we?â

âBut you were going to tell me something,â said Miss Marple.

âWell, you mustnât worry about it,â said Miss Knight, âand you mustnât let it make you nervous in anyway, because Iâm sure itâs nothing to do with us. But with all these American gangsters and things like that, well I suppose itâs nothing to be surprised about.â

âSomebody else has been killed,â said Miss Marple, âis that it?â

âOh, thatâs very sharp of you, dear. I donât know what should put such a thing into your head.â

âAs a matter of fact,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully, âIâve been expecting it.â

âOh, really!â exclaimed Miss Knight.

âSomebody always sees something,â said Miss Marple, âonly sometimes it takes a little while for them to realize what it is they have seen. Who is it whoâs dead?â

âThe Italian butler. He was shot last night.â

âI see,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully. âYes, very likely, of course, but I should have thought that heâd have realized before now the importance of what he sawââ

âReally!â exclaimed Miss Knight. âYou talk as though you knew all about it. Why should he have been killed?â

âI expect,â said Miss Marple, thoughtfully, âthat he tried to blackmail somebody.â

âHe went to London yesterday, they say.â

âDid he now,â said Miss Marple, âthatâs very interesting, and suggestive too, I think.â

Miss Knight departed to the kitchen intent on the concoction of nourishing beverages. Miss Marple remained sitting thoughtfully till disturbed by the loud aggressive humming of the vacuum cleaner, assisted by Cherryâs voice singing the latest favourite ditty of the moment, âI Said to You and You Said to Me.â

Miss Knight popped her head round the kitchen door.

âNot quite so much noise, please, Cherry,â she said. âYou donât want to disturb Miss Marple, do you? You mustnât be thoughtless, you know.â

She shut the kitchen door again as Cherry remarked, either to herself or the world at large, âAnd who said you could call me Cherry, you old jelly-bag?â The vacuum continued to whine while Cherry sang in a more subdued voice. Miss Marple called in a high clear voice:

âCherry, come here a minute.â

Cherry switched off the vacuum and opened the drawing room door.

âI didnât mean to disturb you by singing, Miss Marple.â

âYour singing is much pleasanter than the horrid noise that vacuum makes,â said Miss Marple, âbut I know one has to go with the times. It would be no use on earth asking any of you young people to use the dustpan and brush in the old-fashioned way.â

âWhat, get down on my knees with a dustpan and brush?â Cherry registered alarm and surprise.

âQuite unheard of, I know,â said Miss Marple. âCome in and shut the door. I called you because I wanted to talk to you.â

Cherry obeyed and came towards Miss Marple looking inquiringly at her.

âWeâve not much time,â said Miss Marple. âThat oldâ Miss Knight I meanâwill come in any moment with an egg drink of some kind.â

âGood for you, I expect. Itâll pep you up,â said Cherry encouragingly.

âHad you heard,â asked Miss Marple, âthat the butler at Gossington Hall was shot last night?â

âWhat, the wop?â demanded Cherry.

âYes. His name is Giuseppe, I understand.â

âNo,â said Cherry, âI hadnât heard that. I heard that Mr. Ruddâs secretary had a heart attack yesterday, and somebody said she was actually deadâbut I suspect that was just a rumour. Who told you about the butler?â

âMiss Knight came back and told me.â

âOf course I havenât seen anyone to speak to this morning,â said Cherry, ânot before coming along here. I expect the news has only just got round. Was he bumped off?â she demanded.

âThat seems to be assumed,â said Miss Marple, âwhether rightly or wrongly I donât quite know.â

âThis is a wonderful place for talk,â said Cherry. âI wonder if Gladys got to see him or not,â she added thoughtfully.

âGladys?â

âOh, a sort of friend of mine. She lives a few doors away. Works in the canteen at the studios.â

âAnd she talked to you about Giuseppe?â

âWell, there was something that struck her as a bit funny and she was going to ask him what he thought about it. But if you ask me it was just an excuseâsheâs a bit sweet on him. Of course heâs quite handsome and Italians do have a way with themâ I told her to be careful about him, though. You know what Italians are.â

âHe went to London yesterday,â said Miss Marple, âand only returned in the evening I understand.â

âI wonder if she managed to get to see him before he went.â

âWhy did she want to see him, Cherry?â

âIt was just something which she felt was a bit funny,â said Cherry.

Miss Marple looked at her inquiringly. She was able to take the word âfunnyâ at the valuation it usually had for the Gladyses of the neighbourhood.

âShe was one of the girls who helped at the party there,â explained Cherry. âThe day of the fÃªte. You know, when Mrs. Badcock got hers.â

âYes?â Miss Marple was looking more alert than ever, much as a fox terrier might look at a waiting rat hole.

âAnd there was something that she saw that struck her as a bit funny.â

âWhy didnât she go to the police about it?â

âWell, she didnât really think it meant anything, you see,â explained Cherry. âAnyway she thought sheâd better ask Mr. Giuseppe first.â

âWhat was it that she saw that day?â

âFrankly,â said Cherry, âwhat she told me seemed nonsense! Iâve wondered, perhaps, if she was just putting me offâand what she was going to see Mr. Giuseppe about was something quite different.â

âWhat did she say?â Miss Marple was patient and pursuing.

Cherry frowned. âShe was talking about Mrs. Badcock and the cocktail and she said she was quite near her at the time. And she said she did it herself.â

âDid what herself?â

âSpilt her cocktail all down her dress, and ruined it.â

âYou mean it was clumsiness?â

âNo, not clumsiness. Gladys said she did it on purposeâthat she meant to do it. Well, I mean, that doesnât make sense, does it, however you look at it?â

Miss Marple shook her head, perplexed. âNo,â she said. âCertainly notâno, I canât see any sense in that.â

âSheâd got on a new dress too,â said Cherry. âThatâs how the subject came up. Gladys wondered whether sheâd be able to buy it. Said it ought to clean all right but she didnât like to go and ask Mr. Badcock herself. Sheâs very good at dressmaking, Gladys is, and she said it was lovely stuff. Royal blue artificial taffeta; and she said even if the stuff was ruined where the cocktail stained it, she could take out a seamâhalf a breadth sayâbecause it was one of those full skirts.â

Miss Marple considered this dressmaking problem for a moment and then set it aside.

âBut you think your friend Gladys might have been keeping something back?â

âWell, I just wondered because I donât see if thatâs all she sawâ Heather Badcock deliberately spilling her cocktail over herselfâ I donât see that thereâd be anything to ask Mr. Giuseppe about, do you?â

âNo, I donât,â said Miss Marple. She sighed. âBut itâs always interesting when one doesnât see,â she added. âIf you donât see what a thing means you must be looking at it wrong way round, unless of course you havenât got full information. Which is probably the case here.â She sighed. âItâs a pity she didnât go straight to the police.â

The door opened and Miss Knight bustled in holding a tall tumbler with a delicious pale yellow froth on top.

âNow here you are, dear,â she said, âa nice little treat. Weâre going to enjoy this.â

She pulled forward a little table and placed it beside her employer. Then she turned a glance on Cherry. âThe vacuum cleaner,â she said coldly, âis left in a most difficult position in the hall. I nearly fell over it. Anyone might have an accident.â

âRight-ho,â said Cherry. âIâd better get on with things.â

She left the room.

âReally,â said Miss Knight, âthat Mrs. Baker! Iâm continually having to speak to her about something or other. Leaving vacuum cleaners all over the place and coming in here chattering to you when you want to be quiet.â

âI called her in,â said Miss Marple. âI wanted to speak to her.â

âWell, I hope you mentioned the way the beds are made,â said Miss Knight. âI was quite shocked when I came to turn down your bed last night. I had to make it all over again.â

âThat was very kind of you,â said Miss Marple.

âOh, I never grudge being helpful,â said Miss Knight. âThatâs why Iâm here, isnât it. To make a certain person we know as comfortable and happy as possible. Oh dear, dear,â she added, âyouâve pulled out a lot of your knitting again.â

Miss Marple leaned back and closed her eyes. âIâm going to have a little rest,â she said. âPut the glass hereâthank you. And please donât come in and disturb me for at least three-quarters of an hour.â

âIndeed I wonât, dear,â said Miss Knight. âAnd Iâll tell that Mrs. Baker to be very quiet.â

She bustled out purposefully.

II

The good-looking young American glanced round him in a puzzled way.

The ramifications of the housing estate perplexed him.

He addressed himself politely to an old lady with white hair and pink cheeks who seemed to be the only human being in sight.

âExcuse me, maâam, but could you tell me where to find Blenheim Close?â

The old lady considered him for a moment. He had just begun to wonder if she was deaf, and had prepared himself to repeat his demand in a louder voice, when she spoke.

âAlong here to the right, then turn left, second to the right again, and straight on. What number do you want?â

âNo. 16.â He consulted a small piece of paper. âGladys Dixon.â

âThatâs right,â said the old lady. âBut I believe she works at the Hellingforth Studios. In the canteen. Youâll find her there if you want her.â

âShe didnât turn up this morning,â explained the young man. âI want to get hold of her to come up to Gossington Hall. Weâre very shorthanded there today.â

âOf course,â said the old lady. âThe butler was shot last night, wasnât he?â

The young man was slightly staggered by this reply.

âI guess news gets round pretty quickly in these parts,â he said.

âIt does indeed,â said the old lady. âMr. Ruddâs secretary died of some kind of seizure yesterday, too, I understand.â She shook her head. âTerrible. Quite terrible. What are we coming to?â

Twenty

I

A little later in the day yet another visitor found his way to 16 Blenheim Close. Detective-Sergeant William (Tom) Tiddler.

In reply to his sharp knock on the smart yellow painted door, it was opened to him by a girl of about fifteen. She had long straggly fair hair and was wearing tight black pants and an orange sweater.

âMiss Gladys Dixon live here?â

âYou want Gladys? Youâre unlucky. She isnât here.â

âWhere is she? Out for the evening?â

âNo. Sheâs gone away. Bit of a holiday like.â

âWhereâs she gone to?â

âThatâs telling,â said the girl.

Tom Tiddler smiled at her in his most ingratiating manner. âMay I come in? Is your mother at home?â

âMumâs out at work. She wonât be in until half past seven. But she canât tell you anymore than I can. Gladys has gone off for a holiday.â

âOh, I see. When did she go?â

âThis morning. All of a sudden like. Said sheâd got the chance of a free trip.â

âPerhaps you wouldnât mind giving me her address.â

The fair-haired girl shook her head. âHavenât got an address,â she said. âGladys said sheâd send us her address as soon as she knew where she was going to stay. As like as not she wonât though,â she added. âLast summer she went to Newquay and never sent us as much as a postcard. Sheâs slack that way and besides, she says, why do mothers have to bother all the time?â

âDid somebody stand her this holiday?â

âMust have,â said the girl. âSheâs pretty hard up at the moment. Went to the sales last week.â

âAnd youâve no idea at all who gave her this trip orâerâpaid for her going there?â

The fair girl bristled suddenly.

âNow donât get any wrong ideas. Our Gladys isnât that sort. She and her boyfriend may like to go to the same place for holidays in August, but thereâs nothing wrong about it. She pays for herself. So donât you get ideas, mister.â

Tiddler said meekly that he wouldnât get ideas but he would like the address if Gladys Dixon should send a postcard.

He returned to the station with the result of his various inquiries. From the studios, he had learnt that Gladys Dixon had rung up that day and said she wouldnât be able to come to work for about a week. He had also learned some other things.

âNo end of a shemozzle thereâs been there lately,â he said. âMarina Greggâs been having hysterics most days. Said some coffee she was given was poisoned. Said it tasted bitter. Awful state of nerves she was in. Her husband took it and threw it down the sink and told her not to make so much fuss.â

âYes?â said Craddock. It seemed plain there was more to come.

âBut word went round as Mr. Rudd didnât throw it all away. He kept some and had it analysed and it was poison.â

âIt sounds to me,â said Craddock, âvery unlikely. Iâll have to ask him about that.â

II

Jason Rudd was nervous, irritable.

âSurely, Inspector Craddock,â he said, âI was only doing what I had a perfect right to do.â

âIf you suspected anything was wrong with that coffee, Mr. Rudd, it would have been much better if youâd turned it over to us.â

âThe truth of it is that I didnât suspect for a moment that anything was wrong with it.â

âIn spite of your wife saying that it tasted odd?â

âOh, that!â A faintly rueful smile came to Ruddâs face. âEver since the date of the fÃªte everything that my wife has eaten or drunk has tasted odd. What with that and the threatening notes that have been comingââ

âThere have been more of them?â

âTwo more. One through the window down there. The other one was slipped in the letter box. Here they are if you would like to see them.â

Craddock looked. They were printed, as the first one had been. One ran:

It wonât be long now. Prepare yourself.

The other had a rough drawing of a skull and crossbones and below it was written: This means you, Marina.

Craddockâs eyebrows rose.

âVery childish,â he said.

âMeaning you discount them as dangerous?â

âNot at all,â said Craddock. âA murdererâs mind usually is childish. Youâve really no idea at all, Mr. Rudd, who sent these?â

âNot the least,â said Jason. âI canât help feeling itâs more like a macabre joke than anything else. It seemed to me perhapsââ he hesitated.

âYes, Mr. Rudd?â

âIt could be somebody local, perhaps, whoâwho had been excited by the poisoning on the day of the fÃªte. Someone perhaps, who has a grudge against the acting profession. There are rural pockets where acting is considered to be one of the devilâs weapons.â

âMeaning that you think Miss Gregg is not actually threatened? But what about this business of the coffee?â

âI donât even know how you got to hear about that,â said Rudd with some annoyance.

Craddock shook his head.

âEveryoneâs talked about that. It always comes to oneâs ears sooner or later. But you should have come to us. Even when you got the result of the analysis you didnât let us know, did you?â

âNo,â said Jason. âNo, I didnât. But I had other things to think about. Poor Ellaâs death for one thing. And now this business of Giuseppe. Inspector Craddock, when can I get my wife away from here? Sheâs half frantic.â

âI can understand that. But there will be the inquests to attend.â

âYou do realize that her life is still in danger?â

âI hope not. Every precaution will be takenââ

âEvery precaution! Iâve heard that before, I thinkâ¦ I must get her away from here, Craddock. I must.â

III

Marina was lying on the chaise longue in her bedroom, her eyes closed. She looked grey with strain and fatigue.

Her husband stood there for a moment looking at her. Her eyes opened.

âWas that that Craddock man?â

âYes.â

âWhat did he come about? Ella?â

âEllaâand Giuseppe.â

Marina frowned.

âGiuseppe? Have they found out who shot him?â

âNot yet.â

âItâs all a nightmareâ¦ Did he say we could go away?â

âHe saidânot yet.â

âWhy not? We must. Didnât you make him see that I canât go on waiting day after day for someone to kill me. Itâs fantastic.â

âEvery precaution will be taken.â

âThey said that before. Did it stop Ella being killed? Or Giuseppe? Donât you see, theyâll get me in the endâ¦ There was something in my coffee that day at the studio. Iâm sure there wasâ¦if only you hadnât poured it away! If weâd kept it, we could have had it analysed or whatever you call it. Weâd have known for sureâ¦.â

âWould it have made you happier to know for sure?â

She stared at him, the pupils of her eyes widely dilated.

âI donât see what you mean. If theyâd known for sure that someone was trying to poison me, theyâd have let us leave here, theyâd have let us get away.â

âNot necessarily.â

âBut I canât go on like this! I canâtâ¦ I canâtâ¦ You must help me, Jason. You must do something. Iâm frightened. Iâm so terribly frightenedâ¦ Thereâs an enemy here. And I donât know who it isâ¦ It might be anyoneâanyone. At the studiosâor here in the house. Someone who hates meâbut why?â¦ Why?â¦ Someone who wants me deadâ¦ But who is it? Who is it? I thoughtâI was almost sureâit was Ella. But nowââ

âYou thought it was Ella?â Jason sounded astonished. âBut why?â

âBecause she hated meâoh yes she did. Donât men ever see these things? She was madly in love with you. I donât believe you had the least idea of it. But it canât be Ella, because Ellaâs dead. Oh, Jinks, Jinksâdo help meâget me away from hereâlet me go somewhere safeâ¦safeâ¦.â

She sprang up and walked rapidly up and down, turning and twisting her hands.

The director in Jason was full of admiration for those passionate, tortured movements. I must remember them, he thought. For Hedda Gabler, perhaps? Then, with a shock, he remembered that it was his wife he was watching.

âItâs all right, Marinaâall right. Iâll look after you.â

âWe must go away from this hateful houseâat once. I hate this houseâhate it.â

âListen, we canât go away immediately.â

âWhy not? Why not?â

âBecause,â said Rudd, âdeaths cause complicationsâ¦and thereâs something else to consider. Will running away do any good?â

âOf course it will. Weâll get away from this person who hates me.â

âIf thereâs anyone who hates you that much, they could follow you easily enough.â

âYou meanâyou meanâI shall never get away? I shall never be safe again?â

âDarlingâit will be all right. Iâll look after you. Iâll keep you safe.â

She clung to him.

âWill you, Jinks? Will you see that nothing happens to me?â

She sagged against him, and he laid her down gently on the chaise longue.

âOh, Iâm a coward,â she murmured, âa cowardâ¦if I knew who it wasâand why?â¦ Get me my pillsâthe yellow onesânot the brown. I must have something to calm me.â

âDonât take too many, for Godâs sake, Marina.â

âAll rightâall rightâ¦ Sometimes they donât have any effect anymoreâ¦â She looked up in his face.

She smiled, a tender exquisite smile.

âYouâll take care of me, Jinks? Swear youâll take care of meâ¦.â

âAlways,â said Jason Rudd. âTo the bitter end.â

Her eyes opened wide.

âYou looked soâso odd when you said that.â

âDid I? How did I look?â

âI canât explain. Likeâlike a clown laughing at something terribly sad, that no one else has seenâ¦.â

Twenty-one

I

It was a tired and depressed Inspector Craddock who came to see Miss Marple the following day.

âSit down and be comfortable,â she said. âI can see youâve had a very hard time.â

âI donât like to be defeated,â said Inspector Craddock. âTwo murders within twenty-four hours. Ah well, Iâm poorer at my job than I thought I was. Give me a nice cup of tea, Aunt Jane, with some thin bread and butter and soothe me with your earliest remembrances of St. Mary Mead.â

Miss Marple clicked with her tongue in a sympathetic manner.

âNow itâs no good talking like that, my dear boy, and I donât think bread and butter is at all what you want. Gentlemen, when theyâve had a disappointment, want something stronger than tea.â

As usual, Miss Marple said the word âgentlemenâ in the way of someone describing a foreign species.

âI should advise a good stiff whisky and soda,â she said.

âWould you really, Aunt Jane? Well, I wonât say no.â

âAnd I shall get it for you myself,â said Miss Marple, rising to her feet.

âOh, no, donât do that. Let me. Or what about Miss Whatâs-her-name?â

âWe donât want Miss Knight fussing about in here,â said Miss Marple. âShe wonât be bringing my tea for another twenty minutes so that gives us a little peace and quiet. Clever of you to come to the window and not through the front door. Now we can have a nice quiet little time by ourselves.â

She went to a corner cupboard, opened it and produced a bottle, a syphon of soda and a glass.

âYou are full of surprises,â said Dermot Craddock. âIâd no idea thatâs what you kept in your corner cupboard. Are you quite sure youâre not a secret drinker, Aunt Jane?â

âNow, now,â Miss Marple admonished him. âI have never been an advocate of teetotalism. A little strong drink is always advisable on the premises in case there is a shock or an accident. Invaluable at such times. Or, of course, if a gentleman should arrive suddenly. There!â said Miss Marple, handing him her remedy with an air of quiet triumph. âAnd you donât need to joke anymore. Just sit quietly there and relax.â

âWonderful wives there must have been in your young days,â said Dermot Craddock.

âIâm sure, my dear boy, you would find the young lady of the type you refer to as a very inadequate helpmeet nowadays. Young ladies were not encouraged to be intellectual and very few of them had university degrees or any kind of academic distinction.â

âThere are things that are preferable to academic distinctions,â said Dermot. âOne of them is knowing when a man wants whisky and soda and giving it to him.â

Miss Marple smiled at him affectionately.

âCome,â she said, âtell me all about it. Or as much as you are allowed to tell me.â

âI think you probably know as much as I do. And very likely you have something up your sleeve. How about your dogsbody, your dear Miss Knight? What about her having committed the crime?â

âNow why should Miss Knight have done such a thing?â demanded Miss Marple, surprised.

âBecause sheâs the most unlikely person,â said Dermot. âIt so often seems to hold good when you produce your answer.â

âNot at all,â said Miss Marple with spirit. âI have said over and over again, not only to you, my dear Dermotâif I may call you soâthat it is always the obvious person who has done the crime. One thinks so often of the wife or the husband and so very often it is the wife or the husband.â

âMeaning Jason Rudd?â He shook his head. âThat man adores Marina Gregg.â

âI was speaking generally,â said Miss Marple, with dignity. âFirst we had Mrs. Badcock apparently murdered. One asked oneself who could have done such a thing and the first answer would naturally be the husband. So one had to examine that possibility. Then we decided that the real object of the crime was Marina Gregg and there again we have to look for the person most intimately connected with Marina Gregg, starting as I say with the husband. Because there is no doubt about it that husbands do, very frequently, want to make away with their wives, though sometimes, of course, they only wish to make away with their wives and do not actually do so. But I agree with you, my dear boy, that Jason Rudd really cares with all his heart for Marina Gregg. It might be very clever acting, though I can hardly believe that. And one certainly cannot see a motive of any kind for his doing away with her. If he wanted to marry somebody else there could, I should say, be nothing more simple. Divorce, if I may say so, seems second nature to film stars. A practical advantage does not seem to arise either. He is not a poor man by any means. He has his own career, and is, I understand, most successful in it. So we must go farther afield. But it certainly is difficult. Yes, very difficult.â

âYes,â said Craddock, âit must hold particular difficulties for you because of course this film world is entirely new to you. You donât know the local scandals and all the rest of it.â

âI know a little more than you may think,â said Miss Marple. âI have studied very closely various numbers of Confidential, Film Life, Film Talk and Film Topics.â

Dermot Craddock laughed. He couldnât help it.

âI must say,â he said, âit tickles me to see you sitting there and telling me what your course of literature has been.â

âI found it very interesting,â said Miss Marple. âTheyâre not particularly well written, if I may say so. But it really is disappointing in a way that it is all so much the same as it used to be in my young days. Modern Society and Tit Bits and all the rest of them. A lot of gossip. A lot of scandal. A great preoccupation with who is in love with whom, and all the rest of it. Really, you know, practically exactly the same sort of thing goes on in St. Mary Mead. And in the Development too. Human nature, I mean, is just the same everywhere. One comes back, I think, to the question of who could have been likely to want to kill Marina Gregg, to want to so much that having failed once they sent threatening letters and made repeated attempts to do so. Someone perhaps a littleââ very gently she tapped her forehead.

âYes,â said Craddock, âthat certainly seems indicated. And of course it doesnât always show.â

âOh, I know,â agreed Miss Marple, fervently. âOld Mrs. Pikeâs second boy, Alfred, seemed perfectly rational and normal. Almost painfully prosaic, if you know what I mean, but actually, it seems, he had the most abnormal psychology, or so I understand. Really positively dangerous. He seems quite happy and contented, so Mrs. Pike told me, now that he is in Fairways Mental Home. They understand him there, and the doctors think him a most interesting case. That of course pleases him very much. Yes, it all ended quite happily, but she had one or two very near escapes.â

Craddock revolved in his mind the possibility of a parallel between someone in Marina Greggâs entourage and Mrs. Pikeâs second son.

âThe Italian butler,â continued Miss Marple, âthe one who was killed. He went to London, I understand, on the day of his death. Does anyone know what he did thereâif you are allowed to tell me, that is,â she added conscientiously.

âHe arrived in London at eleven-thirty in the morning,â said Craddock, âand what he did in London nobody knows until a quarter to two he visited his bank and made a deposit of five hundred pounds in cash. I may say that there was no confirmation of his story that he went to London to visit an ill relative or a relative who had got into trouble. None of his relatives there had seen him.â

Miss Marple nodded her head appreciatively.

âFive hundred pounds,â she said. âYes, thatâs quite an interesting sum, isnât it? I should imagine it would be the first instalment of a good many other sums, wouldnât you?â

âIt looks that way,â said Craddock.

âIt was probably all the ready money the person he was threatening could raise. He may even have pretended to be satisfied with that or he may have accepted it as a down payment and the victim may have promised to raise further sums in the immediate future. It seems to knock out the idea that Marina Greggâs killer could have been someone in humble circumstances who had a private vendetta against her. It would also knock out, I should say, the idea of someone whoâd obtained work as a studio helper or attendant or a servant or a gardener. UnlessââMiss Marple pointed outââsuch a person may have been the active agent whereas the employing agent may not have been in the neighbourhood. Hence the visit to London.â

âExactly. We have in London Ardwyck Fenn, Lola Brewster and Margot Bence. All three were present at the party. All three of them could have met Giuseppe at an arranged meeting place somewhere in London between the hours of eleven and a quarter to two. Ardwyck Fenn was out of his office during those hours. Lola Brewster had left her suite to go shopping. Margot Bence was not in her studio. By the wayââ

âYes?â said Miss Marple. âHave you something to tell me?â

âYou asked me,â said Dermot, âabout the children. The children that Marina Gregg adopted before she knew she could have a child of her own.â

âYes I did.â

Craddock told her what he had learned.

âMargot Bence,â said Miss Marple softly. âI had a feeling, you know, that it had something to do with childrenâ¦.â

âI canât believe that after all these yearsââ

âI know, I know. One never can. But do you really, my dear Dermot, know very much about children? Think back to your own childhood. Canât you remember some incident, some happening that caused you grief, or a passion quite incommensurate with its real importance? Some sorrow or passionate resentment that has really never been equalled since? There was such a book, you know, written by that brilliant writer. Mr. Richard Hughes. I forget the name of it but it was about some children who had been through a hurricane. Oh yesâthe hurricane in Jamaica. What made a vivid impression on them was their cat rushing madly through the house. It was the only thing they remembered. But the whole of the horror and excitement and fear that they had experienced was bound up in that one incident.â

âItâs odd you should say that,â said Craddock thoughtfully.

âWhy, has it made you remember something?â

âI was thinking of when my mother died. I was five I think. Five or six. I was having dinner in the nursery, jam roll pudding. I was very fond of jam roll pudding. One of the servants came in and said to my nursery governess, âIsnât it awful? Thereâs been an accident and Mrs. Craddock has been killed.ââ¦ Whenever I think of my motherâs death, dâyou know what I see?â

âWhat?â

âA plate with jam roll pudding on it, and Iâm staring at it. Staring at it and I can see as well now as then, how the jam oozed out of it at one side. I didnât cry or say anything. I remember just sitting there as though Iâd been frozen stiff, staring at the pudding. And dâyou know, even now if I see in a shop or a restaurant or in anyoneâs house a portion of jam roll pudding, a whole wave of horror and misery and despair comes over me. Sometimes for a moment I donât remember why. Does that seem very crazy to you?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âit seems entirely natural. Itâs very interesting, that. Itâs given me a sort of ideaâ¦.â

II

The door opened and Miss Knight appeared bearing the tea tray.

âDear, dear,â she exclaimed, âand so weâve got a visitor, have we? How very nice. How do you do, Inspector Craddock. Iâll just fetch another cup.â

âDonât bother,â Dermot called after her. âIâve had a drink instead.â

Miss Knight popped her head back round the door.

âI wonderâcould you just come here a minute, Mr. Craddock?â

Dermot joined her in the hall. She went to the dining room and shut the door.

âYou will be careful, wonât you?â she said.

âCareful? In what way, Miss Knight?â

âOur old dear in there. You know, sheâs so interested in everything but itâs not very good for her to get excited over murders and nasty things like that. We donât want her to brood and have bad dreams. Sheâs very old and frail, and she really must lead a very sheltered life. She always has, you know. Iâm sure all this talk of murders and gangsters and things like that is very, very bad for her.â

Dermot looked at her with faint amusement.

âI donât think,â he said gently, âthat anything that you or I could say about murders is likely unduly to excite or shock Miss Marple. I can assure you, my dear Miss Knight, that Miss Marple can contemplate murder and sudden death and indeed crime of all kinds with the utmost equanimity.â

He went back to the drawing room, and Miss Knight, clucking a little in an indignant manner, followed him. She talked briskly during tea with an emphasis on political news in the paper and the most cheerful subjects she could think of. When she finally removed the tea tray and shut the door behind her, Miss Marple drew a deep breath.

âAt last weâve got some peace,â she said. âI hope I shanât murder that woman some day. Now listen, Dermot, there are some things I want to know.â

âYes? What are they?â

âI want to go over very carefully what happened on the day of the fÃªte. Mrs. Bantry has arrived, and the vicar shortly after her. Then come Mr. and Mrs. Badcock, and on the stairs at that time were the mayor and his wife, this man Ardwyck Fenn, Lola Brewster, a reporter from the Herald & Argus of Much Benham, and this photographer girl, Margot Bence. Margot Bence, you said, had her camera at an angle on the stairs, and was taking photographs of the proceedings. Have you seen any of those photographs?â

âActually I brought one to show you.â

He took from his pocket an unmounted print. Miss Marple looked at it steadfastly. Marina Gregg with Jason Rudd a little behind her to one side, Arthur Badcock, his hand to his face, looking slightly embarrassed, was standing back, whilst his wife had Marina Greggâs hand in hers and was looking up at her and talking. Marina was not looking at Mrs. Badcock. She was staring over her head looking, it seemed, full into the camera, or possibly just slightly to the left of it.

âVery interesting,â said Miss Marple. âIâve had descriptions, you know, of what this look was on her face. A frozen look. Yes, that describes it quite well. A look of doom. Iâm not really so sure about that. Itâs more a kind of paralysis of feeling rather than apprehension of doom. Donât you think so? I wouldnât say it was actually fear, would you, although fear of course might take you that way. It might paralyse you. But I donât think it was fear. I think rather that it was shock. Dermot, my dear boy, I want you to tell me, if youâve got notes of it, what exactly Heather Badcock said to Marina Gregg on that occasion. I know roughly the gist of it, of course, but how near can you get to the actual words. I suppose you had accounts of it from different people.â

Dermot nodded.

âYes. Let me see. Your friend, Mrs. Bantry, then Jason Rudd and I think Arthur Badcock. As you say they varied a little in wording, but the gist of them was the same.â

âI know. Itâs the variations that I want. I think it might help us.â

âI donât see how,â said Dermot, âthough perhaps you do. Your friend, Mrs. Bantry, was probably the most definite on the point. As far as I rememberâwaitâI carry a good many of my jottings around with me.â

He took out a small notebook from his pocket, looked through it to refresh his memory.

âI havenât got the exact words here,â he said, âbut I made a rough note. Apparently Mrs. Badcock was very cheerful, rather arch, and delighted with herself. She said something like âI canât tell you how wonderful this is for me. You wonât remember but years ago in BermudaâI got up from bed when I had chicken pox and came along to see you and you gave me an autograph and itâs one of the proudest days of my life which I have never forgotten.ââ

âI see,â said Miss Marple, âshe mentioned the place but not the date, did she?â

âYes.â

âAnd what did Rudd say?â

âJason Rudd? He said that Mrs. Badcock told his wife that sheâd got up from bed when she had the flu and had come to meet Marina and she still had her autograph. It was a shorter account than your friendâs but the gist of it was the same.â

âDid he mention the time and place?â

âNo. I donât think he did. I think he said roughly that it was some ten or twelve years ago.â

âI see. And what about Mr. Badcock?â

âMr. Badcock said that Heather was extremely excited and anxious to meet Marina Gregg, that she was a great fan of Marina Greggâs and that sheâd told him that once when she was ill as a girl she managed to get up and meet Miss Gregg and get her autograph. He didnât go into any close particulars, as it was evidently in the days before he was married to his wife. He impressed me as not thinking the incident of much importance.â

âI see,â said Miss Marple. âYes, I seeâ¦.â

âAnd what do you see?â asked Craddock.

âNot quite as much as Iâd like to yet,â said Miss Marple, honestly, âbut I have a sort of feeling if I only knew why sheâd ruined her new dressââ

âWhoâMrs. Badcock?â

âYes. It seems to me such a very odd thingâsuch an inexplicable one unlessâof courseâDear me, I think I must be very stupid!â

Miss Knight opened the door and entered, switching the light on as she did so.

âI think we want a little light in here,â she said brightly.

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âyou are so right, Miss Knight. That is exactly what we did want. A little light. I think, you know, that at last weâve got it.â

The tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte seemed ended and Craddock rose to his feet.

âThere only remains one thing,â he said, âand that is for you to tell me just what particular memory from your own past is agitating your mind now.â

âEveryone always teases me about that,â said Miss Marple, âbut I must say that I was reminded just for a moment of the Lauristonsâ parlourmaid.â

âThe Lauristonsâ parlourmaid?â Craddock looked completely mystified.

âShe had, of course, to take messages on the telephone,â said Miss Marple, âand she wasnât very good at it. She used to get the general sense right, if you know what I mean, but the way she wrote it down used to make quite nonsense of it sometimes. I suppose really, because her grammar was so bad. The result was that some very unfortunate incidents occurred. I remember one in particular. A Mr. Burroughs, I think it was, rang up and said he had been to see Mr. Elvaston about the fence being broken down but he said that the fence wasnât his business at all to repair. It was on the other side of the property and he said he would like to know if that was really the case before proceeding further as it would depend on whether he was liable or not and it was important for him to know the proper lie of the land before instructing solicitors. A very obscure message, as you see. It confused rather than enlightened.â

âIf youâre talking about parlourmaids,â said Miss Knight with a little laugh, âthat must have been a very long time ago. Iâve never heard of a parlourmaid for many years now.â

âIt was a good many years ago,â said Miss Marple, âbut nevertheless human nature was very much the same then as it is now. Mistakes were made for very much the same reasons. Oh dear,â she added, âI am thankful that that girl is safely in Bournemouth.â

âThe girl? What girl?â asked Dermot.

âThat girl who did dressmaking and went up to see Giuseppe that day. What was her nameâ Gladys something.â

âGladys Dixon?â

âYes, thatâs the name.â

âSheâs in Bournemouth, do you say? How on earth do you know that?â

âI know,â said Miss Marple, âbecause I sent her there.â

âWhat?â Dermot stared at her. âYou? Why?â

âI went out to see her,â said Miss Marple, âand I gave her some money and told her to take a holiday and not to write home.â

âWhy on earth did you do that?â

âBecause I didnât want her to be killed, of course,â said Miss Marple, and blinked at him placidly.

Twenty-two

âSuch a sweet letter from Lady Conway,â Miss Knight said two days later as she deposited Miss Marpleâs breakfast tray. âYou remember my telling you about her? Just a little, you knowââ she tapped her foreheadââwanders sometimes. And her memoryâs bad. Canât recognize her relations always and tells them to go away.â

âThat might be shrewdness really,â said Miss Marple, ârather than a loss of memory.â

âNow, now,â said Miss Knight, âarenât we being naughty to make suggestions like that? Sheâs spending the winter at the Belgrave Hotel at Llandudno. Such a nice residential hotel. Splendid grounds and a very nice glassed-in terrace. Sheâs most anxious for me to come and join her there.â She sighed.

Miss Marple sat herself upright in bed.

âBut please,â she said, âif you are wantedâif you are needed there and would like to goââ

âNo, no, I couldnât hear of it,â cried Miss Knight. âOh, no, I never meant anything like that. Why, what would Mr. Raymond West say? He explained to me that being here might turn out to be a permanency. I should never dream of not fulfilling my obligations. I was only just mentioning the fact in passing, so donât worry, dear,â she added, patting Miss Marple on the shoulder. âWeâre not going to be deserted! No, no, indeed weâre not! Weâre going to be looked after and cosseted and made very happy and comfortable always.â

She went out of the room. Miss Marple sat with an air of determination, staring at her tray and failing to eat anything. Finally she picked up the receiver of the telephone and dialled with vigour.

âDr. Haydock?â

âYes?â

âJane Marple here.â

âAnd whatâs the matter with you? In need of my professional services?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âBut I want to see you as soon as possible.â

When Dr. Haydock came, he found Miss Marple still in bed waiting for him.

âYou look the picture of health,â he complained.

âThat is why I wanted to see you,â said Miss Marple. âTo tell you that I am perfectly well.â

âAn unusual reason for sending for the doctor.â

âIâm quite strong, Iâm quite fit, and itâs absurd to have anybody living in the house. So long as someone comes every day and does the cleaning and all that I donât see any need at all for having someone living here permanently.â

âI dare say you donât, but I do,â said Dr. Haydock.

âIt seems to me youâre turning into a regular old fussbudget,â said Miss Marple unkindly.

âAnd donât call me names!â said Dr. Haydock. âYouâre a very healthy woman for your age; you were pulled down a bit by bronchitis which isnât good for the elderly. But to stay alone in a house at your age is a risk. Supposing you fall down the stairs one evening or fall out of bed or slip in the bath. There youâd lie and nobodyâd know about it.â

âOne can imagine anything,â said Miss Marple. âMiss Knight might fall down the stairs and Iâd fall over her rushing out to see what had happened.â

âItâs no good your bullying me,â said Dr. Haydock. âYouâre an old lady and youâve got to be looked after in a proper manner. If you donât like this woman youâve got, change her and get somebody else.â

âThatâs not always so easy,â said Miss Marple.

âFind some old servant of yours, someone that you like, and whoâs lived with you before. I can see this old hen irritates you. Sheâd irritate me. There must be some old servant somewhere. That nephew of yours is one of the best-selling authors of the day. Heâd make it worth her while if you found the right person.â

âOf course dear Raymond would do anything of that kind. He is most generous,â said Miss Marple. âBut itâs not so easy to find the right person. Young people have their own lives to live, and so many of my faithful old servants, I am sorry to say, are dead.â

âWell, youâre not dead,â said Dr. Haydock, âand youâll live a good deal longer if you take proper care of yourself.â

He rose to his feet.

âWell,â he said. âNo good my stopping here. You look as fit as a fiddle. I shanât waste time taking your blood pressure or feeling your pulse or asking you questions. Youâre thriving on all this local excitement, even if you canât get about to poke your nose in as much as youâd like to do. Goodbye, Iâve got to go now and do some real doctoring. Eight to ten cases of German measles, half a dozen whooping coughs, and a suspected scarlet fever as well as my regulars!â

Dr. Haydock went out breezilyâbut Miss Marple was frowningâ¦ Something that he had saidâ¦what was it? Patients to seeâ¦the usual village ailmentsâ¦village ailments? Miss Marple pushed her breakfast tray farther away with a purposeful gesture. Then she rang up Mrs. Bantry.

âDolly? Jane here. I want to ask you something. Now pay attention. Is it true that you told Inspector Craddock that Heather Badcock told Marina Gregg a long pointless story about how she had chicken pox and got up in spite of it to go and meet Marina and get her autograph?â

âThat was it more or less.â

âChicken pox?â

âWell, something like that. Mrs. Allcock was talking to me about vodka at the time, so I wasnât really listening closely.â

âYouâre sure,â Miss Marple took a breath, âthat she didnât say whooping cough?â

âWhooping cough?â Mrs. Bantry sounded astounded. âOf course not. She wouldnât have had to powder her face and do it up for whooping cough.â

âI seeâthatâs what you went byâher special mention of makeup?â

âWell, she laid stress on itâshe wasnât the makingup kind. But I think youâre right, it wasnât chicken poxâ¦ Nettlerash, perhaps.â

âYou only say that,â said Miss Marple coldly, âbecause you once had nettlerash yourself and couldnât go to a wedding. Youâre hopeless, Dolly, quite hopeless.â

She put the receiver down with a bang, cutting off Mrs. Bantryâs astonished protest of âReally, Jane.â

Miss Marple made a ladylike noise of vexation like a cat sneezing to indicate profound disgust. Her mind reverted to the problem of her own domestic comfort. Faithful Florence? Could faithful Florence, that grenadier of a former parlourmaid be persuaded to leave her comfortable small house and come back to St. Mary Mead to look after her erstwhile mistress? Faithful Florence had always been very devoted to her. But faithful Florence was very attached to her own little house. Miss Marple shook her head vexedly. A gay rat-tat-tat sounded at the door. On Miss Marpleâs calling âCome inâ Cherry entered.

âCome for your tray,â she said. âHas anything happened? Youâre looking rather upset, arenât you?â

âI feel so helpless,â said Miss Marple. âOld and helpless.â

âDonât worry,â said Cherry, picking up the tray. âYouâre very far from helpless. You donât know the things I hear about you in this place! Why practically everybody in the Development knows about you now. All sorts of extraordinary things youâve done. They donât think of you as the old and helpless kind. Itâs she puts it into your head.â

âShe?â

Cherry gave a vigorous nod of her head backwards towards the door behind her.

âPussy, pussy,â she said. âYour Miss Knight. Donât you let her get you down.â

âSheâs very kind,â said Miss Marple, âreally very kind,â she added, in the tone of one who convinces herself.

âCare killed the cat, they say,â said Cherry. âYou donât want kindness rubbed into your skin, so to speak, do you?â

âOh, well,â said Miss Marple sighing, âI suppose we all have our troubles.â

âI should say we do,â said Cherry. âI oughtnât to complain but I feel sometimes that if I live next door to Mrs. Hartwell any longer thereâs going to be a regrettable incident. Sour-faced old cat, always gossiping and complaining. Jimâs pretty fed up too. He had a first-class row with her last night. Just because we had The Messiah on a bit loud! You canât object to The Messiah, can you? I mean, itâs religious.â

âDid she object?â

âShe created something terrible,â said Cherry. âBanged on the wall and shouted and one thing and another.â

âDo you have to have your music turned on so loud?â asked Miss Marple.

âJim likes it that way,â said Cherry. âHe says you donât get the tone unless you have full volume.â

âIt might,â suggested Miss Marple, âbe a little trying for anyone if they werenât musical.â

âItâs these houses being semi-detached,â said Cherry. âThin as anything, the walls. Iâm not so keen really on all this new building, when you come to think of it. It looks all very prissy and nice but you canât express your personality without somebody being down on you like a ton of bricks.â

Miss Marple smiled at her.

âYouâve got a lot of personality to express, Cherry,â she said.

âDâyou think so?â Cherry was pleased and she laughed. âI wonder,â she began. Suddenly she looked embarrassed. She put down the tray and came back to the bed.

âI wonder if youâd think it cheek if I asked you something? I meanâyouâve only got to say âout of the questionâ and thatâs that.â

âSomething you want me to do?â

âNot quite. Itâs those rooms over the kitchen. Theyâre never used nowadays, are they?â

âNo.â

âUsed to be a gardener and wife there once, so I heard. But thatâs old stuff. What I wonderedâwhat Jim and I wonderedâis if we could have them. Come and live here, I mean.â

Miss Marple stared at her in astonishment.

âBut your beautiful new house in the Development?â

âWeâre both fed up with it. We like gadgets, but you can have gadgets anywhereâget them on HP and there would be a nice lot of room here, especially if Jim could have the room over the stables. Heâd fix it up like new, and he could have all his construction models there, and wouldnât have to clear them away all the time. And if we had our stereogram there too, youâd hardly hear it.â

âAre you really serious about this, Cherry?â

âYes, I am. Jim and I, weâve talked about it a lot. Jim could fix things for you anytimeâyou know, plumbing or a bit of carpentry, and Iâd look after you every bit as well as your Miss Knight does. I know you think Iâm a bit slap-dashâbut Iâd try and take trouble with the beds and the washing-upâand Iâm getting quite a dab hand at cooking. Did Beef Stroganoff last night, itâs quite easy, really.â

Miss Marple contemplated her.

Cherry was looking like an eager kittenâvitality and joy of life radiated from her. Miss Marple thought once more of faithful Florence. Faithful Florence would, of course, keep the house far better. (Miss Marple put no faith in Cherryâs promise.) But she was at least sixty-fiveâperhaps more. And would she really want to be uprooted? She might accept that out of very real devotion for Miss Marple. But did Miss Marple really want sacrifices made for her? Wasnât she already suffering from Miss Knightâs conscientious devotion to duty?

Cherry, however inadequate her housework, wanted to come. And she had qualities that to Miss Marple at this moment seemed of supreme importance.

Warmheartedness, vitality, and a deep interest in everything that was going on.

âI donât want, of course,â said Cherry, âto go behind Miss Knightâs back in anyway.â

âNever mind about Miss Knight,â said Miss Marple, coming to a decision. âSheâll go off to someone called Lady Conway at a hotel in Llandudnoâand enjoy herself thoroughly. Weâll have to settle a lot of details, Cherry, and I shall want to talk to your husbandâbut if you really think youâd be happyâ¦.â

âItâd suit us down to the ground,â said Cherry. âAnd you really can rely on me doing things properly. Iâll even use the dustpan and brush if you like.â

Miss Marple laughed at this supreme offer.

Cherry picked up the breakfast tray again.

âI must get cracking. I got here late this morningâhearing about poor Arthur Badcock.â

âArthur Badcock? What happened to him?â

âHavenât you heard? Heâs up at the police station now,â said Cherry. âThey asked him if heâd come and âassist them with their inquiriesâ and you know what that always means.â

âWhen did this happen?â demanded Miss Marple.

âThis morning,â said Cherry. âI suppose,â she added, âthat it got out about his once having been married to Marina Gregg.â

âWhat!â Miss Marple sat up again. âArthur Badcock was once married to Marina Gregg?â

âThatâs the story,â said Cherry. âNobody had any idea of it. It was Mr. Upshaw put it about. Heâs been to the States once or twice on business for his firm and so he knows a lot of gossip from over there. It was a long time ago, you know. Really before sheâd begun her career. They were only married a year or two and then she won a film award and of course he wasnât good enough for her then, so they had one of these easy American divorces and he just faded out, as you might say. Heâs the fading out kind, Arthur Badcock. He wouldnât make a fuss. He changed his name and came back to England. Itâs all ever so long ago. You wouldnât think anything like that mattered nowadays, would you? Still, there it is. Itâs enough for the police to go on, I suppose.â

âOh, no,â said Miss Marple. âOh no. This mustnât happen. If I could only think what to doâNow, let me see.â She made a gesture to Cherry. âTake the tray away, Cherry, and send Miss Knight up to me. Iâm going to get up.â

Cherry obeyed. Miss Marple dressed herself with fingers that fumbled slightly. It irritated her when she found excitement of any kind affecting her. She was just hooking up her dress when Miss Knight entered.

âDid you want me? Cherry saidââ

Miss Marple broke in incisively.

âGet Inch,â she said.

âI beg your pardon,â said Miss Knight, startled.

âInch,â said Miss Marple, âget Inch. Telephone for him to come at once.â

âOh, oh I see. You mean the taxi people. But his nameâs Roberts, isnât it?â

âTo me,â said Miss Marple, âhe is Inch and always will be. But anyway get him. Heâs to come here at once.â

âYou want to go for a little drive?â

âJust get him, can you?â said Miss Marple. âAnd hurry, please.â

Miss Knight looked at her doubtfully and proceeded to do as she was told.

âWe are feeling all right, dear, arenât we?â she said anxiously.

âWe are both feeling very well,â said Miss Marple, âand I am feeling particularly well. Inertia does not suit me, and never has. A practical course of action, that is what I have been wanting for a long time.â

âHas that Mrs. Baker been saying something that has upset you?â

âNothing has upset me,â said Miss Marple. âI feel particularly well. I am annoyed with myself for being stupid. But really, until I got a hint from Dr. Haydock this morningânow I wonder if I remember rightly. Where is that medical book of mine?â She gestured Miss Knight aside and walked firmly down the stairs. She found the book she wanted on a shelf in the drawing room. Taking it out she looked up the index, murmured, âPage 210,â turned to the page in question, read for a few moments then nodded her head, satisfied.

âMost remarkable,â she said, âmost curious. I donât suppose anybody would ever have thought of it. I didnât myself, until the two things came together, so to speak.â

Then she shook her head, and a little line appeared between her eyes. If only there was someoneâ¦.

She went over in her mind the various accounts she had been given of that particular sceneâ¦.

Her eyes widened in thought. There was someoneâbut would he, she wondered, be any good? One never knew with the vicar. He was quite unpredictable.

Nevertheless she went to the telephone and dialled.

âGood morning, Vicar, this is Miss Marple.â

âOh, yes, Miss Marpleâanything I can do for you?â

âI wonder if you could help me on a small point. It concerns the day of the fÃªte when poor Mrs. Badcock died. I believe you were standing quite near Miss Gregg when Mr. and Mrs. Badcock arrived.â

âYesâyesâ I was just before them, I think. Such a tragic day.â

âYes, indeed. And I believe that Mrs. Badcock was recalling to Miss Gregg that they had met before in Bermuda. She had been ill in bed and had got up specially.â

âYes, yes, I do remember.â

âAnd do you remember if Mrs. Badcock mentioned the illness she was suffering from?â

âI think nowâlet me seeâyes, it was measlesâat least not real measlesâGerman measlesâa much less serious disease. Some people hardly feel ill at all with it. I remember my cousin Carolineâ¦.â

Miss Marple cut off reminiscences of Cousin Caroline by saying firmly: âThank you so much, Vicar,â and replacing the receiver.

There was an awed expression on her face. One of the great mysteries of St. Mary Mead was what made the vicar remember certain thingsâonly outstripped by the greater mystery of what the vicar could manage to forget!

âThe taxiâs here, dear,â said Miss Knight, bustling in. âItâs a very old one, and not too clean I should say. I donât really like you driving in a thing like that. You might pick up some germ or other.â

âNonsense,â said Miss Marple. Setting her hat firmly on her head and buttoning up her summer coat, she went out to the waiting taxi.

âGood morning, Roberts,â she said.

âGood morning, Miss Marple. Youâre early this morning. Where do you want to go?â

âGossington Hall, please,â said Miss Marple.

âIâd better come with you, hadnât I, dear?â said Miss Knight. âIt wonât take a minute just to slip on outdoor shoes.â

âNo, thank you,â said Miss Marple, firmly. âIâm going by myself. Drive on, Inch. I mean Roberts.â

Mr. Roberts drove on, merely remarking:

âAh, Gossington Hall. Great changes there and everywhere nowadays. All that development. Never thought anything like thatâd come to St. Mary Mead.â

Upon arrival at Gossington Hall Miss Marple rang the bell and asked to see Mr. Jason Rudd.

Giuseppeâs successor, a rather shaky-looking elderly man, conveyed doubt.

âMr. Rudd,â he said, âdoes not see anybody without an appointment, madam. And today especiallyââ

âI have no appointment,â said Miss Marple, âbut I will wait,â she added.

She stepped briskly past him into the hall and sat down on a hall chair.

âIâm afraid it will be quite impossible this morning, madam.â

âIn that case,â said Miss Marple, âI shall wait until this afternoon.â

Baffled, the new butler retired. Presently a young man came to Miss Marple. He had a pleasant manner and a cheerful, slightly American voice.

âIâve seen you before,â said Miss Marple. âIn the Development. You asked me the way to Blenheim Close.â

Hailey Preston smiled good-naturedly. âI guess you did your best, but you misdirected me badly.â

âDear me, did I?â said Miss Marple. âSo many Closes, arenât there? Can I see Mr. Rudd?â

âWhy, now, thatâs too bad,â said Hailey Preston. âMr. Ruddâs a busy man and heâsâerâfully occupied this morning and really canât be disturbed.â

âIâm sure heâs very busy,â said Miss Marple. âI came here quite prepared to wait.â

âWhy, Iâd suggest now,â said Hailey Preston, âthat you should tell me what it is you want. I deal with all these things for Mr. Rudd, you see. Everyone has to see me first.â

âIâm afraid,â said Miss Marple, âthat I want to see Mr. Rudd himself. And,â she added, âI shall wait here until I do.â

She settled herself more firmly in the large oak chair.

Hailey Preston hesitated, started to speak, finally turned away and went upstairs.

He returned with a large man in tweeds.

âThis is Dr. Gilchrist. Missâerââ

âMiss Marple.â

âSo youâre Miss Marple,â said Dr. Gilchrist. He looked at her with a good deal of interest.

Hailey Preston slipped away with celerity.

âIâve heard about you,â said Dr. Gilchrist. âFrom Dr. Haydock.â

âDr. Haydock is a very old friend of mine.â

âHe certainly is. Now you want to see Mr. Jason Rudd? Why?â

âIt is necessary that I should,â said Miss Marple.

Dr. Gilchristâs eyes appraised her.

âAnd youâre camping here until you do?â he asked.

âExactly.â

âYou would, too,â said Dr. Gilchrist. âIn that case I will give you a perfectly good reason why you cannot see Mr. Rudd. His wife died last night in her sleep.â

âDead!â exclaimed Miss Marple. âHow?â

âAn overdose of sleeping stuff. We donât want the news to leak out to the Press for a few hours. So Iâll ask you to keep this knowledge to yourself for the moment.â

âOf course. Was it an accident?â

âThat is definitely my view,â said Gilchrist.

âBut it could be suicide.â

âIt couldâbut most unlikely.â

âOr someone could have given it to her?â

Gilchrist shrugged his shoulders.

âA most remote contingency. And a thing,â he added firmly, âthat would be quite impossible to prove.â

âI see,â said Miss Marple. She took a deep breath. âIâm sorry, but itâs more necessary than ever that I should see Mr. Rudd.â

Gilchrist looked at her.

âWait here,â he said.

Twenty-three

Jason Rudd looked up as Gilchrist entered.

âThereâs an old dame downstairs,â said the doctor; âlooks about a hundred. Wants to see you. Wonât take no and says sheâll wait. Sheâll wait till this afternoon, I gather, or sheâll wait till this evening and sheâs quite capable, I should say, of spending the night here. Sheâs got something she badly wants to say to you. Iâd see her if I were you.â

Jason Rudd looked up from his desk. His face was white and strained.

âIs she mad?â

âNo. Not in the least.â

âI donât see why IâOh, all rightâsend her up. What does it matter?â

Gilchrist nodded, went out of the room and called to Hailey Preston.

âMr. Rudd can spare you a few minutes now, Miss Marple,â said Hailey Preston, appearing again by her side.

âThank you. Thatâs very kind of him,â said Miss Marple as she rose to her feet. âHave you been with Mr. Rudd long?â she asked.

âWhy, Iâve worked with Mr. Rudd for the last two and a half years. My job is public relations generally.â

âI see.â Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully. âYou remind me very much,â she said, âof someone I knew called Gerald French.â

âIndeed? What did Gerald French do?â

âNot very much,â said Miss Marple, âbut he was a very good talker.â She sighed. âHe had had an unfortunate past.â

âYou donât say,â said Hailey Preston, slightly ill at ease. âWhat kind of a past?â

âI wonât repeat it,â said Miss Marple. âHe didnât like it talked about.â

Jason Rudd rose from his desk and looked with some surprise at the slender elderly lady who was advancing towards him.

âYou wanted to see me?â he said. âWhat can I do for you?â

âI am very sorry about your wifeâs death,â said Miss Marple. âI can see it has been a great grief to you and I want you to believe that I should not intrude upon you now or offer you sympathy unless it was absolutely necessary. But there are things that need badly to be cleared up unless an innocent man is going to suffer.â

âAn innocent man? I donât understand you.â

âArthur Badcock,â said Miss Marple. âHe is with the police now, being questioned.â

âQuestioned in connection with my wifeâs death? But thatâs absurd, absolutely absurd. Heâs never been near the place. He didnât even know her.â

âI think he knew her,â said Miss Marple. âHe was married to her once.â

âArthur Badcock? Butâhe wasâhe was Heather Badcockâs husband. Arenât you perhapsââ he spoke kindly and apologeticallyâ âMaking a little mistake?â

âHe was married to both of them,â said Miss Marple. âHe was married to your wife when she was very young, before she went into pictures.â

Jason Rudd shook his head.

âMy wife was first married to a man called Alfred Beadle. He was in real estate. They were not suited and they parted almost immediately.â

âThen Alfred Beadle changed his name to Badcock,â said Miss Marple. âHeâs in a real estate firm here. Itâs odd how some people never seem to like to change their job and want to go on doing the same thing. I expect really thatâs why Marina Gregg felt that he was no use to her. He couldnât have kept up with her.â

âWhat youâve told me is most surprising.â

âI can assure you that I am not romancing or imagining things. What I am telling you is sober fact. These things get round very quickly in a village, you know, though they take a little longer,â she added, âin reaching the Hall.â

âWell,â Jason Rudd stalled, uncertain what to say, then he accepted the position, âand what do you want me to do for you, Miss Marple?â he asked.

âI want, if I may, to stand on the stairs at the spot where you and your wife received guests on the day of the fÃªte.â

He shot a quick doubtful glance at her. Was this, after all, just another sensation-seeker? But Miss Marpleâs face was grave and composed.

âWhy certainly,â he said, âif you want to do so. Come with me.â

He led her to the staircase head and paused in the hollowed-out bay at the top of it.

âYouâve made a good many changes in the house since the Bantrys were here,â said Miss Marple. âI like this. Now, let me see. The tables would be about here, I suppose, and you and your wife would be standingââ

âMy wife stood here.â Jason showed her the place. âPeople came up the stairs, she shook hands with them and passed them on to me.â

âShe stood here,â said Miss Marple.

She moved over and took her place where Marina Gregg had stood. She remained there quite quietly without moving. Jason Rudd watched her. He was perplexed but interested. She raised her right hand slightly as though shaking, looked down the stairs as though to see people coming up it. Then she looked straight ahead of her. On the wall halfway up the stairs was a large picture, a copy of an Italian Old Master. On either side of it were narrow windows, one giving out on the garden and the other giving on to the end of the stables and the weathercock. But Miss Marple looked at neither of these. Her eyes were fixed on the picture itself.

âOf course you always hear a thing right the first time,â she said. âMrs. Bantry told me that your wife stared at the picture and her face âfroze,â as she put it.â She looked at the rich red and blue robes of the Madonna, a Madonna with her head slightly back, laughing up at the Holy Child that she was holding up in her arms. âGiacomo Belliniâs âLaughing Madonna,ââ she said. âA religious picture, but also a painting of a happy mother with her child. Isnât that so Mr. Rudd?â

âI would say so, yes.â

âI understand now,â said Miss Marple. âI understand quite well. The whole thing is really very simple, isnât it?â She looked at Jason Rudd.

âSimple?â

âI think you know how simple it is,â said Miss Marple. There was a peal on the bell below.

âI donât think,â said Jason Rudd, âI quite understand.â He looked down the stairway. There was a sound of voices.

âI know that voice,â said Miss Marple. âItâs Inspector Craddockâs voice, isnât it?â

âYes, it seems to be Inspector Craddock.â

âHe wants to see you, too. Would you mind very much if he joined us?â

âNot at all as far as I am concerned. Whether he will agreeââ

âI think he will agree,â said Miss Marple. âThereâs really not much time now to be lost is there? Weâve got to the moment when weâve got to understand just how everything happened.â

âI thought you said it was simple,â said Jason Rudd.

âIt was so simple,â said Miss Marple, âthat one just couldnât see it.â

The decayed butler arrived at this moment up the stairs.

âInspector Craddock is here, sir,â he said.

âAsk him to join us here, please,â said Jason Rudd.

The butler disappeared again and a moment or two later Dermot Craddock came up the stairs.

âYou!â he said to Miss Marple, âhow did you get here?â

âI came in Inch,â said Miss Marple, producing the usual confused effect that that remark always caused.

From slightly behind her Jason Rudd rapped his forehead interrogatively. Dermot Craddock shook his head.

âI was saying to Mr. Rudd,â said Miss Marple, ââhas the butler gone awayââ

Dermot Craddock cast a look down the stairs.

âOh, yes,â he said, âheâs not listening. Sergeant Tiddler will see to that.â

âThen that is all right,â said Miss Marple. âWe could of course have gone into a room to talk, but I prefer it like this. Here we are on the spot where the thing happened, which makes it so much easier to understand.â

âYou are talking,â said Jason Rudd, âof the day of the fÃªte here, the day when Heather Badcock was poisoned.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âand Iâm saying that it is all very simple if one only looks at it in the proper way. It all began, you see, with Heather Badcock being the kind of person she was. It was inevitable, really, that something of that kind should happen some day to Heather.â

âI donât understand what you mean,â said Jason Rudd. âI donât understand at all.â

âNo, it has to be explained a little. You see, when my friend, Mrs. Bantry who was here, described the scene to me, she quoted a poem that was a great favourite in my youth, a poem of dear Lord Tennysonâs. âThe Lady of Shalott.ââ She raised her voice a little.

âThe mirror crackâd from side to side;

âThe Curse is come upon me,â cried

The Lady of Shalott.

Thatâs what Mrs. Bantry saw, or thought she saw, though actually she misquoted and said doom instead of curseâperhaps a better word in the circumstances. She saw your wife speaking to Heather Badcock and heard Heather Badcock speaking to your wife and she saw this look of doom on your wifeâs face.â

âHavenât we been over that a great many times?â said Jason Rudd.

âYes, but we shall have to go over it once more,â said Miss Marple. âThere was that expression on your wifeâs face and she was looking not at Heather Badcock but at that picture. At a picture of a laughing, happy mother holding up a happy child. The mistake was that though there was doom foreshadowed in Marina Greggâs face, it was not on her the doom would come. The doom was to come upon Heather. Heather was doomed from the first moment that she began talking and boasting of an incident in the past.â

âCould you make yourself a little clearer?â said Dermot Craddock.

Miss Marple turned to him.

âOf course I will. This is something that you know nothing about. You couldnât know about it, because nobody has told you what it was Heather Badcock actually said.â

âBut they have,â protested Dermot. âTheyâve told me over and over again. Several people have told me.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âbut you donât know because, you see, Heather Badcock didnât tell it to you.â

âShe hardly could tell it to me seeing she was dead when I arrived here,â said Dermot.

âQuite so,â said Miss Marple. âAll you know is that she was ill but she got up from bed and came along to a celebration of some kind where she met Marina Gregg and spoke to her and asked for an autograph and was given one.â

âI know,â said Craddock with slight impatience. âIâve heard all that.â

âBut you didnât hear the one operative phrase, because no one thought it was important,â said Miss Marple. âHeather Badcock was ill in bedâwith German measles.â

âGerman measles? What on earth has that got to do with it?â

âItâs a very slight illness, really,â said Miss Marple. âIt hardly makes you feel ill at all. You have a rash which is easy to cover up with powder, and you have a little fever, but not very much. You feel quite well enough to go out and see people if you want to. And of course in repeating all this the fact that it was German measles didnât strike people particularly. Mrs. Bantry, for instance, just said that Heather had been ill in bed and mentioned chicken pox and nettlerash. Mr. Rudd here said that it was âflu, but of course he did that on purpose. But I think myself that what Heather Badcock said to Marina Gregg was that she had had German measles and got up from bed and went off to meet Marina. And thatâs really the answer to the whole thing, because, you see, German measles is extremely infectious. People catch it very easily. And thereâs one thing about it which youâve got to remember. If a woman contracts it in the first four months ofââ Miss Marple spoke the next word with a slight Victorian modesty ââofâerâpregnancy, it may have a terribly serious effect. It may cause an unborn child to be born blind or to be born mentally affected.â

She turned to Jason Rudd.

âI think I am correct in saying, Mr. Rudd, that your wife had a child who was born mentally afflicted and that she has never really recovered from the shock. She had always wanted a child and when at last the child came, this was the tragedy that happened. A tragedy she has never forgotten, that she has not allowed herself to forget and which ate into her as a kind of deep sore, an obsession.â

âItâs quite true,â said Jason Rudd. âMarina developed German measles early on in her pregnancy and was told by the doctor that the mental affliction of her child was due to that cause. It was not a case of inherited insanity or anything of that kind. He was trying to be helpful but I donât think it helped her much. She never knew how, or when or from whom she had contracted the disease.â

âQuite so,â said Miss Marple, âshe never knew until one afternoon here when a perfectly strange woman came up those stairs and told her the factâtold her, what was moreâwith a great deal of pleasure! With an air of being proud of what sheâd done! She thought sheâd been resourceful and brave and shown a lot of spirit in getting up from her bed, covering her face with makeup, and going along to meet the actress on whom she had such a crush and obtaining her autograph. Itâs a thing she has boasted of all through her life. Heather Badcock meant no harm. She never did mean harm but there is no doubt that people like Heather Badcock (and like my old friend Alison Wilde), are capable of doing a lot of harm because they lackânot kindness, they have kindnessâbut any real consideration for the way their actions may affect other people. She thought always of what an action meant to her, never sparing a thought to what it might mean to somebody else.â

Miss Marple nodded her head gently.

âSo she died, you see, for a simple reason out of her own past. You must imagine what that moment meant to Marina Gregg. I think Mr. Rudd understands it very well. I think she had nursed all those years a kind of hatred for the unknown person who had been the cause of her tragedy. And here suddenly she meets that person face to face. And a person who is gay, jolly and pleased with herself. It was too much for her. If she had had time to think, to calm down, to be persuaded to relaxâbut she gave herself no time. Here was this woman who had destroyed her happiness and destroyed the sanity and health of her child. She wanted to punish her. She wanted to kill her. And unfortunately the means were to hand. She carried with her that well-known specific, Calmo. A somewhat dangerous drug because you had to be careful of the exact dosage. It was very easy to do. She put the stuff into her own glass. If by any chance anyone noticed what she was doing they were probably so used to her pepping herself up or soothing herself down in any handy liquid that theyâd hardly notice it. Itâs possible that one person did see her, but I rather doubt it. I think that Miss Zielinsky did no more than guess. Marina Gregg put her glass down on the table and presently she managed to jog Heather Badcockâs arm so that Heather Badcock spilt her own drink all down her new dress. And thatâs where the element of puzzle has come into the matter, owing to the fact that people cannot remember to use their pronouns properly.

âIt reminds me so much of that parlourmaid I was telling you about,â she added to Dermot. âI only had the account, you see, of what Gladys Dixon said to Cherry which simply was that she was worried about the ruin of Heather Badcockâs dress with the cocktail spilt down it. What seemed so funny, she said, was that she did it on purpose. But the âsheâ that Gladys referred to was not Heather Badcock, it was Marina Gregg. As Gladys said: She did it on purpose! She jogged Heatherâs arm. Not by accident but because she meant to do so. We do know that she must have been standing very close to Heather because we have heard that she mopped up both Heatherâs dress and her own before pressing her cocktail on Heather. It was really,â said Miss Marple meditatively, âa very perfect murder; because, you see, it was committed on the spur of the moment without pausing to think or reflect. She wanted Heather Badcock dead and a few minutes later Heather Badcock was dead. She didnât realize, perhaps, the seriousness of what sheâd done and certainly not the danger of it until afterwards. But she realized it then. She was afraid, horribly afraid. Afraid that someone had seen her dope her own glass, that someone had seen her deliberately jog Heatherâs elbow, afraid that someone would accuse her of having poisoned Heather. She could see only one way out. To insist that the murder had been aimed at her, that she was the prospective victim. She tried that idea first on her doctor. She refused to let him tell her husband because I think she knew that her husband would not be deceived. She did fantastic things. She wrote notes to herself and arranged to find them in extraordinary places and at extraordinary moments. She doctored her own coffee at the studios one day. She did things that could really have been seen through fairly easily if one had happened to be thinking that way. They were seen through by one person.â

She looked at Jason Rudd.

âThis is only a theory of yours,â said Jason Rudd.

âYou can put it that way, if you like,â said Miss Marple, âbut you know quite well, donât you, Mr. Rudd, that Iâm speaking the truth. You know, because you knew from the first. You knew because you heard that mention of German measles. You knew and you were frantic to protect her. But you didnât realize how much you would have to protect her from. You didnât realize that it was not only a question of hushing up one death, the death of a woman whom you might say quite fairly had brought her death on herself. But there were other deathsâthe death of Giuseppe, a blackmailer, it is true, but a human being. And the death of Ella Zielinsky of whom I expect you were fond. You were frantic to protect Marina and also to prevent her from doing more harm. All you wanted was to get her safely away somewhere. You tried to watch her all the time, to make sure that nothing more should happen.â

She paused, and then coming nearer to Jason Rudd, she laid a gentle hand on his arm.

âI am very sorry for you,â she said, âvery sorry. I do realize the agony youâve been through. You cared for her so much, didnât you?â

Jason Rudd turned slightly away.

âThat,â he said, âis, I believe, common knowledge.â

âShe was such a beautiful creature,â said Miss Marple gently. âShe had such a wonderful gift. She had a great power of love and hate but no stability. Thatâs whatâs so sad for anyone, to be born with no stability. She couldnât let the past go and she could never see the future as it really was, only as she imagined it to be. She was a great actress and a beautiful and very unhappy woman. What a wonderful Mary, Queen of Scots she was! I shall never forget her.â

Sergeant Tiddler appeared suddenly on the stairs.

âSir,â he said, âcan I speak to you a moment?â

Craddock turned.

âIâll be back,â he said to Jason Rudd, then he went towards the stairs.

âRemember,â Miss Marple called after him, âpoor Arthur Badcock had nothing to do with this. He came to the fÃªte because he wanted to have a glimpse of the girl he had married long ago. I should say she didnât even recognize him. Did she?â she asked Jason Rudd.

Jason Rudd shook his head.

âI donât think so. She certainly never said anything to me. I donât think,â he added thoughtfully, âshe would recognize him.â

âProbably not,â said Miss Marple. âAnyway,â she added, âheâs quite innocent of wanting to kill her or anything of that kind. Remember that,â she added to Dermot Craddock as he went down the stairs.

âHeâs not been in any real danger, I can assure you,â said Craddock, âbut of course when we found out that he had actually been Miss Marina Greggâs first husband we naturally had to question him on the point. Donât worry about him, Aunt Jane,â he added in a low murmur, then he hurried down the stairs.

Miss Marple turned to Jason Rudd. He was standing there like a man in a daze, his eyes faraway.

âWould you allow me to see her?â said Miss Marple.

He considered her for a moment or two, then he nodded.

âYes, you can see her. You seem toâunderstand her very well.â

He turned and Miss Marple followed him. He preceded her into the big bedroom and drew the curtains slightly aside.

Marina Gregg lay in the great white shell of the bedâher eyes closed, her hands folded.

So, Miss Marple thought, might the Lady of Shalott have lain in the boat that carried her down to Camelot. And there, standing musing, was a man with a rugged, ugly face, who might pass as a Lancelot of a later day.

Miss Marple said gently, âItâs very fortunate for her that sheâtook an overdose. Death was really the only way of escape left to her. Yesâvery fortunate she took that overdoseâorâwas given it?â

His eyes met hers, but he did not speak.

He said brokenly, âShe wasâso lovelyâand she had suffered so much.â

Miss Marple looked back against the still figure.

She quoted softly the last lines of the poem:

âHe said: âShe has a lovely face;

God in His mercy lend her grace,

The Lady of Shalott.ââ

Agatha Christie

A Caribbean Mystery

A Miss Marple Mystery

To my old friend John Cruickshank Rose with happy memories of my visit to the West Indies

Contents

Dedication

1. Major Palgrave Tells a Story

2. Miss Marple Makes Comparisons

3. A Death in the Hotel

4. Miss Marple Seeks Medical Attention

5. Miss Marple Makes a Decision

6. In the Small Hours

7. Morning on the Beach

8. A Talk with Esther Walters

9. Miss Prescott and Others

10. A Decision in Jamestown

11. Evening at the Golden Palm

12. Old Sins Cast Long Shadows

13. Exit Victoria Johnson

14. Inquiry

15. Inquiry Continued

16. Miss Marple Seeks Assistance

17. Mr. Rafiel Takes Charge

18. Without Benefit of Clergy

19. Uses of a Shoe

20. Night Alarm

21. Jackson on Cosmetics

22. A Man in Her Life?

23. The Last Day

24. Nemesis

25. Miss Marple Uses Her Imagination

Epilogue

One

MAJOR PALGRAVE TELLS A STORY

âTake all this business about Kenya,â said Major Palgrave.

âLots of chaps gabbing away who know nothing about the place! Now I spent fourteen years of my life there. Some of the best years of my life, tooââ

Old Miss Marple inclined her head.

It was a gentle gesture of courtesy. Whilst Major Palgrave proceeded with the somewhat uninteresting recollections of a lifetime, Miss Marple peacefully pursued her own thoughts. It was a routine with which she was well acquainted. The locale varied. In the past, it had been predominantly India. Majors, Colonels, Lieutenant-Generalsâand a familiar series of words: Simla. Bearers. Tigers. Chota HazriâTiffin. Khitmagars, and so on. With Major Palgrave the terms were slightly different. Safari. Kikuyu. Elephants. Swahili. But the pattern was essentially the same. An elderly man who needed a listener so that he could, in memory, relive days in which he had been happy. Days when his back had been straight, his eyesight keen, his hearing acute. Some of these talkers had been handsome soldierly old boys, some again had been regrettably unattractive; and Major Palgrave, purple of face, with a glass eye, and the general appearance of a stuffed frog, belonged in the latter category.

Miss Marple had bestowed on all of them the same gentle charity. She had sat attentively, inclining her head from time to time in gentle agreement, thinking her own thoughts and enjoying what there was to enjoy: in this case the deep blue of a Caribbean Sea.

So kind of dear Raymondâshe was thinking gratefully, so really and truly kind â¦ Why he should take so much trouble about his old aunt, she really did not know. Conscience, perhaps; family feeling? Or possibly he was truly fond of herâ¦.

She thought, on the whole, that he was fond of herâhe always had beenâin a slightly exasperated and contemptuous way! Always trying to bring her up to date. Sending her books to read. Modern novels. So difficultâall about such unpleasant people, doing such very odd things and not, apparently, even enjoying them. âSexâ as a word had not been mentioned in Miss Marpleâs young days; but there had been plenty of itânot talked about so muchâbut enjoyed far more than nowadays, or so it seemed to her. Though usually labelled Sin, she couldnât help feeling that that was preferable to what it seemed to be nowadaysâa kind of Duty.

Her glance strayed for a moment to the book on her lap lying open at page twenty-three which was as far as she had got (and indeed as far as she felt like getting!).

ââDo you mean that youâve had no sexual experience at ALL?â demanded the young man incredulously. âAt nineteen? But you must. Itâs vital.â

âThe girl hung her head unhappily, her straight greasy hair fell forward over her face.

ââI know,â she muttered, âI know.â

âHe looked at her, stained old jersey, the bare feet, the dirty toe nails, the smell of rancid fat â¦ He wondered why he found her so maddeningly attractive.â

Miss Marple wondered too! And really! To have sex experience urged on you exactly as though it was an iron tonic! Poor young thingsâ¦.

âMy dear Aunt Jane, why must you bury your head in the sand like a very delightful ostrich? All bound up in this idyllic rural life of yours. REAL LIFEâthatâs what matters.â

Thus Raymondâand his Aunt Janeâhad looked properly abashedâand said âYes,â she was afraid she was rather old-fashioned.

Though really rural life was far from idyllic. People like Raymond were so ignorant. In the course of her duties in a country parish, Jane Marple had acquired quite a comprehensive knowledge of the facts of rural life. She had no urge to talk about them, far less to write about themâbut she knew them. Plenty of sex, natural and unnatural. Rape, incest, perversion of all kinds. (Some kinds, indeed, that even the clever young men from Oxford who wrote books didnât seem to have heard about.)

Miss Marple came back to the Caribbean and took up the thread of what Major Palgrave was sayingâ¦.

âA very unusual experience,â she said encouragingly. âMost interesting.â

âI could tell you a lot more. Some of the things, of course, not fit for a ladyâs earsââ

With the ease of long practice, Miss Marple dropped her eyelids in a fluttery fashion, and Major Palgrave continued his bowdlerized version of tribal customs whilst Miss Marple resumed her thoughts of her affectionate nephew.

Raymond West was a very successful novelist and made a large income, and he conscientiously and kindly did all he could to alleviate the life of his elderly aunt. The preceding winter she had had a bad go of pneumonia, and medical opinion had advised sunshine. In lordly fashion Raymond had suggested a trip to the West Indies. Miss Marple had demurredâat the expense, the distance, the difficulties of travel, and at abandoning her house in St. Mary Mead. Raymond had dealt with everything. A friend who was writing a book wanted a quiet place in the country. âHeâll look after the house all right. Heâs very house proud. Heâs a queer. I meanââ

He had paused, slightly embarrassedâbut surely even dear old Aunt Jane must have heard of queers.

He went on to deal with the next points. Travel was nothing nowadays. She would go by airâanother friend, Diana Horrocks, was going out to Trinidad and would see Aunt Jane was all right as far as there, and at St. HonorÃ© she would stay at the Golden Palm Hotel which was run by the Sandersons. Nicest couple in the world. Theyâd see she was all right. Heâd write to them straight away.

As it happened the Sandersons had returned to England. But their successors, the Kendals, had been very nice and friendly and had assured Raymond that he need have no qualms about his aunt. There was a very good doctor on the island in case of emergency and they themselves would keep an eye on her and see to her comfort.

They had been as good as their word, too. Molly Kendal was an ingenuous blonde of twenty odd, always apparently in good spirits. She had greeted the old lady warmly and did everything to make her comfortable. Tim Kendal, her husband, lean, dark and in his thirties, had also been kindness itself.

So there she was, thought Miss Marple, far from the rigours of the English climate, with a nice bungalow of her own, with friendly smiling West Indian girls to wait on her, Tim Kendal to meet her in the dining room and crack a joke as he advised her about the dayâs menu, and an easy path from her bungalow to the sea front and the bathing beach where she could sit in a comfortable basket chair and watch the bathing. There were even a few elderly guests for company. Old Mr. Rafiel, Dr. Graham, Canon Prescott and his sister, and her present cavalier Major Palgrave.

What more could an elderly lady want?

It is deeply to be regretted, and Miss Marple felt guilty even admitting it to herself, but she was not as satisfied as she ought to be.

Lovely and warm, yesâand so good for her rheumatismâand beautiful scenery, though perhapsâa trifle monotonous? So many palm trees. Everything the same every dayânever anything happening. Not like St. Mary Mead where something was always happening. Her nephew had once compared life in St. Mary Mead to scum on a pond, and she had indignantly pointed out that smeared on a slide under the microscope there would be plenty of life to be observed. Yes, indeed, in St. Mary Mead, there was always something going on. Incident after incident flashed through Miss Marpleâs mind, the mistake in old Mrs. Linnettâs cough mixtureâthat very odd behaviour of young Polegateâthe time when Georgy Woodâs mother had come down to see himâ(but was she his motherâ?) the real cause of the quarrel between Joe Arden and his wife. So many interesting human problemsâgiving rise to endless pleasurable hours of speculation. If only there were something here that she couldâwellâget her teeth into.

With a start she realized that Major Palgrave had abandoned Kenya for the North West Frontier and was relating his experiences as a subaltern. Unfortunately he was asking her with great earnestness: âNow donât you agree?â

Long practice had made Miss Marple quite an adept at dealing with that one.

âI donât really feel that Iâve got sufficient experience to judge. Iâm afraid Iâve led rather a sheltered life.â

âAnd so you should, dear lady, so you should,â cried Major Palgrave gallantly.

âYouâve had such a very varied life,â went on Miss Marple, determined to make amends for her former pleasurable inattention.

âNot bad,â said Major Palgrave, complacently. âNot bad at all.â He looked round him appreciatively. âLovely place, this.â

âYes, indeed,â said Miss Marple and was then unable to stop herself going on: âDoes anything ever happen here, I wonder?â

Major Palgrave stared.

âOh rather. Plenty of scandalsâeh what? Why, I could tell youââ

But it wasnât really scandals Miss Marple wanted. Nothing to get your teeth into in scandals nowadays. Just men and women changing partners, and calling attention to it, instead of trying decently to hush it up and be properly ashamed of themselves.

âThere was even a murder here a couple of years ago. Man called Harry Western. Made a big splash in the papers. Dare say you remember it.â

Miss Marple nodded without enthusiasm. It had not been her kind of murder. It had made a big splash mainly because everyone concerned had been very rich. It had seemed likely enough that Harry Western had shot the Count de Ferrari, his wifeâs lover, and equally likely that his well-arranged alibi had been bought and paid for. Everyone seemed to have been drunk, and there was a fine scattering of dope addicts. Not really interesting people, thought Miss Marpleâalthough no doubt very spectacular and attractive to look at. But definitely not her cup of tea.

âAnd if you ask me, that wasnât the only murder about that time.â He nodded and winked. âI had my suspicionsâoh!âwellââ

Miss Marple dropped her ball of wool, and the Major stooped and picked it up for her.

âTalking of murder,â he went on. âI once came across a very curious caseânot exactly personally.â

Miss Marple smiled encouragingly.

âLot of chaps talking at the club one day, you know, and a chap began telling a story. Medical man he was. One of his cases. Young fellow came and knocked him up in the middle of the night. His wife had hanged herself. They hadnât got a telephone, so after the chap had cut her down and done what he could, heâd got out his car and hared off looking for a doctor. Well, she wasnât dead but pretty far gone. Anyway, she pulled through. Young fellow seemed devoted to her. Cried like a child. Heâd noticed that sheâd been odd for some time, fits of depression and all that. Well, that was that. Everything seemed all right. But actually, about a month later, the wife took an overdose of sleeping stuff and passed out. Sad case.â

Major Palgrave paused, and nodded his head several times. Since there was obviously more to come Miss Marple waited.

âAnd thatâs that, you might say. Nothing there. Neurotic woman, nothing out of the usual. But about a year later, this medical chap was swapping yarns with a fellow medico, and the other chap told him about a woman whoâd tried to drown herself, husband got her out, got a doctor, they pulled her roundâand then a few weeks later she gassed herself.

âWell, a bit of a coincidenceâeh? Same sort of story. My chap saidââI had a case rather like that. Name of Jones (or whatever the name was)âWhat was your manâs name?â âCanât remember. Robinson I think. Certainly not Jones.â

âWell, the chaps looked at each other and said it was pretty odd. And then my chap pulled out a snapshot. He showed it to the second chap. âThatâs the fellow,â he saidââIâd gone along the next day to check up on the particulars, and I noticed a magnificent species of hibiscus just by the front door, a variety Iâd never seen before in this country. My camera was in the car and I took a photo. Just as I snapped the shutter the husband came out of the front door so I got him as well. Donât think he realized it. I asked him about the hibiscus but he couldnât tell me its name.â Second medico looked at the snap. He said: âItâs a bit out of focusâBut I could swearâat any rate Iâm almost sureâitâs the same man.â

âDonât know if they followed it up. But if so they didnât get anywhere. Expect Mr. Jones or Robinson covered his tracks too well. But queer story, isnât it? Wouldnât think things like that could happen.â

âOh, yes, I would,â said Miss Marple placidly. âPractically every day.â

âOh, come, come. Thatâs a bit fantastic.â

âIf a man gets a formula that worksâhe wonât stop. Heâll go on.â

âBrides in the bathâeh?â

âThat kind of thing, yes.â

âDoctor let me have that snap just as a curiosityââ

Major Palgrave began fumbling through an overstuffed wallet murmuring to himself: âLots of things in hereâdonât know why I keep all these thingsâ¦.â

Miss Marple thought she did know. They were part of the Majorâs stock-in-trade. They illustrated his repertoire of stories. The story he had just told, or so she suspected, had not been originally like thatâit had been worked up a good deal in repeated telling.

The Major was still shuffling and mutteringââForgotten all about that business. Good-looking woman she was, youâd never suspectânow whereâAhâthat takes my mind backâwhat tusks! I must show youââ

He stoppedâsorted out a small photographic print and peered down at it.

âLike to see the picture of a murderer?â

He was about to pass it to her when his movement was suddenly arrested. Looking more like a stuffed frog than ever, Major Palgrave appeared to be staring fixedly over her right shoulderâfrom whence came the sound of approaching footsteps and voices.

âWell, Iâm damnedâI meanââ He stuffed everything back into his wallet and crammed it into his pocket.

His face went an even deeper shade of purplish redâHe exclaimed in a loud, artificial voice:

âAs I was sayingâIâd like to have shown you those elephant tusksâBiggest elephant Iâve ever shotâAh, hallo!â His voice took on a somewhat spurious hearty note.

âLook whoâs here! The great quartetteâFlora and FaunaâWhat luck have you had todayâEh?â

The approaching footsteps resolved themselves into four of the hotel guests whom Miss Marple already knew by sight. They consisted of two married couples and though Miss Marple was not as yet acquainted with their surnames, she knew that the big man with the upstanding bush of thick grey hair was addressed as âGreg,â that the golden blonde woman, his wife, was known as Luckyâand that the other married couple, the dark lean man and the handsome but rather weather-beaten woman, were Edward and Evelyn. They were botanists, she understood, and also interested in birds.

âNo luck at all,â said GregââAt least no luck in getting what we were after.â

âDonât know if you know Miss Marple? Colonel and Mrs. Hillingdon and Greg and Lucky Dyson.â

They greeted her pleasantly and Lucky said loudly that sheâd die if she didnât have a drink at once or sooner.

Greg hailed Tim Kendal who was sitting a little way away with his wife poring over account books.

âHi, Tim. Get us some drinks.â He addressed the others. âPlanters Punch?â

They agreed.

âSame for you, Miss Marple?â

Miss Marple said Thank you, but she would prefer fresh lime.

âFresh lime it is,â said Tim Kendal, âand five Planters Punches.â

âJoin us, Tim?â

âWish I could. But Iâve got to fix up these accounts. Canât leave Molly to cope with everything. Steel band tonight, by the way.â

âGood,â cried Lucky. âDamn it,â she winced, âIâm all over thorns. Ouch! Edward deliberately rammed me into a thorn bush!â

âLovely pink flowers,â said Hillingdon.

âAnd lovely long thorns. Sadistic brute, arenât you, Edward?â

âNot like me,â said Greg, grinning. âFull of the milk of human kindness.â

Evelyn Hillingdon sat down by Miss Marple and started talking to her in an easy pleasant way.

Miss Marple put her knitting down on her lap. Slowly and with some difficulty, owing to rheumatism in the neck, she turned her head over her right shoulder to look behind her. At some little distance there was the large bungalow occupied by the rich Mr. Rafiel. But it showed no sign of life.

She replied suitably to Evelynâs remarks (really, how kind people were to her!) but her eyes scanned thoughtfully the faces of the two men.

Edward Hillingdon looked a nice man. Quiet but with a lot of charm â¦ And Gregâbig, boisterous, happy-looking. He and Lucky were Canadian or American, she thought.

She looked at Major Palgrave, still acting a bonhomie a little larger than life.

Interestingâ¦.

Two

MISS MARPLE MAKES COMPARISONS

I

It was very gay that evening at the Golden Palm Hotel.

Seated at her little corner table, Miss Marple looked round her in an interested fashion. The dining room was a large room open on three sides to the soft warm scented air of the West Indies. There were small table lamps, all softly coloured. Most of the women were in evening dress: light cotton prints out of which bronzed shoulders and arms emerged. Miss Marple herself had been urged by her nephewâs wife, Joan, in the sweetest way possible, to accept âa small cheque.â

âBecause, Aunt Jane, it will be rather hot out there, and I donât expect you have any very thin clothes.â

Jane Marple had thanked her and had accepted the cheque. She came of the age when it was natural for the old to support and finance the young, but also for the middle-aged to look after the old. She could not, however, force herself to buy anything very thin! At her age she seldom felt more than pleasantly warm even in the hottest weather, and the temperature of St. HonorÃ© was not really what is referred to as âtropical heat.â This evening she was attired in the best traditions of the provincial gentlewoman of Englandâgrey lace.

Not that she was the only elderly person present. There were representatives of all ages in the room. There were elderly tycoons with young third or fourth wives. There were middle-aged couples from the North of England. There was a gay family from Caracas complete with children. The various countries of South America were well represented, all chattering loudly in Spanish or Portuguese. There was a solid English background of two clergymen, one doctor and one retired judge. There was even a family of Chinese. The dining room service was mainly done by women, tall black girls of proud carriage, dressed in crisp white; but there was an experienced Italian head waiter in charge, and a French wine waiter, and there was the attentive eye of Tim Kendal watching over everything, pausing here and there to have a social word with people at their tables. His wife seconded him ably. She was a good-looking girl. Her hair was a natural golden blonde and she had a wide generous mouth that laughed easily. It was very seldom that Molly Kendal was out of temper. Her staff worked for her enthusiastically, and she adapted her manner carefully to suit her different guests. With the elderly men she laughed and flirted; she congratulated the younger women on their clothes.

âOh, what a smashing dress youâve got on tonight, Mrs. Dyson. Iâm so jealous I could tear it off your back.â But she looked very well in her own dress, or so Miss Marple thought: a white sheath, with a pale green embroidered silk shawl thrown over her shoulders. Lucky was fingering the shawl. âLovely colour! Iâd like one like it.â âYou can get them at the shop here,â Molly told her and passed on. She did not pause by Miss Marpleâs table. Elderly ladies she usually left to her husband. âThe old dears like a man much better,â she used to say.

Tim Kendal came and bent over Miss Marple.

âNothing special you want, is there?â he asked. âBecause youâve only got to tell meâand I could get it specially cooked for you. Hotel food, and semi-tropical at that, isnât quite what youâre used to at home, I expect?â

Miss Marple smiled and said that that was one of the pleasures of coming abroad.

âThatâs all right, then. But if there is anythingââ

âSuch as?â

âWellââ Tim Kendal looked a little doubtfulââBread and butter pudding?â he hazarded.

Miss Marple smiled and said that she thought she could do without bread and butter pudding very nicely for the present.

She picked up her spoon and began to eat her passion fruit sundae with cheerful appreciation.

Then the steel band began to play. The steel bands were one of the main attractions of the islands. Truth to tell, Miss Marple could have done very well without them. She considered that they made a hideous noise, unnecessarily loud. The pleasure that everyone else took in them was undeniable, however, and Miss Marple, in the true spirit of her youth, decided that as they had to be, she must manage somehow to learn to like them. She could hardly request Tim Kendal to conjure up from somewhere the muted strains of the âBlue Danube.â (So gracefulâwaltzing.) Most peculiar, the way people danced nowadays. Flinging themselves about, seeming quite contorted. Oh well, young people must enjoyâHer thoughts were arrested. Because, now she came to think of it, very few of these people were young. Dancing, lights, the music of a band (even a steel band), all that surely was for youth. But where was youth? Studying, she supposed, at universities, or doing a jobâwith a fortnightâs holiday a year. A place like this was too far away and too expensive. This gay and carefree life was all for the thirties and the fortiesâand the old men who were trying to live up (or down) to their young wives. It seemed, somehow, a pity.

Miss Marple sighed for youth. There was Mrs. Kendal, of course. She wasnât more than twenty-two or three, probably, and she seemed to be enjoying herselfâbut even so, it was a job she was doing.

At a table nearby Canon Prescott and his sister were sitting. They motioned to Miss Marple to join them for coffee and she did so. Miss Prescott was a thin severe-looking woman, the Canon was a round, rubicund man, breathing geniality.

Coffee was brought, and chairs were pushed a little way away from the tables. Miss Prescott opened a work bag and took out some frankly hideous table mats that she was hemming. She told Miss Marple all about the dayâs events. They had visited a new Girlsâ School in the morning. After an afternoonâs rest, they had walked through a cane plantation to have tea at a pension where some friends of theirs were staying.

Since the Prescotts had been at the Golden Palm longer than Miss Marple, they were able to enlighten her as to some of her fellow guests.

That very old man, Mr. Rafiel. He came every year. Fantastically rich! Owned an enormous chain of supermarkets in the North of England. The young woman with him was his secretary, Esther Waltersâa widow. (Quite all right, of course. Nothing improper. After all, he was nearly eighty!)

Miss Marple accepted the propriety of the relationship with an understanding nod and the Canon remarked:

âA very nice young woman; her mother, I understand, is a widow and lives in Chichester.â

âMr. Rafiel has a valet with him, too. Or rather a kind of Nurse Attendantâheâs a qualified masseur, I believe. Jackson, his name is. Poor Mr. Rafiel is practically paralysed. So sadâwith all that money, too.â

âA generous and cheerful giver,â said Canon Prescott approvingly.

People were regrouping themselves round about, some going farther from the steel band, others crowding up to it. Major Palgrave had joined the Hillingdon-Dyson quartette.

âNow those peopleââ said Miss Prescott, lowering her voice quite unnecessarily since the steel band easily drowned it.

âYes, I was going to ask you about them.â

âThey were here last year. They spend three months every year in the West Indies, going round the different islands. The tall thin man is Colonel Hillingdon and the dark woman is his wifeâthey are botanists. The other two, Mr. and Mrs. Gregory Dysonâtheyâre American. He writes on butterflies, I believe. And all of them are interested in birds.â

âSo nice for people to have open-air hobbies,â said Canon Prescott genially.

âI donât think theyâd like to hear you call it hobbies, Jeremy,â said his sister. âThey have articles printed in the National Geographic and in the Royal Horticultural Journal. They take themselves very seriously.â

A loud outburst of laughter came from the table they had been observing. It was loud enough to overcome the steel band. Gregory Dyson was leaning back in his chair and thumping the table, his wife was protesting, and Major Palgrave emptied his glass and seemed to be applauding.

They hardly qualified for the moment as people who took themselves seriously.

âMajor Palgrave should not drink so much,â said Miss Prescott acidly. âHe has blood pressure.â

A fresh supply of Planters Punches was brought to the table.

âItâs so nice to get people sorted out,â said Miss Marple. âWhen I met them this afternoon I wasnât sure which was married to which.â

There was a slight pause. Miss Prescott coughed a small dry cough, and saidââWell, as to thatââ

âJoan,â said the Canon in an admonitory voice. âPerhaps it would be wise to say no more.â

âReally, Jeremy, I wasnât going to say anything. Only that last year, for some reason or otherâI really donât know whyâwe got the idea that Mrs. Dyson was Mrs. Hillingdon until someone told us she wasnât.â

âItâs odd how one gets impressions, isnât it?â said Miss Marple innocently. Her eyes met Miss Prescottâs for a moment. A flash of womanly understanding passed between them.

A more sensitive man than Canon Prescott might have felt that he was de trop.

Another signal passed between the women. It said as clearly as if the words had been spoken: âSome other timeâ¦.â

âMr. Dyson calls his wife âLucky.â Is that her real name or a nickname?â asked Miss Marple.

âIt can hardly be her real name, I should think.â

âI happened to ask him,â said the Canon. âHe said he called her Lucky because she was his good-luck piece. If he lost her, he said, heâd lose his luck. Very nicely put, I thought.â

âHeâs very fond of joking,â said Miss Prescott.

The Canon looked at his sister doubtfully.

The steel band outdid itself with a wild burst of cacophony and a troupe of dancers came racing on to the floor.

Miss Marple and the others turned their chairs to watch. Miss Marple enjoyed the dancing better than the music; she liked the shuffling feet and the rhythmic sway of the bodies. It seemed, she thought, very real. It had a kind of power of understatement.

Tonight, for the first time, she began to feel slightly at home in her new environment â¦ Up to now, she had missed what she usually found so easy, points of resemblance in the people she met, to various people known to her personally. She had, possibly, been dazzled by the gay clothes and the exotic colouring; but soon, she felt, she would be able to make some interesting comparisons.

Molly Kendal, for instance, was like that nice girl whose name she couldnât remember, but who was a conductress on the Market Basing bus. Helped you in, and never rang the bus on until she was sure youâd sat down safely. Tim Kendal was just a little like the head waiter at the Royal George in Medchester. Self-confident, and yet, at the same time, worried. (He had had an ulcer, she remembered.) As for Major Palgrave, he was undistinguishable from General Leroy, Captain Flemming, Admiral Wicklow and Commander Richardson. She went on to someone more interesting. Greg for instance? Greg was difficult because he was American. A dash of Sir George Trollope, perhaps, always so full of jokes at the Civil Defence meetingsâor perhaps Mr. Murdoch the butcher. Mr. Murdoch had had rather a bad reputation, but some people said it was just gossip, and that Mr. Murdoch himself liked to encourage the rumours! âLuckyâ now? Well, that was easyâMarleen at the Three Crowns. Evelyn Hillingdon? She couldnât fit Evelyn in precisely. In appearance she fitted many rolesâtall thin weather-beaten Englishwomen were plentiful. Lady Caroline Wolfe, Peter Wolfeâs first wife, who had committed suicide? Or there was Leslie Jamesâthat quiet woman who seldom showed what she felt and who had sold up her house and left without ever telling anyone she was going. Colonel Hillingdon? No immediate clue there. Sheâd have to get to know him a little first. One of those quiet men with good manners. You never knew what they were thinking about. Sometimes they surprised you. Major Harper, she remembered, had quietly cut his throat one day. Nobody had ever known why. Miss Marple thought that she did knowâbut sheâd never been quite sureâ¦.

Her eyes strayed to Mr. Rafielâs table. The principal thing known about Mr. Rafiel was that he was incredibly rich, he came every year to the West Indies, he was semi-paralysed and looked like a wrinkled old bird of prey. His clothes hung loosely on his shrunken form. He might have been seventy or eighty, or even ninety. His eyes were shrewd and he was frequently rude, but people seldom took offence, partly because he was so rich, and partly because of his overwhelming personality which hypnotized you into feeling that somehow, Mr. Rafiel had the right to be rude if he wanted to.

With him sat his secretary, Mrs. Walters. She had corn-coloured hair, and a pleasant face. Mr. Rafiel was frequently very rude to her, but she never seemed to notice itâShe was not so much subservient, as oblivious. She behaved like a well-trained hospital nurse. Possibly, thought Miss Marple, she had been a hospital nurse.

A young man, tall and good-looking, in a white jacket, came to stand by Mr. Rafielâs chair. The old man looked up at him, nodded, then motioned him to a chair. The young man sat down as bidden. âMr. Jackson, I presume,â said Miss Marple to herselfââHis valet-attendant.â

She studied Mr. Jackson with some attention.

II

In the bar, Molly Kendal stretched her back, and slipped off her high-heeled shoes. Tim came in from the terrace to join her. They had the bar to themselves for the moment.

âTired, darling?â he asked.

âJust a bit. I seem to be feeling my feet tonight.â

âNot too much for you, is it? All this? I know itâs hard work.â He looked at her anxiously.

She laughed. âOh, Tim, donât be ridiculous. I love it here. Itâs gorgeous. The kind of dream Iâve always had, come true.â

âYes, it would be all rightâif one was just a guest. But running the showâthatâs work.â

âWell, you canât have anything for nothing, can you?â said Molly Kendal reasonably.

Tim Kendal frowned.

âYou think itâs going all right? A success? Weâre making a go of it?â

âOf course we are.â

âYou donât think people are saying, âItâs not the same as when the Sandersons were here.ââ

âOf course someone will be saying thatâthey always do! But only some old stick-in-the-mud. Iâm sure that weâre far better at the job than they were. Weâre more glamorous. You charm the old pussies and manage to look as though youâd like to make love to the desperate forties and fifties, and I ogle the old gentlemen and make them feel sexy dogsâor play the sweet little daughter the sentimental ones would love to have had. Oh, weâve got it all taped splendidly.â

Timâs frown vanished.

âAs long as you think so. I get scared. Weâve risked everything on making a job of this. I chucked my jobââ

âAnd quite right to do so,â Molly put in quickly. âIt was soul-destroying.â

He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose.

âI tell you weâve got it taped,â she repeated. âWhy do you always worry?â

âMade that way, I suppose. Iâm always thinkingâsuppose something should go wrong.â

âWhat sort of thingââ

âOh, I donât know. Somebody might get drowned.â

âNot they. Itâs one of the safest of all the beaches. And weâve got that hulking Swede always on guard.â

âIâm a fool,â said Tim Kendal. He hesitatedâand then said, âYouâhavenât had any more of those dreams, have you?â

âThat was shellfish,â said Molly, and laughed.

Three

A DEATH IN THE HOTEL

Miss Marple had her breakfast brought to her in bed as usual. Tea, a boiled egg, and a slice of pawpaw.

The fruit on the island, thought Miss Marple, was rather disappointing. It seemed always to be pawpaw. If she could have a nice apple nowâbut apples seemed to be unknown.

Now that she had been here a week, Miss Marple had cured herself of the impulse to ask what the weather was like. The weather was always the sameâfine. No interesting variations.

âThe many-splendoured weather of an English day,â she murmured to herself and wondered if it was a quotation, or whether she had made it up.

There were, of course, hurricanes, or so she understood. But hurricanes were not weather in Miss Marpleâs sense of the word. They were more in the nature of an Act of God. There was rain, short violent rainfall that lasted five minutes and stopped abruptly. Everything and everyone was wringing wet, but in another five minutes they were dry again.

The black West Indian girl smiled and said Good Morning as she placed the tray on Miss Marpleâs knees. Such lovely white teeth and so happy and smiling. Nice natures, all these girls, and a pity they were so averse to getting married. It worried Canon Prescott a good deal. Plenty of christenings, he said, trying to console himself, but no weddings.

Miss Marple ate her breakfast and decided how she would spend her day. It didnât really take much deciding. She would get up at her leisure, moving slowly because it was rather hot and her fingers werenât as nimble as they used to be. Then she would rest for ten minutes or so, and she would take her knitting and walk slowly along towards the hotel and decide where she would settle herself. On the terrace overlooking the sea? Or should she go on to the bathing beach to watch the bathers and the children? Usually it was the latter. In the afternoon, after her rest, she might take a drive. It really didnât matter very much.

Today would be a day like any other day, she said to herself.

Only, of course, it wasnât.

Miss Marple carried out her programme as planned and was slowly making her way along the path towards the hotel when she met Molly Kendal. For once that sunny young woman was not smiling. Her air of distress was so unlike her that Miss Marple said immediately:

âMy dear, is anything wrong?â

Molly nodded. She hesitated and then said: âWell, youâll have to knowâeveryone will have to know. Itâs Major Palgrave. Heâs dead.â

âDead?â

âYes. He died in the night.â

âOh, dear, I am sorry.â

âYes, itâs horrid having a death here. It makes everyone depressed. Of courseâhe was quite old.â

âHe seemed quite well and cheerful yesterday,â said Miss Marple, slightly resenting this calm assumption that everyone of advanced years was liable to die at any minute.

âHe seemed quite healthy,â she added.

âHe had high blood pressure,â said Molly.

âBut surely there are things one takes nowadaysâsome kind of pill. Science is so wonderful.â

âOh yes, but perhaps he forgot to take his pills, or took too many of them. Like insulin, you know.â

Miss Marple did not think that diabetes and high blood pressure were at all the same kind of thing. She asked:

âWhat does the doctor say?â

âOh, Dr. Graham, whoâs practically retired now, and lives in the hotel, took a look at him, and the local people came officially, of course, to give a death certificate, but it all seems quite straightforward. This kind of thing is quite liable to happen when you have high blood pressure, especially if you overdo the alcohol, and Major Palgrave was really very naughty that way. Last night, for instance.â

âYes, I noticed,â said Miss Marple.

âHe probably forgot to take his pills. It is bad luck for the old boyâbut people canât live for ever, can they? But itâs terribly worryingâfor me and Tim, I mean. People might suggest it was something in the food.â

âBut surely the symptoms of food poisoning and of blood pressure are quite different?â

âYes. But people do say things so easily. And if people decided the food was badâand leftâor told their friendsââ

âI really donât think you need worry,â said Miss Marple kindly. âAs you say, an elderly man like Major Palgraveâhe must have been over seventyâis quite liable to die. To most people it will seem quite an ordinary occurrenceâsad, but not out of the way at all.â

âIf only,â said Molly unhappily, âit hadnât been so sudden.â

Yes, it had been very sudden, Miss Marple thought as she walked slowly on. There he had been last night, laughing and talking in the best of spirits with the Hillingdons and the Dysons.

The Hillingdons and the Dysons â¦ Miss Marple walked more slowly still â¦ Finally she stopped abruptly. Instead of going to the bathing beach she settled herself in a shady corner of the terrace. She took out her knitting and the needles clicked rapidly as though they were trying to match the speed of her thoughts. She didnât like itâno, she didnât like it. It came so pat.

She went over the occurrences of yesterday in her mind.

Major Palgrave and his storiesâ¦.

That was all as usual and one didnât need to listen very closely â¦ Perhaps, though, it would have been better if she had.

Kenyaâhe had talked about Kenya and then Indiaâthe North West Frontierâand thenâfor some reason they had got on to murderâAnd even then she hadnât really been listeningâ¦.

Some famous case that had taken place out hereâthat had been in the newspapersâ

It was after thatâwhen he picked up her ball of woolâthat he had begun telling her about a snapshotâA snapshot of a murdererâthat is what he had said.

Miss Marple closed her eyes and tried to remember just exactly how that story had gone.

It had been rather a confused storyâtold to the Major in his clubâor in somebody elseâs clubâtold him by a doctorâwho had heard it from another doctorâand one doctor had taken a snapshot of someone coming through a front doorâsomeone who was a murdererâ

Yes, that was itâthe various details were coming back to her nowâ

And he had offered to show her that snapshotâHe had got out his wallet and begun hunting through its contentsâtalking all the timeâ¦.

And then still talking, he had looked upâhad lookedânot at herâbut at something behind herâbehind her right shoulder to be accurate. And he had stopped talking, his face had gone purpleâand he had started stuffing back everything into his wallet with slightly shaky hands and had begun talking in a loud unnatural voice about elephant tusks!

A moment or two later the Hillingdons and the Dysons had joined themâ¦.

It was then that she had turned her head over her right shoulder to look â¦ But there had been nothing and nobody to see. To her left, some distance away, in the direction of the hotel, there had been Tim Kendal and his wife; and beyond them a family group of Venezuelans. But Major Palgrave had not been looking in that directionâ¦.

Miss Marple meditated until lunch time.

After lunch she did not go for a drive.

Instead she sent a message to say that she was not feeling very well and to ask if Dr. Graham would be kind enough to come and see her.

Four

MISS MARPLE SEEKS MEDICAL ATTENTION

Dr. Graham was a kindly elderly man of about sixty-five. He had practised in the West Indies for many years, but was now semi-retired, and left most of his work to his West Indian partners. He greeted Miss Marple pleasantly and asked her what the trouble was. Fortunately at Miss Marpleâs age, there was always some ailment that could be discussed with slight exaggerations on the patientâs part. Miss Marple hesitated between âher shoulderâ and âher knee,â but finally decided upon the knee. Miss Marpleâs knee, as she would have put it to herself, was always with her.

Dr. Graham was exceedingly kindly but he refrained from putting into words the fact that at her time of life such troubles were only to be expected. He prescribed for her one of the brands of useful little pills that form the basis of a doctorâs prescriptions. Since he knew by experience that many elderly people could be lonely when they first came to St. HonorÃ©, he remained for a while gently chatting.

âA very nice man,â thought Miss Marple to herself, âand I really feel rather ashamed of having to tell him lies. But I donât quite see what else I can do.â

Miss Marple had been brought up to have a proper regard for truth and was indeed by nature a very truthful person. But on certain occasions, when she considered it her duty so to do, she could tell lies with a really astonishing verisimilitude.

She cleared her throat, uttered an apologetic little cough, and said, in an old ladyish and slightly twittering manner:

âThere is something, Dr. Graham, I would like to ask you. I donât really like mentioning itâbut I donât quite see what else I am to doâalthough of course itâs quite unimportant really. But you see, itâs important to me. And I hope you will understand and not think what I am asking is tiresome orâor unpardonable in any way.â

To this opening Dr. Graham replied kindly: âSomething is worrying you? Do let me help.â

âItâs connected with Major Palgrave. So sad about his dying. It was quite a shock when I heard it this morning.â

âYes,â said Dr. Graham, âit was very sudden, Iâm afraid. He seemed in such good spirits yesterday.â He spoke kindly, but conventionally. To him, clearly, Major Palgraveâs death was nothing out of the way. Miss Marple wondered whether she was really making something out of nothing. Was this suspicious habit of mind growing on her? Perhaps she could no longer trust her own judgment. Not that it was judgment really, only suspicion. Anyway she was in for it now! She must go ahead.

âWe were sitting talking together yesterday afternoon,â she said. âHe was telling me about his very varied and interesting life. So many strange parts of the globe.â

âYes indeed,â said Dr. Graham, who had been bored many times by the Majorâs reminiscences.

âAnd then he spoke of his family, boyhood rather, and I told him a little about my own nephews and nieces and he listened very sympathetically. And I showed him a snapshot I had with me of one of my nephews. Such a dear boyâat least not exactly a boy now, but always a boy to me if you understand.â

âQuite so,â said Dr. Graham, wondering how long it would be before the old lady was going to come to the point.

âI had handed it to him and he was examining it when quite suddenly those peopleâthose very nice peopleâwho collect wild flowers and butterflies, Colonel and Mrs. Hillingdon I think the name isââ

âOh yes? The Hillingdons and the Dysons.â

âYes, thatâs right. They came suddenly along laughing and talking. They sat down and ordered drinks and we all talked together. Very pleasant it was. But without thinking, Major Palgrave must have put back my snapshot into his wallet and returned it to his pocket. I wasnât paying very much attention at the time but I remembered afterward and I said to myselfââI mustnât forget to ask the Major to give me back my picture of Denzil.â I did think of it last night while the dancing and the band was going on, but I didnât like to interrupt him just then, because they were having such a merry party together and I thought âI will remember to ask him for it in the morning.â Only this morningââ Miss Marple pausedâout of breath.

âYes, yes,â said Dr. Graham, âI quite understand. And youâwell, naturally you want the snapshot back. Is that it?â

Miss Marple nodded her head in eager agreement.

âYes. Thatâs it. You see, it is the only one I have got and I havenât got the negative. And I would hate to lose that snapshot, because poor Denzil died some five or six years ago and he was my favourite nephew. This is the only picture I have to remind me of him. I wonderedâI hopedâit is rather tiresome of me to askâwhether you could possibly manage to get hold of it for me? I donât really know who else to ask, you see. I donât know whoâll attend to all his belongings and things like that. It is all so difficult. They would think it such a nuisance of me. You see, they donât understand. Nobody could quite understand what this snapshot means to me.â

âOf course, of course,â said Dr. Graham. âI quite understand. A most natural feeling on your part. Actually, I am meeting the local authorities shortlyâthe funeral is tomorrowâand someone will be coming from the Administratorâs office to look over his papers and effects before communicating with the next of kinâall that sort of thingâIf you could describe this snapshot.â

âIt was just the front of a house,â said Miss Marple. âAnd someoneâDenzil, I meanâwas just coming out of the front door. As I say it was taken by one of my other nephews who is very keen on flower showsâand he was photographing a hibiscus, I think, or one of those beautifulâsomething like antipastoâlilies. Denzil just happened to come out of the front door at that time. It wasnât a very good photograph of himâjust a trifle blurredâBut I liked it and have always kept it.â

âWell,â said Dr. Graham, âthat seems clear enough. I think weâll have no difficulty in getting back your picture for you, Miss Marple.â

He rose from his chair. Miss Marple smiled up at him.

âYou are very kind, Dr. Graham, very kind indeed. You do understand, donât you?â

âOf course I do, of course I do,â said Dr. Graham, shaking her warmly by the hand. âNow donât you worry. Exercise that knee every day gently but not too much, and Iâll send you round these tablets. Take one three times a day.â

Five

MISS MARPLE MAKES A DECISION

The funeral service was said over the body of the late Major Palgrave on the following day. Miss Marple attended in company with Miss Prescott. The Canon read the serviceâafter that life went on as usual.

Major Palgraveâs death was already only an incident, a slightly unpleasant incident, but one that was soon forgotten. Life here was sunshine, sea, and social pleasures. A grim visitor had interrupted these activities, casting a momentary shadow, but the shadow was now gone. After all, nobody had known the deceased very well. He had been rather a garrulous elderly man of the club-bore type, always telling you personal reminiscences that you had no particular desire to hear. He had had little to anchor himself to any particular part of the world. His wife had died many years ago. He had had a lonely life and a lonely death. But it had been the kind of loneliness that spends itself in living amongst people, and in passing the time that way not unpleasantly. Major Palgrave might have been a lonely man, he had also been quite a cheerful one. He had enjoyed himself in his own particular way. And now he was dead, buried, and nobody cared very much, and in another weekâs time nobody would even remember him or spare him a passing thought.

The only person who could possibly be said to miss him was Miss Marple. Not indeed out of any personal affection, but he represented a kind of life that she knew. As one grew older, so she reflected to herself, one got more and more into the habit of listening; listening possibly without any great interest, but there had been between her and the Major the gentle give and take of two old people. It had had a cheerful, human quality. She did not actually mourn Major Palgrave but she missed him.

On the afternoon of the funeral, as she was sitting knitting in her favourite spot, Dr. Graham came and joined her. She put her needles down and greeted him. He said at once, rather apologetically:

âI am afraid I have rather disappointing news, Miss Marple.â

âIndeed? About myââ

âYes. We havenât found that precious snapshot of yours. Iâm afraid that will be a disappointment to you.â

âYes. Yes it is. But of course it does not really matter. It was a sentimentality. I do realize that now. It wasnât in Major Palgraveâs wallet?â

âNo. Nor anywhere else among his things. There were a few letters and newspaper clippings and odds and ends, and a few old photographs, but no sign of a snapshot such as you mentioned.â

âOh dear,â said Miss Marple. âWell, it canât be helped â¦ Thank you very much, Dr. Graham, for the trouble youâve taken.â

âOh it was no trouble, indeed. But I know quite well from my own experience how much family trifles mean to one, especially as one is getting older.â

The old lady was really taking it very well, he thought. Major Palgrave, he presumed, had probably come across the snapshot when taking something out of his wallet, and not even realizing how it had come there, had torn it up as something of no importance. But of course it was of great importance to this old lady. Still, she seemed quite cheerful and philosophical about it.

Internally, however, Miss Marple was far from being either cheerful or philosophical. She wanted a little time in which to think things out, but she was also determined to use her present opportunities to the fullest effect.

She engaged Dr. Graham in conversation with an eagerness which she did not attempt to conceal. That kindly man, putting down her flow of talk to the natural loneliness of an old lady, exerted himself to divert her mind from the loss of the snapshot, by conversing easily and pleasantly about life in St. HonorÃ©, and the various interesting places perhaps Miss Marple might like to visit. He hardly knew himself how the conversation drifted back to Major Palgraveâs decease.

âIt seems so sad,â said Miss Marple. âTo think of anyone dying like this away from home. Though I gather, from what he himself told me, that he had no immediate family. It seems he lived by himself in London.â

âHe travelled a fair amount, I believe,â said Dr. Graham. âAt any rate in the winters. He didnât care for our English winters. Canât say I blame him.â

âNo, indeed,â said Miss Marple. âAnd perhaps he had some special reason like a weakness of the lungs or something which made it necessary for him to winter abroad?â

âOh no, I donât think so.â

âHe had high blood pressure, I believe. So sad nowadays. One hears so much of it.â

âHe spoke about it to you, did he?â

âOh no. No, he never mentioned it. It was somebody else who told me.â

âAh, really.â

âI suppose,â went on Miss Marple, âthat death was to be expected under those circumstances.â

âNot necessarily,â said Dr. Graham. âThere are methods of controlling blood pressure nowadays.â

âHis death seemed very suddenâbut I suppose you werenât surprised.â

âWell I wasnât particularly surprised in a man of that age. But I certainly didnât expect it. Frankly, he always seemed to me in very good form, but I hadnât ever attended him professionally. Iâd never taken his blood pressure or anything like that.â

âDoes one knowâI mean, does a doctor knowâwhen a man has high blood pressure just by looking at him?â Miss Marple inquired with a kind of dewy innocence.

âNot just by looking,â said the doctor, smiling. âOne has to do a bit of testing.â

âOh I see. That dreadful thing when you put a rubber band round somebodyâs arm and blow it upâI dislike it so much. But my doctor said that my blood pressure was really very good for my age.â

âWell thatâs good hearing,â said Dr. Graham.

âOf course, the Major was rather fond of Planters Punch,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

âYes. Not the best thing with blood pressureâalcohol.â

âOne takes tablets, doesnât one, or so I have heard?â

âYes. There are several on the market. There was a bottle of one of them in his roomâSerenite.â

âHow wonderful science is nowadays,â said Miss Marple. âDoctors can do so much, canât they?â

âWe all have one great competitor,â said Dr. Graham. âNature, you know. And some of the good old-fashioned home remedies come back from time to time.â

âLike putting cobwebs on a cut?â said Miss Marple. âWe always used to do that when I was a child.â

âVery sensible,â said Dr. Graham.

âAnd a linseed poultice on the chest and rubbing in camphorated oil for a bad cough.â

âI see you know it all!â said Dr. Graham laughing. He got up. âHowâs the knee? Not been too troublesome?â

âNo, it seems much, much better.â

âWell, we wonât say whether thatâs Nature or my pills,â said Dr. Graham. âSorry I couldnât have been of more help to you.â

âBut you have been most kindâI am really ashamed of taking up your timeâDid you say that there were no photographs in the Majorâs wallet?â

âOh yesâa very old one of the Major himself as quite a young man on a polo ponyâand one of a dead tigerâHe was standing with his foot on it. Snaps of that sortâmemories of his younger daysâBut I looked very carefully, I assure you, and the one you describe of your nephew was definitely not thereââ

âOh Iâm sure you looked carefullyâI didnât mean thatâI was just interestedâWe all tend to keep such very odd thingsââ

âTreasures from the past,â said the doctor smiling.

He said goodbye and departed.

Miss Marple remained looking thoughtfully at the palm trees and the sea. She did not pick up her knitting again for some minutes. She had a fact now. She had to think about that fact and what it meant. The snapshot that the Major had brought out of his wallet and replaced so hurriedly was not there after he died. It was not the sort of thing the Major would throw away. He had replaced it in his wallet and it ought to have been in his wallet after his death. Money might have been stolen, but no one would want to steal a snapshot. Unless, that is, they had a special reason for so doingâ¦.

Miss Marpleâs face was grave. She had to take a decision. Was she, or was she not, going to allow Major Palgrave to remain quietly in his grave? Might it not be better to do just that? She quoted under her breath. âDuncan is dead. After Lifeâs fitful fever he sleeps well!â Nothing could hurt Major Palgrave now. He had gone where danger could not touch him. Was it just a coincidence that he should have died on that particular night? Or was it just possibly not a coincidence? Doctors accepted the deaths of elderly men so easily. Especially since in his room there had been a bottle of the tablets that people with high blood pressure had to take every day of their lives. But if someone had taken the snapshot from the Majorâs wallet, that same person could have put that bottle of tablets in the Majorâs room. She herself never remembered seeing the Major take tablets; he had never spoken about his blood pressure to her. The only thing he had ever said about his health was the admissionââNot as young as I was.â He had been occasionally a little short of breath, a trifle asthmatic, nothing else. But someone had mentioned that Major Palgrave had high blood pressureâMolly? Miss Prescott? She couldnât remember.

Miss Marple sighed, then admonished herself in words, though she did not speak those words aloud.

âNow, Jane, what are you suggesting or thinking? Are you, perhaps, just making the whole thing up? Have you really got anything to build on?â

She went over, step by step, as nearly as she could, the conversation between herself and the Major on the subject of murder and murderers.

âOh dear,â said Miss Marple. âEven ifâreally, I donât see how I can do anything about itââ

But she knew that she meant to try.

Six

IN THE SMALL HOURS

I

Miss Marple woke early. Like many old people she slept lightly and had periods of wakefulness which she used for the planning of some action or actions to be carried out on the next or following days. Usually, of course, these were of a wholly private or domestic nature, of little interest to anybody but herself. But this morning Miss Marple lay thinking soberly and constructively of murder, and what, if her suspicions were correct, she could do about it. It wasnât going to be easy. She had one weapon and one weapon only, and that was conversation.

Old ladies were given to a good deal of rambling conversation. People were bored by this, but certainly did not suspect them of ulterior motives. It would not be a case of asking direct questions. (Indeed, she would have found it difficult to know what questions to ask!) It would be a question of finding out a little more about certain people. She reviewed these certain people in her mind.

She could find out, possibly, a little more about Major Palgrave, but would that really help her? She doubted if it would. If Major Palgrave had been killed it was not because of secrets in his life or to inherit his money or for revenge upon him. In fact, although he was the victim, it was one of those rare cases where a greater knowledge of the victim does not help you or lead you in any way to his murderer. The point, it seemed to her, and the sole point, was that Major Palgrave talked too much!

She had learnt one rather interesting fact from Dr. Graham. He had had in his wallet various photographs: one of himself in company with a polo pony, one of a dead tiger, also one or two other shots of the same nature. Now why did Major Palgrave carry these about with him? Obviously, thought Miss Marple, with long experience of old admirals, brigadier-generals and mere majors behind her, because he had certain stories which he enjoyed telling to people. Starting off with âCurious thing happened once when I was out tiger shooting in Indiaâ¦.â Or a reminiscence of himself and a polo pony. Therefore this story about a suspected murderer would in due course be illustrated by the production of the snapshot from his wallet.

He had been following that pattern in his conversation with her. The subject of murder having come up, and to focus interest on his story, he had done what he no doubt usually did, produced his snapshot and said something in the nature of âWouldnât think this chap was a murderer, would you?â

The point was that it had been a habit of his. This murderer story was one of his regular repertoire. If any reference to murder came up, then away went the Major, full steam ahead.

In that case, reflected Miss Marple, he might already have told his story to someone else here. Or to more than one personâIf that were so, then she herself might learn from that person what the further details of the story had been, possibly what the person in the snapshot had looked like.

She nodded her head in satisfactionâThat would be a beginning.

And, of course, there were the people she called in her mind the âFour Suspects.â Though really, since Major Palgrave had been talking about a manâthere were only two. Colonel Hillingdon or Mr. Dyson, very unlikely-looking murderers, but then murderers so often were unlikely. Could there have been anyone else? She had seen no one when she turned her head to look. There was the bungalow of course. Mr. Rafielâs bungalow. Could somebody have come out of the bungalow and gone in again before she had had time to turn her head? If so, it could only have been the valet-attendant. What was his name? Oh yes, Jackson. Could it have been Jackson who had come out of the door? That would have been the same pose as the photograph. A man coming out of a door. Recognition might have struck suddenly. Up till then, Major Palgrave would not have looked at Arthur Jackson, valet-attendant, with any interest. His roving and curious eye was essentially a snobbish eyeâArthur Jackson was not a pukka sahibâMajor Palgrave would not have glanced at him twice.

Until, perhaps, he had had the snapshot in his hand, and had looked over Miss Marpleâs right shoulder and had seen a man coming out of a door â¦?

Miss Marple turned over on her pillowâProgramme for tomorrowâor rather for todayâFurther investigation of the Hillingdons, the Dysons and Arthur Jackson, valet-attendant.

II

Dr. Graham also woke early. Usually he turned over and went to sleep again. But today he was uneasy and sleep failed to come. This anxiety that made it so difficult to go to sleep again was a thing he had not suffered from for a long time. What was causing this anxiety? Really, he couldnât make it out. He lay there thinking it over. Something to do withâsomething to do withâyes, Major Palgrave. Major Palgraveâs death? He didnât see, though, what there could be to make him uneasy there. Was it something that that twittery old lady had said? Bad luck for her about her snapshot. Sheâd taken it very well. But now what was it she had said, what chance word of hers had it been, that had given him this funny feeling of uneasiness? After all, there was nothing odd about the Majorâs death. Nothing at all. At least he supposed there was nothing at all.

It was quite clear that in the Majorâs state of healthâa faint check came in his thought process. Did he really know much about Major Palgraveâs state of health? Everybody said that heâd suffered from high blood pressure. But he himself had never had any conversation with the Major about it. But then heâd never had much conversation with Major Palgrave anyway. Palgrave was an old bore and he avoided old bores. Why on earth should he have this idea that perhaps everything mightnât be all right? Was it that old woman? But after all she hadnât said anything. Anyway, it was none of his business. The local authorities were quite satisfied. There had been that bottle of Serenite tablets, and the old boy had apparently talked to people about his blood pressure quite freely.

Dr. Graham turned over in bed and soon went to sleep again.

III

Outside the hotel grounds, in one of a row of shanty cabins beside a creek, the girl Victoria Johnson rolled over and sat up in bed. The St. HonorÃ© girl was a magnificent creature with a torso of black marble such as a sculptor would have enjoyed. She ran her fingers through her dark, tightly curling hair. With her foot she nudged her sleeping companion in the ribs.

âWake up, man.â

The man grunted and turned.

âWhat you want? Itâs not morning.â

âWake up, man. I want to talk to you.â

The man sat up, stretched, showed a wide mouth and beautiful teeth.

âWhatâs worrying you, woman?â

âThat Major man who died. Something I donât like. Something wrong about it.â

âAh, what dâyou want to worry about that? He was old. He died.â

âListen, man. Itâs them pills. Them pills the doctor asked me about.â

âWell, what about them? He took too many maybe.â

âNo. Itâs not that. Listen.â She leant towards him, talking vehemently. He yawned and lay down again.

âThereâs nothing in that. Whatâre you talking about?â

âAll the same, Iâll speak to Mrs. Kendal about it in the morning. I think thereâs something wrong there somewhere.â

âShouldnât bother,â said the man who, without benefit of ceremony, she considered as her present husband. âDonât letâs look for trouble,â he said and rolled over on his side yawning.

Seven

MORNING ON THE BEACH

I

It was mid-morning on the beach below the hotel.

Evelyn Hillingdon came out of the water and dropped on the warm golden sand. She took off her bathing cap and shook her dark head vigorously. The beach was not a very big one. People tended to congregate there in the mornings and about 11:30 there was always something of a social reunion. To Evelynâs left in one of the exotic-looking modern basket chairs lay SeÃ±ora de Caspearo, a handsome woman from Venezuela. Next to her was old Mr. Rafiel who was by now the doyen of the Golden Palm Hotel and held the sway that only an elderly invalid of great wealth could attain. Esther Walters was in attendance on him. She usually had her shorthand notebook and pencil with her in case Mr. Rafiel should suddenly think of urgent business cables which must be got off at once. Mr. Rafiel in beach attire was incredibly desiccated, his bones draped with festoons of dry skin. Though looking like a man on the point of death, he had looked exactly the same for at least the last eight yearsâor so it was said in the islands. Sharp blue eyes peered out of his wrinkled cheeks, and his principal pleasure in life was denying robustly anything that anyone else said.

Miss Marple was also present. As usual she sat and knitted and listened to what went on, and very occasionally joined in the conversation. When she did so, everyone was surprised because they had usually forgotten that she was there! Evelyn Hillingdon looked at her indulgently, and thought that she was a nice old pussy.

SeÃ±ora de Caspearo rubbed some more oil on her long beautiful legs and hummed to herself. She was not a woman who spoke much. She looked discontentedly at the flask of sun oil.

âThis is not so good as Frangipanio,â she said, sadly. âOne cannot get it here. A pity.â Her eyelids drooped again.

âAre you going in for your dip now, Mr. Rafiel?â asked Esther Walters.

âIâll go in when Iâm ready,â said Mr. Rafiel, snappishly.

âItâs half past eleven,â said Mrs. Walters.

âWhat of it?â said Mr. Rafiel. âThink Iâm the kind of man to be tied by the clock? Do this at the hour, do this at twenty minutes past, do that at twenty toâbah!â

Mrs. Walters had been in attendance on Mr. Rafiel long enough to have adopted her own formula for dealing with him. She knew that he liked a good space of time in which to recover from the exertion of bathing and she had therefore reminded him of the time, allowing a good ten minutes for him to rebut her suggestion and then be able to adopt it without seeming to do so.

âI donât like these espadrilles,â said Mr. Rafiel raising a foot and looking at it. âI told that fool Jackson so. The man never pays attention to a word I say.â

âIâll fetch you some others, shall I, Mr. Rafiel?â

âNo, you wonât, youâll sit here and keep quiet. I hate people rushing about like clucking hens.â

Evelyn shifted slightly in the warm sand, stretching out her arms.

Miss Marple, intent on her knittingâor so it seemedâstretched out a foot, then hastily she apologized.

âIâm so sorry, so very sorry, Mrs. Hillingdon. Iâm afraid I kicked you.â

âOh, itâs quite all right,â said Evelyn. âThis beach gets rather crowded.â

âOh, please donât move. Please. Iâll move my chair a little back so that I wonât do it again.â

As Miss Marple resettled herself, she went on talking in a childish and garrulous manner.

âIt still seems so wonderful to be here! Iâve never been to the West Indies before, you know. I thought it was the kind of place I never should come to and here I am. All by the kindness of my dear nephew. I suppose you know this part of the world very well, donât you, Mrs. Hillingdon?â

âI have been in this island once or twice before and of course in most of the others.â

âOh yes. Butterflies isnât it, and wild flowers? You and yourâyour friendsâor are they relations?â

âFriends. Nothing more.â

âAnd I suppose you go about together a great deal because of your interests being the same?â

âYes. Weâve travelled together for some years now.â

âI suppose you must have had some rather exciting adventures sometimes?â

âI donât think so,â said Evelyn. Her voice was unaccentuated, slightly bored. âAdventures always seem to happen to other people.â She yawned.

âNo dangerous encounters with snakes or with wild animals or with natives gone berserk?â

(âWhat a fool I sound,â thought Miss Marple.)

âNothing worse than insect bites,â Evelyn assured her.

âPoor Major Palgrave, you know, was bitten by a snake once,â said Miss Marple, making a purely fictitious statement.

âWas he?â

âDid he never tell you about it?â

âPerhaps. I donât remember.â

âI suppose you knew him quite well, didnât you?â

âMajor Palgrave? No, hardly at all.â

âHe always had so many interesting stories to tell.â

âGhastly old bore,â said Mr. Rafiel. âSilly fool, too. He neednât have died if heâd looked after himself properly.â

âOh come now, Mr. Rafiel,â said Mrs. Walters.

âI know what Iâm talking about. If you look after your health properly youâre all right anywhere. Look at me. The doctors gave me up years ago. All right, I said, Iâve got my own rules of health and I shall keep to them. And here I am.â

He looked round proudly.

It did indeed seem rather a mistake that he should be there.

âPoor Major Palgrave had high blood pressure,â said Mrs. Walters.

âNonsense,â said Mr. Rafiel.

âOh, but he did,â said Evelyn Hillingdon. She spoke with sudden, unexpected authority.

âWho says so?â said Mr. Rafiel. âDid he tell you so?â

âSomebody said so.â

âHe looked very red in the face,â Miss Marple contributed.

âCanât go by that,â said Mr. Rafiel. âAnd anyway he didnât have high blood pressure because he told me so.â

âWhat do you mean, he told you so?â said Mrs. Walters. âI mean, you canât exactly tell people you havenât got a thing.â

âYes you can. I said to him once when he was downing all those Planters Punches, and eating too much, I said, âYou ought to watch your diet and your drink. Youâve got to think of your blood pressure at your age.â And he said heâd nothing to look out for in that line, that his blood pressure was very good for his age.â

âBut he took some stuff for it, I believe,â said Miss Marple, entering the conversation once more. âSome stuff calledâoh, something likeâwas it Serenite?â

âIf you ask me,â said Evelyn Hillingdon, âI donât think he ever liked to admit that there could be anything the matter with him or that he could be ill. I think he was one of those people who are afraid of illness and therefore deny thereâs ever anything wrong with them.â

It was a long speech for her. Miss Marple looked thoughtfully down at the top of her dark head.

âThe trouble is,â said Mr. Rafiel dictatorially, âeverybodyâs too fond of knowing other peopleâs ailments. They think everybody over fifty is going to die of hypertension or coronary thrombosis or one of those thingsâpoppycock! If a man says thereâs nothing much wrong with him I donât suppose there is. A man ought to know about his own health. Whatâs the time? Quarter to twelve? I ought to have had my dip long ago. Why canât you remind me about these things, Esther?â

Mrs. Walters made no protest. She rose to her feet and with some deftness assisted Mr. Rafiel to his. Together they went down the beach, she supporting him carefully. Together they stepped into the sea.

SeÃ±ora de Caspearo opened her eyes and murmured: âHow ugly are old men! Oh how they are ugly! They should all be put to death at forty, or perhaps thirty-five would be better. Yes?â

Edward Hillingdon and Gregory Dyson came crunching down the beach.

âWhatâs the water like, Evelyn?â

âJust the same as always.â

âNever much variation, is there? Whereâs Lucky?â

âI donât know,â said Evelyn.

Again Miss Marple looked down thoughtfully at the dark head.

âWell, now I give my imitation of a whale,â said Gregory. He threw off his gaily patterned Bermuda shirt and tore down the beach, flinging himself, puffing and panting, into the sea, doing a fast crawl. Edward Hillingdon sat down on the beach by his wife. Presently he asked, âComing in again?â

She smiledâput on her capâand they went down the beach together in a much less spectacular manner.

SeÃ±ora de Caspearo opened her eyes again.

âI think at first those two they are on their honeymoon, he is so charming to her, but I hear they have been married eightânine years. It is incredible, is it not?â

âI wonder where Mrs. Dyson is?â said Miss Marple.

âThat Lucky? She is with some man.â

âYouâyou think so?â

âIt is certain,â said SeÃ±ora de Caspearo. âShe is that type. But she is not so young any longerâHer husbandâalready his eyes go elsewhereâHe makes passesâhere, there, all the time. I know.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âI expect you would know.â

SeÃ±ora de Caspearo shot a surprised glance at her. It was clearly not what she had expected from that quarter.

Miss Marple, however, was looking at the waves with an air of gentle innocence.

II

âMay I speak to you, maâam, Mrs. Kendal?â

âYes, of course,â said Molly. She was sitting at her desk in the office.

Victoria Johnson, tall and buoyant in her crisp white uniform, came in farther and shut the door behind her with a somewhat mysterious air.

âI like to tell you something, please, Mrs. Kendal.â

âYes, what is it? Is anything wrong?â

âI donât know that. Not for sure. Itâs the old gentleman who died. The Major gentleman. He die in his sleep.â

âYes, yes. What about it?â

âThere was a bottle of pills in his room. Doctor, he asked me about them.â

âYes?â

âThe doctor saidââLet me see what he has here on the bathroom shelf,â and he looked, you see. He see there was tooth powder and indigestion pills and aspirin and cascara pills, and then these pills in a bottle called Serenite.â

âYes,â repeated Molly yet again.

âAnd the doctor looked at them. He seemed quite satisfied, and nodded his head. But I get to thinking afterwards. Those pills werenât there before. Iâve not seen them in his bathroom before. The others, yes. The tooth powder and the aspirin and the aftershave lotion and all the rest. But those pills, those Serenite pills, I never noticed them before.â

âSo you thinkââ Molly looked puzzled.

âI donât know what to think,â said Victoria. âI just think itâs not right, so I think I better tell you about it. Perhaps you tell doctor? Perhaps it means something. Perhaps someone put those pills there so he take them and he died.â

âOh, I donât think thatâs likely at all,â said Molly.

Victoria shook her dark head. âYou never know. People do bad things.â

Molly glanced out of the window. The place looked like an earthly paradise. With its sunshine, its sea, its coral reef, its music, its dancing, it seemed a Garden of Eden. But even in the Garden of Eden, there had been a shadowâthe shadow of the SerpentâBad thingsâhow hateful to hear those words.

âIâll make inquiries, Victoria,â she said sharply. âDonât worry. And above all donât go starting a lot of silly rumours.â

Tim Kendal came in, just as Victoria was, somewhat unwillingly, leaving.

âAnything wrong, Molly?â

She hesitatedâbut Victoria might go to himâShe told him what the girl had said.

âI donât see what all this rigmaroleâwhat were these pills anyway?â

âWell, I donât really know, Tim. Dr. Robertson when he came said theyâwere something to do with blood pressure, I think.â

âWell, that would be all right, wouldnât it? I mean, he had high blood pressure, and he would be taking things for it, wouldnât he? People do. Iâve seen them, lots of times.â

âYes,â Molly hesitated, âbut Victoria seemed to think that he might have taken one of these pills and it would have killed him.â

âOh darling, that is a bit too melodramatic! You mean that somebody might have changed his blood pressure pills for something else, and that they poisoned him?â

âIt does sound absurd,â said Molly apologetically, âwhen you say it like that. But that seemed to be what Victoria thought!â

âSilly girl! We could go and ask Dr. Graham about it, I suppose heâd know. But really itâs such nonsense that itâs not worth bothering him.â

âThatâs what I think.â

âWhat on earth made the girl think anybody would have changed the pills? You mean, put different pills into the same bottle?â

âI didnât quite gather,â said Molly, looking rather helpless. âVictoria seemed to think that was the first time that Serenite bottle had been there.â

âOh but thatâs nonsense,â said Tim Kendal. âHe had to take those pills all the time to keep his blood pressure down.â And he went off cheerfully to consult with Fernando the maÃ®tre dâhÃ´tel.

But Molly could not dismiss the matter so lightly. After the stress of lunch was over she said to her husband:

âTimâIâve been thinkingâIf Victoria is going around talking about this perhaps we ought just to ask someone about it?â

âMy dear girl! Robertson and all the rest of them came and looked at everything and asked all the questions they wanted at the time.â

âYes, but you know how they work themselves up, these girlsââ

âOh, all right! Iâll tell you whatâweâll go and ask Grahamâheâll know.â

Dr. Graham was sitting on his loggia with a book. The young couple came in and Molly plunged into her recital. It was a little incoherent and Tim took over.

âSounds rather idiotic,â he said apologetically, âbut as far as I can make out, this girl has got it into her head that someone put some poison tablets in theâwhatâs the name of the stuffâSeraâsomething bottle.â

âBut why should she get this idea into her head?â asked Dr. Graham. âDid she see anything or hear anything orâI mean, why should she think so?â

âI donât know,â said Tim rather helplessly. âWas it a different bottle? Was that it, Molly?â

âNo,â said Molly. âI think what she said was that there was a bottle there labelledâSevenâSerenââ

âSerenite,â said the doctor. âThatâs quite right. A well-known preparation. Heâd been taking it regularly.â

âVictoria said sheâd never seen it in his room before.â

âNever seen it in his room before?â said Graham sharply. âWhat does she mean by that?â

âWell, thatâs what she said. She said there were all sorts of things on the bathroom shelf. You know, tooth powder, aspirin and aftershave andâohâshe rattled them off gaily. I suppose sheâs always cleaning them and so she knows them all off by heart. But this oneâthe Sereniteâshe hadnât seen it there until the day after he died.â

âThatâs very odd,â said Dr. Graham, rather sharply. âIs she sure?â

The unusual sharpness of his tone made both of the Kendals look up at him. They had not expected Dr. Graham to take up quite this attitude.

âShe sounded sure,â said Molly slowly.

âPerhaps she just wanted to be sensational,â suggested Tim.

âI think perhaps,â said Dr. Graham, âIâd better have a few words with the girl myself.â

Victoria displayed a distinct pleasure at being allowed to tell her story.

âI donât want to get in no trouble,â she said. âI didnât put that bottle there and I donât know who did.â

âBut you think it was put there?â asked Graham.

âWell, you see, Doctor, it must have been put there if it wasnât there before.â

âMajor Palgrave could have kept it in a drawerâor a dispatch-case, something like that.â

Victoria shook her head shrewdly.

âWouldnât do that if he was taking it all the time, would he?â

âNo,â said Graham reluctantly. âNo, it was stuff he would have to take several times a day. You never saw him taking it or anything of that kind?â

âHe didnât have it there before. I just thoughtâword got round as that stuff had something to do with his death, poisoned his blood or something, and I thought maybe he had an enemy put it there so as to kill him.â

âNonsense, my girl,â said the doctor robustly. âSheer nonsense.â Victoria looked shaken.

âYou say as this stuff was medicine, good medicine?â she asked doubtfully.

âGood medicine, and what is more, necessary medicine,â said Dr. Graham. âSo you neednât worry, Victoria. I can assure you there was nothing wrong with that medicine. It was the proper thing for a man to take who had his complaint.â

âSurely youâve taken a load off my mind,â said Victoria. She showed white teeth at him in a cheerful smile.

But the load was not taken off Dr. Grahamâs mind. That uneasiness of his that had been so nebulous was now becoming tangible.

Eight

A TALK WITH ESTHER WALTERS

âThis place isnât what it used to be,â said Mr. Rafiel, irritably, as he observed Miss Marple approaching the spot where he and his secretary were sitting. âCanât move a step without some old hen getting under your feet. What do old ladies want to come to the West Indies for?â

âWhere do you suggest they should go?â asked Esther Walters.

âTo Cheltenham,â said Mr. Rafiel promptly. âOr Bournemouth,â he offered, âor Torquay or Llandrindod Wells. Plenty of choice. They like it thereâtheyâre quite happy.â

âThey canât often afford to come to the West Indies, I suppose,â said Esther. âIt isnât everyone who is as lucky as you are.â

âThatâs right,â said Mr. Rafiel. âRub it in. Here am I, a mass of aches and pains and disjoints. You grudge me any alleviation! And you donât do any workâWhy havenât you typed out those letters yet?â

âI havenât had time.â

âWell, get on with it, canât you? I bring you out here to do a bit of work, not to sit about sunning yourself and showing off your figure.â

Some people would have considered Mr. Rafielâs remarks quite insupportable but Esther Walters had worked for him for some years and she knew well enough that Mr. Rafielâs bark was a great deal worse than his bite. He was a man who suffered almost continual pain, and making disagreeable remarks was one of his ways of letting off steam. No matter what he said she remained quite imperturbable.

âSuch a lovely evening, isnât it?â said Miss Marple, pausing beside them.

âWhy not?â said Mr. Rafiel. âThatâs what weâre here for, isnât it?â

Miss Marple gave a tinkly little laugh.

âYouâre so severeâof course the weather is a very English subject of conversationâone forgetsâOh dearâthis is the wrong coloured wool.â She deposited her knitting bag on the garden table and trotted towards her own bungalow.

âJackson!â yelled Mr. Rafiel.

Jackson appeared.

âTake me back inside,â said Mr. Rafiel. âIâll have my massage now before that chattering hen comes back. Not that massage does me a bit of good,â he added. Having said which, he allowed himself to be deftly helped to his feet and went off with the masseur beside him into his bungalow.

Esther Walters looked after them and then turned her head as Miss Marple came back with a ball of wool to sit down near her.

âI hope Iâm not disturbing you?â said Miss Marple.

âOf course not,â said Esther Walters, âIâve got to go off and do some typing in a minute, but Iâm going to enjoy another ten minutes of the sunset first.â

Miss Marple sat down and in a gentle voice began to talk. As she talked, she summed up Esther Walters. Not at all glamorous, but could be attractive-looking if she tried. Miss Marple wondered why she didnât try. It could be, of course, because Mr. Rafiel would not have liked it, but Miss Marple didnât think Mr. Rafiel would really mind in the least. He was so completely taken up with himself that so long as he was not personally neglected, his secretary might have got herself up like a houri in Paradise without his objecting. Besides, he usually went to bed early and in the evening hours of steel bands and dancing, Esther Walters might easily haveâMiss Marple paused to select a word in her mind, at the same time conversing cheerfully about her visit to JamestownâAh yes, blossomed. Esther Walters might have blossomed in the evening hours.

She led the conversation gently in the direction of Jackson.

On the subject of Jackson Esther Walters was rather vague.

âHeâs very competent,â she said. âA fully trained masseur.â

âI suppose heâs been with Mr. Rafiel a long time?â

âOh noâabout nine months, I thinkââ

âIs he married?â Miss Marple hazarded.

âMarried? I donât think so,â said Esther slightly surprised. âHeâs never mentioned it if soâ

âNo,â she added. âDefinitely not married, I should say.â And she showed amusement.

Miss Marple interpreted that by adding to it in her own mind the following sentenceââAt any rate he doesnât behave as though he were married.â

But then, how many married men there were who behaved as though they werenât married! Miss Marple could think of a dozen examples!

âHeâs quite good-looking,â she said thoughtfully.

âYesâI suppose he is,â said Esther without interest.

Miss Marple considered her thoughtfully. Uninterested in men? The kind of woman, perhaps, who was only interested in one manâA widow, they had said.

She askedââHave you worked for Mr. Rafiel long?â

âFour or five years. After my husband died, I had to take a job again. Iâve got a daughter at school and my husband left me very badly off.â

âMr. Rafiel must be a difficult man to work for?â Miss Marple hazarded.

âNot really, when you get to know him. He flies into rages and is very contradictory. I think the real trouble is he gets tired of people. Heâs had five different valet-attendants in two years. He likes having someone new to bully. But he and I have always got on very well.â

âMr. Jackson seems a very obliging young man?â

âHeâs very tactful and resourceful,â said Esther. âOf course, heâs sometimes a littleââ She broke off.

Miss Marple considered. âRather a difficult position sometimes?â she suggested.

âWell, yes. Neither one thing nor the other. Howeverââ she smiledââI think he manages to have quite a good time.â

Miss Marple considered this also. It didnât help her much. She continued her twittering conversation and soon she was hearing a good deal about that nature-loving quartet, the Dysons and the Hillingdons.

âThe Hillingdons have been here for the last three or four years at least,â said Esther, âbut Gregory Dyson has been here much longer than that. He knows the West Indies very well. He came here, originally, I believe, with his first wife. She was delicate and had to go abroad in the winters, or go somewhere warm, at any rate.â

âAnd she died? Or was it divorce?â

âNo. She died. Out here, I believe. I donât mean this particular island but one of the West Indies islands. There was some sort of trouble, I believe, some kind of scandal or other. He never talks about her. Somebody else told me about it. They didnât, I gather, get on very well together.â

âAnd then he married this wife. âLucky.ââ Miss Marple said the word with faint dissatisfaction as if to say âReally, a most incredible name!â

âI believe she was a relation of his first wife.â

âHave they known the Hillingdons a great many years?â

âOh, I think only since the Hillingdons came out here. Three or four years, not more.â

âThe Hillingdons seem very pleasant,â said Miss Marple. âQuiet, of course.â

âYes. Theyâre both quiet.â

âEveryone says theyâre very devoted to each other,â said Miss Marple. The tone of her voice was quite noncommittal but Esther Walters looked at her sharply.

âBut you donât think they are?â she said.

âYou donât really think so yourself, do you, my dear?â

âWell, Iâve wondered sometimesâ¦.â

âQuiet men, like Colonel Hillingdon,â said Miss Marple, âare often attracted to flamboyant types.â And she added, after a significant pause, âLuckyâsuch a curious name. Do you think Mr. Dyson has any idea ofâof what might be going on?â

âOld scandal-monger,â thought Esther Walters. âReally, these old women!â

She said rather coldly, âIâve no idea.â

Miss Marple shifted to another subject. âItâs very sad about poor Major Palgrave isnât it?â she said.

Esther Walters agreed, though in a somewhat perfunctory fashion.

âThe people Iâm really sorry for are the Kendals,â she said.

âYes, I suppose it is really rather unfortunate when something of that kind happens in a hotel.â

âPeople come here, you see, to enjoy themselves, donât they?â said Esther. âTo forget about illnesses and deaths and income tax and frozen pipes and all the rest of it. They donât likeââ she went on, with a sudden flash of an entirely different mannerââany reminders of mortality.â

Miss Marple laid down her knitting. âNow that is very well put, my dear,â she said, âvery well put indeed. Yes, it is as you say.â

âAnd you see theyâre quite a young couple,â went on Esther Walters. âThey only just took over from the Sandersons six months ago and theyâre terribly worried about whether theyâre going to succeed or not, because they havenât had much experience.â

âAnd you think this might be really disadvantageous to them?â

âWell, no, I donât, frankly,â said Esther Walters. âI donât think people remember anything for more than a day or two, not in this atmosphere of âweâve-all-come-out-here-to-enjoy-ourselves-letâs-get-on-with-it.â I think a death just gives them a jolt for about twenty-four hours or so and then they donât think of it again once the funeral is over. Not unless theyâre reminded of it, that is. Iâve told Molly so, but of course she is a worrier.â

âMrs. Kendal is a worrier? She always seems so carefree.â

âI think a lot of that is put on,â said Esther slowly. âActually, I think sheâs one of those anxious sort of people who canât help worrying all the time that things may go wrong.â

âI should have thought he worried more than she did.â

âNo, I donât think so. I think sheâs the worrier and he worries because she worries if you know what I mean.â

âThat is interesting,â said Miss Marple.

âI think Molly wants desperately to try and appear very gay and to be enjoying herself. She works at it very hard but the effort exhausts her. Then she has these odd fits of depression. Sheâs notâwell, not really well-balanced.â

âPoor child,â said Miss Marple. âThere certainly are people like that, and very often outsiders donât suspect it.â

âNo, they put on such a good show, donât they? However,â Esther added, âI donât think Molly has really anything to worry about in this case. I mean, people are dying of coronary thrombosis or cerebral hÃ¦morrhage or things of that kind all the time nowadays. Far more than they used to, as far as I can see. Itâs only food poisoning or typhoid or something like that, that makes people get het up.â

âMajor Palgrave never mentioned to me that he had high blood pressure,â said Miss Marple. âDid he to you?â

âHe said so to somebodyâI donât know whoâit may have been to Mr. Rafiel. I know Mr. Rafiel says just the oppositeâbut then heâs like that! Certainly Jackson mentioned it to me once. He said the Major ought to be more careful over the alcohol he took.â

âI see,â said Miss Marple, thoughtfully. She went on: âI expect you found him rather a boring old man? He told a lot of stories and I expect repeated himself a good deal.â

âThatâs the worst of it,â said Esther. âYou do hear the same story again and again unless you can manage to be quick enough to fend it off.â

âOf course I didnât mind so much,â said Miss Marple, âbecause Iâm used to that sort of thing. If I get stories told to me rather often, I donât really mind hearing them again because Iâve usually forgotten them.â

âThere is that,â said Esther and laughed cheerfully.

âThere was one story he was very fond of telling,â said Miss Marple, âabout a murder. I expect he told you that, didnât he?â

Esther Walters opened her handbag and started searching through it. She drew out her lipstick saying, âI thought Iâd lost it.â Then she asked, âI beg your pardon, what did you say?â

âI asked if Major Palgrave told you his favourite murder story?â

âI believe he did, now I come to think of it. Something about someone who gassed themselves, wasnât it? Only really it was the wife who gassed him. I mean sheâd given him a sedative of some kind and then stuck his head in the gas oven. Was that it?â

âI donât think that was exactly it,â said Miss Marple. She looked at Esther Walters thoughtfully.

âHe told such a lot of stories,â said Esther Walters, apologetically, âand as I said, one didnât always listen.â

âHe had a snapshot,â said Miss Marple, âthat he used to show people.â

âI believe he did â¦ I canât remember what it was now. Did he show it to you?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âHe didnât show it to me. We were interruptedââ

Nine

MISS PRESCOTT AND OTHERS

âThe story I heard,â began Miss Prescott, lowering her voice, and looking carefully around.

Miss Marple drew her chair a little closer. It had been some time before she had been able to get together with Miss Prescott for a heart-to-heart chat. This was owing to the fact that clergymen are very strong family men so that Miss Prescott was nearly always accompanied by her brother, and there was no doubt that Miss Marple and Miss Prescott found it less easy to take their back hair down in a good gossip when the jovial Canon was of their company.

âIt seems,â said Miss Prescott, âthough of course I donât want to talk any scandal and I really know nothing about itââ

âOh, I quite understand,â said Miss Marple.

âIt seems there was some scandal when his first wife was still alive! Apparently this woman, Luckyâsuch a name!âwho I think was a cousin of his first wife, came out here and joined them and I think did some work with him on flowers or butterflies or whatever it was. And people talked a lot because they got on so well togetherâif you know what I mean.â

âPeople do notice things so much, donât they?â said Miss Marple.

âAnd then of course, when his wife died rather suddenlyââ

âShe died here, on this island?â

âNo. No, I think they were in Martinique or Tobago at the time.â

âI see.â

âBut I gathered from some other people who were there at the time, and who came on here and talked about things, that the doctor wasnât very satisfied.â

âIndeed,â said Miss Marple, with interest.

âIt was only gossip,â of course, âbutâwell, Mr. Dyson certainly married again very quickly.â She lowered her voice again. âOnly a month I believe.â

âOnly a month,â said Miss Marple.

The two women looked at each other. âIt seemedâunfeeling,â said Miss Prescott.

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âIt certainly did.â She added delicately, âWas thereâany money?â

âI donât really know. He makes his little jokeâperhaps youâve heard himâabout his wife being his âlucky pieceâââ

âYes, Iâve heard him,â said Miss Marple.

âAnd some people think that means that he was lucky to marry a rich wife. Though, of course,â said Miss Prescott with the air of one being entirely fair, âsheâs very good-looking too, if you care for that type. And I think myself that it was the first wife who had the money.â

âAre the Hillingdons well off?â

âWell, I think theyâre well off. I donât mean fabulously rich, I just mean well off. They have two boys at public school and a very nice place in England, I believe, and they travel most of the winter.â

The Canon appearing at this moment to suggest a brisk walk, Miss Prescott rose to join her brother. Miss Marple remained sitting there.

A few minutes later Gregory Dyson passed her striding along towards the hotel. He waved a cheerful hand as he passed.

âPenny for your thoughts,â he called out.

Miss Marple smiled gently, wondering how he would have reacted if she had replied:

âI was wondering if you were a murderer.â

It really seemed most probable that he was. It all fitted in so nicelyâThis story about the death of the first Mrs. DysonâMajor Palgrave had certainly been talking about a wife killerâwith special reference to the âBrides in the Bath Case.â

Yesâit fittedâthe only objection was that it fitted almost too well. But Miss Marple reproved herself for this thoughtâwho was she to demand Murders Made to Measure?

A voice made her jumpâa somewhat raucous one.

âSeen Greg any place, Missâerââ

Lucky, Miss Marple thought, was not in a good temper.

âHe passed by just nowâgoing towards the hotel.â

âIâll bet!â Lucky uttered an irritated ejaculation and hurried on.

âForty, if sheâs a day, and looks it this morning,â thought Miss Marple.

Pity invaded herâpity for the Luckys of the worldâwho were so vulnerable to Timeâ

At the sound of a noise behind her, she turned her chair roundâ

Mr. Rafiel, supported by Jackson, was making his morning appearance and coming out of his bungalowâ

Jackson settled his employer in his wheelchair and fussed round him. Mr. Rafiel waved his attendant away impatiently and Jackson went off in the direction of the hotel.

Miss Marple lost no timeâMr. Rafiel was never left alone for longâProbably Esther Walters would come and join him. Miss Marple wanted a word alone with Mr. Rafiel and now, she thought, was her chance. She would have to be quick about what she wanted to say. There could be no leading up to things. Mr. Rafiel was not a man who cared for the idle twittering conversation of old ladies. He would probably retreat again into his bungalow, definitely regarding himself the victim of persecution. Miss Marple decided to plump for downrightness.

She made her way to where he was sitting, drew up a chair, sat down, and said:

âI want to ask you something, Mr. Rafiel.â

âAll right, all right,â said Mr. Rafiel, âletâs have it. What do you wantâa subscription, I suppose? Missions in Africa or repairing a church, something of that kind?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âI am interested in several objects of that nature, and I shall be delighted if you will give me a subscription for them. But that wasnât actually what I was going to ask you. What I was going to ask you was if Major Palgrave ever told you a story about a murder.â

âOho,â said Mr. Rafiel. âSo he told it to you too, did he? And I suppose you fell for it, hook, line and sinker.â

âI didnât really know what to think,â said Miss Marple. âWhat exactly did he tell you?â

âHe prattled on,â said Mr. Rafiel, âabout a lovely creature, Lucrezia Borgia reincarnated. Beautiful, young, golden-haired, everything.â

âOh,â said Miss Marple slightly taken aback, âand who did she murder?â

âHer husband, of course,â said Mr. Rafiel, âwho do you think?â

âPoison?â

âNo, I think she gave him a sleeping draught and then stuck him in a gas oven. Resourceful female. Then she said it was suicide. She got off quite lightly. Diminished responsibility or something. Thatâs what itâs called nowadays if youâre a good-looking woman, or some miserable young hooligan whose motherâs been too fond of him. Bah!â

âDid the Major show you a snapshot?â

âWhatâa snapshot of the woman? No. Why should he?â

âOhââ said Miss Marple.

She sat there, rather taken aback. Apparently Major Palgrave spent his life telling people not only about tigers he had shot and elephants he had hunted but also about murderers he had met. Perhaps he had a whole repertoire of murder stories. One had to face itâShe was startled by Mr. Rafiel suddenly giving a roar of âJackson!â There was no response.

âShall I find him for you?â said Miss Marple rising.

âYou wonât find him. Tom-catting somewhere, thatâs what he does. No good, that fellow. Bad character. But he suits me all right.â

âIâll go and look for him,â said Miss Marple.

Miss Marple found Jackson sitting on the far side of the hotel terrace having a drink with Tim Kendal.

âMr. Rafiel is asking for you,â she said.

Jackson made an expressive grimace, drained his glass, and rose to his feet.

âHere we go again,â he said. âNo peace for the wickedâTwo telephone calls and a special diet orderâI thought that might give me a quarter of an hourâs alibiâApparently not! Thank you, Miss Marple. Thanks for the drink, Mr. Kendal.â

He strode away.

âI feel sorry for that chap,â said Tim. âI have to stand him a drink now and then, just to cheer him upâCan I offer you something, Miss MarpleâHow about fresh lime? I know youâre fond of that.â

âNot just now, thank youâI suppose looking after someone like Mr. Rafiel must always be rather exacting. Invalids are frequently difficultââ

âI didnât mean only thatâItâs very well paid and you expect to put up with a good deal of crotchetinessâold Rafielâs not really a bad sort. I mean more thatââ he hesitated.

Miss Marple looked inquiring.

âWellâhow shall I put itâitâs difficult for him socially. People are so damned snobbishâthereâs no one here of his class. Heâs better than a servantâand below the average visitorâor they think he is. Rather like the Victorian governess. Even the secretary woman, Mrs. Waltersâfeels sheâs a cut above him. Makes things difficult.â Tim paused, then said with feeling: âItâs really awful the amount of social problems there are in a place like this.â

Dr. Graham passed themâhe had a book in his hand. He went and sat at a table overlooking the sea.

âDr. Graham looks rather worried,â remarked Miss Marple.

âOh! Weâre all worried.â

âYou too? Because of Major Palgraveâs death?â

âIâve left off worrying about that. People seem to have forgotten itâtaken it in their stride. Noâitâs my wifeâMollyâDo you know anything about dreams?â

âDreams?â Miss Marple was surprised.

âYesâbad dreamsânightmares, I suppose. Oh, we all get that sort of thing sometimes. But Mollyâshe seems to have them nearly all the time. They frighten her. Is there anything one can do about them? Take for them? Sheâs got some sleeping pills, but she says they make it worseâshe struggles to wake up and canât.â

âWhat are the dreams about?â

âOh, something or someone chasing herâOr watching her and spying on herâshe canât shake off the feeling even when sheâs awake.â

âSurely a doctorââ

âSheâs got a thing against doctors. Wonât hear of itâOh wellâI dare say it will all pass offâBut we were so happy. It was all such funâAnd now, just latelyâPerhaps old Palgraveâs death upset her. She seems like a different person sinceâ¦.â

He got up.

âMust get on with the daily choresâare you sure you wonât have that fresh lime?â

Miss Marple shook her head.

She sat there, thinking. Her face was grave and anxious.

She glanced over at Dr. Graham.

Presently she came to a decision.

She rose and went across to his table.

âI have got to apologize to you, Dr. Graham,â she said.

âIndeed?â The doctor looked at her in kindly surprise. He pulled forward a chair and she sat down.

âI am afraid I have done the most disgraceful thing,â said Miss Marple. âI told you, Dr. Graham, a deliberate lie.â

She looked at him apprehensively.

Dr. Graham did not look at all shattered, but he did look a little surprised.

âReally?â he said. âAh well, you mustnât let that worry you too much.â

What had the dear old thing been telling lies about, he wondered; her age? Though as far as he could remember she hadnât mentioned her age. âWell, letâs hear about it,â he said, since she clearly wished to confess.

âYou remember my speaking to you about a snapshot of my nephew, one that I showed to Major Palgrave, and that he didnât give back to me?â

âYes, yes, of course I remember. Sorry we couldnât find it for you.â

âThere wasnât any such thing,â said Miss Marple, in a small frightened voice.

âI beg your pardon?â

âThere wasnât any such thing. I made up that story, Iâm afraid.â

âYou made it up?â Dr. Graham looked slightly annoyed. âWhy?â

Miss Marple told him. She told him quite clearly, without twittering. She told him about Major Palgraveâs murder story and how heâd been about to show her this particular snapshot and his sudden confusion and then she went on to her own anxiety and to her final decision to try somehow to obtain a view of it.

âAnd really, I couldnât see any way of doing so without telling you something that was quite untrue,â she said, âI do hope you will forgive me.â

âYou thought that what he had been about to show you was a picture of a murderer?â

âThatâs what he said it was,â said Miss Marple. âAt least he said it was given him by this acquaintance who had told him the story about a man who was a murderer.â

âYes, yes. Andâexcuse meâyou believed him?â

âI donât know if I really believed him or not at the time,â said Miss Marple. âBut then, you see, the next day he died.â

âYes,â said Dr. Graham, struck suddenly by the clarity of that one sentence. The next day he diedâ¦.

âAnd the snapshot had disappeared.â

Dr. Graham looked at her. He didnât know quite what to say.

âExcuse me, Miss Marple,â he said at last, âbut is what youâre telling me nowâis it really true this time?â

âI donât wonder your doubting me,â said Miss Marple. âI should, in your place. Yes, it is true what I am telling you now, but I quite realize that you have only my word for it. Still, even if you donât believe me, I thought I ought to tell you.â

âWhy?â

âI realized that you ought to have the fullest information possibleâin caseââ

âIn case what?â

âIn case you decided to take any steps about it.â

Ten

A DECISION IN JAMESTOWN

Dr. Graham was in Jamestown, in the Administratorâs office, sitting at a table opposite his friend Daventry, a grave young man of thirty-five.

âYou sounded rather mysterious on the phone, Graham,â said Daventry. âAnything special the matter?â

âI donât know,â said Dr. Graham, âbut Iâm worried.â

Daventry looked at the otherâs face, then he nodded as drinks were brought in. He spoke lightly of a fishing expedition he had made lately. Then when the servant had gone away, he sat back in his chair and looked at the other man.

âNow then,â he said, âletâs have it.â

Dr. Graham recounted the facts that had worried him. Daventry gave a slow long whistle.

âI see. You think maybe thereâs something funny about old Palgraveâs death? Youâre no longer sure that it was just natural causes? Who certified the death? Robertson, I suppose. He didnât have any doubts, did he?â

âNo, but I think he may have been influenced in giving the certificate by the fact of the Serenite tablets in the bathroom. He asked me if Palgrave had mentioned that he suffered from hypertension, and I said No, Iâd never had any medical conversation with him myself, but apparently he had talked about it to other people in the hotel. The whole thingâthe bottle of tablets, and what Palgrave had said to peopleâit all fitted inâno earthly reason to suspect anything else. It was a perfectly natural inference to makeâbut I think now it may not have been correct. If it had been my business to give the certificate, Iâd have given it without a second thought. The appearances are quite consistent with his having died from that cause. Iâd never have thought about it since if it hadnât been for the odd disappearance of that snapshotâ¦.â

âBut look here, Graham,â said Daventry, âif you will allow me to say so, arenât you relying a little too much on a rather fanciful story told you by an elderly lady? You know what these elderly ladies are like. They magnify some small detail and work the whole thing up.â

âYes, I know,â said Dr. Graham, unhappily. âI know that. Iâve said to myself that it may be so, that it probably is so. But I canât quite convince myself. She was so very clear and detailed in her statement.â

âThe whole thing seems wildly improbable to me,â said Daventry. âSome old lady tells a story about a snapshot that ought not to be thereâno, Iâm getting mixed myselfâI mean the other way about, donât I?âbut the only thing youâve really got to go on is that a chambermaid says that a bottle of pills which the authorities had relied on for evidence, wasnât in the Majorâs room the day before his death. But there are a hundred explanations for that. He might always have carried those pills about in his pocket.â

âItâs possible, I suppose, yes.â

âOr the chambermaid may have made a mistake and she simply hadnât noticed them beforeââ

âThatâs possible, too.â

âWell, then.â

Graham said slowly:

âThe girl was very positive.â

âWell, the St. HonorÃ© people are very excitable. You know. Emotional. Work themselves up easily. Are you thinking that she knowsâa little more than she has said?â

âI think it might be so,â said Dr. Graham slowly.

âYouâd better try and get it out of her, if so. We donât want to make an unnecessary fussâunless weâve something definite to go on. If he didnât die of blood pressure, what do you think it was?â

âThere are too many things it might be nowadays,â said Dr. Graham.

âYou mean things that donât leave recognizable traces?â

âNot everyone,â said Dr. Graham dryly, âis so considerate as to use arsenic.â

âNow letâs get things quite clearâwhatâs the suggestion? That a bottle of pills was substituted for the real ones? And that Major Palgrave was poisoned in that way?â

âNoâitâs not like that. Thatâs what the girlâVictoria Something thinksâBut sheâs got it all wrongâIf it was decided to get rid of the Majorâquicklyâhe would have been given somethingâmost likely in a drink of some kind. Then to make it appear a natural death, a bottle of the tablets prescribed to relieve blood pressure was put in his room. And the rumour was put about that he suffered from high blood pressure.â

âWho put the rumour about?â

âIâve tried to find outâwith no successâItâs been too cleverly done. A says âI think B told meââB, asked, says âNo, I didnât say so but I do remember C mentioning it one day.â C says âSeveral people talked about itâone of them, I think, was A.â And there we are, back again.â

âSomeone was clever?â

âYes. As soon as the death was discovered, everybody seemed to be talking about the Majorâs high blood pressure and repeating round what other people had said.â

âWouldnât it have been simpler just to poison him and let it go at that?â

âNo. That might have meant an inquiryâpossibly an autopsyâThis way, a doctor would accept the death and give a certificateâas he did.â

âWhat do you want me to do? Go to the CID? Suggest they dig the chap up? Itâd make a lot of stinkââ

âIt could be kept quite quiet.â

âCould it? In St. HonorÃ©? Think again! The grapevine would be on to it before it had happened. All the same,â Daventry sighedââI suppose weâll have to do something. But if you ask me, itâs all a mareâs nest!â

âI devoutly hope it is,â said Dr. Graham.

Eleven

EVENING AT THE GOLDEN PALM

I

Molly rearranged a few of the table decorations in the dining room, removed an extra knife, straightened a fork, reset a glass or two, stood back to look at the effect and then walked out on to the terrace outside. There was no one about just at present and she strolled to the far corner and stood by the balustrade. Soon another evening would begin. Chattering, talking, drinking, all so gay and carefree, the sort of life she had longed for and, up to a few days ago, had enjoyed so much. Now even Tim seemed anxious and worried. Natural, perhaps, that he should worry a little. It was important that this venture of theirs should turn out all right. After all, he had sunk all he had in it.

But that, thought Molly, is not really whatâs worrying him. Itâs me. But I donât see, said Molly to herself, why he should worry about me. Because he did worry about her. That she was quite sure of. The questions he put, the quick nervous glance he shot at her from time to time. âBut why?â thought Molly. âIâve been very careful.â She summed up things in her mind. She didnât understand it really herself. She couldnât remember when it had begun. She wasnât even very sure what it was. Sheâd begun to be frightened of people. She didnât know why. What could they do to her? What should they want to do to her?

She nodded her head, then started violently as a hand touched her arm. She spun round to find Gregory Dyson, slightly taken aback, looking apologetic.

âEver so sorry. Did I startle you, little girl?â

Molly hated being called âlittle girl.â She said quickly and brightly: âI didnât hear you coming, Mr. Dyson, so it made me jump.â

âMr. Dyson? Weâre very formal tonight. Arenât we all one great happy family here? Ed and me and Lucky and Evelyn and you and Tim and Esther Walters and old Rafiel. All the lot of us one happy family.â

âHeâs had plenty to drink already,â thought Molly. She smiled at him pleasantly.

âOh! I come over the heavy hostess sometimes,â she said, lightly. âTim and I think itâs more polite not to be too handy with Christian names.â

âAw! we donât want any of that stuffed-shirt business. Now then, Molly my lovely, have a drink with me.â

âAsk me later,â said Molly. âI have a few things to get on with.â

âNow donât run away.â His arm fastened round her arm. âYouâre a lovely girl, Molly. I hope Tim appreciates his good luck.â

âOh, I see to it that he does,â said Molly cheerfully.

âI could go for you, you know, in a big way.â He leered at herââthough I wouldnât let my wife hear me say so.â

âDid you have a good trip this afternoon?â

âI suppose so. Between you and me I get a bit fed up sometimes. You can get tired of the birds and butterflies. What say you and I go for a little picnic on our own one day?â

âWeâll have to see about that,â said Molly gaily. âIâll be looking forward to it.â

With a light laugh she escaped, and went back into the bar.

âHallo, Molly,â said Tim, âyou seem in a hurry. Whoâs that youâve been with out there?â

He peered out.

âGregory Dyson.â

âWhat does he want?â

âWanted to make a pass at me,â said Molly.

âBlast him,â said Tim.

âDonât worry,â said Molly, âI can do all the blasting necessary.â

Tim started to answer her, caught sight of Fernando and went over to him shouting out some directions. Molly slipped away through the kitchen door and down the steps to the beach.

Gregory Dyson swore under his breath. Then he walked slowly back in the direction of his bungalow. He had nearly got there when a voice spoke to him from the shadow of one of the bushes. He turned his head, startled. In the gathering dusk he thought for a moment that it was a ghostly figure that stood there. Then he laughed. It had looked like a faceless apparition but that was because, though the dress was white, the face was black.

Victoria stepped out of the bushes on to the path.

âMr. Dyson, please?â

âYes. What is it?â

Ashamed of being startled, he spoke with a touch of impatience.

âI brought you this, sir.â She held out her hand. In it was a bottle of tablets. âThis belongs to you, doesnât it? Yes?â

âOh, my bottle of Serenite tablets. Yes, of course. Where did you find it?â

âI found it where it had been put. In the gentlemanâs room.â

âWhat do you meanâin the gentlemanâs room?â

âThe gentleman who is dead,â she added gravely. âI do not think he sleeps very well in his grave.â

âWhy the devil not?â asked Dyson.

Victoria stood looking at him.

âI still donât know what youâre talking about. You mean you found this bottle of tablets in Major Palgraveâs bungalow?â

âThatâs right, yes. After the doctor and the Jamestown people go away, they give me all the things in his bathroom to throw away. The toothpaste and the lotions, and all the other thingsâincluding this.â

âWell, why didnât you throw it away?â

âBecause these are yours. You missed them. You remember, you asked about them?â

âYesâwellâyes, I did. IâI thought Iâd just mislaid them.â

âNo, you did not mislay them. They were taken from your bungalow and put in Major Palgraveâs bungalow.â

âHow do you know?â He spoke roughly.

âI know. I saw.â She smiled at him in a sudden flash of white teeth. âSomeone put them in the dead gentlemanâs room. Now I give them back to you.â

âHereâwait. What do you mean? Whatâwho did you see?â

She hurried away, back into the darkness of the bushes. Greg made as to move after her and then stopped. He stood stroking his chin.

âWhatâs the matter, Greg? Seen a ghost?â asked Mrs. Dyson, as she came along the path from their bungalow.

âThought I had for a minute or two.â

âWho was that you were talking to?â

âThe coloured girl who does our place. Victoria, her name is, isnât it?â

âWhat did she want? Making a pass at you?â

âDonât be stupid, Lucky. That girlâs got some idiotic idea into her head.â

âIdea about what?â

âYou remember I couldnât find my Serenite the other day?â

âYou said you couldnât.â

âWhat do you mean âI said I couldnât?ââ

âOh, for heckâs sake, have you got to take me up on everything?â

âIâm sorry,â said Greg. âEverybody goes about being so damnâ mysterious.â He held out his hand with the bottle in it. âThat girl brought them back to me.â

âHad she pinched them?â

âNo. Sheâfound them somewhere I think.â

âWell, what of it? Whatâs the mystery about?â

âOh, nothing,â said Greg. âShe just riled me, thatâs all.â

âLook here, Greg, what is this stuff all about? Come along and have a drink before dinner.â

II

Molly had gone down to the beach. She pulled out one of the old basket chairs, one of the more rickety ones that were seldom used. She sat in it for a while looking at the sea, then suddenly she dropped her head in her hands and burst into tears. She sat there sobbing unrestrainedly for some time. Then she heard a rustle close by her and glanced up sharply to see Mrs. Hillingdon looking down at her.

âHallo, Evelyn, I didnât hear you. IâIâm sorry.â

âWhatâs the matter, child?â said Evelyn. âSomething gone wrong?â She pulled another chair forward and sat down. âTell me.â

âThereâs nothing wrong,â said Molly. âNothing at all.â

âOf course there is. You wouldnât sit and cry here for nothing. Canât you tell me? Is itâsome trouble between you and Tim?â

âOh no.â

âIâm glad of that. You always look so happy together.â

âNot more than you do,â said Molly. âTim and I always think how wonderful it is that you and Edward should seem so happy together after being married so many years.â

âOh, that,â said Evelyn. Her voice was sharp as she spoke but Molly hardly noticed.

âPeople bicker so,â she said, âand have such rows. Even if theyâre quite fond of each other they still seem to have rows and not to mind a bit whether they have them in public or not.â

âSome people like living that way,â said Evelyn. âIt doesnât really mean anything.â

âWell, I think itâs horrid,â said Molly.

âSo do I, really,â said Evelyn.

âBut to see you and Edwardââ

âOh itâs no good, Molly. I canât let you go on thinking things of that kind. Edward and Iââ she paused. âIf you want to know the truth, weâve hardly said a word to each other in private for the last three years.â

âWhat!â Molly stared at her, appalled. âIâI canât believe it.â

âOh, we both put up quite a good show,â said Evelyn. âWeâre neither of us the kind that like having rows in public. And anyway thereâs nothing really to have a row about.â

âBut what went wrong?â asked Molly.

âJust the usual.â

âWhat do you mean by the usual? Anotherââ

âYes, another woman in the case, and I donât suppose it will be difficult for you to guess who the woman is.â

âDo you mean Mrs. DysonâLucky?â

Evelyn nodded.

âI know they always flirt together a lot,â said Molly, âbut I thought that was justâ¦.â

âJust high spirits?â said Evelyn. âNothing behind it?â

âBut whyââ Molly paused and tried again. âBut didnât youâoh I mean, well I suppose I oughtnât to ask.â

âAsk anything you like,â said Evelyn. âIâm tired of never saying a word, tired of being a well-bred happy wife. Edward just lost his head completely about Lucky. He was stupid enough to come and tell me about it. It made him feel better I suppose. Truthful. Honourable. All that sort of stuff. It didnât occur to him to think that it wouldnât make me feel better.â

âDid he want to leave you?â

Evelyn shook her head. âWeâve got two children, you know,â she said. âChildren whom weâre both very fond of. Theyâre at school in England. We didnât want to break up the home. And then of course, Lucky didnât want a divorce either. Gregâs a very rich man. His first wife left a lot of money. So we agreed to live and let liveâEdward and Lucky in happy immorality, Greg in blissful ignorance, and Edward and I just good friends.â She spoke with scalding bitterness.

âHowâhow can you bear it?â

âOne gets used to anything. But sometimesââ

âYes?â said Molly.

âSometimes Iâd like to kill that woman.â

The passion behind her voice startled Molly.

âDonât letâs talk any more about me,â said Evelyn. âLetâs talk about you. I want to know whatâs the matter.â

Molly was silent for some moments and then she said, âItâs onlyâitâs only that I think thereâs something wrong about me.â

âWrong? What do you mean?â

Molly shook her head unhappily. âIâm frightened,â she said. âIâm terribly frightened.â

âFrightened of what?â

âEverything,â said Molly. âItâsâgrowing on me. Voices in the bushes, footstepsâor things that people say. As though someone were watching me all the time, spying on me. Somebody hates me. Thatâs what I keep feeling. Somebody hates me.â

âMy dear child.â Evelyn was shocked and startled. âHow long has this been going on?â

âI donât know. It cameâit started by degrees. And there have been other things too.â

âWhat sort of things?â

âThere are times,â said Molly slowly, âthat I canât account for, that I canât remember.â

âDo you mean you have blackoutsâthat sort of thing?â

âI suppose so. I mean sometimes itâsâoh, say itâs five oâclockâand I canât remember anything since about half past one or two.â

âOh my dear, but thatâs just that youâve been asleep. Had a doze.â

âNo,â said Molly, âitâs not like that at all. Because you see, at the end of the time itâs not as though Iâd just dozed off. Iâm in a different place. Sometimes Iâm wearing different clothes and sometimes I seem to have been doing thingsâeven saying things to people, talked to someone, and not remembering that Iâve done so.â

Evelyn looked shocked. âBut Molly, my dear, if this is so, then you ought to see a doctor.â

âI wonât see a doctor! I donât want to. I wouldnât go near a doctor.â

Evelyn looked sharply down into her face, then she took the girlâs hand in hers.

âYou may be frightening yourself for nothing, Molly. You know there are all kinds of nervous disorders that arenât really serious at all. A doctor would soon reassure you.â

âHe mightnât. He might say that there was something really wrong with me.â

âWhy should there be anything wrong with you?â

âBecauseââ Molly spoke and then was silent ââno reason, I suppose,â she said.

âCouldnât your familyâhavenât you any family, any mother or sisters or someone who could come out here?â

âI donât get on with my mother. I never have. Iâve got sisters. Theyâre married but I supposeâI suppose they could come if I wanted them. But I donât want them. I donât want anyoneâanyone except Tim.â

âDoes Tim know about this? Have you told him?â

âNot really,â said Molly. âBut heâs anxious about me and he watches me. Itâs as though he were trying toâto help me or to shield me. But if he does that it means I want shielding, doesnât it?â

âI think a lot of it may be imagination but I still think you ought to see a doctor.â

âOld Dr. Graham? He wouldnât be any good.â

âThere are other doctors on the island.â

âItâs all right, really,â said Molly. âI justâmustnât think of it. I expect, as you say, itâs all imagination. Good gracious, itâs getting frightfully late. I ought to be on duty now in the dining room. IâI must go back.â

She looked sharply and almost offensively at Evelyn Hillingdon, and then hurried off. Evelyn stared after her.

Twelve

OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS

I

âI think as I am on to something, man.â

âWhatâs that you say, Victoria?â

âI think Iâm on to something. It may mean money. Big money.â

âNow look, girl, you be careful, youâll not tangle yourself up in something. Maybe Iâd better tackle what it is.â

Victoria laughed, a deep rich chuckle.

âYou wait and see,â she said. âI know how to play this hand. Itâs money, man, itâs big money. Something I see, and something I guess. I think I guess right.â

And again the soft rich chuckle rolled out on the night.

II

âEvelynâ¦.â

âYes?â

Evelyn Hillingdon spoke mechanically, without interest. She did not look at her husband.

âEvelyn, would you mind if we chucked all this and went home to England?â

She had been combing her short dark hair. Now her hands came down from her head sharply. She turned towards him.

âYou meanâbut weâve only just come. Weâve not been out here in the islands for more than three weeks.â

âI know. Butâwould you mind?â

Her eyes searched him incredulously.

âYou really want to go back to England? Back home?â

âYes.â

âLeavingâLucky?â

He winced.

âYouâve known all the time, I suppose, thatâthat it was going on?â

âPretty well. Yes.â

âYouâve never said anything.â

âWhy should I? We had the whole thing out years ago. Neither of us wanted to make a break. So we agreed to go our separate waysâbut keep up the show in public.â Then she added before he could speak, âBut why are you so set on going back to England now?â

âBecause Iâm at breaking point. I canât stick it any longer, Evelyn. I canât.â The quiet Edward Hillingdon was transformed. His hands shook, he swallowed, his calm unemotional face seemed distorted by pain.

âFor Godâs sake, Edward, whatâs the matter?â

âNothingâs the matter except that I want to get out of hereââ

âYou fell wildly in love with Lucky. And now youâve got over it. Is that what youâre telling me?â

âYes. I donât suppose youâll ever feel the same.â

âOh letâs not go into that now! I want to understand whatâs upsetting you so much, Edward.â

âIâm not particularly upset.â

âBut you are. Why?â

âIsnât it obvious?â

âNo, it isnât,â said Evelyn. âLetâs put it in plain concrete terms. Youâve had an affair with a woman. That happens often enough. And now itâs over. Or isnât it over? Perhaps it isnât over on her side. Is that it? Does Greg know about it? Iâve often wondered.â

âI donât know,â said Edward. âHeâs never said anything. He always seems friendly enough.â

âMen can be extraordinarily obtuse,â said Evelyn thoughtfully. âOr elseâPerhaps Greg has got an outside interest of his own!â

âHeâs made passes at you, hasnât he?â said Edward. âAnswer meâI know he hasââ

âOh yes,â said Evelyn, carelessly, âbut he makes passes at everyone. Thatâs just Greg. It doesnât ever really mean much, I imagine. Itâs just part of the Greg he-man act.â

âDo you care for him, Evelyn? Iâd rather know the truth.â

âGreg? Iâm quite fond of himâhe amuses me. Heâs a good friend.â

âAnd thatâs all? I wish I could believe you.â

âI canât really see how it can possibly matter to you,â said Evelyn dryly.

âI suppose I deserve that.â

Evelyn walked to the window, looked out across the veranda and came back again.

âI wish you would tell me whatâs really upsetting you, Edward.â

âIâve told you.â

âI wonder.â

âYou canât understand, I suppose, how extraordinary a temporary madness of this kind can seem to you after youâve got over it.â

âI can try, I suppose. But whatâs worrying me now is that Lucky seems to have got some kind of stranglehold upon you. Sheâs not just a discarded mistress. Sheâs a tigress with claws. You must tell me the truth, Edward. Itâs the only way if you want me to stand by you.â

Edward said in a low voice: âIf I donât get away from her soonâI shall kill her.â

âKill Lucky? Why?â

âBecause of what she made me doâ¦.â

âWhat did she make you do?â

âI helped her to commit a murderââ

The words were outâThere was silenceâEvelyn stared at him.

âDo you know what you are saying?â

âYes. I didnât know I was doing it. There were things she asked me to get for herâat the chemistâs. I didnât knowâI hadnât the least idea what she wanted them forâShe got me to copy out a prescription she hadâ¦.â

âWhen was this?â

âFour years ago. When we were in Martinique. Whenâwhen Gregâs wifeââ

âYou mean Gregâs first wifeâGail? You mean Lucky poisoned her?â

âYesâand I helped her. When I realizedââ

Evelyn interrupted him.

âWhen you realized what had happened, Lucky pointed out to you that you had written out the prescription, that you had got the drugs, that you and she were in it together? Is that right?â

âYes. She said she had done it out of pityâthat Gail was sufferingâthat she had begged Lucky to get something that would end it all.â

âA mercy killing! I see. And you believed that?â

Edward Hillingdon was silent a momentâthen he said:

âNoâI didnât reallyânot deep downâI accepted it because I wanted to believe itâbecause I was infatuated with Lucky.â

âAnd afterwardsâwhen she married Gregâdid you still believe it?â

âIâd made myself believe it by then.â

âAnd Gregâhow much did he know about it all?â

âNothing at all.â

âThat I find hard to believe!â

Edward Hillingdon broke outâ

âEvelyn, Iâve got to get free of it all! That woman taunts me still with what I did. She knows I donât care for her any longer. Care for her?âIâve come to hate herâBut she makes me feel Iâm tied to herâby the thing we did togetherââ

Evelyn walked up and down the roomâthen she stopped and faced him.

âThe entire trouble with you, Edward, is that you are ridiculously sensitiveâand also incredibly suggestible. That devil of a woman has got you just where she wants you by playing on your sense of guiltâAnd Iâll tell you this in plain Bible terms, the guilt that weighs on you is the guilt of adulteryânot murderâyou were guilt-stricken about your affair with Luckyâand then she made a catâs-paw of you for her murder scheme, and managed to make you feel you shared her guilt. You donât.â

âEvelynâ¦.â He stepped towards herâ

She stepped back a minuteâand looked at him searchingly.

âIs this all true, EdwardâIs it? Or are you making it up?â

âEvelyn! Why on earth should I do such a thing?â

âI donât know,â said Evelyn Hillingdon slowlyââItâs just perhapsâbecause I find it hard to trustâanybody. And becauseâOh! I donât knowâIâve got, I suppose, so that I donât know the truth when I hear it.â

âLetâs chuck all thisâGo back home to England.â

âYesâWe willâBut not now.â

âWhy not?â

âWe must carry on as usualâjust for the present. Itâs important. Do you understand, Edward? Donât let Lucky have an inkling of what weâre up toââ

Thirteen

EXIT VICTORIA JOHNSON

The evening was drawing to a close. The steel band was at last relaxing its efforts. Tim stood by the dining room looking over the terrace. He extinguished a few lights on tables that had been vacated.

A voice spoke behind him. âTim, can I speak to you a moment?â

Tim Kendal started.

âHallo, Evelyn, is there anything I can do for you?â

Evelyn looked round.

âCome to this table here, and letâs sit down a minute.â

She led the way to a table at the extreme end of the terrace. There were no other people near them.

âTim, you must forgive me talking to you, but Iâm worried about Molly.â

His face changed at once.

âWhat about Molly?â he said stiffly.

âI donât think sheâs awfully well. She seems upset.â

âThings do seem to upset her rather easily just lately.â

âShe ought to see a doctor, I think.â

âYes, I know, but she doesnât want to. Sheâd hate it.â

âWhy?â

âEh? What dâyou mean?â

âI said why? Why should she hate seeing a doctor?â

âWell,â said Tim rather vaguely, âpeople do sometimes, you know. Itâsâwell, it sort of makes them feel frightened about themselves.â

âYouâre worried about her yourself, arenât you, Tim?â

âYes. Yes, I am rather.â

âIsnât there anyone of her family who could come out here to be with her?â

âNo. Thatâd make things worse, far worse.â

âWhat is the troubleâwith her family, I mean?â

âOh, just one of those things. I suppose sheâs just highly strung andâshe didnât get on with themâparticularly her mother. She never has. Theyâreâtheyâre rather an odd family in some ways and she cut loose from them. Good thing she did, I think.â

Evelyn said hesitantlyââShe seems to have had blackouts, from what she told me, and to be frightened of people. Almost like persecution mania.â

âDonât say that,â said Tim angrily. âPersecution mania! People always say that about people. Just because sheâwellâmaybe sheâs a bit nervy. Coming out here to the West Indies. All the dark faces. You know, people are rather queer, sometimes, about the West Indies and coloured people.â

âSurely not girls like Molly?â

âOh, how does one know the things people are frightened of? There are people who canât be in the room with cats. And other people who faint if a caterpillar drops on them.â

âI hate suggesting itâbut donât you think perhaps she ought to see aâwell, a psychiatrist?â

âNo!â said Tim explosively. âI wonât have people like that monkeying about with her. I donât believe in them. They make people worse. If her mother had left psychiatrists aloneâ¦.â

âSo there was trouble of that kind in her familyâwas there? I mean a history ofââ she chose the word carefullyââinstability.â

âI donât want to talk about itâI took her away from it all and she was all right, quite all right. She has just got into a nervous state â¦ But these things arenât hereditary. Everybody knows that nowadays. Itâs an exploded idea. Mollyâs perfectly sane. Itâs just thatâoh! I believe it was that wretched old Palgrave dying that started it all off.â

âI see,â said Evelyn thoughtfully. âBut there was nothing really to worry anyone in Major Palgraveâs death, was there?â

âNo, of course there wasnât. But itâs a kind of shock when somebody dies suddenly.â

He looked so desperate and defeated that Evelynâs heart smote her. She put her hand on his arm.

âWell, I hope you know what youâre doing, Tim, but if I could help in any wayâI mean if I could go with Molly to New YorkâI could fly with her there or Miami or somewhere where she could get really first-class medical advice.â

âItâs very good of you, Evelyn, but Mollyâs all right. Sheâs getting over it, anyway.â

Evelyn shook her head in doubt. She turned away slowly and looked along the line of the terrace. Most people had gone by now to their bungalows. Evelyn was walking towards her table to see if sheâd left anything behind there, when she heard Tim give an exclamation. She looked up sharply. He was staring towards the steps at the end of the terrace and she followed his gaze. Then she too caught her breath.

Molly was coming up the steps from the beach. She was breathless with deep, sobbing breaths, her body swayed to and fro as she came, in a curious directionless run. Tim cried:

âMolly! Whatâs the matter?â

He ran towards her and Evelyn followed him. Molly was at the top of the steps now and she stood there, both hands behind her back. She said in sobbing breaths:

âI found her â¦ Sheâs there in the bushes â¦ There in the bushes â¦ And look at my handsâlook at my hands.â She held them out and Evelyn caught her breath as she saw the queer dark stains. They looked dark in the subdued lighting but she knew well enough that their real colour was red.

âWhatâs happened, Molly?â cried Tim.

âDown there,â said Molly. She swayed on her feet. âIn the bushesâ¦.â

Tim hesitated, looked at Evelyn, then shoved Molly a little towards Evelyn and ran down the steps. Evelyn put her arm round the girl.

âCome. Sit down, Molly. Here. Youâd better have something to drink.â

Molly collapsed in a chair and leaned forward on the table, her forehead on her crossed arm. Evelyn did not question her any more. She thought it better to leave her time to recover.

âItâll be all right, you know,â said Evelyn gently. âItâll be all right.â

âI donât know,â said Molly. âI donât know what happened. I donât know anything. I canât remember. Iââ she raised her head suddenly. âWhatâs the matter with me? Whatâs the matter with me?â

âItâs all right, child. Itâs all right.â

Tim was coming slowly up the steps. His face was ghastly. Evelyn looked up at him, raising her eyebrows in a query.

âItâs one of our girls,â he said. âWhatâs-her-nameâVictoria. Somebodyâs put a knife in her.â

Fourteen

INQUIRY

I

Molly lay on her bed. Dr. Graham and Dr. Robertson, the West Indian police doctor, stood on one sideâTim on the other. Robertson had his hand on Mollyâs pulseâHe nodded to the man at the foot of the bed, a slender dark man in police uniform, Inspector Weston of the St. HonorÃ© Police Force.

âA bare statementâno more,â the doctor said.

The other nodded.

âNow, Mrs. Kendalâjust tell us how you came to find this girl.â

For a moment or two it was as though the figure on the bed had not heard. Then she spoke in a faint, faraway voice.

âIn the bushesâwhiteâ¦.â

âYou saw something whiteâand you looked to see what it was? Is that it?â

âYesâwhiteâlying thereâI triedâtried to liftâshe itâbloodâblood all over my hands.â

She began to tremble.

Dr. Graham shook his head at them. Robertson whisperedââShe canât stand much more.â

âWhat were you doing on the beach path, Mrs. Kendal?â

âWarmâniceâby the seaââ

âYou knew who the girl was?â

âVictoriaâniceânice girlâlaughsâshe used to laughâoh! and now she wonâtâShe wonât ever laugh again. Iâll never forget itâIâll never forget itââ Her voice rose hysterically.

âMollyâdonât.â It was Tim.

âQuietâQuietââ Dr. Robertson spoke with a soothing authorityââJust relaxârelaxâNow just a small prickââ He withdrew the hypodermic.

âSheâll be in no fit condition to be questioned for at least twenty-four hours,â he saidââIâll let you know when.â

II

The big handsome negro looked from one to the other of the men sitting at the table.

âAh declare to God,â he said. âThatâs all Ah know. Ah donât know nothing but what Ahâve told you.â

The perspiration stood out on his forehead. Daventry sighed. The man presiding at the table, Inspector Weston of the St. HonorÃ© CID, made a gesture of dismissal. Big Jim Ellis shuffled out of the room.

âItâs not all he knows, of course,â Weston said. He had the soft Island voice. âBut itâs all we shall learn from him.â

âYou think heâs in the clear himself?â asked Daventry.

âYes. They seem to have been on good terms together.â

âThey werenât married?â

A faint smile appeared on Lieutenant Westonâs lips. âNo,â he said, âthey werenât married. We donât have so many marriages on the Island. They christen the children, though. Heâs had two children by Victoria.â

âDo you think he was in it, whatever it was, with her?â

âProbably not. I think heâd have been nervous of anything of that kind. And Iâd say, too, that what she did know wasnât very much.â

âBut enough for blackmail?â

âI donât know that Iâd even call it that. I doubt if the girl would even understand that word. Payment for being discreet isnât thought of as blackmail. You see, some of the people who stay here are the rich playboy lot and their morals wonât bear much investigation.â His voice was slightly scathing.

âWe get all kinds, I agree,â said Daventry. âA woman, maybe, doesnât want it known that sheâs sleeping around, so she gives a present to the girl who waits on her. Itâs tacitly understood that the paymentâs for discretion.â

âExactly.â

âBut this,â objected Daventry, âwasnât anything of that kind. It was murder.â

âI should doubt, though, if the girl knew it was serious. She saw something, some puzzling incident, something to do presumably with this bottle of pills. It belonged to Mr. Dyson, I understand. Weâd better see him next.â

Gregory came in with his usual hearty air.

âHere I am,â he said, âwhat can I do to help? Too bad about this girl. She was a nice girl. We both liked her. I suppose it was some sort of quarrel or other with a man, but she seemed quite happy and no signs of being in trouble about anything. I was kidding her only last night.â

âI believe you take a preparation, Mr. Dyson, called Serenite?â

âQuite right. Little pink tablets.â

âYou have them on prescription from a physician?â

âYes. I can show it to you if you like. Suffer a bit from high blood pressure, like so many people do nowadays.â

âVery few people seem to be aware of that fact.â

âWell, I donât go talking about it. Iâwell, Iâve always been well and hearty and I never like people who talk about their ailments all the time.â

âHow many of the pills do you take?â

âTwo, three times a day.â

âDo you have a fairly large stock with you?â

âYes. Iâve got about half a dozen bottles. But theyâre locked up, you know, in a suitcase. I only keep out one, the one thatâs in current use.â

âAnd you missed this bottle a short time ago, so I hear?â

âQuite right.â

âAnd you asked this girl, Victoria Johnson, whether sheâd seen it?â

âYes, I did.â

âAnd what did she say?â

âShe said the last time sheâd seen it was on the shelf in our bathroom. She said sheâd looked around.â

âAnd after that?â

âShe came and returned the bottle to me some time later. She said was this the bottle that was missing?â

âAnd you said?â

âI said âThatâs it, all right, where did you find it?â and she said it was in old Major Palgraveâs room. I said âHow on earth did it get there?ââ

âAnd what did she answer to that?â

âShe said she didnât know, butââ he hesitated.

âYes, Mr. Dyson?â

âWell, she gave me the feeling that she did know a little more than she was saying, but I didnât pay much attention. After all, it wasnât very important. As I say, Iâve got other bottles of the pills with me. I thought perhaps Iâd left it around in the restaurant or somewhere and old Palgrave picked it up for some reason. Perhaps he put it in his pocket meaning to return it to me, then forgot.â

âAnd thatâs all you know about it, Mr. Dyson?â

âThatâs all I know. Sorry to be so unhelpful. Is it important? Why?â

Weston shrugged his shoulders. âAs things are, anything may be important.â

âI donât see where pills come in. I thought youâd want to know about what my movements were when this wretched girl was stabbed. Iâve written them all down as carefully as I can.â

Weston looked at him thoughtfully.

âIndeed? That was very helpful of you, Mr. Dyson.â

âSave everybody trouble, I thought,â said Greg. He shoved a piece of paper across the table.

Weston studied it and Daventry drew his chair a little closer and looked over his shoulder.

âThat seems very clear,â said Weston, after a moment or two. âYou and your wife were together changing for dinner in your bungalow until ten minutes to nine. You then went along to the terrace where you had drinks with SeÃ±ora de Caspearo. At quarter past nine Colonel and Mrs. Hillingdon joined you and you went in to dine. As far as you can remember, you went off to bed at about half past eleven.â

âOf course,â said Greg, âI donât know what time the girl was actually killedâ?â

There was a faint semblance of a question in the words. Lieutenant Weston, however, did not appear to notice it.

âMrs. Kendal found her, I understand? Must have been a very nasty shock for her.â

âYes. Dr. Robertson had to give her a sedative.â

âThis was quite late, wasnât it, when most people had trundled off to bed?â

âYes.â

âHad she been dead long? When Mrs. Kendal found her, I mean?â

âWeâre not quite certain of the exact time yet,â said Weston smoothly.

âPoor little Molly. It must have been a nasty shock for her. Matter of fact, I didnât notice her about last night. Thought she might have had a headache or something and was lying down.â

âWhen was the last time you did see Mrs. Kendal?â

âOh, quite early, before I went to change. She was playing about with some of the table decorations and things. Rearranging the knives.â

âI see.â

âShe was quite cheerful then,â said Greg. âKidding and all that. Sheâs a great girl. Weâre all very fond of her. Timâs a lucky fellow.â

âWell, thank you, Mr. Dyson. You canât remember anything more than youâve told us about what the girl Victoria said when she returned the tablets?â

âNo â¦ It was just as I say. Asked me were these the tablets Iâd been asking for. Said sheâd found them in old Palgraveâs room.â

âSheâd no idea who put them there?â

âDonât think soâcanât remember, really.â

âThank you, Mr. Dyson.â

Gregory went out.

âVery thoughtful of him,â said Weston, gently tapping the paper with his fingernail, âto be so anxious to want us to know for sure exactly where he was last night.â

âA little over-anxious do you think?â asked Daventry.

âThatâs very difficult to tell. There are people, you know, who are naturally nervous about their own safety, about being mixed up with anything. It isnât necessarily because they have any guilty knowledge. On the other hand it might be just that.â

âWhat about opportunity? Nobodyâs really got much of an alibi, what with the band and the dancing and the coming and going. People are getting up, leaving their tables, coming back. Women go to powder their noses. Men take a stroll. Dyson could have slipped away. Anybody could have slipped away. But he does seem rather anxious to prove that he didnât.â He looked thoughtfully down at the paper. âSo Mrs. Kendal was rearranging knives on the table,â he said. âI rather wonder if he dragged that in on purpose.â

âDid it sound like it to you?â

The other considered. âI think itâs possible.â

Outside the room where the two men were sitting, a noise had arisen. A high voice was demanding admittance shrilly.

âIâve got something to tell. Iâve got something to tell. You take me in to where the gentlemen are. You take me in to where the policeman is.â

A uniformed policeman pushed open the door.

âItâs one of the cooks here,â he said, âvery anxious to see you. Says heâs got something you ought to know.â

A frightened dark man in a cookâs cap pushed past him and came into the room. It was one of the minor cooks. A Cuban, not a native of St. HonorÃ©.

âI tell you something. I tell you,â he said. âShe come through my kitchen, she did, and she had a knife with her. A knife, I tell you. She had a knife in her hand. She come through my kitchen and out the door. Out into the garden. I saw her.â

âNow calm down,â said Daventry, âcalm down. Who are you talking about?â

âI tell you who Iâm talking about. Iâm talking about the bossâs wife. Mrs. Kendal. Iâm talking about her. She have a knife in her hand and she go out into the dark. Before dinner that wasâand she didnât come back.â

Fifteen

INQUIRY CONTINUED

I

âCan we have a word with you, Mr. Kendal?â

âOf course.â Tim looked up from his desk. He pushed some papers aside and indicated chairs. His face was drawn and miserable. âHow are you getting on? Got any forwarder? There seems to be a doom in this place. People are wanting to leave, you know, asking about air passages. Just when it seemed everything was being a success. Oh Lord, you donât know what it means, this place, to me and to Molly. We staked everything on it.â

âItâs very hard on you, I know,â said Inspector Weston. âDonât think that we donât sympathize.â

âIf it all could be cleared up quickly,â said Tim. âThis wretched girl VictoriaâOh! I oughtnât to talk about her like that. She was quite a good sort, Victoria was. Butâbut there must be some quite simple reason, someâkind of intrigue, or love affair she had. Perhaps her husbandââ

âJim Ellis wasnât her husband, and they seemed a settled sort of couple.â

âIf it could only be cleared up quickly,â said Tim again. âIâm sorry. You wanted to talk to me about something, ask me something.â

âYes. It was about last night. According to medical evidence Victoria was killed some time between 10:30 pm and midnight. Alibis under the circumstances that prevail here are not very easy to prove. People are moving about, dancing, walking away from the terrace, coming back. Itâs all very difficult.â

âI suppose so. But does that mean that you definitely consider Victoria was killed by one of the guests here?â

âWell, we have to examine that possibility, Mr. Kendal. What I want to ask you particularly about, is a statement made by one of your cooks.â

âOh? Which one? What does he say?â

âHeâs a Cuban, I understand.â

âWeâve got two Cubans and a Puerto Rican.â

âThis man Enrico states that your wife passed through the kitchen on her way from the dining room, and went out into the garden and that she was carrying a knife.â

Tim stared at him.

âMolly, carrying a knife? Well, why shouldnât she? I meanâwhyâyou donât thinkâwhat are you trying to suggest?â

âI am talking of the time before people had come into the dining room. It would be, I suppose, some time about 8:30. You yourself were in the dining room talking to the head waiter, Fernando, I believe.â

âYes.â Tim cast his mind back. âYes, I remember.â

âAnd your wife came in from the terrace?â

âYes, she did,â Tim agreed. âShe always went out to look over the tables. Sometimes the boys set things wrong, forgot some of the cutlery, things like that. Very likely thatâs what it was. She may have been rearranging cutlery or something. She might have had a spare knife or a spoon, something like that in her hand.â

âAnd she came from the terrace into the dining room. Did she speak to you?â

âYes, we had a word or two together.â

âWhat did she say? Can you remember?â

âI think I asked her who sheâd been talking to. I heard her voice out there.â

âAnd who did she say sheâd been talking to?â

âGregory Dyson.â

âAh. Yes. That is what he said.â

Tim went on, âHeâd been making a pass at her, I understand. He was a bit given to that kind of thing. It annoyed me and I said âBlast himâ and Molly laughed and said she could do all the blasting that needed to be done. Mollyâs a very clever girl that way. Itâs not always an easy position, you know. You canât offend guests, and so an attractive girl like Molly has to pass things off with a laugh and a shrug. Gregory Dyson finds it difficult to keep his hands off any good-looking woman.â

âHad there been an altercation between them?â

âNo, I donât think so. I think, as I say, she just laughed it off as usual.â

âYou canât say definitely whether she had a knife in her hand or not?â

âI canât rememberâIâm almost sure she didnâtâin fact quite sure she didnât.â

âBut you said just nowâ¦.â

âLook here, what I meant was that if she was in the dining room or in the kitchen itâs quite likely she might have picked up a knife or had one in her hand. Matter of fact I can remember quite well, she came in from the dining room and she had nothing in her hand. Nothing at all. Thatâs definite.â

âI see,â said Weston.

Tim looked at him uneasily.

âWhat on earth is this youâre getting at? What did that damnâ fool EnricoâManuelâwhoever it wasâsay?â

âHe said your wife came out into the kitchen, that she looked upset, that she had a knife in her hand.â

âHeâs just dramatizing.â

âDid you have any further conversation with your wife during dinner or after?â

âNo, I donât think I did really. Matter of fact I was rather busy.â

âWas your wife there in the dining room during the meal?â

âIâohâyes, we always move about among the guests and things like that. See how things are going on.â

âDid you speak to her at all?â

âNo, I donât think I did â¦ Weâre usually fairly busy. We donât always notice what the other oneâs doing and we certainly havenât got time to talk to each other.â

âActually you donât remember speaking to her until she came up the steps three hours later, after finding the body?â

âIt was an awful shock for her. It upset her terribly.â

âI know. A very unpleasant experience. How did she come to be walking along the beach path?â

âAfter the stress of dinner being served, she often does go for a turn. You know, get away from the guests for a minute or two, get a breather.â

âWhen she came back, I understand you were talking to Mrs. Hillingdon.â

âYes. Practically everyone else had gone to bed.â

âWhat was the subject of your conversation with Mrs. Hillingdon?â

âNothing particular. Why? Whatâs she been saying?â

âSo far she hasnât said anything. We havenât asked her.â

âWe were just talking of this and that. Molly, and hotel running, and one thing and another.â

âAnd thenâyour wife came up the steps of the terrace and told you what had happened?â

âYes.â

âThere was blood on her hands?â

âOf course there was! Sheâd been over the girl, tried to lift her, couldnât understand what had happened, what was the matter with her. Of course there was blood on her hands! Look here, what the hell are you suggesting? You are suggesting something?â

âPlease calm down,â said Daventry. âItâs all a great strain on you I know, Tim, but we have to get the facts clear. I understand your wife hasnât been feeling very well lately?â

âNonsenseâsheâs all right. Major Palgraveâs death upset her a bit. Naturally. Sheâs a sensitive girl.â

âWe shall have to ask her a few questions as soon as sheâs fit enough,â said Weston.

âWell, you canât now. The doctor gave her a sedative and said she wasnât to be disturbed. I wonât have her upset and brow-beaten, dâyou hear?â

âWeâre not going to do any brow-beating,â said Weston. âWeâve just got to get the facts clear. We wonât disturb her at present, but as soon as the doctor allows us, weâll have to see her.â His voice was gentleâinflexible.

Tim looked at him, opened his mouth, but said nothing.

II

Evelyn Hillingdon, calm and composed as usual, sat down in the chair indicated. She considered the few questions asked her, taking her time over it. Her dark, intelligent eyes looked at Weston thoughtfully.

âYes,â she said, âI was talking to Mr. Kendal on the terrace when his wife came up the steps and told us about the murder.â

âYour husband wasnât there?â

âNo, he had gone to bed.â

âHad you any special reason for your conversation with Mr. Kendal?â

Evelyn raised her finely pencilled eyebrowsâIt was a definite rebuke.

She said coldly:

âWhat a very odd question. Noâthere was nothing special about our conversation.â

âDid you discuss the matter of his wifeâs health?â

Again Evelyn took her time.

âI really canât remember,â she said at last.

âAre you sure of that?â

âSure that I canât remember? What a curious way of putting itâone talks about so many things at different times.â

âMrs. Kendal has not been in good health lately, I understand.â

âShe looked quite all rightâa little tired perhaps. Of course running a place like this means a lot of worries, and she is quite inexperienced. Naturally, she gets flustered now and then.â

âFlustered.â Weston repeated the word. âThat was the way you would describe it?â

âItâs an old-fashioned word, perhaps, but just as good as the modern jargon we use for everythingâA âvirus infectionâ for a bilious attackâan âanxiety neurosisâ for the minor bothers of daily lifeââ

Her smile made Weston feel slightly ridiculous. He thought to himself that Evelyn Hillingdon was a clever woman. He looked at Daventry, whose face remained unmoved, and wondered what he thought.

âThank you, Mrs. Hillingdon,â said Weston.

III

âWe donât want to worry you, Mrs. Kendal, but we have to have your account of just how you came to find this girl. Dr. Graham says you are sufficiently recovered to talk about it now.â

âOh yes,â said Molly, âIâm really quite all right again.â She gave them a small nervous smile. âIt was just the shockâIt was rather awful, you know.â

âYes, indeed it must have beenâI understand you went for a walk after dinner.â

âYesâI often do.â

Her eyes shifted, Daventry noticed, and the fingers of her hands twined and untwined about each other.

âWhat time would that have been, Mrs. Kendal?â asked Weston.

âWell, I donât really knowâwe donât go much by the time.â

âThe steel band was still playing?â

âYesâat leastâI think soâI canât really remember.â

âAnd you walkedâwhich way?â

âOh, along the beach path.â

âTo the left or the right?â

âOh! First one wayâand then the otherâIâIâreally didnât notice.â

âWhy didnât you notice, Mrs. Kendal?â

She frowned.

âI suppose I wasâwellâthinking of things.â

âThinking of anything particular?â

âNoâNoâNothing particularâJust things that had to be doneâseen toâin the hotel.â Again that nervous twining and untwining of fingers. âAnd thenâI noticed something whiteâin a clump of hibiscus bushesâand I wondered what it was. I stopped andâand pulledââ She swallowed convulsivelyââAnd it was herâVictoriaâall huddled upâand I tried to raise her head up and I gotâbloodâon my hands.â

She looked at them and repeated wonderingly as though recalling something impossible:

âBloodâon my hands.â

âYesâYesâA very dreadful experience. There is no need for you to tell us more about that part of itâHow long had you been walking, do you think, when you found herââ

âI donât knowâI have no idea.â

âAn hour? Half an hour? Or more than an hourââ

âI donât know,â Molly repeated.

Daventry asked in a quiet everyday voice:

âDid you take a knife with you on yourâwalk?â

âA knife?â Molly sounded surprised. âWhy should I take a knife?â

âI only ask because one of the kitchen staff mentioned that you had a knife in your hand when you went out of the kitchen into the garden.â

Molly frowned.

âBut I didnât go out of the kitchenâoh you mean earlierâbefore dinnerâIâI donât think soââ

âYou had been rearranging the cutlery on the tables, perhaps.â

âI have to, sometimes. They lay things wrongânot enough knivesâor too many. The wrong number of forks and spoonsâthat sort of thing.â

âSo you may have gone out of the kitchen that evening carrying a knife in your hand?â

âI donât think I didâIâm sure I didnâtââ She addedââTim was thereâhe would know. Ask him.â

âDid you like this girlâVictoriaâwas she good at her work?â asked Weston.

âYesâshe was a very nice girl.â

âYou had no dispute with her?â

âDispute? No.â

âShe had never threatened youâin any way?â

âThreatened me? What do you mean?â

âIt doesnât matterâYou have no idea of who could have killed her? No idea at all?â

âNone.â She spoke positively.

âWell, thank you, Mrs. Kendal.â He smiled. âIt wasnât so terrible, was it?â

âThatâs all?â

âThatâs all for now.â

Daventry got up, opened the door for her, and watched her go out.

âTim would know,â he quoted as he returned to his chair. âAnd Tim says definitely that she didnât have a knife.â

Weston said gravely:

âI think that that is what any husband would feel called upon to say.â

âA table knife seems a very poor type of knife to use for murder.â

âBut it was a steak knife, Mr. Daventry. Steaks were on the menu that evening. Steak knives are kept sharp.â

âI really canât bring myself to believe that that girl weâve just been talking to is a red-handed murderess, Weston.â

âIt is not necessary to believe it yet. It could be that Mrs. Kendal went out into the garden before dinner, clasping a knife she had taken off one of the tables because it was superfluousâshe might not even have noticed she was holding it, and she could have put it down somewhereâor dropped itâIt could have been found and used by someone elseâI, too, think her an unlikely murderess.â

âAll the same,â said Daventry thoughtfully, âIâm pretty sure she is not telling all she knows. Her vagueness over time is oddâwhere was sheâwhat was she doing out there? Nobody, so far, seems to have noticed her in the dining room that evening.â

âThe husband was about as usualâbut not the wifeââ

âYou think she went to meet someoneâVictoria Johnson?â

âPerhapsâor perhaps she saw whoever it was who did go to meet Victoria.â

âYouâre thinking of Gregory Dyson?â

âWe know he was talking to Victoria earlierâHe may have arranged to meet her again laterâeveryone moved around freely on the terrace, rememberâdancing, drinkingâin and out of the bar.â

âNo alibi like a steel band,â said Daventry wryly.

Sixteen

MISS MARPLE SEEKS ASSISTANCE

If anybody had been there to observe the gentle-looking elderly lady who stood meditatively on the loggia outside her bungalow, they would have thought she had nothing more on her mind than deliberation on how to arrange her time that dayâAn expedition, perhaps, to Castle Cliffâa visit to Jamestownâa nice drive and lunch at Pelican Pointâor just a quiet morning on the beachâ

But the gentle old lady was deliberating quite other mattersâshe was in militant mood.

âSomething has got to be done,â said Miss Marple to herself.

Moreover, she was convinced that there was no time to be lostâThere was urgency.

But who was there that she could convince of that fact? Given time, she thought she could find out the truth by herself.

She had found out a good deal. But not enoughânot nearly enough. And time was short.

She realized, bitterly, that here on this Paradise of an island, she had none of her usual allies.

She thought regretfully of her friends in EnglandâSir Henry Clitheringâalways willing to listen indulgentlyâhis godson Dermot, who in spite of his increased status at Scotland Yard was still ready to believe that when Miss Marple voiced an opinion there was usually something behind it.

But would that soft-voiced native police officer pay any attention to an old ladyâs urgency? Dr. Graham? But Dr. Graham was not what she neededâtoo gentle and hesitant, certainly not a man of quick decisions and rapid actions.

Miss Marple, feeling rather like a humble deputy of the Almighty, almost cried aloud her need in Biblical phrasing.

Who will go for me?

Whom shall I send?

The sound that reached her ears a moment later was not instantly recognized by her as an answer to prayerâfar from itâAt the back of her mind it registered only as a man possibly calling his dog.

âHi!â

Miss Marple, lost in perplexity, paid no attention.

âHi!â The volume thus increased, Miss Marple looked vaguely round.

âHI!â called Mr. Rafiel impatiently. He addedââYou thereââ

Miss Marple had not at first realized that Mr. Rafielâs âHi Youâ was addressed to her. It was not a method that anyone had ever used before to summon her. It was certainly not a gentlemanly mode of address. Miss Marple did not resent it, because people seldom did resent Mr. Rafielâs somewhat arbitrary method of doing things. He was a law unto himself and people accepted him as such. Miss Marple looked across the intervening space between her bungalow and his. Mr. Rafiel was sitting outside on his loggia and he beckoned her.

âYou were calling me?â she asked.

âOf course I was calling you,â said Mr. Rafiel. âWho did you think I was callingâa cat? Come over here.â

Miss Marple looked round for her handbag, picked it up, and crossed the intervening space.

âI canât come to you unless someone helps me,â explained Mr. Rafiel, âso youâve got to come to me.â

âOh yes,â said Miss Marple, âI quite understand that.â

Mr. Rafiel pointed to an adjacent chair. âSit down,â he said, âI want to talk to you. Something damned odd is going on in this island.â

âYes, indeed,â agreed Miss Marple, taking the chair as indicated. By sheer habit she drew her knitting out of her bag.

âDonât start knitting again,â said Mr. Rafiel, âI canât stand it. I hate women knitting. It irritates me.â

Miss Marple returned her knitting to her bag. She did this with no undue air of meekness, rather with the air of one who makes allowances for a fractious patient.

âThereâs a lot of chit-chat going on,â said Mr. Rafiel, âand I bet youâre in the forefront of it. You and the parson and his sister.â

âIt is, perhaps, only natural that there should be chit-chat,â said Miss Marple with spirit, âgiven the circumstances.â

âThis Island girl gets herself knifed. Found in the bushes. Might be ordinary enough. That chap she was living with might have got jealous of another manâor heâd got himself another girl and she got jealous and they had a row. Sex in the tropics. That sort of stuff. What do you say?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, shaking her head.

âThe authorities donât think so, either.â

âThey would say more to you,â pointed out Miss Marple, âthan they would say to me.â

âAll the same, I bet you know more about it than I do. Youâve listened to the tittle-tattle.â

âCertainly I have,â said Miss Marple.

âNothing much else to do, have you, except listen to tittle-tattle?â

âIt is often informative and useful.â

âDâyou know,â said Mr. Rafiel, studying her attentively. âI made a mistake about you. I donât often make mistakes about people. Thereâs a lot more to you than I thought there was. All these rumours about Major Palgrave and the stories he told. You think he was bumped off, donât you?â

âI very much fear so,â said Miss Marple.

âWell, he was,â said Mr. Rafiel.

Miss Marple drew a deep breath. âThat is definite, is it?â she asked.

âYes, itâs definite enough. I had it from Daventry. Iâm not breaking a confidence because the facts of the autopsy will have to come out. You told Graham something, he went to Daventry, Daventry went to the Administrator, the CID were informed, and between them they agreed that things looked fishy, so they dug up old Palgrave and had a look.â

âAnd they found?â Miss Marple paused interrogatively.

âThey found heâd had a lethal dose of something that only a doctor could pronounce properly. As far as I remember it sounds vaguely like di-flor, hexagonal-ethylcarbenzol. Thatâs not the right name. But thatâs roughly what it sounds like. The police doctor put it that way so that nobody should know, I suppose, what it really was. The stuffâs probably got some quite simple nice easy name like Evipan or Veronal or Eastonâs Syrup or something of that kind. This is its official name to baffle laymen with. Anyway, a sizeable dose of it, I gather, would produce death, and the signs would be much the same as those of high blood pressure aggravated by over-indulgence in alcohol on a gay evening. In fact, it all looked perfectly natural and nobody questioned it for a moment. Just said âpoor old chapâ and buried him quick. Now they wonder if he ever had high blood pressure at all. Did he ever say he had to you?â

âNo.â

âExactly! And yet everyone seems to have taken it as a fact.â

âApparently he told people he had.â

âItâs like seeing ghosts,â said Mr. Rafiel. âYou never meet the chap whoâs seen the ghost himself. Itâs always the second cousin of his aunt, or a friend, or a friend of a friend. But leave that for a moment. They thought he had blood pressure, because there was a bottle of tablets controlling blood pressure found in his room butâand now weâre coming to the pointâI gather that this girl who was killed went about saying that that bottle was put there by somebody else, and that actually it belonged to that fellow Greg.â

âMr. Dyson has got blood pressure. His wife mentioned it,â said Miss Marple.

âSo it was put in Palgraveâs room to suggest that he suffered from blood pressure and to make his death seem natural.â

âExactly,â said Miss Marple. âAnd the story was put about, very cleverly, that he had frequently mentioned to people that he had high blood pressure. But you know, itâs very easy to put about a story. Very easy. Iâve seen a lot of it in my time.â

âI bet you have,â said Mr. Rafiel.

âIt only needs a murmur here and there,â said Miss Marple. âYou donât say it of your own knowledge, you just say that Mrs. B. told you that Colonel C. told her. Itâs always at second hand or third hand or fourth hand and itâs very difficult to find out who was the original whisperer. Oh yes, it can be done. And the people you say it to go on and repeat it to others as if they know it of their own knowledge.â

âSomebodyâs been clever,â said Mr. Rafiel thoughtfully.

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âI think somebodyâs been quite clever.â

âThis girl saw something, or knew something and tried blackmail, I suppose,â said Mr. Rafiel.

âShe maynât have thought of it as blackmail,â said Miss Marple. âIn these large hotels, there are often things the maids know that some people would rather not have repeated. And so they hand out a larger tip or a little present of money. The girl possibly didnât realize at first the importance of what she knew.â

âStill, she got a knife in her back all right,â said Mr. Rafiel brutally.

âYes. Evidently someone couldnât afford to let her talk.â

âWell? Letâs hear what you think about it all.â

Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully.

âWhy should you think I know any more than you do, Mr. Rafiel?â

âProbably you donât,â said Mr. Rafiel, âbut Iâm interested to hear your ideas about what you do know.â

âBut why?â

âThereâs not very much to do out here,â said Mr. Rafiel, âexcept make money.â

Miss Marple looked slightly surprised.

âMake money? Out here?â

âYou can send out half a dozen cables in code every day if you like,â said Mr. Rafiel. âThatâs how I amuse myself.â

âTake-over bids?â Miss Marple asked doubtfully, in the tone of one who speaks a foreign language.

âThat kind of thing,â agreed Mr. Rafiel. âPitting your wits against other peopleâs wits. The trouble is it doesnât occupy enough time, so Iâve got interested in this business. Itâs aroused my curiosity. Palgrave spent a good deal of his time talking to you. Nobody else would be bothered with him, I expect. What did he say?â

âHe told me a good many stories,â said Miss Marple.

âI know he did. Damnâ boring, most of them. And you hadnât only got to hear them once. If you got anywhere within range you heard them three or four times over.â

âI know,â said Miss Marple. âIâm afraid that does happen when gentlemen get older.â

Mr. Rafiel looked at her very sharply.

âI donât tell stories,â he said. âGo on. It started with one of Palgraveâs stories, did it?â

âHe said he knew a murderer,â said Miss Marple. âThereâs nothing really special about that,â she added in her gentle voice, âbecause I suppose it happens to nearly everybody.â

âI donât follow you,â said Mr. Rafiel.

âI donât mean specifically,â said Miss Marple, âbut surely, Mr. Rafiel, if you cast over in your mind your recollections of various events in your life, hasnât there nearly always been an occasion when somebody has made some careless reference such as âOh yes I knew the So-and-Soâs quite wellâhe died very suddenly and they always say his wife did him in, but I dare say thatâs just gossip.â Youâve heard people say something like that, havenât you?â

âWell, I suppose soâyes, something of the kind. But notâwell, not seriously.â

âExactly,â said Miss Marple, âbut Major Palgrave was a very serious man. I think he enjoyed telling this story. He said he had a snapshot of the murderer. He was going to show it to me butâactuallyâhe didnât.â

âWhy?â

âBecause he saw something,â said Miss Marple. âSaw someone, I suspect. His face got very red and he shoved back the snapshot into his wallet and began talking on another subject.â

âWho did he see?â

âIâve thought about that a good deal,â said Miss Marple. âI was sitting outside my bungalow, and he was sitting nearly opposite me andâwhatever he saw, he saw over my right shoulder.â

âSomeone coming along the path then from behind you on the right, the path from the creek and the car parkââ

âYes.â

âWas anyone coming along the path?â

âMr. and Mrs. Dyson and Colonel and Mrs. Hillingdon.â

âAnybody else?â

âNot that I can find out. Of course, your bungalow would also be in his line of visionâ¦.â

âAh. Then we includeâshall we sayâEsther Walters and my chap, Jackson. Is that right? Either of them, I suppose, might have come out of the bungalow and gone back inside again without your seeing them.â

âThey might have,â said Miss Marple, âI didnât turn my head at once.â

âThe Dysons, the Hillingdons, Esther, Jackson. One of themâs a murderer. Or, of course, myself,â he added; obviously as an afterthought.

Miss Marple smiled faintly.

âAnd he spoke of the murderer as a man?â

âYes.â

âRight. That cuts out Evelyn Hillingdon, Lucky and Esther Walters. So your murderer, allowing that all this far-fetched nonsense is true, your murderer is Dyson, Hillingdon or my smooth-tongued Jackson.â

âOr yourself,â said Miss Marple.

Mr. Rafiel ignored this last point.

âDonât say things to irritate me,â he said. âIâll tell you the first thing that strikes me, and which you donât seem to have thought of. If itâs one of those three, why the devil didnât old Palgrave recognize him before? Dash it all, theyâve all been sitting round looking at each other for the last two weeks. That doesnât seem to make sense.â

âI think it could,â said Miss Marple.

âWell, tell me how.â

âYou see, in Major Palgraveâs story he hadnât seen this man himself at any time. It was a story told to him by a doctor. The doctor gave him the snapshot as a curiosity. Major Palgrave may have looked at the snapshot fairly closely at the time but after that heâd just stack it away in his wallet and keep it as a souvenir. Occasionally, perhaps, heâd take it out and show it to someone he was telling the story to. And another thing, Mr. Rafiel, we donât know how long ago this happened. He didnât give me any indication of that when he was telling the story. I mean this may have been a story heâs been telling to people for years. Five yearsâten yearsâlonger still perhaps. Some of his tiger stories go back about twenty years.â

âThey would!â said Mr. Rafiel.

âSo I donât suppose for a moment that Major Palgrave would recognize the face in the snapshot if he came across the man casually. What I think happened, what Iâm almost sure must have happened, is that as he told his story he fumbled for the snapshot, took it out, looked down at it studying the face and then looked up to see the same face, or one with a strong resemblance, coming towards him from a distance of about ten or twelve feet away.â

âYes,â said Mr. Rafiel consideringly, âyes, thatâs possible.â

âHe was taken aback,â said Miss Marple, âand he shoved it back in his wallet and began to talk loudly about something else.â

âHe couldnât have been sure,â said Mr. Rafiel, shrewdly.

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âhe couldnât have been sure. But of course afterwards he would have studied the snapshot very carefully and would have looked at the man and tried to make up his mind whether it was just a likeness or whether it could actually be the same person.â

Mr. Rafiel reflected a moment or two, then he shook his head.

âThereâs something wrong here. The motiveâs inadequate. Absolutely inadequate. He was speaking to you loudly, was he?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âquite loudly. He always did.â

âTrue enough. Yes, he did shout. So whoever was approaching would hear what he said?â

âI should imagine you could hear it for quite a good radius round.â

Mr. Rafiel shook his head again. He said, âItâs fantastic, too fantastic. Anybody would laugh at such a story. Hereâs an old booby telling a story about another story somebody told him, and showing a snapshot, and all of it centring round a murder which had taken place years ago! Or at any rate, a year or two. How on earth can that worry the man in question? No evidence, just a bit of hearsay, a story at third hand. He could even admit a likeness, he could say: âYes, I do look rather like that fellow, donât I! Ha, ha!â Nobodyâs going to take old Palgraveâs identification seriously. Donât tell me so, because I wonât believe it. No, the chap, if it was the chap, had nothing to fearânothing whatever. Itâs the kind of accusation he can just laugh off. Why on earth should he proceed to murder old Palgrave? Itâs absolutely unnecessary. You must see that.â

âOh I do see that,â said Miss Marple. âI couldnât agree with you more. Thatâs what makes me uneasy. So very uneasy that I really couldnât sleep last night.â

Mr. Rafiel stared at her. âLetâs hear whatâs on your mind,â he said quietly.

âI may be entirely wrong,â said Miss Marple hesitantly.

âProbably you are,â said Mr. Rafiel with his usual lack of courtesy, âbut at any rate letâs hear what youâve thought up in the small hours.â

âThere could be a very powerful motive ifââ

âIf what?â

âIf there was going to beâquite soonâanother murder.â

Mr. Rafiel stared at her. He tried to pull himself up a little in his chair.

âLetâs get this clear,â he said.

âI am so bad at explaining.â Miss Marple spoke rapidly and rather incoherently. A pink flush rose to her cheeks. âSupposing there was a murder planned. If you remember, the story Major Palgrave told me concerned a man whose wife died under suspicious circumstances. Then, after a certain lapse of time, there was another murder under exactly the same circumstances. A man of a different name had a wife who died in much the same way and the doctor who was telling it recognized him as the same man, although heâd changed his name. Well, it does look, doesnât it, as though this murderer might be the kind of murderer who made a habit of the thing?â

âYou mean like Smith, Brides in the Bath, that kind of thing. Yes.â

âAs far as I can make out,â said Miss Marple, âand from what I have heard and read, a man who does a wicked thing like this and gets away with it the first time, is, alas, encouraged. He thinks itâs easy, he thinks heâs clever. And so he repeats it. And in the end, as you say, like Smith and the Brides in the Bath, it becomes a habit. Each time in a different place and each time the man changes his name. But the crimes themselves are all very much alike. So it seems to me, although I may be quite wrongââ

âBut you donât think you are wrong, do you?â Mr. Rafiel put in shrewdly.

Miss Marple went on without answering. ââthat if that were so and if thisâthis person had got things all lined up for a murder out here, for getting rid of another wife, say, and if this is crime three or four, well then, the Majorâs story would matter because the murderer couldnât afford to have any similarity pointed out. If you remember, that was exactly the way Smith got caught. The circumstances of a crime attracted the attention of somebody who compared it with a newspaper clipping of some other case. So you do see, donât you, that if this wicked person has got a crime planned, arranged, and shortly about to take place, he couldnât afford to let Major Palgrave go about telling this story and showing that snapshot.â

She stopped and looked appealingly at Mr. Rafiel.

âSo you see he had to do something very quickly, as quickly as possible.â

Mr. Rafiel spoke. âIn fact, that very same night, eh?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple.

âQuick work,â said Mr. Rafiel, âbut it could be done. Put the tablets in old Palgraveâs room, spread the blood pressure rumour about and add a little of our fourteen-syllable drug to a Planters Punch. Is that it?â

âYesâBut thatâs all overâwe neednât worry about it. Itâs the future. Itâs now. With Major Palgrave out of the way and the snapshot destroyed, this man will go on with his murder as planned.â

Mr. Rafiel whistled.

âYouâve got it all worked out, havenât you?â

Miss Marple nodded. She said in a most unaccustomed voice, firm and almost dictatorial, âAnd weâve got to stop it. Youâve got to stop it, Mr. Rafiel.â

âMe?â said Mr. Rafiel, astonished, âWhy me?â

âBecause youâre rich and important,â said Miss Marple, simply. âPeople will take notice of what you say or suggest. They wouldnât listen to me for a moment. They would say that I was an old lady imagining things.â

âThey might at that,â said Mr. Rafiel. âMore fools if they did. I must say, though, that nobody would think you had any brains in your head to hear your usual line of talk. Actually, youâve got a logical mind. Very few women have.â He shifted himself uncomfortably in his chair. âWhere the hellâs Esther or Jackson?â he said. âI need resettling. No, itâs no good your doing it. Youâre not strong enough. I donât know what they mean, leaving me alone like this.â

âIâll go and find them.â

âNo, you wonât. Youâll stay hereâand thrash this out. Which of them is it? The egregious Greg? The quiet Edward Hillingdon or my fellow Jackson? Itâs got to be one of the three, hasnât it?â

Seventeen

MR. RAFIEL TAKES CHARGE

âI donât know,â said Miss Marple.

âWhat do you mean? What have we been talking about for the last twenty minutes?â

âIt has occurred to me that I may have been wrong.â

Mr. Rafiel stared at her.

âScatty after all!â he said disgustedly. âAnd you sounded so sure of yourself.â

âOh, I am sureâabout the murder. Itâs the murderer Iâm not sure about. You see Iâve found out that Major Palgrave had more than one murder storyâyou told me yourself heâd told you one about a kind of Lucrezia Borgiaââ

âSo he didâat that. But that was quite a different kind of story.â

âI know. And Mrs. Walters said he had one about someone being gassed in a gas ovenââ

âBut the story he told youââ

Miss Marple allowed herself to interruptâa thing that did not often happen to Mr. Rafiel.

She spoke with desperate earnestness and only moderate incoherence.

âDonât you seeâitâs so difficult to be sure. The whole point is thatâso oftenâone doesnât listen. Ask Mrs. Waltersâshe said the same thingâyou listen to begin withâand then your attention flagsâyour mind wandersâand suddenly you find youâve missed a bit. I just wonder if possibly there may have been a gapâa very small oneâbetween the story he was telling meâabout a manâand the moment when he was getting out his wallet and sayingââLike to see a picture of a murderer.ââ

âBut you thought it was a picture of the man he had been talking about?â

âI thought soâyes. It never occurred to me that it mightnât have been. But nowâhow can I be sure?â

Mr. Rafiel looked at her very thoughtfullyâ¦.

âThe trouble with you is,â he said, âthat youâre too conscientious. Great mistakeâMake up your mind and donât shilly shally. You didnât shilly shally to begin with. If you ask me, in all this chit-chat youâve been having with the parsonâs sister and the rest of them, youâve got hold of something thatâs unsettled you.â

âPerhaps youâre right.â

âWell, cut it out for the moment. Letâs go ahead with what you had to begin with. Because, nine times out of ten, oneâs original judgments are rightâor so Iâve found. Weâve got three suspects. Letâs take âem out and have a good look at them. Any preference?â

âI really havenât,â said Miss Marple, âall three of them seem so very unlikely.â

âWeâll take Greg first,â said Mr. Rafiel. âCanât stand the fellow. Doesnât make him a murderer, though. Still, there are one or two points against him. Those blood pressure tablets belonged to him. Nice and handy to make use of.â

âThat would be a little obvious, wouldnât it?â Miss Marple objected.

âI donât know that it would,â said Mr. Rafiel. âAfter all, the main thing was to do something quickly, and heâd got the tablets. Hadnât much time to go looking round for tablets that somebody else might have. Letâs say itâs Greg. All right. If he wanted to put his dear wife Lucky out of the wayâ(Good job, too, Iâd say. In fact Iâm in sympathy with him.) I canât actually see his motive. From all accounts heâs rich. Inherited money from his first wife who had pots of it. He qualifies on that as a possible wife murderer all right. But thatâs over and done with. He got away with it. But Lucky was his first wifeâs poor relation. No money there, so if he wants to put her out of the way it must be in order to marry somebody else. Any gossip going around about that?â

Miss Marple shook her head.

âNot that I have heard. Heâerâhas a very gallant manner with all the ladies.â

âWell, thatâs a nice, old-fashioned way of putting it,â said Mr. Rafiel. âAll right, heâs a stoat. He makes passes. Not enough! We want more than that. Letâs go on to Edward Hillingdon. Now thereâs a dark horse, if ever there was one.â

âHe is not, I think, a happy man,â offered Miss Marple.

Mr. Rafiel looked at her thoughtfully.

âDo you think a murderer ought to be a happy man?â

Miss Marple coughed.

âWell, they usually have been in my experience.â

âI donât suppose your experience has gone very far,â said Mr. Rafiel.

In this assumption, as Miss Marple could have told him, he was wrong. But she forbore to contest his statement. Gentlemen, she knew, did not like to be put right in their facts.

âI rather fancy Hillingdon myself,â said Mr. Rafiel. âIâve an idea that there is something a bit odd going on between him and his wife. You noticed it at all?â

âOh yes,â said Miss Marple, âI have noticed it. Their behaviour is perfect in public, of course, but that one would expect.â

âYou probably know more about those sort of people than I would,â said Mr. Rafiel. âVery well, then, everything is in perfectly good taste but itâs a probability that, in a gentlemanly way, Edward Hillingdon is contemplating doing away with Evelyn Hillingdon. Do you agree?â

âIf so,â said Miss Marple, âthere must be another woman.â

Miss Marple shook her head in a dissatisfied manner.

âI canât help feelingâI really canâtâthat itâs not all quite as simple as that.â

âWell, who shall we consider nextâJackson? We leave me out of it.â

Miss Marple smiled for the first time.

âAnd why do we leave you out of it, Mr. Rafiel?â

âBecause if you want to discuss the possibilities of my being a murderer youâd have to do it with somebody else. Waste of time talking about it to me. And anyway, I ask you, am I cut out for the part? Helpless, hauled out of bed like a dummy, dressed, wheeled about in a chair, shuffled along for a walk. What earthly chance have I of going and murdering anyone?â

âProbably as good a chance as anyone else,â said Miss Marple vigorously.

âAnd how do you make that out?â

âWell, you would agree yourself, I think, that you have brains?â

âOf course Iâve got brains,â declared Mr. Rafiel. âA good deal more than anybody else in this community, Iâd say.â

âAnd having brains,â went on Miss Marple, âwould enable you to overcome the physical difficulties of being a murderer.â

âIt would take some doing!â

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âit would take some doing. But then, I think, Mr. Rafiel, you would enjoy that.â

Mr. Rafiel stared at her for a long time and then he suddenly laughed.

âYouâve got a nerve!â he said. âNot quite the gentle fluffy old lady you look, are you? So you really think Iâm a murderer?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âI do not.â

âAnd why?â

âWell, really, I think just because you have got brains. Having brains, you can get most things you want without having recourse to murder. Murder is stupid.â

âAnd anyway who the devil should I want to murder?â

âThat would be a very interesting question,â said Miss Marple. âI have not yet had the pleasure of sufficient conversation with you to evolve a theory as to that.â

Mr. Rafielâs smile broadened.

âConversations with you might be dangerous,â he said.

âConversations are always dangerous, if you have something to hide,â said Miss Marple.

âYou may be right. Letâs get on to Jackson. What do you think of Jackson?â

âIt is difficult for me to say. I have not had the opportunity really of any conversation with him.â

âSo youâve no views on the subject?â

âHe reminds me a little,â said Miss Marple reflectively, âof a young man in the Town Clerkâs office near where I live, Jonas Parry.â

âAnd?â Mr. Rafiel asked and paused.

âHe was not,â said Miss Marple, âvery satisfactory.â

âJacksonâs not wholly satisfactory either. He suits me all right. Heâs first class at his job, and he doesnât mind being sworn at. He knows heâs damnâ well paid and so he puts up with things. I wouldnât employ him in a position of trust, but I donât have to trust him. Maybe his past is blameless, maybe it isnât. His references were all right but I discernâshall I sayâa note of reserve. Fortunately, Iâm not a man who has any guilty secrets, so Iâm not a subject for blackmail.â

âNo secrets?â said Miss Marple, thoughtfully. âSurely, Mr. Rafiel, you have business secrets?â

âNot where Jackson can get at them. No. Jackson is a smooth article, one might say, but I really donât see him as a murderer. Iâd say that wasnât his line at all.â

He paused a minute and then said suddenly, âDo you know, if one stands back and takes a good look at all this fantastic business, Major Palgrave and his ridiculous stories and all the rest of it, the emphasis is entirely wrong. Iâm the person who ought to be murdered.â

Miss Marple looked at him in some surprise.

âProper type casting,â explained Mr. Rafiel. âWhoâs the victim in murder stories? Elderly men with lots of money.â

âAnd lots of people with a good reason for wishing him out of the way, so as to get that money,â said Miss Marple. âIs that true also?â

âWellââ Mr. Rafiel considered. âI can count up to five or six men in London who wouldnât burst into tears if they read my obituary in The Times. But they wouldnât go so far as to do anything to bring about my demise. After all, why should they? Iâm expected to die any day. In fact the bugâblighters are astonished that Iâve lasted so long. The doctors are surprised too.â

âYou have, of course, a great will to live,â said Miss Marple.

âYou think thatâs odd, I suppose,â said Mr. Rafiel.

Miss Marple shook her head.

âOh no,â she said, âI think itâs quite natural. Life is more worth living, more full of interest when you are likely to lose it. It shouldnât be, perhaps, but it is. When youâre young and strong and healthy, and life stretches ahead of you, living isnât really important at all. Itâs young people who commit suicide easily, out of despair from love, sometimes from sheer anxiety and worry. But old people know how valuable life is and how interesting.â

âHah!â said Mr. Rafiel, snorting. âListen to a couple of old crocks.â

âWell, what I said is true, isnât it?â demanded Miss Marple.

âOh, yes,â said Mr. Rafiel, âitâs true enough. But donât you think Iâm right when I say that I ought to be cast as the victim?â

âIt depends on who has reason to gain by your death,â said Miss Marple.

âNobody, really,â said Mr. Rafiel. âApart, as Iâve said, from my competitors in the business world who, as I have also said, can count comfortably on my being out of it before very long. Iâm not such a fool as to leave a lot of money divided up among my relations. Precious little theyâd get of it after the Government had taken practically the lot. Oh, no, Iâve attended to all that years ago. Settlements, trusts and all the rest of it.â

âJackson, for instance, wouldnât profit by your death?â

âHe wouldnât get a penny,â said Mr. Rafiel cheerfully. âI pay him double the salary that heâd get from anyone else. Thatâs because he has to put up with my bad temper; and he knows quite well that he will be the loser when I die.â

âAnd Mrs. Walters?â

âThe same goes for Esther. Sheâs a good girl. First-class secretary, intelligent, good-tempered, understands my ways, doesnât turn a hair if I fly off the handle, couldnât care less if I insult her. Behaves like a nice nursery governess in charge of an outrageous and obstreperous child. She irritates me a bit sometimes, but who doesnât? Thereâs nothing outstanding about her. Sheâs rather a commonplace young woman in many ways, but I couldnât have anyone who suited me better. Sheâs had a lot of trouble in her life. Married a man who wasnât much good. Iâd say she never had much judgment when it came to men. Some women havenât. They fall for anyone who tells them a hard-luck story. Always convinced that all the man needs is proper female understanding. That, once married to her, heâll pull up his socks and make a go of life! But of course that type of man never does. Anyway, fortunately her unsatisfactory husband died; drank too much at a party one night and stepped in front of a bus. Esther had a daughter to support and she went back to her secretarial job. Sheâs been with me five years. I made it quite clear to her from the start that she need have no expectations from me in the event of my death. I paid her from the start a very large salary, and that salary Iâve augmented by as much as a quarter as much again each year. However decent and honest people are, one should never trust anybodyâthatâs why I told Esther quite clearly that sheâd nothing to hope for from my death. Every year I live sheâll get a bigger salary. If she puts most of that aside every yearâand thatâs what I think she has doneâsheâll be quite a well-to-do woman by the time I kick the bucket. Iâve made myself responsible for her daughterâs schooling and Iâve put a sum in trust for the daughter which sheâll get when she comes of age. So Mrs. Esther Walters is very comfortably placed. My death, let me tell you, would mean a serious financial loss to her.â He looked very hard at Miss Marple. âShe fully realizes all that. Sheâs very sensible, Esther is.â

âDo she and Jackson get on?â asked Miss Marple.

Mr. Rafiel shot a quick glance at her.

âNoticed something, have you?â he said. âYes, I think Jacksonâs done a bit of tom-catting around, with an eye in her direction, especially lately. Heâs a good-looking chap, of course, but he hasnât cut any ice in that direction. For one thing, thereâs class distinction. Sheâs just a cut above him. Not very much. If she was really a cut above him it wouldnât matter, but the lower middle classâtheyâre very particular. Her mother was a school teacher and her father a bank clerk. No, she wonât make a fool of herself about Jackson. Dare say heâs after her little nest egg, but he wonât get it.â

âHushâsheâs coming now!â said Miss Marple.

They both looked at Esther Walters as she came along the hotel path towards them.

âSheâs quite a good-looking girl, you know,â said Mr. Rafiel, âbut not an atom of glamour. I donât know why, sheâs quite nicely turned out.â

Miss Marple sighed, a sigh that any woman will give however old at what might be considered wasted opportunities. What was lacking in Esther had been called by so many names during Miss Marpleâs span of existence. âNot really attractive to me.â âNo SA.â âLacks Come-hither in her eye.â Fair hair, good complexion, hazel eyes, quite a good figure, pleasant smile, but lacking that something that makes a manâs head turn when he passes a woman in the street.

âShe ought to get married again,â said Miss Marple, lowering her voice.

âOf course she ought. Sheâd make a man a good wife.â

Esther Walters joined them and Mr. Rafiel said, in a slightly artificial voice:

âSo there you are at last! Whatâs been keeping you?â

âEveryone seemed to be sending cables this morning,â said Esther. âWhat with that, and people trying to check outââ

âTrying to check out, are they? A result of this murder business?â

âI suppose so. Poor Tim Kendal is worried to death.â

âAnd well he might be. Bad luck for that young couple, I must say.â

âI know. I gather it was rather a big undertaking for them to take on this place. Theyâve been worried about making a success of it. They were doing very well, too.â

âThey were doing a good job,â agreed Mr. Rafiel. âHeâs very capable and a damned hard worker. Sheâs a very nice girlâattractive too. Theyâve both worked like blacks, though thatâs an odd term to use out here, for blacks donât work themselves to death at all, so far as I can see. Was looking at a fellow shinning up a coconut tree to get his breakfast, then he goes to sleep for the rest of the day. Nice life.â

He added, âWeâve been discussing the murder here.â

Esther Walters looked slightly startled. She turned her head towards Miss Marple.

âIâve been wrong about her,â said Mr. Rafiel, with characteristic frankness. âNever been much of a one for the old pussies. All knitting wool and tittle-tattle. But this oneâs got something. Eyes and ears, and she uses them.â

Esther Walters looked apologetically at Miss Marple, but Miss Marple did not appear to take offence.

âThatâs really meant to be a compliment, you know,â Esther explained.

âI quite realize that,â said Miss Marple. âI realize, too, that Mr. Rafiel is privileged, or thinks he is.â

âWhat do you meanâprivileged?â asked Mr. Rafiel.

âTo be rude if you want to be rude,â said Miss Marple.

âHave I been rude?â said Mr. Rafiel, surprised. âIâm sorry if Iâve offended you.â

âYou havenât offended me,â said Miss Marple, âI make allowances.â

âNow, donât be nasty. Esther, get a chair and bring it here. Maybe you can help.â

Esther walked a few steps to the balcony of the bungalow and brought over a light basket chair.

âWeâll go on with our consultation,â said Mr. Rafiel. âWe started with old Palgrave, deceased, and his eternal stories.â

âOh, dear,â sighed Esther. âIâm afraid I used to escape from him whenever I could.â

âMiss Marple was more patient,â said Mr. Rafiel. âTell me, Esther, did he ever tell you a story about a murderer?â

âOh yes,â said Esther. âSeveral times.â

âWhat was it exactly? Letâs have your recollection.â

âWellââ Esther paused to think. âThe trouble is,â she said apologetically, âI didnât really listen very closely. You see, it was rather like that terrible story about the lion in Rhodesia which used to go on and on. One did get rather in the habit of not listening.â

âWell, tell us what you do remember.â

âI think it arose out of some murder case that had been in the papers. Major Palgrave said that heâd had an experience not every person had had. Heâd actually met a murderer face to face.â

âMet?â Mr. Rafiel exclaimed. âDid he actually use the word âmet?ââ

Esther looked confused.

âI think so.â She was doubtful. âOr he may have said, âI can point you out a murderer.ââ

âWell, which was it? Thereâs a difference.â

âI canât really be sure â¦ I think he said heâd show me a picture of someone.â

âThatâs better.â

âAnd then he talked a lot about Lucrezia Borgia.â

âNever mind Lucrezia Borgia. We know all about her.â

âHe talked about poisoners and that Lucrezia was very beautiful and had red hair. He said there were probably far more women poisoners going about the world than anyone knew.â

âThat I fear is quite likely,â said Miss Marple.

âAnd he talked about poison being a womanâs weapon.â

âSeems to have been wandering from the point a bit,â said Mr. Rafiel.

âWell, of course, he always did wander from the point in his stories. And then one used to stop listening and just say âYesâ and âReally?â And âYou donât say so.ââ

âWhat about this picture he was going to show you?â

âI donât remember. It may have been something heâd seen in the paperââ

âHe didnât actually show you a snapshot?â

âA snapshot? No.â She shook her head. âIâm quite sure of that. He did say that she was a good-looking woman, and youâd never think she was a murderer to look at her.â

âShe?â

âThere you are,â exclaimed Miss Marple. âIt makes it all so confusing.â

âHe was talking about a woman?â Mr. Rafiel asked.

âOh, yes.â

âThe snapshot was a snapshot of a woman?â

âYes.â

âIt canât have been!â

âBut it was,â Esther persisted. âHe said âSheâs here in this island. Iâll point her out to you, and then Iâll tell you the whole story.ââ

Mr. Rafiel swore. In saying what he thought of the late Major Palgrave he did not mince his words.

âThe probabilities are,â he finished, âthat not a word of anything he said was true!â

âOne does begin to wonder,â Miss Marple murmured.

âSo there we are,â said Mr. Rafiel. âThe old booby started telling you hunting tales. Pig sticking, tiger shooting, elephant hunting, narrow escapes from lions. One or two of them might have been fact. Several of them were fiction, and others had happened to somebody else! Then he gets on to the subject of murder and he tells one murder story to cap another murder story. And whatâs more he tells them all as if theyâd happened to him. Ten to one most of them were a hash-up of what heâd read in the paper, or seen on TV.â

He turned accusingly on Esther. âYou admit that you werenât listening closely. Perhaps you misunderstood what he was saying.â

âIâm certain he was talking about a woman,â said Esther obstinately, âbecause of course I wondered who it was.â

âWho do you think it was?â asked Miss Marple.

Esther flushed and looked slightly embarrassed.

âOh, I didnât reallyâI mean, I wouldnât like toââ

Miss Marple did not insist. The presence of Mr. Rafiel, she thought, was inimical to her finding out exactly what suppositions Esther Walters had made. That could only be cosily brought out in a tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte between two women. And there was, of course, the possibility that Esther Walters was lying. Naturally, Miss Marple did not suggest this aloud. She registered it as a possibility but she was not inclined to believe in it. For one thing she did not think that Esther Walters was a liar (though one never knew) and for another, she could see no point in such a lie.

âBut you say,â Mr. Rafiel was now turning upon Miss Marple, âyou say that he told you this yarn about a murderer and that he then said he had a picture of him which he was going to show you.â

âI thought so, yes.â

âYou thought so? You were sure enough to begin with!â

Miss Marple retorted with spirit.

âIt is never easy to repeat a conversation and be entirely accurate in what the other party to it has said. One is always inclined to jump at what you think they meant. Then, afterwards, you put actual words into their mouths. Major Palgrave told me this story, yes. He told me that the man who told it to him, this doctor, had shown him a snapshot of the murderer; but if I am to be quite honest I must admit that what he actually said to me was âWould you like to see a snapshot of a murderer?â and naturally I assumed that it was the same snapshot he had been talking about. That it was the snapshot of that particular murderer. But I have to admit that it is possibleâonly remotely possible, but still possibleâthat by an association of ideas in his mind he leaped from the snapshot he had been shown in the past, to a snapshot he had taken recently of someone here who he was convinced was a murderer.â

âWomen!â snorted Mr. Rafiel in exasperation. âYouâre all the same, the whole blinking lot of you! Canât be accurate. Youâre never exactly sure of what a thing was. And now,â he added irritably, âwhere does that leave us?â He snorted. âEvelyn Hillingdon, or Gregâs wife, Lucky? The whole thing is a mess.â

There was a slight apologetic cough. Arthur Jackson was standing at Mr. Rafielâs elbow. He had come so noiselessly that nobody had noticed him.

âTime for your massage, sir,â he said.

Mr. Rafiel displayed immediate temper.

âWhat do you mean by sneaking up on me in that way and making me jump? I never heard you.â

âVery sorry, sir.â

âI donât think Iâll have any massage today. It never does me a damnâ bit of good.â

âOh, come sir, you mustnât say that.â Jackson was full of professional cheerfulness. âYouâd soon notice if you left it off.â

He wheeled the chair deftly round.

Miss Marple rose to her feet, smiled at Esther and went down to the beach.

Eighteen

WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY

I

The beach was rather empty this morning. Greg was splashing in the water in his usual noisy style, Lucky was lying on her face on the beach with a sun-tanned back well oiled and her blonde hair splayed over her shoulders. The Hillingdons were not there. SeÃ±ora de Caspearo, with an assorted bag of gentlemen in attendance, was lying face upwards and talking deep-throated, happy Spanish. Some French and Italian children were playing at the waterâs edge and laughing. Canon and Miss Prescott were sitting in beach chairs observing the scene. The Canon had his hat tilted forward over his eyes and seemed half asleep. There was a convenient chair next to Miss Prescott and Miss Marple made for it and sat down.

âOh dear,â she said with a deep sigh.

âI know,â said Miss Prescott.

It was their joint tribute to violent death.

âThat poor girl,â said Miss Marple.

âVery sad,â said the Canon. âMost deplorable.â

âFor a moment or two,â said Miss Prescott, âwe really thought of leaving, Jeremy and I. But then we decided against it. It would not really be fair, I felt, on the Kendals. After all, itâs not their faultâIt might have happened anywhere.â

âIn the midst of life we are in death,â said the Canon solemnly.

âItâs very important, you know,â said Miss Prescott, âthat they should make a go of this place. They have sunk all their capital in it.â

âA very sweet girl,â said Miss Marple, âbut not looking at all well lately.â

âVery nervy,â agreed Miss Prescott. âOf course her familyââ she shook her head.

âI really think, Joan,â said the Canon in mild reproof, âthat there are some thingsââ

âEverybody knows about it,â said Miss Prescott. âHer family live in our part of the world. A great-auntâmost peculiarâand one of her uncles took off all his clothes in one of the tube stations. Green Park, I believe it was.â

âJoan, that is a thing that should not be repeated.â

âVery sad,â said Miss Marple, shaking her head, âthough I believe not an uncommon form of madness. I know when we were working for the Armenian relief, a most respectable elderly clergyman was afflicted the same way. They telephoned his wife and she came along at once and took him home in a cab, wrapped in a blanket.â

âOf course, Mollyâs immediate familyâs all right,â said Miss Prescott. âShe never got on very well with her mother, but then so few girls seem to get on with their mothers nowadays.â

âSuch a pity,â said Miss Marple, shaking her head, âbecause really a young girl needs her motherâs knowledge of the world and experience.â

âExactly,â said Miss Prescott with emphasis. âMolly, you know, took up with some manâquite unsuitable, I understand.â

âIt so often happens,â said Miss Marple.

âHer family disapproved, naturally. She didnât tell them about it. They heard about it from a complete outsider. Of course her mother said she must bring him along so that they met him properly. This, I understand, the girl refused to do. She said it was humiliating to him. Most insulting to be made to come and meet her family and be looked over. Just as though you were a horse, she said.â

Miss Marple sighed. âOne does need so much tact when dealing with the young,â she murmured.

âAnyway, there it was! They forbade her to see him.â

âBut you canât do that nowadays,â said Miss Marple. âGirls have jobs and they meet people whether anyone forbids them or not.â

âBut then, very fortunately,â went on Miss Prescott, âshe met Tim Kendal, and the other man sort of faded out of the picture. I canât tell you how relieved the family was.â

âI hope they didnât show it too plainly,â said Miss Marple. âThat so often puts girls off from forming suitable attachments.â

âYes, indeed.â

âOne remembers oneselfââ murmured Miss Marple, her mind going back to the past. A young man she had met at a croquet party. He had seemed so niceârather gay, almost Bohemian in his views. And then he had been unexpectedly warmly welcomed by her father. He had been suitable, eligible; he had been asked freely to the house more than once, and Miss Marple had found that, after all, he was dull. Very dull.

The Canon seemed safely comatose and Miss Marple advanced tentatively to the subject she was anxious to pursue.

âOf course you know so much about this place,â she murmured. âYou have been here several years running, have you not?â

âWell, last year and two years before that. We like St. HonorÃ© very much. Always such nice people here. Not the flashy, ultra-rich set.â

âSo I suppose you know the Hillingdons and the Dysons well?â

âYes, fairly well.â

Miss Marple coughed and lowered her voice slightly.

âMajor Palgrave told me such an interesting story,â she said.

âHe had a great repertoire of stories, hadnât he? Of course he had travelled very widely. Africa, India, even China I believe.â

âYes indeed,â said Miss Marple. âBut I didnât mean one of those stories. This was a story concerned withâwell, with one of the people I have just mentioned.â

âOh!â said Miss Prescott. Her voice held meaning.

âYes. Now I wonderââ Miss Marple allowed her eyes to travel gently round the beach to where Lucky lay sunning her back. âVery beautifully tanned, isnât she,â remarked Miss Marple. âAnd her hair. Most attractive. Practically the same colour as Molly Kendalâs, isnât it?â

âThe only difference,â said Miss Prescott, âis that Mollyâs is natural and Luckyâs comes out of a bottle!â

âReally, Joan,â the Canon protested, unexpectedly awake again. âDonât you think that is rather an uncharitable thing to say?â

âItâs not uncharitable,â said Miss Prescott, acidly. âMerely a fact.â

âIt looks very nice to me,â said the Canon.

âOf course. Thatâs why she does it. But I assure you, my dear Jeremy, it wouldnât deceive any woman for a moment. Would it?â She appealed to Miss Marple.

âWell, Iâm afraidââ said Miss Marple, âof course I havenât the experience that you haveâbut Iâm afraidâyes I should say definitely not natural. The appearance at the roots every fifth or sixth dayââ She looked at Miss Prescott and they both nodded with quiet female assurance.

The Canon appeared to be dropping off again.

âMajor Palgrave told me a really extraordinary story,â murmured Miss Marple, âaboutâwell I couldnât quite make out. I am a little deaf sometimes. He appeared to be saying or hintingââ she paused.

âI know what you mean. There was a great deal of talk at the timeââ

âYou mean at the time thatââ

âWhen the first Mrs. Dyson died. Her death was quite unexpected. In fact, everybody thought she was a malade imaginaireâa hypochondriac. So when she had the attack and died so unexpectedly, well, of course, people did talk.â

âThere wasnâtâanyâtrouble at the time?â

âThe doctor was puzzled. He was quite a young man and he hadnât had much experience. He was what I call one of those antibiotics-for-all men. You know, the kind that doesnât bother to look at the patient much, or worry whatâs the matter with him. They just give them some kind of pill out of a bottle and if they donât get better, then they try a different pill. Yes, I believe he was puzzled, but it seemed she had had gastric trouble before. At least her husband said so, and there seemed no reason for believing anything was wrong.â

âBut you yourself thinkââ

âWell, I always try to keep an open mind, but one does wonder, you know. And what with various things people saidââ

âJoan!â The Canon sat up. He looked belligerent. âI donât likeâI really donât like to hear this kind of ill-natured gossip being repeated. Weâve always set our faces against that kind of thing. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evilâand what is more, think no evil! That should be the motto of every Christian man and woman.â

The two women sat in silence. They were rebuked, and in deference to their training they deferred to the criticism of a man. But inwardly they were frustrated, irritated and quite unrepentant. Miss Prescott threw a frank glance of irritation towards her brother. Miss Marple took out her knitting and looked at it. Fortunately for them Chance was on their side.

âMon pÃ¨re,â said a small shrill voice. It was one of the French children who had been playing at the waterâs edge. She had come up unnoticed, and was standing by Canon Prescottâs chair.

âMon pÃ¨re,â she fluted.

âEh? Yes, my dear? Oui, quâest-ce quâil y a, ma petite?â

The child explained. There had been a dispute about who should have the water-wings next and also other matters of seaside etiquette. Canon Prescott was extremely fond of children, especially small girls. He was always delighted to be summoned to act as arbiter in their disputes. He rose willingly now and accompanied the child to the waterâs edge. Miss Marple and Miss Prescott breathed deep sighs and turned avidly towards each other.

II

âJeremy, of course rightly, is very against ill-natured gossip,â said Miss Prescott, âbut one cannot really ignore what people are saying. And there was, as I say, a great deal of talk at the time.â

âYes?â Miss Marpleâs tone urged her forward.

âThis young woman, you see, Miss Greatorex I think her name was then, I canât remember now, was a kind of cousin and she looked after Mrs. Dyson. Gave her all her medicines and things like that.â There was a short, meaningless pause. âAnd of course there had, I understandââMiss Prescottâs voice was loweredââbeen goings-on between Mr. Dyson and Miss Greatorex. A lot of people had noticed them. I mean things like that are quickly observed in a place like this. Then there was some curious story about some stuff that Edward Hillingdon got for her at a chemist.â

âOh, Edward Hillingdon came into it?â

âOh yes, he was very much attracted. People noticed it. And LuckyâMiss Greatorexâplayed them off against each other. Gregory Dyson and Edward Hillingdon. One has to face it, she has always been an attractive woman.â

âThough not as young as she was,â Miss Marple replied.

âExactly. But she was always very well turned out and made up. Of course not so flamboyant when she was just the poor relation. She always seemed very devoted to the invalid. But, well, you see how it was.â

âWhat was this story about the chemistâhow did that get known?â

âWell, it wasnât in Jamestown, I think it was when they were in Martinique. The French, I believe, are more lax than we are in the matter of drugsâThis chemist talked to someone, and the story got aroundâWell, you know how these things happen.â

Miss Marple did. None better.

âHe said something about Colonel Hillingdon asking for something and not seeming to know what it was he was asking for. Consulting a piece of paper, you know, on which it was written down. Anyway, as I say, there was talk.â

âBut I donât see quite why Colonel Hillingdonââ Miss Marple frowned in perplexity.

âI suppose he was just being used as a catâs-paw. Anyway, Gregory Dyson married again in an almost indecently short time. Barely a month later, I understand.â

They looked at each other.

âBut there was no real suspicion?â Miss Marple asked.

âOh no, it was justâwell, talk. Of course there may have been absolutely nothing in it.â

âMajor Palgrave thought there was.â

âDid he say so to you?â

âI wasnât really listening very closely,â confessed Miss Marple. âI just wondered ifâerâwell, if heâd said the same thing to you?â

âHe did point her out to me one day,â said Miss Prescott.

âReally? He actually pointed her out?â

âYes. As a matter of fact, I thought at first it was Mrs. Hillingdon he was pointing out. He wheezed and chuckled a bit and said, âLook at that woman over there. In my opinion thatâs a woman whoâs done murder and got away with it.â I was very shocked, of course. I said, âSurely youâre joking, Major Palgrave,â and he said, âYes, yes, dear lady, letâs call it joking.â The Dysons and the Hillingdons were sitting at a table quite near to us, and I was afraid theyâd overhear. He chuckled and said âWouldnât care to go to a drinks party and have a certain person mix me a cocktail. Too much like supper with the Borgias.ââ

âHow very interesting,â said Miss Marple. âDid he mentionâaâa photograph?â

âI donât remember â¦ Was it some newspaper cutting?â

Miss Marple, about to speak, shut her lips. The sun was momentarily obscured by a shadow. Evelyn Hillingdon paused beside them.

âGood morning,â she said.

âI was wondering where you were,â said Miss Prescott, looking up brightly.

âIâve been to Jamestown, shopping.â

âOh, I see.â

Miss Prescott looked round vaguely and Evelyn Hillingdon said:

âOh, I didnât take Edward with me. Men hate shopping.â

âDid you find anything of interest?â

âIt wasnât that sort of shopping. I just had to go to the chemist.â

With a smile and a slight nod she went on down the beach.

âSuch nice people, the Hillingdons,â said Miss Prescott, âthough sheâs not really very easy to know, is she? I mean, sheâs always very pleasant and all that, but one never seems to get to know her any better.â

Miss Marple agreed thoughtfully.

âOne never knows what she is thinking,â said Miss Prescott.

âPerhaps that is just as well,â said Miss Marple.

âI beg your pardon?â

âOh nothing really, only that Iâve always had the feeling that perhaps her thoughts might be rather disconcerting.â

âOh,â said Miss Prescott, looking puzzled. âI see what you mean.â She went on with a slight change of subject. âI believe they have a very charming place in Hampshire, and a boyâor is it two boysâwho have just goneâor one of themâto Winchester.â

âDo you know Hampshire well?â

âNo. Hardly at all. I believe their house is somewhere near Alton.â

âI see.â Miss Marple paused and then said, âAnd where do the Dysons live?â

âCalifornia,â said Miss Prescott. âWhen they are at home, that is. They are great travellers.â

âOne really knows so little about the people one meets when one is travelling,â said Miss Marple. âI meanâhow shall I put itâone only knows, doesnât one, what they choose to tell you about themselves. For instance, you donât really know that the Dysons live in California.â

Miss Prescott looked startled.

âIâm sure Mr. Dyson mentioned it.â

âYes. Yes, exactly. Thatâs what I mean. And the same thing perhaps with the Hillingdons. I mean when you say that they live in Hampshire, youâre really repeating what they told you, arenât you?â

Miss Prescott looked slightly alarmed. âDo you mean that they donât live in Hampshire?â she asked.

âNo, no, not for one moment,â said Miss Marple, quickly apologetic. âI was only using them as an instance as to what one knows or doesnât know about people.â She added, âI have told you that I live at St. Mary Mead, which is a place, no doubt, of which you have never heard. But you donât, if I may say so, know it of your own knowledge, do you?â

Miss Prescott forbore from saying that she really couldnât care less where Miss Marple lived. It was somewhere in the country and in the South of England and that is all she knew. âOh, I do see what you mean,â she agreed hastily, âand I know that one canât possibly be too careful when one is abroad.â

âI didnât exactly mean that,â said Miss Marple.

There were some odd thoughts going through Miss Marpleâs mind. Did she really know, she was asking herself, that Canon Prescott and Miss Prescott were really Canon Prescott and Miss Prescott? They said so. There was no evidence to contradict them. It would really be easy, would it not, to put on a dog-collar, to wear the appropriate clothes, to make the appropriate conversation. If there was a motiveâ¦.

Miss Marple was fairly knowledgeable about the clergy in her part of the world, but the Prescotts came from the north. Durham, wasnât it? She had no doubt they were the Prescotts, but still, it came back to the same thingâone believed what people said to one.

Perhaps one ought to be on oneâs guard against that. Perhaps â¦ She shook her head thoughtfully.

Nineteen

USES OF A SHOE

Canon Prescott came back from the waterâs edge slightly short of breath (playing with children is always exhausting).

Presently he and his sister went back to the hotel, finding the beach a little too hot.

âBut,â said SeÃ±ora de Caspearo scornfully as they walked awayââhow can a beach be too hot? It is nonsense thatâAnd look what she wearsâher arms and her neck are all covered up. Perhaps it is as well, that. Her skin it is hideous, like a plucked chicken!â

Miss Marple drew a deep breath. Now or never was the time for conversation with SeÃ±ora de Caspearo. Unfortunately she did not know what to say. There seemed to be no common ground on which they could meet.

âYou have children, SeÃ±ora?â she inquired.

âI have three angels,â said SeÃ±ora de Caspearo, kissing her fingertips.

Miss Marple was rather uncertain as to whether this meant that SeÃ±ora de Caspearoâs offspring were in Heaven or whether it merely referred to their characters.

One of the gentlemen in attendance made a remark in Spanish and SeÃ±ora de Caspearo flung back her head appreciatively and laughed loudly and melodiously.

âYou understand what he said?â she inquired of Miss Marple.

âIâm afraid not,â said Miss Marple apologetically.

âIt is just as well. He is a wicked man.â

A rapid and spirited interchange of Spanish badinage followed.

âIt is infamousâinfamous,â said SeÃ±ora de Caspearo, reverting to English with sudden gravity, âthat the police do not let us go from this island. I storm, I scream, I stamp my footâbut all they say is NoâNo. You know how it will endâwe shall all be killed.â

Her bodyguard attempted to reassure her.

âBut yesâI tell you it is unlucky here. I knew it from the firstâThat old Major, the ugly oneâhe had the Evil Eyeâyou remember? His eyes they crossedâIt is bad, that! I make the Sign of the Horns every time when he looks my way.â She made it in illustration. âThough since he is cross-eyed I am not always sure when he does look my wayââ

âHe had a glass eye,â said Miss Marple in an explanatory voice. âAn accident, I understand, when he was quite young. It was not his fault.â

âI tell you he brought bad luckâI say it is the Evil Eye he had.â

Her hand shot out again in the well-known Latin gestureâthe first finger and the little finger sticking out, the two middle ones doubled in. âAnyway,â she said cheerfully, âhe is deadâI do not have to look at him any more. I do not like to look at things that are ugly.â

It was, Miss Marple thought, a somewhat cruel epitaph on Major Palgrave.

Farther down the beach Gregory Dyson had come out of the sea. Lucky had turned herself over on the sand. Evelyn Hillingdon was looking at Lucky, and her expression, for some reason, made Miss Marple shiver.

âSurely I canât be coldâin this hot sun,â she thought.

What was the old phraseââA goose walking over your graveââ

She got up and went slowly back to her bungalow.

On the way she passed Mr. Rafiel and Esther Walters coming down the beach. Mr. Rafiel winked at her. Miss Marple did not wink back. She looked disapproving.

She went into her bungalow and lay down on her bed. She felt old and tired and worried.

She was quite certain that there was no time to be lostâno timeâtoâbe lost â¦ It was getting late â¦ The sun was going to setâthe sunâone must always look at the sun through smoked glassâWhere was that piece of smoked glass that someone had given her?â¦

No, she wouldnât need it after all. A shadow had come over the sun blotting it out. A shadow. Evelyn Hillingdonâs shadowâNo, not Evelyn HillingdonâThe Shadow (what were the words?) the Shadow of the Valley of Death. That was it. She mustâwhat was it? Make the Sign of the Hornsâto avert the Evil EyeâMajor Palgraveâs Evil Eye.

Her eyelids flickered openâshe had been asleep. But there was a shadowâsomeone peering in at her window.

The shadow moved awayâand Miss Marple saw who it wasâIt was Jackson.

âImpertinenceâpeering in like that,â she thoughtâand added parenthetically, âJust like Jonas Parry.â

The comparison reflected no credit on Jackson.

Then she wondered why Jackson had been peering into her bedroom. To see if she was there? Or to note that she was there, but was asleep.

She got up, went into the bathroom and peered cautiously through the window.

Arthur Jackson was standing by the door of the bungalow next door. Mr. Rafielâs bungalow. She saw him give a rapid glance round and then slip quickly inside. Interesting, thought Miss Marple. Why did he have to look round in that furtive manner? Nothing in the world could have been more natural than his going into Mr. Rafielâs bungalow since he himself had a room at the back of it. He was always going in and out of it on some errand or other. So why that quick, guilty glance round? âOnly one reason,â said Miss Marple answering her own question, âhe wanted to be sure that nobody was observing him enter at this particular moment because of something he was going to do in there.â

Everybody, of course, was on the beach at this moment except those who had gone for expeditions. In about twenty minutes or so, Jackson himself would arrive on the beach in the course of his duties to aid Mr. Rafiel to take his sea dip. If he wanted to do anything in the bungalow unobserved, now was a very good time. He had satisfied himself that Miss Marple was asleep on her bed, he had satisfied himself that there was nobody near at hand to observe his movements. Well, she must do her best to do exactly that.

Sitting down on her bed, Miss Marple removed her neat sandal shoes and replaced them with a pair of plimsolls. Then she shook her head, removed the plimsolls, burrowed in her suitcase and took out a pair of shoes the heel of one of which she had recently caught on a hook by the door. It was now in a slightly precarious state and Miss Marple adroitly rendered it even more precarious by attention with a nail file. Then she emerged with due precaution from her door walking in stockinged feet. With all the care of a Big Game Hunter approaching up-wind of a herd of antelope, Miss Marple gently circumnavigated Mr. Rafielâs bungalow. Cautiously she manoeuvred her way around the corner of the house. She put on one of the shoes she was carrying, gave a final wrench to the heel of the other, sank gently to her knees and lay prone under the window. If Jackson heard anything, if he came to the window to look out, an old lady would have had a fall owing to the heel coming off her shoe. But evidently Jackson had heard nothing.

Very, very gently Miss Marple raised her head. The windows of the bungalow were low. Shielding herself slightly with a festoon of creeper she peered insideâ¦.

Jackson was on his knees before a suitcase. The lid of the suitcase was up and Miss Marple could see that it was a specially fitted affair containing compartments filled with various kinds of papers. Jackson was looking through the papers, occasionally drawing documents out of long envelopes. Miss Marple did not remain at her observation post for long. All she wanted was to know what Jackson was doing. She knew now. Jackson was snooping. Whether he was looking for something in particular, or whether he was just indulging his natural instincts, she had no means of judging. But it confirmed her in her belief that Arthur Jackson and Jonas Parry had strong affinities in other things than facial resemblance.

Her problem was now to withdraw. Very carefully she dropped down again and crept along the flowerbed until she was clear of the window. She returned to her bungalow and carefully put away the shoe and the heel that she had detached from it. She looked at them with affection. A good device which she could use on another day if necessary. She resumed her own sandal shoes, and went thoughtfully down to the beach again.

Choosing a moment when Esther Walters was in the water, Miss Marple moved into the chair Esther had vacated.

Greg and Lucky were laughing and talking with SeÃ±ora de Caspearo and making a good deal of noise.

Miss Marple spoke very quietly, almost under her breath, without looking at Mr. Rafiel.

âDo you know that Jackson snoops?â

âDoesnât surprise me,â said Mr. Rafiel. âCaught him at it, did you?â

âI managed to observe him through a window. He had one of your suitcases open and was looking through your papers.â

âMust have managed to get hold of a key to it. Resourceful fellow. Heâll be disappointed though. Nothing he gets hold of in that way will do him a mite of good.â

âHeâs coming down now,â said Miss Marple, glancing up towards the hotel.

âTime for that idiotic sea dip of mine.â

He spoke againâvery quietly.

âAs for youâdonât be too enterprising. We donât want to be attending your funeral next. Remember your age, and be careful. Thereâs somebody about who isnât too scrupulous, remember.â

Twenty

NIGHT ALARM

I

Evening cameâThe lights came up on the terraceâPeople dined and talked and laughed, albeit less loudly and merrily than they had a day or two agoâThe steel band played.

But the dancing ended early. People yawnedâwent off to bedâThe lights went outâThere was darkness and stillnessâThe Golden Palm Tree sleptâ¦.

âEvelyn. Evelyn!â The whisper came sharp and urgent.

Evelyn Hillingdon stirred and turned on her pillow.

âEvelyn. Please wake up.â

Evelyn Hillingdon sat up abruptly. Tim Kendal was standing in the doorway. She stared at him in surprise.

âEvelyn, please, could you come? ItâsâMolly. Sheâs ill. I donât know whatâs the matter with her. I think she must have taken something.â

Evelyn was quick, decisive.

âAll right, Tim. Iâll come. You go back to her. Iâll be with you in a moment.â

Tim Kendal disappeared. Evelyn slipped out of bed, threw on a dressing gown and looked across at the other bed. Her husband, it seemed, had not been awakened. He lay there, his head turned away, breathing quietly. Evelyn hesitated for a moment, then decided not to disturb him. She went out of the door and walked rapidly to the main building and beyond it to the Kendalsâ bungalow. She caught up with Tim in the doorway.

Molly lay in bed. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was clearly not natural. Evelyn bent over her, rolled up an eyelid, felt her pulse and then looked at the bedside table. There was a glass there which had been used. Beside it was an empty phial of tablets. She picked it up.

âThey were her sleeping pills,â said Tim, âbut that bottle was half full yesterday or the day before. I think she must have taken the lot.â

âGo and get Dr. Graham,â said Evelyn, âand on the way knock them up and tell them to make strong coffee. Strong as possible. Hurry.â

Tim dashed off. Just outside the doorway he collided with Edward Hillingdon.

âOh, sorry, Edward.â

âWhatâs happening here?â demanded Hillingdon. âWhatâs going on?â

âItâs Molly. Evelynâs with her. I must get hold of the doctor. I suppose I ought to have gone to him first but IâI wasnât sure and I thought Evelyn would know. Molly would have hated it if Iâd fetched a doctor when it wasnât necessary.â

He went off, running. Edward Hillingdon looked after him for a moment and then he walked into the bedroom.

âWhatâs happening?â he said. âIs it serious?â

âOh, there you are, Edward. I wondered if youâd woken up. This silly child has been taking things.â

âIs it bad?â

âOne canât tell without knowing how much sheâs taken. I shouldnât think it was too bad if we get going in time. Iâve sent for coffee. If we can get some of that down herââ

âBut why should she do such a thing? You donât thinkââ He stopped.

âWhat donât I think?â said Evelyn.

âYou donât think itâs because of the inquiryâthe policeâall that?â

âItâs possible, of course. That sort of thing could be very alarming to a nervous type.â

âMolly never used to seem a nervous type.â

âOne canât really tell,â said Evelyn. âItâs the most unlikely people sometimes who lose their nerve.â

âYes, I rememberâ¦.â Again he stopped.

âThe truth is,â said Evelyn, âthat one doesnât really know anything about anybody.â She added, âNot even the people who are nearest to youâ¦.â

âIsnât that going a little too far, Evelynâexaggerating too much?â

âI donât think it is. When you think of people, it is in the image you have made of them for yourself.â

âI know you,â said Edward Hillingdon quietly.

âYou think you do.â

âNo. Iâm sure.â He added, âAnd youâre sure of me.â

Evelyn looked at him then turned back to the bed. She took Molly by the shoulders and shook her.

âWe ought to be doing something, but I suppose itâs better to wait until Dr. Graham comesâOh, I think I hear them.â

II

âSheâll do now.â Dr. Graham stepped back, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and breathed a sigh of relief.

âYou think sheâll be all right, sir?â Tim demanded anxiously.

âYes, yes. We got to her in good time. Anyway, she probably didnât take enough to kill her. A couple of days and sheâll be as right as rain but sheâll have a rather nasty day or two first.â He picked up the empty bottle. âWho gave her these things anyway?â

âA doctor in New York. She wasnât sleeping well.â

âWell, well. I know all we medicos hand these things out freely nowadays. Nobody tells young women who canât sleep to count sheep, or get up and eat a biscuit, or write a couple of letters and then go back to bed. Instant remedies, thatâs what people demand nowadays. Sometimes I think itâs a pity we give them to them. Youâve got to learn to put up with things in life. All very well to stuff a comforter into a babyâs mouth to stop it crying. Canât go on doing that all a personâs life.â He gave a small chuckle. âI bet you, if you asked Miss Marple what she does if she canât sleep, sheâd tell you she counted sheep going under a gate.â He turned back to the bed where Molly was stirring. Her eyes were open now. She looked at them without interest or recognition. Dr. Graham took her hand.

âWell, well, my dear, and what have you been doing to yourself?â

She blinked but did not reply.

âWhy did you do it, Molly, why? Tell me why?â Tim took her other hand.

Still her eyes did not move. If they rested on anyone it was on Evelyn Hillingdon. There might have been even a faint question in them but it was hard to tell. Evelyn spoke as though there had been the question.

âTim came and fetched me,â she said.

Her eyes went to Tim, then shifted to Dr. Graham.

âYouâre going to be all right now,â said Dr. Graham, âbut donât do it again.â

âShe didnât mean to do it,â said Tim quietly. âIâm sure she didnât mean to do it. She just wanted a good nightâs rest. Perhaps the pills didnât work at first and so she took more of them. Is that it, Molly?â

Her head moved very faintly in a negative motion.

âYou meanâyou took them on purpose?â said Tim.

Molly spoke then. âYes,â she said.

âBut why, Molly, why?â

The eyelids faltered. âAfraid.â The word was just heard.

âAfraid? Of what?â

But her eyelids closed down.

âBetter let her be,â said Dr. Graham. Tim spoke impetuously.

âAfraid of what? The police? Because theyâve been hounding you, asking you questions? I donât wonder. Anyone might feel frightened. But itâs just their way, thatâs all. Nobody thinks for one momentââ he broke off.

Dr. Graham made him a decisive gesture.

âI want to go to sleep,â said Molly.

âThe best thing for you,â said Dr. Graham.

He moved to the door and the others followed him.

âSheâll sleep all right,â said Graham.

âIs there anything I ought to do?â asked Tim. He had the usual, slightly apprehensive attitude of a man in illness.

âIâll stay if you like,â said Evelyn kindly.

âOh no. No, thatâs quite all right,â said Tim.

Evelyn went back towards the bed. âShall I stay with you, Molly?â

Mollyâs eyes opened again. She said, âNo,â and then after a pause, âjust Tim.â

Tim came back and sat down by the bed.

âIâm here, Molly,â he said and took her hand. âJust go to sleep. I wonât leave you.â

She sighed faintly and her eyes closed.

The doctor paused outside the bungalow and the Hillingdons stood with him.

âYouâre sure thereâs nothing more I can do?â asked Evelyn.

âI donât think so, thank you, Mrs. Hillingdon. Sheâll be better with her husband now. But possibly tomorrowâafter all, heâs got this hotel to runâI think someone should be with her.â

âDâyou think she mightâtry again?â asked Hillingdon.

Graham rubbed his forehead irritably.

âOne never knows in these cases. Actually, itâs most unlikely. As youâve seen for yourselves, the restorative treatment is extremely unpleasant. But of course one can never be absolutely certain. She may have more of this stuff hidden away somewhere.â

âI should never have thought of suicide in connection with a girl like Molly,â said Hillingdon.

Graham said dryly, âItâs not the people who are always talking of killing themselves, threatening to do so, who do it. They dramatize themselves that way and let off steam.â

âMolly always seemed such a happy girl. I think perhapsââEvelyn hesitatedââI ought to tell you, Dr. Graham.â She told him then about her interview with Molly on the beach the night that Victoria had been killed. Grahamâs face was very grave when she had finished.

âIâm glad youâve told me, Mrs. Hillingdon. There are very definite indications there of some kind of deep-rooted trouble. Yes. Iâll have a word with her husband in the morning.â

III

âI want to talk to you seriously, Kendal, about your wife.â

They were sitting in Timâs office. Evelyn Hillingdon had taken his place by Mollyâs bedside and Lucky had promised to come and, as she expressed it, âspell herâ later. Miss Marple had also offered her services. Poor Tim was torn between his hotel commitments and his wifeâs condition.

âI canât understand it,â said Tim, âI canât understand Molly any longer. Sheâs changed. Changed out of all seeming.â

âI understand sheâs been having bad dreams?â

âYes. Yes, she complained about them a good deal.â

âFor how long?â

âOh, I donât know. Aboutâoh, I suppose a monthâperhaps longer. Sheâweâthought they were justâwell, nightmares, you know.â

âYes, yes, I quite understand. But whatâs a much more serious sign is the fact that she seems to have felt afraid of someone. Did she complain about that to you?â

âWell, yes. She said once or twice thatâoh, people were following her.â

âAh! Spying on her?â

âYes, she did use that term once. She said they were her enemies and theyâd followed her here.â

âDid she have enemies, Mr. Kendal?ââ

âNo. Of course she didnât.â

âNo incident in England, anything you know about before you were married?â

âOh no, nothing of that kind. She didnât get on with her family very well, that was all. Her mother was rather an eccentric woman, difficult to live with perhaps, butâ¦.â

âAny signs of mental instability in her family?â

Tim opened his mouth impulsively, then shut it again. He pushed a fountain pen about on the desk in front of him.

The doctor said:

âI must stress the fact that it would be better to tell me, Tim, if that is the case.â

âWell, yes, I believe so. Nothing serious, but I believe there was an aunt or something who was a bit batty. But thatâs nothing. I meanâwell you get that in almost any family.â

âOh yes, yes, thatâs quite true. Iâm not trying to alarm you about that, but it just might show a tendency toâwell, to break down or imagine things if any stress arose.â

âI donât really know very much,â said Tim. âAfter all, people donât pour out all their family histories to you, do they?â

âNo, no. Quite so. She had no former friendâshe was not engaged to anyone, anyone who might have threatened her or made jealous threats? That sort of thing?â

âI donât know. I donât think so. Molly was engaged to some other man before I came along. Her parents were very against it, I understand, and I think she really stuck to the chap more out of opposition and defiance than anything else.â He gave a sudden half-grin. âYou know what it is when youâre young. If people cut up a fuss it makes you much keener on whoever it is.â

Dr. Graham smiled too. âAh yes, one often sees that. One should never take exception to oneâs childrenâs objectionable friends. Usually they grow out of them naturally. This man, whoever he was, didnât make threats of any kind against Molly?â

âNo, Iâm sure he didnât. She would have told me. She said herself she just had a silly adolescent craze on him, mainly because he had such a bad reputation.â

âYes, yes. Well, that doesnât sound serious. Now thereâs another thing. Apparently your wife has had what she describes as blackouts. Brief passages of time during which she canât account for her actions. Did you know about that, Tim?â

âNo,â said Tim slowly. âNo. I didnât. She never told me. I did notice, you know, now you mention it, that she seemed rather vague sometimes and â¦â He paused, thinking. âYes, that explains it. I couldnât understand how she seemed to have forgotten the simplest things, or sometimes not to seem to know what time of day it was. I just thought she was absent-minded, I suppose.â

âWhat it amounts to, Tim, is just this. I advise you most strongly to take your wife to see a good specialist.â

Tim flushed angrily.

âYou mean a mental specialist, I suppose?â

âNow, now, donât be upset by labels. A neurologist, a psychologist, someone who specializes in what the layman calls nervous breakdowns. Thereâs a good man in Kingston. Or thereâs New York of course. There is something that is causing these nervous terrors of your wifeâs. Something perhaps for which she hardly knows the reason herself. Get advice about her, Tim. Get advice as soon as possible.â

He clapped his hand on the young manâs shoulder and got up.

âThereâs no immediate worry. Your wife has good friends and weâll all be keeping an eye on her.â

âShe wonâtâyou donât think sheâll try it again?â

âI think it most unlikely,â said Dr. Graham.

âYou canât be sure,â said Tim.

âOne can never be sure,â said Dr. Graham, âthatâs one of the first things you learn in my profession.â Again he laid a hand on Timâs shoulder. âDonât worry too much.â

âThatâs easy to say,â said Tim as the doctor went out of the door. âDonât worry, indeed! What does he think Iâm made of?â

Twenty-one

JACKSON ON COSMETICS

âYouâre sure you donât mind, Miss Marple?â said Evelyn Hillingdon.

âNo, indeed, my dear,â said Miss Marple. âIâm only too delighted to be of use in any way. At my age, you know, one feels very useless in the world. Especially when I am in a place like this, just enjoying myself. No duties of any kind. No, Iâll be delighted to sit with Molly. You go along on your expedition. Pelican Point, wasnât it?â

âYes,â said Evelyn. âBoth Edward and I love it. I never get tired of seeing the birds diving down, catching up the fish. Timâs with Molly now. But heâs got things to do and he doesnât seem to like her being left alone.â

âHeâs quite right,â said Miss Marple. âI wouldnât in his place. One never knows, does one? When anyone has attempted anything of that kindâWell, go along, my dear.â

Evelyn went off to join a little group that was waiting for her. Her husband, the Dysons and three or four other people. Miss Marple checked her knitting requirements, saw that she had all she wanted with her, and walked over towards the Kendalsâ bungalow.

As she came up on to the loggia she heard Timâs voice through the half-open french window.

âIf youâd only tell me why you did it, Molly. What made you? Was it anything I did? There must be some reason. If youâd only tell me.â

Miss Marple paused. There was a little pause inside before Molly spoke. Her voice was flat and tired.

âI donât know, Tim, I really donât know. I supposeâsomething came over me.â

Miss Marple tapped on the window and walked in.

âOh, there you are, Miss Marple. It is very good of you.â

âNot at all,â said Miss Marple. âIâm delighted to be of any help. Shall I sit here in this chair? Youâre looking much better, Molly. Iâm so glad.â

âIâm all right,â said Molly. âQuite all right. Justâoh, just sleepy.â

âI shanât talk,â said Miss Marple. âYou just lie quiet and rest. Iâll get on with my knitting.â

Tim Kendal threw her a grateful glance and went out. Miss Marple established herself in her chair.

Molly was lying on her left side. She had a half-stupefied, exhausted look. She said in a voice that was almost a whisper:

âItâs very kind of you, Miss Marple. IâI think Iâll go to sleep.â

She half turned away on her pillows and closed her eyes. Her breathing grew more regular though it was still far from normal. Long experience of nursing made Miss Marple almost automatically straighten the sheet and tuck it under the mattress on her side of the bed. As she did so her hand encountered something hard and rectangular under the mattress. Rather surprised she took hold of this and pulled it out. It was a book. Miss Marple threw a quick glance at the girl in the bed, but she lay there utterly quiescent. She was evidently asleep. Miss Marple opened the book. It was, she saw, a current work on nervous diseases. It came open naturally at a certain place which gave a description of the onset of persecution mania and various other manifestations of schizophrenia and allied complaints.

It was not a highly technical book, but one that could be easily understood by a layman. Miss Marpleâs face grew very grave as she read. After a minute or two she closed the book and stayed thinking. Then she bent forward and with care replaced the book where she had found it, under the mattress.

She shook her head in some perplexity. Noiselessly she rose from her chair. She walked the few steps towards the window, then turned her head sharply over her shoulder. Mollyâs eyes were open but even as Miss Marple turned the eyes shut again. For a minute or two Miss Marple was not quite certain whether she might not have imagined that quick, sharp glance. Was Molly then only pretending to be asleep? That might be natural enough. She might feel that Miss Marple would start talking to her if she showed herself awake. Yes, that could be all it was.

Was she reading into that glance of Mollyâs a kind of slyness that was somehow innately disagreeable? One doesnât know, Miss Marple thought to herself, one really doesnât know.

She decided that she would try to manage a little talk with Dr. Graham as soon as it could be managed. She came back to her chair by the bed. She decided after about five minutes or so that Molly was really asleep. No one could have lain so still, could have breathed so evenly. Miss Marple got up again. She was wearing her plimsolls today. Not perhaps very elegant, but admirably suited to this climate and comfortable and roomy for the feet.

She moved gently round the bedroom, pausing at both of the windows, which gave out in two different directions.

The hotel grounds seemed quiet and deserted. Miss Marple came back and was standing a little uncertainly before regaining her seat, when she thought she heard a faint sound outside. Like the scrape of a shoe on the loggia? She hesitated a moment then she went to the window, pushed it a little farther open, stepped out and turned her head back into the room as she spoke.

âI shall be gone only a very short time, dear,â she said, âjust back to my bungalow, to see where I could possibly have put that pattern. I was so sure I had brought it with me. Youâll be quite all right till I come back, wonât you?â Then turning her head back, she nodded to herself. âAsleep, poor child. A good thing.â

She went quietly along the loggia, down the steps and turned sharp right to the path there. Passing along between the screen of some hibiscus bushes an observer might have been curious to see that Miss Marple veered sharply on to the flower bed, passed round to the back of the bungalow and entered it again through the second door there. This led directly into a small room that Tim sometimes used as an unofficial office and from that into the sitting room.

Here there were wide curtains semi-drawn to keep the room cool. Miss Marple slipped behind one of them. Then she waited. From the window here she had a good view of anyone who approached Mollyâs bedroom. It was some few minutes, four or five, before she saw anything.

The neat figure of Jackson in his white uniform went up the steps of the loggia. He paused for a minute at the balcony there, and then appeared to be giving a tiny discreet tap on the door of the window that was ajar. There was no response that Miss Marple could hear. Jackson looked around him, a quick furtive glance, then he slipped inside the open doors. Miss Marple moved to the door which led into the adjoining bathroom. Miss Marpleâs eyebrows rose in slight surprise. She reflected a minute or two, then walked out into the passageway and into the bathroom by the other door.

Jackson spun round from examining the shelf over the washbasin. He looked taken aback, which was not surprising.

âOh,â he said, âIâI didnâtâ¦.â

âMr. Jackson,â said Miss Marple, in great surprise.

âI thought youâd be here somewhere,â said Jackson.

âDid you want anything?â inquired Miss Marple.

âActually,â said Jackson, âI was just looking at Mrs. Kendalâs brand of face cream.â

Miss Marple appreciated the fact that as Jackson was standing with a jar of face cream in his hand he had been adroit in mentioning the fact at once.

âNice smell,â he said, wrinkling up his nose. âFairly good stuff, as these preparations go. The cheaper brands donât suit every skin. Bring it out in a rash as likely as not. The same thing with face powders sometimes.â

âYou seem to be very knowledgeable on the subject,â said Miss Marple.

âWorked in the pharmaceutical line for a bit,â said Jackson. âOne learns to know a good deal about cosmetics there. Put stuff in a fancy jar, package it expensively, and itâs astonishing what you could rook women for.â

âIs that what youâ?â Miss Marple broke off deliberately.

âWell no, I didnât come in here to talk about cosmetics,â Jackson agreed.

âYouâve not had much time to think up a lie,â thought Miss Marple to herself. âLetâs see what youâll come out with.â

âMatter of fact,â said Jackson, âMrs. Walters lent her lipstick to Mrs. Kendal the other day. I came in to get it back for her. I tapped on the window and then I saw Mrs. Kendal was fast asleep, so I thought it would be quite all right if I just walked across into the bathroom and looked for it.â

âI see,â said Miss Marple. âAnd did you find it?â

Jackson shook his head. âProbably in one of her handbags,â he said lightly. âI wonât bother. Mrs. Walters didnât make a point of it. She only just mentioned it casually.â He went on, surveying the toilet preparations: âDoesnât have very much, does she? Ah well, doesnât need it at her age. Good natural skin.â

âYou must look at women with quite a different eye from ordinary men,â said Miss Marple, smiling pleasantly.

âYes. I suppose various jobs do alter oneâs angle.â

âYou know a good deal about drugs?â

âOh yes. Good working acquaintance with them. If you ask me, there are too many of them about nowadays. Too many tranquillizers and pep pills and miracle drugs and all the rest of it. All right if theyâre given on prescription, but there are too many of them you can get without prescription. Some of them can be dangerous.â

âI suppose so,â said Miss Marple. âYes, I suppose so.â

âThey have a great effect, you know, on behaviour. A lot of this teenage hysteria you get from time to time. Itâs not natural causes. The kidsâve been taking things. Oh, thereâs nothing new about it. Itâs been known for ages. Out in the Eastânot that Iâve ever been thereâall sorts of funny things used to happen. Youâd be surprised at some of the things women gave their husbands. In India, for example, in the bad old days, a young wife who married an old husband. Didnât want to get rid of him, I suppose, because sheâd have been burnt on the funeral pyre, or if she wasnât burnt sheâd have been treated as an outcast by the family. No catch to have been a widow in India in those days. But she could keep an elderly husband under drugs, make him semi-imbecile, give him hallucinations, drive him more or less off his head.â He shook his head. âYes, lot of dirty work.â

He went on: âAnd witches, you know. Thereâs a lot of interesting things known now about witches. Why did they always confess, why did they admit so readily that they were witches, that they had flown on broomsticks to the Witchesâ Sabbath?â

âTorture,â said Miss Marple.

âNot always,â said Jackson. âOh yes, torture accounted for a lot of it, but they came out with some of those confessions almost before torture was mentioned. They didnât so much confess as boast about it. Well, they rubbed themselves with ointment, you know. Anointing they used to call it. Some of the preparations, belladonna, atropine, all that sort of thing; if you rub them on the skin they give you hallucinations of levitation, of flying through the air. They thought it all was genuine, poor devils. And look at the Assassinsâmedieval people, out in Syria, the Lebanon, somewhere like that. They fed them Indian hemp, gave them hallucinations of Paradise and houris, and endless time. They were told that that was what would happen to them after death, but to attain it they had to go and do a ritual killing. Oh, Iâm not putting it in fancy language, but thatâs what it came to.â

âWhat it came to,â said Miss Marple, âis in essence the fact that people are highly credulous.â

âWell yes, I suppose you could put it like that.â

âThey believe what they are told,â said Miss Marple. âYes indeed, weâre all inclined to do that,â she added. Then she said sharply, âWho told you these stories about India, about the doping of husbands with datura,â and she added sharply, before he could answer, âWas it Major Palgrave?â

Jackson looked slightly surprised. âWellâyes, as a matter of fact, it was. He told me a lot of stories like that. Of course most of it must have been before his time, but he seemed to know all about it.â

âMajor Palgrave was under the impression that he knew a lot about everything,â said Miss Marple. âHe was often inaccurate in what he told people.â She shook her head thoughtfully. âMajor Palgrave,â she said, âhas a lot to answer for.â

There was a slight sound from the adjoining bedroom. Miss Marple turned her head sharply. She went quickly out of the bathroom into the bedroom. Lucky Dyson was standing just inside the window.

âIâoh! I didnât think you were here, Miss Marple.â

âI just stepped into the bathroom for a moment,â said Miss Marple, with dignity and a faint air of Victorian reserve.

In the bathroom, Jackson grinned broadly. Victorian modesty always amused him.

âI just wondered if youâd like me to sit with Molly for a bit,â said Lucky. She looked over towards the bed. âSheâs asleep, isnât she?â

âI think so,â said Miss Marple. âBut itâs really quite all right. You go and amuse yourself, my dear. I thought youâd gone on that expedition?â

âI was going,â said Lucky, âbut I had such a filthy headache that at the last moment I cried off. So I thought I might as well make myself useful.â

âThat was very nice of you,â said Miss Marple. She reseated herself by the bed and resumed her knitting, âbut Iâm quite happy here.â

Lucky hesitated for a moment or two and then turned away and went out. Miss Marple waited a moment then tiptoed back into the bathroom, but Jackson had departed, no doubt through the other door. Miss Marple picked up the jar of face cream he had been holding, and slipped it into her pocket.

Twenty-two

A MAN IN HER LIFE?

Getting a little chat in a natural manner with Dr. Graham was not so easy as Miss Marple had hoped. She was particularly anxious not to approach him directly since she did not want to lend undue importance to the questions that she was going to ask him.

Tim was back, looking after Molly, and Miss Marple had arranged that she should relieve him there during the time that dinner was served and he was needed in the dining room. He had assured her that Mrs. Dyson was quite willing to take that on, or even Mrs. Hillingdon, but Miss Marple said firmly that they were both young women who liked enjoying themselves and that she herself preferred a light meal early and so that would suit everybody. Tim once again thanked her warmly. Hovering rather uncertainly round the hotel and on the pathway which connected with various bungalows, among them Dr. Grahamâs, Miss Marple tried to plan what she was going to do next.

She had a lot of confused and contradictory ideas in her head and if there was one thing that Miss Marple did not like, it was to have confused and contradictory ideas. This whole business had started out clearly enough. Major Palgrave with his regrettable capacity for telling stories, his indiscretion that had obviously been overheard and the corollary, his death within twenty-four hours. Nothing difficult about that, thought Miss Marple.

But afterwards, she was forced to admit, there was nothing but difficulty. Everything pointed in too many different directions at once. Once admit that you didnât believe a word that anybody had said to you, that nobody could be trusted, and that many of the persons with whom she had conversed here had regrettable resemblances to certain persons at St. Mary Mead, and where did that lead you?

Her mind was increasingly focused on the victim. Someone was going to be killed and she had the increasing feeling that she ought to know quite well who that someone was. There had been something. Something she had heard? Noticed? Seen?

Something someone had told her that had a bearing on the case. Joan Prescott? Joan Prescott had said a lot of things about a lot of people. Scandal? Gossip? What exactly had Joan Prescott said?

Gregory Dyson, LuckyâMiss Marpleâs mind hovered over Lucky. Lucky, she was convinced with a certainty born of her natural suspicions, had been actively concerned in the death of Gregory Dysonâs first wife. Everything pointed to it. Could it be that the predestined victim over whom she was worrying was Gregory Dyson? That Lucky intended to try her luck again with another husband, and for that reason wanted not only freedom but the handsome inheritance that she would get as Gregory Dysonâs widow?

âBut really,â said Miss Marple to herself, âthis is all pure conjecture. Iâm being stupid. I know Iâm being stupid. The truth must be quite plain, if one could just clear away the litter. Too much litter, thatâs whatâs the matter.â

âTalking to yourself?â said Mr. Rafiel.

Miss Marple jumped. She had not noticed his approach. Esther Walters was supporting him and he was coming slowly down from his bungalow to the terrace.

âI really didnât notice you, Mr. Rafiel.â

âYour lips were moving. Whatâs become of all this urgency of yours?â

âItâs still urgent,â said Miss Marple, âonly I canât just see what must be perfectly plainââ

âIâm glad itâs as simple as thatâWell, if you want any help, count on me.â

He turned his head as Jackson approached them along the path.

âSo there you are, Jackson. Where the devil have you been? Never about when I want you.â

âSorry, Mr. Rafiel.â

Dexterously he slipped his shoulder under Mr. Rafielâs. âDown to the terrace, sir?â

âYou can take me to the bar,â said Mr. Rafiel. âAll right, Esther, you can go now and change into your evening togs. Meet me on the terrace in half an hour.â

He and Jackson went off together. Mrs. Walters dropped into the chair by Miss Marple. She rubbed her arm gently.

âHe seems a very light weight,â she observed, âbut at the moment my arm feels quite numb. I havenât seen you this afternoon at all, Miss Marple.â

âNo, Iâve been sitting with Molly Kendal,â Miss Marple explained. âShe seems really very much better.â

âIf you ask me there was never very much wrong with her,â said Esther Walters.

Miss Marple raised her eyebrows. Esther Waltersâs tone had been decidedly dry.

âYou meanâyou think her suicide attemptâ¦.â

âI donât think there was any suicide attempt,â said Esther Walters. âI donât believe for a moment she took a real overdose and I think Dr. Graham knows that perfectly well.â

âNow you interest me very much,â said Miss Marple. âI wonder why you say that?â

âBecause Iâm almost certain that itâs the case. Oh, itâs a thing that happens very often. Itâs a way, I suppose, of calling attention to oneself,â went on Esther Walters.

ââYouâll be sorry when Iâm dead?ââ quoted Miss Marple.

âThat sort of thing,â agreed Esther Walters, âthough I donât think that was the motive in this particular instance. Thatâs the sort of thing you feel like when your husbandâs playing you up and youâre terribly fond of him.â

âYou donât think Molly Kendal is fond of her husband?â

âWell,â said Esther Walters, âdo you?â

Miss Marple considered. âI have,â she said, âmore or less assumed it.â She paused a moment before adding, âPerhaps wrongly.â

Esther was smiling her rather wry smile.

âIâve heard a little about her, you know. About the whole business.â

âFrom Miss Prescott?â

âOh,â said Esther, âfrom one or two people. Thereâs a man in the case. Someone she was keen on. Her people were dead against him.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âI did hear that.â

âAnd then she married Tim. Perhaps she was fond of him in a way. But the other man didnât give up. Iâve wondered once or twice if he didnât actually follow her out here.â

âIndeed. Butâwho?â

âIâve no idea who,â said Esther, âand I should imagine that theyâve been very careful.â

âYou think she cares for this other man?â

Esther shrugged her shoulders. âI dare say heâs a bad lot,â she said, âbut thatâs very often the kind who knows how to get under a womanâs skin and stay there.â

âYou never heard what kind of a manâwhat he didâanything like that?â

Esther shook her head. âNo. People hazard guesses, but you canât go by that type of thing. He may have been a married man. That may have been why her people disliked it, or he may have been a real bad lot. Perhaps he drank. Perhaps he tangled with the lawâI donât know. But she cares for him still. That I know positively.â

âYouâve seen something, heard something?â Miss Marple hazarded.

âI know what Iâm talking about,â said Esther. Her voice was harsh and unfriendly.

âThese murdersââ began Miss Marple.

âCanât you forget murders?â said Esther. âYouâve got Mr. Rafiel now all tangled up in them. Canât you justâlet them be? Youâll never find out any more, Iâm sure of that.â

Miss Marple looked at her.

âYou think you know, donât you?â she said.

âI think I do, yes. Iâm fairly sure.â

âThen oughtnât you to tell what you knowâdo something about it?â

âWhy should I? What good would it do? I couldnât prove anything. What would happen anyway? People get let off nowadays so easily. They call it diminished responsibility and things like that. A few years in prison and youâre out again, as right as rain.â

âSupposing, because you donât tell what you know, somebody else gets killedâanother victim?â

Esther shook her head with confidence. âThat wonât happen,â she said.

âYou canât be sure of it.â

âI am sure. And in any case I donât see whoââ She frowned. âAnyway,â she added, almost inconsequently, âperhaps it isâdiminished responsibility. Perhaps you canât help itânot if you are really mentally unbalanced. Oh, I donât know. By far the best thing would be if she went off with whoever it is, then we could all forget about things.â

She glanced at her watch, gave an exclamation of dismay and got up.

âI must go and change.â

Miss Marple sat looking after her. Pronouns, she thought, were always puzzling and women like Esther Walters were particularly prone to strew them about haphazard. Was Esther Walters for some reason convinced that a woman had been responsible for the deaths of Major Palgrave and Victoria? It sounded like it. Miss Marple considered.

âAh, Miss Marple, sitting here all aloneâand not even knitting?â

It was Dr. Graham for whom she had sought so long and so unsuccessfully. And here he was prepared of his own accord to sit down for a few minutesâ chat. He wouldnât stay long, Miss Marple thought, because he too was bent on changing for dinner, and he usually dined fairly early. She explained that she had been sitting by Molly Kendalâs bedside that afternoon.

âOne can hardly believe she has made such a good recovery so quickly,â she said.

âOh well,â said Dr. Graham, âitâs not very surprising. She didnât take a very heavy overdose, you know.â

âOh, I understood sheâd taken quite a half-bottle full of tablets.â

Dr. Graham was smiling indulgently.

âNo,â he said, âI donât think she took that amount. I dare say she meant to take them, then probably at the last moment she threw half of them away. People, even when they think they want to commit suicide, often donât really want to do it. They manage not to take a full overdose. Itâs not always deliberate deceit, itâs just the subconscious looking after itself.â

âOr, I suppose it might be deliberate. I mean, wanting it to appear thatâ¦.â Miss Marple paused.

âItâs possible,â said Dr. Graham.

âIf she and Tim had had a row, for instance?â

âThey donât have rows, you know. They seem very fond of each other. Still, I suppose it can always happen once. No, I donât think thereâs very much wrong with her now. She could really get up and go about as usual. Still, itâs safer to keep her where she is for a day or twoââ

He got up, nodded cheerfully and went off towards the hotel. Miss Marple sat where she was a little while longer.

Various thoughts passed through her mindâThe book under Mollyâs mattressâThe way Molly had feigned sleepâ

Things Joan Prescott and, later, Esther Walters, had saidâ¦.

And then she went back to the beginning of it allâto Major Palgraveâ

Something struggled in her mind. Something about Major Palgraveâ

Something that if she could only rememberâ

Twenty-three

THE LAST DAY

I

âAnd the evening and the morning were the last day,â said Miss Marple to herself.

Then, slightly confused, she sat upright again in her chair. She had dozed off, an incredible thing to do because the steel band was playing and anyone who could doze off during the steel bandâWell, it showed, thought Miss Marple, that she was getting used to this place! What was it she had been saying? Some quotation that sheâd got wrong. Last day? First day. Thatâs what it ought to be. This wasnât the first day. Presumably it wasnât the last day either.

She sat upright again. The fact was that she was extremely tired. All this anxiety, this feeling of having been shamefully inadequate in some way â¦ She remembered unpleasantly once more that queer sly look that Molly had given her from under her half-closed eyelids. What had been going on in that girlâs head? How different, thought Miss Marple, everything had seemed at first. Tim Kendal and Molly, such a natural happy young couple. The Hillingdons so pleasant, so well-bred, such what is called âniceâ people. The gay hearty extrovert, Greg Dyson, and the gay strident Lucky, talking nineteen to the dozen, pleased with herself and the world â¦ A quartet of people getting on so well together. Canon Prescott, that genial kindly man. Joan Prescott, an acid streak in her, but a very nice woman, and nice women had to have their gossipy distractions. They have to know what is going on, to know when two and two make four, and when it is possible to stretch them to five! There was no harm in such women. Their tongues wagged but they were kind if you were in misfortune. Mr. Rafiel, a personality, a man of character, a man that you would never by any chance forget. But Miss Marple thought she knew something else about Mr. Rafiel.

The doctors had often given him up, so he had said, but this time, she thought, they had been more certain in their pronouncements. Mr. Rafiel knew that his days were numbered.

Knowing this with certainty, was there any action he might have been likely to take?

Miss Marple considered the question.

It might, she thought, be important.

What was it exactly he had said, his voice a little too loud, a little too sure? Miss Marple was very skilful in tones of voice. She had done so much listening in her life.

Mr. Rafiel had been telling her something that wasnât true.

Miss Marple looked round her. The night air, the soft fragrance of flowers, the tables with their little lights, the women with their pretty dresses, Evelyn in a dark indigo and white print, Lucky in a white sheath, her golden hair shining. Everybody seemed gay and full of life tonight. Even Tim Kendal was smiling. He passed her table and said:

âCanât thank you enough for all youâve done. Mollyâs practically herself again. The doc says she can get up tomorrow.â

Miss Marple smiled at him and said that that was good hearing. She found it, however, quite an effort to smile. Decidedly, she was tiredâ¦.

She got up and walked slowly back to her bungalow. She would have liked to go on thinking, puzzling, trying to remember, trying to assemble various facts and words and glances. But she wasnât able to do it. The tired mind rebelled. It said âSleep! Youâve got to go to sleep!â

Miss Marple undressed, got into bed, read a few verses of the Thomas Ã  Kempis which she kept by her bed, then she turned out the light. In the darkness she sent up a prayer. One couldnât do everything oneself. One had to have help. âNothing will happen tonight,â she murmured hopefully.

II

Miss Marple woke suddenly and sat up in bed. Her heart was beating. She switched on the light and looked at the little clock by her bedside. Two am. Two am and outside activity of some kind was going on. She got up, put on her dressing gown and slippers, and a woollen scarf round her head and went out to reconnoitre. There were people moving about with torches. Among them she saw Canon Prescott and went to him.

âWhatâs happening?â

âOh, Miss Marple? Itâs Mrs. Kendal. Her husband woke up, found sheâd slipped out of bed and gone out. Weâre looking for her.â

He hurried on. Miss Marple walked more slowly after him. Where had Molly gone? Why? Had she planned this deliberately, planned to slip away as soon as the guard on her was relaxed, and while her husband was deep in sleep? Miss Marple thought it was probable. But why? What was the reason? Was there, as Esther Walters had so strongly hinted, some other man? If so, who could that man be? Or was there some more sinister reason?

Miss Marple walked on, looking around her, peering under bushes. Then suddenly she heard a faint call:

âHere â¦ This wayâ¦.â

The cry had come from some little distance beyond the hotel grounds. It must be, thought Miss Marple, near the creek of water that ran down to the sea. She went in that direction as briskly as she could.

There were not really so many searchers as it had seemed to her at first. Most people must still be asleep in their bungalows. She saw a place on the creek bank where there were people standing. Someone pushed past her, almost knocking her down, running in that direction. It was Tim Kendal. A minute or two later she heard his voice cry out:

âMolly! My God, Molly!â

It was a minute or two before Miss Marple was able to join the little group. It consisted of one of the Cuban waiters, Evelyn Hillingdon, and two of the native girls. They had parted to let Tim through. Miss Marple arrived as he was bending over to look.

âMolly â¦â He slowly dropped on to his knees. Miss Marple saw the girlâs body clearly, lying there in the creek, her face below the level of the water, her golden hair spread over the pale green embroidered shawl that covered her shoulders. With the leaves and rushes of the creek, it seemed almost like a scene from Hamlet with Molly as the dead Opheliaâ¦.

As Tim stretched out a hand to touch her, the quiet, commonsense Miss Marple took charge and spoke sharply and authoritatively.

âDonât move her, Mr. Kendal,â she said. âShe mustnât be moved.â

Tim turned a dazed face up to her.

âButâI mustâitâs Molly. I mustâ¦.â

Evelyn Hillingdon touched his shoulder.

âSheâs dead, Tim. I didnât move her, but I did feel her pulse.â

âDead?â said Tim unbelievingly. âDead? You mean sheâsâdrowned herself?â

âIâm afraid so. It looks like it.â

âBut why?â A great cry burst from the young man. âWhy? She was so happy this morning. Talking about what weâd do tomorrow. Why should this terrible death wish come over her again? Why should she steal away as she didârush out into the night, come down here and drown herself? What despair did she haveâwhat miseryâwhy couldnât she tell me anything?â

âI donât know, my dear,â said Evelyn gently. âI donât know.â

Miss Marple said:

âSomebody had better get Dr. Graham. And someone will have to telephone the police.â

âThe police?â Tim uttered a bitter laugh. âWhat good will they be?â

âThe police have to be notified in a case of suicide,â said Miss Marple.

Tim rose slowly to his feet.

âIâll get Graham,â he said heavily. âPerhapsâeven nowâhe couldâdo something.â

He stumbled away in the direction of the hotel.

Evelyn Hillingdon and Miss Marple stood side by side looking down at the dead girl.

Evelyn shook her head. âItâs too late. Sheâs quite cold. She must have been dead at least an hourâperhaps more. What a tragedy it all is. Those two always seemed so happy. I suppose she was always unbalanced.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âI donât think she was unbalanced.â

Evelyn looked at her curiously. âWhat do you mean?â

The moon had been behind a cloud, but now it came out into the open. It shone with a luminous silvery brightness on Mollyâs outspread hairâ¦.

Miss Marple gave a sudden ejaculation. She bent down, peering, then stretched out her hand and touched the golden head. She spoke to Evelyn Hillingdon, and her voice sounded quite different.

âI think,â she said, âthat we had better make sure.â

Evelyn Hillingdon stared at her in astonishment.

âBut you yourself told Tim we mustnât touch anything?â

âI know. But the moon wasnât out. I hadnât seenââ

Her finger pointed. Then, very gently, she touched the blonde hair and parted it so that the roots were exposedâ¦.

Evelyn gave a sharp ejaculation.

âLucky!â

And then after a moment she repeated:

âNot Molly â¦ Lucky.â

Miss Marple nodded. âTheir hair was of much the same colourâbut hers, of course, was dark at the roots because it was dyed.â

âBut sheâs wearing Mollyâs shawl?â

âShe admired it. I heard her say she was going to get one like it. Evidently she did.â

âSo thatâs why we wereâdeceivedâ¦.â

Evelyn broke off as she met Miss Marpleâs eyes watching her.

âSomeone,â said Miss Marple, âwill have to tell her husband.â

There was a momentâs pause, then Evelyn said:

âAll right. Iâll do it.â

She turned and walked away through the palm trees.

Miss Marple remained for a moment motionless, then she turned her head very slightly, and said:

âYes, Colonel Hillingdon?â

Edward Hillingdon came from the trees behind her to stand by her side.

âYou knew I was there?â

âYou cast a shadow,â said Miss Marple.

They stood a moment in silence.

He said, more as though he were speaking to himself:

âSo, in the end, she played her luck too farâ¦.â

âYou are, I think, glad that she is dead?â

âAnd that shocks you? Well, I will not deny it. I am glad she is dead.â

âDeath is often a solution to problems.â

Edward Hillingdon turned his head slowly. Miss Marple met his eyes calmly and steadfastly.

âIf you thinkââ he took a sharp step towards her.

There was a sudden menace in his tone.

Miss Marple said quietly:

âYour wife will be back with Mr. Dyson in a moment. Or Mr. Kendal will be here with Dr. Graham.â

Edward Hillingdon relaxed. He turned back to look down at the dead woman.

Miss Marple slipped away quietly. Presently her pace quickened.

Just before reaching her own bungalow, she paused. It was here that she had sat that day talking to Major Palgrave. It was here that he had fumbled in his wallet looking for the snapshot of a murdererâ¦.

She remembered how he had looked up, and how his face had gone purple and redâ¦. âSo ugly,â as SeÃ±ora de Caspearo had said. âHe has the Evil Eye.â

The Evil Eye â¦ Eye â¦Eyeâ¦.

Twenty-four

NEMESIS

I

Whatever the alarms and excursions of the night, Mr. Rafiel had not heard them.

He was fast asleep in bed, a faint thin snore coming from his nostrils, when he was taken by the shoulders and shaken violently.

âEhâwhatâwhat the devilâs this?â

âItâs me,â said Miss Marple, for once ungrammatical, âthough I should put it a little more strongly than that. The Greeks, I believe, had a word for it. Nemesis, if I am not wrong.â

Mr. Rafiel raised himself on his pillows as far as he could. He stared at her. Miss Marple, standing there in the moonlight, her head encased in a fluffy scarf of pale pink wool, looked as unlike a figure of Nemesis as it was possible to imagine.

âSo youâre Nemesis, are you?â said Mr. Rafiel after a momentary pause.

âI hope to beâwith your help.â

âDo you mind telling me quite plainly what youâre talking about like this in the middle of the night.â

âI think we may have to act quickly. Very quickly. I have been foolish. Extremely foolish. I ought to have known from the very beginning what all this was about. It was so simple.â

âWhat was simple, and what are you talking about?â

âYou slept through a good deal,â said Miss Marple. âA body was found. We thought at first it was the body of Molly Kendal. It wasnât, it was Lucky Dyson. Drowned in the creek.â

âLucky, eh?â said Mr. Rafiel. âAnd drowned? In the creek. Did she drown herself or did somebody drown her?â

âSomebody drowned her,â said Miss Marple.

âI see. At least I think I see. Thatâs what you mean by saying itâs so simple, is it? Greg Dyson was always the first possibility, and heâs the right one. Is that it? Is that what youâre thinking? And what youâre afraid of is that he may get away with it.â

Miss Marple took a deep breath.

âMr. Rafiel, will you trust me? We have got to stop a murder being committed.â

âI thought you said it had been committed.â

âThat murder was committed in error. Another murder may be committed any moment now. Thereâs no time to lose. We must prevent it happening. We must go at once.â

âItâs all very well to talk like that,â said Mr. Rafiel. âWe, you say? What do you think I can do about it? I canât even walk without help. How can you and I set about preventing a murder? Youâre about a hundred and Iâm a broken-up old crock.â

âI was thinking of Jackson,â said Miss Marple. âJackson will do what you tell him, wonât he?â

âHe will indeed,â said Mr. Rafiel, âespecially if I add that Iâll make it worth his while. Is that what you want?â

âYes. Tell him to come with me and tell him to obey any orders I give him.â

Mr. Rafiel looked at her for about six seconds. Then he said:

âDone. I expect Iâm taking the biggest risk of my life. Well, it wonât be the first one.â He raised his voice. âJackson.â At the same time he picked up the electric bell that lay beside his hand and pressed the button.

Hardly thirty seconds passed before Jackson appeared through the connecting door to the adjoining room.

âYou called and rang, sir? Anything wrong?â He broke off, staring at Miss Marple.

âNow, Jackson, do as I tell you. You will go with this lady, Miss Marple. Youâll go where she takes you and youâll do exactly as she says. Youâll obey every order she gives you. Is that understood?â

âIââ

âIs that understood?â

âYes, sir.â

âAnd for doing that,â said Mr. Rafiel, âyou wonât be the loser. Iâll make it worth your while.â

âThank you, sir.â

âCome along, Mr. Jackson,â said Miss Marple. She spoke over her shoulder to Mr. Rafiel. âWeâll tell Mrs. Walters to come to you on your way. Get her to get you out of bed and bring you along.â

âBring me along where?â

âTo the Kendalsâ bungalow,â said Miss Marple. âI think Molly will be coming back there.â

II

Molly came up the path from the sea. Her eyes stared fixedly ahead of her. Occasionally, under her breath, she gave a little whimperâ¦.

She went up the steps of the loggia, paused a moment, then pushed open the window and walked into the bedroom. The lights were on, but the room itself was empty. Molly went across to the bed and sat down. She sat for some minutes, now and again passing her hand over her forehead and frowning. Then, after a quick surreptitious glance round, she slipped her hand under the mattress and brought out the book that was hidden there. She bent over it, turning the pages to find what she wanted.

Then she raised her head as a sound of running footsteps came from outside. With a quick guilty movement she pushed the book behind her back.

Tim Kendal, panting and out of breath, came in, and uttered a great sigh of relief at the sight of her.

âThank God. Where have you been, Molly? Iâve been searching everywhere for you.â

âI went to the creek.â

âYou wentââ he stopped.

âYes. I went to the creek. But I couldnât wait there. I couldnât. There was someone in the waterâand she was dead.â

âYou meanâDo you know I thought it was you. Iâve only just found out it was Lucky.â

âI didnât kill her. Really, Tim, I didnât kill her. Iâm sure I didnât. I meanâIâd remember if I did, wouldnât I?â

Tim sank slowly down on the end of the bed.

âYou didnâtâAre you sure thatâ? No. No, of course you didnât!â He fairly shouted the words. âDonât start thinking like that, Molly. Lucky drowned herself. Of course she drowned herself. Hillingdon was through with her. She went and lay down with her face in the waterââ

âLucky wouldnât do that. Sheâd never do that. But I didnât kill her. I swear I didnât.â

âDarling, of course you didnât!â He put his arms round her but she pulled herself away.

âI hate this place. It ought to be all sunlight. It seemed to be all sunlight. But it isnât. Instead thereâs a shadowâa big black shadow â¦ And Iâm in itâand I canât get outââ

Her voice had risen to a shout.

âHush, Molly. For Godâs sake, hush!â He went into the bathroom, came back with a glass.

âLook. Drink this. Itâll steady you.â

âIâI canât drink anything. My teeth are chattering so.â

âYes you can, darling. Sit down. Here, on the bed.â He put his arm round her. He approached the glass to her lips. âThere you are now. Drink it.â

A voice spoke from the window.

âJackson,â said Miss Marple clearly. âGo over. Take that glass from him and hold it tightly. Be careful. Heâs strong and he may be pretty desperate.â

There were certain points about Jackson. He was a man with a great love for money, and money had been promised him by his employer, that employer being a man of stature and authority. He was also a man of extreme muscular development heightened by his training. His not to reason why, his but to do.

Swift as a flash he had crossed the room. His hand went over the glass that Tim was holding to Mollyâs lips, his other arm had fastened round Tim. A quick flick of the wrist and he had the glass. Tim turned on him wildly, but Jackson held him firmly.

âWhat the devilâlet go of me. Let go of me. Have you gone mad? What are you doing?â

Tim struggled violently.

âHold him, Jackson,â said Miss Marple.

âWhatâs going on? Whatâs the matter here?â

Supported by Esther Walters, Mr. Rafiel came through the window.

âYou ask whatâs the matter?â shouted Tim. âYour manâs gone mad, stark, staring mad, thatâs whatâs the matter. Tell him to let go of me.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple.

Mr. Rafiel turned to her.

âSpeak up, Nemesis,â he said. âWeâve got to have chapter and verse of some kind.â

âIâve been stupid and a fool,â said Miss Marple, âbut Iâm not being a fool now. When the contents of that glass that he was trying to make his wife drink have been analysed, Iâll wagerâyes, Iâll wager my immortal soul that youâll find itâs got a lethal dose of narcotic in it. Itâs the same pattern, you see, the same pattern as in Major Palgraveâs story. A wife in a depressed state, and she tries to do away with herself, husband saves her in time. Then the second time she succeeds. Yes, itâs the right pattern. Major Palgrave told me the story and he took out a snapshot and then he looked up and sawââ

âOver your right shoulderââ continued Mr. Rafiel.

âNo,â said Miss Marple, shaking her head. âHe didnât see anything over my right shoulder.â

âWhat are you talking about? You told meâ¦.â

âI told you wrong. I was completely wrong. I was stupid beyond belief. Major Palgrave appeared to me to be looking over my right shoulder, glaring, in fact, at somethingâBut he couldnât have seen anything, because he was looking through his left eye and his left eye was his glass eye.â

âI rememberâhe had a glass eye,â said Mr. Rafiel. âIâd forgottenâor I took it for granted. You mean he couldnât see anything?â

âOf course he could see,â said Miss Marple. âHe could see all right, but he could only see with one eye. The eye he could see with was his right eye. And so, you see, he must have been looking at something or someone not to the right of me but to the left of me.â

âWas there anyone on the left of you?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âTim Kendal and his wife were sitting not far off. Sitting at a table just by a big hibiscus bush. They were doing accounts there. So you see the Major looked up. His glass left eye was glaring over my shoulder, but what he saw with his other eye was a man sitting by a hibiscus bush and the face was the same, only rather older, as the face in the snapshot. Also by a hibiscus bush. Tim Kendal had heard the story the Major had been telling and he saw that the Major had recognized him. So, of course, he had to kill him. Later, he had to kill the girl, Victoria, because sheâd seen him putting a bottle of tablets in the Majorâs room. She didnât think anything of it at first because of course it was quite natural on various occasions for Tim Kendal to go into the guestsâ bungalows. He might have just been returning something to it that had been left on a restaurant table. But she thought about it and then she asked him questions and so he had to get rid of her. But this is the real murder, the murder heâs been planning all along. Heâs a wife-killer, you see.â

âWhat damned nonsense, whatââ Tim Kendal shouted.

There was a sudden cry, a wild angry cry. Esther Walters detached herself from Mr. Rafiel, almost flinging him down, and rushed across the room. She pulled vainly at Jackson.

âLet go of himâlet go of him. Itâs not true. Not a word of itâs true. TimâTim darling, itâs not true. You could never kill anyone, I know you couldnât. I know you wouldnât. Itâs that horrible girl you married. Sheâs been telling lies about you. Theyâre not true. None of them are true. I believe in you. I love you and trust in you. Iâll never believe a word anyone says. Iâllââ

Then Tim Kendal lost control of himself.

âFor Godâs sake, you damned bitch,â he said, âshut up, canât you? Dâyou want to get me hanged? Shut up, I tell you. Shut that big, ugly mouth of yours.â

âPoor silly creature,â said Mr. Rafiel softly. âSo thatâs whatâs been going on, is it?â

Twenty-five

MISS MARPLE USES HER IMAGINATION

âSo thatâs what had been going on?â said Mr. Rafiel.

He and Miss Marple were sitting together in a confidential manner.

âSheâd been having an affair with Tim Kendal, had she?â

âHardly an affair, I imagine,â said Miss Marple, primly. âIt was, I think, a romantic attachment with the prospect of marriage in the future.â

âWhatâafter his wife was dead?â

âI donât think poor Esther Walters knew that Molly was going to die,â said Miss Marple. âI just think she believed the story Tim Kendal told her about Molly having been in love with another man, and the man having followed her here, and I think she counted on Timâs getting a divorce. I think it was all quite proper and respectable. But she was very much in love with him.â

âWell, thatâs easily understood. He was an attractive chap. But what made him go for herâdâyou know that too?â

âYou know, donât you?â said Miss Marple.

âI dare say Iâve got a pretty fair idea, but I donât know how you should know about it. As far as that goes, I donât see how Tim Kendal could know about it.â

âWell, I really think I could explain all that with a little imagination, though it would be simpler if you told me.â

âIâm not going to tell you,â said Mr. Rafiel. âYou tell me, since youâre being so clever.â

âWell, it seems to me possible,â said Miss Marple, âthat as I have already hinted to you, your man Jackson was in the habit of taking a good snoop through your various papers from time to time.â

âPerfectly possible,â said Mr. Rafiel, âbut I shouldnât have said there was anything there that could do him much good. I took care of that.â

âI imagine,â said Miss Marple, âhe read your will.â

âOh I see. Yes, yes, I did have a copy of my will along.â

âYou told me,â said Miss Marple, âyou told meâ(as Humpty Dumpty saidâvery loud and clear) that you had not left anything to Esther Walters in your will. You had impressed that fact upon her, and also upon Jackson. It was true in Jacksonâs case, I should imagine. You have not left him anything, but you had left Esther Walters money, though you werenât going to let her have any inkling of the fact. Isnât that right?â

âYes, itâs quite right, but I donât know how you knew.â

âWell, itâs the way you insisted on the point,â said Miss Marple. âI have a certain experience of the way people tell lies.â

âI give in,â said Mr. Rafiel. âAll right. I left Esther Â£50,000. It would come as a nice surprise to her when I died. I suppose that, knowing this, Tim Kendal decided to exterminate his present wife with a nice dose of something or other and marry Â£50,000 and Esther Walters. Possibly to dispose of her also in good time. But how did he know she was going to have Â£50,000?â

âJackson told him, of course,â said Miss Marple. âThey were very friendly, those two. Tim Kendal was nice to Jackson and, quite, I should imagine, without ulterior motive. But amongst the bits of gossip that Jackson let slip I think Jackson told him that unbeknownst to herself, Esther Walters was going to inherit a fat lot of money, and he may have said that he himself hoped to induce Esther Walters to marry him though he hadnât had much success so far in taking her fancy. Yes, I think thatâs how it happened.â

âThe things you imagine always seem perfectly plausible,â said Mr. Rafiel.

âBut I was stupid,â said Miss Marple, âvery stupid. Everything fitted in really, you see. Tim Kendal was a very clever man as well as being a very wicked one. He was particularly good at putting about rumours. Half the things Iâve been told here came from him originally, I imagine. There were stories going around about Molly wanting to marry an undesirable young man, but I rather fancy that the undesirable young man was actually Tim Kendal himself, though that wasnât the name he was using then. Her people had heard something, perhaps that his background was fishy. So he put on a high indignation act, refused to be taken by Molly to be âshown offâ to her people and then he brewed up a little scheme with her which they both thought great fun. She pretended to sulk and pine for him. Then a Mr. Tim Kendal turned up, primed with the names of various old friends of Mollyâs people, and they welcomed him with open arms as being the sort of young man who would put the former delinquent one out of Mollyâs head. I am afraid Molly and he must have laughed over it a good deal. Anyway, he married her, and with her money he bought out the people who ran this place and they came out here. I should imagine that he ran through her money at a pretty fair rate. Then he came across Esther Walters and he saw a nice prospect of more money.â

âWhy didnât he bump me off?â said Mr. Rafiel.

Miss Marple coughed.

âI expect he wanted to be fairly sure of Mrs. Walters first. BesidesâI mean â¦â She stopped, a little confused.

âBesides, he realized he wouldnât have to wait long,â said Mr. Rafiel, âand it would clearly be better for me to die a natural death. Being so rich. Deaths of millionaires are scrutinized rather carefully, arenât they, unlike mere wives?â

âYes, youâre quite right. Such a lot of lies as he told,â said Miss Marple. âLook at the lies he got Molly herself to believeâputting that book on mental disorders in her way. Giving her drugs which would give her dreams and hallucinations. You know, your Jackson was rather clever over that. I think he recognized certain of Mollyâs symptoms as being the result of drugs. And he came into the bungalow that day to potter about a bit in the bathroom. That face cream he examined. He might have got some idea from the old tales of witches rubbing themselves with ointments that had belladonna in them. Belladonna in face cream could have produced just that result. Molly would have blackouts. Times she couldnât account for, dreams of flying through the air. No wonder she got frightened about herself. She had all the signs of mental illness, Jackson was on the right track. Maybe he got the idea from Major Palgraveâs stories about the use of datura by Indian women on their husbands.â

âMajor Palgrave!â said Mr. Rafiel. âReally, that man!â

âHe brought about his own murder,â said Miss Marple, âand that poor girl Victoriaâs murder, and he nearly brought about Mollyâs murder. But he recognized a murderer all right.â

âWhat made you suddenly remember about his glass eye?â asked Mr. Rafiel curiously.

âSomething that SeÃ±ora de Caspearo said. She talked some nonsense about his being ugly, and having the Evil Eye; and I said it was only a glass eye, and he couldnât help that, poor man, and she said his eyes looked different ways, they were cross-eyesâwhich, of course, they were. And she said it brought bad luck. I knewâI knew that I had heard something that day that was important. Last night, just after Luckyâs death, it came to me what it was! And then I realized there was no time to wasteâ¦.â

âHow did Tim Kendal come to kill the wrong woman?â

âSheer chance. I think his plan was this: Having convinced everybodyâand that included Molly herselfâthat she was mentally unbalanced, and after giving her a sizeable dose of the drug he was using, he told her that between them they were going to clear up all these murder puzzles. But she had got to help him. After everyone was asleep, they would go separately and meet at an agreed spot by the creek.

âHe said he had a very good idea who the murderer was, and they would trap him. Molly went off obedientlyâbut she was confused and stupefied with the drug she had been given, and it slowed her up. Tim arrived there first and saw what he thought was Molly. Golden hair and pale green shawl. He came up behind her, put his hand over her mouth, and forced her down into the water and held her there.â

âNice fellow! But wouldnât it have been easier just to give her an overdose of narcotic?â

âMuch easier, of course. But that might have given rise to suspicion. All narcotics and sedatives have been very carefully removed from Mollyâs reach, remember. And if she had got hold of a fresh supply, who more likely to have supplied it than her husband? But if, in a fit of despair, she went out and drowned herself whilst her innocent husband slept, the whole thing would be a romantic tragedy, and no one would be likely to suggest that she had been drowned deliberately. Besides,â added Miss Marple, âmurderers always find it difficult to keep things simple. They canât keep themselves from elaborating.â

âYou seem convinced you know all there is to be known about murderers! So you believe Tim didnât know he had killed the wrong woman?â

Miss Marple shook her head.

âHe didnât even look at her face, just hurried off as quickly as he could, let an hour elapse, then started to organize a search for her, playing the part of a distracted husband.â

âBut what the devil was Lucky doing hanging about the creek in the middle of the night?â

Miss Marple gave an embarrassed little cough.

âIt is possible, I think, that she wasâerâwaiting to meet someone.â

âEdward Hillingdon?â

âOh no,â said Miss Marple. âThatâs all over, I wondered whetherâjust possiblyâshe might have been waiting for Jackson.â

âWaiting for Jackson?â

âIâve noticed herâlook at him once or twice,â murmured Miss Marple, averting her eyes.

Mr. Rafiel whistled.

âMy Tom Cat Jackson! I wouldnât put it past him! Tim must have had a shock later when he found heâd killed the wrong woman.â

âYes, indeed. He must have felt quite desperate. Here was Molly alive and wandering about. And the story heâd circulated so carefully about her mental condition wouldnât stand up for a moment once she got into the hands of competent mental specialists. And once she told her damning story of his having asked her to meet him at the creek, where would Tim Kendal be? Heâd only one hopeâto finish off Molly as quickly as possible. Then there was a very good chance that everyone would believe that Molly, in a fit of mania, had drowned Lucky, and had then, horrified by what she had done, taken her own life.â

âAnd it was then,â said Mr. Rafiel, âthat you decided to play Nemesis, eh?â

He leaned back suddenly and roared with laughter. âItâs a damned good joke,â he said. âIf you knew what you looked like that night with that fluffy pink wool all round your head, standing there and saying you were Nemesis! Iâll never forget it!â

Epilogue

The time had come and Miss Marple was waiting at the airport for her plane. Quite a lot of people had come to see her off. The Hillingdons had left already. Gregory Dyson had flown to one of the other islands and the rumour had come that he was devoting himself to an Argentinian widow. SeÃ±ora de Caspearo had returned to South America.

Molly had come to see Miss Marple off. She was pale and thin but she had weathered the shock of her discovery bravely and with the help of one of Mr. Rafielâs nominees whom he had wired for to England, she was carrying on with the running of the hotel.

âDo you good to be busy,â Mr. Rafiel observed. âKeep you from thinking. Got a good thing here.â

âYou donât think the murdersââ

âPeople love murders when theyâre all cleared up,â Mr. Rafiel had assured her. âYou carry on, girl, and keep your heart up. Donât distrust all men because youâve met one bad lot.â

âYou sound like Miss Marple,â Molly had said, âsheâs always telling me Mr. Right will come along one day.â

Mr. Rafiel grinned at this sentiment. So Molly was there and the two Prescotts and Mr. Rafiel, of course, and Estherâan Esther who looked older and sadder and to whom Mr. Rafiel was quite often unexpectedly kind. Jackson also was very much to the fore, pretending to be looking after Miss Marpleâs baggage. He was all smiles these days and let it be known that he had come into money.

There was a hum in the sky. The plane was arriving. Things were somewhat informal here. There was no âtaking your place by Channel 8â or Channel 9. You just walked out from the little flower-covered pavilion on to the tarmac.

âGoodbye, darling Miss Marple.â Molly kissed her.

âGoodbye. Do try and come and visit us.â Miss Prescott shook her warmly by the hand.

âIt has been a great pleasure to know you,â said the Canon. âI second my sisterâs invitation most warmly.â

âAll the best, Madam,â said Jackson, âand remember any time you want any massage free, just you send me a line and weâll make an appointment.â

Only Esther Walters turned slightly away when the time came for goodbyes. Miss Marple did not force one upon her. Mr. Rafiel came last. He took her hand.

âAve Caesar, nos morituri te salutamus,â he said.

âIâm afraid,â said Miss Marple, âI donât know very much Latin.â

âBut you understand that?â

âYes.â She said no more. She knew quite well what he was telling her.

âIt has been a great pleasure to know you,â she said.

Then she walked across the tarmac and got into the plane.

Agatha Christie

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

A Miss Marple Mystery

For Harry Smith
because I appreciate the scientific way
he reads my books

Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Credits

Chapter One

In the heart of the West End, there are many quiet pockets, unknown to almost all but taxi drivers who traverse them with expert knowledge, and arrive triumphantly thereby at Park Lane, Berkeley Square or South Audley Street.

If you turn off on an unpretentious street from the Park, and turn left and right once or twice, you will find yourself in a quiet street with Bertramâs Hotel on the right-hand side. Bertramâs Hotel has been there a long time. During the war, houses were demolished on the right of it, and a little farther down on the left of it, but Bertramâs itself remained unscathed. Naturally it could not escape being, as house agents would say, scratched, bruised and marked, but by the expenditure of only a reasonable amount of money it was restored to its original condition. By 1955 it looked precisely as it had looked in 1939âdignified, unostentatious, and quietly expensive.

Such was Bertramâs, patronized over a long stretch of years by the higher Ã©chelons of the clergy, dowager ladies of the aristocracy up from the country, girls on their way home for the holidays from expensive finishing schools. (âSo few places where a girl can stay alone in London but of course it is quite all right at Bertramâs. We have stayed there for years.â)

There had, of course, been many other hotels on the model of Bertramâs. Some still existed, but nearly all had felt the wind of change. They had had necessarily to modernize themselves, to cater for a different clientele. Bertramâs, too, had had to change, but it had been done so cleverly that it was not at all apparent at the first casual glance.

Outside the steps that led up to the big swing doors stood what at first sight appeared to be no less than a Field Marshal. Gold braid and medal ribbons adorned a broad and manly chest. His deportment was perfect. He received you with tender concern as you emerged with rheumatic difficulty from a taxi or a car, guided you carefully up the steps and piloted you through the silently swinging doorway.

Inside, if this was the first time you had visited Bertramâs, you felt, almost with alarm, that you had reentered a vanished world. Time had gone back. You were in Edwardian England once more.

There was, of course, central heating, but it was not apparent. As there had always been, in the big central lounge, there were two magnificent coal fires; beside them big brass coal scuttles shone in the way they used to shine when Edwardian housemaids polished them, and they were filled with exactly the rightsized lumps of coal. There was a general appearance of rich red velvet and plushy cosiness. The armchairs were not of this time and age. They were well above the level of the floor, so that rheumatic old ladies had not to struggle in an undignified manner in order to get to their feet. The seats of the chairs did not, as in so many modern high-priced armchairs, stop halfway between the thigh and the knee, thereby inflicting agony on those suffering from arthritis and sciatica; and they were not all of a pattern. There were straight backs and reclining backs, different widths to accommodate the slender and the obese. People of almost any dimension could find a comfortable chair at Bertramâs.

Since it was now the tea hour, the lounge hall was full. Not that the lounge hall was the only place where you could have tea. There was a drawing room (chintz), a smoking room (by some hidden influence reserved for gentlemen only), where the vast chairs were of fine leather, two writing rooms, where you could take a special friend and have a cosy little gossip in a quiet cornerâand even write a letter as well if you wanted to. Besides these amenities of the Edwardian age, there were other retreats, not in anyway publicized, but known to those who wanted them. There was a double bar, with two bar attendants, an American barman to make the Americans feel at home and to provide them with bourbon, rye, and every kind of cocktail, and an English one to deal with sherries and Pimmâs No. 1, and to talk knowledgeably about the runners at Ascot and Newbury to the middle-aged men who stayed at Bertramâs for the more serious race meetings. There was also, tucked down a passage, in a secretive way, a television room for those who asked for it.

But the big entrance lounge was the favourite place for the afternoon tea drinking. The elderly ladies enjoyed seeing who came in and out, recognizing old friends, and commenting unfavourably on how these had aged. There were also American visitors fascinated by seeing the titled English really getting down to their traditional afternoon tea. For afternoon tea was quite a feature of Bertramâs.

It was nothing less than splendid. Presiding over the ritual was Henry, a large and magnificent figure, a ripe fifty, avuncular, sympathetic, and with the courtly manners of that long vanished species: the perfect butler. Slim youths performed the actual work under Henryâs austere direction. There were large crested silver trays, and Georgian silver teapots. The china, if not actually Rockingham and Davenport, looked like it. The Blind Earl services were particular favourites. The tea was the best Indian, Ceylon, Darjeeling, Lapsang, etc. As for eatables, you could ask for anything you likedâand get it!

On this particular day, November the 17th, Lady Selina Hazy, sixty-five, up from Leicestershire, was eating delicious well-buttered muffins with all an elderly ladyâs relish.

Her absorption with muffins, however, was not so great that she failed to look up sharply every time the inner pair of swing doors opened to admit a newcomer.

So it was that she smiled and nodded to welcome Colonel Luscombeâerect, soldierly, race glasses hanging round his neck. Like the old autocrat that she was, she beckoned imperiously and, in a minute or two, Luscombe came over to her.

âHallo, Selina, what brings you up to Town?â

âDentist,â said Lady Selina, rather indistinctly, owing to muffin. âAnd I thought as I was up, I might as well go and see that man in Harley Street about my arthritis. You know who I mean.â

Although Harley Street contained several hundreds of fashionable practitioners for all and every ailment, Luscombe did know whom she meant.

âDo you any good?â he asked.

âI rather think he did,â said Lady Selina grudgingly. âExtraordinary fellow. Took me by the neck when I wasnât expecting it, and wrung it like a chicken.â She moved her neck gingerly.

âHurt you?â

âIt must have done, twisting it like that, but really I hadnât time to know.â She continued to move her neck gingerly. âFeels all right. Can look over my right shoulder for the first time in years.â

She put this to a practical test and exclaimed, âWhy I do believe thatâs old Jane Marple. Thought she was dead years ago. Looks a hundred.â

Colonel Luscombe threw a glance in the direction of Jane Marple thus resurrected, but without much interest: Bertramâs always had a sprinkling of what he called fluffy old pussies.

Lady Selina was continuing.

âOnly place in London you can still get muffins. Real muffins. Do you know when I went to America last year they had something called muffins on the breakfast menu. Not real muffins at all. Kind of teacake with raisins in them. I mean, why call them muffins?â

She pushed in the last buttery morsel and looked round vaguely. Henry materialized immediately. Not quickly or hurriedly. It seemed that, just suddenly, he was there.

âAnything further I can get you, my lady? Cake of any kind?â

âCake?â Lady Selina thought about it, was doubtful.

âWe are serving very good seed cake, my lady. I can recommend it.â

âSeed cake? I havenât eaten seed cake for years. It is real seed cake?â

âOh, yes, my lady. The cook has had the recipe for years. Youâll enjoy it, Iâm sure.â

Henry gave a glance at one of his retinue, and the lad departed in search of seed cake.

âI suppose youâve been at Newbury, Derek?â

âYes. Darned cold, I didnât wait for the last two races. Disastrous day. That filly of Harryâs was no good at all.â

âDidnât think she would be. What about Swanhilda?â

âFinished fourth.â Luscombe rose. âGot to see about my room.â

He walked across the lounge to the reception desk. As he went he noted the tables and their occupants. Astonishing number of people having tea here. Quite like old days. Tea as a meal had rather gone out of fashion since the war. But evidently not at Bertramâs. Who were all these people? Two Canons and the Dean of Chislehampton. Yes, and another pair of gaitered legs over in the corner, a Bishop, no less! Mere Vicars were scarce. âHave to be at least a Canon to afford Bertramâs,â he thought. The rank and file of the clergy certainly couldnât, poor devils. As far as that went, he wondered how on earth people like old Selina Hazy could. Sheâd only got twopence or so a year to bless herself with. And there was old Lady Berry, and Mrs. Posselthwaite from Somerset, and Sybil Kerrâall poor as church mice.

Still thinking about this he arrived at the desk and was pleasantly greeted by Miss Gorringe the receptionist. Miss Gorringe was an old friend. She knew every one of the clientele and, like Royalty, never forgot a face. She looked frumpy but respectable. Frizzled yellowish hair (old-fashioned tongs, it suggested), black silk dress, a high bosom on which reposed a large gold locket and a cameo brooch.

âNumber fourteen,â said Miss Gorringe. âI think you had fourteen last time, Colonel Luscombe, and liked it. Itâs quiet.â

âHow you always manage to remember these things, I canât imagine, Miss Gorringe.â

âWe like to make our old friends comfortable.â

âTakes me back a long way, coming in here. Nothing seems to have changed.â

He broke off as Mr. Humfries came out from an inner sanctum to greet him.

Mr. Humfries was often taken by the uninitiated to be Mr. Bertram in person. Who the actual Mr. Bertram was, or indeed, if there ever had been a Mr. Bertram was now lost in the mists of antiquity. Bertramâs had existed since about 1840, but nobody had taken any interest in tracing its past history. It was just there, solid, in fact. When addressed as Mr. Bertram, Mr. Humfries never corrected the impression. If they wanted him to be Mr. Bertram he would be Mr. Bertram. Colonel Luscombe knew his name, though he didnât know if Humfries was the manager or the owner. He rather fancied the latter.

Mr. Humfries was a man of about fifty. He had very good manners, and the presence of a Junior Minister. He could, at any moment, be all things to all people. He could talk racing shop, cricket, foreign politics, tell anecdotes of Royalty, give Motor Show information, knew the most interesting plays on at presentâadvise on places Americans ought really to see in England however short their stay. He had knowledgeable information about where it would suit persons of all incomes and tastes to dine. With all this, he did not make himself too cheap. He was not on tap all the time. Miss Gorringe had all the same facts at her fingertips and could retail them efficiently. At brief intervals Mr. Humfries, like the sun, made his appearance above the horizon and flattered someone by his personal attention.

This time it was Colonel Luscombe who was so honoured. They exchanged a few racing platitudes, but Colonel Luscombe was absorbed by his problem. And here was the man who could give him the answer.

âTell me, Humfries, how do all these old dears manage to come and stay here?â

âOh youâve been wondering about that?â Mr. Humfries seemed amused. âWell, the answerâs simple. They couldnât afford it. Unlessââ

He paused.

âUnless you make special prices for them? Is that it?â

âMore or less. They donât know, usually, that they are special prices, or if they do realize it, they think itâs because theyâre old customers.â

âAnd it isnât just that?â

âWell, Colonel Luscombe, I am running a hotel. I couldnât afford actually to lose money.â

âBut how can that pay you?â

âItâs a question of atmosphereâ¦Strangers coming to this country (Americans, in particular, because they are the ones who have the money) have their own rather queer ideas of what England is like. Iâm not talking, you understand, of the rich business tycoons who are always crossing the Atlantic. They usually go to the Savoy or the Dorchester. They want modern dÃ©cor, American food, all the things that will make them feel at home. But there are a lot of people who come abroad at rare intervals and who expect this country to beâwell, I wonât go back as far as Dickens, but theyâve read Cranford and Henry James, and they donât want to find this country just the same as their own! So they go back home afterwards and say: âThereâs a wonderful place in London; Bertramâs Hotel, itâs called. Itâs just like stepping back a hundred years. It just is old England! And the people who stay there! People youâd never come across anywhere else. Wonderful old Duchesses. They serve all the old English dishes, thereâs a marvellous old-fashioned beefsteak pudding! Youâve never tasted anything like it; and great sirloins of beef and saddles of mutton, and an old-fashioned English tea and a wonderful English breakfast. And of course all the usual things as well. And itâs wonderfully comfortable. And warm. Great log fires.ââ

Mr. Humfries ceased his impersonation and permitted himself something nearly approaching a grin.

âI see,â said Luscombe thoughtfully. âThese people; decayed aristocrats, impoverished members of the old County families, they are all so much mise en scÃ¨ne?â

Mr. Humfries nodded agreement.

âI really wonder no one else has thought of it. Of course I found Bertramâs ready-made, so to speak. All it needed was some rather expensive restoration. All the people who come here think itâs something that theyâve discovered for themselves, that no one else knows about.â

âI suppose,â said Luscombe, âthat the restoration was quite expensive?â

âOh yes. The place has got to look Edwardian, but itâs got to have the modern comforts that we take for granted in these days. Our old dearsâif you will forgive me referring to them as thatâhave got to feel that nothing has changed since the turn of the century, and our travelling clients have got to feel they can have period surroundings, and still have what they are used to having at home, and canât really live without!â

âBit difficult sometimes?â suggested Luscombe.

âNot really. Take central heating for instance. Americans requireâneed, I should sayâat least ten degrees Fahrenheit higher than English people do. We actually have two quite different sets of bedrooms. The English we put in one lot, the Americans in the other. The rooms all look alike, but they are full of actual differencesâelectric razors, and showers as well as tubs in some of the bathrooms, and if you want an American breakfast, itâs thereâcereals and iced orange juice and allâor if you prefer you can have the English breakfast.â

âEggs and bacon?â

âAs you sayâbut a good deal more than that if you want it. Kippers, kidneys and bacon, cold grouse, York ham. Oxford marmalade.â

âI must remember all that tomorrow morning. Donât get that sort of thing anymore at home.â

Humfries smiled.

âMost gentlemen only ask for eggs and bacon. Theyâveâwell, theyâve got out of the way of thinking about the things there used to be.â

âYes, yesâ¦I remember when I was a childâ¦Sideboards groaning with hot dishes. Yes, it was a luxurious way of life.â

âWe endeavour to give people anything they ask for.â

âIncluding seed cake and muffinsâyes, I see. To each according to his needâI seeâ¦Quite Marxian.â

âI beg your pardon?â

âJust a thought, Humfries. Extremes meet.â

Colonel Luscombe turned away, taking the key Miss Gorringe offered him. A page boy sprang to attention and conducted him to the lift. He saw in passing that Lady Selina Hazy was now sitting with her friend Jane Something or other.

Chapter Two

âAnd I suppose youâre still living at that dear St. Mary Mead?â Lady Selina was asking. âSuch a sweet unspoilt village. I often think about it. Just the same as ever, I suppose?â

âWell, not quite.â Miss Marple reflected on certain aspects of her place of residence. The new Building Estate. The additions to the Village Hall, the altered appearance of the High Street with its up-to-date shop frontsâShe sighed. âOne has to accept change, I suppose.â

âProgress,â said Lady Selina vaguely. âThough it often seems to me that it isnât progress. All these smart plumbing fixtures they have nowadays. Every shade of colour and superb what they call âfinishââbut do any of them really pull? Or push, when theyâre that kind. Every time you go to a friendâs house, you find some kind of a notice in the looââPress sharply and release,â âPull to the left,â âRelease quickly.â But in the old days, one just pulled up a handle any kind of way, and cataracts of water came at onceâThereâs the dear Bishop of Medmenham,â Lady Selina broke off to say, as a handsome, elderly cleric passed by. âPractically quite blind, I believe. But such a splendid militant priest.â

A little clerical talk was indulged in, interspersed by lady Selinaâs recognition of various friends and acquaintances, many of whom were not the people she thought they were. She and Miss Marple talked a little of âold days,â though Miss Marpleâs upbringing, of course, had been quite different from Lady Selinaâs, and their reminiscences were mainly confined to the few years when Lady Selina, a recent widow of severely straitened means, had taken a small house in the village of St. Mary Mead during the time her second son had been stationed at an airfield nearby.

âDo you always stay here when you come up, Jane? Odd I havenât seen you here before.â

âOh no, indeed. I couldnât afford to, and anyway, I hardly ever leave home these days. No, it was a very kind niece of mine who thought it would be a treat for me to have a short visit to London. Joan is a very kind girlâat least perhaps hardly a girl.â Miss Marple reflected with a qualm that Joan must now be close on fifty. âShe is a painter, you know. Quite a well-known painter. Joan West. She had an exhibition not long ago.â

Lady Selina had little interest in painters, or indeed in anything artistic. She regarded writers, artists and musicians as a species of clever performing animal; she was prepared to feel indulgent towards them, but to wonder privately why they wanted to do what they did.

âThis modern stuff, I suppose,â she said, her eyes wandering. âThereâs Cicely Longhurstâdyed her hair again, I see.â

âIâm afraid dear Joan is rather modern.â

Here Miss Marple was quite wrong. Joan West had been modern about twenty years ago, but was now regarded by the young arriviste artists as completely old-fashioned.

Casting a brief glance at Cicely Longhurstâs hair, Miss Marple relapsed into a pleasant remembrance of how kind Joan had been. Joan had actually said to her husband, âI wish we could do something for poor old Aunt Jane. She never gets away from home. Do you think sheâd like to go to Bournemouth for a week or two?â

âGood idea,â said Raymond West. His last book was doing very well indeed, and he felt in a generous mood.

âShe enjoyed her trip to the West Indies, I think, though it was a pity she had to get mixed-up in a murder case. Quite the wrong thing at her age.â

âThat sort of thing seems to happen to her.â

Raymond was very fond of his old aunt and was constantly devising treats for her, and sending her books that he thought might interest her. He was surprised when she often politely declined the treats, and though she always said the books were âso interestingâ he sometimes suspected that she had not read them. But then, of course, her eyes were failing.

In this last he was wrong. Miss Marple had remarkable eyesight for her age, and was at this moment taking in everything that was going on round her with keen interest and pleasure.

To Joanâs proffer of a week or two at one of Bournemouthâs best hotels, she had hesitated, murmured, âItâs very, very kind of you, my dear, but I really donât thinkââ

âBut itâs good for you, Aunt Jane. Good to get away from home sometimes. It gives you new ideas, and new things to think about.â

âOh yes, you are quite right there, and I would like a little visit somewhere for a change. Not, perhaps, Bournemouth.â

Joan was slightly surprised. She had thought Bournemouth would have been Aunt Janeâs Mecca.

âEastbourne? Or Torquay?â

âWhat I would really likeââ Miss Marple hesitated.

âYes?â

âI dare say you will think it rather silly of me.â

âNo, Iâm sure I shanât.â (Where did the old dear want to go?)

âI would really like to go to Bertramâs Hotelâin London.â

âBertramâs Hotel?â The name was vaguely familiar.

Words came from Miss Marple in a rush.

âI stayed there onceâwhen I was fourteen. With my uncle and aunt, Uncle Thomas, that was, he was Canon of Ely. And Iâve never forgotten it. If I could stay thereâa week would be quite enoughâtwo weeks might be too expensive.â

âOh, thatâs all right. Of course you shall go. I ought to have thought that you might want to go to Londonâthe shops and everything. Weâll fix it upâif Bertramâs Hotel still exists. So many hotels have vanished, sometimes bombed in the war and sometimes just given up.â

âNo, I happen to know Bertramâs Hotel is still going. I had a letter from thereâfrom my American friend Amy McAllister of Boston. She and her husband were staying there.â

âGood, then Iâll go ahead and fix it up.â She added gently, âIâm afraid you may find itâs changed a good deal from the days when you knew it. So donât be disappointed.â

But Bertramâs Hotel had not changed. It was just as it had always been. Quite miraculously so, in Miss Marpleâs opinion. In fact, she wonderedâ¦.

It really seemed too good to be true. She knew quite well, with her usual clear-eyed common sense, that what she wanted was simply to refurbish her memories of the past in their old original colours. Much of her life had, perforce, to be spent recalling past pleasures. If you could find someone to remember them with, that was indeed happiness. Nowadays that was not easy to do; she had outlived most of her contemporaries. But she still sat and remembered. In a queer way, it made her come to life againâJane Marple, that pink and white eager young girlâ¦Such a silly girl in many waysâ¦now who was that very unsuitable young man whose nameâoh dear, she couldnât even remember it now! How wise her mother had been to nip that friendship so firmly in the bud. She had come across him years laterâand really he was quite dreadful! At the time she had cried herself to sleep for at least a week!

Nowadays, of courseâshe considered nowadaysâ¦These poor young things. Some of them had mothers, but never mothers who seemed to be any goodâmothers who were quite incapable of protecting their daughters from silly affairs, illegitimate babies, and early and unfortunate marriages. It was all very sad.

Her friendâs voice interrupted these meditations.

âWell, I never. It isâyes, it isâBess Sedgwick over there! Of all the unlikely placesââ

Miss Marple had been listening with only half an ear to Lady Selinaâs comments on her surroundings. She and Miss Marple moved in entirely different circles, so that Miss Marple had been unable to exchange scandalous titbits about the various friends or acquaintances that Lady Selina recognized or thought she recognized.

But Bess Sedgwick was different. Bess Sedgwick was a name that almost everyone in England knew. For over thirty years now, Bess Sedgwick had been reported by the Press as doing this or that outrageous or extraordinary thing. For a good part of the war she had been a member of the French Resistance, and was said to have six notches on her gun representing dead Germans. She had flown solo across the Atlantic years ago, had ridden on horseback across Europe and fetched up at Lake Van. She had driven racing cars, had once saved two children from a burning house, had several marriages to her credit and discredit and was said to be the second best-dressed woman in Europe. It was also said that she had successfully smuggled herself aboard a nuclear submarine on its test voyage.

It was therefore with the most intense interest that Miss Marple sat up and indulged in a frankly avid stare.

Whatever she had expected of Bertramâs Hotel, it was not to find Bess Sedgwick there. An expensive night club, or a lorry driversâ pull upâeither of those would be quite in keeping with Bess Sedgwickâs wide range of interests. But this highly respectable and old world hostelry seemed strangely alien.

Still there she wasâno doubt of it. Hardly a month passed without Bess Sedgwickâs face appearing in the fashion magazines or the popular press. Here she was in the flesh, smoking a cigarette in a quick impatient manner and looking in a surprised way at the large tea tray in front of her as though she had never seen one before. She had orderedâMiss Marple screwed up her eyes and peeredâit was rather far awayâyes, doughnuts. Very interesting.

As she watched, Bess Sedgwick stubbed out her cigarette in her saucer, lifted a doughnut and took an immense bite. Rich red real strawberry jam gushed out over her chin. Bess threw back her head and laughed, one of the loudest and gayest sounds to have been heard in the lounge of Bertramâs Hotel for some time.

Henry was immediately beside her, a small delicate napkin proffered. She took it, scrubbed her chin with the vigour of a schoolboy, exclaiming: âThatâs what I call a real doughnut. Gorgeous.â

She dropped the napkin on the tray and stood up. As usual every eye was on her. She was used to that. Perhaps she liked it, perhaps she no longer noticed it. She was worth looking atâa striking woman rather than a beautiful one. The palest of platinum hair fell sleek and smooth to her shoulders. The bones of her head and face were exquisite. Her nose was faintly aquiline, her eyes deep set and a real grey in colour. She had the wide mouth of a natural comedian. Her dress was of such simplicity that it puzzled most men. It looked like the coarsest kind of sacking, had no ornamentation of any kind, and no apparent fastening or seams. But women knew better. Even the provincial old dears in Bertramâs knew, quite certainly, that it had cost the earth!

Striding across the lounge towards the lift, she passed quite close to Lady Selina and Miss Marple, and she nodded to the former.

âHello, Lady Selina. Havenât seen you since Crufts. How are the Borzois?â

âWhat on earth are you doing here, Bess?â

âJust staying here. Iâve just driven up from Landâs End. Four hours and three-quarters. Not bad.â

âYouâll kill yourself one of these days. Or someone else.â

âOh I hope not.â

âBut why are you staying here?â

Bess Sedgwick threw a swift glance round. She seemed to see the point and acknowledge it with an ironic smile.

âSomeone told me I ought to try it. I think theyâre right. Iâve just had the most marvellous doughnut.â

âMy dear, they have real muffins too.â

âMuffins,â said Lady Sedgwick thoughtfully. âYesâ¦â She seemed to concede the point. âMuffins!â

She nodded and went on towards the lift.

âExtraordinary girl,â said Lady Selina. To her, like to Miss Marple, every woman under sixty was a girl. âKnown her ever since she was a child. Nobody could do anything with her. Ran away with an Irish groom when she was sixteen. They managed to get her back in timeâor perhaps not in time. Anyway they bought him off and got her safely married to old Conistonâthirty years older than she was, awful old rip, quite dotty about her. That didnât last long. She went off with Johnnie Sedgwick. That might have stuck if he hadnât broken his neck steeplechasing. After that she married Ridgway Becker, the American yacht owner. He divorced her three years ago and I hear sheâs taken up with some Racing Motor Driverâa Pole or something. I donât know whether sheâs actually married or not. After the American divorce she went back to calling herself Sedgwick. She goes about with the most extraordinary people. They say she takes drugsâ¦I donât know, Iâm sure.â

âOne wonders if she is happy,â said Miss Marple.

Lady Selina, who had clearly never wondered anything of the kind, looked rather startled.

âSheâs got packets of money, I suppose,â she said doubtfully. âAlimony and all that. Of course that isnât everythingâ¦.â

âNo, indeed.â

âAnd sheâs usually got a manâor several menâin tow.â

âYes?â

âOf course when some women get to that age, thatâs all they wantâ¦But somehowââ

She paused.

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âI donât think so either.â

There were people who would have smiled in gentle derision at this pronouncement on the part of an old-fashioned old lady who could hardly be expected to be an authority on nymphomania, and indeed it was not a word that Miss Marple would have usedâher own phrase would have been âalways too fond of men.â But Lady Selina accepted her opinion as a confirmation of her own.

âThere have been a lot of men in her life,â she pointed out.

âOh yes, but I should say, wouldnât you, that men were an adventure to her, not a need?â

And would any woman, Miss Marple wondered, come to Bertramâs Hotel for an assignation with a man? Bertramâs was very definitely not that sort of place. But possibly that could be, to someone of Bess Sedgwickâs disposition, the very reason for choosing it.

She sighed, looked up at the handsome grandfather clock decorously ticking in the corner, and rose with the careful effort of the rheumatic to her feet. She walked slowly towards the lift. Lady Selina cast a glance around her and pounced upon an elderly gentleman of military appearance who was reading the Spectator.

âHow nice to see you again. Erâit is General Arlington, isnât it?â

But with great courtesy the old genleman declined being General Arlington. Lady Selina apologized, but was not unduly discomposed. She combined short sight with optimism and since the thing she enjoyed most was meeting old friends and acquaintances, she was always making this kind of mistake. Many other people did the same, since the lights were pleasantly dim and heavily shaded. But nobody ever took offenceâusually indeed it seemed to give them pleasure.

Miss Marple smiled to herself as she waited for the lift to come down. So like Selina! Always convinced that she knew everybody. She herself could not compete. Her solitary achievement in that line had been the handsome and well-gaitered Bishop of Westchester whom she had addressed affectionately as âdear Robbieâ and who had responded with equal affection and with memories of himself as a child in a Hampshire vicarage calling out lustily âBe a crocodile now, Aunty Janie. Be a crocodile and eat me.â

The lift came down, the uniformed middle-aged man threw open the door. Rather to Miss Marpleâs surprise the alighting passenger was Bess Sedgwick whom she had seen go up only a minute or two before.

And then, one foot poised, Bess Sedgwick stopped dead, with a suddenness that surprised Miss Marple and made her own forward step falter. Bess Sedgwick was staring over Miss Marpleâs shoulder with such concentration that the old lady turned her own head.

The commissionaire had just pushed open the two swing doors of the entrance and was holding them to let two women pass through into the lounge. One of them was a fussy looking middle-aged lady wearing a rather unfortunate flowered violet hat, the other was a tall, simply but smartly dressed, girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen with long straight flaxen hair.

Bess Sedgwick pulled herself together, wheeled round abruptly and reentered the lift. As Miss Marple followed her in, she turned to her and apologized.

âIâm so sorry. I nearly ran into you.â She had a warm friendly voice. âI just remembered Iâd forgotten somethingâwhich sounds nonsense but isnât really.â

âSecond floor?â said the operator. Miss Marple smiled and nodded in acknowledgment of the apology, got out and walked slowly along to her room, pleasurably turning over sundry little unimportant problems in her mind as was so often her custom.

For instance what Lady Sedgwick had said wasnât true. She had only just gone up to her room, and it must have been then that she âremembered she had forgotten somethingâ (if there had been any truth in that statement at all) and had come down to find it. Or had she perhaps come down to meet someone or look for someone? But if so, what she had seen as the lift door opened had startled and upset her, and she had immediately swung into the lift again and gone up so as not to meet whoever it was she had seen.

It must have been the two newcomers. The middle-aged woman and the girl. Mother and daughter? No, Miss Marple thought, not mother and daughter.

Even at Bertramâs, thought Miss Marple, happily, interesting things could happenâ¦.

Chapter Three

âErâis Colonel Luscombeâ?â

The woman in the violet hat was at the desk. Miss Gorringe smiled in a welcoming manner and a page, who had been standing at the ready, was immediately dispatched but had no need to fulfil his errand, as Colonel Luscombe himself entered the lounge at that moment and came quickly across to the desk.

âHow do you do, Mrs. Carpenter.â He shook hands politely, then turned to the girl. âMy dear Elvira.â He took both hands affectionately in his. âWell, well, this is nice. Splendidâsplendid. Come and letâs sit down.â He led them to chairs, established them. âWell, well,â he repeated, âthis is nice.â

The effort he made was somewhat palpable as was his lack of ease. He could hardly go on saying how nice this was. The two ladies were not very helpful. Elvira smiled very sweetly. Mrs. Carpenter gave a meaningless little laugh, and smoothed her gloves.

âA good journey, eh?â

âYes, thank you,â said Elvira.

âNo fog. Nothing like that?â

âOh no.â

âOur flight was five minutes ahead of time,â said Mrs. Carpenter.

âYes, yes. Good, very good.â He took a pull upon himself. âI hope this place will be all right for you?â

âOh, Iâm sure itâs very nice,â said Mrs. Carpenter warmly, glancing round her. âVery comfortable.â

âRather old-fashioned, Iâm afraid,â said the Colonel apologetically. âRather a lot of old fogies. Noâerâdancing, anything like that.â

âNo, I suppose not,â agreed Elvira.

She glanced round in an expressionless manner. It certainly seemed impossible to connect Bertramâs with dancing.

âLot of old fogies here, Iâm afraid,â said Colonel Luscombe, repeating himself. âOught, perhaps, to have taken you somewhere more modern. Not very well up in these things, you see.â

âThis is very nice,â said Elvira politely.

âItâs only for a couple of nights,â went on Colonel Luscombe. âI thought weâd go to a show this evening. A musicalââ he said the word rather doubtfully, as though not sure he was using the right term. âLet Down Your Hair Girls. I hope that will be all right?â

âHow delightful,â exclaimed Mrs. Carpenter. âThat will be a treat, wonât it, Elvira?â

âLovely,â said Elvira, tonelessly.

âAnd then supper afterwards? At the Savoy?â

Fresh exclamations from Mrs. Carpenter. Colonel Luscombe, stealing a glance at Elvira, cheered up a little. He thought that Elvira was pleased, though quite determined to express nothing more than polite approval in front of Mrs. Carpenter. âAnd I donât blame her,â he said to himself.

He said to Mrs. Carpenter:

âPerhaps youâd like to see your roomsâsee theyâre all right and all thatââ

âOh, Iâm sure they will be.â

âWell, if thereâs anything you donât like about them, weâll make them change it. They know me here very well.â

Miss Gorringe, in charge at the desk, was pleasantly welcoming. Nos 28 and 29 on the second floor with an adjoining bathroom.

âIâll go up and get things unpacked,â said Mrs. Carpenter. âPerhaps, Elvira, you and Colonel Luscombe would like to have a little gossip.â

Tact, thought Colonel Luscombe. A bit obvious, perhaps, but anyway it would get rid of her for a bit. Though what he was going to gossip about to Elvira, he really didnât know. A very nice-mannered girl, but he wasnât used to girls. His wife had died in childbirth and the baby, a boy, had been brought up by his wifeâs family whilst an elder sister had come to keep house for him. His son had married and gone to live in Kenya, and his grandchildren were eleven, five and two and a half and had been entertained on their last visit by football and space science talk, electric trains, and a ride on his foot. Easy! But young girls!

He asked Elvira if she would like a drink. He was about to propose a bitter lemon, ginger ale, or orangeade, but Elvira forestalled him.

âThank you. I should like a gin and vermouth.â

Colonel Luscombe looked at her rather doubtfully. He supposed girls ofâwhat was she? sixteen? seventeen?âdid drink gin and vermouth. But he reassured himself that Elvira knew, so to speak, correct Greenwich social time. He ordered a gin and vermouth and a dry sherry.

He cleared his throat and asked:

âHow was Italy?â

âVery nice, thank you.â

âAnd that place you were at, the Contessa whatâs-her-name? Not too grim?â

âShe is rather strict. But I didnât let that worry me.â

He looked at her, not quite sure whether the reply was not slightly ambiguous.

He said, stammering a little, but with a more natural manner than he had been able to manage before:

âIâm afraid we donât know each other as well as we ought to, seeing Iâm your guardian as well as your godfather. Difficult for me, you knowâdifficult for a man whoâs an old buffer like meâto know what a girl wantsâat leastâI mean to know what a girl ought to have. Schools and then after schoolâwhat they used to call finishing in my day. But now, I suppose itâs all more serious. Careers eh? Jobs? All that? Weâll have to have a talk about all that sometime. Anything in particular you want to do?â

âI suppose I shall take a secretarial course,â said Elvira without enthusiasm.

âOh. You want to be a secretary?â

âNot particularlyââ

âOhâwell, thenââ

âItâs just what you start with,â Elvira explained.

Colonel Luscombe had an odd feeling of being relegated to his place.

âThese cousins of mine, the Melfords. You think youâll like living with them? If notââ

âOh I think so. I like Nancy quite well. And Cousin Mildred is rather a dear.â

âThatâs all right then?â

âQuite, for the present.â

Luscombe did not know what to say to that. Whilst he was considering what next to say, Elvira spoke. Her words were simple and direct.

âHave I any money?â

Again he took his time before answering, studying her thoughtfully. Then he said:

âYes. Youâve got quite a lot of money. That is to say, you will have when you are twenty-one.â

âWho has got it now?â

He smiled. âItâs held in trust for you; a certain amount is deducted each year from the income to pay for your maintenance and education.â

âAnd you are the trustee?â

âOne of them. There are three.â

âWhat happens if I die?â

âCome, come, Elvira, youâre not going to die. What nonsense!â

âI hope notâbut one never knows, does one? An airliner crashed only last week and everyone was killed.â

âWell, itâs not going to happen to you,â said Luscombe firmly.

âYou canât really know that,â said Elvira. âI was just wondering who would get my money if I died?â

âI havenât the least idea,â said the Colonel irritably. âWhy do you ask?â

âIt might be interesting,â said Elvira thoughtfully. âI wondered if it would be worth anyoneâs while to kill me.â

âReally, Elvira! This is a most unprofitable conversation. I canât understand why your mind dwells on such things.â

âOh. Just ideas. One wants to know what the facts really are.â

âYouâre not thinking of the Mafiaâor something like that?â

âOh no. That would be silly. Who would get my money if I was married?â

âYour husband, I suppose. But reallyââ

âAre you sure of that?â

âNo, Iâm not in the least sure. It depends on the wording of the Trust. But youâre not married, so why worry?â

Elvira did not reply. She seemed lost in thought. Finally she came out of her trance and asked:

âDo you ever see my mother?â

âSometimes. Not very often.â

âWhere is she now?â

âOhâabroad.â

âWhere abroad?â

âFranceâPortugal. I donât really know.â

âDoes she ever want to see me?â

Her limpid gaze met his. He didnât know what to reply. Was this a moment for truth? Or for vagueness? Or for a good thumping lie? What could you say to a girl who asked a question of such simplicity, when the answer was of great complexity? He said unhappily:

âI donât know.â

Her eyes searched him gravely. Luscombe felt thoroughly ill at ease. He was making a mess of this. The girl must wonderâclearly was wondering. Any girl would.

He said, âYou mustnât thinkâI mean itâs difficult to explain. Your mother is, well, rather different fromââ Elvira was nodding energetically.

âI know. Iâm always reading about her in the papers. Sheâs something rather special, isnât she? In fact, sheâs rather a wonderful person.â

âYes,â agreed the Colonel. âThatâs exactly right. Sheâs a wonderful person.â He paused and then went on. âBut a wonderful person is very oftenââ He stopped and started againââitâs not always a happy thing to have a wonderful person for a mother. You can take that from me because itâs the truth.â

âYou donât like speaking the truth very much, do you? But I think what youâve just said is the truth.â

They both sat staring towards the big brass-bound swing doors that led to the world outside.

Suddenly the doors were pushed open with violenceâa violence quite unusual in Bertramâs Hotelâand a young man strode in and went straight across to the desk. He wore a black leather jacket. His vitality was such that Bertramâs Hotel took on the atmosphere of a museum by way of contrast. The people were the dust-encrusted relics of a past age. He bent towards Miss Gorringe and asked:

âIs Lady Sedgwick staying here?â

Miss Gorringe on this occasion had no welcoming smile. Her eyes were flinty. She said:

âYes.â Then, with definite unwillingness, she stretched out her hand towards the telephone. âDo you want toâ?â

âNo,â said the young man. âI just wanted to leave a note for her.â

He produced it from a pocket of his leather coat and slid it across the mahogany counter.

âI only wanted to be sure this was the right hotel.â

There might have been some slight incredulity in his voice as he looked round him, then turned back towards the entrance. His eyes passed indifferently over the people sitting round him. They passed over Luscombe and Elvira in the same way, and Luscombe felt a sudden unsuspected anger. âDammit all,â he thought to himself, âElviraâs a pretty girl. When I was a young chap Iâd have noticed a pretty girl, especially among all these fossils.â But the young man seemed to have no interested eyes to spare for pretty girls. He turned back to the desk and asked, raising his voice slightly as though to call Miss Gorringeâs attention:

âWhatâs the telephone number here? 1129 isnât it?â

âNo,â said Miss Gorringe, â3925.â

âRegent?â

âNo. Mayfair.â

He nodded. Then swiftly he strode across to the door and passed out, swinging the doors behind him with something of the same explosive quality he had shown on entering.

Everybody seemed to draw a deep breath; to find difficulty in resuming their interrupted conversations.

âWell,â said Colonel Luscombe, rather inadequately, as if at a loss for words. âWell, really! These young fellows nowadaysâ¦.â

Elvira was smiling.

âYou recognized him, didnât you?â she said. âYou know who he is?â She spoke in a slightly awed voice. She proceeded to enlighten him. âLadislaus Malinowski.â

âOh, that chap.â The name was indeed faintly familiar to Colonel Luscombe. âRacing driver.â

âYes. He was world champion two years running. He had a bad crash a year ago. Broke lots of things. But I believe heâs driving again now.â She raised her head to listen. âThatâs a racing car heâs driving now.â

The roar of the engine had penetrated through to Bertramâs Hotel from the street outside. Colonel Luscombe perceived that Ladislaus Malinowski was one of Elviraâs heroes. âWell,â he thought to himself, âbetter that than one of those pop singers or crooners or long-haired Beatles or whatever they call themselves.â Luscombe was old-fashioned in his views of young men.

The swing doors opened again. Both Elvira and Colonel Luscombe looked at them expectantly but Bertramâs Hotel had reverted to normal. It was merely a white-haired elderly cleric who came in. He stood for a moment looking round him with a slightly puzzled air as of one who fails to understand where he was or how he had come there. Such an experience was no novelty to Canon Pennyfather. It came to him in trains when he did not remember where he had come from, where he was going, or why! It came to him when he was walking along the street, it came to him when he found himself sitting on a committee. It had come to him before now when he was in his cathedral stall, and did not know whether he had already preached his sermon or was about to do so.

âI believe I know that old boy,â said Luscombe, peering at him. âWho is he now? Stays here fairly often, I believe. Abercrombie? Archdeacon Abercrombieâno, itâs not Abercrombie, though heâs rather like Abercrombie.â

Elvira glanced round at Canon Pennyfather without interest. Compared with a racing driver he had no appeal at all. She was not interested in ecclesiastics of any kind although, since being in Italy, she admitted to a mild admiration for Cardinals whom she considered as at any rate properly picturesque.

Canon Pennyfatherâs face cleared and he nodded his head appreciatively. He had recognized where he was. In Bertramâs Hotel, of course; where he was going to spend the night on his way toânow where was he on his way to? Chadminster? No, no, he had just come from Chadminster. He was going toâof courseâto the Congress at Lucerne. He stepped forward, beaming, to the reception desk and was greeted warmly by Miss Gorringe.

âSo glad to see you, Canon Pennyfather. How well you are looking.â

âThank youâthank youâI had a severe cold last week but Iâve got over it now. You have a room for me. I did write?â

Miss Gorringe reassured him.

âOh yes, Canon Pennyfather, we got your letter. Weâve reserved No. 19 for you, the room you had last time.â

âThank youâthank you. Forâlet me seeâI shall want it for four days. Actually I am going to Lucerne and I shall be away for one night, but please keep the room. I shall leave most of my things here and only take a small bag to Switzerland. There wonât be any difficulty over that?â

Again Miss Gorringe reassured him.

âEverythingâs going to be quite all right. You explained very clearly in your letter.â

Other people might not have used the word âclearly.â âFullyâ would have been better, since he had certainly written at length.

All anxieties set at rest, Canon Pennyfather breathed a sigh of relief and was conveyed, together with his baggage, to Room 19.

In Room 28 Mrs. Carpenter had removed her crown of violets from her head and was carefully adjusting her nightdress on the pillow of her bed. She looked up as Elvira entered.

âAh, there you are, my dear. Would you like me to help you with your unpacking?â

âNo, thank you,â said Elvira politely. âI shanât unpack very much, you know.â

âWhich of the bedrooms would you like to have? The bathroom is between them. I told them to put your luggage in the far one. I thought this room might be a little noisy.â

âThat was very kind of you,â said Elvira in her expressionless voice.

âYouâre sure you wouldnât like me to help you?â

âNo, thanks, really I wouldnât. I think I might perhaps have a bath.â

âYes, I think thatâs a very good idea. Would you like to have the first bath? Iâd rather finish putting my things away.â

Elvira nodded. She went into the adjoining bathroom, shut the door behind her and pushed the bolts across. She went into her own room, opened her suitcase and flung a few things on the bed. Then she undressed, put on a dressing gown, went into the bathroom and turned the taps on. She went back into her own room and sat down on the bed by the telephone. She listened a moment or two in case of interruption, then lifted the receiver.

âThis is Room 29. Can you give me Regent 1129 please?â

Chapter Four

Within the confines of Scotland Yard a conference was in progress. It was by way of being an informal conference. Six or seven men were sitting easily around a table and each of those six men was a man of some importance in his own line. The subject that occupied the attention of these guardians of the law was a subject that had grown terrifically in importance during the last two or three years. It concerned a branch of crime whose success had been overwhelmingly disquieting. Robbery on a big scale was increasing. Bank holdups, snatches of payrolls, thefts of consignments of jewels sent through the mail, train robberies. Hardly a month passed but some daring and stupendous coup was attempted and brought off successfully.

Sir Ronald Graves, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, was presiding at the head of the table. According to his usual custom he did more listening than talking. No formal reports were being presented on this occasion. All that belonged to the ordinary routine of CID work. This was a high level consultation, a general pooling of ideas between men looking at affairs from slightly different points of view. Sir Ronald Gravesâ eyes went slowly round his little group, then he nodded his head to a man at the end of the table.

âWell, Father,â he said, âletâs hear a few homely wisecracks from you.â

The man addressed as âFatherâ was Chief-Inspector Fred Davy. His retirement lay not long ahead and he appeared to be even more elderly than he was. Hence his nickname of âFather.â He had a comfortable spreading presence, and such a benign and kindly manner that many criminals had been disagreeably surprised to find him a less genial and gullible man that he had seemed to be.

âYes, Father, letâs hear your views,â said another Chief-Inspector.

âItâs big,â said Chief-Inspector Davy with a deep sigh. âYes, itâs big. Maybe itâs growing.â

âWhen you say big, do you mean numerically?â

âYes, I do.â

Another man, Comstock, with a sharp, foxy face and alert eyes, broke in to say:

âWould you say that was an advantage to them?â

âYes and no,â said Father. âIt could be a disaster. But so far, devil take it, theyâve got it all well under control.â

Superintendent Andrews, a fair, slight, dreamy-looking man said, thoughtfully:

âIâve always thought thereâs a lot more to size than people realize. Take a little one-man business. If thatâs well run and if itâs the right size, itâs a sure and certain winner. Branch out, make it bigger, increase personnel, and perhaps youâll get it suddenly to the wrong size and down the hill it goes. The same way with a great big chain of stores. An empire in industry. If thatâs big enough it will succeed. If itâs not big enough it just wonât manage it. Everything has got its right size. When it is its right size and well run itâs the tops.â

âHow big do you think this show is?â Sir Ronald barked.

âBigger than we thought at first,â said Comstock.

A tough-looking man, Inspector McNeill, said:

âItâs growing, Iâd say. Fatherâs right. Growing all the time.â

âThat may be a good thing,â said Davy. âIt may grow a bit too fast, and then itâll get out of hand.â

âThe question is, Sir Ronald,â said McNeill, âwho we pull in and when?â

âThereâs a round dozen or so we could pull in,â said Comstock. âThe Harris lot are mixed-up in it, we know that. Thereâs a nice little pocket down Luton way. Thereâs a garage at Epsom, thereâs a pub near Maidenhead, and thereâs a farm on the Great North Road.â

âAny of them worth pulling in?â

âI donât think so. Small-fry all of them. Links. Just links here and there in the chain. A spot where cars are converted, and turned over quickly; a respectable pub where messages get passed; a secondhand clothes shop where appearance can be altered, a theatrical costumier in the East End, also very useful. Theyâre paid, these people. Quite well paid but they donât really know anything!â

The dreamy Superintendent Andrews said again:

âWeâre up against some good brains. We havenât got near them yet. We know some of their affiliations and thatâs all. As I say, the Harris crowd are in it and Marks is in on the financial end. The foreign contacts are in touch with Weber but heâs only an agent. Weâve nothing actually on any of these people. We know that they all have ways of maintaining contact with each other, and with the different branches of the concern, but we donât know exactly how they do it. We watch them and follow them, and they know weâre watching them. Somewhere thereâs a great central exchange. What we want to get at is the planners.â

Comstock said:

âItâs like a giant network. I agree that there must be an operational headquarters somewhere. A place where each operation is planned and detailed and dovetailed completely. Somewhere, someone plots it all, and produces a working blueprint of Operation Mailbag or Operation Payroll. Those are the people weâre out to get.â

âPossibly they are not even in this country,â said Father quietly.

âNo, I dare say thatâs true. Perhaps theyâre in an igloo somewhere, or in a tent in Morocco or in a chalet in Switzerland.â

âI donât believe in these masterminds,â said McNeill, shaking his head: âthey sound all right in a story. Thereâs got to be a head, of course, but I donât believe in a Master Criminal. Iâd say there was a very clever little Board of Directors behind this. Centrally planned, with a Chairman. Theyâve got on to something good, and theyâre improving their technique all the time. All the sameââ

âYes?â said Sir Ronald encouragingly.

âEven in a right tight little team, there are probably expendables. What I call the Russian Sledge principle. From time to time, if they think we might be getting hot on the scent, they throw off one of them, the one they think they can best afford.â

âWould they dare to do that? Wouldnât it be rather risky?â

âIâd say it could be done in such a way that whoever it was wouldnât even know he had been pushed off the sledge. Heâd just think heâd fallen off. Heâd keep quiet because heâd think it was worth his while to keep quiet. So it would be, of course. Theyâve got plenty of money to play with, and they can afford to be generous. Family looked after, if heâs got one, whilst heâs in prison. Possibly an escape engineered.â

âThereâs been too much of that,â said Comstock.

âI think, you know,â said Sir Ronald, âthat itâs not much good going over and over our speculations again. We always say much the same thing.â

McNeill laughed.

âWhat is it you really wanted us for, sir?â

âWellââ Sir Ronald thought a moment, âweâre all agreed on the main things,â he said slowly. âWeâre agreed on our main policy, on what weâre trying to do. I think it might be profitable to have a look around for some of the small things, the things that donât matter much, that are just a bit out of the usual run. Itâs hard to explain what I mean, but like that business some years ago in the Culver case. An ink stain. Do you remember? An ink stain round a mouse hole. Now why on earth should a man empty a bottle of ink into a mouse hole? It didnât seem important. It was hard to get at the answer. But when we did hit on the answer, it led somewhere. Thatâsâroughlyâthe sort of thing I was thinking about. Odd things. Donât mind saying if you come across something that strikes you as a bit out of the usual. Petty if you like, but irritating, because it doesnât quite fit in. I see Fatherâs nodding his head.â

âCouldnât agree with you more,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âCome on, boys, try to come up with something. Even if itâs only a man wearing a funny hat.â

There was no immediate response. Everyone looked a little uncertain and doubtful.

âCome on,â said Father. âIâll stick my neck out first. Itâs just a funny story, really, but you might as well have it for what itâs worth. The London and Metropolitan Bank holdup. Carmolly Street Branch. Remember it? A whole list of car numbers and car colours and makes. We appealed to people to come forward and they respondedâhow they responded! About a hundred and fifty pieces of misleading information! Got it sorted out in the end to about seven cars that had been seen in the neighbourhood, anyone of which might have been concerned in the robbery.â

âYes,â said Sir Ronald, âgo on.â

âThere were one or two we couldnât get tags on. Looked as though the numbers might have been changed. Nothing out of the way in that. Itâs often done. Most of them got tracked down in the end. Iâll just bring up one instance. Morris Oxford, black saloon, number CMG 265, reported by a probation officer. He said it was being driven by Mr. Justice Ludgrove.â

He looked round. They were listening to him, but without any manifest interest.

âI know,â he said, âwrong as usual. Mr. Justice Ludgrove is a rather noticeable old boy, ugly as sin for one thing. Well, it wasnât Mr. Justice Ludgrove because at that exact time he was actually in Court. He has got a Morris Oxford, but its number isnât CMG 256.â He looked round. âAll right. All right. So thereâs no point in it, youâll say. But do you know what the number was? CMG 265. Near enough, eh? Just the sort of mistake one does make when youâre trying to remember a car number.â

âIâm sorry,â said Sir Ronald, âI donât quite seeââ

âNo,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âthereâs nothing to see really, is there? Onlyâit was very like the actual car number, wasnât it? 265â256 CMG. Really rather a coincidence that there should be a Morris Oxford car of the right colour with the number just one digit wrong, and with a man in it closely resembling the owner of the car.â

âDo you meanâ?â

âJust one little digit difference. Todayâs âdeliberate mistake.â It almost seems like that.â

âSorry, Davy. I still donât get it.â

âOh, I donât suppose thereâs anything to get. Thereâs a Morris Oxford car, CMG 265, proceeding along the street two and a half minutes after the bank snatch. In it, the probation officer recognizes Mr. Justice Ludgrove.â

âAre you suggesting it really was Mr. Justice Ludgrove? Come now, Davy.â

âNo, Iâm not suggesting that it was Mr. Justice Ludgrove and that he was mixed-up in a bank robbery. He was staying at Bertramâs Hotel in Pond Street, and he was at the Law Courts at that exact time. All proved up to the hilt. Iâm saying the car number and make and the identification by a probation officer who knows old Ludgrove quite well by sight is the kind of coincidence that ought to mean something. Apparently it doesnât. Too bad.â

Comstock stirred uneasily.

âThere was another case like that in connection with the jewellery business at Brighton. Some old Admiral or other. Iâve forgotten his name now. Some woman identified him most positively as having been on the scene.â

âAnd he wasnât?â

âNo, heâd been in London that night. Went up for some Naval dinner or other, I think.â

âStaying at his club?â

âNo, he was staying at a hotelâI believe it was that one you mentioned just now, Father, Bertramâs, isnât it? Quiet place. A lot of old service geezers go there, I believe.â

âBertramâs Hotel,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, thoughtfully.

Chapter Five

I

Miss Marple awoke early because she always woke early. She was appreciative of her bed. Most comfortable.

She pattered across to the window and pulled the curtains, admitting a little pallid London daylight. As yet, however, she did not try to dispense with the electric light. A very nice bedroom they had given her, again quite in the tradition of Bertramâs. A rose-flowered wallpaper, a large well-polished mahogany chest of drawersâa dressing table to correspond. Two upright chairs, one easy chair of a reasonable height from the ground. A connecting door led to a bathroom which was modern but which had a tiled wallpaper of roses and so avoided any suggestion of over-frigid hygiene.

Miss Marple got back into bed, plumped her pillows up, glanced at her clock, half past seven, picked up the small devotional book that always accompanied her, and read as usual the page and a half allotted to the day. Then she picked up her knitting and began to knit, slowly at first, since her fingers were stiff and rheumatic when she first awoke, but very soon her pace grew faster, and her fingers lost their painful stiffness.

âAnother day,â said Miss Marple to herself, greeting the fact with her usual gentle pleasure. Another dayâand who knew what it might bring forth?

She relaxed, and abandoning her knitting, let thoughts pass in an idle stream through her headâ¦Selina Hazyâ¦what a pretty cottage she had had in St. Mary Meadâand now someone had put on that ugly green roofâ¦Muffinsâ¦very wasteful in butterâ¦but very goodâ¦And fancy serving old-fashioned seed cake! She had never expected, not for a moment, that things would be as much like they used to beâ¦because, after all, Time didnât stand stillâ¦And to have made it stand still in this way must really have cost a lot of moneyâ¦Not a bit of plastic in the place!â¦It must pay them, she supposed. The out-of-date returns in due course as the picturesqueâ¦Look how people wanted old-fashioned roses now, and scorned hybrid teas!â¦None of this place seemed real at allâ¦Well, why should it?â¦It was fiftyâno, nearer sixty years since she had stayed here. And it didnât seem real to her because she was now acclimatized in this present year of Our LordâReally, the whole thing opened up a very interesting set of problemsâ¦The atmosphere and the peopleâ¦Miss Marpleâs fingers pushed her knitting farther away from her.

âPockets,â she said aloudâ¦âPockets, I supposeâ¦And quite difficult to findâ¦.â

Would that account for that curious feeling of uneasiness she had had last night? That feeling that something was wrongâ¦.

All those elderly peopleâreally very much like those she remembered when she had stayed here fifty years ago. They had been natural thenâbut they werenât very natural now. Elderly people nowadays werenât like elderly people thenâthey had that worried harried look of domestic anxieties with which they are too tired to cope, or they rushed around to committees and tried to appear bustling and competent, or they dyed their hair gentian blue, or wore wigs, and their hands were not the hands she remembered, tapering, delicate handsâthey were harsh from washing up and detergentsâ¦.

And soâwell, so these people didnât look real. But the point was that they were real. Selina Hazy was real. And that rather handsome old military man in the corner was realâshe had met him once, although she did not recall his nameâand the Bishop (dear Robbie!) was dead.

Miss Marple glanced at her little clock. It was eight thirty. Time for her breakfast.

She examined the instructions given by the hotelâsplendid big print so that it wasnât necessary to put oneâs spectacles on.

Meals could be ordered through the telephone by asking for Room Service, or you could press the bell labelled Chambermaid.

Miss Marple did the latter. Talking to Room Service always flustered her.

The result was excellent. In no time at all there was a tap on the door and a highly satisfactory chambermaid appeared. A real chambermaid looking unreal, wearing a striped lavender print dress and actually a cap, a freshly laundered cap. A smiling, rosy, positively countrified face. (Where did they find these people?)

Miss Marple ordered her breakfast. Tea, poached eggs, fresh rolls. So adept was the chambermaid that she did not even mention cereals or orange juice.

Five minutes later breakfast came. A comfortable tray with a big potbellied teapot, creamy-looking milk, a silver hot water jug. Two beautifully poached eggs on toast, poached the proper way, not little round hard bullets shaped in tin cups, a good-sized round of butter stamped with a thistle. Marmalade, honey and strawberry jam. Delicious-looking rolls, not the hard kind with papery interiorsâthey smelt of fresh bread (the most delicious smell in the world!). There was also an apple, a pear and a banana.

Miss Marple inserted a knife gingerly but with confidence. She was not disappointed. Rich deep yellow yolk oozed out, thick and creamy. Proper eggs!

Everythingâs piping hot. A real breakfast. She could have cooked it herself but she hadnât had to! It was brought to her as ifâno, not as though she were a queenâas though she were a middle-aged lady staying in a good but not unduly expensive hotel. In factâback to 1909. Miss Marple expressed appreciation to the chambermaid who replied smiling,

âOh, yes, Madam, the Chef is very particular about his breakfasts.â

Miss Marple studied her appraisingly. Bertramâs Hotel could certainly produce marvels. A real housemaid. She pinched her left arm surreptitiously.

âHave you been here long?â she asked.

âJust over three years, Madam.â

âAnd before that?â

âI was in a hotel at Eastbourne. Very modern and up-to-dateâbut I prefer an old-fashioned place like this.â

Miss Marple took a sip of tea. She found herself humming in a vague wayâwords fitting themselves to a long-forgotten song.

âOh where have you been all my lifeâ¦.â

The chambermaid was looking slightly startled.

âI was just remembering an old song,â twittered Miss Marple apologetically. âVery popular at one time.â

Again she sang softly. âOh where have you been all my lifeâ¦.â

âPerhaps you know it?â she asked.

âWellââ The chambermaid looked rather apologetic.

âToo long ago for you,â said Miss Marple. âAh well, one gets to remembering thingsâin a place like this.â

âYes, Madam, a lot of the ladies who stay here feel like that, I think.â

âItâs partly why they come, I expect,â said Miss Marple.

The chambermaid went out. She was obviously used to old ladies who twittered and reminisced.

Miss Marple finished her breakfast, and got up in a pleasant leisurely fashion. She had a plan ready-made for a delightful morning of shopping. Not too muchâto overtire herself. Oxford Street today, perhaps. And tomorrow Knightsbridge. She planned ahead happily.

It was about ten oâclock when she emerged from her room fully equipped: hat, gloves, umbrellaâjust in case, though it looked fineâhandbagâher smartest shopping bagâ

The door next but one on the corridor opened sharply and someone looked out. It was Bess Sedgwick. She withdrew back into the room and closed the door sharply.

Miss Marple wondered as she went down the stairs. She preferred the stairs to the lift first thing in the morning. It limbered her up. Her steps grew slower and slowerâ¦she stopped.

II

As Colonel Luscombe strode along the passage from his room, a door at the top of the stairs opened sharply and Lady Sedgwick spoke to him.

âThere you are at last! Iâve been on the look out for youâwaiting to pounce. Where can we go and talk? That is to say without falling over some old pussy every second.â

âWell, really, Bess, Iâm not quite sureâI think on the mezzanine floor thereâs a sort of writing room.â

âYouâd better come in here. Quick now, before the chambermaid gets peculiar ideas about us.â

Rather unwillingly, Colonel Luscombe stepped across the threshold and had the door shut firmly behind him.

âIâd no idea you would be staying here, Bess, I hadnât the faintest idea of it.â

âI donât suppose you had.â

âI meanâI would never have brought Elvira here. I have got Elvira here, you know?â

âYes, I saw her with you last night.â

âBut I really didnât know that you were here. It seemed such an unlikely place for you.â

âI donât see why,â said Bess Sedgwick, coldy. âItâs far and away the most comfortable hotel in London. Why shouldnât I stay here?â

âYou must understand that I hadnât any idea ofâ¦I meanââ

She looked at him and laughed. She was dressed ready to go out in a well cut dark suit and a shirt of bright emerald green. She looked gay and very much alive. Beside her, Colonel Luscombe looked rather old and faded.

âDarling Derek, donât look so worried. Iâm not accusing you of trying to stage a mother and daughter sentimental meeting. Itâs just one of those things that happen; where people meet each other in unsuspected places. But you must get Elvira out of here, Derek. You must get her out of it at onceâtoday.â

âOh, sheâs going. I mean, I only brought her here just for a couple of nights. Do a showâthat sort of thing. Sheâs going down to the Melfordsâ tomorrow.â

âPoor girl, thatâll be boring for her.â

Luscombe looked at her with concern. âDo you think she will be very bored?â

Bess took pity on him.

âProbably not after duress in Italy. She might even think it wildly thrilling.â

Luscombe took his courage in both hands.

âLook here, Bess, I was startled to find you here, but donât you think itâwell, you know, it might be meant in a way. I mean that it might be an opportunityâI donât think you really know howâwell, how the girl might feel.â

âWhat are you trying to say, Derek?â

âWell, you are her mother, you know.â

âIâm course Iâm her mother. Sheâs my daughter. And what good has that fact ever been to either of us, or ever will be?â

âYou canât be sure. I thinkâI think she feels it.â

âWhat gives you that idea?â said Bess Sedgwick sharply.

âSomething she said yesterday. She asked where you were, what you were doing.â

Bess Sedgwick walked across the room to the window. She stood there a moment tapping on the pane.

âYouâre so nice, Derek,â she said. âYou have such nice ideas. But they donât work, my poor angel. Thatâs what youâve got to say to yourself. They donât work and they might be dangerous.â

âOh come now, Bess. Dangerous?â

âYes, yes, yes. Dangerous. Iâm dangerous. Iâve always been dangerous.â

âWhen I think of some of the things youâve done,â said Colonel Luscombe.

âThatâs my own business,â said Bess Sedgwick. âRunning into danger has become a kind of habit with me. No, I wouldnât say habit. More an addiction. Like a drug. Like that nice little dollop of heroin addicts have to have every so often to make life seem bright coloured and worth living. Well, thatâs all right. Thatâs my funeralâor notâas the case may be. Iâve never taken drugsânever needed themâDanger has been my drug. But people who live as I do can be a source of harm to others. Now donât be an obstinate old fool, Derek. You keep that girl well away from me. I can do her no good. Only harm. If possible, donât even let her know I was staying in the same hotel. Ring up the Melfords and take her down there today. Make some excuse about a sudden emergencyââ

Colonel Luscombe hesitated, pulling his moustaches.

âI think youâre making a mistake, Bess.â He sighed. âShe asked where you were. I told her you were abroad.â

âWell, I shall be in another twelve hours, so that all fits very nicely.â

She came up to him, kissed him on the point of his chin, turned him smartly around as though they were about to play Blind Manâs Buff, opened the door, gave him a gentle little propelling shove out of it. As the door shut behind him, Colonel Luscombe noticed an old lady turning the corner from the stairs. She was muttering to herself as she looked into her handbag. âDear, dear me. I suppose I must have left it in my room. Oh dear.â

She passed Colonel Luscombe without paying much attention to him apparently, but as he went on down the stairs Miss Marple paused by her room door and directed a piercing glance after him. Then she looked towards Bess Sedgwickâs door. âSo thatâs who she was waiting for,â said Miss Marple to herself. âI wonder why.â

III

Canon Pennyfather, fortified by breakfast, wandered across the lounge, remembered to leave his key at the desk, pushed his way through the swinging doors, and was neatly inserted into a taxi by the Irish commissionaire who existed for this purpose.

âWhere to, sir?â

âOh dear,â said Canon Pennyfather in sudden dismay. âNow let me seeâwhere was I going?â

The traffic in Pond Street was held up for some minutes whilst Canon Pennyfather and the commissionaire debated this knotty point.

Finally Canon Pennyfather had a brainwave and the taxi was directed to go to the British Museum.

The commissionaire was left on the pavement with a broad grin on his face, and since no other exits seemed to be taking place, he strolled a little way along the faÃ§ade of the hotel whistling an old tune in a muted manner.

One of the windows on the ground floor of Bertramâs was flung upâbut the commissionaire did not even turn his head until a voice spoke unexpectedly through the open window.

âSo this is where youâve landed up, Micky. What on earth brought you to this place?â

He swung round, startledâand stared.

Lady Sedgwick thrust her head through the open window.

âDonât you know me?â she demanded.

A sudden gleam of recognition came across the manâs face.

âWhy, if it isnât little Bessie now! Fancy that! After all these years. Little Bessie.â

âNobody but you ever called me Bessie. Itâs a revolting name. What have you been doing all these years?â

âThis and that,â said Micky with some reserve. âIâve not been in the news like you have. Iâve read of your doings in the paper time and again.â

Bess Sedgwick laughed. âAnyway, Iâve worn better than you have,â she said. âYou drink too much. You always did.â

âYouâve worn well because youâve always been in the money.â

âMoney wouldnât have done you any good. Youâd have drunk even more and gone to the dogs completely. Oh yes, you would! What brought you here? Thatâs what I want to know. How did you ever get taken on at this place?â

âI wanted a job. I had theseââ his hand flicked over the row of medals.

âYes, I see.â She was thoughtful. âAll genuine too, arenât they?â

âSure theyâre genuine. Why shouldnât they be?â

âOh I believe you. You always had courage. Youâve always been a good fighter. Yes, the army suited you. Iâm sure of that.â

âThe armyâs all right in time of war, but itâs no good in peacetime.â

âSo you took to this stuff. I hadnât the least ideaââ she stopped.

âYou hadnât the least idea what, Bessie?â

âNothing. Itâs queer seeing you again after all these years.â

âI havenât forgotten,â said the man. âIâve never forgotten you, little Bessie. Ah! A lovely girl you were! A lovely slip of a girl.â

âA damnâ fool of a girl, thatâs what I was,â said Lady Sedgwick.

âThatâs true now. You hadnât much sense. If you had, you wouldnât have taken up with me. What hands you had for a horse. Do you remember that mareâwhat was her name now?âMolly OâFlynn. Ah, she was a wicked devil, that one was.â

âYou were the only one that could ride her,â said Lady Sedgwick.

âSheâd have had me off if she could! When she found she couldnât, she gave in. Ah, she was a beauty, now. But talking of sitting a horse, there wasnât one lady in those parts better than you. A lovely seat you had, lovely hands. Never any fear in you, not for a minute! And itâs been the same ever since, so I judge. Aeroplanes, racing cars.â

Bess Sedgwick laughed.

âI must get on with my letters.â

She drew back from the window.

Micky leaned over the railing. âIâve not forgotten Ballygowlan,â he said with meaning. âSometimes Iâve thought of writing to youââ

Bess Sedgwickâs voice came out harshly.

âAnd what do you mean by that, Mick Gorman?â

âI was just saying as I havenât forgottenâanything. I was justâreminding you like.â

Bess Sedgwickâs voice still held its harsh note.

âIf you mean what I think you mean, Iâll give you a piece of advice. Any trouble from you, and Iâd shoot you as easily as Iâd shoot a rat. Iâve shot men beforeââ

âIn foreign parts, maybeââ

âForeign parts or hereâitâs all the same to me.â

âAh, good Lord, now, and I believe you would do just that!â His voice held admiration. âIn Ballygowlanââ

âIn Ballygowlan,â she cut in, âthey paid you to keep your mouth shut and paid you well. You took the money. Youâll get no more from me so donât think it.â

âIt would be a nice romantic story for the Sunday papersâ¦.â

âYou heard what I said.â

âAh,â he laughed, âIâm not serious, I was just joking. Iâd never do anything to hurt my little Bessie. Iâll keep my mouth shut.â

âMind you do,â said Lady Sedgwick.

She shut down the window. Staring down at the desk in front of her she looked at her unfinished letter on the blotting paper. She picked it up, looked at it, crumpled it into a ball and slung it into the wastepaper basket. Then abruptly she got up from her seat and walked out of the room. She did not even cast a glance around her before she went.

The smaller writing rooms at Bertramâs often had an appearance of being empty even when they were not. Two well-appointed desks stood in the windows, there was a table on the right that held a few magazines, on the left were two very high-backed armchairs turned towards the fire. These were favourite spots in the afternoon for elderly military or naval gentlemen to ensconce themselves and fall happily asleep until teatime. Anyone coming in to write a letter did not usually even notice them. The chairs were not so much in demand during the morning.

As it happened, however, they were on this particular morning both occupied. An old lady was in one and a young girl in the other. The young girl rose to her feet. She stood a moment looking uncertainly towards the door through which Lady Sedgwick had passed out, then she moved slowly towards it. Elvira Blakeâs face was deadly pale.

It was another five minutes before the old lady moved. Then Miss Marple decided that the little rest which she always took after dressing and coming downstairs had lasted quite long enough. It was time to go out and enjoy the pleasures of London. She might walk as far as Piccadilly, and take a No. 9 bus to High Street, Kensington, or she might walk along to Bond Street and take a 25 bus to Marshall & Snelgroveâs, or she might take a 25 the other way which as far as she remembered would land her up at the Army & Navy Stores. Passing through the swing doors she was still savouring these delights in her mind. The Irish commissionaire, back on duty, made up her mind for her.

âYouâll be wanting a taxi, Maâam,â he said with firmness.

âI donât think I do,â said Miss Marple. âI think thereâs a 25 bus I could take quite near hereâor a 2 from Park Lane.â

âYouâll not be wanting a bus,â said the commissionaire firmly. âItâs very dangerous springing on a bus when youâre getting on in life. The way they start and stop and go on again. Jerk you off your feet, they do. No heart at all, these fellows, nowadays. Iâll whistle you along a taxi and youâll go to wherever you want to like a queen.â

Miss Marple considered and fell.

âVery well then,â she said, âperhaps I had better have a taxi.â

The commissionaire had no need even to whistle. He merely clicked his thumb and a taxi appeared like magic. Miss Marple was helped into it with every possible care and decided on the spur of the moment to go to Robinson & Cleaverâs and look at their splendid offer of real linen sheets. She sat happily in her taxi feeling indeed as the commissionaire had promised her, just like a queen. Her mind was filled with pleasurable anticipation of linen sheets, linen pillowcases and proper glass and kitchen cloths without pictures of bananas, figs or performing dogs and other pictorial distractions to annoy you when you were washing up.

IV

Lady Sedgwick came up to the Reception desk.

âMr. Humfries in his office?â

âYes, Lady Sedgwick.â Miss Gorringe looked startled.

Lady Sedgwick passed behind the desk, tapped on the door and went in without waiting for any response.

Mr. Humfries looked up startled.

âWhatââ

âWho engaged the man Michael Gorman?â

Mr. Humfries spluttered a little.

âParfitt leftâhe had a car accident a month ago. We had to replace him quickly. This man seemed all right. References OKâex-Armyâquite good recordânot very bright perhapsâbut thatâs all the better sometimesâyou donât know anything against him, do you?â

âEnough not to want him here.â

âIf you insist,â Humfries said slowly, âweâll give him his noticeââ

âNo,â said Lady Sedgwick slowly. âNoâitâs too late for thatâNever mind.â

Chapter Six

I

âElvira.â

âHallo, Bridget.â

The Hon. Elvira Blake pushed her way through the front door of 180 Onslow Square, which her friend Bridget had rushed down to open for her, having been watching through the window.

âLetâs go upstairs,â said Elvira.

âYes, weâd better. Otherwise weâll get entangled by Mummy.â

The two girls rushed up the stairs, thereby circumventing Bridgetâs mother, who came out onto the landing from her own bedroom just too late.

âYou really are lucky not to have a mother,â said Bridget, rather breathlessly as she took her friend into her bedroom and shut the door firmly. âI mean, Mummyâs quite a pet and all that, but the questions she asks! Morning, noon and night. Where are you going, and who have you met? And are they cousins of somebody else of the same name in Yorkshire? I mean, the futility of it all.â

âI suppose they have nothing else to think about,â said Elvira vaguely. âLook here, Bridget, thereâs something terribly important Iâve got to do, and youâve got to help me.â

âWell, I will if I can. What is itâa man?â

âNo, it isnât, as a matter of fact.â Bridget looked disappointed. âIâve got to get away to Ireland for twenty-four hours or perhaps longer, and youâve got to cover up for me.â

âTo Ireland? Why?â

âI canât tell you all about it now. Thereâs no time. Iâve got to meet my guardian, Colonel Luscombe, at Prunierâs for lunch at half past one.â

âWhat have you done with the Carpenter?â

âGave her the slip in Debenhamâs.â

Bridget giggled.

âAnd after lunch theyâre taking me down to the Melfords. Iâm going to live with them until Iâm twenty-one.â

âHow ghastly!â

âI expect I shall manage. Cousin Mildred is fearfully easy to deceive. Itâs arranged Iâm to come up for classes and things. Thereâs a place called World of Today. They take you to lectures and to Museums and to Picture Galleries and the House of Lords, and all that. The whole point is that nobody will know whether youâre where you ought to be or not! Weâll manage lots of things.â

âI expect we will.â Bridget giggled. âWe managed in Italy, didnât we? Old Macaroni thought she was so strict. Little did she know what we got up to when we tried.â

Both girls laughed in the pleasant consciousness of successful wickedness.

âStill, it did need a lot of planning,â said Elvira.

âAnd some splendid lying,â said Bridget. âHave you heard from Guido?â

âOh yes, he wrote me a long letter signed Ginevra as though he was a girlfriend. But I do wish youâd stop talking so much, Bridget. Weâve got a lot to do and only about an hour and a half to do it in. Now first of all just listen. Iâm coming up tomorrow for an appointment with the dentist. Thatâs easy, I can put it off by telephoneâor you can from here. Then, about midday, you can ring up the Melfords pretending to be your mother and explain that the dentist wants to see me again the next day and so Iâm staying over with you here.â

âThat ought to go down all right. Theyâll say how very kind and gush. But supposing youâre not back the next day?â

âThen youâll have to do some more ringing up.â

Bridget looked doubtful.

âWeâll have lots of time to think up something before then,â said Elvira impatiently. âWhatâs worrying me now is money. You havenât got any, I suppose?â Elvira spoke without much hope.

âOnly about two pounds.â

âThatâs no good. Iâve got to buy my air ticket. Iâve looked up the flights. It only takes about two hours. A lot depends upon how long it takes me when I get there.â

âCanât you tell me what youâre going to do?â

âNo, I canât. But itâs terribly, terribly important.â

Elviraâs voice was so different that Bridget looked at her in some surprise.

âIs anything really the matter, Elvira?â

âYes, it is.â

âIs it something nobodyâs got to know about?â

âYes, thatâs the sort of thing. Itâs frightfully, frightfully secret. Iâve got to find out if something is really true or not. Itâs a bore about the money. Whatâs maddening is that Iâm really quite rich. My guardian told me so. But all they give me is a measly dress allowance. And that seems to go as soon as I get it.â

âWouldnât your guardianâColonel Thingummybobâlend you some money?â

âThat wouldnât do at all. Heâd ask a lot of questions and want to know what I wanted it for.â

âOh, dear, I suppose he would. I canât think why everybody wants to ask so many questions. Do you know that if somebody rings me up, Mummy has to ask who it is? When it really is no business of hers!â

Elvira agreed, but her mind was on another tack.

âHave you ever pawned anything, Bridget?â

âNever. I donât think Iâd know how to.â

âItâs quite easy, I believe,â said Elvira. âYou go to the sort of jeweller who has three balls over the door, isnât that right?â

âI donât think Iâve got anything that would be any good taking to a pawnbroker,â said Bridget.

âHasnât your mother got some jewellery somewhere?â

âI donât think weâd better ask her to help.â

âNo, perhaps notâBut we could pinch something perhaps.â

âOh, I donât think we could do that,â said Bridget, shocked.

âNo? Well, perhaps youâre right. But I bet she wouldnât notice. We could get it back before she missed it. I know. Weâll go to Mr. Bollard.â

âWhoâs Mr. Bollard?â

âOh, heâs a sort of family jeweller. I take my watch there always to have it mended. Heâs known me ever since I was six. Come on, Bridget, weâll go there right away. Weâll just have time.â

âWeâd better go out the back way,â said Bridget, âand then Mummy wonât ask us where weâre going.â

Outside the old established business of Bollard and Whitley in Bond Street the two girls made their final arrangements.

âAre you sure you understand, Bridget?â

âI think so,â said Bridget in a far from happy voice.

âFirst,â said Elvira, âwe synchronize our watches.â

Bridget brightened up a little. This familiar literary phrase had a heartening effect. They solemnly synchronized their watches, Bridget adjusting hers by one minute.

âZero hour will be twenty-five past exactly,â said Elvira.

âThat will give me plenty of time. Perhaps even more than I need, but itâs better that way about.â

âBut supposingââ began Bridget.

âSupposing what?â asked Elvira.

âWell, I mean, supposing I really got run over?â

âOf course you wonât get run over,â said Elvira. âYou know how nippy you are on your feet, and all London traffic is used to pulling up suddenly. Itâll be all right.â

Bridget looked far from convinced.

âYou wonât let me down, Bridget, will you?â

âAll right,â said Bridget, âI wonât let you down.â

âGood,â said Elvira.

Bridget crossed to the other side of Bond Street and Elvira pushed open the doors of Messrs. Bollard and Whitley, old established jewellers and watchmakers. Inside there was a beautiful and hushed atmosphere. A frock-coated nobleman came forward and asked Elvira what he could do for her.

âCould I see Mr. Bollard?â

âMr. Bollard. What name shall I say?â

âMiss Elvira Blake.â

The nobleman disappeared and Elvira drifted to a counter where, below plate glass, brooches, rings and bracelets showed off their jewelled proportions against suitable shades of velvet. In a very few moments Mr. Bollard made his appearance. He was the senior partner of the firm, an elderly man of sixty odd. He greeted Elvira with warm friendliness.

âAh, Miss Blake, so you are in London. Itâs a great pleasure to see you. Now what can I do for you?â

Elvira produced a dainty little evening wristwatch.

âThis watch doesnât go properly,â said Elvira. âCould you do something to it?â

âOh yes, of course. Thereâs no difficulty about that.â Mr. Bollard took it from her. âWhat address shall I send it to?â

Elvira gave the address.

âAnd thereâs another thing,â she said. âMy guardianâColonel Luscombe you knowââ

âYes, yes, of course.â

âHe asked me what Iâd like for a Christmas present,â said Elvira. âHe suggested I should come in here and look at some different things. He said would I like him to come with me, and I said Iâd rather come along firstâbecause I always think itâs rather embarrassing, donât you? I mean, prices and all that.â

âWell, thatâs certainly one aspect,â said Mr. Bollard, beaming in an avuncular manner. âNow what had you in mind, Miss Blake? A brooch, braceletâa ring?â

âI think really brooches are more useful,â said Elvira. âBut I wonderâcould I look at a lot of things?â She looked up at him appealingly. He smiled sympathetically.

âOf course, of course. No pleasure at all if one has to make up oneâs mind too quickly, is it?â

The next five minutes were spent very agreeably. Nothing was too much trouble for Mr. Bollard. He fetched things from one case and another, brooches and bracelets piled up on the piece of velvet spread in front of Elvira. Occasionally she turned aside to look at herself in a mirror, trying the effect of a brooch or a pendant. Finally, rather uncertainly, a pretty little bangle, a small diamond wristwatch and two brooches were laid aside.

âWeâll make a note of these,â said Mr. Bollard, âand then when Colonel Luscombe is in London next, perhaps heâll come in and see what he decides himself heâd like to give you.â

âI think that way will be very nice,â said Elvira. âThen heâll feel more that heâs chosen my present himself, wonât he?â Her limpid blue gaze was raised to the jewellerâs face. That same blue gaze had registered a moment earlier that the time was now exactly twenty-five minutes past the hour.

Outside there was the squealing of brakes and a girlâs loud scream. Inevitably the eyes of everyone in the shop turned towards the windows of the shop giving on Bond Street. The movement of Elviraâs hand on the counter in front of her and then to the pocket of her neat tailor-made coat and skirt was so rapid and unobtrusive as to be almost unnoticeable, even if anybody had been looking.

âTcha, tcha,â said Mr. Bollard, turning back from where he had been peering out into the street. âVery nearly an accident. Silly girl! Rushing across the road like that.â

Elvira was already moving towards the door. She looked at her wristwatch and uttered an exclamation.

âOh dear, Iâve been far too long in here. I shall miss my train back to the country. Thank you so much, Mr. Bollard, and you wonât forget which the four things are, will you?â

In another minute, she was out of the door. Turning rapidly to the left and then to the left again, she stopped in the arcade of a shoe shop until Bridget, rather breathless, rejoined her.

âOh,â said Bridget, âI was terrified. I thought I was going to be killed. And Iâve torn a hole in my stocking, too.â

âNever mind,â said Elvira and walked her friend rapidly along the street and round yet another corner to the right. âCome on.â

âIs itâwas itâall right?â

Elviraâs hand slipped into her pocket and out again showing the diamond and sapphire bracelet in her palm.

âOh, Elvira, how you dared!â

âNow, Bridget, youâve got to get along to that pawnshop we marked down. Go in and see how much you can get for this. Ask for a hundred.â

âDo you thinkâsupposing they sayâI meanâI mean, it might be on a list of stolen thingsââ

âDonât be silly. How could it be on a list so soon? They havenât even noticed itâs gone yet.â

âBut Elvira, when they do notice itâs gone, theyâll thinkâperhaps theyâll knowâthat you must have taken it.â

âThey might think soâif they discover it soon.â

âWell, then theyâll go to the police andââ

She stopped as Elvira shook her head slowly, her pale yellow hair swinging to and fro and a faint enigmatic smile curving up the corners of her mouth.

âThey wonât go to the police, Bridget. Certainly not if they think I took it.â

âWhyâyou meanâ?â

âAs I told you, Iâm going to have a lot of money when Iâm twenty-one. I shall be able to buy lots of jewels from them. They wonât make a scandal. Go on and get the money quick. Then go to Aer Lingus and book the ticketâI must take a taxi to Prunierâs. Iâm already ten minutes late. Iâll be with you tomorrow morning by half past ten.â

âOh, Elvira, I wish you wouldnât take such frightful risks,â moaned Bridget.

But Elvira had hailed a taxi.

II

Miss Marple had a very enjoyable time at Robinson & Cleaverâs. Besides purchasing expensive but delicious sheetsâshe loved linen sheets with their texture and their coolnessâshe also indulged in a purchase of good quality red-bordered glass cloths. Really the difficulty in getting proper glass cloths nowadays! Instead, you were offered things that might as well have been ornamental tablecloths, decorated with radishes or lobsters or the Tour Eiffel or Trafalgar Square, or else littered with lemons and oranges. Having given her address in St. Mary Mead, Miss Marple found a convenient bus which took her to the Army & Navy Stores.

The Army & Navy Stores had been a haunt of Miss Marpleâs aunt in days long gone. It was not, of course, quite the same nowadays. Miss Marple cast her thoughts back to Aunt Helen seeking out her own special man in the grocery department, settling herself comfortably in a chair, wearing a bonnet and what she always called her âblack poplinâ mantle. Then there would ensue a long hour with nobody in a hurry and Aunt Helen thinking of every conceivable grocery that could be purchased and stored up for future use. Christmas was provided for, and there was even a far-off look towards Easter. The young Jane had fidgeted somewhat, and had been told to go and look at the glass department by way of amusement.

Having finished her purchases, Aunt Helen would then proceed to lengthy inquiries about her chosen shop-assistantâs mother, wife, second boy and crippled sister-in-law. Having had a thoroughly pleasant morning, Aunt Helen would say in the playful manner of those times, âAnd how would a little girl feel about some luncheon?â Whereupon they went up in the lift to the fourth floor and had luncheon which always finished with a strawberry ice. After that, they bought half a pound of coffee chocolate creams and went to a matinÃ©e in a four wheeler.

Of course, the Army & Navy Stores had had a good many face lifts since those days. In fact, it was now quite unrecognizable from the old times. It was gayer and much brighter. Miss Marple, though throwing a kindly and indulgent smile at the past, did not object to the amenities of the present. There was still a restaurant, and there she repaired to order her lunch.

As she was looking carefully down the menu and deciding what to have, she looked across the room and her eyebrows went up a little. How extraordinary coincidence was! Here was a woman she had never seen till the day before, though she had seen plenty of newspaper photographs of herâat race meetings, in Bermuda, or standing by her own plane or car. Yesterday, for the first time, she had seen her in the flesh. And now, as was so often the case, there was the coincidence of running into her again in a most unlikely place. For somehow she did not connect lunch at the Army & Navy Stores with Bess Sedgwick. She would not have been surprised to see Bess Sedgwick emerging from a den in Soho, or stepping out of Covent Garden Opera House in evening dress with a diamond tiara on her head. But somehow, not in the Army & Navy Stores which in Miss Marpleâs mind was, and always would be, connected with the armed forces, their wives, daughters, aunts and grandmothers. Still, there Bess Sedgwick was, looking as usual very smart, in her dark suit and her emerald shirt, lunching at a table with a man. A young man with a lean hawklike face, wearing a black leather jacket. They were leaning forward talking earnestly together, forking in mouthfuls of food as though they were quite unaware what they were eating.

An assignation, perhaps? Yes, probably an assignation. The man must be fifteen or twenty years younger than she wasâbut Bess Sedgwick was a magnetically attractive woman.

Miss Marple looked at the young man consideringly and decided that he was what she called a âhandsome fellow.â She also decided that she didnât like him very much. âJust like Harry Russell,â said Miss Marple to herself, dredging up a prototype as usual from the past. âNever up to any good. Never did any woman who had anything to do with him any good either.

âShe wouldnât take advice from me,â thought Miss Marple, âbut I could give her some.â However, other peopleâs love affairs were no concern of hers, and Bess Sedgwick, by all accounts, could take care of herself very well when it came to love affairs.

Miss Marple sighed, ate her lunch, and meditated a visit to the stationery department.

Curiosity, or what she preferred herself to call âtaking an interestâ in other peopleâs affairs, was undoubtedly one of Miss Marpleâs characteristics.

Deliberately leaving her gloves on the table, she rose and crossed the floor to the cash desk, taking a route that passed close to Lady Sedgwickâs table. Having paid her bill she âdiscoveredâ the absence of her gloves and returned to get themâunfortunately dropping her handbag on the return route. It came open and spilled various oddments. A waitress rushed to assist her in picking them up, and Miss Marple was forced to show a great shakiness and dropped coppers and keys a second time.

She did not get very much by these subterfuges but they were not entirely in vainâand it was interesting that neither of the two objects of her curiosity spared as much as a glance for the dithery old lady who kept dropping things.

As Miss Marple waited for the lift down she memorized such scraps as she had heard.

âWhat about the weather forecast?â

âOK. No fog.â

âAll set for Lucerne?â

âYes. Plane leaves 9:40.â

That was all she had got the first time. On the way back it had lasted a little longer.

Bess Sedgwick had been speaking angrily.

âWhat possessed you to come to Bertramâs yesterdayâyou shouldnât have come near the place.â

âItâs all right. I asked if you were staying there and everyone knows weâre close friendsââ

âThatâs not the point. Bertramâs is all right for meâNot for you. You stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone stares at you.â

âLet them!â

âYou really are an idiot. Whyâwhy? What reasons did you have? You had a reasonâI know youâ¦.â

âCalm down, Bess.â

âYouâre such a liar!â

That was all she had been able to hear. She found it interesting.

Chapter Seven

On the evening of 19th November Canon Pennyfather had finished an early dinner at the Athenaeum, he had nodded to one or two friends, had had a pleasant acrimonious discussion on some crucial points of the dating of the Dead Sea Scrolls and now, glancing at his watch, saw that it was time to leave to catch his plane to Lucerne. As he passed through the hall he was greeted by one more friend: Dr. Whittaker of the SOAS, who said cheerfully:

âHow are you, Pennyfather? Havenât seen you for a long time. How did you get on at the Congress? Any points of interest come up?â

âI am sure there will be.â

âJust come back from it, havenât you?â

âNo, no, I am on my way there. Iâm catching a plane this evening.â

âOh I see.â Whittaker looked slightly puzzled. âSomehow or other I thought the Congress was today.â

âNo, no. Tomorrow, the 19th.â

Canon Pennyfather passed out through the door while his friend, looking after him, was just saying:

âBut my dear chap, today is the 19th, isnât it?â

Canon Pennyfather, however, had gone beyond earshot. He picked up a taxi in Pall Mall, and was driven to the air terminal in Kensington. There was quite a fair crowd this evening. Presenting himself at the desk it at last came to his turn. He managed to produce ticket and passport and other necessities for the journey. The girl behind the desk, about to stamp these credentials, paused abruptly.

âI beg your pardon, sir, this seems to be the wrong ticket.â

âThe wrong ticket? No, no, that is quite right. Flight one hundred andâwell, I canât really read without my glassesâone hundred and something to Lucerne.â

âItâs the date, sir. This is dated Wednesday the 18th.â

âNo, no, surely. At leastâI meanâtoday is Wednesday the 18th.â

âIâm sorry, sir. Today is the 19th.â

âThe 19th!â The Canon was dismayed. He fished out a small diary, turning the pages eagerly. In the end he had to be convinced. Today was the 19th. The plane he had meant to catch had gone yesterday.

âThen that meansâthat meansâdear me, it means the Congress at Lucerne has taken place today.â

He stared in deep dismay across the counter; but there were many others travelling; the Canon and his perplexities were elbowed aside. He stood sadly, holding the useless ticket in his hand. His mind ranged over various possibilities. Perhaps his ticket could be changed? But that would be no useâno indeedâwhat time was it now? Going on for 9 oâclock? The conference had actually taken place; starting at 10 oâclock this morning. Of course, that was what Whittaker had meant at the Athenaeum. He thought Canon Pennyfather had already been to the Congress.

âOh dear, oh dear,â said Canon Pennyfather, to himself. âWhat a muddle I have made of it all!â He wandered sadly and silently into the Cromwell Road, not at its best a very cheerful place.

He walked slowly along the street carrying his bag and revolving perplexities in his mind. When at last he had worked out to his satisfaction the various reasons for which he had made a mistake in the day, he shook his head sadly.

âNow, I suppose,â he said to himself, âI supposeâlet me see, itâs after nine oâclock, yes, I suppose I had better have something to eat.â

It was curious, he thought, that he did not feel hungry.

Wandering disconsolately along the Cromwell Road he finally settled upon a small restaurant which served Indian curries. It seemed to him that though he was not quite as hungry as he ought to be, he had better keep his spirits up by having a meal, and after that he must find a hotel andâbut no, there was no need to do that. He had a hotel! Of course. He was staying at Bertramâs; and had reserved his room for four days. What a piece of luck! What a splendid piece of luck! So his room was there, waiting for him. He had only to ask for his key at the desk andâhere another reminiscence assailed him. Something heavy in his pocket?

He dipped his hand in and brought out one of those large and solid keys with which hotels try and discourage their vaguer guests from taking them away in their pockets. It had not prevented the Canon from doing so!

âNo. 19,â said the Canon, in happy recognition. âThatâs right. Itâs very fortunate that I havenât got to go and find a room in a hotel. They say theyâre very crowded just now. Yes, Edmunds was saying so at the Athenaeum this evening. He had a terrible job finding a room.â

Somewhat pleased with himself and the care he had taken over his travelling arrangements by booking a hotel beforehand, the Canon abandoned his curry, remembered to pay for it, and strode out once more into the Cromwell Road.

It seemed a little tame to go home just like this when he ought to have been dining in Lucerne and talking about all sorts of interesting and fascinating problems. His eye was caught by a cinema.

Walls of Jericho.

It seemed an eminently suitable title. It would be interesting to see if biblical accuracy had been preserved.

He bought himself a seat and stumbled into the darkness. He enjoyed the film, though it seemed to him to have no relationship to the biblical story whatsoever. Even Joshua seemed to have been left out. The walls of Jericho seemed to be a symbolical way of referring to a certain ladyâs marriage vows. When they had tumbled down several times, the beautiful star met the dour and uncouth hero whom she had secretly loved all along and between them they proposed to build up the walls in a way that would stand the test of time better. It was not a film destined particularly to appeal to an elderly clergyman; but Canon Pennyfather enjoyed it very much. It was not the sort of film he often saw and he felt it was enlarging his knowledge of life. The film ended, the lights went up, the National Anthem was played and Canon Pennyfather stumbled out into the lights of London, slightly consoled for the sad events of earlier in the evening.

It was a fine night and he walked home to Bertramâs Hotel after first getting into a bus which took him in the opposite direction. It was midnight when he got in and Bertramâs Hotel at midnight usually preserved a decorous appearance of everyone having gone to bed. The lift was on a higher floor so the Canon walked up the stairs. He came to his room, inserted the key in the lock, threw the door open and entered!

Good gracious, was he seeing things? But whoâhowâhe saw the upraised arm too lateâ¦.

Stars exploded in a kind of Guy Fawkesâ display within his headâ¦.

Chapter Eight

I

The Irish Mail rushed through the night. Or, more correctly, through the darkness of the early morning hours.

At intervals the diesel engine gave its weird banshee warning cry. It was travelling at well over eighty miles an hour. It was on time.

Then, with some suddenness, the pace slackened as the brakes came on. The wheels screamed as they gripped the metals. Slowerâ¦slowerâ¦The guard put his head out of the window noting the red signal ahead as the train came to a final halt. Some of the passengers woke up. Most did not.

One elderly lady, alarmed by the suddenness of the deceleration, opened the door and looked out along the corridor. A little way along one of the doors to the line was open. An elderly cleric with a thatch of thick white hair was climbing up from the permanent way. She presumed he had previously climbed down to the line to investigate. The morning air was distinctly chilly. Someone at the end of the corridor said: âOnly a signal.â The elderly lady withdrew into her compartment and tried to go to sleep again.

Farther up the line, a man waving a lantern was running towards the train from a signal box. The fireman climbed down from the engine. The guard who had descended from the train came along to join him. The man with the lantern arrived, rather short of breath and spoke in a series of gasps.

âBad crash aheadâ¦Goods train derailedâ¦.â

The engine driver looked out of his cab, then climbed down also to join the others.

At the rear of the train, six men who had just climbed up the embankment boarded the train through a door left open for them in the last coach. Six passengers from different coaches met them. With well-rehearsed speed, they proceeded to take charge of the postal van, isolating it from the rest of the train. Two men in Balaclava helmets at front and rear of the compartment stood on guard, coshes in hand.

A man in railway uniform went forward along the corridor of the stationary train, uttering explanations to such as demanded them.

âBlock on the line ahead. Ten minutesâ delay, maybe, not much moreâ¦.â It sounded friendly and reassuring.

By the engine, the driver and the fireman lay neatly gagged and trussed up. The man with the lantern called out:

âEverything OK here.â

The guard lay by the embankment, similarly gagged and tied.

The expert cracksmen in the postal van had done their work. Two more neatly trussed bodies lay on the floor. The special mailbags sailed out to where other men on the embankment awaited them.

In their compartments, passengers grumbled to each other that the railways were not what they used to be.

Then, as they settled themselves to sleep again, there came through the darkness the roar of an exhaust.

âGoodness,â murmured a woman. âIs that a jet plane?â

âRacing car, I should say.â

The roar died awayâ¦.

II

On the Bedhampton Motorway, nine miles away, a steady stream of night lorries was grinding its way north. A big white racing car flashed past them.

Ten minutes later, it turned off the motorway.

The garage on the corner of the B road bore the sign CLOSED. But the big doors swung open and the white car was driven straight in, the doors closing again behind it. Three men worked at lightning speed. A fresh set of number plates were attached. The driver changed his coat and cap. He had worn white sheepskin before. Now he wore black leather. He drove out again. Three minutes after his departure, an old Morris Oxford, driven by a clergyman, chugged out onto the road and proceeded to take a route through various turning and twisting country lanes.

A station wagon, driven along a country road, slowed up as it came upon an old Morris Oxford stationary by the hedge, with an elderly man standing over it.

The driver of the station wagon put out a head.

âHaving trouble? Can I help?â

âVery good of you. Itâs my lights.â

The two drivers approached each otherâlistened. âAll clear.â

Various expensive American-style cases were transferred from the Morris Oxford to the station wagon.

A mile or two farther on, the station wagon turned off on what looked like a rough track but which presently turned out to be the back way to a large and opulent mansion. In what had been a stableyard, a big white Mercedes car was standing. The driver of the station wagon opened its boot with a key, transferred the cases to the boot, and drove away again in the station wagon.

In a nearby farmyard a cock crowed noisily.

Chapter Nine

I

Elvira Blake looked up at the sky, noted that it was a fine morning and went into a telephone box. She dialled Bridgetâs number in Onslow Square. Satisfied by the response, she said:

âHallo? Bridget?â

âOh Elvira, is that you?â Bridgetâs voice sounded agitated.

âYes. Has everything been all right?â

âOh no. Itâs been awful. Your cousin, Mrs. Melford, rang up Mummy yesterday afternoon.â

âWhat, about me?â

âYes. I thought Iâd done it so well when I rang her up at lunchtime. But it seems she got worried about your teeth. Thought there might be something really wrong with them. Abscesses or something. So she rang up the dentist herself and found, of course, that youâd never been there at all. So then she rang up Mummy and unfortunately Mummy was right there by the telephone. So I couldnât get there first. And naturally Mummy said she didnât know anything about it, and that you certainly werenât staying here. I didnât know what to do.â

âWhat did you do?â

âPretended I knew nothing about it. I did say that I thought youâd said something about going to see some friends at Wimbledon.â

âWhy Wimbledon?â

âIt was the first place came into my head.â

Elvira sighed. âOh well, I suppose Iâll have to cook up something. An old governess, perhaps, who lives at Wimbledon. All this fussing does make things so complicated. I hope Cousin Mildred doesnât make a real fool of herself and ring up the police or something like that.â

âAre you going down there now?â

âNot till this evening. Iâve got a lot to do first.â

âYou got to Ireland. Was itâall right?â

âI found out what I wanted to know.â

âYou soundâsort of grim.â

âIâm feeling grim.â

âCanât I help you, Elvira? Do anything?â

âNobody can help me reallyâ¦Itâs a thing I have to do myself. I hoped something wasnât true, but it is true. I donât know quite what to do about it.â

âAre you in danger, Elvira?â

âDonât be melodramatic, Bridget. Iâll have to be careful, thatâs all. Iâll have to be very careful.â

âThen you are in danger.â

Elvira said after a momentâs pause, âI expect Iâm just imagining things, thatâs all.â

âElvira, what are you going to do about that bracelet?â

âOh, thatâs all right. Iâve arranged to get some money from someone, so I can go andâwhatâs the wordâredeem it. Then just take it back to Bollards.â

âDâyou think theyâll be all right about it?âNo, Mummy, itâs just the laundry. They say we never sent that sheet. Yes, Mummy, yes, Iâll tell the manageress. All right then.â

At the other end of the line Elvira grinned and put down the receiver. She opened her purse, sorted through her money, counted out the coins she needed and arranged them in front of her and proceeded to put through a call. When she got the number she wanted she put in the necessary coins, pressed Button A and spoke in a small rather breathless voice.

âHallo, Cousin Mildred. Yes, itâs meâ¦Iâm terribly sorryâ¦Yes, I knowâ¦well I was going toâ¦yes it was dear old Maddy, you know our old Mademoiselleâ¦yes I wrote a postcard, then I forgot to post it. Itâs still in my pocket nowâ¦well, you see she was ill and there was no one to look after her and so I just stopped to see she was all right. Yes, I was going to Bridgetâs but this changed thingsâ¦I donât understand about the message you got. Someone must have jumbled it upâ¦Yes, Iâll explain it all to you when I get backâ¦yes, this afternoon. No, I shall just wait and see the nurse whoâs coming to look after old Maddyâwell, not really a nurse. You know one of thoseâerâpractical aid nurses or something like that. No, she would hate to go to hospitalâ¦But I am sorry, Cousin Mildred, I really am very, very sorry.â She put down the receiver and sighed in an exasperated manner. âIf only,â she murmured to herself, âone didnât have to tell so many lies to everybody.â

She came out of the telephone box, noting as she did so the big newspaper placardsâBIG TRAIN ROBBERY. IRISH MAIL ATTACKED BY BANDITS.

II

Mr. Bollard was serving a customer when the shop door opened. He looked up to see the Honourable Elvira Blake entering.

âNo,â she said to an assistant who came forward to her. âIâd rather wait until Mr. Bollard is free.â

Presently Mr. Bollardâs customerâs business was concluded and Elvira moved into the vacant place.

âGood morning, Mr. Bollard,â she said.

âIâm afraid your watch isnât done quite as soon as this, Miss Elvira,â said Mr. Bollard.

âOh, itâs not the watch,â said Elvira. âIâve come to apologize. A dreadful thing happened.â She opened her bag and took out a small box. From it she extracted the sapphire and diamond bracelet. âYou will remember when I came in with my watch to be repaired that I was looking at things for a Christmas present and there was an accident outside in the street. Somebody was run over I think, or nearly run over. I suppose I must have had the bracelet in my hand and put it into the pocket of my suit without thinking, although I only found it this morning. So I rushed along at once to bring it back. Iâm so terribly sorry, Mr. Bollard, I donât know how I came to do such an idiotic thing.â

âWhy, thatâs quite all right, Miss Elvira,â said Mr. Bollard, slowly.

âI suppose you thought someone had stolen it,â said Elvira.

Her limpid blue eyes met him.

âWe had discovered its loss,â said Mr. Bollard. âThank you very much, Miss Elvira, for bringing it back so promptly.â

âI felt simply awful about it when I found it,â said Elvira. âWell, thank you very much, Mr. Bollard, for being so nice about it.â

âA lot of strange mistakes do occur,â said Mr. Bollard. He smiled at her in an avuncular manner. âWe wonât think of it anymore. But donât do it again, though.â He laughed with the air of one making a genial little joke.

âOh no,â said Elvira, âI shall be terribly careful in future.â

She smiled at him, turned and left the shop.

âNow I wonder,â said Mr. Bollard to himself, âI really do wonderâ¦.â

One of his partners, who had been standing near, moved nearer to him.

âSo she did take it?â he said.

âYes. She took it all right,â said Mr. Bollard.

âBut she brought it back,â his partner pointed out.

âShe brought it back,â agreed Mr. Bollard. âI didnât actually expect that.â

âYou mean you didnât expect her to bring it back?â

âNo, not if it was she whoâd taken it.â

âDo you think her story is true?â his partner inquired curiously. âI mean, that she slipped it into her pocket by accident?â

âI suppose itâs possible,â said Bollard, thoughtfully.

âOr it could be kleptomania, I suppose.â

âOr it could be kleptomania,â agreed Bollard. âItâs more likely that she took it on purposeâ¦But if so, why did she bring it back so soon? Itâs curiousââ

âJust as well we didnât notify the police. I admit I wanted to.â

âI know, I know. You havenât got as much experience as I have. In this case, it was definitely better not.â He added softly to himself, âThe thingâs interesting, though. Quite interesting. I wonder how old she is? Seventeen or eighteen I suppose. She might have got herself in a jam of some kind.â

âI thought you said she was rolling in money.â

âYou may be an heiress and rolling in money,â said Bollard, âbut at seventeen you canât always get your hands on it. The funny thing is, you know, they keep heiresses much shorter of cash than they keep the more impecunious. Itâs not always a good idea. Well, I donât suppose we shall ever know the truth of it.â

He put the bracelet back in its place in the display case and shut down the lid.

Chapter Ten

The offices of Egerton, Forbes & Wilborough were in Bloomsbury, in one of those imposing and dignified squares which have as yet not felt the wind of change. Their brass plate was suitably worn down to illegibility. The firm had been going for over a hundred years and a good proportion of the landed gentry of England were their clients. There was no Forbes in the firm anymore and no Wilboroughs. Instead there were Atkinsons, father and son, and a Welsh Lloyd and a Scottish McAllister. There was, however, still an Egerton, descendant of the original Egerton. This particular Egerton was a man of fifty-two and he was adviser to several families which had in their day been advised by his grandfather, his uncle, and his father.

At this moment he was sitting behind a large mahogany desk in his handsome room on the first floor, speaking kindly but firmly to a dejected looking client. Richard Egerton was a handsome man, tall, dark with a touch of grey at the temples and very shrewd grey eyes. His advice was always good advice, but he seldom minced his words.

âQuite frankly you havenât got a leg to stand upon, Freddie,â he was saying. âNot with those letters youâve written.â

âYou donât thinkââ Freddie murmured dejectedly.

âNo, I donât,â said Egerton. âThe only hope is to settle out of court. It might even be held that youâve rendered yourself liable to criminal prosecution.â

âOh, look here, Richard, thatâs carrying things a bit far.â

There was a small discreet buzz on Egertonâs desk. He picked up the telephone receiver with a frown.

âI thought I said I wasnât to be disturbed.â

There was a murmur at the other end. Egerton said, âOh. YesâYes, I see. Ask her to wait, will you.â

He replaced the receiver and turned once more to his unhappy looking client.

âLook here, Freddie,â he said, âI know the law and you donât. Youâre in a nasty jam. Iâll do my best to get you out of it, but itâs going to cost you a bit. I doubt if theyâd settle for less than twelve thousand.â

âTwelve thousand!â The unfortunate Freddie was aghast. âOh, I say! I havenât got it, Richard.â

âWell, youâll have to raise it then. There are always ways and means. If sheâll settle for twelve thousand, youâll be lucky, and if you fight the case itâll cost you a lot more.â

âYou lawyers!â said Freddie. âSharks, all of you!â

He rose to his feet. âWell,â he said, âdo your bloody best for me, Richard old boy.â

He took his departure, shaking his head sadly. Richard Egerton put Freddie and his affairs out of his mind, and thought about his next client. He said softly to himself, âThe Honourable Elvira Blake. I wonder what sheâs likeâ¦â He lifted his receiver. âLord Frederickâs gone. Send up Miss Blake, will you.â

As he waited he made little calculations on his desk pad. How many years sinceâ? She must be fifteenâseventeenâperhaps even more than that. Time went so fast. âConistonâs daughter,â he thought, âand Bessâs daughter. I wonder which of them she takes after?â

The door opened, the clerk announced Miss Elvira Blake and the girl walked into the room. Egerton rose from his chair and came towards her. In appearance, he thought, she did not resemble either of her parents. Tall, slim, very fair, Bessâs colouring but none of Bessâs vitality, with an old-fashioned air about her; though that was difficult to be sure of, since the fashion in dress happened at the moment to be ruffles and baby bodices.

âWell, well,â he said, as he shook hands with her. âThis is a surprise. Last time I saw you, you were eleven years old. Come and sit here.â He pulled forward a chair and she sat down.

âI suppose,â said Elvira, a little uncertainly, âthat I ought to have written first. Written and made an appointment. Something like that, but I really made up my mind very suddenly and it seemed an opportunity, since I was in London.â

âAnd what are you doing in London?â

âHaving my teeth seen to.â

âBeastly things, teeth,â said Egerton. âGive us trouble from the cradle to the grave. But I am grateful for the teeth, if it gives me an opportunity of seeing you. Let me see now; youâve been in Italy, havenât you, finishing your education there at one of these places all girls go to nowadays?â

âYes,â said Elvira, âthe Contessa Martinelli. But Iâve left there now for good. Iâm living with the Melfords in Kent until I make up my mind if thereâs anything Iâd like to do.â

âWell, I hope youâll find something satisfactory. Youâre not thinking of a university or anything like that?â

âNo,â said Elvira, âI donât think Iâd be clever enough for that.â She paused before saying, âI suppose youâd have to agree to anything if I did want to do it?â

Egertonâs keen eyes focused sharply.

âI am one of your guardians, and a trustee under your fatherâs will, yes,â he said. âTherefore, you have a perfect right to approach me at anytime.â

Elvira said, âThank you,â politely. Egerton asked:

âIs there anything worrying you?â

âNo. Not really. But you see, I donât know anything. Nobodyâs ever told me things. One doesnât always like to ask.â

He looked at her attentively.

âYou mean things about yourself?â

âYes,â said Elvira. âItâs kind of you to understand. Uncle Derekââ she hesitated.

âDerek Luscombe, you mean?â

âYes. Iâve always called him uncle.â

âI see.â

âHeâs very kind,â said Elvira, âbut heâs not the sort of person who ever tells you anything. He just arranges things, and looks a little worried in case they mightnât be what Iâd like. Of course he listens to a lot of peopleâwomen, I meanâwho tell him things. Like Contessa Martinelli. He arranges for me to go to schools or to finishing places.â

âAnd they havenât been where you wanted to go?â

âNo, I didnât mean that. Theyâve been quite all right. I mean theyâve been more or less where everyone else goes.â

âI see.â

âBut I donât know anything about myself, I mean what money Iâve got, and how much, and what I could do with it if I wanted.â

âIn fact,â said Egerton, with his attractive smile, âyou want to talk business. Is that it? Well, I think youâre quite right. Letâs see. How old are you? Sixteenâseventeen?â

âIâm nearly twenty.â

âOh dear. Iâd no idea.â

âYou see,â explained Elvira, âI feel all the time that Iâm being shielded and sheltered. Itâs nice in a way, but it can get very irritating.â

âItâs an attitude thatâs gone out of date,â agreed Egerton, âbut I can quite see that it would appeal to Derek Luscombe.â

âHeâs a dear,â said Elvira, âbut very difficult, somehow, to talk to seriously.â

âYes, I can see that that might be so. Well, how much do you know about yourself, Elvira? About your family circumstances?â

âI know that my father died when I was five and that my mother had run away from him with someone when I was about two, I donât remember her at all. I barely remember my father. He was very old and had his leg up on a chair. He used to swear. I was rather scared of him. After he died I lived first with an aunt or a cousin or something of my fatherâs, until she died, and then I lived with Uncle Derek and his sister. But then she died and I went to Italy. Uncle Derek has arranged for me, now, to live with the Melfords who are his cousins and very kind and nice and have two daughters about my age.â

âYouâre happy there?â

âI donât know yet. Iâve barely got there. Theyâre all very dull. I really wanted to know how much money Iâve got.â

âSo itâs financial information you really want?â

âYes,â said Elvira. âIâve got some money. Is it a lot?â

Egerton was serious now.

âYes,â he said. âYouâve got a lot of money. Your father was a very rich man. You were his only child. When he died, the title and the estate went to a cousin. He didnât like the cousin, so he left all his personal property, which was considerable, to his daughterâto you, Elvira. Youâre a very rich woman, or will be, when you are twenty-one.â

âYou mean I am not rich now?â

âYes,â said Egerton, âyouâre rich now, but the money is not yours to dispose of until you are twenty-one or marry. Until that time it is in the hands of your Trustees. Luscombe, myself and another.â He smiled at her. âWe havenât embezzled it or anything like that. Itâs still there. In fact, weâve increased your capital considerably by investments.â

âHow much will I have?â

âAt the age of twenty-one or upon your marriage, you will come into a sum which at a rough estimate would amount to six or seven hundred thousand pounds.â

âThat is a lot,â said Elvira, impressed.

âYes, it is a lot. Probably it is because it is such a lot that nobody has ever talked to you about it much.â

He watched her as she reflected upon this. Quite an interesting girl, he thought. Looked an unbelievably milk-and-water Miss, but she was more than that. A good deal more. He said, with a faintly ironic smile:

âDoes that satisfy you?â

She gave him a sudden smile.

âIt ought to, oughtnât it?â

âRather better than winning the pools,â he suggested.

She nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. Then she came out abruptly with a question.

âWho gets it if I die?â

âAs things stand now, it would go to your next of kin.â

âI meanâI couldnât make a will now, could I? Not until I was twenty-one. Thatâs what someone told me.â

âThey were quite right.â

âThatâs really rather annoying. If I was married and died I suppose my husband would get the money?â

âYes.â

âAnd if I wasnât married my mother would be my next of kin and get it. I really seem to have very few relationsâI donât even know my mother. What is she like?â

âSheâs a very remarkable woman,â said Egerton shortly. âEverybody would agree to that.â

âDidnât she ever want to see me?â

âShe may have doneâ¦I think itâs very possible that she did. But having made inâcertain waysârather a mess of her own life, she may have thought that it was better for you that you should be brought up quite apart from her.â

âDo you actually know that she thinks that?â

âNo. I donât really know anything about it.â

Elvira got up.

âThank you,â she said. âItâs very kind of you to tell me all this.â

âI think perhaps you ought to have been told more about things before,â said Egerton.

âItâs humiliating not to know things,â said Elvira. âUncle Derek, of course, thinks Iâm just a child.â

âWell, heâs not a very young man himself. He and I, you know, are well advanced in years. You must make allowances for us when we look at things from the point of view of our advanced age.â

Elvira stood looking at him for a moment or two.

âBut you donât think Iâm really a child, do you?â she said shrewdly, and added, âI expect you know rather more about girls than Uncle Derek does. He just lived with his sister.â Then she stretched out her hand and said, very prettily, âThank you so much. I hope I havenât interrupted some important work you had to do,â and went out.

Egerton stood looking at the door that had closed behind her. He pursed up his lips, whistled a moment, shook his head and sat down again, picked up a pen and tapped thoughtfully on his desk. He drew some papers towards him, then thrust them back and picked up his telephone.

âMiss Cordell, get me Colonel Luscombe, will you? Try his club first. And then the Shropshire address.â

He put back the receiver. Again he drew his papers towards him and started reading them but his mind was not on what he was doing. Presently his buzzer went.

âColonel Luscombe is on the wire now, Mr. Egerton.â

âRight. Put him through. Hallo, Derek. Richard Egerton here. How are you? Iâve just been having a visit from someone you know. A visit from your ward.â

âFrom Elvira?â Derek Luscombe sounded very surprised.

âYes.â

âBut whyâwhat on earthâwhat did she come to you for? Not in any trouble?â

âNo, I wouldnât say so. On the contrary, she seemed ratherâwell, pleased with herself. She wanted to know all about her financial position.â

âYou didnât tell her, I hope?â said Colonel Luscombe, in alarm.

âWhy not? Whatâs the point of secrecy?â

âWell, I canât help feeling itâs a little unwise for a girl to know that she is going to come into such a large amount of money.â

âSomebody else will tell her that, if we donât. Sheâs got to be prepared, you know. Money is a responsibility.â

âYes, but sheâs so much of a child still.â

âAre you sure of that?â

âWhat do you mean? Of course sheâs a child.â

âI wouldnât describe her as such. Whoâs the boyfriend?â

âI beg your pardon.â

âI said whoâs the boyfriend? There is a boyfriend in the offing, isnât there?â

âNo, indeed. Nothing of the sort. What on earth makes you think that?â

âNothing that she actually said. But Iâve got some experience, you know. I think youâll find there is a boyfriend.â

âWell, I can assure you youâre quite wrong. I mean, sheâs been most carefully brought up, sheâs been at very strict schools, sheâs been in a very select finishing establishment in Italy. I should know if there was anything of that kind going on. I dare say sheâs met one or two pleasant young fellows and all that, but Iâm sure thereâs been nothing of the kind you suggest.â

âWell, my diagnosis is a boyfriendâand probably an undesirable one.â

âBut why, Richard, why? What do you know about young girls?â

âQuite a lot,â said Egerton dryly. âIâve had three clients in the last year, two of whom were made wards of court and the third one managed to bully her parents into agreeing to an almost certainly disastrous marriage. Girls donât get looked after the way they used to be. Conditions are such that itâs very difficult to look after them at allââ

âBut I assure you Elvira has been most carefully looked after.â

âThe ingenuity of the young female of the species is beyond anything you could conjecture! You keep an eye on her, Derek. Make a few inquiries as to what sheâs been up to.â

âNonsense. Sheâs just a sweet simple girl.â

âWhat you donât know about sweet simple girls would fill an album! Her mother ran away and caused a scandalâremember?âwhen she was younger than Elvira is today. As for old Coniston, he was one of the worst rips in England.â

âYou upset me, Richard. You upset me very much.â

âYou might as well be warned. What I didnât quite like was one of her other questions. Why is she so anxious to know whoâd inherit her money if she dies?â

âItâs queer your saying that, because she asked me that same question.â

âDid she now? Why should her mind run on early death? She asked me about her mother, by the way.â

Colonel Luscombeâs voice sounded worried as he said: âI wish Bess would get in touch with the girl.â

âHave you been talking to her on the subjectâto Bess, I mean?â

âWell, yesâ¦Yes I did. I ran across her by chance. We were staying in the same hotel, as a matter of fact. I urged Bess to make some arrangements to see the girl.â

âWhat did she say?â asked Egerton curiously.

âRefused point-blank. She more or less said that she wasnât a safe person for the girl to know.â

âLooked at from one point of view I donât suppose she is,â said Egerton. âSheâs mixed-up with that racing fellow, isnât she?â

âIâve heard rumours.â

âYes, Iâve heard them too. I donât know if thereâs much in it really. There might be, I suppose. That could be why she feels as she does. Bessâs friends are strong meat from time to time! But what a woman she is, eh Derek? What a woman.â

âAlways been her own worst enemy,â said Derek Luscombe, gruffly.

âA really nice conventional remark,â said Egerton. âWell, sorry I bothered you, Derek, but keep a look out for undesirables in the background. Donât say you havenât been warned.â

He replaced the receiver and drew the pages on his desk towards him once more. This time he was able to put his whole attention on what he was doing.

Chapter Eleven

Mrs. McCrae, Canon Pennyfatherâs housekeeper, had ordered a Dover sole for the evening of his return. The advantages attached to a good Dover sole were manifold. It need not be introduced to the grill or frying pan until the Canon was safely in the house. It could be kept until the next day if necessary. Canon Pennyfather was fond of Dover sole; and, if a telephone call or telegram arrived saying that the Canon would after all be elsewhere on this particular evening, Mrs. McCrae was fond of a good Dover sole herself. All therefore was in good trim for the Canonâs return. The Dover sole would be followed by pancakes. The sole sat on the kitchen table, the batter for the pancakes was ready in a bowl. All was in readiness. The brass shone, the silver sparkled, not a minuscule of dust showed anywhere. There was only one thing lacking. The Canon himself.

The Canon was scheduled to return on the train arriving at 6:30 from London.

At 7 oâclock he had not returned. No doubt the train was late. At 7:30 he still had not returned. Mrs. McCrae gave a sigh of vexation. She suspected that this was going to be another of these things. Eight oâclock came and no Canon. Mrs. McCrae gave a long, exasperated sigh. Soon, no doubt, she would get a telephone call, though it was quite within the bounds of possibility that there would not be even a telephone call. He might have written to her. No doubt he had written, but he had probably omitted to post the letter.

âDear, dear!â said Mrs. McCrae.

At 9 oâclock she made herself three pancakes with the pancake batter. The sole she put carefully away in the Frigidaire. âI wonder where the good manâs got to now,â she said to herself. She knew by experience that he might be anywhere. The odds were that he would discover his mistake in time to telegraph her or telephone her before she retired to bed. âI shall sit up until 11 oâclock but no longer,â said Mrs. McCrae. Ten thirty was her bedtime, an extension to eleven she considered her duty, but if at eleven there was nothing, no word from the Canon, then Mrs. McCrae would duly lock up the house and betake herself to bed.

It cannot be said that she was worried. This sort of thing had happened before. There was nothing to be done but wait for news of some kind. The possibilities were numerous. Canon Pennyfather might have got on the wrong train and failed to discover his mistake until he was at Landâs End or John oâ Groats, or he might still be in London having made some mistake in the date, and was therefore convinced he was not returning until tomorrow. He might have met a friend or friends at this foreign conference he was going to and been induced to stay out there perhaps over the weekend. He would have meant to let her know but had entirely forgotten to do so. So, as has been already said, she was not worried. The day after tomorrow his old friend, Archdeacon Simmons, was coming to stay. That was the sort of thing the Canon did remember, so no doubt he himself or a telegram from him would arrive tomorrow and at latest he would be home on the day after, or there would be a letter.

The morning of the day after, however, arrived without a word from him. For the first time Mrs. McCrae began to be uneasy. Between 9 a.m. and 1 p.m. she eyed the telephone in a doubtful manner. Mrs. McCrae had her own fixed views about the telephone. She used it and recognized its convenience but she was not fond of the telephone. Some of her household shopping was done by telephone, though she much preferred to do it in person owing to a fixed belief that if you did not see what you were being given, a shopkeeper was sure to try and cheat you. Still, telephones were useful for domestic matters. She occasionally, though rarely, telephoned her friends or relations in the near neighbourhood. To make a call of any distance, or a London call, upset her severely. It was a shameful waste of money. Nevertheless, she began to meditate facing that problem.

Finally, when yet another day dawned without any news of him, she decided to act. She knew where the Canon was staying in London. Bertramâs Hotel. A nice old-fashioned place. It might be as well, perhaps, if she rang up and made certain inquiries. They would probably know where the Canon was. It was not an ordinary hotel. She would asked to be put through to Miss Gorringe. Miss Gorringe was always efficient and thoughtful. The Canon might, of course, return by the twelve thirty. If so he would be here any minute now.

But the minutes passed and there was no Canon. Mrs. McCrae took a deep breath, nerved herself and asked for a call to London. She waited, biting her lips and holding the receiver clamped firmly to her ear.

âBertramâs Hotel, at your service,â said a voice.

âI would like, if you please, to speak to Miss Gorringe,â said Mrs. McCrae.

âJust a moment. What name shall I say?â

âItâs Canon Pennyfatherâs housekeeper. Mrs. McCrae.â

âJust a moment please.â

Presently the calm and efficient voice of Miss Gorringe came through.

âMiss Gorringe here. Did you say Canon Pennyfatherâs housekeeper?â

âThatâs right. Mrs. McCrae.â

âOh yes. Of course. What can I do for you, Mrs. McCrae?â

âIs Canon Pennyfather staying at the hotel still?â

âIâm glad youâve rung up,â said Miss Gorringe. âWe have been rather worried as to what exactly to do.â

âDo you mean somethingâs happened to Canon Pennyfather? Has he had an accident?â

âNo, no, nothing of that kind. But we expected him back from Lucerne on Friday or Saturday.â

âEhâthatâd be right.â

âBut he didnât arrive. Well, of course that wasnât really surprising. He had booked his room onâbooked it, that is, until yesterday. He didnât come back yesterday or send any word and his things are still here. The major part of his baggage. We hadnât been quite sure what to do about it. Of course,â Miss Gorringe went on hastily, âwe know the Canon is, wellâsomewhat forgetful sometimes.â

âYou may well say that!â

âIt makes it a little difficult for us. We are so fully booked up. His room is actually booked for another guest.â She added: âYou have no idea where he is?â

With bitterness Mrs. McCrae said:

âThe man might be anywhere!â She pulled herself together. âWell, thank you, Miss Gorringe.â

âAnything I can doââ Miss Gorringe suggested helpfully.

âI dare say Iâll hear soon enough,â said Mrs. McCrae. She thanked Miss Gorringe again and rang off.

She sat by the telephone, looking upset. She did not fear for the Canonâs personal safety. If he had had an accident she would by now have been notified. She felt sure of that. On the whole the Canon was not what one could call accident prone. He was what Mrs. McCrae called to herself âone of the scatty ones,â and the scatty ones seemed always to be looked after by a special providence. Whilst taking no care or thought, they could still survive even a Panda crossing. No, she did not visualize Canon Pennyfather as lying groaning in a hospital. He was somewhere, no doubt innocently and happily prattling with some friend or other. Maybe he was abroad still. The difficulty was that Archdeacon Simmons was arriving this evening and Archdeacon Simmons would expect to find a host to receive him. She couldnât put Archdeacon Simmons off because she didnât know where he was. It was all very difficult, but it had, like most difficulties, its bright spot. Its bright spot was Archdeacon Simmons. Archdeacon Simmons would know what to do. She would place the matter in his hands.

Archdeacon Simmons was a complete contrast to her employer. He knew where he was going, and what he was doing, and was always cheerfully sure of knowing the right thing to be done and doing it. A confident cleric. Archdeacon Simmons, when he arrived, to be met by Mrs. McCraeâs explanations, apologies and perturbation, was a tower of strength. He, too, was not alarmed.

âNow donât you worry, Mrs. McCrae,â he said in his genial fashion, as he sat down to the meal she had prepared for his arrival. âWeâll hunt the absentminded fellow down. Ever heard that story about Chesterton? G. K. Chesterton, you know, the writer. Wired to his wife when heâd gone on a lecture tour âAm at Crewe Station. Where ought I to be?ââ

He laughed. Mrs. McCrae smiled dutifully. She did not think it was very funny because it was so exactly the sort of thing that Canon Pennyfather might have done.

âAh,â said Archdeacon Simmons, with appreciation, âone of your excellent veal cutlets! Youâre a marvellous cook, Mrs. McCrae. I hope my old friend appreciates you.â

Veal cutlets having been succeeded by some small castle puddings with a blackberry sauce which Mrs. McCrae had remembered was one of the Archdeaconâs favourite sweets, the good man applied himself in earnest to the tracking down of his missing friend. He addressed himself to the telephone with vigour and a complete disregard for expense, which made Mrs. McCrae purse her lips anxiously, although not really disapproving, because definitely her master had got to be tracked down.

Having first dutifully tried the Canonâs sister who took little notice of her brotherâs goings and comings and as usual had not the faintest idea where he was or might be, the Archdeacon spread his net farther afield. He addressed himself once more to Bertramâs Hotel and got details as precisely as possible. The Canon had definitely left there on the early evening of the 19th. he had with him a small BEA handbag, but his other luggage had remained behind in his room, which he had duly retained. He had mentioned that he was going to a conference of some kind at Lucerne. He had not gone direct to the airport from the hotel. The commissionaire, who knew him well by sight, had put him into a taxi and had directed it as told by the Canon, to the Athenaeum Club. That was the last time that anyone at Bertramâs Hotel had seen Canon Pennyfather. Oh yes, a small detailâhe had omitted to leave his key behind but had taken it with him. It was not the first time that that had happened.

Archdeacon Simmons paused for a few minutesâ consideration before the next call. He could ring up the air station in London. That would no doubt take some time. There might be a short cut. He rang up Dr. Weissgarten, a learned Hebrew scholar who was almost certain to have been at the conference.

Dr. Weissgarten was at his home. As soon as he heard who was speaking to him he launched out into a torrent of verbiage consisting mostly of disparaging criticism of two papers that had been read at the conference in Lucerne.

âMost unsound, that fellow Hogarov,â he said, âmost unsound. How he gets away with it I donât know! Fellow isnât a scholar at all. Do you know what he actually said?â

The Archdeacon sighed and had to be firm with him. Otherwise there was a good chance that the rest of the evening would be spent in listening to criticism of fellow scholars at the Lucerne Conference. With some reluctance Dr. Weissgarten was pinned down to more personal matters.

âPennyfather?â he said. âPennyfather? He ought to have been there. Canât think why he wasnât there. Said he was going. Told me so only a week before when I saw him in the Athenaeum.â

âYou mean he wasnât at the conference at all?â

âThatâs what Iâve just said. He ought to have been there.â

âDo you know why he wasnât there? Did he send an excuse?â

âHow should I know? He certainly talked about being there. Yes, now I remember. He was expected. Several people remarked on his absence. Thought he might have had a chill or something. Very treacherous weather.â He was about to revert to his criticisms of his fellow scholars but Archdeacon Simmons rang off.

He had got a fact but it was a fact that for the first time awoke in him an uneasy feeling. Canon Pennyfather had not been at the Lucerne Conference. He had meant to go to that conference. It seemed very extraordinary to the Archdeacon that he had not been there. He might, of course, have taken the wrong plane, though on the whole BEA were pretty careful of you and shepherded you away from such possibilities. Could Canon Pennyfather have forgotten the actual day that he was going to the conference? It was always possible, he supposed. But if so where had he gone instead?

He addressed himself now to the air terminal. It involved a great deal of patient waiting and being transferred from department to department. In the end he got a definite fact. Canon Pennyfather had booked as a passenger on the 21:40 plane to Lucerne on the 18th but he had not been on the plane.

âWeâre getting on,â said Archdeacon Simmons to Mrs. McCrae, who was hovering in the background. âNow, let me see. Who shall I try next?â

âAll this telephoning will cost a fearful lot of money,â said Mrs. McCrae.

âIâm afraid so. Iâm afraid so,â said Archdeacon Simmons. âBut weâve got to get on his track, you know. Heâs not a very young man.â

âOh, sir, you donât think thereâs anything could really have happened to him?â

âWell, I hope notâ¦I donât think so, because I think youâd have heard if so. Heâerâalways had his name and address on him, didnât he?â

âOh yes, sir, he had cards on him. Heâd have letters too, and all sorts of things in his wallet.â

âWell, I donât think heâs in a hospital then,â said the Archdeacon. âLet me see. When he left the hotel he took a taxi to the Athenaeum. Iâll ring them up next.â

Here he got some definite information. Canon Pennyfather, who was well known there, had dined there at seven thirty on the evening of the 19th. It was then that the Archdeacon was struck by something he had overlooked until then. The aeroplane ticket had been for the 18th but the Canon had left Bertramâs Hotel by taxi to the Athenaeum, having mentioned he was going to the Lucerne Conference, on the 19th. Light began to break. âSilly old ass,â thought Archdeacon Simmons to himself, but careful not to say it aloud in front of Mrs. McCrae. âGot his dates wrong. The conference was on the 19th. Iâm sure of it. He must have thought that he was leaving on the 18th. He was one day wrong.â

He went over the next bit carefully. The Canon would have gone to the Athenaeum, he would have dined, he would have gone on to Kensington Air Station. There, no doubt, it would have been pointed out to him that his ticket was for the day before and he would then have realized that the conference he was going to attend was now over.

âThatâs what happened,â said Archdeacon Simmons, âdepend upon it.â He explained it to Mrs. McCrae, who agreed that it was likely enough. âThen what would he do?â

âGo back to his hotel,â said Mrs. McCrae.

âHe wouldnât have come straight down hereâgone straight to the station, I mean.â

âNot if his luggage was at the hotel. At any rate, he would have called there for his luggage.â

âTrue enough,â said Simmons. âAll right. Weâll think of it like this. He left the airport with his little bag and he went back to the hotel, or started for the hotel at all events. He might have had dinner perhapsâno, heâd dined at the Athenaeum. All right, he went back to the hotel. But he never arrived there.â He paused a moment or two and then said doubtfully, âOr did he? Nobody seems to have seen him there. So what happened to him on the way?â

âHe could have met someone,â said Mrs. McCrae, doubtfully.

âYes. Of course thatâs perfectly possible. Some old friend he hadnât seen for a long timeâ¦He could have gone off with a friend to the friendâs hotel or the friendâs house, but he wouldnât have stayed there three days, would he? He couldnât have forgotten for three whole days that his luggage was at the hotel. Heâd have rung up about it, heâd have called for it, or in a supreme fit of absentmindedness he might have come straight home. Three daysâ silence. Thatâs whatâs so inexplicable.â

âIf he had an accidentââ

âYes, Mrs. McCrae, of course thatâs possible. We can try the hospitals. You say he had plenty of papers on him to identify him? HmâI think thereâs only one thing for it.â

Mrs. McCrae looked at him apprehensively.

âI think, you know,â said the Archdeacon gently, âthat weâve got to go to the police.â

Chapter Twelve

Miss Marple had found no difficulty in enjoying her stay in London. She did a lot of the things that she had not had the time to do in her hitherto brief visits to the capital. It has to be regretfully noted that she did not avail herself of the wide cultural activities that would have been possible to her. She visited no picture galleries and no museums. The idea of patronizing a dress show of any kind would not even have occurred to her. What she did visit were the glass and china departments of the large stores, and the household linen departments, and she also availed herself of some marked down lines in furnishing fabrics. Having spent what she considered a reasonable sum upon these household investments, she indulged in various excursions of her own. She went to places and shops she remembered from her young days, sometimes merely with the curiosity of seeing whether they were still there. It was not a pursuit that she had ever had time for before, and she enjoyed it very much. After a nice little nap after lunch, she would go out, and, avoiding the attentions of the commissionaire if possible, because he was so firmly imbued with the idea that a lady of her age and frailty should always go in a taxi, she walked towards a bus stop, or tube station. She had bought a small guide to buses and their routesâand an Underground Transport Map; and she would plan her excursion carefully. One afternoon she could be seen walking happily and nostalgically round Evelyn Gardens or Onslow Square murmuring softly, âYes, that was Mrs. Van Dylanâs house. Of course it looks quite different now. They seem to have remodelled it. Dear me, I see itâs got four bells. Four flats, I suppose. Such a nice old-fashioned square this always was.â

Rather shamefacedly she paid a visit to Madame Tussaudâs, a well-remembered delight of her childhood. In Westbourne Grove she looked in vain for Bradleyâs. Aunt Helen had always gone to Bradleyâs about her sealskin jacket.

Window shopping in the general sense did not interest Miss Marple, but she had a splendid time rounding up knitting patterns, new varieties of knitting wool, and suchlike delights. She made a special expedition to Richmond to see the house that had been occupied by Great-Uncle Thomas, the retired admiral. The handsome terrace was still there but here again each house seemed to be turned into flats. Much more painful was the house in Lowndes Square where a distant cousin, Lady Merridew, had lived in some style. Here a vast skyscraper building of modernistic design appeared to have arisen. Miss Marple shook her head sadly and said firmly to herself, âThere must be progress I suppose. If Cousin Ethel knew, sheâd turn in her grave, Iâm sure.â

It was on one particularly mild and pleasant afternoon that Miss Marple embarked on a bus that took her over Battersea Bridge. She was going to combine the double pleasure of taking a sentimental look at Princes Terrace Mansions where an old governess of hers had once lived, and visiting Battersea Park. The first part of her quest was abortive. Miss Ledburyâs former home had vanished without trace and had been replaced by a great deal of gleaming concrete. Miss Marple turned into Battersea Park. She had always been a good walker but had to admit that nowadays her walking powers were not what they were. Half a mile was quite enough to tire her. She could manage, she thought, to cross the Park and go out over Chelsea Bridge and find herself once more on a convenient bus route, but her steps grew gradually slower and slower, and she was pleased to come upon a tea enclosure situated on the edge of the lake.

Teas were still being served there in spite of the autumn chill. There were not many people today, a certain amount of mothers and prams, and a few pairs of young lovers. Miss Marple collected a tray with tea and two sponge cakes. She carried her tray carefully to a table and sat down. The tea was just what she needed. Hot, strong and very reviving. Revived, she looked round her, and, her eyes stopping suddenly at a particular table, she sat up very straight in her chair. Really, a very strange coincidence, very strange indeed! First the Army & Navy Stores and now here. Very unusual places those particular two people chose! But no! She was wrong. Miss Marple took a second and stronger pair of glasses from her bag. Yes, she had been mistaken. There was a certain similarity, of course. That long straight blonde hair; but this was not Bess Sedgwick. It was someone years younger. Of course! It was the daughter! The young girl who had come into Bertramâs with Lady Selina Hazyâs friend, Colonel Luscombe. But the man was the same man who had been lunching with Lady Sedgwick in the Army & Navy Stores. No doubt about it, the same handsome, hawklike look, the same leanness, the same predatory toughness andâyes, the same strong, virile attraction.

âBad!â said Miss Marple. âBad all through! Cruel! Unscrupulous. I donât like seeing this. First the mother, now the daughter. What does it mean?â

It meant no good. Miss Marple was sure of that. Miss Marple seldom gave anyone the benefit of the doubt; she invariably thought the worst, and nine times out of ten, so she insisted, she was right in so doing. Both these meetings, she was sure, were more or less secret meetings. She observed now the way these two bent forward over the table until their heads nearly touched; and the earnestness with which they talked. The girlâs faceâMiss Marple took off her spectacles, rubbed the lenses carefully, then put them on again. Yes, this girl was in love. Desperately in love, as only the young can be in love. But what were her guardians about to let her run about London and have these clandestine assignments in Battersea Park? A nicely brought up, well-behaved girl like that. Too nicely brought up, no doubt! Her people probably believed her to be in some quite other spot. She had to tell lies.

On the way out Miss Marple passed the table where they were sitting, slowing down as much as she could without its being too obvious. Unfortunately, their voices were so low that she could not hear what they said. The man was speaking, the girl was listening, half pleased, half afraid. âPlanning to run away together, perhaps?â thought Miss Marple. âSheâs still under age.â

Miss Marple passed through the small gate in the fence that led to the sidewalk of the park. There were cars parked along there and presently she stopped beside one particular car. Miss Marple was not particularly knowledgeable over cars but such cars as this one did not come her way very often, so she had noted and remembered it. She had acquired a little information about cars of this style from an enthusiastic great-nephew. It was a racing car. Some foreign makeâshe couldnât remember the name now. Not only that, she had seen this car, or one exactly like it, seen it only yesterday in a side street close to Bertramâs Hotel. She had noticed it not only because of its size and its powerful and unusual appearance but because the number had awakened some vague memory, some trace of association in her memory. FAN 2266. It had made her think of her cousin Fanny Godfrey. Poor Fanny who stuttered, who had said âI have got t-t-t-wo s-s-s-potzâ¦.â

She walked along and looked at the number of this car. Yes, she was quite right. FAN 2266. It was the same car. Miss Marple, her footsteps growing more painful every moment, arrived deep in thought at the other side of Chelsea Bridge and by then was so exhausted that she hailed the first taxi she saw with decision. She was worried by the feeling that there was something she ought to do about things. But what things and what to do about them? It was all so indefinite. She fixed her eyes absently on some newsboards.

âSensational developments in train robbery,â they ran. âEngine driverâs story,â said another one. Really! Miss Marple thought to herself, every day there seemed to be a bank holdup or a train robbery or a wage pay snatch.

Crime seemed to have got above itself.

Chapter Thirteen

Vaguely reminiscent of a large bumblebee, Chief-Inspector Fred Davy wandered around the confines of the Criminal Investigation Department, humming to himself. It was a well-known idiosyncrasy of his, and caused no particular notice except to give rise to the remark that âFather was on the prowl again.â

His prowling led him at last to the room where Inspector Campbell was sitting behind a desk with a bored expression. Inspector Campbell was an ambitious young man and he found much of his occupation tedious in the extreme. Nevertheless, he coped with the duties appointed to him and achieved a very fair measure of success in so doing. The powers that be approved of him, thought he should do well and doled out from time to time a few words of encouraging commendation.

âGood morning, sir,â said Inspector Campbell, respectfully, when Father entered his domain. Naturally he called Chief-Inspector Davy âFatherâ behind his back as everyone else did; but he was not yet of sufficient seniority to do such a thing to his face.

âAnything I can do for you, sir?â he inquired.

âLa, la, boom, boom,â hummed the Chief-Inspector, slightly off key. âWhy must they call me Mary when my nameâs Miss Gibbs?â After this rather unexpected resurrection of a bygone musical comedy, he drew up a chair and sat down.

âBusy?â he asked.

âModerately so.â

âGot some disappearance case or other on, havenât you, to do with some hotel or other. Whatâs the name of it now? Bertramâs. Is that it?â

âYes, thatâs right, sir. Bertramâs Hotel.â

âContravening the licensing hours? Call girls?â

âOh no, sir,â said Inspector Campbell, slightly shocked at hearing Bertramâs Hotel being referred to in such a connection. âVery nice, quiet, old-fashioned place.â

âIs it now?â said Father. âYes, is it now? Well, thatâs interesting, really.â

Inspector Campbell wondered why it was interesting. He did not like to ask, as tempers in the upper hierarchy were notoriously short since the mail train robbery, which had been a spectacular success for the criminals. He looked at Fatherâs large, heavy, bovine face and wondered, as he had once or twice wondered before, how Chief-Inspector Davy had reached his present rank and why he was so highly thought of in the department. âAll right in his day, I suppose,â thought Inspector Campbell, âbut there are plenty of go-ahead chaps about who could do with some promotion, once the dead wood is cleared away.â But the dead wood had begun another song, partly hummed, with an occasional word or two here and there.

âTell me, gentle stranger, are there anymore at home like you?â intoned Father and then in a sudden falsetto, âA few, kind sir, and nicer girls you never knew. No, letâs see, Iâve got the sexes mixed-up. Floradora. That was a good show, too.â

âI believe Iâve heard of it, sir,â said Inspector Campbell.

âYour mother sang you to sleep in the cradle with it, I expect,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âNow then, whatâs been going on at Bertramâs Hotel? Who has disappeared and how and why?â

âA Canon Pennyfather, sir. Elderly clergyman.â

âDull case, eh?â

Inspector Campbell smiled.

âYes, sir, it is rather dull in a way.â

âWhat did he look like?â

âCanon Pennyfather?â

âYesâyouâve got a description, I suppose?â

âOf course.â Campbell shuffled papers and read: âHeight 5 ft 8. Large thatch of white hairâstoopsâ¦.â

âAnd he disappeared from Bertramâs Hotelâwhen?â

âAbout a week agoâNovember 19th.â

âAnd theyâve just reported it. Took their time about it, didnât they?â

âWell, I think there was a general idea that heâd turn up.â

âAny idea whatâs behind it?â asked Father. âHas a decent God-fearing man suddenly gone off with one of the churchwardensâ wives? Or does he do a bit of secret drinking, or has he embezzled church funds? Or is he the sort of absentminded old chap who goes in for this sort of thing?â

âWell, from all I can hear, sir, I should say the latter. Heâs done it before.â

âWhatâdisappeared from a respectable West End hotel?â

âNo, not exactly that, but heâs not always returned home when he was expected. Occasionally heâs turned up to stay with friends on a day when they havenât asked him, or not turned up on the date when they had asked him. That sort of thing.â

âYes,â said Father. âYes. Well that sounds very nice and natural and according to plan, doesnât it? When exactly did you say he disappeared?â

âThursday. November 19th. He was supposed to be attending a congress atââ He bent down and studied some papers on his desk. ââoh yes, Lucerne. Society of Biblical Historical Studies. Thatâs the English translation of it. I think itâs actually a German society.â

âAnd it was held at Lucerne? The old boyâI suppose he is an old boy?â

âSixty-three, sir, I understand.â

âThe old boy didnât turn up, is that it?â

Inspector Campbell drew his papers towards him and gave Father the ascertainable facts in so far as they had been ascertained.

âDoesnât sound as if heâd gone off with a choirboy,â observed Chief-Inspector Davy.

âI expect heâll turn up all right,â said Campbell, âbut weâre looking into it, of course. Are youâerâparticularly interested in the case, sir?â He could hardly restrain his curiosity on this point.

âNo,â said Davy thoughtfully. âNo, Iâm not interested in the case. I donât see anything to be interested about in it.â

There was a pause, a pause which clearly contained the words, âWell, then?â with a question mark after it from Inspector Campbell, which he was too well-trained to utter in audible tones.

âWhat Iâm really interested in,â said Father, âis the date. And Bertramâs Hotel, of course.â

âItâs always been very well-conducted, sir. No trouble there.â

âThatâs very nice, Iâm sure,â said Father. He added thoughtfully, âIâd rather like to have a look at the place.â

âOf course, sir,â said Inspector Campbell. âAnytime you like. I was thinking of going round there myself.â

âI might as well come along with you,â said Father. âNot to butt in, nothing like that. But Iâd just rather like to have a look at the place, and this disappearing Archdeacon of yours, or whatever he is, makes rather a good excuse. No need to call me âsirâ when weâre thereâyou throw your weight about. Iâll just be your stooge.â

Inspector Campbell became interested.

âDo you think thereâs something that might tie in there, sir, something that might tie in with something else?â

âThereâs no reason to believe so, so far,â said Father. âBut you know how it is. One getsâI donât know what to call themâwhims, do you think? Bertramâs Hotel, somehow, sounds almost too good to be true.â

He resumed his impersonation of a bumblebee with a rendering of âLetâs All Go Down the Strand.â

The two detective officers went off together, Campbell looking smart in a lounge suit (he had an excellent figure), and Chief-Inspector Davy carrying with him a tweedy air of being up from the country. They fitted in quite well. Only the astute eye of Miss Gorringe, as she raised it from her ledgers, singled out and appreciated them for what they were. Since she had reported the disappearance of Canon Pennyfather herself and had already had a word with a lesser personage in the police force, she had been expecting something of this kind.

A faint murmur to the earnest-looking girl assistant whom she kept handy in the background, enabled the latter to come forward and deal with any ordinary inquiries or services while Miss Gorringe gently shifted herself a little farther along the counter and looked up at the two men. Inspector Campbell laid down his card on the desk in front of her and she nodded. Looking past him to the large tweed-coated figure behind him, she noted that he had turned slightly sideways, and was observing the lounge and its occupants with an apparently naÃ¯ve pleasure at beholding such a well-bred, upper-class world in action.

âWould you like to come into the office?â said Miss Gorringe. âWe can talk better there perhaps.â

âYes, I think that would be best.â

âNice place youâve got here,â said the large, fat, bovine-looking man, turning his head back towards her. âComfortable,â he added, looking approvingly at the large fire. âGood old-fashioned comfort.â

Miss Gorringe smiled with an air of pleasure.

âYes, indeed. We pride ourselves on making our visitors comfortable,â she said. She turned to her assistant. âWill you carry on, Alice? There is the ledger. Lady Jocelyn will be arriving quite soon. She is sure to want to change her room as soon as she sees it but you must explain to her we are really full up. If necessary, you can show her number 340 on the third floor and offer her that instead. Itâs not a very pleasant room and Iâm sure she will be content with her present one as soon as she sees that.â

âYes, Miss Gorringe. Iâll do just that, Miss Gorringe.â

âAnd remind Colonel Mortimer that his field glasses are here. He asked me to keep them for him this morning. Donât let him go off without them.â

âNo, Miss Gorringe.â

These duties accomplished, Miss Gorringe looked at the two men, came out from behind the desk and walked along to a plain mahogany door with no legend on it. Miss Gorringe opened it and they went into a small, rather sad-looking office. All three sat down.

âThe missing man is Canon Pennyfather, I understand,â said Inspector Campbell. He looked at his notes. âIâve got Sergeant Wadellâs report. Perhaps youâll tell me in your own words just what occurred.â

âI donât think that Canon Pennyfather has really disappeared in the sense in which one would usually use that word,â said Miss Gorringe. âI think, you know, that heâs just met someone somewhere, some old friend or something like that, and has perhaps gone off with him to some scholarly meeting or reunion or something of that kind, on the Continentâhe is so very vague.â

âYouâve known him for a long time?â

âOh yes, heâs been coming here to stay forâlet me seeâoh five or six years at least, I should think.â

âYouâve been here some time yourself, maâam,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, suddenly putting in a word.

âI have been here, let me think, fourteen years,â said Miss Gorringe.

âItâs a nice place,â repeated Davy again. âAnd Canon Pennyfather usually stayed here when he was in London? Is that right?â

âYes. He always came to us. He wrote well beforehand to retain his room. He was much less vague on paper than he was in real life. He asked for a room from the 17th to the 21st. During that time he expected to be away for one or two nights, and he explained that he wished to keep his room on while he was away. He quite often did that.â

âWhen did you begin to get worried about him?â asked Campbell.

âWell, I didnât really. Of course it was awkward. You see, his room was let on from the 23rd and when I realizedâI didnât at firstâthat he hadnât come back from Luganoââ

âIâve got Lucerne here in my notes,â said Campbell.

âYes, yes, I think it was Lucerne. Some Archaeological Congress or other. Anyway, when I realized he hadnât come back here and that his baggage was still here waiting in his room, it made things rather awkward. You see, we are very booked up at this time of year and I had someone else coming into his room. The Honourable Mrs. Saunders, who lives at Lyme Regis. She always has that room. And then his housekeeper rang up. She was worried.â

âThe housekeeperâs name is Mrs. McCrae, so I understand from Archdeacon Simmons. Do you know her?â

âNot personally, no, but I have spoken to her on the telephone once or twice. She is, I think, a very reliable woman and has been with Canon Pennyfather for some years. She was worried naturally. I believe she and Archdeacon Simmons got in touch with near friends and relations but they knew nothing of Canon Pennyfatherâs movements. And since he was expecting the Archdeacon to stay with him it certainly seemed very oddâin fact it still doesâthat the Canon should not have returned home.â

âIs this Canon usually as absentminded as that?â asked Father.

Miss Gorringe ignored him. This large man, presumably the accompanying sergeant, seemed to her to be pushing himself forward a little too much.

âAnd now I understand,â continued Miss Gorringe, in an annoyed voice, âand now I understand from Archdeacon Simmons that the Canon never even went to this conference in Lucerne.â

âDid he send any message to say he wouldnât go?â

âI donât think soânot from here. No telegram or anything like that. I really know nothing about LucerneâI am really only concerned with our side of the matter. It has got into the evening papers, I seeâthe fact that he is missing, I mean. They havenât mentioned he was staying here. I hope they wonât. We donât want the Press here, our visitors wouldnât like that at all. If you can keep them off us, Inspector Campbell, we should be very grateful. I mean itâs not as if he had disappeared from here.â

âHis luggage is still here?â

âYes. In the baggage room. If he didnât go to Lucerne, have you considered the possibility of his being run over? Something like that?â

âNothing like that has happened to him.â

âIt really does seem very, very curious,â said Miss Gorringe, a faint flicker of interest appearing in her manner, to replace the annoyance. âI mean, it does make one wonder where he could have gone and why?â

Father looked at her comprehendingly.

âOf course,â he said. âYouâve only been thinking of it from the hotel angle. Very natural.â

âI understand,â said Inspector Campbell, referring once more to his notes, âthat Canon Pennyfather left here about six thirty on the evening of Thursday the 19th. He had with him a small overnight bag and he left here in a taxi, directing the commissionaire to tell the driver to drive to the Athenaeum Club.â

Miss Gorringe nodded her head.

âYes, he dined at the Athenaeum ClubâArchdeacon Simmons told me that that was the place he was last seen.â

There was a firmness in Miss Gorringeâs voice as she transferred the responsibility of seeing the Canon last from Bertramâs Hotel to the Athenaeum Club.

âWell, itâs nice to get the facts straight,â said Father in a gentle rumbling voice. âWeâve got âem straight now. He went off with his little blue BOAC bag or whatever heâd got with himâit was a blue BOAC bag, yes? He went off and he didnât come back, and thatâs that.â

âSo you see, really I cannot help you,â said Miss Gorringe, showing a disposition to rise to her feet and get back to work.

âIt doesnât seem as if you could help us,â said Father, âbut someone else might be able to,â he added.

âSomeone else?â

âWhy, yes,â said Father. âOne of the staff perhaps.â

âI donât think anyone knows anything; or they would certainly have reported it to me.â

âWell, perhaps they might. Perhaps they mightnât. What I mean is, theyâd have told you if theyâd distinctly known anything. But I was thinking more of something he might have said.â

âWhat sort of thing?â said Miss Gorringe, looking perplexed.

âOh, just some chance word that might give one a clue. Something like âIâm going to see an old friend tonight that I havenât seen since we met in Arizona.â Something like that. Or âIâm going to stay next week with a niece of mine for her daughterâs confirmation.â With absentminded people, you know, clues like that are a great help. They show what was in the personâs mind. It may be that after his dinner at the Athenaeum, he gets into a taxi and thinks âNow where am I going?â and having gotâsayâthe confirmation in his mindâthinks heâs going off there.â

âWell, I see what you mean,â said Miss Gorringe doubtfully. âIt seems a little unlikely.â

âOh, one never knows oneâs luck,â said Father cheerfully. âThen there are the various guests here. I suppose Canon Pennyfather knew some of them since he came here fairly often.â

âOh yes,â said Miss Gorringe. âLet me see now. Iâve seen him talking toâyes, Lady Selina Hazy. Then there was the Bishop of Norwich. Theyâre old friends, I believe. They were at Oxford together. And Mrs. Jameson and her daughters. They come from the same part of the world. Oh yes, quite a lot of people.â

âYou see,â said Father, âhe might have talked to one of them. He might have just mentioned some little thing that would give us a clue. Is there anyone staying here now that the Canon knew fairly well?â

Miss Gorringe frowned in thought.

âWell, I think General Radley is here still. And thereâs an old lady who came up from the countryâwho used to stay here as a girl, so she told me. Let me see, I canât remember her name at the moment, but I can find it for you. Oh yes, Miss Marple, thatâs her name. I believe she knew him.â

âWell, we could make a start with those two. And thereâd be a chambermaid, I suppose.â

âOh yes,â said Miss Gorringe. âBut she has been interviewed already by Sergeant Wadell.â

âI know. But not perhaps from this angle. What about the waiter who attended on his table. Or the headwaiter?â

âThereâs Henry, of course,â said Miss Gorringe.

âWhoâs Henry?â asked Father.

Miss Gorringe looked almost shocked. It was to her impossible that anyone should not know Henry.

âHenry has been here for more years than I can say,â she said. âYou must have noticed him serving teas as you came in.â

âKind of personality,â said Davy. âI remember noticing him.â

âI donât know what we should do without Henry,â said Miss Gorringe with feeling. âHe really is wonderful. He sets the tone of the place, you know.â

âPerhaps he might like to serve tea to me,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âMuffins, I saw heâd got there. Iâd like a good muffin again.â

âCertainly if you like,â said Miss Gorringe, rather coldly. âShall I order two teas to be served to you in the lounge?â she added, turning to Inspector Campbell.

âThat wouldââ the inspector began, when suddenly the door opened and Mr. Humfries appeared in his Olympian manner.

He looked slightly taken aback, then looked inquiringly at Miss Gorringe. Miss Gorringe explained.

âThese are two gentlemen from Scotland Yard, Mr. Humfries,â she said.

âDetective-Inspector Campbell,â said Campbell.

âOh yes. Yes, of course,â said Mr. Humfries. âThe matter of Canon Pennyfather, I suppose? Most extraordinary business. I hope nothingâs happened to him, poor old chap.â

âSo do I,â said Miss Gorringe. âSuch a dear old man.â

âOne of the old school,â said Mr. Humfries approvingly.

âYou seem to have quite a lot of the old school here,â observed Chief-Inspector Davy.

âI suppose we do, I suppose we do,â said Mr. Humfries. âYes, in many ways we are quite a survival.â

âWe have our regulars you know,â said Miss Gorringe. She spoke proudly. âThe same people come back year after year. We have a lot of Americans. People from Boston, and Washington. Very quiet, nice people.â

âThey like our English atmosphere,â said Mr. Humfries, showing his very white teeth in a smile.

Father looked at him thoughtfully. Inspector Campbell said,

âYouâre quite sure that no message came here from the Canon? I mean it might have been taken by someone who forgot to write it down or to pass it on.â

âTelephone messages are always taken down most carefully,â said Miss Gorringe with ice in her voice. âI cannot conceive it possible that a message would not have been passed on to me or to the appropriate person on duty.â

She glared at him.

Inspector Campbell looked momentarily taken aback.

âWeâve really answered all these questions before, you know,â said Mr. Humfries, also with a touch of ice in his voice. âWe gave all the information at our disposal to your sergeantâI canât remember his name for the moment.â

Father stirred a little and said, in a kind of homely way,

âWell you see, things have begun to look rather more serious. It looks like a bit more than absentmindedness. Thatâs why, I think, it would be a good thing if we could have a word or two with those two people you mentionedâGeneral Radley and Miss Marple.â

âYou want me toâto arrange an interview with them?â Mr. Humfries looked rather unhappy. âGeneral Radleyâs very deaf.â

âI donât think it will be necessary to make it too formal,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âWe donât want to worry people. You can leave it quite safely to us. Just point out those two you mentioned. There is just a chance, you know, that Canon Pennyfather might have mentioned some plan of his, or some person he was going to meet at Lucerne or who was going with him to Lucerne. Anyway, itâs worth trying.â

Mr. Humfries looked somewhat relieved.

âNothing more we can do for you?â he asked. âIâm sure you understand that we wish to help you in every way, only you do understand how we feel about any Press publicity.â

âQuite,â said Inspector Campbell.

âAnd Iâll just have a word with the chambermaid,â said Father.

âCertainly, if you like. I doubt very much whether she can tell you anything.â

âProbably not. But there might be some detailâsome remark the Canon made about a letter or an appointment. One never knows.â

Mr. Humfries glanced at his watch.

âSheâll be on duty at six,â he said. âSecond floor. Perhaps, in the meantime, youâd care for tea?â

âSuits me,â said Father promptly.

They left the office together.

Miss Gorringe said, âGeneral Radley will be in the smoking room. The first room down that passage on the left. Heâll be in front of the fire there with The Times. I think,â she added discreetly, âhe might be asleep. Youâre sure you donât want me toââ

âNo, no, Iâll see to it,â said Father. âAnd what about the other oneâthe old lady?â

âSheâs sitting over there, by the fireplace,â said Miss Gorringe.

âThe one with white fluffy hair and the knitting?â said Father, taking a look. âMight almost be on the stage, mightnât she? Everybodyâs universal great-aunt.â

âGreat-aunts arenât much like that nowadays,â said Miss Gorringe, ânor grandmothers nor great-grandmothers, if it comes to that. We had the Marchioness of Barlowe in yesterday. Sheâs a great-grandmother. Honestly, I didnât know her when she came in. Just back from Paris. Her face a mask of pink and white and her hair platinum blonde and I suppose an entirely false figure, but it looked wonderful.â

âAh,â said Father, âI prefer the old-fashioned kind myself. Well, thank you, maâam.â He turned to Campbell. âIâll look after it, shall I, sir? I know youâve got an important appointment.â

âThatâs right,â said Campbell, taking his cue. âI donât suppose anything much will come of it, but itâs worth trying.â

Mr. Humfries disappeared into his inner sanctum, saying as he did so:

âMiss Gorringeâjust a moment, please.â

Miss Gorringe followed him in and shut the door behind her.

Humfries was walking up and down. He demanded sharply:

âWhat do they want to see Rose for? Wadell asked all the necessary questions.â

âI suppose itâs just routine,â said Miss Gorringe, doubtfully.

âYouâd better have a word with her first.â

Miss Gorringe looked a little startled.

âBut surely Inspector Campbellââ

âOh, Iâm not worried about Campbell. Itâs the other one. Do you know who he is?â

âI donât think he gave his name. Sergeant of some kind, I suppose. He looks rather a yokel.â

âYokel, my foot,â said Mr. Humfries, abandoning his elegance. âThatâs Chief-Inspector Davy, an old fox if there ever was one. They think a lot of him at the Yard. Iâd like to know what heâs doing here, nosing about and playing the genial hick. I donât like it at all.â

âYou canât thinkââ

âI donât know what to think. But I tell you I donât like it. Did he ask to see anyone else besides Rose?â

âI think heâs going to have a word with Henry.â

Mr. Humfries laughed. Miss Gorringe laughed too.

âWe neednât worry about Henry.â

âNo, indeed.â

âAnd the visitors who knew Canon Pennyfather?â

Mr. Humfries laughed again.

âI wish him joy of old Radley. Heâll have to shout the place down and then he wonât get anything worth having. Heâs welcome to Radley and that funny old hen, Miss Marple. All the same, I donât much like his poking his nose inâ¦.â

Chapter Fourteen

âYou know,â said Chief-Inspector Davy thoughtfully, âI donât much like that chap Humfries.â

âThink thereâs something wrong with him?â asked Campbell.

âWellââ Father sounded apologetic, âyou know the sort of feeling one gets. Smarmy sort of chap. I wonder if heâs the owner or only the manager.â

âI could ask him.â Campbell took a step back towards the desk.

âNo, donât ask him,â said Father. âJust find outâquietly.â

Campbell looked at him curiously.

âWhatâs on your mind, sir?â

âNothing in particular,â said Father. âI just think Iâd like to have a good deal more information about this place. Iâd like to know who is behind it, what its financial status is. All that sort of thing.â

Campbell shook his head.

âI should have said if there was one place in London that was absolutely above suspicionââ

âI know, I know,â said Father. âAnd what a useful thing it is to have that reputation!â

Campbell shook his head and left. Father went down the passage to the smoking room. General Radley was just waking up. The Times had slipped from his knees and disintegrated slightly. Father picked it up and reassembled the sheets and handed it to him.

âThank ye, sir. Very kind,â said General Radley gruffly.

âGeneral Radley?â

âYes.â

âYouâll excuse me,â said Father, raising his voice, âbut I want to speak to you about Canon Pennyfather.â

âEhâwhatâs that?â The General approached a hand to his ear.

âCanon Pennyfather,â bellowed Father.

âMy father? Dead years ago.â

âCanon Pennyfather.â

âOh. What about him? Saw him the other day. He was staying here.â

âThere was an address he was going to give me. Said heâd leave it with you.â

That was rather more difficult to get over but he succeeded in the end.

âNever gave me any address. Must have mixed me up with somebody else. Muddle-headed old fool. Always was. Scholarly sort of chap, you know. Theyâre always absentminded.â

Father persevered for a little longer but soon decided that conversation with General Radley was practically impossible and almost certainly unprofitable. He went and sat down in the lounge at a table adjacent to that of Miss Jane Marple.

âTea, sir?â

Father looked up. He was impressed, as everyone was impressed, by Henryâs personality. Though such a large and portly man he had appeared, as it were, like some vast travesty of Ariel who could materialize and vanish at will. Father ordered tea.

âDid I see youâve got muffins here?â he asked.

Henry smiled benignly.

âYes, sir. Very good indeed our muffins are, if I may say so. Everyone enjoys them. Shall I order you muffins, sir? Indian or China tea?â

âIndian,â said Father. âOr Ceylon if youâve got it.â

âCertainly we have Ceylon, sir.â

Henry made the faintest gesture with a finger and the pale young man who was his minion departed in search of Ceylon tea and muffins. Henry moved graciously elsewhere.

âYouâre Someone, you are,â thought Father. âI wonder where they got hold of you and what they pay you. A packet, I bet, and youâd be worth it.â He watched Henry bending in a fatherly manner over an elderly lady. He wondered what Henry thought, if he thought anything, about Father. Father considered that he fitted into Bertramâs Hotel reasonably well. He might have been a prosperous gentleman farmer or he might have been a peer of the realm with a resemblance to a bookmaker. Father knew two peers who were very like that. On the whole, he thought, he passed muster, but he also thought it possible that he had not deceived Henry. âYes, youâre Someone you are,â Father thought again.

Tea came and the muffins. Father bit deeply. Butter ran down his chin. He wiped it off with a large handkerchief. He drank two cups of tea with plenty of sugar. Then he leaned forward and spoke to the lady sitting in the chair next to him.

âExcuse me,â he said, âbut arenât you Miss Jane Marple?â

Miss Marple transferred her gaze from her knitting to Chief Detective-Inspector Davy.

âYes,â she said, âI am Miss Marple.â

âI hope you donât mind my speaking to you. As a matter of fact I am a police officer.â

âIndeed? Nothing seriously wrong here, I hope?â

Father hastened to reassure her in his best paternal fashion.

âNow, donât you worry, Miss Marple,â he said. âItâs not the sort of thing you mean at all. No burglary or anything like that. Just a little difficulty about an absentminded clergyman, thatâs all. I think heâs a friend of yours. Canon Pennyfather.â

âOh, Canon Pennyfather. He was here only the other day. Yes, Iâve known him slightly for many years. As you say, he is very absentminded.â She added, with some interest, âWhat has he done now?â

âWell, as you might say in a manner of speaking, heâs lost himself.â

âOh dear,â said Miss Marple. âWhere ought he to be?â

âBack at home in his Cathedral Close,â said Father, âbut he isnât.â

âHe told me,â said Miss Marple, âhe was going to a conference at Lucerne. Something to do with the Dead Sea Scrolls, I believe. Heâs a great Hebrew and Aramaic scholar, you know.â

âYes,â said Father. âYouâre quite right. Thatâs where heâwell, thatâs where he was supposed to be going.â

âDo you mean he didnât turn up there?â

âNo,â said Father, âhe didnât turn up.â

âOh, well,â said Miss Marple, âI expect he got his dates wrong.â

âVery likely, very likely.â

âIâm afraid,â said Miss Marple, âthat thatâs not the first time that thatâs happened. I went to have tea with him in Chadminster once. He was actually absent from home. His housekeeper told me then how very absentminded he was.â

âHe didnât say anything to you when he was staying here that might give us a clue, I suppose?â asked Father, speaking in an easy and confidential way. âYou know the sort of thing I mean, any old friend heâd met or any plans heâd made apart from this Lucerne Conference?â

âOh no. He just mentioned the Lucerne Conference. I think he said it was on the 19th. Is that right?â

âThat was the date of the Lucerne Conference, yes.â

âI didnât notice the date particularly. I meanââ like most old ladies, Miss Marple here became slightly involvedââI thought he said the 19th and he might have said the 19th, but at the same time he might have meant the 19th and it might really have been the 20th. I mean, he may have thought the 20th was the 19th or he may have thought the 19th was the 20th.â

âWellââ said Father, slightly dazed.

âIâm putting it badly,â said Miss Marple, âbut I mean people like Canon Pennyfather, if they say theyâre going somewhere on a Thursday, one is quite prepared to find that they didnât mean Thursday, it may be Wednesday or Friday they really mean. Usually they find out in time but sometimes they just donât. I thought at the time that something like that must have happened.â

Father looked slightly puzzled.

âYou speak as though you knew already, Miss Marple, that Canon Pennyfather hadnât gone to Lucerne.â

âI knew he wasnât in Lucerne on Thursday,â said Miss Marple. âHe was here all dayâor most of the day. Thatâs why I thought, of course, that though he may have said Thursday to me, it was really Friday he meant. He certainly left here on Thursday evening carrying his BEA bag.â

âQuite so.â

âI took it he was going off to the airport then,â said Miss Marple. âThatâs why I was so surprised to see he was back again.â

âI beg your pardon, what do you mean by âback againâ?â

âWell, that he was back here again, I mean.â

âNow, letâs get this quite clear,â said Father, careful to speak in an agreeable and reminiscent voice, and not as though it was really important. âYou saw the old idioâyou saw the Canon, that is to say, leave as you thought for the airport with his overnight bag, fairly early in the evening. Is that right?â

âYes. About half past six, I would say, or quarter to seven.â

âBut you say he came back.â

âPerhaps he missed the plane. That would account for it.â

âWhen did he come back?â

âWell, I donât really know. I didnât see him come back.â

âOh,â said Father, taken aback. âI thought you said you did see him.â

âOh, I did see him later,â said Miss Marple. âI meant I didnât see him actually come into the hotel.â

âYou saw him later? When?â

Miss Marple thought.

âLet me see. It was about 3 a.m. I couldnât sleep very well. Something woke me. Some sound. There are so many queer noises in London. I looked at my little clock, it was ten minutes past three. For some reasonâIâm not quite sure whatâI felt uneasy. Footsteps, perhaps, outside my door. Living in the country, if one hears footsteps in the middle of the night it makes one nervous. So I just opened my door and looked out. There was Canon Pennyfather leaving his roomâitâs next door to mineâand going off down the stairs wearing his overcoat.â

âHe came out of his room wearing his overcoat and went down the stairs at 3 a.m. in the morning?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple and added: âI thought it odd at the time.â

Father looked at her for some moments.

âMiss Marple,â he said, âwhy havenât you told anyone this before?â

âNobody asked me,â said Miss Marple simply.

Chapter Fifteen

Father drew a deep breath.

âNo,â he said. âNo, I suppose nobody would ask you. Itâs as simple as that.â

He relapsed into silence again.

âYou think something has happened to him, donât you?â asked Miss Marple.

âItâs over a week now,â said Father. âHe didnât have a stroke and fall down in the street. Heâs not in a hospital as a result of an accident. So where is he? His disappearance has been reported in the Press, but nobodyâs come forward with any information yet.â

âThey may not have seen it. I didnât.â

âIt looksâit really looksââ Father was following out his own line of thoughtââas though he meant to disappear. Leaving this place like that in the middle of the night. Youâre quite sure about it, arenât you?â he demanded sharply. âYou didnât dream it?â

âI am absolutely sure,â said Miss Marple with finality.

Father heaved himself to his feet.

âIâd better go and see that chambermaid,â he said.

Father found Rose Sheldon on duty and ran an approving eye over her pleasant person.

âIâm sorry to bother you,â he said. âI know youâve seen our sergeant already. But itâs about that missing gentleman, Canon Pennyfather.â

âOh yes, sir, a very nice gentleman. He often stays here.â

âAbsentminded,â said Father.

Rose Sheldon permitted a discreet smile to appear on her respectful mask of a face.

âNow let me see.â Father pretended to consult some notes. âThe last time you saw Canon Pennyfatherâwasââ

âOn the Thursday morning, sir. Thursday the 19th. He told me that he would not be back that night and possibly not the next either. He was going, I think, to Geneva. Somewhere in Switzerland, anyway. He gave me two shirts he wanted washed and I said they would be ready for him on the morning of the following day.â

âAnd thatâs the last you saw of him, eh?â

âYes, sir. You see, Iâm not on duty in the afternoons. I come back again at 6 oâclock. By then he must have left, or at any rate he was downstairs. Not in his room. He had left two suitcases behind.â

âThatâs right,â said Father. The contents of the suitcases had been examined, but had given no useful lead. He went on: âDid you call him the next morning?â

âCall him? No, sir, he was away.â

âWhat did you do ordinarilyâtake him early tea? Breakfast?â

âEarly tea, sir. He breakfasted downstairs always.â

âSo you didnât go into his room at all the next day?â

âOh yes, sir.â Rose sounded shocked. âI went into his room as usual. I took his shirts in for one thing. And of course I dusted the room. We dust all the rooms every day.â

âHad the bed been slept in?â

She stared at him. âThe bed, sir? Oh no.â

âWas it rumpledâcreased in any way?â

She shook her head.

âWhat about the bathroom?â

âThere was a damp hand towel, sir, that had been used. I presume that would be the evening before. He may have washed his hands last thing before going off.â

âAnd there was nothing to show that he had come back into the roomâperhaps quite lateâafter midnight?â

She stared at him with an air of bewilderment. Father opened his mouth, then shut it again. Either she knew nothing about the Canonâs return or she was a highly accomplished actress.

âWhat about his clothesâsuits. Were they packed up in his suitcases?â

âNo, sir, they were hanging up in the cupboards. He was keeping his room on, you see, sir.â

âWho did pack them up?â

âMiss Gorringe gave orders, sir. When the room was wanted for the new lady coming in.â

A straightforward coherent account. But if that old lady was correct in stating that she saw Canon Pennyfather leaving his room at 3 a.m. on Friday morning, then he must have come back to that room sometime. Nobody had seen him enter the hotel. Had he, for some reason, deliberately avoided being seen? He had left no traces in the room. He hadnât even lain down on the bed. Had Miss Marple dreamed the whole thing? At her age it was possible enough. An idea struck him.

âWhat about the airport bag?â

âI beg your pardon, sir?â

âA small bag, dark blueâa BEA or BOAC bagâyou must have seen it?â

âOh thatâyes, sir. But of course heâd take that with him abroad.â

âBut he didnât go abroad. He never went to Switzerland after all. So he must have left it behind. Or else he came back and left it here with his other luggage.â

âYesâyesâI thinkâIâm not quite sureâI believe he did.â

Quite unsolicited, the thought raced into Fatherâs mind: They didnât brief you on that, did they?

Rose Sheldon had been calm and competent up till now. But that question had rattled her. She hadnât known the right answer to it. But she ought to have known.

The Canon had taken his bag to the airport, had been turned away from the airport. If he had come back to Bertramâs, the bag would have been with him. But Miss Marple had made no mention of it when she had described the Canon leaving his room and going down the stairs.

Presumably it was left in the bedroom, but it had not been put in the baggage room with the suitcases. Why not? Because the Canon was supposed to have gone to Switzerland?

He thanked Rose genially and went downstairs again.

Canon Pennyfather! Something of an enigma, Canon Pennyfather. Talked a lot about going to Switzerland, muddled up things so that he didnât go to Switzerland, came back to his hotel so secretly that nobody saw him, left it again in the early hours of the morning. (To go where? To do what?)

Could absentmindedness account for all this?

If not, then what was Canon Pennyfather up to? And more important, where was he?

From the staircase, Father cast a jaundiced eye over the occupants of the lounge, and wondered whether anyone was what they seemed to be. He had got to that stage! Elderly people, middle-aged people (nobody very young) nice old-fashioned people, nearly all well-to-do, all highly respectable. Service people, lawyers, clergymen; American husband and wife near the door, a French family near the fireplace. Nobody flashy, nobody out of place; most of them enjoying an old-fashioned English afternoon tea. Could there really be anything seriously wrong with a place that served old-fashioned afternoon teas?

The Frenchman made a remark to his wife that fitted in appositively enough.

âLe Five-oâ-clock,â he was saying. âCâest bien Anglais Ã§a, nâest ce pas?â He looked round him with approval.

âLe Five-oâ-clock,â thought Davy as he passed through the swing doors to the street. âThat chap doesnât know that âle Five-oâ-clockâ is as dead as the Dodo!â

Outside, various vast American wardrobe cases and suitcases were being loaded on to a taxi. It seemed that Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Cabot were on their way to the Hotel VendÃ´me, Paris.

Beside him on the kerb, Mrs. Elmer Cabot was expressing her views to her husband.

âThe Pendleburys were quite right about this place, Elmer. It just is old England. So beautifully Edwardian. I just feel Edward the Seventh could walk right in any moment and sit down there for his afternoon tea. I mean to come back here next yearâI really do.â

âIf weâve got a million dollars or so to spare,â said her husband dryly.

âNow, Elmer, it wasnât as bad as all that.â

The baggage was loaded, the tall commissionaire helped them in, murmuring âThank you, sirâ as Mr. Cabot made the expected gesture. The taxi drove off. The commissionaire transferred his attention to Father.

âTaxi, sir?â

Father looked up at him.

Over six feet. Good-looking chap. A bit run to seed. Ex-Army. Lot of medalsâgenuine, probably. A bit shifty? Drinks too much.

Aloud he said: âEx-Army man?â

âYes, sir. Irish Guards.â

âMilitary Medal, I see. Where did you get that?â

âBurma.â

âWhatâs your name?â

âMichael Gorman. Sergeant.â

âGood job here?â

âItâs a peaceful spot.â

âWouldnât you prefer the Hilton?â

âI would not. I like it here. Nice people come here, and quite a lot of racing gentlemenâfor Ascot and Newbury. Iâve had good tips from them now and again.â

âAh, so youâre an Irishman and gambler, is that it?â

âOch! Now, what would life be without a gamble?â

âPeaceful and dull,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âlike mine.â

âIndeed, sir?â

âCan you guess what my profession is?â asked Father.

The Irishman grinned.

âNo offence to you, sir, but if I may guess Iâd say you were a cop.â

âRight first time,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âYou remember Canon Pennyfather?â

âCanon Pennyfather now, I donât seem to mind the nameââ

âElderly clergyman.â

Michael Gorman laughed.

âAh now, clergyman are as thick as peas in a pod in there.â

âThis one disappeared from here.â

âOh, that one!â The commissionaire seemed slightly taken aback.

âDid you know him?â

âI wouldnât remember him if it hadnât been for people asking me questions about him. All I know is, I put him into a taxi and he went to the Athenaeum Club. Thatâs the last I saw of him. Somebody told me heâd gone to Switzerland, but I hear he never got there. Lost himself, it seems.â

âYou didnât see him later that day?â

âLaterâNo, indeed.â

âWhat time do you go off duty?â

âEleven-thirty.â

Chief-Inspector Davy nodded, refused a taxi and moved slowly away along Pond Street. A car roared past him close to the kerb, and pulled up outside Bertramâs Hotel, with a scream of brakes. Chief-Inspector Davy turned his head soberly and noted the number plate. FAN 2266. There was something reminiscent about that number, though he couldnât for the moment place it.

Slowly he retraced his steps. He had barely reached the entrance before the driver of the car, who had gone through the doors a moment or two before, came out again. He and the car matched each other. It was a racing model, white with long gleaming lines. The young man had the same eager greyhound look with a handsome face and a body with not a superfluous inch of flesh on it.

The commissionaire held the car door open, the young man jumped in, tossed a coin to the commissionaire and drove off with a burst of powerful engine.

âYou know who he is?â said Michael Gorman to Father.

âA dangerous driver, anyway.â

âLadislaus Malinowski. Won the Grand Prix two years agoâworld champion he was. Had a bad smash last year. They say heâs all right again now.â

âDonât tell me heâs staying at Bertramâs. Highly unsuitable.â

Michael Gorman grinned.

âHeâs not staying here, no. But a friend of his isââ He winked.

A porter in a striped apron came out with more American luxury travel equipment.

Father stood absentmindedly watching them being ensconced in a Daimler Hire Car whilst he tried to remember what he knew about Ladislaus Malinowski. A reckless fellowâsaid to be tied up with some well-known womanâwhat was her name now? Still staring at a smart wardrobe case, he was just turning away when he changed his mind and reentered the hotel again.

He went to the desk and asked Miss Gorringe for the hotel register. Miss Gorringe was busy with departing Americans, and pushed the book along the counter towards him. He turned the pages.

Lady Selina Hazy, Little Cottage, Merryfield, Hants.

Mr. and Mrs. Hennessey King, Elderberries, Essex.

Sir John Woodstock, 5 Beaumont Crescent, Cheltenham.

Lady Sedgwick, Hurstings House, Northumberland.

Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Cabot, Connecticut.

General Radley, 14, The Green, Chichester.

Mr. and Mrs. Woolmer Pickington, Marble Head, Connecticut.

La Comtesse de Beauville, Les Sapins, St. Germain en Laye.

Miss Jane Marple, St. Mary Mead, Much Benham.

Colonel Luscombe, Little Green, Suffolk.

Mrs. Carpenter, The Hon. Elvira Blake.

Canon Pennyfather, The Close, Chadminster.

Mrs. Holding, Mr. Holding, Miss Audrey Holding, The Manor House, Carmanton.

Mr. and Mrs. Ryesville, Valley Forge, Pennsylvania.

The Duke of Barnstable, Doone Castle, N. Devonâ¦.

A cross section of the kind of people who stayed at Bertramâs Hotel. They formed, he thought, a kind of patternâ¦.

As he shut the book, a name on an earlier page caught his eye. Sir William Ludgrove.

Mr. Justice Ludgrove who had been recognized by a probation officer near the scene of a bank robbery. Mr. Justice LudgroveâCanon Pennyfatherâboth patrons of Bertramâs Hotelâ¦.

âI hope you enjoyed your tea, sir?â It was Henry, standing at his elbow. He spoke courteously, and with the slight anxiety of the perfect host.

âThe best tea Iâve had for years,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

He remembered he hadnât paid for it. He attempted to do so; but Henry raised a deprecating hand.

âOh no, sir. I was given to understand that your tea was on the house. Mr. Humfriesâ orders.â

Henry moved away. Father was left uncertain whether he ought to have offered Henry a tip or not. It was galling to think that Henry knew the answer to that social problem much better than he did!

As he moved away along the street, he stopped suddenly. He took out his notebook and put down a name and an addressâno time to lose. He went into a telephone box. He was going to stick out his neck. Come hell or high water, he was going all out on a hunch.

Chapter Sixteen

It was the wardrobe that worried Canon Pennyfather. It worried him before he was quite awake. Then he forgot it and he fell asleep again. But when his eyes opened once more, there the wardrobe still was in the wrong place. He was lying on his left side facing the window and the wardrobe ought to have been there between him and the window on the left wall. But it wasnât. It was on the right. It worried him. It worried him so much that it made him feel tired. He was conscious of his head aching badly, and on top of that, to have the wardrobe in the wrong place. At this point once more his eyes closed.

There was rather more light in the room the next time he woke. It was not daylight yet. Only the faint light of dawn. âDear me,â said Canon Pennyfather to himself, suddenly solving the problem of the wardrobe. âHow stupid I am! Of course, Iâm not at home.â

He moved gingerly. No, this wasnât his own bed. He was away from home. He wasâwhere was he? Oh, of course. Heâd gone to London, hadnât he? He was in Bertramâs Hotel andâbut no, he wasnât in Bertramâs Hotel. In Bertramâs Hotel his bed was facing the window. So that was wrong, too.

âDear me, where can I be?â said Canon Pennyfather.

Then he remembered that he was going to Lucerne. âOf course,â he said to himself, âIâm in Lucerne.â He began thinking about the paper he was going to read. He didnât think about it long. Thinking about his paper seemed to make his head ache so he went to sleep again.

The next time he woke his head was a great deal clearer. Also there was a good deal more light in the room. He was not at home, he was not at Bertramâs Hotel and he was fairly sure that he was not in Lucerne. This wasnât a hotel bedroom at all. He studied it fairly closely. It was an entirely strange room with very little furniture in it. A kind of cupboard (what heâd taken for the wardrobe) and a window with flowered curtains through which the light came. A chair and a table and a chest of drawers. Really, that was about all.

âDear me,â said Canon Pennyfather, âthis is most odd. Where am I?â

He was thinking of getting up to investigate but when he sat up in bed his headache began again so he lay down.

âI must have been ill,â decided Canon Pennyfather. âYes, definitely I must have been ill.â He thought a minute or two and then said to himself, âAs a matter of fact, I think perhaps Iâm still ill. Influenza, perhaps?â Influenza, people often said, came on very suddenly. Perhapsâperhaps it had come on at dinner at the Athenaeum. Yes, that was right. He remembered that he had dined at the Athenaeum.

There were sounds of moving about in the house. Perhaps theyâd taken him to a nursing home. But no, he didnât think this was a nursing home. With the increased light it showed itself as a rather shabby and ill-furnished small bedroom. Sounds of movement went on. From downstairs a voice called out, âGood-bye, ducks. Sausage and mash this evening.â

Canon Pennyfather considered this. Sausage and mash. The words had a faintly agreeable quality.

âI believe,â he said to himself, âIâm hungry.â

The door opened. A middle-aged woman came in, went across to the curtains, pulled them back a little and turned towards the bed.

âAh, youâre awake now,â she said. âAnd how are you feeling?â

âReally,â said Canon Pennyfather, rather feebly, âIâm not quite sure.â

âAh, I expect not. Youâve been quite bad, you know. Something hit you a nasty crack, so the doctor said. These motorists! Not even stopping after theyâd knocked you down.â

âHave I had an accident?â said Canon Pennyfather. âA motor accident?â

âThatâs right,â said the woman. âFound you by the side of the road when we come home. Thought you was drunk at first.â She chuckled pleasantly at the reminiscence. âThen my husband said heâd better take a look. It may have been an accident, he said. There wasnât no smell of drink or anything. No blood or anything neither. Anyway, there you was, out like a log. So my husband said, âWe canât leave him here lying like that,â and he carried you in here. See?â

âAh,â said Canon Pennyfather, faintly, somewhat overcome by all these revelations. âA good Samaritan.â

âAnd he saw you were a clergyman so my husband said, âItâs all quite respectable.â Then he said heâd better not call the police because being a clergyman and all that you mightnât like it. Thatâs if you was drunk, in spite of there being no smell of drink. So then we hit upon getting Dr. Stokes to come and have a look at you. We still call him Dr. Stokes although heâs been struck off. A very nice man he is, embittered a bit, of course, by being struck off. It was only his kind heart really, helping a lot of girls who were no better than they should be. Anyway, heâs a good enough doctor and we got him to come and take a look at you. He says youâve come to no real harm, says itâs mild concussion. All weâd got to do was to keep you lying flat and quiet in a dark room. âMind you,â he said, âIâm not giving an opinion or anything like that. This is unofficial. Iâve no right to prescribe or to say anything. By rights I dare say you ought to report it to the police, but if you donât want to, why should you?â Give the poor old geezer a chance, thatâs what he said. Excuse me if Iâm speaking disrespectful. Heâs a rough and ready speaker, the doctor is. Now what about a drop of soup or some hot bread and milk?â

âEither,â said Canon Pennyfather faintly, âwould be very welcome.â

He relapsed on to his pillows. An accident? So that was it. An accident, and he couldnât remember a thing about it! A few minutes later the good woman returned bearing a tray with a steaming bowl on it.

âYouâll feel better after this,â she said. âIâd like to have put a drop of whisky or a drop of brandy in it but the doctor said you wasnât to have nothing like that.â

âCertainly not,â said Canon Pennyfather, ânot with concussion. No. It would have been unadvisable.â

âIâll put another pillow behind your back, shall I, ducks? There, is that all right?â

Canon Pennyfather was a little startled by being addressed as âducks.â He told himself that it was kindly meant.

âUpsydaisy,â said the woman, âthere we are.â

âYes, but where are we?â said Canon Pennyfather. âI mean, where am I? Where is this place?â

âMilton St. John,â said the woman. âDidnât you know?â

âMilton St. John?â said Canon Pennyfather. He shook his head. âI never heard the name before.â

âOh well, itâs not much of a place. Only a village.â

âYou have been very kind,â said Canon Pennyfather. âMay I ask your name?â

âMrs. Wheeling. Emma Wheeling.â

âYou are most kind,â said Canon Pennyfather again. âBut this accident now. I simply cannot rememberââ

âYou put yourself outside that, luv, and youâll feel better and up to remembering things.â

âMilton St. John,â said Canon Pennyfather to himself, in a tone of wonder. âThe name means nothing to me at all. How very extraordinary!â

Chapter Seventeen

Sir Ronald Graves drew a cat upon his blotting pad. He looked at the large portly figure of Chief-Inspector Davy sitting opposite him and drew a bulldog.

âLadislaus Malinowski?â he said. âCould be. Got any evidence?â

âNo. Heâd fit the bill, would he?â

âA daredevil. No nerves. Won the World Championship. Bad crash about a year ago. Bad reputation with women. Sources of income doubtful. Spends money here and abroad freely. Always going to and fro to the Continent. Have you got some idea that heâs the man behind these organized robberies and holdups?â

âI donât think heâs the planner. But I think heâs in with them.â

âWhy?â

âFor one thing, he runs a Mercedes-Otto car. Racing model. A car answering to that description was seen near Bedhampton on the morning of the mail robbery. Different number platesâbut weâre used to that. And itâs the same stuntâunlike, but not too unlike. FAN 2299 instead of 2266. There arenât so many Mercedes-Otto models of that type about. Lady Sedgwick has one and young Lord Merrivale.â

âYou donât think Malinowski runs the show?â

âNoâI think there are better brains than his at the top. But heâs in it. Iâve looked back over the files. Take the holdup at the Midland and West London. Three vans happenedâjust happenedâto block a certain street. A Mercedes-Otto that was on the scene got clear away owing to that block.â

âIt was stopped later.â

âYes. And given a clean bill of health. Especially as the people whoâd reported it werenât sure of the correct number. It was reported as FAM 3366âMalinowskiâs registration number is FAN 2266âItâs all the same picture.â

âAnd you persist in tying it up with Bertramâs Hotel. They dug up some stuff about Bertramâs for youââ

Father tapped his pocket.

âGot it here. Properly registered company. Balanceâpaid up capitalâdirectorsâetcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Doesnât mean a thing! These financial shows are all the sameâjust a lot of snakes swallowing each other! Companies, and holding companiesâmakes your brain reel!â

âCome now, Father. Thatâs just a way they have in the City. Has to do with taxationââ

âWhat I want is the real dope. If youâll give me a chit, sir, Iâd like to go and see some top brass.â

The AC stared at him.

âAnd what exactly do you mean by top brass?â

Father mentioned a name.

The AC looked upset. âI donât know about that. I hardly think we dare approach him.â

âIt might be very helpful.â

There was a pause. The two men looked at each other. Father looked bovine, placid, and patient. The AC gave in.

âYouâre a stubborn old devil, Fred,â he said. âHave it your own way. Go and worry the top brains behind the international financiers of Europe.â

âHeâll know,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âHeâll know. And if he doesnât, he can find out by pressing one buzzer on his desk or making one telephone call.â

âI donât know that heâll be pleased.â

âProbably not,â said Father, âbut it wonât take much of his time. Iâve got to have authority behind me, though.â

âYouâre really serious about this place, Bertramâs, arenât you? But what have you got to go on? Itâs well run, has a good respectable clienteleâno trouble with the licensing laws.â

âI knowâI know. No drinks, no drugs, no gambling, no accommodation for criminals. All pure as the driven snow. No beatniks, no thugs, no juvenile delinquents. Just sober Victorian-Edwardian old ladies, county families, visiting travellers from Boston and the more respectable parts of the USA. All the same, a respectable Canon of the church is seen to leave it at 3 a.m. in the morning in a somewhat surreptitious mannerââ

âWho saw that?â

âAn old lady.â

âHow did she manage to see him. Why wasnât she in bed and asleep?â

âOld ladies are like that, sir.â

âYouâre not talking ofâwhatâs his nameâCanon Pennyfather?â

âThatâs right, sir. His disappearance was reported and Campbell has been looking into it.â

âFunny coincidenceâhis nameâs just come up in connection with the mail robbery at Bedhampton.â

âIndeed? In what way, sir?â

âAnother old ladyâor middle-aged anyway. When the train was stopped by that signal that had been tampered with, a good many people woke up and looked out into the corridor. This woman, who lives in Chadminster and knows Canon Pennyfather by sight, says she saw him entering the train by one of the doors. She thought heâd got out to see what was wrong and was getting in again. We were going to follow it up because of his disappearance being reportedââ

âLetâs seeâthe train was stopped at 5.30 a.m. Canon Pennyfather left Bertramâs Hotel not long after 3 a.m. Yes, it could be done. If he were driven thereâsayâin a racing carâ¦.â

âSo weâre back again to Ladislaus Malinowski!â

The AC looked at his blotting pad doodles. âWhat a bulldog you are, Fred,â he said.

Half an hour later Chief-Inspector Davy was entering a quiet and rather shabby office.

The large man behind the desk rose and put forward a hand.

âChief-Inspector Davy? Do sit down,â he said. âDo you care for a cigar?â

Chief-Inspector Davy shook his head.

âI must apologize,â he said, in his deep countrymanâs voice, âfor wasting your valuable time.â

Mr. Robinson smiled. He was a fat man and very well dressed. He had a yellow face, his eyes were dark and sad looking and his mouth was large and generous. He frequently smiled to display overlarge teeth. âThe better to eat you with,â thought Chief-Inspector Davy irrelevantly. His English was perfect and without accent but he was not an Englishman. Father wondered, as many others had wondered before him, what nationality Mr. Robinson really was.

âWell, what can I do for you?â

âIâd like to know,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âwho owns Bertramâs Hotel.â

The expression on Mr. Robinsonâs face did not change. He showed no surprise at hearing the name nor did he show recognition. He said thoughtfully:

âYou want to know who owns Bertramâs Hotel. That, I think, is in Pond Street, off Piccadilly.â

âQuite right, sir.â

âI have occasionally stayed there myself. A quiet place. Well run.â

âYes,â said Father, âparticularly well run.â

âAnd you want to know who owns it? Surely that is easy to ascertain?â

There was a faint irony behind his smile.

âThrough the usual channels, you mean? Oh yes.â Father took a small piece of paper from his pocket and read out three or four names and addresses.

âI see,â said Mr. Robinson, âsomeone has taken quite a lot of trouble. Interesting. And you come to me?â

âIf anyone knows, you would, sir.â

âActually I do not know. But it is true that I have ways of obtaining information. One hasââ he shrugged his very large, fat shouldersââone has contacts.â

âYes, sir,â said Father with an impassive face.

Mr. Robinson looked at him, then he picked up the telephone on his desk.

âSonia? Get me Carlos.â He waited a minute or two then spoke again. âCarlos?â He spoke rapidly half a dozen sentences in a foreign language. It was not a language that Father could even recognize.

Father could converse in good British French. He had a smattering of Italian and he could make a guess at plain travellersâ German. He knew the sounds of Spanish, Russian and Arabic, though he could not understand them. This language was none of those. At a faint guess he hazarded it might be Turkish or Persian or Armenian, but even of that he was by no means sure. Mr. Robinson replaced the receiver.

âI do not think,â he said genially, âthat we shall have long to wait. I am interested, you know. Very much interested. I have occasionally wondered myselfââ

Father looked inquiring.

âAbout Bertramâs Hotel,â said Mr. Robinson. âFinancially, you know. One wonders how it can pay. However, it has never been any of my business. And one appreciatesââ he shrugged his shouldersââa comfortable hostelry with an unusually talented personnel and staffâ¦Yes, I have wondered.â He looked at Father. âYou know how and why?â

âNot yet,â said Father, âbut I mean to.â

âThere are several possibilities,â said Mr. Robinson, thoughtfully. âIt is like music, you know. Only so many notes to the octave, yet one can combine them inâwhat is itâseveral million different ways? A musician told me once that you do not get the same tune twice. Most interesting.â

There was a slight buzz on his desk and he picked up the receiver once more.

âYes? Yes, you have been very prompt. I am pleased. I see. Oh! Amsterdam yesâ¦Ahâ¦Thank youâ¦Yes. You will spell that? Good.â

He wrote rapidly on a pad at his elbow.

âI hope this will be useful to you,â he said, as he tore off the sheet and passed it across the table to Father, who read the name out loud. âWilhelm Hoffman.â

âNationality Swiss,â said Mr. Robinson. âThough not, I would say, born in Switzerland. Has a good deal of influence in Banking circles and though keeping strictly on the right side of the law, he has been behind a great manyâquestionable deals. He operates solely on the Continent, not in this country.â

âOh.â

âBut he has a brother,â said Mr. Robinson. âRobert Hoffman. Living in Londonâa diamond merchantâmost respectable businessâHis wife is DutchâHe also has offices in AmsterdamâYour people may know about him. As I say, he deals mainly in diamonds, but he is a very rich man, and he owns a lot of property, not usually in his own name. Yes, he is behind quite a lot of enterprises. He and his brother are the real owners of Bertramâs Hotel.â

âThank you, sir,â Chief-Inspector Davy rose to his feet. âI neednât tell you that Iâm much obliged to you. Itâs wonderful,â he added, allowing himself to show more enthusiasm than was normal.

âThat I should know?â inquired Mr. Robinson, giving one of his larger smiles. âBut this is one of my specialities. Information. I like to know. That is why you came to me, is it not?â

âWell,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âwe do know about you. The Home Office. The Special Branch and all the rest of it.â He added almost naÃ¯vely, âIt took a bit of nerve on my part to approach you.â

Again Mr. Robinson smiled.

âI find you an interesting personality, Chief-Inspector Davy,â he said. âI wish you success in whatever you are undertaking.â

âThank you, sir. I think I shall need it. By the way, these two brothers, would you say they were violent men?â

âCertainly not,â said Mr. Robinson. âIt would be quite against their policy. The brothers Hoffman do not apply violence in business matters. They have other methods that serve them better. Year by year, I would say, they get steadily richer, or so my information from Swiss Banking circles tells me.â

âItâs a useful place, Switzerland,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

âYes, indeed. What we should all do without it I do not know! So much rectitude. Such a fine business sense! Yes, we businessmen must all be very grateful to Switzerland. I myself,â he added, âhave also a high opinion of Amsterdam.â He looked hard at Davy, then smiled again, and the Chief-Inspector left.

When he got back to headquarters again, he found a note awaiting him.

Canon Pennyfather has turned upâsafe if not sound.

Apparently was knocked down by a car at Milton St. John and has concussion.

Chapter Eighteen

Canon Pennyfather looked at Chief-Inspector Davy and Inspector Campbell, and Chief-Inspector Davy and Inspector Campbell looked at him. Canon Pennyfather was at home again. Sitting in the big armchair in his library, a pillow behind his head and his feet up on a pouffe, with a rug over his knees to emphasize his invalid status.

âIâm afraid,â he was saying politely, âthat I simply cannot remember anything at all.â

âYou canât remember the accident when the car hit you?â

âIâm really afraid not.â

âThen how did you know a car did hit you?â demanded Inspector Campbell acutely.

âThe woman there, MrsâMrsâwas her name Wheeling?âtold me about it.â

âAnd how did she know?â

Canon Pennyfather looked puzzled.

âDear me, you are quite right. She couldnât have known, could she? I suppose she thought it was what must have happened.â

âAnd you really cannot remember anything? How did you come to be in Milton St. John?â

âIâve no idea,â said Canon Pennyfather. âEven the name is quite unfamiliar to me.â

Inspector Campbellâs exasperation was mounting, but Chief-Inspector Davy said in his soothing, homely voice:

âJust tell us again the last thing you do remember, sir.â

Canon Pennyfather turned to him with relief. The inspectorâs dry scepticism had made him uncomfortable.

âI was going to Lucerne to a congress. I took a taxi to the airportâat least to Kensington Air Station.â

âYes. And then?â

âThatâs all. I canât remember anymore. The next thing I remember is the wardrobe.â

âWhat wardrobe?â demanded Inspector Campbell.

âIt was in the wrong place.â

Inspector Campbell was tempted to go into this question of a wardrobe in the wrong place. Chief-Inspector Davy cut in.

âDo you remember arriving at the air station, sir?â

âI suppose so,â said Canon Pennyfather, with the air of one who has a great deal of doubt on the matter.

âAnd you duly flew to Lucerne.â

âDid I? I donât remember anything about it if so.â

âDo you remember arriving back at Bertramâs Hotel that night?â

âNo.â

âYou do remember Bertramâs Hotel?â

âOf course. I was staying there. Very comfortable. I kept my room on.â

âDo you remember travelling in a train?â

âA train? No, I canât recall a train.â

âThere was a holdup. The train was robbed. Surely, Canon Pennyfather, you can remember that.â

âI ought to, oughtnât I?â said Canon Pennyfather. âBut somehowââ he spoke apologeticallyââI donât.â He looked from one to the other of the officers with a bland gentle smile.

âThen your story is that you remember nothing after going in a taxi to the air station until you woke up in the Wheelingsâ cottage at Milton St. John.â

âThere is nothing unusual in that,â the Canon assured him. âIt happens quite often in cases of concussion.â

âWhat did you think had happened to you when you woke up?â

âI had such a headache I really couldnât think. Then of course I began to wonder where I was and Mrs. Wheeling explained and brought me some excellent soup. She called me âloveâ and âdearieâ and âducks,ââ said the Canon with slight distaste, âbut she was very kind. Very kind indeed.â

âShe ought to have reported the accident to the police. Then you would have been taken to hospital and properly looked after,â said Campbell.

âShe looked after me very well,â the Canon protested, with spirit, âand I understand that with concussion there is very little you can do except keep the patient quiet.â

âIf you should remember anything more, Canon Pennyfatherââ

The Canon interrupted him.

âFour whole days I seem to have lost out of my life,â he said. âVery curious. Really very curious indeed. I wonder so much where I was and what I was doing. The doctor tells me it may all come back to me. On the other hand it may not. Possibly I shall never know what happened to me during those days.â His eyelids flickered. âYouâll excuse me. I think I am rather tired.â

âThatâs quite enough now,â said Mrs. McCrae, who had been hovering by the door, ready to intervene if she thought it necessary. She advanced upon them. âDoctor says he wasnât to be worried,â she said firmly.

The policemen rose and moved towards the door. Mrs. McCrae shepherded them out into the hall rather in the manner of a conscientious sheepdog. The Canon murmured something and Chief-Inspector Davy, who was the last to pass through the door, wheeled round at once.

âWhat was that?â he asked, but the Canonâs eyes were now closed.

âWhat did you think he said?â said Campbell as they left the house after refusing Mrs. McCraeâs lukewarm offer of refreshment.

Father said thoughtfully:

âI thought he said âthe Walls of Jericho.ââ

âWhat could he mean by that?â

âIt sounds biblical,â said Father.

âDo you think weâll ever know,â asked Campbell, âhow that old boy got from the Cromwell Road to Milton St. John?â

âIt doesnât seem as if we shall get much help from him,â agreed Davy.

âThat woman who says she saw him on the train after the holdup. Can she possibly be right? Can he be mixed-up in some way with these robberies? It seems impossible. Heâs such a thoroughly respectable old boy. Canât very well suspect a Canon of Chadminster Cathedral of being mixed-up with a train robbery, can one?â

âNo,â said Father thoughtfully, âno. No more than one can imagine Mr. Justice Ludgrove being mixed-up with a bank holdup.â

Inspector Campbell looked at his superior officer curiously.

The expedition to Chadminster concluded with a short and unprofitable interview with Dr. Stokes.

Dr. Stokes was aggressive, uncooperative and rude.

âIâve known the Wheelings quite a while. Theyâre by way of being neighbours of mine. Theyâd picked some old chap off the road. Didnât know whether he was dead drunk, or ill. Asked me in to have a look. I told them he wasnât drunkâthat it was concussionââ

âAnd you treated him after that.â

âNot at all. I didnât treat him, or prescribe for him or attend him. Iâm not a doctorâI was once, but Iâm not nowâI told them what they ought to do was ring up the police. Whether they did or not I donât know. Not my business. Theyâre a bit dumb, both of themâbut kindly folk.â

âYou didnât think of ringing up the police yourself?â

âNo, I did not. Iâm not a doctor. Nothing to do with me. As a human being I told them not to pour whisky down his throat and keep him quiet and flat until the police came.â

He glared at them and, reluctantly, they had to leave it at that.

Chapter Nineteen

Mr. Hoffman was a big solid-looking man. He gave the appearance of being carved out of woodâpreferably teak.

His face was so expressionless as to give rise to surmiseâcould such a man be capable of thinkingâof feeling emotion? It seemed impossible.

His manner was highly correct.

He rose, bowed, and held out a wedge-like hand.

âChief-Inspector Davy? It is some years since I had the pleasureâyou may not even rememberââ

âOh yes I do, Mr. Hoffman. The Aaronberg Diamond Case. You were a witness for the Crownâa most excellent witness, let me say. The defence was quite unable to shake you.â

âI am not easily shaken,â said Mr. Hoffman gravely.

He did not look a man who would easily be shaken.

âWhat can I do for you?â he went on. âNo trouble, I hopeâI always want to agree well with the police. I have the greatest admiration for your superb police force.â

âOh! There is no trouble. It is just that we wanted you to confirm a little information.â

âI shall be delighted to help you in any way I can. As I say, I have the highest opinion of your London Police Force. You have such a splendid class of men. So full of integrity, so fair, so just.â

âYouâll make me embarrassed,â said Father.

âI am at your service. What is it that you want to know?â

âI was just going to ask you to give me a little dope about Bertramâs Hotel.â

Mr. Hoffmanâs face did not change. It was possible that his entire attitude became for a moment or two even more static than it had been beforeâthat was all.

âBertramâs Hotel?â he said. His voice was inquiring, slightly puzzled. It might have been that he had never heard of Bertramâs Hotel or that he could not quite remember whether he knew Bertramâs Hotel or not.

âYou have a connection with it, have you not, Mr. Hoffman?â

Mr. Hoffman moved his shoulders.

âThere are so many things,â he said. âOne cannot remember them all. So much businessâso muchâit keeps me very busy.â

âYou have your fingers in a lot of pies, I know that.â

âYes.â Mr. Hoffman smiled a wooden smile. âI pull out many plums, that is what you think? And so you believe I have a connection with thisâBertramâs Hotel?â

âI shouldnât have said a connection. As a matter of fact, you own it, donât you?â said Father genially.

This time, Mr. Hoffman definitely did stiffen.

âNow who told you that, I wonder?â he said softly.

âWell, itâs true, isnât it?â said Chief-Inspector Davy, cheerfully. âVery nice place to own, I should say. In fact, you must be quite proud of it.â

âOh yes,â said Hoffman. âFor the momentâI could not quite rememberâyou seeââ he smiled deprecatinglyââI own quite a lot of property in London. It is a good investmentâproperty. If something comes on the market in what I think is a good position, and there is a chance of snapping it up cheap, I invest.â

âAnd was Bertramâs Hotel going cheap?â

âAs a running concern, it had gone down the hill,â said Mr. Hoffman, shaking his head.

âWell, itâs on its feet now,â said Father. âI was in there just the other day. I was very much struck with the atmosphere there. Nice old-fashioned clientele, comfortable, old-fashioned premises, nothing rackety about it, a lot of luxury without looking luxurious.â

âI know very little about it personally,â explained Mr. Hoffman. âIt is just one of my investmentsâbut I believe it is doing well.â

âYes, you seem to have a first-class fellow running it. What is his name? Humfries? Yes, Humfries.â

âAn excellent man,â said Mr. Hoffman. âI leave everything to him. I look at the balance sheet once a year to see that all is well.â

âThe place was thick with titles,â said Father. âRich travelling Americans too.â He shook his head thoughtfully. âWonderful combination.â

âYou say you were in there the other day?â Mr. Hoffman inquired. âNotânot officially, I hope?â

âNothing serious. Just trying to clear up a little mystery.â

âA mystery? In Bertramâs Hotel?â

âSo it seems. The Case of the Disappearing Clergyman, you might label it.â

âThat is a joke,â Mr. Hoffman said. âThat is your Sherlock Holmes language.â

âThis clergyman walked out of the place one evening and was never seen again.â

âPeculiar,â said Mr. Hoffman, âbut such things happen. I remember many, many years ago now, a great sensation. Colonelânow let me think of his nameâColonel Fergusson I think, one of the equerries of Queen Mary. He walked out of his club one night and he, too, was never seen again.â

âOf course,â said Father, with a sigh, âa lot of these disappearances are voluntary.â

âYou know more about that than I do, my dear Chief-Inspector,â said Mr. Hoffman. He added, âI hope they gave you every assistance at Bertramâs Hotel?â

âThey couldnât have been nicer,â Father assured him. âThat Miss Gorringe, she has been with you some time, I believe?â

âPossibly. I really know so very little about it. I take no personal interest, you understand. In factââ he smiled disarminglyââI was surprised that you even knew it belonged to me.â

It was not quite a question; but once more there was a slight uneasiness in his eyes. Father noted it without seeming to.

âThe ramifications that go on in the City are like a gigantic jigsaw,â he said. âIt would make my head ache if I had to deal with that side of things. I gather that a companyâMayfair Holding Trust or some name like thatâis the registered owner. Theyâre owned by another company and so on and so on. The real truth of the matter is that it belongs to you. Simple as that. Iâm right, arenât I?â

âI and my fellow directors are what I dare say youâd call behind it, yes,â admitted Mr. Hoffman rather reluctantly.

âYour fellow directors. And who might they be? Yourself and, I believe, a brother of yours?â

âMy brother Wilhelm is associated with me in this venture. You must understand that Bertramâs is only a part of a chain of various hotels, offices, clubs and other London properties.â

âAny other directors?â

âLord Pomfret, Abel Isaacstein.â Hoffmanâs voice was suddenly edged. âDo you really need to know all these things? Just because you are looking into the Case of the Disappearing Clergyman?â

Father shook his head and looked apologetic.

âI suppose itâs really curiosity. Looking for my disappearing clergyman was what took me to Bertramâs, but then I gotâwell, interested if you understand what I mean. One thing leads to another sometimes, doesnât it?â

âI suppose that could be so, yes. And now?â He smiled. âYour curiosity is satisfied?â

âNothing like coming to the horseâs mouth when you want information, is there?â said Father, genially. He rose to his feet. âThereâs only one thing Iâd really like to knowâand I donât suppose youâll tell me that.â

âYes, Chief-Inspector?â Hoffmanâs voice was wary.

âWhere do Bertramâs get hold of their staff? Wonderful! That fellow whatâs-his-nameâHenry. The one that looks like an Archduke or an Archbishop, Iâm not sure which. Anyway, he serves you tea and muffinsâmost wonderful muffins! An unforgettable experience.â

âYou like muffins with much butter, yes?â Mr. Hoffmanâs eyes rested for a moment on the rotundity of Fatherâs figure with disapprobation.

âI expect you can see I do,â said Father. âWell, I mustnât be keeping you. I expect youâre pretty busy taking over take-over bids, or something like that.â

âAh. It amuses you to pretend to be ignorant of all these things. No, I am not busy. I do not let business absorb me too much. My tastes are simple. I live simply, with leisure, with growing of roses, and my family to whom I am much devoted.â

âSounds ideal,â said Father. âWish I could live like that.â

Mr. Hoffman smiled and rose ponderously to shake hands with him.

âI hope you will find your disappearing clergyman very soon.â

âOh! Thatâs all right. Iâm sorry I didnât make myself clear. Heâs foundâdisappointing case, really. Had a car accident and got concussionâsimple as that.â

Father went to the door, then turned and asked:

âBy the way, is Lady Sedgwick a director of your company?â

âLady Sedgwick?â Hoffman took a moment or two. âNo. Why should she be?â

âOh well, one hears thingsâJust a shareholder?â

âIâyes.â

âWell, good-bye, Mr. Hoffman. Thanks very much.â

Father went back to the Yard and straight to the AC.

âThe two Hoffman brothers are the ones behind Bertramâs Hotelâfinancially.â

âWhat? Those scoundrels?â demanded Sir Ronald.

âYes.â

âTheyâve kept it very dark.â

âYesâand Robert Hoffman didnât half like our finding it out. It was a shock to him.â

âWhat did he say?â

âOh, we kept it all very formal and polite. He tried, not too obviously, to learn how I had found out about it.â

âAnd you didnât oblige him with that information, I suppose.â

âI certainly did not.â

âWhat excuse did you give for going to see him?â

âI didnât give any,â said Father.

âDidnât he think that a bit odd?â

âI expect he did. On the whole I thought that was a good way to play it, sir.â

âIf the Hoffmans are behind all this, it accounts for a lot. Theyâre never concerned in anything crooked themselvesâoh no! They donât organize crimeâthey finance it though!

âWilhelm deals with the banking side from Switzerland. He was behind those foreign currency rackets just after the warâwe knew itâbut we couldnât prove it. Those two brothers control a great deal of money and they use it for backing all kinds of enterprisesâsome legitimateâsome not. But theyâre carefulâthey know every trick of the trade. Robertâs diamond broking is straightforward enoughâbut it makes a suggestive pictureâdiamondsâbanking interests, and propertyâclubs, cultural foundations, office buildings, restaurants, hotelsâall apparently owned by somebody else.â

âDo you think Hoffman is the planner of these organized robberies?â

âNo, I think those two deal only with finance. No, youâll have to look elsewhere for your planner. Somewhere thereâs a first-class brain at work.â

Chapter Twenty

I

The fog had come down over London suddenly that evening. Chief-Inspector Davy pulled up his coat collar and turned into Pond Street. Walking slowly, like a man who was thinking of something else, he did not look particularly purposeful but anyone who knew him well would realize that his mind was wholly alert. He was prowling as a cat prowls before the moment comes for it to pounce on its prey.

Pond Street was quiet tonight. There were few cars about. The fog had been patchy to begin with, had almost cleared, then had deepened again. The noise of the traffic from Park Lane was muted to the level of a suburban side road. Most of the buses had given up. Only from time to time individual cars went on their way with determined optimism. Chief-Inspector Davy turned up a cul-de-sac, went to the end of it and came back again. He turned again, aimlessly as it seemed, first one way, then the other, but he was not aimless. Actually his cat prowl was taking him in a circle round one particular building. Bertramâs Hotel. He was appraising carefully just what lay to the east of it, to the west of it, to the north of it and to the south of it. He examined the cars that were parked by the pavement, he examined the cars that were in the cul-de-sac. He examined a mews with special care. One car in particular interested him and he stopped. He pursed his lips and said softly, âSo youâre here again, you beauty.â He checked the number and nodded to himself. âFAN 2266 tonight, are you?â He bent down and ran his fingers over the number plate delicately, then nodded approval. âGood job they made of it,â he said under his breath.

He went on, came out at the other end of the mews, turned right and right again and came out in Pond Street once more, fifty yards from the entrance of Bertramâs Hotel. Once again he paused, admiring the handsome lines of yet another racing car.

âYouâre a beauty, too,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âYour number plateâs the same as the last time I saw you. I rather fancy your number plate always is the same. And that should meanââ he broke offââor should it?â he muttered. He looked up towards what could have been the sky. âFogâs getting thicker,â he said to himself.

Outside the door to Bertramâs, the Irish commissionaire was standing swinging his arms backwards and forwards with some violence to keep himself warm. Chief-Inspector Davy said good evening to him.

âGood evening, sir. Nasty night.â

âYes. I shouldnât think anyone would want to go out tonight who hadnât got to.â

The swing doors were pushed open and a middle-aged lady came out and paused uncertainly on the step.

âWant a taxi, maâam?â

âOh dear. I meant to walk.â

âI wouldnât if I were you, maâam. Itâs very nasty, this fog. Even in a taxi it wonât be too easy.â

âDo you think you could find me a taxi?â asked the lady doubtfully.

âIâll do my best. You go inside now and keep warm, and Iâll come in and tell you if Iâve got one.â His voice changed, modulated to a persuasive tone. âUnless you have to, maâam, I wouldnât go out tonight at all.â

âOh dear. Perhaps youâre right. But Iâm expected at some friends in Chelsea. I donât know. It might be very difficult getting back here. What do you think?â

Michael Gorman took charge.

âIf I were you, maâam,â he said firmly, âIâd go in and telephone to your friends. Itâs not nice for a lady like you to be out on a foggy night like this.â

âWellâreallyâyes, well, perhaps youâre right.â

She went back in again.

âI have to look after them,â said Micky Gorman, turning in an explanatory manner to Father. âThat kind would get her bag snatched, she would. Going out this time of night in a fog and wandering about Chelsea or West Kensington or wherever sheâs trying to go.â

âI suppose youâve had a good deal of experience of dealing with elderly ladies?â said Davy.

âAh yes, indeed. This place is a home from home to them, bless their ageing hearts. How about you, sir? Were you wanting a taxi?â

âDonât suppose you could get me one if I did,â said Father. âThere donât seem to be many about in this. And I donât blame them.â

âAh, no, I might lay my hand on one for you. Thereâs a place round the corner where thereâs usually a taxi driver got his cab parked, having a warm up and a drop of something to keep the cold out.â

âA taxiâs no good to me,â said Father with a sigh.

He jerked his thumb towards Bertramâs Hotel.

âIâve got to go inside. Iâve got a job to do.â

âIndeed now? Would it be still the missing Canon?â

âNot exactly. Heâs been found.â

âFound?â The man stared at him. âFound where?â

âWandering about with concussion after an accident.â

âAh, thatâs just what one might expect of him. Crossed the road without looking, I expect.â

âThat seems to be the idea,â said Father.

He nodded, and pushed through the doors into the hotel. There were not very many people in the lounge this evening. He saw Miss Marple sitting in a chair near the fire and Miss Marple saw him. She made, however, no sign of recognition. He went towards the desk. Miss Gorringe, as usual, was behind her books. She was, he thought, faintly discomposed to see him. It was a very slight reaction, but he noted the fact.

âYou remember me, Miss Gorringe,â he said. âI came here the other day.â

âYes, of course I remember you, Chief-Inspector. Is there anything more you want to know? Do you want to see Mr. Humfries?â

âNo thank you. I donât think thatâll be necessary. Iâd just like one more look at your register if I may.â

âOf course.â She pushed it along to him.

He opened it and looked slowly down the pages. To Miss Gorringe he gave the appearance of a man looking for one particular entry. In actuality this was not the case. Father had an accomplishment which he had learnt early in life and had developed into a highly skilled art. He could remember names and addresses with a perfect and photographic memory. That memory would remain with him for twenty-four or even forty-eight hours. He shook his head as he shut the book and returned it to her.

âCanon Pennyfather hasnât been in, I suppose?â he said in a light voice.

âCanon Pennyfather?â

âYou know heâs turned up again?â

âNo indeed. Nobody has told me. Where?â

âSome place in the country. Car accident it seems. Wasnât reported to us. Some good Samaritan just picked him up and looked after him.â

âOh! I am pleased. Yes, I really am very pleased. I was worried about him.â

âSo were his friends,â said Father. âActually I was looking to see if one of them might be staying here now. ArchdeaconâArchdeaconâI canât remember his name now, but Iâd know it if I saw it.â

âTomlinson?â said Miss Gorringe helpfully. âHe is due next week. From Salisbury.â

âNo, not Tomlinson. Well, it doesnât matter.â He turned away.

It was quiet in the lounge tonight.

An ascetic-looking middle-aged man was reading through a badly typed thesis, occasionally writing a comment in the margin in such small crabbed handwriting as to be almost illegible. Every time he did this, he smiled in vinegary satisfaction.

There were one or two married couples of long-standing who had little need to talk to each other. Occasionally two or three people were gathered together in the name of the weather conditions, discussing anxiously how they or their families were going to get where they wanted to be.

ââI rang up and begged Susan not to come by carâ¦it means the M1 and always so dangerous in fogââ

âThey say itâs clearer in the Midlandsâ¦.â

Chief-Inspector Davy noted them as he passed. Without haste, and with no seeming purpose, he arrived at his objective.

Miss Marple was sitting near the fire and observing his approach.

âSo youâre still here, Miss Marple. Iâm glad.â

âI go tomorrow,â said Miss Marple.

That fact had, somehow, been implicit in her attitude. She had sat, not relaxed, but upright, as one sits in an airport lounge, or a railway waiting room. Her luggage, he was sure, would be packed, only toilet things and night wear to be added.

âIt is the end of my fortnightâs holiday,â she explained.

âYouâve enjoyed it, I hope?â

Miss Marple did not answer at once.

âIn a wayâyesâ¦.â She stopped.

âAnd in another way, no?â

âItâs difficult to explain what I meanââ

âArenât you, perhaps, a little too near the fire? Rather hot, here. Wouldnât you like to moveâinto that corner perhaps?â

Miss Marple looked at the corner indicated, then she looked at Chief-Inspector Davy.

âI think you are quite right,â she said.

He gave her a hand up, carried her handbag and her book for her and established her in the quiet corner he had indicated.

âAll right?â

âQuite all right.â

âYou know why I suggested it?â

âYou thoughtâvery kindlyâthat it was too hot for me by the fire. Besides,â she added, âour conversation cannot be overheard here.â

âHave you got something you want to tell me, Miss Marple?â

âNow why should you think that?â

âYou looked as though you had,â said Davy.

âIâm sorry I showed it so plainly,â said Miss Marple. âI didnât mean to.â

âWell, what about it?â

âI donât know if I ought to do so. I would like you to believe, Inspector, that I am not really fond of interfering. I am against interference. Though often well-meant, it can cause a great deal of harm.â

âItâs like that, is it? I see. Yes, itâs quite a problem for you.â

âSometimes one sees people doing things that seem to one unwiseâeven dangerous. But has one any right to interfere? Usually not, I think.â

âIs this Canon Pennyfather youâre talking about?â

âCanon Pennyfather?â Miss Marple sounded very surprised. âOh no. Oh dear me no, nothing whatever to do with him. It concernsâa girl.â

âA girl, indeed? And you thought I could help?â

âI donât know,â said Miss Marple. âI simply donât know. But Iâm worried, very worried.â

Father did not press her. He sat there looking large and comfortable and rather stupid. He let her take her time. She had been willing to do her best to help him, and he was quite prepared to do anything he could to help her. He was not, perhaps, particularly interested. On the other hand, one never knew.

âOne reads in the papers,â said Miss Marple in a low clear voice, âaccounts of proceedings in court; of young people, children or girls âin need of care and protection.â Itâs just a sort of legal phrase, I suppose, but it could mean something real.â

âThis girl you mentioned, you feel she is in need of care and protection?â

âYes. Yes I do.â

âAlone in the world?â

âOh no,â said Miss Marple. âVery much not so, if I may put it that way. She is to all outward appearances very heavily protected and very well cared for.â

âSounds interesting,â said Father.

âShe was staying in this hotel,â said Miss Marple, âwith a Mrs. Carpenter, I think. I looked in the register to see the name. The girlâs name is Elvira Blake.â

Father looked up with a quick air of interest.

âShe was a lovely girl. Very young, very much, as I say, sheltered and protected. Her guardian was a Colonel Luscombe, a very nice man. Quite charming. Elderly of course, and I am afraid terribly innocent.â

âThe guardian or the girl?â

âI meant the guardian,â said Miss Marple. âI donât know about the girl. But I do think she is in danger. I came across her quite by chance in Battersea Park. She was sitting at a refreshment place there with a young man.â

âOh, thatâs it, is it?â said Father. âUndesirable, I suppose. Beatnikâspivâthugââ

âA very handsome man,â said Miss Marple. âNot so very young. Thirty-odd, the kind of man that I should say is very attractive to women, but his face is a bad face. Cruel, hawklike, predatory.â

âHe maynât be as bad as he looks,â said Father soothingly.

âIf anything he is worse than he looks,â said Miss Marple. âI am convinced of it. He drives a large racing car.â

Father looked up quickly.

âRacing car?â

âYes. Once or twice Iâve seen it standing near this hotel.â

âYou donât remember the number, do you?â

âYes, indeed I do. FAN 2266. I had a cousin who stuttered,â Miss Marple explained. âThatâs how I remember it.â

Father looked puzzled.

âDo you know who he is?â demanded Miss Marple.

âAs a matter of fact I do,â said Father slowly. âHalf French, half Polish. Very well-known racing driver, he was world champion three years ago. His name is Ladislaus Malinowski. Youâre quite right in some of your views about him. He has a bad reputation where women are concerned. That is to say, he is not a suitable friend for a young girl. But itâs not easy to do anything about that sort of thing. I suppose she is meeting him on the sly, is that it?â

âAlmost certainly,â said Miss Marple.

âDid you approach her guardian?â

âI donât know him,â said Miss Marple. âIâve only just been introduced to him once by a mutual friend. I donât like the idea of going to him in a tale-bearing way. I wondered if perhaps in some way you could do something about it.â

âI can try,â said Father. âBy the way, I thought you might like to know that your friend, Canon Pennyfather, has turned up all right.â

âIndeed!â Miss Marple looked animated. âWhere?â

âA place called Milton St. John.â

âHow very odd. What was he doing there? Did he know?â

âApparentlyââ Chief-Inspector Davy stressed the wordââhe had had an accident.â

âWhat kind of an accident?â

âKnocked down by a carâconcussedâor else, of course, he might have been conked on the head.â

âOh! I see.â Miss Marple considered the point. âDoesnât he know himself?â

âHe saysââ again the Chief-Inspector stressed the wordââthat he does not know anything.â

âVery remarkable.â

âIsnât it? The last thing he remembers is driving in a taxi to Kensington Air Station.â

Miss Marple shook her head perplexedly.

âI know it does happen that way in concussion,â she murmured. âDidnât he say anythingâuseful?â

âHe murmured something about the Walls of Jericho.â

âJoshua?â hazarded Miss Marple, âor Archaeologyâexcavations?âor I remember, long ago, a playâby Mr. Sutro, I think.â

âAnd all this week north of the Thames, Gaumont CinemasâThe Walls of Jericho, featuring Olga Radbourne and Bart Levinne,â said Father.

Miss Marple looked at him suspiciously.

âHe could have gone to that film in the Cromwell Road. He could have come out about eleven and come back hereâthough if so, someone ought to have seen himâit would be well before midnightââ

âTook the wrong bus,â Miss Marple suggested. âSomething like thatââ

âSay he got back here after midnight,â Father saidââhe could have walked up to his room without anyone seeing himâBut if so, what happened thenâand why did he go out again three hours later?â

Miss Marple groped for a word.

âThe only idea that occurs to me isâoh!â

She jumped as a report sounded from the street outside.

âCar backfiring,â said Father soothingly.

âIâm sorry to be so jumpyâI am nervous tonightâthat feeling one hasââ

âThat somethingâs going to happen? I donât think you need worry.â

âI have never liked fog.â

âI wanted to tell you,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âthat youâve given me a lot of help. The things youâve noticed hereâjust little thingsâtheyâve added up.â

âSo there was something wrong with this place?â

âThere was and is everything wrong with it.â

Miss Marple sighed.

âIt seemed wonderful at firstâunchanged you knowâlike stepping back into the pastâto the part of the past that one had loved and enjoyed.â

She paused.

âBut of course, it wasnât really like that. I learned (what I suppose I really knew already) that one can never go back, that one should not ever try to go backâthat the essence of life is going forward. Life is really a One Way Street, isnât it?â

âSomething of the sort,â agreed Father.

âI remember,â said Miss Marple, diverging from her main topic in a characteristic way, âI remember being in Paris with my mother and my grandmother, and we went to have tea at the ElysÃ©e Hotel. And my grandmother looked round, and she said suddenly, âClara, I do believe I am the only woman here in a bonnet!â And she was, too! When she got home she packed up all her bonnets, and her headed mantles tooâand sent them offââ

âTo the Jumble Sale?â inquired Father, sympathetically.

âOh no. Nobody would have wanted them at a jumble sale. She sent them to a theatrical Repertory Company. They appreciated them very much. But let me seeââ Miss Marple recovered her direction. ââWhere was I?â

âSumming up this place.â

âYes. It seemed all rightâbut it wasnât. It was mixed-upâreal people and people who werenât real. One couldnât always tell them apart.â

âWhat do you mean by not real?â

âThere were retired military men, but there were also what seemed to be military men but who had never been in the Army. And clergymen who werenât clergymen. And admirals and sea captains whoâve never been in the Navy. My friend, Selina Hazyâit amused me at first how she was always so anxious to recognize people she knew (quite natural, of course) and how often she was mistaken and they werenât the people she thought they were. But it happened too often. And soâI began to wonder. Even Rose, the chambermaidâso niceâbut I began to think that perhaps she wasnât real, either.â

âIf it interests you to know, sheâs an ex-actress. A good one. Gets a better salary here than she ever drew on the stage.â

âButâwhy?â

âMainly, as part of the dÃ©cor. Perhaps thereâs more than that to it.â

âIâm glad to be leaving here,â said Miss Marple. She gave a little shiver. âBefore anything happens.â

Chief-Inspector Davy looked at her curiously.

âWhat do you expect to happen?â he asked.

âEvil of some kind,â said Miss Marple.

âEvil is rather a big wordââ

âYou think it is too melodramatic? But I have some experienceâseem to have beenâso oftenâin contact with murder.â

âMurder?â Chief-Inspector Davy shook his head. âIâm not suspecting murder. Just a nice cosy round-up of some remarkably clever criminalsââ

âThatâs not the same thing. Murderâthe wish to do murderâis something quite different. Itâhow shall I say?âit defies God.â

He looked at her and shook his head gently and reassuringly.

âThere wonât be any murders,â he said.

A sharp report, louder than the former one, came from outside. It was followed by a scream and another report.

Chief-Inspector Davy was on his feet, moving with a speed surprising in such a bulky man. In a few seconds he was through the swing doors and out in the street.

II

The screamingâa womanâsâwas piercing the mist with a note of terror. Chief-Inspector Davy raced down Pond Street in the direction of the screams. He could dimly visualize a womanâs figure backed against a railing. In a dozen strides he had reached her. She wore a long pale fur coat, and her shining blonde hair hung down each side of her face. He thought for a moment that he knew who she was, then he realized that this only a slip of a girl. Sprawled on the pavement at her feet was the body of a man in uniform. Chief-Inspector Davy recognized him. It was Michael Gorman.

As Davy came up to the girl, she clutched at him, shivering all over, stammering out broken phrases.

âSomeone tried to kill meâ¦Someoneâ¦they shot at meâ¦If it hadnât been for himââ She pointed down at the motionless figure at her feet. âHe pushed me back and got in front of meâand then the second shot cameâ¦and he fellâ¦He saved my life. I think heâs hurtâbadly hurtâ¦.â

Chief-Inspector Davy went down on one knee. His torch came out. The tall Irish commissionaire had fallen like a soldier. The left-hand side of his tunic showed a wet patch that was growing wetter as the blood oozed out into the cloth. Davy rolled up an eyelid, touched a wrist. He rose to his feet again.

âHeâs had it all right,â he said.

The girl gave a sharp cry. âDo you mean heâs dead? Oh no, no! He canât be dead.â

âWho was it shot at you?â

âI donât knowâ¦Iâd left my car just round the corner and was feeling my way along by the railingsâI was going to Bertramâs Hotel. And then suddenly there was a shotâand a bullet went past my cheek and thenâheâthe porter from Bertramâsâcame running down the street towards me, and shoved me behind him, and then another shot cameâ¦I thinkâI think whoever it was must have been hiding in that area there.â

Chief-Inspector Davy looked where she pointed. At this end of Bertramâs Hotel there was an old-fashioned area below the level of the street, with a gate and some steps down to it. Since it gave only on some storerooms it was not much used. But a man could have hidden there easily enough.

âYou didnât see him?â

âNot properly. He rushed past me like a shadow. It was all thick fog.â

Davy nodded.

The girl began to sob hysterically.

âBut who could possibly want to kill me? Why should anyone want to kill me? Thatâs the second time. I donât understandâ¦whyâ¦.â

One arm round the girl, Chief-Inspector Davy fumbled in his pocket with the other hand.

The shrill notes of a police whistle penetrated the mist.

III

In the lounge of Bertramâs Hotel, Miss Gorringe had looked up sharply from the desk.

One or two of the visitors had looked up also. The older and deafer did not look up.

Henry, about to lower a glass of old brandy to a table, stopped poised with it still in his hand.

Miss Marple sat forward, clutching the arms of her chair. A retired admiral said derisively:

âAccident! Cars collided in the fog, I expect.â

The swing doors from the street were pushed open. Through them came what seemed like an outsize policeman, looking a good deal larger than life.

He was supporting a girl in a pale fur coat. She seemed hardly able to walk. The policeman looked round for help with some embarrassment.

Miss Gorringe came out from behind the desk, prepared to cope. But at that moment the lift came down. A tall figure emerged, and the girl shook herself free from the policemanâs support, and ran frantically across the lounge.

âMother,â she cried. âOh Mother, Motherâ¦â and threw herself, sobbing, into Bess Sedgwickâs arms.

Chapter Twenty-one

Chief-Inspector Davy settled himself back in his chair and looked at the two women sitting opposite him. It was past midnight. Police officials had come and gone. There had been doctors, fingerprint men, an ambulance to remove the body; and now everything had narrowed to this one room dedicated for the purposes of the law by Bertramâs Hotel. Chief-Inspector Davy sat one side of the table. Bess Sedgwick and Elvira sat the other side. Against the wall a policeman sat unobtrusively writing. Detective-Sergeant Wadell sat near the door.

Father looked thoughtfully at the two women facing him. Mother and daughter. There was, he noted, a strong superficial likeness between them. He could understand how for one moment in the fog he had taken Elvira Blake for Bess Sedgwick. But now, looking at them, he was more struck by the points of difference than the points of resemblance. They were not really alike save in colouring, yet the impression persisted that here he had a positive and a negative version of the same personality. Everything about Bess Sedgwick was positive. Her vitality, her energy, her magnetic attraction. He admired Lady Sedgwick. He always had admired her. He had admired her courage and had always been excited over her exploits; had said, reading his Sunday papers: âSheâll never get away with that,â and invariably she had got away with it! He had not thought it possible that she would reach journeyâs end and she had reached journeyâs end. He admired particularly the indestructible quality of her. She had had one air crash, several car crashes, had been thrown badly twice from her horse, but at the end of it here she was. Vibrant, alive, a personality one could not ignore for a moment. He took off his hat to her mentally. Some day, of course, she would come a cropper. You could only bear a charmed life for so long. His eyes went from mother to daughter. He wondered. He wondered very much.

In Elvira Blake, he thought, everything had been driven inward. Bess Sedgwick had got through life by imposing her will on it. Elvira, he guessed, had a different way of getting through life. She submitted, he thought. She obeyed. She smiled in compliance and behind that, he thought, she slipped away through your fingers. âSly,â he said to himself, appraising that fact. âThatâs the only way she can manage, I expect. She can never brazen things out or impose herself. Thatâs why, I expect, the people whoâve looked after her have never had the least idea of what she might be up to.â

He wondered what she had been doing slipping along the street to Bertramâs Hotel on a late foggy evening. He was going to ask her presently. He thought it highly probable that the answer he would get would not be the true one. âThatâs the way,â he thought, âthat the poor child defends herself.â Had she come here to meet her mother or to find her mother? It was perfectly possible, but he didnât think so. Not for a moment. Instead he thought of the big sports car tucked away round the cornerâthe car with the number plate FAN 2266. Ladislaus Malinowski must be somewhere in the neighbourhood since his car was there.

âWell,â said Father, addressing Elvira in his most kindly and fatherlike manner, âwell, and how are you feeling now?â

âIâm quite all right,â said Elvira.

âGood. Iâd like you to answer a few questions if you feel up to it; because, you see, time is usually the essence of these things. You were shot at twice and a man was killed. We want as many clues as we can get to the person who killed him.â

âIâll tell you everything I can, but it all came so suddenly. And you canât see anything in a fog. Iâve no idea myself who it could have beenâor even what he looked like. Thatâs what was so frightening.â

âYou said this was the second time somebody had tried to kill you. Does that mean there was an attempt on your life before?â

âDid I say that? I canât remember.â Her eyes moved uneasily. âI donât think I said that.â

âOh, but you did, you know,â said Father.

âI expect I was just beingâhysterical.â

âNo,â said Father, âI donât think you were. I think you meant just what you said.â

âI might have been imagining things,â said Elvira. Her eyes shifted again.

Bess Sedgwick moved. She said quietly:

âYouâd better tell him, Elvira.â

Elvira shot a quick, uneasy look at her mother.

âYou neednât worry,â said Father, reassuringly. âWe know quite well in the police force that girls donât tell their mothers or their guardians everything. We donât take those things too seriously, but weâve got to know about them, because, you see, it all helps.â

Bess Sedgwick said:

âWas it in Italy?â

âYes,â said Elvira.

Father said: âThatâs where youâve been at school, isnât it, or a finishing place or whatever they call it nowadays?â

âYes. I was at Contessa Martinelliâs. There were about eighteen or twenty of us.â

âAnd you thought that somebody tried to kill you. How was that?â

âWell, a big box of chocolates and sweets and things came for me. There was a card with it written in Italian in a flowery hand. The sort of thing they say, you know, âTo the bellissima Signorina.â Something like that. And my friends and Iâwellâwe laughed about it a bit, and wondered whoâd sent it.â

âDid it come by post?â

âNo. No, it couldnât have come by post. It was just there in my room. Someone must have put it there.â

âI see. Bribed one of the servants, I suppose. I am to take it that you didnât let the Contessa whoever-it-was in on this?â

A faint smile appeared on Elviraâs face. âNo. No. We certainly didnât. Anyway we opened the box and they were lovely chocolates. Different kinds, you know, but there were some violet creams. Thatâs the sort of chocolate that has a crystallized violet on top. My favourite. So of course I ate one or two of those first. And then afterwards, in the night, I felt terribly ill. I didnât think it was the chocolates, I just thought it was something perhaps that Iâd eaten at dinner.â

âAnybody else ill?â

âNo. Only me. Well, I was very sick and all that, but I felt all right by the end of the next day. Then a day or two later I ate another of the same chocolates, and the same thing happened. So I talked to Bridget about it. Bridget was my special friend. And we looked at the chocolates, and we found that the violet creams had got a sort of hole in the bottom that had been filled up again, so we thought that someone had put some poison in and theyâd only put it in the violet creams so that I would be the one who ate them.â

âNobody else was ill?â

âNo.â

âSo presumably nobody else ate the violet creams?â

âNo. I donât think they could have. You see, it was my present and they knew I liked the violet ones, so theyâd leave them for me.â

âThe chap took a risk, whoever he was,â said Father. âThe whole place might have been poisoned.â

âItâs absurd,â said Lady Sedgwick sharply. âUtterly absurd! I never heard of anything so crude.â

Chief-Inspector Davy made a slight gesture with his hand. âPlease,â he said, then he went on to Elvira: âNow I find that very interesting, Miss Blake. And you still didnât tell the Contessa?â

âOh no, we didnât. Sheâd have made a terrible fuss.â

âWhat did you do with the chocolates?â

âWe threw them away,â said Elvira. âThey were lovely chocolates,â she added, with a tone of slight grief.

âYou didnât try and find out who sent them?â Elvira looked embarrassed.

âWell, you see, I thought it might have been Guido.â

âYes?â said Chief-Inspector Davy, cheerfully. âAnd who is Guido?â

âOh, Guidoâ¦â Elvira paused. She looked at her mother.

âDonât be stupid,â said Bess Sedgwick. âTell Chief-Inspector Davy about Guido, whoever he is. Every girl of your age has a Guido in her life. You met him out there, I suppose?â

âYes. When we were taken to the opera. He spoke to me there. He was nice. Very attractive. I used to see him sometimes when we went to classes. He used to pass me notes.â

âAnd I suppose,â said Bess Sedgwick, âthat you told a lot of lies, and made plans with some friends and you managed to get out and meet him? Is that it?â

Elvira looked relieved by this short cut to confession. âSometimes Guido managed toââ

âWhat was Guidoâs other name?â

âI donât know,â said Elvira. âHe never told me.â

Chief-Inspector Davy smiled at her.

âYou mean youâre not going to tell? Never mind. I dare say weâll be able to find out quite all right without your help, if it should really matter. But why should you think that this young man, who was presumably fond of you, should want to kill you?â

âOh, because he used to threaten things like that. I mean, we used to have rows now and then. Heâd bring some of his friends with him, and Iâd pretend to like them better than him, and then heâd get very, very wild and angry. He said Iâd better be careful what I did. I couldnât give him up just like that! That if I wasnât faithful to him heâd kill me! I just thought he was being melodramatic and theatrical.â Elvira smiled suddenly and unexpectedly. âBut it was all rather fun. I didnât think it was real or serious.â

âWell,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âI donât think it does seem very likely that a young man such as you describe would really poison chocolates and send them to you.â

âWell, I donât think so really either,â said Elvira, âbut it must have been him because I canât see that thereâs anyone else. It worried me. And then, when I came back here, I got a noteââ She stopped.

âWhat sort of a note?â

âIt just came in an envelope and was printed. It said âBe on your guard. Somebody wants to kill you.ââ

Chief-Inspector Davyâs eyebrows went up.

âIndeed? Very curious. Yes, very curious. And it worried you. You were frightened?â

âYes. I began toâto wonder who could possibly want me out of the way. Thatâs why I tried to find out if I was really very rich.â

âGo on.â

âAnd the other day in London something else happened. I was in the tube and there were a lot of people on the platform. I thought someone tried to push me onto the line.â

âMy dear child!â said Bess Sedgwick. âDonât romance.â

Again Father made that slight gesture of his hand.

âYes,â said Elvira apologetically. âI expect I have been imagining it all butâI donât knowâI mean, after what happened this evening it seems, doesnât it, as though it might all be true?â She turned suddenly to Bess Sedgwick, speaking with urgency, âMother! You might know. Does anyone want to kill me? Could there be anyone? Have I got an enemy?â

âOf course youâve not got an enemy,â said Bess Sedgwick, impatiently. âDonât be an idiot. Nobody wants to kill you. Why should they?â

âThen who shot at me tonight?â

âIn that fog,â said Bess Sedgwick, âyou might have been mistaken for someone else. Thatâs possible, donât you think?â she said, turning to Father.

âYes, I think it might be quite possible,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

Bess Sedgwick was looking at him very intently. He almost fancied the motion of her lips saying âlater.â

âWell,â he said cheerfully, âweâd better get down to some more facts now. Where had you come from tonight? What were you doing walking along Pond Street on such a foggy evening?â

âI came up for an Art class at the Tate this morning. Then I went to lunch with my friend Bridget. She lives in Onslow Square. We went to a film and when we came out, there was this fogâquite thick and getting worse, and I thought perhaps Iâd better not drive home.â

âYou drive a car, do you?â

âYes. I took my driving test last summer. Only, Iâm not a very good driver and I hate driving in fog. So Bridgetâs mother said I could stay the night, so I rang up Cousin Mildredâthatâs where I live in Kentââ

Father nodded.

ââand I said I was going to stay up overnight. She said that was very wise.â

âAnd what happened next?â asked Father.

âAnd then the fog seemed lighter suddenly. You know how patchy fogs are. So I said I would drive down to Kent after all. I said good-bye to Bridget and started off. But then it began to come down again. I didnât like it very much. I ran into a very thick patch of it and I lost my way and I didnât know where I was. Then after a bit I realized I was at Hyde Park Corner and I thought âI really canât go down to Kent in this.â At first, I thought Iâd go back to Bridgetâs but then I remembered how Iâd lost my way already. And then I realized that I was quite close to this nice hotel where Uncle Derek took me when I came back from Italy and I thought, âIâll go there and Iâm sure they can find me a room.â That was fairly easy, I found a place to leave the car and then I walked back up the street towards the hotel.â

âDid you meet anyone or did you hear anyone walking near you?â

âItâs funny you saying that, because I did think I heard someone walking behind me. Of course, there must be lots of people walking about in London. Only in a fog like this, it gives you a nervous feeling. I waited and listened but I didnât hear any footsteps and I thought Iâd imagined them. I was quite close to the hotel by then.â

âAnd then?â

âAnd then quite suddenly there was a shot. As I told you, it seemed to go right past my ear. The commissionaire man who stands outside the hotel came running down towards me and he pushed me behind him and thenâthenâthe other shot cameâ¦Heâhe fell down and I screamed.â She was shaking now. Her mother spoke to her.

âSteady, girl,â said Bess in a low, firm voice. âSteady now.â It was the voice Bess Sedgwick used for her horses and it was quite as efficacious when used on her daughter. Elvira blinked at her, drew herself up a little, and became calm again.

âGood girl,â said Bess.

âAnd then you came,â said Elvira to Father. âYou blew your whistle, you told the policeman to take me into the hotel. And as soon as I got in, I sawâI saw Mother.â She turned and looked at Bess Sedgwick.

âAnd that brings us more or less up-to-date,â said Father. He shifted his bulk a little in the chair.

âDo you know a man called Ladislaus Malinowski?â he asked. His tone was even, casual, without any direct inflection. He did not look at the girl, but he was aware, since his ears were functioning at full attention, of a quick little gasp she gave. His eyes were not on the daughter but on the mother.

âNo,â said Elvira, having waited just a shade too long to say it. âNo, I donât.â

âOh,â said Father. âI thought you might. I thought he might have been here this evening.â

âOh? Why should he be here?â

âWell, his car is here,â said Father. âThatâs why I thought he might be.â

âI donât know him,â said Elvira.

âMy mistake,â said Father. âYou do, of course?â He turned his head towards Bess Sedgwick.

âNaturally,â said Bess Sedgwick. âKnown him for many years.â She added, smiling slightly, âHeâs a madman, you know. Drives like an angel or a devilâheâll break his neck one of these days. Had a bad smash eighteen months ago.â

âYes, I remember reading about it,â said Father. âNot racing again yet, is he?â

âNo, not yet. Perhaps he never will.â

âDo you think I could go to bed now?â asked Elvira, plaintively. âIâmâreally terribly tired.â

âOf course. You must be,â said Father. âYouâve told us all you can remember?â

âOh. Yes.â

âIâll go up with you,â said Bess.

Mother and daughter went out together.

âShe knows him all right,â said Father.

âDo you really think so?â asked Sergeant Wadell.

âI know it. She had tea with him in Battersea Park only a day or two ago.â

âHow did you find that out?â

âOld lady told meâdistressed. Didnât think he was a nice friend for a young girl. He isnât of course.â

âEspecially if he and the motherââ Waddell broke off delicately. âItâs pretty general gossipââ

âYes. May be true, may not. Probably is.â

âIn that case which one is he really after?â

Father ignored that point. He said:

âI want him picked up. I want him badly. His carâs hereâjust round the corner.â

âDo you think he might be actually staying in this hotel?â

âDonât think so. It wouldnât fit into the picture. Heâs not supposed to be here. If he came here, he came to meet the girl. She definitely came to meet him, Iâd say.â

The door opened and Bess Sedgwick reappeared.

âI came back,â she said, âbecause I wanted to speak to you.â

She looked from him to the other two men.

âI wonder if I could speak to you alone? Iâve given you all the information I have, such as it is; but I would like a word or two with you in private.â

âI donât see any reason why not,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. He motioned with his head, and the young detective-constable took his notebook and went out. Wadell went with him. âWell?â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

Lady Sedgwick sat down again opposite him.

âThat silly story about poisoned chocolates,â she said. âItâs nonsense. Absolutely ridiculous. I donât believe anything of the kind ever happened.â

âYou donât, eh?â

âDo you?â

Father shook his head doubtfully. âYou think your daughter cooked it up?â

âYes. But why?â

âWell, if you donât know why,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âhow should I know? Sheâs your daughter. Presumably you know her better than I do.â

âI donât know her at all,â said Bess Sedgwick bitterly. âIâve not seen her or had anything to do with her since she was two years old, when I ran away from my husband.â

âOh yes. I know all that. I find it curious. You see, Lady Sedgwick, courts usually give the mother, even if she is a guilty party in a divorce, custody of a young child if she asks for it. Presumably then you didnât ask for it? You didnât want it.â

âI thought itâbetter not.â

âWhy?â

âI didnât think it wasâsafe for her.â

âOn moral grounds?â

âNo. Not on moral grounds. Plenty of adultery nowadays. Children have to learn about it, have to grow up with it. No. Itâs just that I am not really a safe person to be with. The life Iâd lead wouldnât be a safe life. You canât help the way youâre born. I was born to live dangerously. Iâm not law-abiding or conventional. I thought it would be better for Elvira, happier, to have a proper English conventional bringing-up. Shielded, looked afterâ¦.â

âBut minus a motherâs love?â

âI thought if she learned to love me it might bring sorrow to her. Oh, you maynât believe me, but thatâs what I felt.â

âI see. Do you still think you were right?â

âNo,â said Bess. âI donât. I think now I may have been entirely wrong.â

âDoes your daughter know Ladislaus Malinowski?â

âIâm sure she doesnât. She said so. You heard her.â

âI heard her, yes.â

âWell, then?â

âShe was afraid, you know, when she was sitting here. In our profession we get to know fear when we meet up with it. She was afraidâwhy? Chocolates or no chocolates, her life has been attempted. That tube story may be true enoughââ

âIt was ridiculous. Like a thrillerââ

âPerhaps. But that sort of thing does happen, Lady Sedgwick. Oftener than youâd think. Can you give me any idea who might want to kill your daughter?â

âNobodyânobody at all!â

She spoke vehemently.

Chief-Inspector Davy sighed and shook his head.

Chapter Twenty-two

Chief-Inspector Davy waited patiently until Mrs. Melford had finished talking. It had been a singularly unprofitable interview. Cousin Mildred had been incoherent, unbelieving and generally featherheaded. Or that was Fatherâs private view. Accounts of Elviraâs sweet manners, nice nature, troubles with her teeth, odd excuses told through the telephone, had led on to serious doubts whether Elviraâs friend Bridget was really a suitable friend for her. All these matters had been presented to the Chief-Inspector in a kind of general hasty pudding. Mrs. Melford knew nothing, had heard nothing, had seen nothing and had apparently deduced very little.

A short telephone call to Elviraâs guardian, Colonel Luscombe, had been even more unproductive, though fortunately less wordy. âMore Chinese monkeys,â he muttered to his sergeant as he put down the receiver. âSee no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

âThe trouble is that everyone whoâs had anything to do with this girl has been far too niceâif you get my meaning. Too many nice people who donât know anything about evil. Not like my old lady.â

âThe Bertramâs Hotel one?â

âYes, thatâs the one. Sheâs had a long life of experience in noticing evil, fancying evil, suspecting evil and going forth to do battle with evil. Letâs see what we can get out of girlfriend Bridget.â

The difficulties in this interview were represented first, last, and most of the time by Bridgetâs mamma. To talk to Bridget without the assistance of her mother took all Chief-Inspector Davyâs adroitness and cajolery. He was, it must be admitted, ably seconded by Bridget. After a certain amount of stereotyped questions and answers and expressions of horror on the part of Bridgetâs mother at hearing of Elviraâs narrow escape from death, Bridget said, âYou know itâs time for that committee meeting, Mum. You said it was very important.â

âOh dear, dear,â said Bridgetâs mother.

âYou know theyâll get into a frightful mess without you, Mummy.â

âOh they will, they certainly will. But perhaps I oughtââ

âNow thatâs quite all right, Madam,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, putting on his kindly old father look. âYou donât want to worry. Just you get off. Iâve finished all the important things. Youâve told me really everything I wanted to know. Iâve just one or two routine inquiries about people in Italy which I think your daughter, Miss Bridget, might be able to help me with.â

âWell, if you think you can manage, Bridgetââ

âOh, I can manage, Mummy,â said Bridget.

Finally, with a great deal of fuss, Bridgetâs mother went off to her committee.

âOh, dear,â said Bridget, sighing, as she came back after closing the front door. âReally! I do think mothers are difficult.â

âSo they tell me,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âA lot of young ladies I come across have a lot of trouble with their mothers.â

âIâd have thought youâd put it the other way round,â said Bridget.

âOh I do, I do,â said Davy. âBut thatâs not how the young ladies see it. Now you can tell me a little more.â

âI couldnât really speak frankly in front of Mummy,â explained Bridget. âBut I do feel, of course, that it is really important that you should know as much as possible about all this. I do know Elvira was terribly worried about something and afraid. She wouldnât exactly admit she was in danger, but she was.â

âI thought that might have been so. Of course I didnât like to ask you too much in front of your mother.â

âOh no,â said Bridget, âwe donât want Mummy to hear about it. She gets in such a frightful state about things and sheâd go and tell everyone. I mean, if Elvira doesnât want things like this to be knownâ¦.â

âFirst of all,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âI want to know about a box of chocolates in Italy. I gather there was some idea that a box was sent to her which might have been poisoned.â

Bridgetâs eyes opened wide. âPoisoned,â she said. âOh no. I donât think so. At leastâ¦.â

âThere was something?â

âOh yes. A box of chocolates came and Elvira did eat a lot of them and she was rather sick that night. Quite ill.â

âBut she didnât suspect poison?â

âNo. At leastâoh yes, she did say that someone was trying to poison one of us and we looked at the chocolates to see, you know, if anything had been injected into them.â

âAnd had it?â

âNo, it hadnât,â said Bridget. âAt least, not as far as we could see.â

âBut perhaps your friend, Miss Elvira, might still have thought so?â

âWell, she mightâbut she didnât say anymore.â

âBut you think she was afraid of someone?â

âI didnât think so at the time or notice anything. It was only here, later.â

âWhat about this man, Guido?â

Bridget giggled.

âHe had a terrific crush on Elvira,â she said.

âAnd you and your friend used to meet him places?â

âWell, I donât mind telling you,â said Bridget. âAfter all youâre the police. It isnât important to you, that sort of thing and I expect you understand. Countess Martinelli was frightfully strictâor thought she was. And of course we had all sorts of dodges and things. We all stood in with each other. You know.â

âAnd told the right lies, I suppose?â

âWell, Iâm afraid so,â said Bridget. âBut what can one do when anyone is so suspicious?â

âSo you did meet Guido and all that. And used he to threaten Elvira?â

âOh, not seriously, I donât think.â

âThen perhaps there was someone else she used to meet?â

âOhâthatâwell, I donât know.â

âPlease tell me, Miss Bridget. It might beâvital, you know.â

âYes. Yes I can see that. Well there was someone. I donât know who it was, but there was someone elseâshe really minded about. She was deadly serious. I mean it was a really important thing.â

âShe used to meet him?â

âI think so. I mean sheâd say she was meeting Guido but it wasnât Guido. It was this other man.â

âAny idea who it was?â

âNo.â Bridget sounded a little uncertain.

âIt wouldnât be a racing motorist called Ladislaus Malinowski?â

Bridget gaped at him.

âSo you know?â

âAm I right?â

âYesâI think so. Sheâd got a photograph of him torn out of a paper. She kept it under her stockings.â

âThat might have been just a pin-up hero, mightnât it?â

âWell it might, of course, but I donât think it was.â

âDid she meet him here in this country, do you know?â

âI donât know. You see I donât know really what sheâs been doing since she came back from Italy.â

âShe came up to London to the dentist,â Davy prompted her. âOr so she said. Instead she came to you. She rang up Mrs. Melford with some story about an old governess.â

A faint giggle came from Bridget.

âThat wasnât true, was it?â said the Chief-Inspector, smiling. âWhere did she really go?â

Bridget hesitated and then said, âShe went to Ireland.â

âShe went to Ireland, did she? Why?â

âShe wouldnât tell me. She said there was something she had to find out.â

âDo you know where she went in Ireland?â

âNot exactly. She mentioned a name. Bally something. Ballygowlan, I think it was.â

âI see. Youâre sure she went to Ireland?â

âI saw her off at Kensington Airport. She went by Aer Lingus.â

âShe came back when?â

âThe following day.â

âAlso by air?â

âYes.â

âYouâre quite sure, are you, that she came back by air?â

âWellâI suppose she did!â

âHad she taken a return ticket?â

âNo. No, she didnât. I remember.â

âShe might have come back another way, mightnât she?â

âYes, I suppose so.â

âShe might have come back for instance by the Irish Mail?â

âShe didnât say she had.â

âBut she didnât say sheâd come by air, did she?â

âNo,â Bridget agreed. âBut why should she come back by boat and train instead of by air?â

âWell, if she had found out what she wanted to know and had had nowhere to stay, she might think it would be easier to come back by the Night Mail.â

âWhy, I suppose she might.â

Davy smiled faintly.

âI donât suppose you young ladies,â he said, âthink of going anywhere except in terms of flying, do you, nowadays?â

âI suppose we donât really,â agreed Bridget.

âAnyway, she came back to England. Then what happened? Did she come to you or ring you up?â

âShe rang up.â

âWhat time of day?â

âOh, in the morning sometime. Yes, it must have been about eleven or twelve oâclock, I think.â

âAnd she said, what?â

âWell, she just asked if everything was all right.â

âAnd was it?â

âNo, it wasnât, because, you see, Mrs. Melford had rung up and Mummy had answered the phone and things had been very difficult and I hadnât known what to say. So Elvira said she would not come to Onslow Square, but that sheâd ring up her cousin Mildred and try to fix up some story or other.â

âAnd thatâs all that you can remember?â

âThatâs all,â said Bridget, making certain reservations. She thought of Mr. Bollard and the bracelet. That was certainly a thing she was not going to tell Chief-Inspector Davy. Father knew quite well that something was being kept from him. He could only hope that it was not something pertinent to his inquiry. He asked again:

âYou think your friend was really frightened of someone or something?â

âYes I do.â

âDid she mention it to you or did you mention it to her?â

âOh, I asked her outright. At first she said no and then she admitted that she was frightened. And I know she was,â went on Bridget violently. âShe was in danger. She was quite sure of it. But I donât know why or how or anything about it.â

âYour surety on this point relates to that particular morning, does it, the morning she had come back from Ireland?â

âYes. Yes, thatâs when I was so sure about it.â

âOn the morning when she might have come back on the Irish Mail?â

âI donât think itâs very likely that she did. Why donât you ask her?â

âI probably shall do in the end. But I donât want to call attention to that point. Not at the moment. It might just possibly make things more dangerous for her.â

Bridget opened round eyes.

âWhat do you mean?â

âYou may not remember it, Miss Bridget, but that was the night, or rather the early morning, of the Irish Mail robbery.â

âDo you mean that Elvira was in that and never told me a thing about it?â

âI agree itâs unlikely,â said Father. âBut it just occurred to me that she might have seen something or someone, or some incident might have occurred connected with the Irish Mail. She might have seen someone she knew, for instance, and that might have put her in danger.â

âOh!â said Bridget. She thought it over. âYou meanâsomeone she knew was mixed-up in the robbery.â

Chief-Inspector Davy got up.

âI think thatâs all,â he said. âSure thereâs nothing more you can tell me? Nowhere where your friend went that day? Or the day before?â

Again visions of Mr. Bollard and the Bond Street shop rose before Bridgetâs eyes.

âNo,â she said.

âI think there is something you havenât told me,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

Bridget grasped thankfully at a straw.

âOh, I forgot,â she said. âYes. I mean she did go to some lawyers. Lawyers who were trustees, to find out something.â

âOh, she went to some lawyers who were her trustees. I donât suppose you know their name?â

âTheir name was EgertonâForbes Egerton and Something,â said Bridget. âLots of names. I think thatâs more or less right.â

âI see. And she wanted to find out something, did she?â

âShe wanted to know how much money sheâd got,â said Bridget.

Inspector Davyâs eyebrows rose.

âIndeed!â he said. âInteresting. Why didnât she know herself?â

âOh, because people never told her anything about money,â said Bridget. âThey seem to think itâs bad for you to know actually how much money you have.â

âAnd she wanted to know badly, did she?â

âYes,â said Bridget. âI think she thought it was important.â

âWell, thank you,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âYouâve helped me a good deal.â

Chapter Twenty-three

Richard Egerton looked again at the official card in front of him, then up into the Chief-Inspectorâs face.

âCurious business,â he said.

âYes, sir,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âa very curious business.â

âBertramâs Hotel,â said Egerton, âin the fog. Yes it was a bad fog last night. I suppose you get a lot of that sort of thing in fogs, donât you? Snatch and grabâhandbagsâthat sort of thing?â

âIt wasnât quite like that,â said Father. âNobody attempted to snatch anything from Miss Blake.â

âWhere did the shot come from?â

âOwing to the fog we canât be sure. She wasnât sure herself. But we thinkâit seems the best ideaâthat the man may have been standing in the area.â

âHe shot at her twice, you say?â

âYes. The first shot missed. The commissionaire rushed along from where he was standing outside the hotel door and shoved her behind him just before the second shot.â

âSo that he got hit instead, eh?â

âYes.â

âQuite a brave chap.â

âYes. He was brave,â said the Chief-Inspector. âHis military record was very good. An Irishman.â

âWhatâs his name?â

âGorman. Michael Gorman.â

âMichael Gorman.â Egerton frowned for a minute. âNo,â he said. âFor a moment I thought the name meant something.â

âItâs a very common name, of course. Anyway, he saved the girlâs life.â

âAnd why exactly have you come to me, Chief-Inspector?â

âI hoped for a little information. We always like full information, you know, about the victim of a murderous assault.â

âOh, naturally, naturally. But really, Iâve only seen Elvira twice since she was a child.â

âYou saw her when she came to call upon you about a week ago, didnât you?â

âYes, thatâs quite right. What exactly do you want to know? If itâs anything about her personality, who her friends were or about boyfriends, or loversâ quarrelsâall that sort of thingâyouâd do better to go to one of the women. Thereâs a Mrs. Carpenter who brought her back from Italy, I believe, and thereâs Mrs. Melford with whom she lives in Kent.â

âIâve seen Mrs. Melford.â

âOh.â

âNo good. Absolutely no good at all, sir. And I donât so much want to know about the girl personallyâafter all, Iâve seen her for myself and Iâve heard what she can tell meâor rather what sheâs willing to tell meââ

At a quick movement of Egertonâs eyebrows he saw that the other had appreciated the point of the word âwilling.â

âIâve been told that she was worried, upset, afraid about something, and convinced that her life was in danger. Was that your impression when she came to see you?â

âNo,â said Egerton, slowly, âno, I wouldnât go as far as that; though she did say one or two things that struck me as curious.â

âSuch as?â

âWell, she wanted to know who would benefit if she were to die suddenly.â

âAh,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âso she had that possibility in her mind, did she? That she might die suddenly. Interesting.â

âSheâd got something in her head but I didnât know what it was. She also wanted to know how much money she hadâor would have when she was twenty-one. That, perhaps, is more understandable.â

âItâs a lot of money I believe.â

âItâs a very large fortune, Chief-Inspector.â

âWhy do you think she wanted to know?â

âAbout the money?â

âYes, and about who would inherit it.â

âI donât know,â said Egerton. âI donât know at all. She also brought up the subject of marriageââ

âDid you form the impression that there was a man in the case?â

âIâve no evidenceâbutâyes, I did think just that. I felt sure there was a boyfriend somewhere in the offing. There usually is! Luscombeâthatâs Colonel Luscombe, her guardian, doesnât seem to know anything about a boyfriend. But then dear old Derek Luscombe wouldnât. He was quite upset when I suggested that there was such a thing in the background and probably an unsuitable one at that.â

âHe is unsuitable,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

âOh. Then you know who he is?â

âI can have a very good guess at it. Ladislaus Malinowski.â

âThe racing motorist? Really! A handsome daredevil. Women fall for him easily. I wonder how he came across Elvira. I donât see very well where their orbits would meet exceptâyes, I believe he was in Rome a couple of months ago. Possibly she met him there.â

âVery possibly. Or could she have met him through her mother?â

âWhat, through Bess? I wouldnât say that was at all likely.â

Davy coughed.

âLady Sedgwick and Malinowski are said to be close friends, sir.â

âOh yes, yes, I know thatâs the gossip. May be true, may not. They are close friendsâthrown together constantly by their way of life. Bess has had her affairs, of course; though, mind you, sheâs not the nymphomaniac type. People are ready enough to say that about a woman, but itâs not true in Bessâs case. Anyway, as far as I know, Bess and her daughter are practically not even acquainted with each other.â

âThatâs what Lady Sedgwick told me. And you agree?â Egerton nodded.

âWhat other relatives has Miss Blake got?â

âFor all intents and purposes, none. Her motherâs two brothers were killed in the warâand she was old Conistonâs only child. Mrs. Melford, though the girl calls her âCousin Mildred,â is actually a cousin of Colonel Luscombeâs. Luscombeâs done his best for the girl in his conscientious old-fashioned wayâbut itâs difficultâ¦for a man.â

âMiss Blake brought up the subject of marriage, you say? Thereâs no possibility, I suppose, that she may actually already be marriedââ

âSheâs well under ageâsheâd have to have the assent of her guardian and trustees.â

âTechnically, yes. But they donât always wait for that,â said Father.

âI know. Most regrettable. One has to go through all the machinery of making them Wards of Court, and all the rest of it. And even that has its difficulties.â

âAnd once theyâre married, theyâre married,â said Father. âI suppose, if she were married, and died suddenly, her husband would inherit?â

âThis idea of marriage is most unlikely. She has been most carefully looked after andâ¦.â He stopped, reacting to Chief-Inspector Davyâs cynical smile.

However carefully Elvira had been looked after, she seemed to have succeeded in making the acquaintance of the highly unsuitable Ladislaus Malinowski.

He said dubiously, âHer mother bolted, itâs true.â

âHer mother bolted, yesâthatâs what she would doâbut Miss Blakeâs a different type. Sheâs just as set on getting her own way, but sheâd go about it differently.â

âYou donât really thinkââ

âI donât think anythingâyet,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

Chapter Twenty-four

Ladislaus Malinowski looked from one to the other of the two police officers and flung back his head and laughed.

âIt is very amusing!â he said. âYou look solemn as owls. It is ridiculous that you should ask me to come here and wish to ask me questions. You have nothing against me, nothing.â

âWe think you may be able to assist us in our inquiries, Mr. Malinowski.â Chief-Inspector Davy spoke with official smoothness. âYou own a car, Mercedes-Otto, registration number FAN 2266.â

âIs there any reason why I should not own such a car?â

âNo reason at all, sir. Thereâs just a little uncertainty as to the correct number. Your car was on a motor road, M7, and the registration plate on that occasion was a different one.â

âNonsense. It must have been some other car.â

âThere arenât so many of that make. We have checked up on those there are.â

âYou believe everything, I suppose, that your traffic police tell you! It is laughable! Where was all this?â

âThe place where the police stopped you and asked to see your licence is not very far from Bedhampton. It was on the night of the Irish Mail robbery.â

âYou really do amuse me,â said Ladislaus Malinowski.

âYou have a revolver?â

âCertainly, I have a revolver and an automatic pistol. I have proper licences for them.â

âQuite so. They are both still in your possession?â

âCertainly.â

âI have already warned you, Mr. Malinowski.â

âThe famous policemanâs warning! Anything you say will be taken down and used against you at your trial.â

âThatâs not quite the wording,â said Father mildly. âUsed, yes. Against, no. You donât want to qualify that statement of yours?â

âNo, I do not.â

âAnd you are sure you donât want your solicitor here?â

âI do not like solicitors.â

âSome people donât. Where are those firearms now?â

âI think you know very well where they are, Chief-Inspector. The small pistol is in the pocket of my car, the Mercedes-Otto whose registered number is, as I have said, FAN 2266. The revolver is in a drawer in my flat.â

âYouâre quite right about the one in the drawer in your flat,â said Father, âbut the otherâthe pistolâis not in your car.â

âYes, it is. It is in the left-hand pocket.â

Father shook his head. âIt may have been once. It isnât now. Is this it, Mr. Malinowski?â

He passed a small automatic pistol across the table. Ladislaus Malinowski, with an air of great surprise, picked it up.

âAh-ha, yes. This is it. So it was you who took it from my car?â

âNo,â said Father, âwe didnât take it from your car. It was not in your car. We found it somewhere else.â

âWhere did you find it?â

âWe found it,â said Father, âin an area in Pond Street, whichâas you no doubt knowâis a street near Park Lane. It could have been dropped by a man walking down that streetâor running perhaps.â

Ladislaus Malinowski shrugged his shoulders. âThat is nothing to do with meâI did not put it there. It was in my car a day or two ago. One does not continually look to see if a thing is still where one has put it. One assumes it will be.â

âDo you know, Mr. Malinowski, that this is the pistol which was used to shoot Michael Gorman on the night of November 26th?â

âMichael Gorman? I do not know a Michael Gorman.â

âThe commissionaire from Bertramâs Hotel.â

âAh yes, the one who was shot. I read about it. And you say my pistol shot him? Nonsense!â

âItâs not nonsense. The ballistic experts have examined it. You know enough of firearms to be aware that their evidence is reliable.â

âYou are trying to frame me. I know what you police do!â

âI think you know the police of this country better than that, Mr. Malinowski.â

âAre you suggesting that I shot Michael Gorman?â

âSo far we are only asking for a statement. No charge has been made.â

âBut that is what you thinkâthat I shot that ridiculous dressed-up military figure. Why should I? I didnât owe him money, I had no grudge against him.â

âIt was a young lady who was shot at. Gorman ran to protect her and received the second bullet in his chest.â

âA young lady?â

âA young lady whom I think you know. Miss Elvira Blake.â

âDo you say someone tried to shoot Elvira with my pistol?â

He sounded incredulous.

âIt could be that you had had a disagreement.â

âYou mean that I quarrelled with Elvira and shot her? What madness! Why should I shoot the girl I am going to marry?â

âIs that part of your statement? That you are going to marry Miss Elvira Blake?â

Just for a moment or two Ladislaus hesitated. Then he said, shrugging his shoulders:

âShe is still very young. It remains to be discussed.â

âPerhaps she had promised to marry you, and thenâshe changed her mind. There was someone she was afraid of. Was it you, Mr. Malinowski?â

âWhy should I want her to die? Either I am in love with her and want to marry her or if I do not want to marry her I need not marry her. It is as simple as that. So why should I kill her?â

âThere arenât many people close enough to her to want to kill her.â Davy waited a moment and then said, almost casually: âThereâs her mother, of course.â

âWhat!â Malinowski sprang up. âBess? Bess kill her own daughter? You are mad! Why should Bess kill Elvira?â

âPossibly because, as next of kin, she might inherit an enormous fortune.â

âBess? You mean Bess would kill for money? She has plenty of money from her American husband. Enough, anyway.â

âEnough is not the same as a great fortune,â said Father. âPeople do do murder for a large fortune, mothers have been known to kill their children, and children have killed their mothers.â

âI tell you, you are mad!â

âYou say that you may be going to marry Miss Blake. Perhaps you have already married her? If so, then you would be the one to inherit a vast fortune.â

âWhat more crazy, stupid things can you say! No, I am not married to Elvira. She is a pretty girl. I like her, and she is in love with me. Yes, I admit it. I met her in Italy. We had funâbut that is all. No more, do you understand?â

âIndeed? Just now, Mr. Malinowski, you said quite definitely that she was the girl you were going to marry.â

âOh that.â

âYesâthat. Was it true?â

âI said it becauseâit sounded more respectable that way. You are soâprudish in this countryââ

âThat seems to me an unlikely explanation.â

âYou do not understand anything at all. The mother and Iâwe are loversâI did not wish to say soâI suggest instead that the daughter and Iâwe are engaged to be married. That sounds very English and proper.â

âIt sounds to me even more far-fetched. Youâre rather badly in need of money, arenât you, Mr. Malinowski?â

âMy dear Chief-Inspector, I am always in need of money. It is very sad.â

âAnd yet a few months ago I understand you were flinging money about in a very carefree way.â

âAh. I had had a lucky flutter. I am a gambler. I admit it.â

âI find that quite easy to believe. Where did you have this âflutterâ?â

âThat I do not tell. You can hardly expect it.â

âI donât expect it.â

âIs that all you have to ask me?â

âFor the moment, yes. You have identified the pistol as yours. That will be very helpful.â

âI donât understandâI canât conceiveââ He broke off and stretched out his hand. âGive it me please.â

âIâm afraid weâll have to keep it for the present, so Iâll write you out a receipt for it.â

He did so and handed it to Malinowski.

The latter went out slamming the door.

âTemperamental chap,â said Father.

âYou didnât press him on the matter of the false number plate and Bedhampton?â

âNo. I wanted him rattled. But not too badly rattled. Weâll give him one thing to worry about at a timeâAnd he is worried.â

âThe Old Man wanted to see you, sir, as soon as you were through.â

Chief-Inspector Davy nodded and made his way to Sir Ronaldâs room.

âAh! Father. Making progress?â

âYes. Getting along nicelyâquite a lot of fish in the net. Small-fry mostly. But weâre closing in on the big fellows. Everythingâs in trainââ

âGood show, Fred,â said the AC.

Chapter Twenty-five

I

Miss Marple got out of her train at Paddington and saw the burly figure of Chief-Inspector Davy standing on the platform waiting for her.

He said, âVery good of you, Miss Marple,â put his hand under her elbow and piloted her through the barrier to where a car was waiting. The driver opened the door, Miss Marple got in, Chief-Inspector Davy followed her and the car drove off.

âWhere are you taking me, Chief-Inspector Davy?â

âTo Bertramâs Hotel.â

âDear me, Bertramâs Hotel again. Why?â

âThe official reply is: because the police think you can assist them in their inquiries.â

âThat sounds familiar, but surely rather sinister? So often the prelude to an arrest, is it not?â

âI am not going to arrest you, Miss Marple.â Father smiled. âYou have an alibi.â

Miss Marple digested this in silence. Then she said, âI see.â

They drove to Bertramâs Hotel in silence. Miss Gorringe looked up from the desk as they entered, but Chief-Inspector Davy piloted Miss Marple to the lift.

âSecond floor.â

The lift ascended, stopped, and Father led the way along the corridor.

As he opened the door of No. 18 Miss Marple said:

âThis is the same room I had when I was staying here before.â

âYes,â said Father.

Miss Marple sat down in the armchair.

âA very comfortable room,â she observed, looking round with a slight sigh.

âThey certainly know what comfort is here,â Father agreed.

âYou look tired, Chief-Inspector,â said Miss Marple unexpectedly.

âIâve had to get around a bit. As a matter of fact Iâve just got back from Ireland.â

âIndeed. From Ballygowlan?â

âNow how the devil did you know about Ballygowlan? Iâm sorryâI beg your pardon.â

Miss Marple smiled forgiveness.

âI suppose Michael Gorman happened to tell you he came from thereâwas that it?â

âNo, not exactly,â said Miss Marple.

âThen how, if youâll excuse me asking you, did you know?â

âOh dear,â said Miss Marple, âitâs really very embarrassing. It was just something Iâhappened to overhear.â

âOh, I see.â

âI wasnât eavesdropping. It was in a public roomâat least technically a public room. Quite frankly, I enjoy listening to people talking. One does. Especially when one is old and doesnât get about very much. I mean, if people are talking near you, you listen.â

âWell, that seems to me quite natural,â said Father.

âUp to a point, yes,â said Miss Marple. âIf people do not choose to lower their voices, one must assume that they are prepared to be overheard. But of course matters may develop. The situation sometimes arises when you realize that though it is a public room, other people talking do not realize that there is anyone else in it. And then one has to decide what to do about it. Get up and cough, or just stay quite quiet and hope they wonât realize youâve been there. Either way is embarrassing.â

Chief-Inspector Davy glanced at his watch.

âLook here,â he said, âI want to hear more about thisâbut Iâve got Canon Pennyfather arriving at any moment. I must go and collect him. You donât mind?â

Miss Marple said she didnât mind. Chief-Inspector Davy left the room.

II

Canon Pennyfather came through the swing doors into the hall of Bertramâs Hotel. He frowned slightly, wondering what it was that seemed a little different about Bertramâs today. Perhaps it had been painted or done up in some way? He shook his head. That was not it, but there was something. It did not occur to him that it was the difference between a six foot commissionaire with blue eyes and dark hair and a five foot seven commissionaire with sloping shoulders, freckles and a sandy thatch of hair bulging out under his commissionaireâs cap. He just knew something was different. In his usual vague way he wandered up to the desk. Miss Gorringe was there and greeted him.

âCanon Pennyfather. How nice to see you. Have you come to fetch your baggage? Itâs all ready for you. If youâd only let us know we could have sent it to you to any address you like.â

âThank you,â said Canon Pennyfather, âthank you very much. Youâre always most kind, Miss Gorringe. But as I had to come up to London anyway today I thought I might as well call for it.â

âWe were so worried about you,â said Miss Gorringe. âBeing missing, you know. Nobody able to find you. You had a car accident, I hear?â

âYes,â said Canon Pennyfather. âYes. People drive much too fast nowadays. Most dangerous. Not that I can remember much about it. It affected my head. Concussion, the doctor says. Oh well, as one is getting on in life, oneâs memoryââ He shook his head sadly. âAnd how are you, Miss Gorringe?â

âOh, Iâm very well,â said Miss Gorringe.

At that moment it struck Canon Pennyfather that Miss Gorringe also was different. He peeered at her, trying to analyse where the difference lay. Her hair? That was the same as usual. Perhaps even a little frizzier. Black dress, large locket, cameo brooch. All there as usual. But there was a difference. Was she perhaps a little thinner? Or was itâyes, surely, she looked worried. It was not often that Canon Pennyfather noticed whether people looked worried, he was not the kind of man who noticed emotion in the faces of others, but it struck him today, perhaps because Miss Gorringe had so invariably presented exactly the same countenance to guests for so many years.

âYouâve not been ill, I hope?â he asked solicitously. âYou look a little thinner.â

âWell, weâve had a good deal of worry, Canon Pennyfather.â

âIndeed. Indeed. Iâm sorry to hear it. Not due to my disappearance, I hope?â

âOh no,â said Miss Gorringe. âWe were worried, of course, about that, but as soon as we heard that you were all rightââ She broke off and said, âNo. Noâitâs thisâwell, perhaps you havenât read about it in the papers. Gorman, our outside porter, got killed.â

âOh yes,â said Canon Pennyfather. âI remember now. I did see it mentioned in the paperâthat you had had a murder here.â

Miss Gorringe shuddered at this blunt mention of the word murder. The shudder went all up her black dress.

âTerrible,â she said, âterrible. Such a thing has never happened at Bertramâs. I mean, weâre not the sort of hotel where murders happen.â

âNo, no, indeed,â said Canon Pennyfather quickly. âIâm sure youâre not. I mean it would never have occurred to me that anything like that could happen here.â

âOf course it wasnât inside the hotel,â said Miss Gorringe, cheering up a little as this aspect of the affair struck her. âIt was outside in the street.â

âSo really nothing to do with you at all,â said the Canon, helpfully.

That apparently was not quite the right thing to say.

âBut it was connected with Bertramâs. We had to have the police here questioning people, since it was our commissionaire who was shot.â

âSo thatâs a new man you have outside. Dâyou know, I thought somehow things looked a little strange.â

âYes, I donât know that heâs very satisfactory. I mean, not quite the style weâre used to here. But of course we had to get someone quickly.â

âI remember all about it now,â said Canon Pennyfather, assembling some rather dim memories of what he had read in the paper a week ago. âBut I thought it was a girl who was shot.â

âYou mean Lady Sedgwickâs daughter? I expect you remember seeing her here with her guardian, Colonel Luscombe. Apparently she was attacked by someone in the fog. I expect they wanted to snatch her bag. Anyway they fired a shot at her and then Gorman, who of course had been a soldier and was a man with a lot of presence of mind, rushed down, got in front of her and got shot himself, poor fellow.â

âVery sad, very sad,â said the Canon, shaking his head.

âIt makes everything terribly difficult,â complained Miss Gorringe. âI mean, the police constantly in and out. I suppose thatâs to be expected, but we donât like it here, though I must say Chief-Inspector Davy and Sergeant Wadell are very respectable-looking. Plain clothes, and very good style, not the sort with boots and mackintoshes like one sees on films. Almost like one of us.â

âErâyes,â said Canon Pennyfather.

âDid you have to go to hospital?â inquired Miss Gorringe.

âNo,â said the Canon, âsome very nice people, really good Samaritansâa market gardener, I believeâpicked me up and his wife nursed me back to health. Iâm most grateful, most grateful. It is refreshing to find that there is still human kindness in the world. Donât you think so?â

Miss Gorringe said she thought it was very refreshing. âAfter all one reads about the increase in crime,â she added, âall those dreadful young men and girls holding up banks and robbing trains and ambushing people.â She looked up and said, âThereâs Chief-Inspector Davy coming down the stairs now. I think he wants to speak to you.â

âI donât know why he should want to speak to me,â said Canon Pennyfather, puzzled. âHeâs already been to see me, you know,â he said, âat Chadminster. He was very disappointed, I think, that I couldnât tell him anything useful.â

âYou couldnât?â

The Canon shook his head sorrowfully.

âI couldnât remember. The accident took place somewhere near a place called Bedhampton and really I donât understand what I can have been doing there. The Chief-Inspector kept asking me why I was there and I couldnât tell him. Very odd, isnât it? He seemed to think Iâd been driving a car from somewhere near a railway station to a vicarage.â

âThat sounds very possible,â said Miss Gorringe.

âIt doesnât seem possible at all,â said Canon Pennyfather. âI mean, why should I be driving about in a part of the world that I donât really know?â

Chief-Inspector Davy had come up to them.

âSo here you are, Canon Pennyfather,â he said. âFeeling quite yourself again?â

âOh, I feel quite well now,â said the Canon, âbut rather inclined to have headaches still. And Iâve been told not to do too much. But I still donât seem to remember what I ought to remember and the doctor says it may never come back.â

âOh well,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âwe mustnât give up hope.â He led the Canon away from the desk. âThereâs a little experiment I want you to try,â he said. âYou donât mind helping me, do you?â

III

When Chief-Inspector Davy opened the door of No. 18, Miss Marple was still sitting in the armchair by the window.

âA good many people in the street today,â she observed. âMore than usual.â

âOh wellâthis is a way through to Berkeley Square and Shepherd Market.â

âI didnât mean only passersby. Men doing thingsâroad repairs, a telephone repair vanâmeat trolleyâa couple of private carsââ

âAnd whatâmay I askâdo you deduce from that?â

âI didnât say that I deduced anything.â

Father gave her a look. Then he said:

âI want you to help me.â

âOf course. That is why I am here. What do you want me to do?â

âI want you to do exactly what you did on the night of November 19th. You were asleepâyou woke upâpossibly awakened by some unusual noise. You switched on the light, looked at the time, got out of bed, opened the door and looked out. Can you repeat those actions?â

âCertainly,â said Miss Marple. She got up and went across to the bed.

âJust a moment.â

Chief-Inspector Davy went and tapped on the connecting walls of the next room.

âYouâll have to do that louder,â said Miss Marple. âThis place is very well built.â

The Chief-Inspector redoubled the force of his knuckles.

âI told Canon Pennyfather to count ten,â he said, looking at his watch. âNow then, off you go.â

Miss Marple touched the electric lamp, looked at an imaginary clock, got up, walked to the door, opened it and looked out. To her right, just leaving his room, walking to the top of the stairs, was Canon Pennyfather. He arrived at the top of the stairs and started down them. Miss Marple gave a slight catch of her breath. She turned back.

âWell?â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

âThe man I saw that night canât have been Canon Pennyfather,â said Miss Marple. âNot if thatâs Canon Pennyfather now.â

âI thought you saidââ

âI know. He looked like Canon Pennyfather. His hair and his clothes and everything. But he didnât walk the same way. I thinkâI think he must have been a younger man. Iâm sorry, very sorry, to have misled you, but it wasnât Canon Pennyfather that I saw that night. Iâm quite sure of it.â

âYou really are quite sure this time, Miss Marple?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âIâm sorry,â she added again, âto have misled you.â

âYou were very nearly right. Canon Pennyfather did come back to the hotel that night. Nobody saw him come inâbut that wasnât remarkable. He came in after midnight. He came up the stairs, he opened the door of his room next door and he went in. What he saw or what happened next we donât know, because he canât or wonât tell us. If there was only some way we could jog his memoryâ¦.â

âThereâs that German word of course,â said Miss Marple, thoughtfully.

âWhat German word?â

âDear me, Iâve forgotten it now, butââ

There was a knock at the door.

âMay I come in?â said Canon Pennyfather. He entered. âWas it satisfactory?â

âMost satisfactory,â said Father. âI was just telling Miss Marpleâyou know Miss Marple?â

âOh yes,â said Canon Pennyfather, really slightly uncertain as to whether he did or not.

âI was just telling Miss Marple how we have traced your movements. You came back to the hotel that night after midnight. You came upstairs and you opened the door of your room and went inââ He paused.

Miss Marple gave an exclamation.

âI remember now,â she said, âwhat the German word is. DoppelgÃ¤nger!â

Canon Pennyfather uttered an exclamation. âBut of course,â he said, âof course! How could I have forgotten? Youâre quite right, you know. After that film, The Walls of Jericho, I came back here and I came upstairs and I opened my room and I sawâextraordinary, I distinctly saw myself sitting in a chair facing me. As you say, dear lady, a doppelgÃ¤nger. How very remarkable! And thenâlet me seeââ He raised his eyes, trying to think.

âAnd then,â said Father, âstartled out of their lives to see you, when they thought you were safely in Lucerne, somebody hit you on the head.â

Chapter Twenty-six

Canon Pennyfather had been sent on his way in a taxi to the British Museum. Miss Marple had been ensconced in the lounge by the Chief-Inspector. Would she mind waiting for him there for about ten minutes? Miss Marple had not minded. She welcomed the opportunity to sit and look around her and think.

Bertramâs Hotel. So many memoriesâ¦The past fused itself with the present. A French phrase came back to her. Plus Ã§a change, plus câest la mÃªme chose. She reversed the wording. Plus câest la mÃªme chose, plus Ã§a change. Both true, she thought.

She felt sadâfor Bertramâs Hotel and for herself. She wondered what Chief-Inspector Davy wanted of her next. She sensed in him the excitement of purpose. He was a man whose plans were at last coming to fruition. It was Chief-Inspector Davyâs D-Day.

The life of Bertramâs went on as usual. No, Miss Marple decided, not as usual. There was a difference, though she could not have defined where the difference lay. An underlying uneasiness, perhaps?

âAll set?â he inquired genially.

âWhere are you taking me now?â

âWeâre going to pay a call on Lady Sedgwick.â

âIs she staying here?â

âYes. With her daughter.â

Miss Marple rose to her feet. She cast a glance round her and murmured: âPoor Bertramâs.â

âWhat do you meanâpoor Bertramâs?â

âI think you know quite well what I mean.â

âWellâlooking at it from your point of view, perhaps I do.â

âIt is always sad when a work of art has to be destroyed.â

âYou call this place a work of art?â

âCertainly I do. So do you.â

âI see what you mean,â admitted Father.

âIt is like when you get ground elder really badly in a border. Thereâs nothing else you can about itâexcept dig the whole thing up.â

âI donât know much about gardens. But change the metaphor to dry rot and Iâd agree.â

They went up in the lift and along a passage to where Lady Sedgwick and her daughter had a corner suite.

Chief-Inspector Davy knocked on the door, a voice said, âCome in,â and he entered with Miss Marple behind him.

Bess Sedgwick was sitting in a high-backed chair near the window. She had a book on her knee which she was not reading.

âSo itâs you again, Chief-Inspector.â Her eyes went past him towards Miss Marple, and she looked slightly surprised.

âThis is Miss Marple,â explained Chief-Inspector Davy. âMiss MarpleâLady Sedgwick.â

âIâve met you before,â said Bess Sedgwick. âYou were with Selina Hazy the other day, werenât you? Do sit down,â she added. Then she turned towards Chief-Inspector Davy again. âHave you any news of the man who shot at Elvira?â

âNot actually what youâd call news.â

âI doubt if you ever will have. In a fog like that, predatory creatures come out and prowl around looking for women walking alone.â

âTrue up to a point,â said Father. âHow is your daughter?â

âOh, Elvira is quite all right again.â

âYouâve got her here with you?â

âYes. I rang up Colonel Luscombeâher guardian. He was delighted that I was willing to take charge.â She gave a sudden laugh. âDear old boy. Heâs always been urging a mother-and-daughter reunion act!â

âHe may be right at that,â said Father.

âOh no, he isnât. Just at the moment, yes, I think it is the best thing.â She turned her head to look out of the window and spoke in a changed voice. âI hear youâve arrested a friend of mineâLadislaus Malinowski. On what charge?â

âNot arrested,â Chief-Inspector Davy corrected her. âHeâs just assisting us with our inquiries.â

âIâve sent my solicitor to look after him.â

âVery wise,â said Father approvingly. âAnyone whoâs having a little difficulty with the police is very wise to have a solicitor. Otherwise they may so easily say the wrong thing.â

âEven if completely innocent?â

âPossibly itâs even more necessary in that case,â said Father.

âYouâre quite a cynic, arenât you? What are you questioning him about, may I ask? Or maynât I?â

âFor one thing weâd like to know just exactly what his movements were on the night when Michael Gorman died.â

Bess Sedgwick sat up sharply in her chair.

âHave you got some ridiculous idea that Ladislaus fired those shots at Elvira? They didnât even know each other.â

âHe could have done it. His car was just round the corner.â

âRubbish,â said Lady Sedgwick robustly.

âHow much did that shooting business the other night upset you, Lady Sedgwick?â

She looked faintly surprised.

âNaturally I was upset when my daughter had a narrow escape of her life. What do you expect?â

âI didnât mean that. I mean how much did the death of Michael Gorman upset you?â

âI was very sorry about it. He was a brave man.â

âIs that all?â

âWhat more would you expect me to say?â

âYou knew him, didnât you?â

âOf course. He worked here.â

âYou knew him a little better than that, though, didnât you?â

âWhat do you mean?â

âCome, Lady Sedgwick. He was your husband, wasnât he?â

She did not answer for a moment or two, though she displayed no signs of agitation or surprise.

âYou know a good deal, donât you, Chief-Inspector?â She sighed and sat back in her chair. âI hadnât seen him forâlet me seeâa great many years. Twentyâmore than twenty. And then I looked out of the window one day, and suddenly recognized Micky.â

âAnd he recognized you?â

âQuite surprising that we did recognize each other,â said Bess Sedgwick. âWe were only together for about a week. Then my family caught up with us, paid Micky off, and took me home in disgrace.â

She sighed.

âI was very young when I ran away with him. I knew very little. Just a fool of a girl with a head full of romantic notions. He was a hero to me, mainly because of the way he rode a horse. He didnât know what fear was. And he was handsome and gay with an Irishmanâs tongue! I suppose really I ran away with him! I doubt if heâd have thought of it himself! But I was wild and headstrong and madly in love!â She shook her head. âIt didnât last longâ¦The first twenty-four hours were enough to disillusion me. He drank and he was coarse and brutal. When my family turned up and took me back with them, I was thankful. I never wanted to see him or hear of him again.â

âDid your family know that you were married to him?â

âNo.â

âYou didnât tell them?â

âI didnât think I was married.â

âHow did that come about?â

âWe were married in Ballygowlan, but when my people turned up, Micky came to me and told me the marriage had been a fake. He and his friends had cooked it up between them, he said. By that time it seemed to me quite a natural thing for him to have done. Whether he wanted the money that was being offered him, or whether he was afraid heâd committed a breach of the law by marrying me when I wasnât of age, I donât know. Anyway, I didnât doubt for a moment that what he said was trueânot then.â

âAnd later?â

She seemed lost in her thoughts. âIt wasnât untilâoh, quite a number of years afterwards, when I knew a little more of life, and of legal matters, that it suddenly occurred to me that probably I was married to Micky Gorman after all!â

âIn actual fact, then, when you married Lord Coniston, you committed bigamy.â

âAnd when I married Johnnie Sedgwick, and again when I married my American husband, Ridgway Becker.â She looked at Chief-Inspector Davy and laughed with what seemed like genuine amusement.

âSo much bigamy,â she said. âIt really does seem very ridiculous.â

âDid you never think of getting a divorce?â

She shrugged her shoulders. âIt all seemed like a silly dream. Why rake it up? I told Johnnie, of course.â Her voice softened and mellowed as she said his name.

âAnd what did he say?â

âHe didnât care. Neither Johnnie nor I were ever very law-abiding.â

âBigamy carries certain penalties, Lady Sedgwick.â

She looked at him and laughed.

âWho was ever going to worry about something that had happened in Ireland years ago? The whole thing was over and done with. Micky had taken his money and gone off. Oh, donât you understand? It seemed just a silly little incident. An incident I wanted to forget. I put it aside with the thingsâthe very many thingsâthat donât matter in life.â

âAnd then,â said Father, in a tranquil voice, âone day in November, Michael Gorman turned up again and blackmailed you?â

âNonsense! Who said he blackmailed me?â

Slowly Fatherâs eyes went round to the old lady sitting quietly, very upright in her chair.

âYou.â Bess Sedgwick stared at Miss Marple. âWhat can you know about it?â

Her voice was more curious than accusing.

âThe armchairs in this hotel have very high backs,â said Miss Marple. âVery comfortable they are. I was sitting in one in front of the fire in the writing room. Just resting before I went out one morning. You came in to write a letter. I suppose you didnât realize there was anyone else in the room. And soâI heard your conversation with this man Gorman.â

âYou listened?â

âNaturally,â said Miss Marple. âWhy not? It was a public room. When you threw up the window and called to the man outside, I had no idea that it was going to be a private conversation.â

Bess stared at her for a moment, then she nodded her head slowly.

âFair enough,â she said. âYes, I see. But all the same you misunderstood what you heard. Micky didnât blackmail me. He might have thought of itâbut I warned him off before he could try!â Her lips curled up again in that wide generous smile that made her face so attractive. âI frightened him off.â

âYes,â agreed Miss Marple. âI think you probably did. You threatened to shoot him. You handled itâif you wonât think it impertinent of me to say soâvery well indeed.â

Bess Sedgwickâs eyebrows rose in some amusement.

âBut I wasnât the only person to hear you,â Miss Marple went on.

âGood gracious! Was the whole hotel listening?â

âThe other armchair was also occupied.â

âBy whom?â

Miss Marple closed her lips. She looked at Chief-Inspector Davy, and it was almost a pleading glance. âIf it must be done, you do it,â the glance said, âbut I canâtâ¦.â

âYour daughter was in the other chair,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

âOh no!â The cry came out sharply. âOh no. Not Elvira! I seeâyes, I see. She must have thoughtââ

âShe thought seriously enough of what she had overheard to go to Ireland and search for the truth. It wasnât difficult to discover.â

Again Bess Sedgwick said softly: âOh noâ¦â And then: âPoor childâ¦Even now, sheâs never asked me a thing. Sheâs kept it all to herself. Bottled it up inside herself. If sheâd only told me I could have explained it all to herâshowed her how it didnât matter.â

âShe mightnât have agreed with you there,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âItâs a funny thing, you know,â he went on, in a reminiscent, almost gossipy manner, looking like an old farmer discussing his stock and his land, âIâve learnt after a great many yearsâ trial and errorâIâve learned to distrust a pattern when itâs simple. Simple patterns are often too good to be true. The pattern of this murder the other night was like that. Girl says someone shot at her and missed. The commissionaire came running to save her, and copped it with a second bullet. That may be all true enough. That may be the way the girl saw it. But actually behind the appearances, things might be rather different.

âYou said pretty vehemently just now, Lady Sedgwick, that there could be no reason for Ladislaus Malinowski to attempt your daughterâs life. Well, Iâll agree with you. I donât think there was. Heâs the sort of young man who might have a row with a woman, pull out a knife and stick it into her. But I donât think heâd hide in an area, and wait cold-bloodedly to shoot her. But supposing he wanted to shoot someone else. Screams and shotsâbut what actually has happened is that Michael Gorman is dead. Suppose that was actually what was meant to happen. Malinowski plans it very carefully. He chooses a foggy night, hides in the area and waits until your daughter comes up the street. He knows sheâs coming because he has managed to arrange it that way. He fires a shot. Itâs not meant to hit the girl. Heâs careful not to let the bullet go anywhere near her, but she thinks itâs aimed at her all right. She screams. The porter from the hotel, hearing the shot and the scream, comes rushing down the street and then Malinowski shoots the person heâs come to shoot. Michael Gorman.â

âI donât believe a word of it! Why on earth should Ladislaus want to shoot Micky Gorman?â

âA little matter of blackmail, perhaps,â said Father.

âDo you mean that Micky was blackmailing Ladislaus? What about?â

âPerhaps,â said Father, âabout the things that go on at Bertramâs Hotel. Michael Gorman might have found out quite a lot about that.â

âThings that go on at Bertramâs Hotel? What do you mean?â

âItâs been a good racket,â said Father. âWell planned, beautifully executed. But nothing lasts forever. Miss Marple here asked me the other day what was wrong with this place. Well, Iâll answer that question now. Bertramâs Hotel is to all intents and purposes the headquarters of one of the best and biggest crime syndicates thatâs been known for years.â

Chapter Twenty-seven

There was silence for about a minute and a half. Then Miss Marple spoke.

âHow very interesting,â she said conversationally.

Bess Sedgwick turned on her. âYou donât seem surprised, Miss Marple.â

âIâm not. Not really. There were so many curious things that didnât seem quite to fit in. It was all too good to be trueâif you know what I mean. What they call in theatrical circles, a beautiful performance. But it was a performanceânot real.

âAnd there were a lot of little things, people claiming a friend or an acquaintanceâand turning out to be wrong.â

âThese things happen,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âbut they happened too often. Is that right, Miss Marple?â

âYes,â agreed Miss Marple. âPeople like Selina Hazy do make that kind of mistake. But there were so many other people doing it too. One couldnât help noticing it.â

âShe notices a lot,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, speaking to Bess Sedgwick as though Miss Marple was his pet performing dog.

Bess Sedgwick turned on him sharply.

âWhat did you mean when you said this place was the headquarters of a Crime Syndicate? I should have said that Bertramâs Hotel was the most respectable place in the world.â

âNaturally,â said Father. âIt would have to be. A lot of money, time, and thought has been spent on making it just what it is. The genuine and the phony are mixed-up very cleverly. Youâve got a superb actor manager running the show in Henry. Youâve got that chap, Humfries, wonderfully plausible. He hasnât got a record in this country but heâs been mixed-up in some rather curious hotel dealings abroad. There are some very good character actors playing various parts here. Iâll admit, if you like, that I canât help feeling a good deal of admiration for the whole setup. It has cost this country a mint of money. Itâs given the CID and the provincial police forces constant headaches. Every time we seemed to be getting somewhere, and put our finger on some particular incidentâit turned out to be the kind of incident that had nothing to do with anything else. But weâve gone on working on it, a piece there, a piece here. A garage where stacks of number plates were kept, transferable at a momentâs notice to certain cars. A firm of furniture vans, a butcherâs van, a grocerâs van, even one or two phony postal vans. A racing driver with a racing car covering incredible distances in incredibly few minutes, and at the other end of the scale an old clergyman jogging along in his old Morris Oxford. A cottage with a market gardener in it who lends first aid if necessary and who is in touch with a useful doctor. I neednât go into it all. The ramifications seem unending. Thatâs one half of it. The foreign visitors who come to Bertramâs are the other half. Mostly from America, or from the Dominions. Rich people above suspicion, coming here with a good lot of luxury luggage, leaving here with a good lot of luxury luggage which looks the same but isnât. Rich tourists arriving in France and not worried unduly by the Customs because the Customs donât worry tourists when theyâre bringing money into the country. Not the same tourists too many times. The pitcher mustnât go to the well too often. None of itâs going to be easy to prove or to tie up, but it will all tie up in the end. Weâve made a beginning. The Cabots, for instanceââ

âWhat about the Cabots?â asked Bess sharply.

âYou remember them? Very nice Americans. Very nice indeed. They stayed here last year and theyâve been here again this year. They wouldnât have come a third time. Nobody ever comes here more than twice on the same racket. Yes, we arrested them when they arrived at Calais. Very well-made job, that wardrobe case they had with them. It had over three hundred thousand pounds neatly stashed. Proceeds of the Bedhampton train robbery. Of course, thatâs only a drop in the ocean.

âBertramâs Hotel, let me tell you, is the headquarters of the whole thing! Half the staff are in on it. Some of the guests are in on it. Some of the guests are who they say they areâsome are not. The real Cabots, for instance, are in Yucatan just now. Then there was the identification racket. Take Mr. Justice Ludgrove. A familiar face, bulbous nose and a wart. Quite easy to impersonate. Canon Pennyfather. A mild country clergyman, with a great white thatch of hair and notable absentminded behaviour. His mannerisms, his way of peering over his spectaclesâall very easily imitated by a good character actor.â

âBut what was the use of all that?â asked Bess.

âAre you really asking me? Isnât it obvious? Mr. Justice Ludgrove is seen near the scene of a bank holdup. Someone recognizes him, mentions it. We go into it. Itâs all a mistake. He was somewhere else at the time. But it wasnât for a while that we realized that these were all what is sometimes called âdeliberate mistakes.â Nobodyâs bothered about the man who had looked so like him. And doesnât look particularly like him really. He takes off his makeup and stops acting his part. The whole thing brings about confusion. At one time we had a High Court judge, an Archdeacon, an Admiral, a Major-General, all seen near the scene of a crime.

âAfter the Bedhampton train robbery at least four vehicles were concerned before the loot arrived in London. A racing car driven by Malinowski took part in it, a false Metal Box lorry, an old-fashioned Daimler with an admiral in it, and an old clergyman with a thatch of white hair in a Morris Oxford. The whole thing was a splendid operation, beautifully planned.

âAnd then one day the gang had a bit of bad luck. That muddle-headed old ecclesiastic, Canon Pennyfather, went off to catch his plane on the wrong day, they turned him away from the air station, he wandered out into Cromwell Road, went to a film, arrived back here after midnight, came up to his room, of which he had the key in his pocket, opened the door, and walked in to get the shock of his life when he saw what appeared to be himself sitting in a chair facing him! The last thing the gang expected was to see the real Canon Pennyfather, supposed to be safely in Lucerne, walk in! His double was just getting ready to start off to play his part at Bedhampton when in walked the real man. They didnât know what to do but there was a quick reflex action from one member of the party. Humfries, I suspect. He hit the old man on the head, and he went down unconscious. Somebody, I think, was angry over that. Very angry. However, they examined the old boy, decided he was only knocked out, and would probably come round later and they went on with their plans. The false Canon Pennyfather left his room, went out of the hotel and drove to the scene of activities where he was to play his part in the relay race. What they did with the real Canon Pennyfather I donât know. I can only guess. I presume he too was moved later that night, driven down in a car, taken to the market gardenerâs cottage which was at a spot not too far from where the train was to be held up and where a doctor could attend to him. Then, if reports came through about Canon Pennyfather having been seen in the neighbourhood, it would all fit in. It must have been an anxious moment for all concerned until he regained consciousness and they found that at least three days had been knocked out of his remembrance.â

âWould they have killed him otherwise?â asked Miss Marple.

âNo,â said Father. âI donât think they would have killed him. Someone wouldnât have let that happen. It had seemed very clear all along that whoever ran this show had an objection to murder.â

âIt sounds fantastic,â said Bess Sedgwick. âUtterly fantastic! And I donât believe you have any evidence whatever to link Ladislaus Malinowski with this rigmarole.â

âIâve got plenty of evidence against Ladislaus Malinowski,â said Father. âHeâs careless, you know. He hung around here when he shouldnât have. On the first occasion he came to establish connection with your daughter. They had a code arranged.â

âNonsense. She told you herself that she didnât know him.â

âShe may have told me that but it wasnât true. Sheâs in love with him. She wants the fellow to marry her.â

âI donât believe it!â

âYouâre not in a position to know,â Chief-Inspector Davy pointed out. âMalinowski isnât the sort of person who tells all his secrets and your daughter you donât know at all. You admitted as much. You were angry, werenât you, when you found out Malinowski had come to Bertramâs Hotel.â

âWhy should I be angry?â

âBecause youâre the brains of the show,â said Father. âYou and Henry. The financial side was run by the Hoffman brothers. They made all the arrangements with the Continental banks and accounts and that sort of thing, but the boss of the syndicate, the brains that run it, and plan it, are your brains, Lady Sedgwick.â

Bess looked at him and laughed. âI never heard anything so ridiculous!â she said.

âOh no, itâs not ridiculous at all. Youâve got brains, courage and daring. Youâve tried most things; you thought youâd turn your hand to crime. Plenty of excitement in it, plenty of risk. It wasnât the money that attracted you, Iâd say, it was the fun of the whole thing. But you wouldnât stand for murder, or for undue violence. There were no killings, no brutal assaults, only nice quiet scientific taps on the head if necessary. Youâre a very interesting woman, you know. One of the few really interesting great criminals.â

There was silence for some few minutes. Then Bess Sedgwick rose to her feet.

âI think you must be mad.â She put her hand out to the telephone.

âGoing to ring up your solicitor? Quite the right thing to do before you say too much.â

With a sharp gesture she slammed the receiver back on the hook.

âOn second thoughts I hate solicitorsâ¦All right. Have it your own way. Yes, I ran this show. Youâre quite correct when you say it was fun. I loved every minute of it. It was fun scooping money from banks, trains and post offices and so-called security vans! It was fun planning and deciding; glorious fun and Iâm glad I had it. The pitcher goes to the well once too often? Thatâs what you said just now, wasnât it? I suppose itâs true. Well, Iâve had a good run for my money! But youâre wrong about Ladislaus Malinowski shooting Michael Gorman! He didnât. I did.â She laughed a sudden high, excited laugh. âNever mind what it was he did, what he threatenedâ¦I told him Iâd shoot himâMiss Marple heard meâand I did shoot him. I did very much what you suggested Ladislaus did. I hid in that area. When Elvira passed, I fired one shot wild, and when she screamed and Micky came running down the street, Iâd got him where I wanted him, and I let him have it! Iâve got keys to all the hotel entrances, of course. I just slipped in through the area door and up to my room. It never occurred to me youâd trace the pistol to Ladislausâor would even suspect him. Iâd pinched it from his car without his knowing. But not, I can assure you, with any idea of throwing suspicion on him.â

She swept round on Miss Marple. âYouâre a witness to what Iâve said, remember. I killed Gorman.â

âOr perhaps you are saying so because youâre in love with Malinowski,â suggested Davy.

âIâm not.â Her retort came sharply. âIâm his good friend, thatâs all. Oh yes, weâve been lovers in a casual kind of way, but Iâm not in love with him. In all my life, Iâve only loved one personâJohn Sedgwick.â her voice changed and softened as she pronounced the name.

âBut Ladislaus is my friend. I donât want him railroaded for something he didnât do. I killed Michael Gorman. Iâve said so, and Miss Marple has heard meâ¦And now, dear Chief-Inspector Davyââ her voice rose excitedly, and her laughter rang outââcatch me if you can.â

With a sweep of her arm, she smashed the window with the heavy telephone set, and before Father could get to his feet, she was out of the window and edging her way rapidly along the narrow parapet. With surprising quickness in spite of his bulk, Davy had moved to the other window and flung up the sash. At the same time he blew the whistle he had taken from his pocket.

Miss Marple, getting to her feet with rather more difficulty a moment or two later, joined him. Together they stared out along the faÃ§ade of Bertramâs Hotel.

âSheâll fall. Sheâs climbing up a drainpipe,â Miss Marple exclaimed. âBut why up?â

âGoing to the roof. Itâs her only chance and she knows it. Good God, look at her. Climbs like a cat. She looks like a fly on the side of the wall. The risks sheâs taking!â

Miss Marple murmured, her eyes half closing, âSheâll fall. She canât do itâ¦.â

The woman they were watching disappeared from sight. Father drew back a little into the room.

Miss Marple asked:

âDonât you want to go andââ

Father shook his head. âWhat good am I with my bulk? Iâve got my men posted ready for something like this. They know what to do. In a few minutes we shall knowâ¦I wouldnât put it past her to beat the lot of them! Sheâs a woman in a thousand, you know.â He sighed. âOne of the wild ones. Oh, weâve some of them in every generation. You canât tame them, you canât bring them into the community and make them live in law and order. They go their own way. If theyâre saints they go and tend lepers or something, or get themselves martyred in jungles. If theyâre bad lots they commit the atrocities that you donât like hearing about: and sometimesâtheyâre just wild! Theyâd have been all right, I suppose, born in another age when it was everyoneâs hand for himself, everyone fighting to keep life in their veins. Hazards at every turn, danger all round them, and they themselves perforce dangerous to others. That world would have suited them; theyâd have been at home in it. This one doesnât.â

âDid you know what she was going to do?â

âNot really. Thatâs one of her gifts. The unexpected. She must have thought this out, you know. She knew what was coming. So she sat looking at usâkeeping the ball rollingâand thinking. Thinking and planning hard. I expectâahââ He broke off as there came the sudden roar of a carâs exhaust, the screaming of wheels, and the sound of a big racing engine. He leaned out. âSheâs made it, sheâs got to her car.â

There was more screaming as the car came round the corner on two wheels, a great roar, and the beautiful white monster came tearing up the street.

âSheâll kill someone,â said Father, âsheâll kill a lot of peopleâ¦even if she doesnât kill herself.â

âI wonder,â said Miss Marple.

âSheâs a good driver, of course. A damn good driver. Whoof, that was a near one!â

They heard the roar of the car racing away with the horn blaring, heard it grow fainter. Heard cries, shouts, the sound of brakes, cars hooting and pulling up and finally a great scream of tyres and a roaring exhaust andâ

âSheâs crashed,â said Father.

He stood there very quietly waiting with the patience that was characteristic of his whole big patient form. Miss Marple stood silent beside him. Then, like a relay race, word came down along the street. A man on the pavement opposite looked up at Chief-Inspector Davy and made rapid signs with his hands.

âSheâs had it,â said Father heavily. âDead! Went about ninety miles an hour into the park railings. No other casualties bar a few slight collisions. Magnificent driving. Yes, sheâs dead.â He turned back into the room and said heavily, âWell, she told her story first. You heard her.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âI heard her.â There was a pause. âIt wasnât true, of course,â said Miss Marple quietly.

Father looked at her. âYou didnât believe her, eh?â

âDid you?â

âNo,â said Father. âNo, it wasnât the right story. She thought it out so that it would meet the case exactly, but it wasnât true. She didnât shoot Michael Gorman. Dâyou happen to know who did?â

âOf course I know,â said Miss Marple. âThe girl.â

âAh! When did you begin to think that?â

âI always wondered,â said Miss Marple.

âSo did I,â said Father. âShe was full of fear that night. And the lies she told were poor lies. But I couldnât see a motive at first.â

âThat puzzled me,â said Miss Marple. âShe had found out her motherâs marriage was bigamous, but would a girl do murder for that? Not nowadays! I suppose there was a money side to it?â

âYes, it was money,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âHer father left her a colossal fortune. When she found out that her mother was married to Michael Gorman she realized that the marriage to Coniston hadnât been legal. She thought that meant that the money wouldnât come to her because, though she was his daughter, she wasnât legitimate. She was wrong, you know. We had a case something like that before. Depends on the terms of a will. Coniston left it quite clearly to her, naming her by name. Sheâd get it all right, but she didnât know that. And she wasnât going to let go of the cash.â

âWhy did she need it so badly?â

Chief-Inspector Davy said grimly, âTo buy Ladislaus Malinowski. He would have married her for her money. He wouldnât have married her without it. She wasnât a fool, that girl. She knew that. But she wanted him on any terms. She was desperately in love with him.â

âI know,â said Miss Marple. She explained: âI saw her face that day in Battersea Parkâ¦.â

âShe knew that with the money sheâd get him, and without the money sheâd lose him,â said Father. âAnd so she planned a cold-blooded murder. She didnât hide in the area, of course. There was nobody in the area. She just stood by the railings and fired a shot and screamed, and when Michael Gorman came racing down the street from the hotel, she shot him at close quarters. Then she went on screaming. She was a cool hand. Sheâd no idea of incriminating young Ladislaus. She pinched his pistol because it was the only way she could get hold of one easily; and she never dreamed that he would be suspected of the crime, or that he would be anywhere in the neighbourhood that night. She thought it would be put down to some thug taking advantage of the fog. Yes, she was a cool hand. But she was afraid that nightâafterwards! And her mother was afraid for herâ¦.â

âAnd nowâwhat will you do?â

âI know she did it,â said Father, âbut Iâve no evidence. Maybe sheâll have beginnerâs luckâ¦Even the law seems to go on the principle now of allowing a dog to have one biteâtranslated into human terms. An experienced counsel could make great play with the sob stuffâso young a girl, unfortunate upbringingâand sheâs beautiful, you know.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âThe children of Lucifer are often beautifulâAnd as we know, they flourish like the green bay tree.â

âBut as I tell you, it probably wonât even come to thatâthereâs no evidenceâtake yourselfâyouâll be called as a witnessâa witness to what her mother saidâto her motherâs confession of the crime.â

âI know,â said Miss Marple. âShe impressed it on me, didnât she? She chose death for herself, at the price of her daughter going free. She forced it on me as a dying requestâ¦.â

The connecting door to the bedroom opened. Elvira Blake came through. She was wearing a straight shift dress of pale blue. Her fair hair fell down each side of her face. She looked like one of the angels in an early primitive Italian painting. She looked from one to the other of them. She said:

âI heard a car and a crash and people shoutingâ¦Has there been an accident?â

âIâm sorry to tell you, Miss Blake,â said Chief-Inspector Davy formally, âthat your mother is dead.â

Elvira gave a little gasp. âOh no,â she said. It was a faint uncertain protest.

âBefore she made her escape,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âbecause it was an escapeâshe confessed to the murder of Michael Gorman.â

âYou meanâshe saidâthat it was sheââ

âYes,â said Father. âThat is what she said. Have you anything to add?â

Elvira looked for a long time at him. Very faintly she shook her head.

âNo,â she said, âI havenât anything to add.â

Then she turned and went out of the room.

âWell,â said Miss Marple. âAre you going to let her get away with it?â

There was a pause, then Father brought down his fist with a crash on the table.

âNo,â he roaredââNo, by God Iâm not!â

Miss Marple nodded her head slowly and gravely.

âMay God have mercy on her soul,â she said.

Credits

Cover illustration and design by Sara Wood

Agatha Christie

Nemesis

A Miss Marple Mystery

To Dauphne Honeybone

Contents

Dedication

1. Overture

2. Code Word Nemesis

3. Miss Marple Takes Action

4. Esther Walters

5. Instructions from Beyond

6. Love

7. An Invitation

8. The Three Sisters

9. Polygonum Baldschuanicum

10. âOh! Fond, Oh! Fair, The Days That Wereâ

11. Accident

12. A Consultation

13. Black and Red Check

14. Mr. Broadribb Wonders

15. Verity

16. The Inquest

17. Miss Marple Makes a Visit

18. Archdeacon Brabazon

19. Good-byes Are Said

20. Miss Marple Has Ideas

21. The Clock Strikes Three

22. Miss Marple Tells Her Story

23. End Pieces

Credits

One

OVERTURE

In the afternoons it was the custom of Miss Jane Marple to unfold her second newspaper. Two newspapers were delivered at her house every morning. The first one Miss Marple read while sipping her early morning tea, that is, if it was delivered in time. The boy who delivered the papers was notably erratic in his management of time. Frequently, too, there was either a new boy or a boy who was acting temporarily as a stand-in for the first one. And each one would have ideas of his own as to the geographical route that he should take in delivering. Perhaps it varied monotony for him. But those customers who were used to reading their paper early so that they could snap up the more saucy items in the dayâs news before departing for their bus, train or other means of progress to the dayâs work were annoyed if the papers were late, though the middle-aged and elderly ladies who resided peacefully in St. Mary Mead often preferred to read a newspaper propped up on their breakfast table.

Today, Miss Marple had absorbed the front page and a few other items in the daily paper that she had nicknamed âthe Daily All-Sorts,â this being a slightly satirical allusion to the fact that her paper, the Daily Newsgiver, owing to a change of proprietor, to her own and to other of her friendsâ great annoyance, now provided articles on menâs tailoring, womenâs dress, female heartthrobs, competitions for children, and complaining letters from women and had managed pretty well to shove any real news off any part of it but the front page, or to some obscure corner where it was impossible to find it. Miss Marple, being old-fashioned, preferred her newspapers to be newspapers and give you news.

In the afternoon, having finished her luncheon, treated herself to twenty minutesâ nap in a specially purchased, upright armchair which catered for the demands of her rheumatic back, she had opened The Times, which lent itself still to a more leisurely perusal. Not that The Times was what it used to be. The maddening thing about The Times was that you couldnât find anything anymore. Instead of going through from the front page and knowing where everything else was so that you passed easily to any special articles on subjects in which you were interested, there were now extraordinary interruptions to this time-honoured programme. Two pages were suddenly devoted to travel in Capri with illustrations. Sport appeared with far more prominence than it had ever had in the old days. Court news and obituaries were a little more faithful to routine. The births, marriages and deaths which had at one time occupied Miss Marpleâs attention first of all owing to their prominent position had migrated to a different part of The Times, though of late, Miss Marple noted, they had come almost permanently to rest on the back page.

Miss Marple gave her attention first to the main news on the front page. She did not linger long on that because it was equivalent to what she had already read this morning, though possibly couched in a slightly more dignified manner. She cast her eye down the table of contents. Articles, comments, science, sport; then she pursued her usual plan, turned the paper over and had a quick run down the births, marriages and deaths, after which she proposed to turn to the page given to correspondence, where she nearly always found something to enjoy; from that she passed on to the Court Circular, on which page todayâs news from the Sale Rooms could also be found. A short article on Science was often placed there but she did not propose to read that. It seldom made sense for her.

Having turned the paper over as usual to the births, marriages and deaths, Miss Marple thought to herself, as so often before,

âItâs sad really, but nowadays one is only interested in the deaths!â

People had babies, but the people who had babies were not likely to be even known by name to Miss Marple. If there had been a column dealing with babies labelled as grandchildren, there might have been some chance of a pleasurable recognition. She might have thought to herself,

âReally, Mary Prendergast has had a third granddaughter!,â though even that perhaps might have been a bit remote.

She skimmed down Marriages, also with not a very close survey, because most of her old friendsâ daughters or sons had married some years ago already. She came to the Deaths column, and gave that her more serious attention. Gave it enough, in fact, so as to be sure she would not miss a name. Alloway, Angopastro, Arden, Barton, Bedshaw, Burgoweisserâ(dear me, what a German name, but he seemed to be late of Leeds). Carpenter, Camperdown, Clegg. Clegg? Now was that one of the Cleggs she knew? No, it didnât seem to be. Janet Clegg. Somewhere in Yorkshire. McDonald, McKenzie, Nicholson. Nicholson? No. Again not a Nicholson she knew. Ogg, Ormerodâthat must be one of the aunts, she thought. Yes, probably so. Linda Ormerod. No, she hadnât known her. Quantril? Dear me, that must be Elizabeth Quantril. Eighty-five. Well, really! She had thought Elizabeth Quantril had died some years ago. Fancy her having lived so long! So delicate sheâd always been, too. Nobody had expected her to make old bones. Race, Radley, Rafiel. Rafiel? Something stirred. That name was familiar. Rafiel. Belford Park, Maidstone. Belford Park, Maidstone. No, she couldnât recall that address. No flowers. Jason Rafiel. Oh well, an unusual name. She supposed sheâd just heard it somewhere. Ross-Perkins. Now that might beâno, it wasnât. Ryland? Emily Ryland. No. No, sheâd never known an Emily Ryland. Deeply loved by her husband and children. Well, very nice or very sad. Whichever way you liked to look at it.

Miss Marple laid down her paper, glancing idly through the crossword while she puzzled to remember why the name Rafiel was familiar to her.

âIt will come to me,â said Miss Marple, knowing from long experience the way old peopleâs memories worked.

âItâll come to me, I have no doubt.â

She glanced out of the window towards the garden, withdrew her gaze and tried to put the garden out of her mind. Her garden had been the source of great pleasure and also a great deal of hard work to Miss Marple for many, many years. And now, owing to the fussiness of doctors, working in the garden was forbidden to her. Sheâd once tried to fight this ban, but had come to the conclusion that she had, after all, better do as she was told. She had arranged her chair at such an angle as not to be easy to look out in the garden unless she definitely and clearly wished to see something in particular. She sighed, picked up her knitting bag and took out a small childâs woolly jacket in process of coming to a conclusion. The back was done and the front. Now she would have to get on with the sleeves. Sleeves were always boring. Two sleeves, both alike. Yes, very boring. Pretty coloured pink wool, however. Pink wool. Now wait a minute, where did that fit in? Yesâyesâit fitted in with that name sheâd just read in the paper. Pink wool. A blue sea. A Caribbean sea. A sandy beach. Sunshine. Herself knitting andâwhy, of course, Mr. Rafiel. That trip she had made to the Caribbean. The island of St. HonorÃ©. A treat from her nephew Raymond. And she remembered Joan, her niece-in-law, Raymondâs wife, saying:

âDonât get mixed up in any more murders, Aunt Jane. It isnât good for you.â

Well, she hadnât wished to get mixed up in any murders, but it just happened. That was all. Simply because of an elderly Major with a glass eye who had insisted on telling her some very long and boring stories. Poor Majorânow what was his name? Sheâd forgotten that now. Mr. Rafiel and his secretary, Mrs.âMrs. Walters, yes, Esther Walters, and his masseur-attendant, Jackson. It all came back. Well, well. Poor Mr. Rafiel. So Mr. Rafiel was dead. He had known he was going to die before very long. He had practically told her so. It seemed as though he had lasted longer than the doctors had thought. He was a strong man, an obstinate manâa very rich man.

Miss Marple remained in thought, her knitting needles working regularly, but her mind not really on her knitting. Her mind was on the late Mr. Rafiel, and remembering what she could remember about him. Not an easy man to forget, really. She could conjure his appearance up mentally quite well. Yes, a very definite personality, a difficult man, an irritable man, shockingly rude sometimes. Nobody ever resented his being rude, though. She remembered that also. They didnât resent his being rude because he was so rich. Yes, he had been very rich. He had had his secretary with him and a valet attendant, a qualified masseur. He had not been able to get about very well without help.

Rather a doubtful character that nurse-attendant had been, Miss Marple thought. Mr. Rafiel had been very rude to him sometimes. He had never seemed to mind. And that, again, of course was because Mr. Rafiel was so rich.

âNobody else would pay him half what I do,â Mr. Rafiel had said, âand he knows it. Heâs good at his job, though.â

Miss Marple wondered whether Jackson?âJohnson? had stayed on with Mr. Rafiel. Stayed on for what must have beenâanother year? A year and three or four months. She thought probably not. Mr. Rafiel was one who liked a change. He got tired of people, tired of their ways, tired of their faces, tired of their voices.

Miss Marple understood that. She had felt the same sometimes. That companion of hers, that nice, attentive, maddening woman with her cooing voice.

âAh,â said Miss Marple, âwhat a change for the better sinceââ oh dear, sheâd forgotten her name nowâMissâMiss Bishop?âno, not Miss Bishop. Oh dear, how difficult it was.

Her mind went back to Mr. Rafiel and toâno, it wasnât Johnson, it had been Jackson, Arthur Jackson.

âOh, dear,â said Miss Marple again, âI always get all the names wrong. And of course, it was Miss Knight I was thinking of. Not Miss Bishop. Why do I think of her as Miss Bishop?â The answer came to her. Chess, of course. A chess piece. A knight. A bishop.

âI shall be calling her Miss Castle next time I think of her, I suppose, or Miss Rook. Though, really, sheâs not the sort of person who would ever rook anybody. No, indeed. And now what was the name of that nice secretary that Mr. Rafiel had. Oh yes, Esther Walters. That was right. I wonder what has happened to Esther Walters? Sheâd inherited money? She would probably inherit money now.â

Mr. Rafiel, she remembered, had told her something about that, or she hadâoh, dear, what a muddle things were when you tried to remember with any kind of exactitude. Esther Walters. It had hit her badly, that business in the Caribbean, but she would have got over it. Sheâd been a widow, hadnât she? Miss Marple hoped that Esther Walters had married again, some nice, kindly, reliable man. It seemed faintly unlikely. Esther Walters, she thought, had had rather a genius for liking the wrong kind of men to marry.

Miss Marple went back to thinking about Mr. Rafiel. No flowers, it had said. Not that she herself would have dreamed of sending flowers to Mr. Rafiel. He could buy up all the nurseries in England if heâd wanted to. And anyway, they hadnât been on those terms. They hadnât beenâfriends, or on terms of affection. They had beenâwhat was the word she wanted?âallies. Yes, they had been allies for a very short time. A very exciting time. And he had been an ally worth having. She had known so. Sheâd known it as she had gone running through a dark, tropical night in the Caribbean and had come to him. Yes, she remembered, sheâd been wearing that pink woolâwhat used they to call them when she was young?âa fascinator. That nice pink wool kind of shawl-scarf that sheâd put round her head, and he had looked at her and laughed, and later when she had saidâshe smiled at the remembranceâone word she had used and he had laughed, but he hadnât laughed in the end. No, heâd done what she asked him and thereforeââAh!â Miss Marple sighed, it had been, she had to admit it, all very exciting. And sheâd never told her nephew or dear Joan about it because, after all, it was what theyâd told her not to do, wasnât it? Miss Marple nodded her head. Then she murmured softly,

âPoor Mr. Rafiel, I hope he didnâtâsuffer.â

Probably not. Probably heâd been kept by expensive doctors under sedatives, easing the end. He had suffered a great deal in those weeks in the Caribbean. Heâd nearly always been in pain. A brave man.

A brave man. She was sorry he was dead because she thought that though heâd been elderly and an invalid and ill, the world had lost something through his going. She had no idea what he could have been like in business. Ruthless, she thought, and rude and overmastering and aggressive. A great attacker. Butâbut a good friend, she thought. And somewhere in him a deep kind of kindness that he was very careful never to show on the surface. A man she admired and respected. Well, she was sorry he was gone and she hoped he hadnât minded too much and that his passing had been easy. And now he would be cremated no doubt and put in some large, handsome marble vault. She didnât even know if heâd been married. He had never mentioned a wife, never mentioned children. A lonely man? Or had his life been so full that he hadnât needed to feel lonely? She wondered.

She sat there quite a long time that afternoon, wondering about Mr. Rafiel. She had never expected to see him again after she had returned to England and she never had seen him again. Yet in some queer way she could at any moment have felt she was in touch with him. If he had approached her or had suggested that they meet again, feeling perhaps a bond because of a life that had been saved between them, or of some other bond. A bondâ

âSurely,â said Miss Marple, aghast at an idea that had come into her mind, âthere canât be a bond of ruthlessness between us?â Was she, Jane Marpleâcould she ever beâruthless? âDâyou know,â said Miss Marple to herself, âitâs extraordinary, I never thought about it before. I believe, you know, I could be ruthlessâ¦.â

The door opened and a dark, curly head was popped in. It was Cherry, the welcome successor to Miss BishopâMiss Knight.

âDid you say something?â said Cherry.

âI was speaking to myself,â said Miss Marple, âI just wondered if I could ever be ruthless.â

âWhat, you?â said Cherry. âNever! Youâre kindness itself.â

âAll the same,â said Miss Marple, âI believe I could be ruthless if there was due cause.â

âWhat would you call due cause?â

âIn the cause of justice,â said Miss Marple.

âYou did have it in for little Gary Hopkins I must say,â said Cherry. âWhen you caught him torturing his cat that day. Never knew you had it in you to go for anyone like that! Scared him stiff, you did. Heâs never forgotten it.â

âI hope he hasnât tortured anymore cats.â

âWell, heâs made sure you werenât about if he did,â said Cherry. âIn fact Iâm not at all sure as there isnât other boys as got scared. Seeing you with your wool and the pretty things you knits and all thatâanyone would think you were gentle as a lamb. But thereâs times I could say youâd behave like a lion if you was goaded into it.â

Miss Marple looked a little doubtful. She could not quite see herself in the rÃ´le in which Cherry was now casting her. Had she everâshe paused on the reflection, recalling various momentsâthere had been intense irritation with Miss BishopâKnight. (Really, she must not forget names in this way.) But her irritation had shown itself in more or less ironical remarks. Lions, presumably, did not use irony. There was nothing ironical about a lion. It sprang. It roared. It used its claws, presumably it took large bites at its prey.

âReally,â said Miss Marple, âI donât think I have ever behaved quite like that.â

Walking slowly along her garden that evening with the usual feelings of vexation rising in her, Miss Marple considered the point again. Possibly the sight of a plant of snapdragons recalled it to her mind. Really, she had told old George again and again that she only wanted sulphur-coloured antirrhinums, not that rather ugly purple shade that gardeners always seemed so fond of. âSulphur yellow,â said Miss Marple aloud.

Someone the other side of the railing that abutted on the lane past her house turned her head and spoke.

âI beg your pardon? You said something?â

âI was talking to myself, Iâm afraid,â said Miss Marple, turning to look over the railing.

This was someone she did not know, and she knew most people in St. Mary Mead. Knew them by sight even if not personally. It was a thickset woman in a shabby but tough tweed skirt, and wearing good country shoes. She wore an emerald pullover and a knitted woollen scarf.

âIâm afraid one does at my age,â added Miss Marple.

âNice garden youâve got here,â said the other woman.

âNot particularly nice now,â said Miss Marple. âWhen I could attend to it myselfââ

âOh I know. I understand just what you feel. I suppose youâve got one of thoseâI have a lot of names for them, mostly very rudeâelderly chaps who say they know all about gardening. Sometimes they do, sometimes they donât know a thing about it. They come and have a lot of cups of tea and do a little very mild weeding. Theyâre quite nice, some of them, but all the same it does make oneâs temper rise.â She added, âIâm quite a keen gardener myself.â

âDo you live here?â asked Miss Marple, with some interest.

âWell, Iâm boarding with a Mrs. Hastings. I think Iâve heard her speak of you. Youâre Miss Marple, arenât you?â

âOh yes.â

âIâve come as a sort of companion-gardener. My name is Bartlett, by the way. Miss Bartlett. Thereâs not really much to do there,â said Miss Bartlett. âShe goes in for annuals and all that. Nothing you can really get your teeth into.â She opened her mouth and showed her teeth when making this remark. âOf course I do a few odd jobs as well. Shopping, you know, and things like that. Anyway, if you want any time put in here, I could put in an hour or two for you. Iâd say I might be better than any chap youâve got now.â

âThat would be easy,â said Miss Marple. âI like flowers best. Donât care so much for vegetables.â

âI do vegetables for Mrs. Hastings. Dull but necessary. Well, Iâll be getting along.â Her eyes swept over Miss Marple from head to foot, as though memorizing her, then she nodded cheerfully and tramped off.

Mrs. Hastings? Miss Marple couldnât remember the name of any Mrs. Hastings. Certainly Mrs. Hastings was not an old friend. She had certainly never been a gardening chum. Ah, of course, it was probably those newly built houses at the end of Gibraltar Road. Several families had moved in in the last year. Miss Marple sighed, looked again with annoyance at the antirrhinums, saw several weeds which she yearned to root up, one or two exuberant suckers she would like to attack with her secateurs, and finally, sighing, and manfully resisting temptation, she made a detour round by the lane and returned to her house. Her mind recurred again to Mr. Rafiel. They had been, he and sheâwhat was the title of that book they used to quote so much when she was young? Ships that pass in the night. Rather apt it was really, when she came to think of it. Ships that pass in the night â¦ It was in the night that she had gone to him to askâno, to demandâhelp. To insist, to say no time must be lost. And he had agreed, and put things in train at once! Perhaps she had been rather lionlike on that occasion? No. No, that was quite wrong. It had not been anger she had felt. It had been insistence on something that was absolutely imperative to be put in hand at once. And heâd understood.

Poor Mr. Rafiel. The ship that had passed in the night had been an interesting ship. Once you got used to his being rude, he might have been quite an agreeable man? No! She shook her head. Mr. Rafiel could never have been an agreeable man. Well, she must put Mr. Rafiel out of her head.

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing;

Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness.

She would probably never think of him again. She would look out perhaps to see if there was an obituary of him in The Times. But she did not think it was very likely. He was not a very well known character, she thought. Not famous. He had just been very rich. Of course, many people did have obituaries in the paper just because they were very rich; but she thought that Mr. Rafielâs richness would possibly not have been of that kind. He had not been prominent in any great industry, he had not been a great financial genius, or a noteworthy banker. He had just all his life made enormous amounts of moneyâ¦.

Two

CODE WORD NEMESIS

I

It was about a week or so after Mr. Rafielâs death that Miss Marple picked up a letter from her breakfast tray, and looked at it for a moment before opening it. The other two letters that had come by this morningâs post were bills, or just possibly receipts for bills. In either case they were not of any particular interest. This letter might be.

A London postmark, typewritten address, a long, good quality envelope. Miss Marple slit it neatly with the paper knife she always kept handy on her tray. It was headed, Messrs. Broadribb and Schuster, Solicitors and Notaries Public, with an address in Bloomsbury. It asked her, in suitable courteous and legal phraseology, to call upon them one day in the following week, at their office, to discuss a proposition that might be to her advantage. Thursday, the 24th was suggested. If that date was not convenient, perhaps she would let them know what date she would be likely to be in London in the near future. They added that they were the solicitors to the late Mr. Rafiel, with whom they understood she had been acquainted.

Miss Marple frowned in some slight puzzlement. She got up rather more slowly than usual, thinking about the letter she had received. She was escorted downstairs by Cherry, who was meticulous in hanging about in the hall so as to make sure that Miss Marple did not come to grief walking by herself down the staircase, which was of the old-fashioned kind which turned a sharp corner in the middle of its run.

âYou take very good care of me, Cherry,â said Miss Marple.

âGot to,â said Cherry, in her usual idiom. âGood people are scarce.â

âWell, thank you for the compliment,â said Miss Marple, arriving safely with her last foot on the ground floor.

âNothing the matter, is there?â asked Cherry. âYou look a bit rattled like, if you know what I mean.â

âNo, nothingâs the matter,â said Miss Marple. âI had rather an unusual letter from a firm of solicitors.â

âNobody is suing you for anything, are they?â said Cherry, who was inclined to regard solicitorsâ letters as invariably associated with disaster of some kind.

âOh no, I donât think so,â said Miss Marple. âNothing of that kind. They just asked me to call upon them next week in London.â

âPerhaps youâve been left a fortune,â said Cherry, hopefully.

âThat, I think, is very unlikely,â said Miss Marple.

âWell, you never know,â said Cherry.

Settling herself in her chair, and taking her knitting out of its embroidered knitting bag, Miss Marple considered the possibility of Mr. Rafiel having left her a fortune. It seemed even more unlikely than when Cherry had suggested it. Mr. Rafiel, she thought, was not that kind of a man.

It was not possible for her to go on the date suggested. She was attending a meeting of the Womenâs Institute to discuss the raising of a sum for building a small additional couple of rooms. But she wrote, naming a day in the following week. In due course her letter was answered and the appointment definitely confirmed. She wondered what Messrs. Broadribb and Schuster were like. The letter had been signed by J. R. Broadribb who was, apparently, the senior partner. It was possible, Miss Marple thought, that Mr. Rafiel might have left her some small memoir or souvenir in his will. Perhaps some book on rare flowers that had been in his library and which he thought would please an old lady who was keen on gardening. Or perhaps a cameo brooch which had belonged to some great-aunt of his. She amused herself by these fancies. They were only fancies, she thought, because in either case it would merely be a case of the Executorsâif these lawyers were the Executorsâforwarding her by post any such object. They would not have wanted an interview.

âOh well,â said Miss Marple, âI shall know next Tuesday.â

II

âWonder what sheâll be like,â said Mr. Broadribb to Mr. Schuster, glancing at the clock as he did so.

âSheâs due in a quarter of an hour,â said Mr. Schuster. âWonder if sheâll be punctual?â

âOh, I should think so. Sheâs elderly, I gather, and much more punctilious than the young scatterbrains of today.â

âFat or thin, I wonder?â said Mr. Schuster.

Mr. Broadribb shook his head.

âDidnât Rafiel ever describe her to you?â asked Mr. Schuster.

âHe was extraordinarily cagey in everything he said about her.â

âThe whole thing seems very odd to me,â said Mr. Schuster. âIf we only knew a bit more about what it all meantâ¦.â

âIt might be,â said Mr. Broadribb thoughtfully, âsomething to do with Michael.â

âWhat? After all these years? Couldnât be. What put that into your head? Did he mentionââ

âNo, he didnât mention anything. Gave me no clue at all as to what was in his mind. Just gave me instructions.â

âThink he was getting a bit eccentric and all that towards the end?â

âNot in the least. Mentally he was a brilliant as ever. His physical ill health never affected his brain, anyway. In the last two months of his life he made an extra two hundred thousand pounds. Just like that.â

âHe had a flair,â said Mr. Schuster with due reverence. âCertainly, he always had a flair.â

âA great financial brain,â said Mr. Broadribb, also in a tone of reverence suitable to the sentiment. âNot many like him, moreâs the pity.â

A buzzer went on the table. Mr. Schuster picked up the receiver. A female voice said,

âMiss Jane Marple is here to see Mr. Broadribb by appointment.â

Mr. Schuster looked at his partner, raising an eyebrow for an affirmative or a negative. Mr. Broadribb nodded.

âShow her up,â said Mr. Schuster. And he added, âNow weâll see.â

Miss Marple entered a room where a middle-aged gentleman with a thin, spare body and a long rather melancholy face rose to greet her. This apparently was Mr. Broadribb, whose appearance somewhat contradicted his name. With him was a rather younger middle-aged gentleman of definitely more ample proportions. He had black hair, small keen eyes and a tendency to a double chin.

âMy partner, Mr. Schuster,â Mr. Broadribb presented.

âI hope you didnât feel the stairs too much,â said Mr. Schuster. âSeventy if she is a dayânearer eighty perhaps,â he was thinking in his own mind.

âI always get a little breathless going upstairs.â

âAn old-fashioned building this,â said Mr. Broadribb apologetically. âNo lift. Ah well, we are a very long established firm and we donât go in for as many of the modern gadgets as perhaps our clients expect of us.â

âThis room has very pleasant proportions,â said Miss Marple, politely.

She accepted the chair that Mr. Broadribb drew forward for her. Mr. Schuster, in an unobtrusive sort of way, left the room.

âI hope that chair is comfortable,â said Mr. Broadribb. âIâll pull that curtain slightly, shall I? You may feel the sun a little too much in your eyes.â

âThank you,â said Miss Marple, gratefully.

She sat there, upright as was her habit. She wore a light tweed suit, a string of pearls and a small velvet toque. To himself Mr. Broadribb was saying, âThe Provincial Lady. A good type. Fluffy old girl. May be scattyâmay not. Quite a shrewd eye. I wonder where Rafiel came across her. Somebodyâs aunt, perhaps, up from the country?â While these thoughts passed through his head, he was making the kind of introductory small talk relating to the weather, the unfortunate effects of late frosts early in the year and such other remarks as he considered suitable.

Miss Marple made the necessary responses and sat placidly awaiting the opening of preliminaries to the meeting.

âYou will be wondering what all this is about,â said Mr. Broadribb, shifting a few papers in front of him and giving her a suitable smile. âYouâve heard, no doubt, of Mr. Rafielâs death, or perhaps you saw it in the paper.â

âI saw it in the paper,â said Miss Marple.

âHe was, I understand, a friend of yours.â

âI met him first just over a year ago,â said Miss Marple. âIn the West Indies,â she added.

âAh. I remember. He went out there, I believe, for his health. It did him some good, perhaps, but he was already a very ill man, badly crippled, as you know.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple.

âYou knew him well?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âI would not say that. We were fellow visitors in a hotel. We had occasional conversations. I never saw him again after my return to England. I live very quietly in the country, you see, and I gather that he was completely absorbed in business.â

âHe continued transacting business right upâwell, I could almost say right up to the day of his death,â said Mr. Broadribb. âA very fine financial brain.â

âI am sure that was so,â said Miss Marple. âI realized quite soon that he was aâwell, a very remarkable character altogether.â

âI donât know if you have any ideaâwhether youâve been given any idea at some time by Mr. Rafielâas to what this proposition is that I have been instructed to put up to you?â

âI cannot imagine,â said Miss Marple, âwhat possible kind of proposition Mr. Rafiel might have wanted to put up to me. It seems most unlikely.â

âHe had a very high opinion of you.â

âThat is kind of him, but hardly justified,â said Miss Marple. âI am a very simple person.â

âAs you no doubt realize, he died a very rich man. The provisions of his Will are on the whole fairly simple. He had already made dispositions of his fortune some time before his death. Trusts and other beneficiary arrangements.â

âThat is, I believe, very usual procedure nowadays,â said Miss Marple, âthough I am not at all cognizant of financial matters myself.â

âThe purpose of this appointment,â said Mr. Broadribb, âis that I am instructed to tell you that a sum of money has been laid aside to become yours absolutely at the end of one year, but conditional on your accepting a certain proposition, with which I am to make you acquainted.â

He took from the table in front of him a long envelope. It was sealed. He passed it across the table to her.

âIt would be better, I think, that you should read for yourself of what this consists. There is no hurry. Take your time.â

Miss Marple took her time. She availed herself of a small paper knife which Mr. Broadribb handed to her, slit up the envelope, took out the enclosure, one sheet of typewriting, and read it. She folded it up again, then reread it and looked at Mr. Broadribb.

âThis is hardly very definite. Is there no more definite elucidation of any kind?â

âNot so far as I am concerned. I was to hand you this, and tell you the amount of the legacy. The sum in question is twenty thousand pounds free of legacy duty.â

Miss Marple sat looking at him. Surprise had rendered her speechless. Mr. Broadribb said no more for the moment. He was watching her closely. There was no doubt of her surprise. It was obviously the last thing Miss Marple had expected to hear. Mr. Broadribb wondered what her first words would be. She looked at him with the directness, the severity that one of his own aunts might have done. When she spoke it was almost accusingly.

âThat is a very large sum of money,â said Miss Marple.

âNot quite so large as it used to be,â said Mr. Broadribb (and just restrained himself from saying, âMere chicken feed nowadaysâ).

âI must admit,â said Miss Marple, âthat I am amazed. Frankly, quite amazed.â

She picked up the document and read it carefully through again.

âI gather you know the terms of this?â she said.

âYes. It was dictated to me personally by Mr. Rafiel.â

âDid he not give you any explanation of it?â

âNo, he did not.â

âYou suggested, I suppose, that it might be better if he did,â said Miss Marple. There was a slight acidity in her voice now.

Mr. Broadribb smiled faintly.

âYou are quite right. That is what I did. I said that you might find it difficult toâoh, to understand exactly what he was driving at.â

âVery remarkable,â said Miss Marple.

âThere is no need, of course,â said Mr. Broadribb, âfor you to give me an answer now.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âI should have to reflect upon this.â

âIt is, as you have pointed out, quite a substantial sum of money.â

âI am old,â said Miss Marple. âElderly, we say, but old is a better word. Definitely old. It is both possible and indeed probable that I might not live as long as a year to earn this money, in the rather doubtful case that I was able to earn it.â

âMoney is not to be despised at any age,â said Mr. Broadribb.

âI could benefit certain charities in which I have an interest,â said Miss Marple, âand there are always people. People whom one wishes one could do a little something for but oneâs own funds do not admit of it. And then I will not pretend that there are not pleasures and desiresâthings that one has not been able to indulge in or to affordâI think Mr. Rafiel knew quite well that to be able to do so, quite unexpectedly, would give an elderly person a great deal of pleasure.â

âYes, indeed,â said Mr. Broadribb. âA cruise abroad, perhaps? One of these excellent tours as arranged nowadays. Theatres, concertsâthe ability to replenish oneâs cellars.â

âMy tastes would be a little more moderate than that,â said Miss Marple. âPartridges,â she said thoughtfully, âit is very difficult to get partridges nowadays, and theyâre very expensive. I should enjoy a partridgeâa whole partridgeâto myself, very much. A box of marrons glacÃ©s is an expensive taste which I cannot often gratify. Possibly a visit to the opera. It means a car to take one to Covent Garden and back, and the expense of a night in a hotel. But I must not indulge in idle chat,â she said. âI will take this back with me and reflect upon it. Really, what on earth made Mr. Rafielâyou have no idea why he should have suggested this particular proposition, and why he should think that I could be of service to him in any way? He must have known that it was over a year, nearly two years since he had seen me and that I might have got much more feeble than I have, and much more unable to exercise such small talents as I might have. He was taking a risk. There are other people surely much better qualified to undertake an investigation of this nature?â

âFrankly, one would think so,â said Mr. Broadribb, âbut he selected you, Miss Marple. Forgive me if this is idle curiosity but have you hadâoh, how shall I put it?âany connection with crime or the investigation of crime?â

âStrictly speaking I should say no,â said Miss Marple. âNothing professional, that is to say. I have never been a probation officer or indeed sat as a magistrate on a Bench or been connected in any way with a detective agency. To explain to you, Mr. Broadribb, which I think it is only fair for me to do and which I think Mr. Rafiel ought to have done, to explain it in any way all I can say is that during our stay in the West Indies, we both, Mr. Rafiel and myself, had a certain connection with a crime that took place there. A rather unlikely and perplexing murder.â

âAnd you and Mr. Rafiel solved it?â

âI should not put it quite like that,â said Miss Marple. âMr. Rafiel, by the force of his personality, and I, by putting together one or two obvious indications that came to my notice, were successful in preventing a second murder just as it was about to take place. I could not have done it alone, I was physically far too feeble. Mr. Rafiel could not have done it alone, he was a cripple. We acted as allies, however.â

âJust one other question I should like to ask you, Miss Marple. Does the word âNemesisâ mean anything to you?â

âNemesis,â said Miss Marple. It was not a question. A very slow and unexpected smile dawned on her face. âYes,â she said, âit does mean something to me. It meant something to me and it meant something to Mr. Rafiel. I said it to him, and he was much amused by my describing myself by that name.â

Whatever Mr. Broadribb had expected it was not that. He looked at Miss Marple with something of the same astonished surprise that Mr. Rafiel had once felt in a bedroom by the Caribbean sea. A nice and quite intelligent old lady. But reallyâNemesis!

âYou feel the same, I am sure,â said Miss Marple.

She rose to her feet.

âIf you should find or receive any further instructions in this matter, you will perhaps let me know, Mr. Broadribb. It seems to me extraordinary that there should not be something of that kind. This leaves me entirely in the dark really as to what Mr. Rafiel is asking me to do or try to do.â

âYou are not acquainted with his family, his friends, hisââ

âNo. I told you. He was a fellow traveller in a foreign part of the world. We had a certain association as allies in a very mystifying matter. That is all.â As she was about to go to the door she turned suddenly and asked: âHe had a secretary, Mrs. Esther Walters. Would it be infringing etiquette if I asked if Mr. Rafiel left her fifty thousand pounds?â

âHis bequest will appear in the press,â said Mr. Broadribb. âI can answer your question in the affirmative. Mrs. Waltersâ name is now Mrs. Anderson, by the way. She has remarried.â

âI am glad to hear that. She was a widow with one daughter, and she was a very adequate secretary, it appears. She understood Mr. Rafiel very well. A nice woman. I am glad she has benefited.â

That evening, Miss Marple, sitting in her straightbacked chair, her feet stretched out to the fireplace where a small wood fire was burning owing to the sudden cold spell which, as is its habit, can always descend on England at any moment selected by itself, took once more from the long envelope the document delivered to her that morning. Still in a state of partial unbelief she read, murmuring the words here and there below her breath as though to impress them on her mind,

âTo Miss Jane Marple, resident in the village of St. Mary Mead.

This will be delivered to you after my death by the good offices of my solicitor, James Broadribb. He is the man I employ for dealing with such legal matters as fall in the field of my private affairs, not my business activities. He is a sound and trustworthy lawyer. Like the majority of the human race he is susceptible to the sin of curiosity. I have not satisfied his curiosity. In some respects this matter will remain between you and myself. Our code word, my dear lady, is Nemesis. I donât think you will have forgotten in what place and in what circumstances you first spoke that word to me. In the course of my business activities over what is now quite a long life, I have learnt one thing about a man whom I wish to employ. He has to have a flair. A flair for the particular job I want him to do. It is not knowledge, it is not experience. The only word that describes it is flair. A natural gift for doing a certain thing.

You, my dear, if I may call you that, have a natural flair for justice, and that has led to your having a natural flair for crime. I want you to investigate a certain crime. I have ordered a certain sum to be placed so that if you accept this request and as a result of your investigation this crime is properly elucidated, the money will become yours absolutely. I have set aside a year for you to engage on this mission. You are not young, but you are, if I may say so, tough. I think I can trust a reasonable fate to keep you alive for a year at least.

I think the work involved will not be distasteful to you. You have a natural genius, I should say, for investigation. The necessary funds for what I may describe as working capital for making this investigation will be remitted to you during that period, whenever necessary. I offer this to you as an alternative to what may be your life at present.

I envisage you sitting in a chair, a chair that is agreeable and comfortable for whatever kind or form of rheumatism from which you may suffer. All persons of your age, I consider, are likely to suffer from some form of rheumatism. If this ailment affects your knees or your back, it will not be easy for you to get about much and you will spend your time mainly in knitting. I see you, as I saw you once one night as I rose from sleep disturbed by your urgency, in a cloud of pink wool.

I envisage you knitting more jackets, head scarves and a good many other things of which I do not know the name. If you prefer to continue knitting, that is your decision. If you prefer to serve the cause of justice, I hope that you may at least find it interesting.

Let justice roll down like waters.

And righteousness like an everlasting stream.

Amos.â

Three

MISS MARPLE TAKES ACTION

I

Miss Marple read this letter three timesâthen she laid it aside and sat frowning slightly while she considered the letter and its implications.

The first thought that came to her was that she was left with a surprising lack of definite information. Would there be any further information coming to her from Mr. Broadribb? Almost certainly she felt that there would be no such thing. That would not have fitted in with Mr. Rafielâs plan. Yet how on earth could Mr. Rafiel expect her to do anything, to take any course of action in a matter about which she knew nothing? It was intriguing. After a few minutes more for consideration, she decided that Mr. Rafiel had meant it to be intriguing. Her thoughts went back to him, for the brief time that she had known him. His disability, his bad temper, his flashes of brilliance, of occasional humour. Heâd enjoy, she thought, teasing people. He had been enjoying, she felt, and this letter made it almost certain, baffling the natural curiosity of Mr. Broadribb.

There was nothing in the letter he had written her to give her the slightest clue as to what this business was all about. It was no help to her whatsoever. Mr. Rafiel, she thought, had very definitely not meant it to be of any help. He had hadâhow could she put it?âother ideas. All the same, she could not start out into the blue knowing nothing. This could almost be described as a crossword puzzle with no clues given. There would have to be clues. She would have to know what she was wanted to do, where she was wanted to go, whether she was to solve some problem sitting in her armchair and laying aside her knitting needles in order to concentrate better. Or did Mr. Rafiel intend her to take a plane or a boat to the West Indies or to South America or to some other specially directed spot? She would either have to find out for herself what it was she was meant to do, or else she would have to receive definite instructions. He might think she had sufficient ingenuity to guess at things, to ask questions, to find out that way? No, she couldnât quite believe that.

âIf he does think that,â said Miss Marple aloud, âheâs gaga. I mean, he was gaga before he died.â

But she didnât think Mr. Rafiel would have been gaga.

âI shall receive instructions,â said Miss Marple. âBut what instructions and when?â

It was only then that it occurred to her suddenly that without noticing it she had definitely accepted the mandate. She spoke aloud again, addressing the atmosphere.

âI believe in eternal life,â said Miss Marple. âI donât know exactly where you are, Mr. Rafiel, but I have no doubt that you are somewhereâI will do my best to fulfil your wishes.â

II

It was three days later when Miss Marple wrote to Mr. Broadribb. It was a very short letter, keeping strictly to the point.

âDear Mr. Broadribb,

I have considered the suggestion you made to me and I am letting you know that I have decided to accept the proposal made to me by the late Mr. Rafiel. I shall do my best to comply with his wishes, though I am not at all assured of success. Indeed, I hardly see how it is possible for me to be successful. I have been given no direct instructions in his letter and have not beenâI think the term is briefedâin any way. If you have any further communication you are holding for me which sets out definite instructions, I should be glad if you will send it to me, but I imagine that as you have not done so, that is not the case.

I presume that Mr. Rafiel was of sound mind and disposition when he died? I think I am justified in asking if there has been recently in his life any criminal affair in which he might possibly have been interested, either in the course of his business or in his personal relations. Has he ever expressed to you any anger or dissatisfaction with some notable miscarriage of justice about which he felt strongly? If so, I think I should be justified in asking you to let me know about it. Has any relation or connection of his suffered some hardship, lately been the victim of some unjust dealing, or what might be considered as such?

I am sure you will understand my reasons for asking these things. Indeed, Mr. Rafiel himself may have expected me to do so.â

III

Mr. Broadribb showed this to Mr. Schuster, who leaned back in his chair and whistled.

âSheâs going to take it on, is she? Sporting old bean,â he said. Then he added, âI suppose she knows something of what itâs all about, does she?â

âApparently not,â said Mr. Broadribb.

âI wish we did,â said Mr. Schuster. âHe was an odd cuss.â

âA difficult man,â said Mr. Broadribb.

âI havenât got the least idea,â said Mr. Schuster, âhave you?â

âNo, I havenât,â said Mr. Broadribb. He added, âHe didnât want me to have, I suppose.â

âWell, heâs made things a lot more difficult by doing that. I donât see the least chance that some old pussy from the country can interpret a dead manâs brain and know what fantasy was plaguing him. You donât think he was leading her up the garden path? Having her on? Sort of joke, you know. Perhaps he thinks that she thinks sheâs the catâs whiskers at solving village problems, but heâs going to teach her a sharp lessonââ

âNo,â said Mr. Broadribb, âI donât quite think that. Rafiel wasnât that type of man.â

âHe was a mischievous devil sometimes,â said Mr. Schuster.

âYes, but notâI think he was serious over this. Something was worrying him. In fact Iâm quite sure something was worrying him.â

âAnd he didnât tell you what it was or give you the least idea?â

âNo, he didnât.â

âThen how the devil can he expectââ Schuster broke off.

âHe canât really have expected anything to come of this,â said Mr. Broadribb. âI mean, how is she going to set about it?â

âA practical joke, if you ask me.â

âTwenty thousand pounds is a lot of money.â

âYes, but if he knows she canât do it?â

âNo,â said Mr. Broadribb. âHe wouldnât have been as unsporting as all that. He must think sheâs got a chance of doing or finding out whatever it is.â

âAnd what do we do?â

âWait,â said Mr. Broadribb. âWait and see what happens next. After all, there has to be some development.â

âGot some sealed orders somewhere, have you?â

âMy dear Schuster,â said Mr. Broadribb, âMr. Rafiel had implicit trust in my discretion and in my ethical conduct as a lawyer. Those sealed instructions are to be opened only under certain circumstances, none of which has yet arisen.â

âAnd never will,â said Mr. Schuster.

That ended the subject.

IV

Mr. Broadribb and Mr. Schuster were lucky in so much as they had a full professional life to lead. Miss Marple was not so fortunate. She knitted and she reflected and she also went out for walks, occasionally remonstrated with by Cherry for so doing.

âYou know what the doctor said. You werenât to take too much exercise.â

âI walk very slowly,â said Miss Marple, âand I am not doing anything. Digging, I mean, or weeding. I justâwell, I just put one foot in front of the other and wonder about things.â

âWhat things?â asked Cherry, with some interest.

âI wish I knew,â said Miss Marple, and asked Cherry to bring her an extra scarf as there was a chilly wind.

âWhatâs fidgeting her, thatâs what I would like to know,â said Cherry to her husband as she set before him a Chinese plate of rice and a concoction of kidneys. âChinese dinner,â she said.

Her husband nodded approval

âYou get a better cook every day,â he said.

âIâm worried about her,â said Cherry. âIâm worried because sheâs worried a bit. She had a letter and it stirred her all up.â

âWhat she needs is to sit quiet,â said Cherryâs husband. âSit quiet, take it easy, get herself new books from the library, get a friend or two to come and see her.â

âSheâs thinking out something,â said Cherry. âSort of plan. Thinking out how to tackle something, thatâs how I look at it.â

She broke off the conversation at this stage and took in the coffee tray and put it down by Miss Marpleâs side.

âDo you know a woman who lives in a new house somewhere here, sheâs called Mrs. Hastings?â asked Miss Marple. âAnd someone called Miss Bartlett, I think it is, who lives with herââ

âWhatâdo you mean the house thatâs been all done up and repainted at the end of the village? The people there havenât been there very long. I donât know what their names are. Why do you want to know? Theyâre not very interesting. At least I shouldnât say they were.â

âAre they related?â asked Miss Marple.

âNo. Just friends, I think.â

âI wonder whyââ said Miss Marple, and broke off.

âYou wondered why what?â

âNothing,â said Miss Marple. âClear my little hand desk, will you, and give me my pen and the notepaper. Iâm going to write a letter.â

âWho to?â said Cherry, with the natural curiosity of her kind.

âTo a clergymanâs sister,â said Miss Marple. âHis name is Canon Prescott.â

âThatâs the one you met abroad, in the West Indies, isnât it? You showed me his photo in your album.â

âYes.â

âNot feeling bad, are you? Wanting to write to a clergyman and all that?â

âIâm feeling extremely well,â said Miss Marple, âand I am anxious to get busy on something. Itâs just possible Miss Prescott might help.â

âDear Miss Prescott,â wrote Miss Marple, âI hope you have not forgotten me. I met you and your brother in the West Indies, if you remember, at St. HonorÃ©. I hope the dear Canon is well and did not suffer much with his asthma in the cold weather last winter.

I am writing to ask you if you can possibly let me have the address of Mrs. WaltersâEsther Waltersâwhom you may remember from the Caribbean days. She was a secretary to Mr. Rafiel. She did give me her address at the time, but unfortunately I have mislaid it. I was anxious to write to her as I have some horticultural information which she asked me about but which I was not able to tell her at the time. I heard in a roundabout way the other day that she had married again, but I donât think my informant was very certain of these facts. Perhaps you know more about her than I do.

I hope this is not troubling you too much. With kind regards to your brother and best wishes to yourself,

Yours sincerely,

Jane Marple.â

Miss Marple felt better when she had despatched this missive.

âAt least,â she said, âIâve started doing something. Not that I hope much from this, but still it might help.â

Miss Prescott answered the letter almost by return of post. She was a most efficient woman. She wrote a pleasant letter and enclosed the address in question.

âI have not heard anything directly about Esther Walters,â she said, âbut like you I heard from a friend that they had seen a notice of her remarriage. Her name now is, I believe, Mrs. Alderson or Anderson. Her address is Winslow Lodge, near Alton, Hants. My brother sends his best wishes to you. It is sad that we live so far apart. We in the north of England and you south of London. I hope that we may meet on some occasion in the future.

Yours sincerely,

Joan Prescott.â

âWinslow Lodge, Alton,â said Miss Marple, writing it down.

âNot so far away from here, really. No. Not so far away. I couldâI donât know what would be the best methodâpossibly one of Inchâs taxis. Slightly extravagant, but if anything results from it, it could be charged as expenses quite legitimately. Now do I write to her beforehand or do I leave it to chance? I think it would be better really, to leave it to chance. Poor Esther. She could hardly remember me with any affection or kindliness.â

Miss Marple lost herself in a train of thought that arose from her thoughts. It was quite possible that her actions in the Caribbean had saved Esther Walters from being murdered in the not far distant future. At any rate, that was Miss Marpleâs belief, but probably Esther Walters had not believed any such thing. âA nice woman,â said Miss Marple, uttering the words in a soft tone aloud, âa very nice woman. The kind that would so easily marry a bad lot. In fact, the sort of woman that would marry a murderer if she were ever given half a chance. I still consider,â continued Miss Marple thoughtfully, sinking her voice still lower, âthat I probably saved her life. In fact, I am almost sure of it, but I donât think she would agree with that point of view. She probably dislikes me very much. Which makes it more difficult to use her as a source of information. Still, one can but try. Itâs better than sitting here, waiting, waiting, waiting.â

Was Mr. Rafiel perhaps making fun of her when he had written that letter? He was not always a particularly kindly manâhe could be very careless of peopleâs feelings.

âAnyway,â said Miss Marple, glancing at the clock and deciding that she would have an early night in bed, âwhen one thinks of things just before going to sleep, quite often ideas come. It may work out that way.â

V

âSleep well?â asked Cherry, as she put down an early morning tea tray on the table at Miss Marpleâs elbow.

âI had a curious dream,â said Miss Marple.

âNightmare?â

âNo, no, nothing of that kind. I was talking to someone, not anyone I knew very well. Just talking. Then when I looked, I saw it wasnât that person at all I was talking to. It was somebody else. Very odd.â

âBit of a mix up,â said Cherry, helpfully.

âIt just reminded me of something,â said Miss Marple, âor rather of someone I once knew. Order Inch for me, will you? To come here about half past eleven.â

Inch was part of Miss Marpleâs past. Originally the proprietor of a cab, Mr. Inch had died, been succeeded by his son âYoung Inch,â then aged forty-four, who had turned the family business into a garage and acquired two aged cars. On his decease the garage acquired a new owner. There had been since then Pipâs Cars, Jamesâs Taxis and Arthurâs Car Hireâold inhabitants still spoke of Inch.

âNot going to London, are you?â

âNo, Iâm not going to London. I shall have lunch perhaps in Haslemere.â

âNow what are you up to now?â said Cherry, looking at her suspiciously.

âEndeavouring to meet someone by accident and make it seem purely natural,â said Miss Marple. âNot really very easy, but I hope that I can manage it.â

At half past eleven the taxi waited. Miss Marple instructed Cherry.

âRing up this number, will you, Cherry? Ask if Mrs. Anderson is at home. If Mrs. Anderson answers or if she is going to come to the telephone, say a Mr. Broadribb wants to speak to her. You,â said Miss Marple, âare Mr. Broadribbâs secretary. If sheâs out, find out what time she will be in.â

âAnd if she is in and I get her?â

âAsk what day she could arrange to meet Mr. Broadribb at his office in London next week. When she tells you, make a note of it and ring off.â

âThe things you think of! Why all this? Why do you want me to do it?â

âMemory is a curious thing,â said Miss Marple. âSometimes one remembers a voice even if one hasnât heard it for over a year.â

âWell, Mrs. Whatâs-a-name wonât have heard mine at any time, will she?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âThat is why you are making the call.â

Cherry fulfilled her instruction. Mrs. Anderson was out shopping, she learned, but would be in for lunch and all the afternoon.

âWell, that makes things easier,â said Miss Marple. âIs Inch here? Ah yes. Good morning, Edward,â she said, to the present driver of Arthurâs taxis whose actual name was George. âNow this is where I want you to go. It ought not to take, I think, more than an hour and a half.â

The expedition set off.

Four

ESTHER WALTERS

Esther Anderson came out of the Supermarket and went towards where she had parked her car. Parking grew more difficult every day, she thought. She collided with somebody, an elderly woman limping a little who was walking towards her. She apologized, and the other woman made an exclamation.

âWhy, indeed, itâsâsurelyâitâs Mrs. Walters, isnât it? Esther Walters? You donât remember me, I expect. Jane Marple. We met in the hotel in St. HonorÃ©, ohâquite a long time ago. A year and a half.â

âMiss Marple? So it is, of course. Fancy seeing you!â

âHow very nice to see you. I am lunching with some friends near here but I have to pass back through Alton later. Will you be at home this afternoon? I should so like to have a nice chat with you. Itâs so nice to see an old friend.â

âYes, of course. Anytime after 3 oâclock.â

The arrangement was ratified.

âOld Jane Marple,â said Esther Anderson, smiling to herself. âFancy her turning up. I thought sheâd died a long time ago.â

Miss Marple rang the bell of Winslow Lodge at 3:30 precisely. Esther opened the door to her and brought her in.

Miss Marple sat down in the chair indicated to her, fluttering a little in the restless manner that she adopted when slightly flustered. Or at any rate, when she was seeming to be slightly flustered. In this case it was misleading, since things had happened exactly as she had hoped they would happen.

âItâs so nice to see you,â she said to Esther. âSo very nice to see you again. You know, I do think things are so very odd in this world. You hope youâll meet people again and youâre quite sure you will. And then time passes and suddenly itâs all such a surprise.â

âAnd then,â said Esther, âone says itâs a small world, doesnât one?â

âYes, indeed, and I think there is something in that. I mean it does seem a very large world and the West Indies are such a very long way away from England. Well, I mean, of course I might have met you anywhere. In London or at Harrods. On a railway station or in a bus. There are so many possibilities.â

âYes, there are a lot of possibilities,â said Esther. âI certainly shouldnât have expected to meet you just here because this isnât really quite your part of the world, is it?â

âNo. No, it isnât. Not that youâre really so very far from St. Mary Mead where I live. Actually, I think itâs only about twenty-five miles. But twenty-five miles in the country, when one hasnât got a carâand of course I couldnât afford a car, and anyway, I mean, I canât drive a carâso it wouldnât be much to the point, so one really only does see oneâs neighbours on the bus route, or else go by a taxi from the village.â

âYouâre looking wonderfully well,â said Esther.

âI was just going to say you were looking wonderfully well, my dear. I had no idea you lived in this part of the world.â

âI have only done so for a short time. Since my marriage, actually.â

âOh, I didnât know. How interesting. I suppose I must have missed it. I always do look down the marriages.â

âIâve been married four or five months,â said Esther. âMy name is Anderson now.â

âMrs. Anderson,â said Miss Marple. âYes. I must try and remember that. And your husband?â

It would be unnatural, she thought, if she did not ask about the husband. Old maids were notoriously inquisitive.

âHe is an engineer,â said Esther. âHe runs the Time and Motion Branch. He is,â she hesitatedââa little younger than I am.â

âMuch better,â said Miss Marple immediately. âOh, much better, my dear. In these days men age so much quicker than women. I know it used not to be said so, but actually itâs true. I mean, they get more things the matter with them. I think, perhaps, they worry and work too much. And then they get high blood pressure or low blood pressure or sometimes a little heart trouble. Theyâre rather prone to gastric ulcers, too. I donât think we worry so much, you know. I think weâre a tougher sex.â

âPerhaps we are,â said Esther.

She smiled now at Miss Marple, and Miss Marple felt reassured. The last time she had seen Esther, Esther had looked as though she hated her and probably she had hated her at that moment. But now, well now, perhaps, she might even feel slightly grateful. She might have realized that she, herself, might even have been under a stone slab in a respectable churchyard, instead of living a presumably happy life with Mr. Anderson.

âYou look very well,â she said, âand very gay.â

âSo do you, Miss Marple.â

âWell, of course, I am rather older now. And one has so many ailments. I mean, not desperate ones, nothing of that kind, but I mean one has always some kind of rheumatism or some kind of ache and pain somewhere. Oneâs feet are not what one would like feet to be. And thereâs usually oneâs back or a shoulder or painful hands. Oh, dear, one shouldnât talk about these things. What a very nice house you have.â

âYes, we havenât been in it very long. We moved in about four months ago.â

Miss Marple looked round. She had rather thought that that was the case. She thought, too, that when they had moved in they had moved in on quite a handsome scale. The furniture was expensive, it was comfortable, comfortable and just this side of luxury. Good curtains, good covers, no particular artistic taste displayed, but then she would not have expected that. She thought she knew the reason for this appearance of prosperity. She thought it had come about on the strength of the late Mr. Rafielâs handsome legacy to Esther. She was glad to think that Mr. Rafiel had not changed his mind.

âI expect you saw the notice of Mr. Rafielâs death,â said Esther, speaking almost as if she knew what was in Miss Marpleâs mind.

âYes. Yes, indeed I did. It was about a month ago now, wasnât it? I was so sorry. Very distressed really, although, well, I suppose one knewâhe almost admitted it himself, didnât he? He hinted several times that it wouldnât be very long. I think he was quite a brave man about it all, donât you?â

âYes, he was a very brave man, and a very kind one really,â said Esther. âHe told me, you know, when I first worked for him, that he was going to give me a very good salary but that I would have to save out of it because I neednât expect to have anything more from him. Well, I certainly didnât expect to have anything more from him. He was very much a man of his word, wasnât he? But apparently he changed his mind.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âYes. I am very glad of that. I thought perhapsânot that he, of course, said anythingâbut I wondered.â

âHe left me a very big legacy,â said Esther. âA surprisingly large sum of money. It came as a very great surprise. I could hardly believe it at first.â

âI think he wanted it to be a surprise to you. I think he was perhaps that kind of man,â said Miss Marple. She added: âDid he leave anything toâoh, what was his name?âthe man attendant, the nurse-attendant?â

âOh, you mean Jackson? No, he didnât leave anything to Jackson, but I believe he made him some handsome presents in the last year.â

âHave you ever seen anything more of Jackson?â

âNo. No, I donât think Iâve met him once since the time out in the islands. He didnât stay with Mr. Rafiel after they got back to England. I think he went to Lord somebody who lives in Jersey or Guernsey.â

âI would like to have seen Mr. Rafiel again,â said Miss Marple. âIt seems odd after weâd all been mixed up so. He and you and I and some others. And then, later, when Iâd come home, when six months had passedâit occurred to me one day how closely associated we had been in our time of stress, and yet how little I really knew about Mr. Rafiel. I was thinking it only the other day, after Iâd seen the notice of his death. I wished I could know a little more. Where he was born, you know, and his parents. What they were like. Whether he had any children, or nephews or cousins or any family. I would so like to know.â

Esther Anderson smiled slightly. She looked at Miss Marple and her expression seemed to say âYes, Iâm sure you always want to know everything of that kind about everyone you meet.â But she merely said:

âNo, there was really only one thing that everyone did know about him.â

âThat he was very rich,â said Miss Marple immediately. âThatâs what you mean, isnât it? When you know that someone is very rich, somehow, well, you donât ask anymore. I mean you donât ask to know anymore. You say âHe is very richâ or you say âHe is enormously rich,â and your voice just goes down a little because itâs so impressive, isnât it, when you meet someone who is immensely rich.â

Esther laughed slightly.

âHe wasnât married, was he?â asked Miss Marple. âHe never mentioned a wife.â

âHe lost his wife many years ago. Quite soon after they were married, I believe. I believe she was much younger than he wasâI think she died of cancer. Very sad.â

âHad he children?â

âOh yes, two daughters, and a son. One daughter is married and lives in America. The other daughter died young, I believe. I met the American one once. She wasnât at all like her father. Rather a quiet, depressed looking young woman.â She added, âMr. Rafiel never spoke about the son. I rather think that there had been trouble there. A scandal or something of that kind. I believe he died some years ago. Anywayâhis father never mentioned him.â

âOh dear. That was very sad.â

âI think it happened quite a long time ago. I believe he took off for somewhere or other abroad and never came backâdied out there, wherever it was.â

âWas Mr. Rafiel very upset about it?â

âOne wouldnât know with him,â said Esther. âHe was the kind of man who would always decide to cut his losses. If his son turned out to be unsatisfactory, a burden instead of a blessing, I think he would just shrug the whole thing off. Do what was necessary perhaps in the way of sending him money for support, but never thinking of him again.â

âOne wonders,â said Miss Marple. âHe never spoke of him or said anything?â

âIf you remember, he was a man who never said anything much about personal feelings or his own life.â

âNo. No, of course not. But I thought perhaps, you having beenâwell, his secretary for so many years, that he might have confided any troubles to you.â

âHe was not a man for confiding troubles,â said Esther. âIf he had any, which I rather doubt. He was wedded to his business, one might say. He was father to his business and his business was the only kind of son or daughter that he had that mattered, I think. He enjoyed it all, investment, making money. Business coupsââ

âCall no man happy until he is deadââ murmured Miss Marple, repeating the words in the manner of one pronouncing them as a kind of slogan, which indeed they appeared to be in these days, or so she would have said.

âSo there was nothing especially worrying him, was there, before his death?â

âNo. Why should you think so?â Esther sounded surprised.

âWell, I didnât actually think so,â said Miss Marple, âI just wondered because things do worry people more when they areâI wonât say getting oldâbecause he really wasnât old, but I mean things worry you more when you are laid up and canât do as much as you did and have to take things easy. Then worries just come into your mind and make themselves felt.â

âYes, I know what you mean,â said Esther. âBut I donât think Mr. Rafiel was like that. Anyway,â she added, âI ceased being his secretary some time ago. Two or three months after I met Edmund.â

âAh yes. Your husband. Mr. Rafiel must have been very upset at losing you.â

âOh I donât think so,â said Esther lightly. âHe was not one who would be upset over that sort of thing. Heâd immediately get another secretaryâwhich he did. And then if she didnât suit him heâd just get rid of her with a kindly golden handshake and get somebody else, till he found somebody who suited him. He was an intensely sensible man always.â

âYes. Yes, I can see that. Though he could lose his temper very easily.â

âOh, he enjoyed losing his temper,â said Esther. âIt made a bit of drama for him, I think.â

âDrama,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully. âDo you thinkâI have often wonderedâdo you think that Mr. Rafiel had any particular interest in criminology, the study of it, I mean? Heâwell, I donât knowâ¦.â

âYou mean because of what happened in the Caribbean?â Estherâs voice had gone suddenly hard.

Miss Marple felt doubtful of going on, and yet she must somehow or other try and get a little helpful knowledge.

âWell, no, not because of that, but afterwards, perhaps, he wondered about the psychology of these things. Or he got interested in the cases where justice had not been administered properly orâoh, wellâ¦.â

She sounded more scatty every minute.

âWhy should he take the least interest in anything of that kind? And donât letâs talk about that horrible business in St. HonorÃ©.â

âOh no, I think you are quite right. Iâm sure Iâm very sorry. I was just thinking of some of the things that Mr. Rafiel sometimes said. Queer turns of phrase, sometimes, and I just wondered if he had any theories, you know â¦ about the causes of crime?â

âHis interests were always entirely financial,â said Esther shortly. âA really clever swindle of a criminal kind might have interested him, nothing elseââ

She was looking coldly still at Miss Marple.

âI am sorry,â said Miss Marple apologetically. âIâI shouldnât have talked about distressing matters that are fortunately past. And I must be getting on my way,â she added. âI have got my train to catch and I shall only just have time. Oh dear, what did I do with my bagâoh yes, here it is.â

She collected her bag, umbrella and a few other things, fussing away until the tension had slightly abated. As she went out of the door, she turned to Esther who was urging her to stay and have a cup of tea.

âNo thank you, my dear, Iâm so short of time. Iâm very pleased to have seen you again and I do offer my best congratulations and hopes for a very happy life. I donât suppose you will be taking up any post again now, will you?â

âOh, some people do. They find it interesting, they say. They get bored when they have nothing to do. But I think I shall rather enjoy living a life of leisure. I shall enjoy my legacy, too, that Mr. Rafiel left me. It was very kind of him and I think heâd want meâwell, to enjoy it even if I spent it in what heâd think of perhaps as a rather silly, female way! Expensive clothes and a new hairdo and all that. Heâd have thought that sort of thing very silly.â She added suddenly, âI was fond of him, you know. Yes, I was quite fond of him. I think it was because he was a sort of challenge to me. He was difficult to get on with, and therefore I enjoyed managing it.â

âAnd managing him?â

âWell, not quite managing him, but perhaps a little more than he knew I was.â

Miss Marple trotted away down the road. She looked back once and waved her handâEsther Anderson was still standing on the doorstep, and she waved back cheerfully.

âI thought this might have been something to do with her or something she knew about,â said Miss Marple to herself. âI think Iâm wrong. No. I donât think sheâs concerned in this business, whatever it is, in any way. Oh dear, I feel Mr. Rafiel expected me to be much cleverer than I am being. I think he expected me to put things togetherâbut what things? And what do I do next, I wonder?â She shook her head.

She had to think over things very carefully. This business had been, as it were, left to her. Left to her to refuse, to accept, to understand what it was all about? Or not understand anything, but to go forward and hope that some kind of guidance might be given to her. Occasionally she closed her eyes and tried to picture Mr. Rafielâs face. Sitting in the garden of the hotel in the West Indies, in his tropical suit; his bad-tempered corrugated face, his flashes of occasional humour. What she really wanted to know was what had been in his mind when he worked up this scheme, when he set out to bring it about. To lure her into accepting it, to persuade her to accept it, toâwell, perhaps one should sayâto bully her into accepting it. The third was much the most likely, knowing Mr. Rafiel. And yet, take it that he had wanted something done and he had chosen her, settled upon her to do it. Why? Because she had suddenly come into his mind? But why should she have come into his mind?

She thought back to Mr. Rafiel and the things that had occurred at St. HonorÃ©. Had perhaps the problem he had been considering at the time of his death sent his mind back to that visit to the West Indies? Was it in some way connected with someone who had been out there, who had taken part or been an onlooker there and was that what had put Miss Marple into his mind? Was there some link or some connection? If not, why should he suddenly think of her? What was it about her that could make her useful to him, in any way at all? She was an elderly, rather scatty, quite ordinary person, physically not very strong, mentally not nearly as alert as she used to be. What had been her special qualifications, if any? She couldnât think of any. Could it possibly have been a bit of fun on Mr. Rafielâs part? Even if Mr. Rafiel had been on the point of death he might have wanted to have some kind of joke that suited his peculiar sense of humour.

She could not deny that Mr. Rafiel could quite possibly wish to have a joke, even on his deathbed. Some ironical humour of his might be satisfied.

âI must,â said Miss Marple to herself firmly, âI must have some qualification for something.â After all, since Mr. Rafiel was no longer in this world, he could not enjoy his joke at firsthand. What qualifications had she got? âWhat qualities have I got that could be useful to anyone for anything?â said Miss Marple.

She considered herself with proper humility. She was inquisitive, she asked questions, she was the sort of age and type that could be expected to ask questions. That was one point, a possible point. You could send a private detective round to ask questions, or some psychological investigator, but it was true that you could much more easily send an elderly lady with a habit of snooping and being inquisitive, of talking too much, of wanting to find out about things, and it would seem perfectly natural.

âAn old pussy,â said Miss Marple to herself. âYes, I can see Iâm quite recognizable as an old pussy. There are so many old pussies, and theyâre all so much alike. And, of course, yes, Iâm very ordinary. An ordinary rather scatty old lady. And that of course is very good camouflage. Dear me, I wonder if Iâm thinking on the right lines. I do, sometimes, know what people are like. I mean, I know what people are like, because they remind me of certain other people I have known. So I know some of their faults and some of their virtues. I know what kind of people they are. Thereâs that.â

She thought again of St. HonorÃ© and the Hotel of the Golden Palm. She had made one attempt to enquire into the possibilities of a link, by her visit to Esther Walters. That had been definitely nonproductive, Miss Marple decided. There didnât seem any further link leading from there. Nothing that would tie up with his request that Miss Marple should busy herself with something, the nature of which she still had no idea!

âDear me,â said Miss Marple, âwhat a tiresome man you are, Mr. Rafiel!â She said it aloud and there was definite reproach in her voice.

Later, however, as she climbed into bed and applied her cosy hot water bottle to the most painful portion of her rheumatic back, she spoke againâin what might be taken as a semi-apology.

âIâve done the best I could,â she said.

She spoke aloud with the air of addressing one who might easily be in the room. It is true he might be anywhere, but even then there might be some telepathic or telephonic communication, and if so, she was going to speak definitely and to the point.

âIâve done all I could. The best according to my limitations, and I must now leave it up to you.â

With that she settled herself more comfortably, stretched out a hand, switched off the electric light, and went to sleep.

Five

INSTRUCTIONS FROM BEYOND

I

It was some three or four days later that a communication arrived by the second post. Miss Marple picked up the letter, did what she usually did to letters, turned it over, looked at the stamp, looked at the handwriting, decided that it wasnât a bill and opened it. It was typewritten.

âDear Miss Marple,

By the time you read this I shall be dead and also buried. Not cremated, I am glad to think. It has always seemed to me unlikely that one would manage to rise up from oneâs handsome bronze vase full of ashes and haunt anyone if one wanted so to do! Whereas the idea of rising from oneâs grave and haunting anyone is quite possible. Shall I want to do that? Who knows. I might even want to communicate with you.

By now my solicitors will have communicated with you and will have put a certain proposition before you. I hope you will have accepted it. If you have not accepted it, donât feel in the least remorseful. It will be your choice.

This should reach you, if my solicitors have done what they were told to do, and if the posts have done the duty they are expected to perform, on the 11th of the month. In two days from now you will receive a communication from a travel bureau in London. I hope what it proposes will not be distasteful to you. I neednât say more. I want you to have an open mind. Take care of yourself. I think you will manage to do that. You are a very shrewd person. The best of luck and may your guardian angel be at your side looking after you. You may need one.

Your affectionate friend,

J. B. Rafiel.â

âTwo days!â said Miss Marple.

She found it difficult to pass the time. The Post Office did their duty and so did the Famous Houses and Gardens of Great Britain.

âDear Miss Jane Marple,

Obeying instructions given us by the late Mr. Rafiel we send you particulars of our Tour No. 37 of the Famous Houses and Gardens of Great Britain which starts from London on Thursday nextâthe 17th.

If it should be possible for you to come to our office in London, our Mrs. Sandbourne who is to accompany the tour, will be very glad to give you all particulars and to answer all questions.

Our tours last for a period of two to three weeks. This particular tour, Mr. Rafiel thinks, will be particularly acceptable to you as it will visit a part of England which as far as he knows you have not yet visited, and takes in some really very attractive scenery and gardens. He has arranged for you to have the best accommodation and all the luxury available that we can provide.

Perhaps you will let us know which day would suit you to visit our office in Berkeley Street?â

Miss Marple folded up the letter, put it in her bag, noted the telephone number, thought of a few friends whom she knew, rang up two of them, one of whom had been for tours with the Famous Houses and Gardens, and spoke highly of them, the other one had not been personally on a tour but had friends who had travelled with this particular firm and who said everything was very well done, though rather expensive, and not too exhausting for the elderly. She then rang up the Berkeley Street number and said she would call upon them on the following Tuesday.

The next day she spoke to Cherry on the subject.

âI may be going away, Cherry,â she said. âOn a Tour.â

âA Tour?â said Cherry. âOne of these travel tours? You mean a package tour abroad?â

âNot abroad. In this country,â said Miss Marple. âMainly visiting historic buildings and gardens.â

âDo you think itâs all right to do that at your age? These things can be very tiring, you know. You have to walk miles sometimes.â

âMy health is really very good,â said Miss Marple, âand I have always heard that in these tours they are careful to provide restful intervals for such people who are not particularly strong.â

âWell, be careful of yourself, thatâs all,â said Cherry. âWe donât want you falling down with a heart attack, even if you are looking at a particularly sumptuous fountain or something. Youâre a bit old, you know, to do this sort of thing. Excuse me saying it, it sounds rude, but I donât like to think of you passing out because youâve done too much or anything like that.â

âI can take care of myself,â said Miss Marple, with some dignity.

âAll right, but you just be careful,â said Cherry.

Miss Marple packed a suitcase bag, went to London, booked a room at a modest hotelâ(âAh, Bertramâs Hotel,â she thought in her mind, âwhat a wonderful hotel that was! Oh dear, I must forget all those things, the St. George is quite a pleasant place.â) At the appointed time she was at Berkeley Street and was shown in to the office where a pleasant woman of about thirty-five rose to meet her, explained that her name was Mrs. Sandbourne and that she would be in personal charge of this particular tour.

âAm I to understand,â said Miss Marple, âthat this trip is in my caseââ she hesitated.

Mrs. Sandbourne, sensing slight embarrassment, said:

âOh yes, I ought to have explained perhaps better in the letter we sent you. Mr. Rafiel has paid all expenses.â

âYou do know that he is dead?â said Miss Marple.

âOh yes, but this was arranged before his death. He mentioned that he was in ill health but wanted to provide a treat for a very old friend of his who had not had the opportunity of travelling as much as she could have wished.â

II

Two days later, Miss Marple, carrying her small overnight bag, her new and smart suitcase surrendered to the driver, had boarded a most comfortable and luxurious coach which was taking a north-westerly route out of London; she was studying the passenger list which was attached to the inside of a handsome brochure giving details of the daily itinerary of the coach, and various information as to hotels and meals, places to be seen, and occasional alternatives on some days which, although the fact was not stressed, actually intimated that one choice of itinerary was for the young and active and that the other choice would be peculiarly suitable for the elderly, those whose feet hurt them, who suffered from arthritis or rheumatism and who would prefer to sit about and not walk long distances or up too many hills. It was all very tactful and well arranged.

Miss Marple read the passenger list and surveyed her fellow passengers. There was no difficulty about doing this because the other fellow passengers were doing much the same themselves. They were surveying her, amongst others, but nobody as far as Miss Marple could notice was taking any particular interest in her.

Mrs. Riseley-Porter

Miss Joanna Crawford

Colonel and Mrs. Walker

Mr. and Mrs. H. T. Butler

Miss Elizabeth Temple

Professor Wanstead

Mr. Richard Jameson

Miss Lumley

Miss Bentham

Mr. Casper

Miss Cooke

Miss Barrow

Mr. Emlyn Price

Miss Jane Marple

There were four elderly ladies. Miss Marple took note of them first so, as it were, to clear them out of the way. Two were travelling together. Miss Marple put them down as about seventy. They could roughly be considered as contemporaries of her own. One of them was very definitely the complaining type, one who would want to have seats at the front of the coach or else would make a point of having them at the back of the coach. Would wish to sit on the sunny-side or could only bear to sit on the shady side. Who would want more fresh air, or less fresh air. They had with them travelling rugs and knitted scarves and quite an assortment of guidebooks. They were slightly crippled and often in pain from feet or backs or knees but were nevertheless of those whom age and ailments could not prevent from enjoying life while they still had it. Old pussies, but definitely not stay-at-home old pussies. Miss Marple made an entry in the little book she carried.

Fifteen passengers not including herself, or Mrs. Sandbourne. And since she had been sent on this coach tour, one at least of those fifteen passengers must be of importance in some way. Either as a source of information or someone concerned with the law or a law case, or it might even be a murderer. A murderer who might have already killed or one who might be preparing to kill. Anything was possible, Miss Marple thought, with Mr. Rafiel! Anyway, she must make notes of these people.

On the right-hand page of her notebook, she would note down who might be worthy of attention from Mr. Rafielâs point of view and on the left she would note down or cross off those who could only be of any interest if they could produce some useful information for her. Information, it might be, that they did not even know they possessed. Or rather that even if they possessed it, they did not know it could possibly be useful to her or to Mr. Rafiel or to the law or to Justice with a capital âJ.â At the back of her little book, she might this evening make a note or two as to whether anyone had reminded her of characters she had known in the past at St. Mary Mead and other places. Any similarities might make a useful pointer. It had done so on other occasions.

The other two elderly ladies were apparently separate travellers. Both of them were about sixty. One was a well-preserved, well-dressed woman of obvious social importance in her own mind, but probably in other peopleâs minds as well. Her voice was loud and dictatorial. She appeared to have in tow a niece, a girl of about eighteen or nineteen who addressed her as Aunt Geraldine. The niece, Miss Marple noted, was obviously well accustomed to coping with Aunt Geraldineâs bossiness. She was a competent girl as well as being an attractive one.

Across the aisle from Miss Marple was a big man with square shoulders and a clumsy-looking body, looking as though he had been carelessly assembled by an ambitious child out of chunky bricks. His face looked as though nature had planned it to be round but the face had rebelled at this and decided to achieve a square effect by developing a powerful jaw. He had a thick head of greyish hair and enormous bushy eyebrows which moved up and down to give point to what he was saying. His remarks seemed mainly to come out in a series of barks as though he was a talkative sheepdog. He shared his seat with a tall dark foreigner who moved restlessly in his seat and gesticulated freely. He spoke a most peculiar English, making occasional remarks in French and German. The bulky man seemed quite capable of meeting these onslaughts of foreign language, and shifted obligingly to either French or German. Taking a quick glance at them again, Miss Marple decided that the bushy eyebrows must be Professor Wanstead and the excitable foreigner was Mr. Caspar.

She wondered what it was they were discussing with such animation, but was baffled by the rapidity and force of Mr. Casparâs delivery.

The seat in front of them was occupied by the other woman of about sixty, a tall woman, possibly over sixty, but a woman who would have stood out in a crowd anywhere. She was still a very handsome woman with dark grey hair coiled high on her head, drawn back from a fine forehead. She had a low, clear, incisive voice. A personality, Miss Marple thought. Someone! Yes, she was decidedly someone. âReminds me,â she thought to herself, âof Dame Emily Waldron.â Dame Emily Waldron had been the Principal of an Oxford College and a notable scientist, and Miss Marple, having once met her in her nephewâs company, had never quite forgotten her.

Miss Marple resumed her survey of the passengers. There were two married couples, one American, middle-aged, amiable, a talkative wife and a placidly agreeing husband. They were obviously dedicated travellers and sightseers. There was also an English middle-aged couple whom Miss Marple noted down without hesitation as a retired military man and wife. She ticked them off from the list as Colonel and Mrs. Walker.

In the seat behind her was a tall, thin man of about thirty with a highly technical vocabulary, clearly an architect. There were also two middle-aged ladies travelling together rather further up the coach. They were discussing the brochure and deciding what the tour was going to hold for them in the way of attractions. One was dark and thin and the other was fair and sturdily built and the latterâs face seemed faintly familiar to Miss Marple. She wondered where she had seen or met her before. However, she could not recall the occasion to mind. Possibly someone she had met at a cocktail party or sat opposite to in a train. There was nothing very special about her to remember.

Only one more passenger remained for her to appraise, and this was a young man, possibly of about nineteen or twenty. He wore the appropriate clothes for his age and sex; tight black jeans, a polo-necked purple sweater and his head was an outsize rich mop of non-disciplined black hair. He was looking with an air of interest at the bossy womanâs niece, and the bossy womanâs niece also, Miss Marple thought, was looking with some interest at him. In spite of the preponderance of elderly pussies and middle-aged females there were, at any rate, two young people among the passengers.

They stopped for lunch at a pleasant riverside hotel, and the afternoon sightseeing was given over to Blenheim. Miss Marple had already visited Blenheim twice before, so she saved her feet by limiting the amount of sightseeing indoors and coming fairly soon to the enjoyment of the gardens and the beautiful view.

By the time they arrived at the hotel where they were to stay the night, the passengers were getting to know each other. The efficient Mrs. Sandbourne, still brisk and unwearied by her duties in directing the sightseeing, did her part very well; creating little groups by adding anyone who looked as if they were left out to one or other of them, murmuring, âYou must make Colonel Walker describe his garden to you. Such a wonderful collection of fuchsias he has.â With such little sentences she drew people together.

Miss Marple was now able to attach names to all the passengers. Bushy eyebrows turned out to be Professor Wanstead, as she had thought, and the foreigner was Mr. Caspar. The bossy woman was Mrs. Riseley-Porter and her niece was called Joanna Crawford. The young man with the hair was Emlyn Price and he and Joanna Crawford appeared to be finding out that certain things in life, such as decided opinions, they had in common, on economics, art, general dislikes, politics and such topics.

The two eldest pussies graduated naturally to Miss Marple as a kindred elderly pussy. They discussed happily arthritis, rheumatism, diets, new doctors, remedies both professional, patent, and reminiscences of old wivesâ treatments which had had success where all else failed. They discussed the many tours they had been on to foreign places in Europe; hotels, travel agencies and finally the County of Somerset where Miss Lumley and Miss Bentham lived, and where the difficulties of getting suitable gardeners could hardly be believed.

The two middle-aged ladies travelling together turned out to be Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow. Miss Marple still felt that one of these two, the fair one, Miss Cooke, was faintly familiar to her, but she still could not remember where she had seen her before. Probably it was only her fancy. It might also be just fancy but she could not help feeling that Miss Barrow and Miss Cooke appeared to be avoiding her. They seemed rather anxious to move away if she approached. That, of course, might be entirely her imagination.

Fifteen people, one of whom at least must matter in some way. In casual conversation that evening she introduced the name of Mr. Rafiel, so as to note if anyone reacted in any way. Nobody did.

The handsome woman was identified as Miss Elizabeth Temple, who was the retired Headmistress of a famous girlsâ school. Nobody appeared to Miss Marple likely to be a murderer except possibly Mr. Caspar, and that was probably foreign prejudice. The thin young man was Richard Jameson, an architect.

âPerhaps I shall do better tomorrow,â said Miss Marple to herself.

III

Miss Marple went to bed definitely tired out. Sightseeing was pleasant but exhausting, and trying to study fifteen or sixteen people at once and wondering as you did so which of them could possibly be connected with a murder, was even more exhausting. It had a touch of such unreality about it that one could not, Miss Marple felt, take it seriously. These seemed to be all perfectly nice people, the sort of people who go on cruises and on tours and all the rest of it. However, she took another quick and cursory glance at the passenger list, making a few little entries in her notebook.

Mrs. Riseley-Porter? Not connected with crime. Too social and self-centred.

Niece, Joanna Crawford? The same? But very efficient.

Mrs. Riseley-Porter, however, might have information of some kind which Miss Marple might find had a bearing on matters. She must keep on agreeable terms with Mrs. Riseley-Porter.

Miss Elizabeth Temple? A personality. Interesting. She did not remind Miss Marple of any murderer sheâd ever known. âIn fact,â said Miss Marple to herself, âshe really radiates integrity. If she had committed a murder, it would be a very popular murder. Perhaps for some noble reason or for some reason that she thought noble?â But that wasnât satisfactory either. Miss Temple, she thought, would always know what she was doing and why she was doing it and would not have any silly ideas about nobility when merely evil existed. âAll the same,â said Miss Marple, âsheâs someone and she mightâshe just might be a person Mr. Rafiel wanted me to meet for some reason.â She jotted down these thoughts on the right-hand side of her notebook.

She shifted her point of view. She had been considering a possible murdererâwhat about a prospective victim? Who was a possible victim? No one very likely. Perhaps Mrs. Riseley-Porter might qualifyârichârather disagreeable. The efficient niece might inherit. She and the anarchistic Emlyn Price might combine in the cause of anticapitalism. Not a very credible idea, but no other feasible murder seemed on offer.

Professor Wanstead? An interesting man, she was sure. Kindly, too. Was he a scientist or was he medical? She was not as yet sure, but she put him down on the side of science. She herself knew nothing of science, but it seemed not at all unlikely.

Mr. and Mrs. Butler? She wrote them off. Nice Americans. No connections with anyone in the West Indies or anyone she had known. No, she didnât think that the Butlers could be relevant.

Richard Jameson? That was the thin architect. Miss Marple didnât see how architecture could come into it, though it might, she supposed. A priestâs hole, perhaps? One of the houses they were going to visit might have a priestâs hole which would contain a skeleton. And Mr. Jameson, being an architect, would know just where the priestâs hole was. He might aid her to discover it, or she might aid him to discover it and then they would find a body. âOh really,â said Miss Marple. âWhat nonsense I am talking and thinking.â

Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow? A perfectly ordinary pair. And yet sheâd certainly seen one of them before. At least sheâd seen Miss Cooke before. Oh well, it would come to her, she supposed.

Colonel and Mrs. Walker? Nice people. Retired Army folk. Served abroad mostly. Nice to talk to, but she didnât think thereâd be anything for her there.

Miss Bentham and Miss Lumley? The elderly pussies. Unlikely to be criminals, but, being elderly pussies, they might know plenty of gossip, or have some information, or might make some illuminating remark even if it happened to come about in connection with rheumatism, arthritis or patent medicine.

Mr. Caspar? Possibly a dangerous character. Very excitable. She would keep him on the list for the present.

Emlyn Price? A student presumably. Students were very violent. Would Mr. Rafiel have sent her on the track of a student? Well, it would depend perhaps on what the student had done or wished to do or was going to do. A dedicated anarchist, perhaps.

âOh dear,â said Miss Marple, suddenly exhausted, âI must go to bed.â

Her feet ached, her back ached and her mental reactions were not, she thought, at their best. She slept at once. Her sleep was enlivened by several dreams.

One where Professor Wansteadâs bushy eyebrows fell off because they were not his own eyebrows, but false ones. As she woke again, her first impression was that which so often follows dreams, a belief that the dream in question had solved everything. âOf course,â she thought, âof course!â His eyebrows were false and that solved the whole thing. He was the criminal.

Sadly, it came to her that nothing was solved. Professor Wansteadâs eyebrows coming off was of no help at all.

Unfortunately now, she was no longer sleepy. She sat up in bed with some determination.

She sighed and slipped on her dressing gown, moved from her bed to an upright chair, took a slightly larger notebook from her suitcase and started work.

âThe project I have undertaken,â she wrote, âis connected certainly with crime of some kind. Mr. Rafiel has distinctly stated that in his letter. He said I had a flair for justice and that necessarily included a flair for crime. So crime is involved, and it is presumably not espionage or fraud or robbery, because such things have never come my way and I have no connection with such things, or knowledge of them, or special skills. What Mr. Rafiel knows of me is only what he knew during the period of time when we were both in St. HonorÃ©. We were connected there with a murder. Murders as reported in the press have never claimed my attention. I have never read books on criminology as a subject or really been interested in such a thing. No, it has just happened that I have found myself in the vicinity of murder rather more often than would seem normal. My attention has been directed to murders involving friends or acquaintances. These curious coincidences of connections with special subjects seem to happen to people in life. One of my aunts, I remember, was on five occasions shipwrecked and a friend of mine was what I believe is officially called accident-prone. I know some of her friends refused to ride in a taxi with her. She had been in four taxi accidents and three car accidents and two railway accidents. Things like this seem to happen to certain people for no appreciable reason. I do not like to write it down but it does appear that murders seem to happen, not to me myself, thank goodness, but seem to happen in my vicinity.â

Miss Marple paused, changed her position, put a cushion in her back, and continued:

âI must try to make as logical a survey as I can of this project which I have undertaken. My instructions, or my âbriefingâ as naval friends of mine put it, are so far quite inadequate. Practically nonexistent. So I must ask myself one clear question. What is all this about? Answer! I do not know. Curious and interesting. An odd way for a man like Mr. Rafiel to go about things, especially when he was a successful business and financial operator. He wants me to guess, to employ my instinct, to observe and to obey such directions as are given to me or are hinted to me.

âSo: Point 1. Direction will be given me. Direction from a dead man. Point 2. What is involved in my problem is justice. Either to set right an injustice or to avenge evil by bringing it to justice. This is in accord with the code word Nemesis given to me by Mr. Rafiel.

âAfter explanations of the principle involved, I received my first factual directive. It was arranged by Mr. Rafiel before his death that I was to go on Tour No. 37 of Famous Houses and Gardens. Why? That is what I have to ask myself. Is it for some geographical or territorial reason? A connection or a clue? Some particular famous house? Or something involving some particular garden or landscape connected? This seems unlikely. The more likely explanation lies in the people or one of the people on this particular coach party. None of them is known to me personally, but one of them at least must be connected with the riddle I have to solve. Somebody among our group is connected or concerned with a murder. Somebody has information or a special link with the victim of a crime, or someone personally is himself or herself a murderer. A murderer as yet unsuspected.â

Miss Marple stopped here suddenly. She nodded her head. She was satisfied now with her analysis so far as it went.

And so to bed.

Miss Marple added to her notebook.

âHere endeth the First Day.â

Six

LOVE

The following morning they visited a small Queen Anne Manor House. The drive there had not been very long or tiring. It was a very charming-looking house and had an interesting history as well as a very beautiful and unusually laid out garden.

Richard Jameson, the architect, was full of admiration for the structural beauty of the house and being the kind of young man who is fond of hearing his own voice, he slowed down in nearly every room that they went through, pointing out every special moulding of fireplace, and giving historical dates and references. Some of the group, appreciative at first, began to get slightly restive, as the somewhat monotonous lecturing went on. Some of them began to edge carefully away and fall behind the party. The local caretaker, who was in charge, was not himself too pleased at having his occupation usurped by one of the sightseers. He made a few efforts to get matters back into his own hands but Mr. Jameson was unyielding. The caretaker made a last try.

âIn this room, ladies and gentlemen, the White Parlour, folks call it, is where they found a body. A young man it was, stabbed with a dagger, lying on the hearthrug. Way back in seventeen hundred and something it was. It was said that the Lady Moffat of that day had a lover. He came through a small side door and up a steep staircase to this room through a loose panel there was to the left of the fireplace. Sir Richard Moffat, her husband, you see, was said to be across the seas in the Low Countries. But he come home, and in he came unexpectedly and caught âem there together.â

He paused proudly. He was pleased at the response from his audience, glad of a respite from the architectural details which they had been having forced down their throats.

âWhy, isnât that just too romantic, Henry?â said Mrs. Butler in her resonant transatlantic tones. âWhy, you know, thereâs quite an atmosphere in this room. I feel it. I certainly can feel it.â

âMamie is very sensitive to atmospheres,â said her husband proudly to those around him. âWhy, once when we were in an old house down in Louisianaâ¦.â

The narrative of Mamieâs special sensitivity got into its swing and Miss Marple and one or two others seized their opportunity to edge gently out of the room and down the exquisitely moulded staircase to the ground floor.

âA friend of mine,â said Miss Marple to Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow who were next to her, âhad a most nerve-racking experience only a few years ago. A dead body on their library floor one morning.â

âOne of the family?â asked Miss Barrow. âAn epileptic fit?â

âOh no, it was a murder. A strange girl in evening dress. A blonde. But her hair was dyed. She was really a brunette; andâoh â¦â Miss Marple broke off, her eyes fixed on Miss Cookeâs yellow hair where it escaped from her headscarf.

It had come to her suddenly. She knew why Miss Cookeâs face was familiar and she knew where she had seen her before. But when she had seen her then, Miss Cookeâs hair had been darkâalmost black. And now it was bright yellow.

Mrs. Riseley-Porter, coming down the stairs, spoke decisively as she pushed past them and completed the staircase and turned into the hall.

âI really cannot go up and down anymore of those stairs,â she declared, âand standing around in these rooms is very tiring. I believe the gardens here, although not extensive, are quite celebrated in horticultural circles. I suggest we go there without loss of time. It looks as though it might cloud over before long. I think we shall get rain before morning is out.â

The authority with which Mrs. Riseley-Porter could enforce her remarks had its usual result. All those near at hand or within hearing followed her obediently out through french doors in the dining room into the garden. The gardens had indeed all that Mrs. Riseley-Porter had claimed for them. She herself took possession firmly of Colonel Walker and set off briskly. Some of the others followed them, others took paths in the opposite direction.

Miss Marple herself made a determined beeline for a garden seat which appeared to be of comfortable proportions as well as of artistic merit. She sank down on it with relief, and a sigh matching her own was emitted by Miss Elizabeth Temple as she followed Miss Marple and came to sit beside her on the seat.

âGoing over houses is always tiring,â said Miss Temple. âThe most tiring thing in the world. Especially if you have to listen to an exhaustive lecture in each room.â

âOf course, all that we were told is very interesting,â said Miss Marple, rather doubtfully.

âOh, do you think so?â said Miss Temple. Her head turned slightly and her eyes met those of Miss Marple. Something passed between the two women, a kind of rapportâof understanding tinged with mirth.

âDonât you?â asked Miss Marple.

âNo,â said Miss Temple.

This time the understanding was definitely established between them. They sat there companionably in silence. Presently Elizabeth Temple began to talk about gardens, and this garden in particular. âIt was designed by Holman,â she said, âsomewhere about 1800 or 1798. He died young. A pity. He had great genius.â

âIt is so sad when anyone dies young,â said Miss Marple.

âI wonder,â said Elizabeth Temple.

She said it in a curious, meditative way.

âBut they miss so much,â said Miss Marple. âSo many things.â

âOr escape so much,â said Miss Temple.

âBeing as old as I am now,â said Miss Marple, âI suppose I canât help feeling that early death means missing things.â

âAnd I,â said Elizabeth Temple, âhaving spent nearly all my life amongst the young, look at life as a period in time complete in itself. What did T. S. Eliot say: The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew tree are of equal duration.â

Miss Marple said, âI see what you mean â¦ A life of whatever length is a complete experience. But donât youââ she hesitated, ââever feel that a life could be incomplete because it has been cut unduly short?â

âYes, that is so.â

Miss Marple said, looking at the flowers near her, âHow beautiful peonies are. That long border of themâso proud and yet so beautifully fragile.â

Elizabeth Temple turned her head towards her.

âDid you come on this trip to see the houses or to see gardens?â she asked.

âI suppose really to see the houses,â said Miss Marple. âI shall enjoy the gardens most, though, but the housesâthey will be a new experience for me. Their variety and their history, and the beautiful old furniture and the pictures.â She added: âA kind friend gave me this trip as a gift. I am very grateful. I have not seen very many big and famous houses in my life.â

âA kind thought,â said Miss Temple.

âDo you often go on these sightseeing tours?â asked Miss Marple.

âNo. This is not for me exactly a sightseeing tour.â

Miss Marple looked at her with interest. She half opened her lips to speak but refrained from putting a question. Miss Temple smiled at her.

âYou wonder why I am here, what my motive is, my reason. Well, why donât you make a guess?â

âOh, I wouldnât like to do that,â said Miss Marple.

âYes, do do so.â Elizabeth Temple was urgent. âIt would interest me. Yes, really interest me. Make a guess.â

Miss Marple was silent for quite a few moments. Her eyes looked at Elizabeth Temple steadily, ranging over her thoughtfully in her appraisement. She said,

âThis is not from what I know about you or what I have been told about you. I know that you are quite a famous person and that your school is a very famous one. No. I am only making my guess from what you look like. I shouldâwrite you down as a pilgrim. You have the look of one who is on a pilgrimage.â

There was a silence and then Elizabeth said,

âThat describes it very well. Yes. I am on a pilgrimage.â

Miss Marple said after a moment or two,

âThe friend who sent me on this tour and paid all my expenses, is now dead. He was a Mr. Rafiel, a very rich man. Did you by any chance know him?â

âJason Rafiel? I know him by name, of course. I never knew him personally, or met him. He gave a large endowment once to an educational project in which I was interested. I was very grateful. As you say, he was a very wealthy man. I saw the notice of his death in the papers a few weeks ago. So he was an old friend of yours?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âI had met him just over a year ago abroad. In the West Indies. I never knew much about him. His life or his family or any personal friends that he had. He was a great financier but otherwise, or so people always said, he was a man who was very reserved about himself. Did you know his family or anyone â¦?â Miss Marple paused. âI often wondered, but one does not like to ask questions and seem inquisitive.â

Elizabeth was silent for a minuteâthen she said:

âI knew a girl once â¦ A girl who had been a pupil of mine at Fallowfield, my school. She was no actual relation to Mr. Rafiel, but she was at one time engaged to marry Mr. Rafielâs son.â

âBut she didnât marry him?â Miss Marple asked.

âNo.â

âWhy not?â

Miss Temple said,

âOne might hope to sayâlike to sayâbecause she had too much sense. He was not the type of a young man one would want anyone one was fond of to marry. She was a very lovely girl and a very sweet girl. I donât know why she didnât marry him. Nobody has ever told me.â She sighed and then said, âAnyway, she diedâ¦.â

âWhy did she die?â said Miss Marple.

Elizabeth Temple stared at the peonies for some minutes. When she spoke she uttered one word. It echoed like the tone of a deep bellâso much so that it was startling.

âLove!â she said.

Miss Marple queried the word sharply. âLove?â

âOne of the most frightening words there is in the world,â said Elizabeth Temple.

Again her voice was bitter and tragic.

âLoveâ¦.â

Seven

AN INVITATION

I

Miss Marple decided to miss out on the afternoonâs sightseeing. She admitted to being somewhat tired and would perhaps give a miss to an ancient church and its 14th-century glass. She would rest for a while and join them at the tearoom which had been pointed out to her in the main street. Mrs. Sandbourne agreed that she was being very sensible.

Miss Marple, resting on a comfortable bench outside the tearoom, reflected on what she planned to do next and whether it would be wise to do it or not.

When the others joined her at teatime it was easy for her to attach herself unobtrusively to Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow and sit with them at a table for four. The fourth chair was occupied by Mr. Caspar whom Miss Marple considered as not sufficiently conversant with the English language to matter.

Leaning across the table, as she nibbled a slice of Swiss roll, Miss Marple said to Miss Cooke,

âYou know, I am quite sure we have met before. I have been wondering and wondering about itâIâm not as good as I was at remembering faces, but Iâm sure I have met you somewhere.â

Miss Cooke looked kindly but doubtful. Her eyes went to her friend, Miss Barrow. So did Miss Marpleâs. Miss Barrow showed no signs of helping to probe the mystery.

âI donât know if youâve ever stayed in my part of the world,â went on Miss Marple, âI live in St. Mary Mead. Quite a small village, you know. At least, not so small nowadays, there is so much building going on everywhere. Not very far from Much Benham and only twelve miles from the coast at Loomouth.â

âOh,â said Miss Cooke, âlet me see. Well, I know Loomouth quite well and perhapsââ

Suddenly Miss Marple made a pleased exclamation.

âWhy, of course! I was in my garden one day at St. Mary Mead and you spoke to me as you were passing by on the footpath. You said you were staying down there, I remember, with a friendââ

âOf course,â said Miss Cooke. âHow stupid of me. I do remember you now. We spoke of how difficult it was nowadays to get anyoneâto do job gardening, I meanâanyone who was any use.â

âYes. You were not living there, I think? You were staying with someone.â

âYes, I was staying with â¦ with â¦â for a moment Miss Cooke hesitated, with the air of one who hardly knows or remembers a name.

âWith a Mrs. Sutherland, was it?â suggested Miss Marple.

âNo, no, it was â¦ er â¦ Mrs.ââ

âHastings,â said Miss Barrow firmly as she took a piece of chocolate cake.

âOh yes, in one of the new houses,â said Miss Marple.

âHastings,â said Mr. Caspar unexpectedly. He beamed. âI have been to HastingsâI have been to Eastbourne, too.â He beamed again. âVery niceâby the sea.â

âSuch a coincidence,â said Miss Marple, âmeeting again so soonâsuch a small world, isnât it?â

âOh, well, we are all so fond of gardens,â said Miss Cooke vaguely.

âFlowers very pretty,â said Mr. Caspar. âI like very muchââ He beamed again.

âSo many rare and beautiful shrubs,â said Miss Cooke.

Miss Marple went full speed ahead with a gardening conversation of some technicalityâMiss Cooke responded. Miss Barrow put in an occasional remark.

Mr. Caspar relapsed into smiling silence.

Later, as Miss Marple took her usual rest before dinner, she conned over what she had collected. Miss Cooke had admitted being in St. Mary Mead. She had admitted walking past Miss Marpleâs house. Had agreed it was quite a coincidence. Coincidence? thought Miss Marple meditatively, turning the word over in her mouth rather as a child might do to a certain lollipop to decide its flavour. Was it a coincidence? Or had she had some reason to come there? Had she been sent there? Sent thereâfor what reason? Was that a ridiculous thing to imagine?

âAny coincidence,â said Miss Marple to herself, âis always worth noticing. You can throw it away later if it is only a coincidence.â

Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow appeared to be a perfectly normal pair of friends doing the kind of tour which, according to them, they did every year. They had been on an Hellenic cruise last year and a tour of bulbs in Holland the year before, and Northern Ireland the year before that. They seemed perfectly pleasant and ordinary people. But Miss Cooke, she thought, had for a moment looked as though she were about to disclaim her visit to St. Mary Mead. She had looked at her friend, Miss Barrow, rather as though she were seeking instruction as to what to say. Miss Barrow was presumably the senior partnerâ

âOf course, really, I may have been imagining all these things,â thought Miss Marple. âThey may have no significance whatever.â

The word danger came unexpectedly into her mind. Used by Mr. Rafiel in his first letterâand there had been some reference to her needing a guardian angel in his second letter. Was she going into danger in this business?âand why? From whom?

Surely not from Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow. Such an ordinary-looking couple.

All the same Miss Cooke had dyed her hair and altered her style of hairdressing. Disguised her appearance as much as she could, in fact. Which was odd, to say the least of it! She considered once more her fellow travellers.

Mr. Caspar, now, it would have been much easier to imagine that he might be dangerous. Did he understand more English than he pretended to do? She began to wonder about Mr. Caspar.

Miss Marple had never quite succeeded in abandoning her Victorian view of foreigners. One never knew with foreigners. Quite absurd, of course, to feel like thatâshe had many friends from various foreign countries. All the same â¦? Miss Cooke, Miss Barrow, Mr. Caspar, that young man with the wild hairâEmlyn Somethingâa revolutionaryâa practising anarchist? Mr. and Mrs. Butlerâsuch nice Americansâbut perhapsâtoo good to be true?

âReally,â said Miss Marple, âI must pull myself together.â

She turned her attention to the itinerary of their trip. Tomorrow, she thought, was going to be rather strenuous. A morningâs sightseeing drive, starting rather early: a long, rather athletic walk on a coastal path in the afternoon. Certain interesting marine flowering plantsâit would be tiring. A tactful suggestion was appended. Anyone who felt like a rest could stay behind in their hotel, the Golden Boar, which had a very pleasant garden or could do a short excursion which would only take an hour, to a beauty spot nearby. She thought perhaps that she would do that.

But though she did not know it then, her plans were to be suddenly altered.

II

As Miss Marple came down from her room in the Golden Boar the next day after washing her hands before luncheon, a woman in a tweed coat and skirt came forward rather nervously and spoke to her.

âExcuse me, are you Miss MarpleâMiss Jane Marple?â

âYes, that is my name,â said Miss Marple, slightly surprised.

âMy name is Mrs. Glynne. Lavinia Glynne. I and my two sisters live near here andâwell, we heard you were coming, you seeââ

âYou heard I was coming?â said Miss Marple with some slight surprise.

âYes. A very old friend of ours wrote to usâoh, quite some time ago, it must have been three weeks ago, but he asked us to make a note of this date. The date of the Famous Houses and Gardens Tour. He said that a great friend of hisâor a relation, Iâm not quite sure whichâwould be on that tour.â

Miss Marple continued to look surprised.

âIâm speaking of a Mr. Rafiel,â said Mrs. Glynne.

âOh! Mr. Rafiel,â said Miss Marpleââyouâyou know thatââ

âThat he died? Yes. So sad. Just after his letter came. I think it must have been certainly very soon after he wrote to us. But we felt a special urgency to try to do what he had asked. He suggested, you know, that perhaps you would like to come and stay with us for a couple of nights. This part of the tour is rather strenuous. I mean, itâs all right for the young people, but it is very trying for anyone older. It involves several miles of walking and a certain amount of climbing up difficult cliff paths and places. My sisters and I would be so very pleased if you could come and stay in our house here. It is only ten minutesâ walk from the hotel and Iâm sure we could show you many interesting things locally.â

Miss Marple hesitated a minute. She liked the look of Mrs. Glynne, plump, good-natured, and friendly though a little shy. Besidesâhere again must be Mr. Rafielâs instructionsâthe next step for her to take? Yes, it must be so.

She wondered why she felt nervous. Perhaps because she was now at home with the people in the tour, felt part of the group although as yet she had only known them for three days.

She turned to where Mrs. Glynne was standing, looking up at her anxiously.

âThank youâit is most kind of you. I shall be very pleased to come.â

Eight

THE THREE SISTERS

Miss Marple stood looking out of a window. Behind her, on the bed, was her suitcase. She looked out over the garden with unseeing eyes. It was not often that she failed to see a garden she was looking at, in either a mood of admiration or a mood of criticism. In this case it would presumably have been criticism. It was a neglected garden, a garden on which little money had been spent possibly for some years, and on which very little work had been done. The house, too, had been neglected. It was well proportioned, the furniture in it had been good furniture once, but had had little in late years of polishing or attention. It was not a house, she thought, that had been, at any rate of late years, loved in any way. It lived up to its name: The Old Manor House. A house, built with grace and a certain amount of beauty, lived in once, cherished. The daughters and sons had married and left and now it was lived in by Mrs. Glynne who, from a word she had let fall when she showed Miss Marple up to the bedroom appointed to her, had inherited it with her sisters from an uncle and had come here to live with her sisters after her husband had died. They had all grown older, their incomes had dwindled, labour had been more difficult to get.

The other sisters, presumably, had remained unmarried, one older, one younger than Mrs. Glynne, two Miss Bradbury-Scotts.

There was no sign of anything which belonged to a child in the house. No discarded ball, no old perambulator, no little chair or a table. This was just a house with three sisters.

âSounds very Russian,â murmured Miss Marple to herself. She did mean The Three Sisters, didnât she? Chekhov, was it? Or Dostoyevsky? Really, she couldnât remember. Three sisters. But these would certainly not be the kind of three sisters who were yearning to go to Moscow. These three sisters were presumably, she was almost sure they were, content to remain where they were. She had been introduced to the other two who had come, one out of the kitchen and one down a flight of stairs, to welcome her. Their manners were well-bred and gracious. They were what Miss Marple would have called in her youth by the now obsolete term âladiesââand what she once recalled calling âdecayed ladies.â Her father had said to her:

âNo, dear Jane, not decayed. Distressed gentlewomen.â

Gentlewomen nowadays were not so liable to be distressed. They were aided by Government or by Societies or by a rich relation. Or, perhapsâby someone like Mr. Rafiel. Because, after all, that was the whole point, the whole reason for her being here, wasnât it? Mr. Rafiel had arranged all this. He had taken, Miss Marple thought, a good deal of trouble about it. He had known, presumably, some four or five weeks before his death, just when that death was likely to be, give and take a little, since doctors were usually moderately optimistic, knowing from experience that patients who ought to die within a certain period very often took an unexpected lease of life and lingered on, still doomed, but obstinately declining to take the final step. On the other hand, hospital nurses when in charge of patients, had, Miss Marple thought from her experience, always expected the patients to be dead the next day, and were much surprised when they were not. But in voicing their gloomy views to Doctor, when he came, they were apt to receive in reply as the doctor went out of the hall door, a private aside of, âLinger a few weeks yet, I shouldnât wonder.â Very nice of Doctor to be so optimistic, Nurse would think, but surely Doctor was wrong. Doctor very often wasnât wrong. He knew that people who were in pain, helpless, crippled, even unhappy, still liked living and wanting to live. They would take one of Doctorâs pills to help them pass the night, but they had no intention of taking a few more than necessary of Doctorâs pills, just in order to pass the threshold to a world that they did not as yet know anything about!

Mr. Rafiel. That was the person Miss Marple was thinking about as she looked across the garden with unseeing eyes. Mr. Rafiel? She felt now that she was getting a little closer to understanding the task laid upon her, the project suggested to her. Mr. Rafiel was a man who made plans. Made them in the same way that he planned financial deals and takeovers. In the words of her servant, Cherry, he had had a problem. When Cherry had a problem, she often came and consulted Miss Marple about it.

This was a problem that Mr. Rafiel could not deal with himself, which must have annoyed him very much, Miss Marple thought, because he could usually deal with any problem himself and insisted on doing so. But he was bedridden and dying. He could arrange his financial affairs, communicate with his lawyers, with his employees and with such friends and relations as he had, but there was something or someone that he had not arranged for. A problem he had not solved, a problem he still wanted to solve, a project he still wanted to bring about. And apparently it was not one that could be settled by financial aid, by business dealings, by the services of a lawyer.

âSo he thought of me,â said Miss Marple.

It still surprised her very much. Very much indeed. However, in the sense she was now thinking of it, his letter had been quite explicit. He had thought she had certain qualifications for doing something. It had to do, she thought once again, with something in the nature of crime or affected by crime. The only other thing he knew about Miss Marple was that she was devoted to gardens. Well it could hardly be a gardening problem that he wanted her to solve. But he might think of her in connection with crime. Crime in the West Indies and crimes in her own neighbourhood at home.

A crimeâwhere?

Mr. Rafiel had made arrangements. Arrangements, to begin with, with his lawyers. They had done their part. After the right interval of time they had forwarded to her his letter. It had been, she thought, a well considered and well thought out letter. It would have been simpler, certainly, to tell her exactly what he wanted her to do and why he wanted it. She was surprised in a way that he had not, before his death, sent for her, probably in a somewhat peremptory way and more or less lying on what he would have assured her was his deathbed, and would then have bullied her until she consented to do what he was asking her. But no, that would not really have been Mr. Rafielâs way, she thought. He could bully people, none better, but this was not a case for bullying, and he did not wish either, she was sure, to appeal to her, to beg her to do him a favour, to urge her to redress a wrong. No. That again would not have been Mr. Rafielâs way. He wanted, she thought, as he had probably wanted all his life, to pay for what he required. He wanted to pay her and therefore he wanted to interest her enough to enjoy doing certain work. The pay was offered to intrigue her, not really to tempt her. It was to arouse her interest. She did not think that he had said to himself, âOffer enough money and sheâll leap at itâ because, as she knew very well herself, the money sounded very agreeable but she was not in urgent need of money. She had her dear and affectionate nephew who, if she was in straits for money of any kind, if she needed repairs to her house or a visit to a specialist or special treats, dear Raymond would always provide them. No. The sum he offered was to be exciting. It was to be exciting in the same way as it was exciting when you had a ticket for the Irish Sweep. It was a fine big sum of money that you could never achieve by any other means except luck.

But all the same, Miss Marple thought to herself, she would need some luck as well as hard work, she would require a lot of thought and pondering and possibly what she was doing might involve a certain amount of danger. But sheâd got to find out herself what it was all about, he wasnât going to tell her, partly perhaps because he did not want to influence her? It is hard to tell anyone about something without letting slip your own point of view about it. It could be that Mr. Rafiel had thought that his own point of view might be wrong. It was not very like him to think such a thing, but it could be possible. He might suspect that his judgment, impaired by illness, was not quite as good as it used to be. So she, Miss Marple, his agent, his employee, was to make her own guesses, come to her own conclusions. Well, it was time she came to a few conclusions now. In other words, back to the old question, what was all this about?

She had been directed. Let her take that first. She had been directed by a man who was now dead. She had been directed away from St. Mary Mead. Therefore, the task, whatever it must be, could not be attacked from there. It was not a neighbourhood problem, it was not a problem that you could solve just by looking through newspaper cuttings or making enquiries, not, that is, until you found what you had to make enquiries about. She had been directed, first to the lawyerâs office, then to read a letterâtwo lettersâin her home, then to be sent on a pleasant and well run tour round some of the Famous Houses and Gardens of Great Britain. From that she had come to the next stepping stone. The house she was in at this moment. The Old Manor House, Jocelyn St. Mary, where lived Miss Clotilde Bradbury-Scott, Mrs. Glynne and Miss Anthea Bradbury-Scott. Mr. Rafiel had arranged that, arranged it beforehand. Some weeks before he died. Probably it was the next thing he had done after instructing his lawyers and after booking a seat on the tour in her name. Therefore, she was in this house for a purpose. It might be for only two nights, it might be for longer. There might be certain things arranged which would lead her to stay longer or she would be asked to stay longer. That brought her back to where she stood now.

Mrs. Glynne and her two sisters. They must be concerned, implicated in whatever this was. She would have to find out what it was. The time was short. That was the only trouble. Miss Marple had no doubt for one moment that she had the capacity to find out things. She was one of those chatty, fluffy old ladies whom other people expect to talk, to ask questions that were, on the face of it, merely gossipy questions. She would talk about her childhood and that would lead to one of the sisters talking about theirs. Sheâd talk about food she had eaten, servants she had had, daughters and cousins and relations, travel, marriages, births andâyesâdeaths. There must be no show of special interest in her eyes when she heard about a death. Not at all. Almost automatically she was sure she could come up with the right response such as, âOh dear me, how very sad!â She would have to find out relationships, incidents, life stories, see if any suggestive incidents would pop up, so to speak. It might be some incidents in the neighbourhood, not directly concerned with these three people. Something they could know about, talk about, or were pretty sure to talk about. Anyway, there would be something here, some clue, some pointer. The second day from now she would rejoin the tour unless she had by that time some indication that she was not to rejoin the tour. Her mind swept from the house to the coach and the people who had sat in it. It might be that what she was seeking had been there in the coach, and would be there again when she rejoined it. One person, several people, some innocent (some not so innocent), some long past story. She frowned a little, trying to remember something. Something that had flashed in her mind that she had thought: Really I am sureâof what had she been sure?

Her mind went back to the three sisters. She must not be too long up here. She must unpack a few modest needs for two nights, something to change into this evening, night clothes, sponge bag, and then go down and rejoin her hostesses and make pleasant talk. A main point had to be decided. Were the three sisters to be her allies or were the three sisters enemies? They might fall into either category. She must think about that carefully.

There was a tap on the door and Mrs. Glynne entered.

âI do hope you will be quite comfortable here. Can I help you to unpack? We have a very nice woman who comes in but she is only here in the morning. But sheâll help you with anything.â

âOh no, thank you,â said Miss Marple. âI only took out just a few necessities.â

âI thought Iâd show you the way downstairs again. Itâs rather a rambling house, you know. There are two staircases and it does make it a little difficult. Sometimes people lose their way.â

âOh, itâs very kind of you,â said Miss Marple.

âI hope then you will come downstairs and we will have a glass of sherry before lunch.â

Miss Marple accepted gratefully and followed her guide down the stairs. Mrs. Glynne, she judged, was a good many years younger than she herself was. Fifty, perhaps. Not much more. Miss Marple negotiated the stairs carefully, her left knee was always a little uncertain. There was, however, a banister at one side of the stairs. Very beautiful stairs they were, and she remarked on them.

âIt is really a very lovely house,â she said. âBuilt I suppose in the 1700s. Am I right?â

â1780,â said Mrs. Glynne.

She seemed pleased with Miss Marpleâs appreciation. She took Miss Marple into the drawing room. A large graceful room. There were one or two rather beautiful pieces of furniture. A Queen Anne desk and a William and Mary oystershell bureau. There were also some rather cumbrous Victorian settees and cabinets. The curtains were of chintz, faded and somewhat worn, the carpet was, Miss Marple thought, Irish. Possibly a Limerick Aubusson type. The sofa was ponderous and the velvet of it much worn. The other two sisters were already sitting there. They rose as Miss Marple came in and approached her, one with a glass of sherry, the other directing her to a chair.

âI donât know whether you like sitting rather high? So many people do.â

âI do,â said Miss Marple. âItâs so much easier. Oneâs back, you know.â

The sisters appeared to know about the difficulties of backs. The eldest of the sisters was a tall handsome woman, dark with a black coil of hair. The other one might have been a good deal younger. She was thin with grey hair that had once been fair hanging untidily on her shoulders and a faintly wraithlike appearance. She could be cast successfully as a mature Ophelia, Miss Marple thought.

Clotilde, Miss Marple thought, was certainly no Ophelia, but she would have made a magnificent Clytemnestraâshe could have stabbed a husband in his bath with exultation. But since she had never had a husband, that solution wouldnât do. Miss Marple could not see her murdering anyone else but a husbandâand there had been no Agamemnon in this house.

Clotilde Bradbury-Scott, Anthea Bradbury-Scott, Lavinia Glynne. Clotilde was handsome, Lavinia was plain but pleasant-looking, Anthea had one eyelid which twitched from time to time. Her eyes were large and grey and she had an odd way of glancing round to right and then to left, and then suddenly, in a rather strange manner, behind her over her shoulder. It was as though she felt someone was watching her all the time. Odd, thought Miss Marple. She wondered a little about Anthea.

They sat down and conversation ensued. Mrs. Glynne left the room, apparently for the kitchen. She was, it seemed, the active domestic one of the three. The conversation took a usual course. Clotilde Bradbury-Scott explained that the house was a family one. It had belonged to her great-uncle and then to her uncle and when he had died it was left to her and her two sisters who had joined her there.

âHe only had one son, you see,â explained Miss Bradbury-Scott, âand he was killed in the war. We are really the last of the family, except for some very distant cousins.â

âA beautifully proportioned house,â said Miss Marple. âYour sister tells me it was built about 1780.â

âYes, I believe so. One could wish, you know, it was not quite so large and rambling.â

âRepairs too,â said Miss Marple, âcome very heavy nowadays.â

âOh yes, indeed,â Clotilde sighed. âAnd in many ways we have to let a lot of it just fall down. Sad, but there it is. A lot of the outhouses, for instance, and a greenhouse. We had a very beautiful big greenhouse.â

âLovely muscat grapevine in it,â said Anthea. âAnd Cherry Pie used to grow all along the walls inside. Yes, I really regret that very much. Of course, during the war one could not get any gardeners. We had a very young gardener and then he was called up. One does not of course grudge that, but all the same it was impossible to get things repaired and so the whole greenhouse fell down.â

âSo did the little conservatory near the house.â

Both sisters sighed, with the sighing of those who have noted time passing, and times changingâbut not for the better.

There was a melancholy here in this house, thought Miss Marple. It was impregnated somehow with sorrowâa sorrow that could not be dispersed or removed since it had penetrated too deep. It had sunk in â¦ She shivered suddenly.

Nine

POLYGONUM BALDSCHUANICUM

The meal was conventional. A small joint of mutton, roast potatoes, followed by a plum tart with a small jug of cream and rather indifferent pastry. There were a few pictures round the dining room wall, family pictures, Miss Marple presumed, Victorian portraits without any particular merit, the sideboard was large and heavy, a handsome piece of plum-coloured mahogany. The curtains were of dark crimson damask and at the big mahogany table ten people could easily have been seated.

Miss Marple chatted about the incidents of the tour in so far as she had been on it. As this, however, had only been three days, there was not very much to say.

âMr. Rafiel, I suppose, was an old friend of yours?â said the eldest Miss Bradbury-Scott.

âNot really,â said Miss Marple. âI met him first when I was on a cruise to the West Indies. He was out there for his health, I imagine.â

âYes, he had been very crippled for some years,â said Anthea.

âVery sad,â said Miss Marple. âVery sad indeed. I really admired his fortitude. He seemed to manage to do so much work. Every day, you know, he dictated to his secretary and was continually sending off cables. He did not seem to give in at all kindly to being an invalid.â

âOh no, he wouldnât,â said Anthea.

âWe have not seen much of him of late years,â said Mrs. Glynne. âHe was a busy man, of course. He always remembered us at Christmas very kindly.â

âDo you live in London, Miss Marple?â asked Anthea.

âOh no,â said Miss Marple. âI live in the country. A very small place halfway between Loomouth and Market Basing. About twenty-five miles from London. It used to be a very pretty old-world village but of course like everything else, it is becoming what they call developed nowadays.â She added, âMr. Rafiel, I suppose, lived in London? At least I noticed that in the St. HonorÃ© hotel register his address was somewhere in Eaton Square, I think, or was it Belgrave Square?â

âHe had a country house in Kent,â said Clotilde. âHe used to entertain there, I think, sometimes. Business friends, mostly you know, or people from abroad. I donât think any of us ever visited him there. He nearly always entertained us in London on the rare occasions when we happened to meet.â

âIt was very kind of him,â said Miss Marple, âto suggest to you that you should invite me here during the course of this tour. Very thoughtful. One wouldnât really have expected a busy man such as he must have been to have had such kindly thoughts.â

âWe have invited before friends of his who have been on these tours. On the whole they are very considerate the way they arrange these things. It is impossible, of course, to suit everybodyâs taste. The young ones naturally wish to walk, to make long excursions, to ascend hills for a view, and all that sort of thing. And the older ones who are not up to it, remain in the hotels, but hotels round here are not really at all luxurious. I am sure you would have found todayâs trip and the one to St. Bonaventure tomorrow also, very fatiguing. Tomorrow I believe there is a visit to an island, you know, in a boat and sometimes it can be very rough.â

âEven going round houses can be very tiring,â said Mrs. Glynne.

âOh, I know,â said Miss Marple. âSo much walking and standing about. Oneâs feet get very tired. I suppose really I ought not to take these expeditions, but it is such a temptation to see beautiful buildings and fine rooms and furniture. All these things. And of course some splendid pictures.â

âAnd the gardens,â said Anthea. âYou like gardens, donât you?â

âOh yes,â said Miss Marple, âspecially the gardens. From the description in the prospectus I am really looking forward very much to seeing some of the really finely kept gardens of the historic houses we have still to visit.â She beamed round the table.

It was all very pleasant, very natural, and yet she wondered why for some reason she had a feeling of strain. A feeling that there was something unnatural here. But what did she mean by unnatural? The conversation was ordinary enough, consisting mainly of platitudes. She herself was making conventional remarks and so were the three sisters.

The Three Sisters, thought Miss Marple once again considering that phrase. Why did anything thought of in threes somehow seem to suggest a sinister atmosphere? The Three Sisters. The Three Witches of Macbeth. Well, one could hardly compare these three sisters to the three witches. Although Miss Marple had always thought at the back of her mind that the theatrical producers made a mistake in the way in which they produced the three witches. One production which she had seen, indeed, seemed to her quite absurd. The witches had looked more like pantomime creatures with flapping wings and ridiculously spectacular steeple hats. They had danced and slithered about. Miss Marple remembered saying to her nephew, who was standing her this Shakespearean treat, âYou know, Raymond, my dear, if I were ever producing this splendid play I would make the three witches quite different. I would have them three ordinary, normal old women. Old Scottish women. They wouldnât dance or caper. They would look at each other rather slyly and you would feel a sort of menace just behind the ordinariness of them.â

Miss Marple helped herself to the last mouthful of plum tart and looked across the table at Anthea. Ordinary, untidy, very vague-looking, a bit scatty. Why should she feel that Anthea was sinister?

âI am imagining things,â said Miss Marple to herself. âI mustnât do that.â

After luncheon she was taken on a tour of the garden. It was Anthea who was deputed to accompany her. It was, Miss Marple thought, rather a sad progress. Here, there had once been a well kept, though certainly not in any way an outstanding or remarkable, garden. It had had the elements of an ordinary Victorian garden. A shrubbery, a drive of speckled laurels, no doubt there had once been a well kept lawn and paths, a kitchen garden of about an acre and a half, too big evidently for the three sisters who lived here now. Part of it was unplanted and had gone largely to weeds. Ground elder had taken over most of the flower beds and Miss Marpleâs hands could hardly restrain themselves from pulling up the vagrant bindweed asserting its superiority.

Miss Antheaâs long hair flapped in the wind, shedding from time to time a vague hairpin on the path or the grass. She talked rather jerkily.

âYou have a very nice garden, I expect,â she said.

âOh, itâs a very small one,â said Miss Marple.

They had come along a grass path and were pausing in front of a kind of hillock that rested against the wall at the end of it.

âOur greenhouse,â said Miss Anthea, mournfully.

âOh yes, where you had such a delightful grapevine.â

âThree vines,â said Anthea. âA Black Hamburg and one of those small white grapes, very sweet, you know. And a third one of beautiful muscats.â

âAnd a heliotrope, you said.â

âCherry Pie,â said Anthea.

âAh yes, Cherry Pie. Such a lovely smell. Was there any bomb trouble round here? Did thatâerâknock the greenhouse down?â

âOh no, we never suffered from anything of that kind. This neighbourhood was quite free of bombs. No, Iâm afraid it just fell down from decay. We hadnât been here so very long and we had no money to repair it, or to build it up again. And in fact, it wouldnât have been worth it really because we couldnât have kept it up even if we did. Iâm afraid we just let it fall down. There was nothing else we could do. And now you see, itâs all grown over.â

âAh that, completely covered byâwhat is that flowering creeper just coming into bloom?â

âOh yes. Itâs quite a common one,â said Anthea. âIt begins with a P. Now what is the name of it?â she said doubtfully. âPoly something, something like that.â

âOh yes. I think I do know the name. Polygonum Baldschuanicum. Very quick growing, I think, isnât it? Very useful really if one wants to hide any tumbledown building or anything ugly of that kind.â

The mound in front of her was certainly thickly covered with the all-enveloping green and white flowering plant. It was, as Miss Marple well knew, a kind of menace to anything else that wanted to grow. Polygonum covered everything, and covered it in a remarkably short time.

âThe greenhouse must have been quite a big one,â she said.

âOh yesâwe had peaches in it, tooâand nectarines.â Anthea looked miserable.

âIt looks really very pretty now,â said Miss Marple in a consoling tone. âVery pretty little white flowers, arenât they?â

âWe have a very nice magnolia tree down this path to the left,â said Anthea. âOnce I believe there used to be a very fine border hereâa herbaceous border. But that again one cannot keep up. It is too difficult. Everything is too difficult. Nothing is like it used to beâitâs all spoiltâeverywhere.â

She led the way quickly down a path at right angles which ran along a side wall. Her pace had increased. Miss Marple could hardly keep up with her. It was, thought Miss Marple, as though she were deliberately being steered away from the Polygonum mound by her hostess. Steered away as from some ugly or displeasing spot. Was she ashamed perhaps that the past glories no longer remained? The Polygonum certainly was growing with extraordinary abandonment. It was not even being clipped or kept to reasonable proportions. It made a kind of flowery wilderness of that bit of the garden.

She almost looks as though she was running away from it, thought Miss Marple, as she followed her hostess. Presently her attention was diverted to a broken down pigsty which had a few rose tendrils round it.

âMy great-uncle used to keep a few pigs,â explained Anthea, âbut of course one would never dream of doing anything of that kind nowadays, would one? Rather too noisome, I am afraid. We have a few floribunda roses near the house. I really think floribundas are such a great answer to difficulties.â

âOh, I know,â said Miss Marple.

She mentioned the names of a few recent productions in the rose line. All the names, she thought, were entirely strange to Miss Anthea.

âDo you often come on these tours?â

The question came suddenly.

âYou mean the tours of houses and of gardens?â

âYes. Some people do it every year.â

âOh I couldnât hope to do that. Theyâre rather expensive, you see. A friend very kindly gave me a present of this to celebrate my next birthday. So kind.â

âOh. I wondered. I wondered why you came. I meanâitâs bound to be rather tiring, isnât it? Still, if you usually go to the West Indies, and places like thatâ¦.â

âOh, the West Indies was the result of kindness, too. On the part of a nephew, that time. A dear boy. So very thoughtful for his old aunt.â

âOh, I see. Yes, I see.â

âI donât know what one would do without the younger generation,â said Miss Marple. âThey are so kind, are they not?â

âIâI suppose so. I donât really know. Iâwe havenâtâany young relations.â

âDoes your sister, Mrs. Glynne, have any children? She did not mention any. One never likes to ask.â

âNo. She and her husband never had any children. Itâs as well perhaps.â

âAnd what do you mean by that?â Miss Marple wondered as they returned to the house.

Ten

âOH! FOND, OH! FAIR, THE DAYS THAT WEREâ

I

At half past eight the next morning there was a smart tap on the door, and in answer to Miss Marpleâs âCome inâ the door was opened and an elderly woman entered, bearing a tray with a teapot, a cup and a milk jug and a small plate of bread and butter.

âEarly morning tea, maâam,â she said cheerfully. âItâs a nice day, it is. I see youâve got your curtains drawn back already. Youâve slept well then?â

âVery well indeed,â said Miss Marple, laying aside a small devotional book which she had been reading.

âWell, itâs a lovely day, it is. Theyâll have it nice for going to the Bonaventure Rocks. Itâs just as well youâre not doing it. Itâs cruel hard on the legs, it is.â

âIâm really very happy to be here,â said Miss Marple. âSo kind of Miss Bradbury-Scott and Mrs. Glynne to issue this invitation.â

âAh well, itâs nice for them too. It cheers them up to have a bit of company come to the house. Ah, itâs a sad place nowadays, so it is.â

She pulled the curtains at the window rather more fully, pushed back a chair and deposited a can of hot water in the china basin.

âThereâs a bathroom on the next floor,â she said, âbut we think itâs better always for someone elderly to have their hot water here, so they donât have to climb the stairs.â

âItâs very kind of you, Iâm sureâyou know this house well?â

âI was here as a girlâI was the housemaid then. Three servants they hadâa cook, a housemaidâa parlourmaidâkitchen maid too at one time. That was in the old Colonelâs time. Horses he kept too, and a groom. Ah, those were the days. Sad it is when things happen the way they do. He lost his wife young, the Colonel did. His son was killed in the war and his only daughter went away to live on the other side of the world. Married a New Zealander she did. Died having a baby and the baby died too. He was a sad man living alone here, and he let the house goâit wasnât kept up as it should have been. When he died he left the place to his niece Miss Clotilde and her two sisters, and she and Miss Anthea came here to liveâand later Miss Lavinia lost her husband and came to join themââ she sighed and shook her head. âThey never did much to the houseâcouldnât afford itâand they let the garden go as wellââ

âIt all seems a great pity,â said Miss Marple.

âAnd such nice ladies as they all are, tooâMiss Anthea is the scatty one, but Miss Clotilde went to university and is very brainyâshe talks three languagesâand Mrs. Glynne, sheâs a very nice lady indeed. I thought when she came to join them as things might go better. But you never know, do you, what the future holds? I feel sometimes, as though there was a doom on this house.â

Miss Marple looked enquiring.

âFirst one thing and then another. The dreadful plane accidentâin Spain it wasâand everybody killed. Nasty things, aeroplanesâIâd never go in one of them. Miss Clotildeâs friends were both killed, they were husband and wifeâthe daughter was still at school, luckily, and escaped, but Miss Clotilde brought her here to live and did everything for her. Took her abroad for tripsâto Italy and France, treated her like a daughter. She was such a happy girlâand a very sweet nature. Youâd never dream that such an awful thing could happen.â

âAn awful thing. What was it? Did it happen here?â

âNo, not here, thank God. Though in a way you might say it did happen here. It was here that she met him. He was in the neighbourhoodâand the ladies knew his father, who was a very rich man, so he came here to visitâthat was the beginningââ

âThey fell in love?â

âYes, she fell in love with him right away. He was an attractive-looking boy, with a nice way of talking and passing the time of day. Youâd never thinkâyouâd never think for one momentââ she broke off.

âThere was a love affair? And it went wrong? And the girl committed suicide?â

âSuicide?â The old woman stared at Miss Marple with startled eyes.

âWhoever now told you that? Murder it was, barefaced murder. Strangled and her head beaten to pulp. Miss Clotilde had to go and identify herâsheâs never been quite the same since. They found her body a good thirty miles from hereâin the scrub of a disused quarry. And itâs believed that it wasnât the first murder heâd done. There had been other girls. Six months sheâd been missing. And the police searching far and wide. Oh! A wicked devil he wasâa bad lot from the day he was born or so it seems. They say nowadays as there are those as canât help what they doânot right in the head, and they canât be held responsible. I donât believe a word of it! Killers are killers. And they wonât even hang them nowadays. I know as thereâs often madness as runs in old familiesâthere was the Derwents over at Brassingtonâevery second generation one or other of them died in the loony binâand there was old Mrs. Paulett; walked about the lanes in her diamond tiara saying she was Marie Antoinette until they shut her up. But there wasnât anything really wrong with herâjust silly like. But this boy. Yes, he was a devil right enough.â

âWhat did they do to him?â

âTheyâd abolished hanging by thenâor else he was too young. I canât remember it all now. They found him guilty. It may have been Bostol or Broadsandâone of those places beginning with âBâ as they sent him to.â

âWhat was the name of the boy?â

âMichaelâcanât remember his last name. Itâs ten years ago that it happenedâone forgets. Italian sort of nameâlike a picture. Someone who paints picturesâRaffle, thatâs itââ

âMichael Rafiel?â

âThatâs right! There was a rumour as went about that his father being so rich got him wangled out of prison. An escape like the Bank Robbers. But I think as that was just talkââ

So it had not been suicide. It had been murder. âLove!â Elizabeth Temple had named as the cause of a girlâs death. In a way she was right. A young girl had fallen in love with a killerâand for love of him had gone unsuspecting to an ugly death.

Miss Marple gave a little shudder. On her way along the village street yesterday she had passed a newspaper placard:

EPSOM DOWNS MURDER, SECOND GIRLâS BODY DISCOVERED, YOUTH ASKED TO ASSIST POLICE.

So history repeated itself. An old patternâan ugly pattern. Some lines of forgotten verse came haltingly into her brain:

Rose white youth, passionate, pale,

A singing stream in a silent vale,

A fairy prince in a prosy tale,

Oh thereâs nothing in life so finely frail

As Rose White Youth.

Who was there to guard Youth from Pain and Death? Youth who could not, who had never been able to, guard itself. Did they know too little? Or was it that they knew too much? And therefore thought they knew it all.

II

Miss Marple, coming down the stairs that morning, probably rather earlier than she had been expected, found no immediate sign of her hostesses. She let herself out at the front door and wandered once round the garden. It was not because sheâd really enjoyed this particular garden. It was some vague feeling that there was something here that she ought to notice, something that would give her some idea, or that had given her some idea only she had notâwell, frankly, she had not been bright enough to realize just what the bright idea had been. Something she ought to take note of, something that had a bearing.

She was not at the moment anxious to see any of the three sisters. She wanted to turn a few things over in her mind. The new facts that had come to her through Janetâs early tea chat.

A side gate stood open and she went through it to the village street and along a line of small shops to where a steeple poked up announcing the site of the church and its churchyard. She pushed open the lych-gate and wandered about among the graves, some dating from quite a while back, some by the far wall later ones, and one or two beyond the wall in what was obviously a new enclosure. There was nothing of great interest among the older tombs. Certain names recurred as they do in villages. A good many Princes of village origin had been buried. Jasper Prince, deeply regretted. Margery Prince, Edgar and Walter Prince, Melanie Prince, 4 years old. A family record. Hiram BroadâEllen Jane Broad, Eliza Broad, 91 years.

She was turning away from the latter when she observed an elderly man moving in slow motion among the graves, tidying up as he walked. He gave her a salute and a âgood morning.â

âGood morning,â said Miss Marple. âA very pleasant day.â

âItâll turn to rain later,â said the old man.

He spoke with the utmost certainty.

âThere seem to be a lot of Princes and Broads buried here,â said Miss Marple.

âAh yes, thereâve always been Princes here. Used to own quite a bit of land once. There have been Broads a good many years, too.â

âI see a child is buried here. Very sad when one sees a childâs grave.â

âAh, thatâll be little Melanie that was. Mellie, we called her. Yes, it was a sad death. Run over, she was. Ran out into the street, went to get sweets at the sweet shop. Happens a lot nowadays with cars going through at the pace they do.â

âIt is sad to think,â said Miss Marple, âthat there are so many deaths all the time. And one doesnât really notice it until one looks at the inscriptions in the churchyard. Sickness, old age, children run over, sometimes even more dreadful things. Young girls killed. Crimes, I mean.â

âAh, yes, thereâs a lot of that about. Silly girls, I call most of âem. And their mums havenât got time to look after them properly nowadaysâwhat with going out to work so much.â

Miss Marple rather agreed with his criticism, but had no wish to waste time in agreement on the trend of the day.

âStaying at The Old Manor House, arenât you?â the old man asked. âCome here on the coach tour I saw. But it got too much for you, I suppose. Some of those that are gettinâ on canât always take it.â

âI did find it a little exhausting,â confessed Miss Marple, âand a very kind friend of mine, a Mr. Rafiel, wrote to some friends of his here and they invited me to stay for a couple of nights.â

The name, Rafiel, clearly meant nothing to the elderly gardener.

âMrs. Glynne and her two sisters have been very kind,â said Miss Marple. âI suppose theyâve lived here a long time?â

âNot so long as that. Twenty years maybe. Belonged to old Colonel Bradbury-Scott. The Old Manor House did. Close on seventy he was when he died.â

âDid he have any children?â

âA son what was killed in the war. Thatâs why he left the place to his nieces. Nobody else to leave it to.â

He went back to his work amongst the graves.

Miss Marple went into the church. It had felt the hand of a Victorian restorer, and had bright Victorian glass in the windows. One or two brasses and some tablets on the walls were all that was left of the past.

Miss Marple sat down in an uncomfortable pew and wondered about things.

Was she on the right track now? Things were connecting upâbut the connections were far from clear.

A girl had been murderedâ(actually several girls had been murdered)âsuspected young men (or âyouthsâ as they were usually called nowadays) had been rounded up by the police, to âassist them in their enquiries.â A common pattern, but this was all old history, dating back ten or twelve years. There was nothing to find outânow, no problems to solve. A tragedy labelled Finis.

What could be done by her? What could Mr. Rafiel possibly want her to do?

Elizabeth Temple â¦ She must get Elizabeth Temple to tell her more. Elizabeth had spoken of a girl who had been engaged to be married to Michael Rafiel. But was that really so? That did not seem to be known to those in The Old Manor House.

A more familiar version came into Miss Marpleâs mindâthe kind of story that had been reasonably frequent in her own village. Starting as always, âBoy meets girl.â Developing in the usual wayâ

âAnd then the girl finds she is pregnant,â said Miss Marple to herself, âand she tells the boy and she wants him to marry her. But he, perhaps, doesnât want to marry herâhe has never had any idea of marrying her. But things may be made difficult for him in this case. His father, perhaps, wonât hear of such a thing. Her relations will insist that he âdoes the right thing.â And by now he is tired of the girlâheâs got another girl perhaps. And so he takes a quick brutal way outâstrangles her, beats her head to a pulp to avoid identification. It fits with his recordâa brutal sordid crimeâbut forgotten and done with.â

She looked round the church in which she was sitting. It looked so peaceful. The reality of Evil was hard to believe in. A flair for Evilâthat was what Mr. Rafiel had attributed to her. She rose and walked out of the church and stood looking round the churchyard again. Here, amongst the gravestones and their worn inscriptions, no sense of Evil moved in her.

Was it Evil she had sensed yesterday at The Old Manor House? That deep depression of despair, that dark desperate grief. Anthea Bradbury-Scott, her eyes gazing fearfully back over one shoulder, as though fearing some presence that stood thereâalways stood thereâbehind her.

They knew something, those Three Sisters, but what was it that they knew?

Elizabeth Temple, she thought again. She pictured Elizabeth Temple with the rest of the coach party, striding across the downs at this moment, climbing up a steep path and gazing over the cliffs out to sea.

Tomorrow, when she rejoined the tour, she would get Elizabeth Temple to tell her more.

III

Miss Marple retraced her steps to The Old Manor House, walking rather slowly because she was by now tired. She could not really feel that her morning had been productive in any way. So far The Old Manor House had given her no distinctive ideas of any kind, a tale of a past tragedy told by Janet, but there were always past tragedies treasured in the memories of domestic workers and which were remembered quite as clearly as all the happy events such as spectacular weddings, big entertainments and successful operations or accidents from which people had recovered in a miraculous manner.

As she drew near the gate she saw two female figures standing there. One of them detached itself and came to meet her. It was Mrs. Glynne.

âOh, there you are,â she said. âWe wondered, you know. I thought you must have gone out for a walk somewhere and I did so hope you wouldnât overtire yourself. If I had known you had come downstairs and gone out, I would have come with you to show anything there is to show. Not that there is very much.â

âOh, I just wandered around,â said Miss Marple. âThe churchyard, you know, and the church. Iâm always very interested in churches. Sometimes there are very curious epitaphs. Things like that. I make quite a collection of them. I suppose the church here was restored in Victorian times?â

âYes, they did put in some rather ugly pews, I think. You know, good quality wood, and strong and all that, but not very artistic.â

âI hope they didnât take away anything of particular interest.â

âNo, I donât think so. Itâs not really a very old church.â

âThere did not seem to be many tablets or brasses or anything of that kind,â agreed Miss Marple.

âYou are quite interested in ecclesiastical architecture?â

âOh, I donât make a study of it or anything like that, but of course in my own village, St. Mary Mead, things do rather revolve round the church. I mean, they always have. In my young days, that was so. Nowadays of course itâs rather different. Were you brought up in this neighbourhood?â

âOh, not really. We lived not very far away, about thirty miles or so. At Little Herdsley. My father was a retired servicemanâa Major in the Artillery. We came over here occasionally to see my uncleâindeed to see my great-uncle before him. No. Iâve not even been here very much of late years. My other two sisters moved in after my uncleâs death, but at that time I was still abroad with my husband. He only died about four or five years ago.â

âOh, I see.â

âThey were anxious I should come and join them here and really, it seemed the best thing to do. We had lived in India for some years. My husband was still stationed there at the time of his death. It is very difficult nowadays to know where one would wish toâshould I say, put oneâs roots down.â

âYes, indeed. I can quite see that. And you felt, of course, that you had roots here since your family had been here for a long time.â

âYes. Yes, one did feel that. Of course, Iâd always kept up with my sisters, had been to visit them. But things are always very different from what one thinks they will be. I have bought a small cottage near London, near Hampton Court, where I spend a good deal of my time, and I do a little occasional work for one or two charities in London.â

âSo your time is fully occupied. How wise of you.â

âI have felt of late that I should spend more time here, perhaps. Iâve been a little worried about my sisters.â

âTheir health?â suggested Miss Marple. âOne is rather worried nowadays, especially as there is not really anyone competent whom one can employ to look after people as they become rather feebler or have certain ailments. So much rheumatism and arthritis about. One is always so afraid of people falling down in the bath or an accident coming down stairs. Something of that kind.â

âClotilde has always been very strong,â said Mrs. Glynne. âTough, I should describe her. But I am rather worried sometimes about Anthea. She is vague, you know, very vague indeed. And she wanders off sometimesâand doesnât seem to know where she is.â

âYes, it is sad when people worry. There is so much to worry one.â

âI donât really think there is much to worry Anthea.â

âShe worries about income tax, perhaps, money affairs,â suggested Miss Marple.

âNo, no, not that so much butâoh, she worries so much about the garden. She remembers the garden as it used to be, and sheâs very anxious, you know, toâwell, to spend money in putting things right again. Clotilde has had to tell her that really one canât afford that nowadays. But she keeps talking of the hothouses, the peaches that used to be there. The grapesâand all that.â

âAnd the Cherry Pie on the walls?â suggested Miss Marple, remembering a remark.

âFancy your remembering that. Yes. Yes, itâs one of the things one does remember. Such a charming smell, heliotrope. And such a nice name for it, Cherry Pie. One always remembers that. And the grapevine. The little, small, early sweet grapes. Ah well, one must not remember the past too much.â

âAnd the flower borders too, I suppose,â said Miss Marple.

âYes. Yes, Anthea would like to have a big well kept herbaceous border again. Really not feasible now. It is as much as one can do to get local people who will come and mow the lawns every fortnight. Every year one seems to employ a different firm. And Anthea would like pampas grass planted again. And the Mrs. Simpkin pinks. White, you know. All along the stone edge border. And a fig tree that grew just outside the greenhouse. She remembers all these and talks about them.â

âIt must be difficult for you.â

âWell, yes. Arguments, you see, hardly appeal in any way. Clotilde, of course, is very downright about things. She just refuses point-blank and says she doesnât want to hear another word about it.â

âIt is difficult,â said Miss Marple, âto know how to take things. Whether one should be firm. Rather authoritative. Perhaps, even, well, just a littleâa little fierce, you know, or whether one should be sympathetic. Listen to things and perhaps hold out hopes which one knows are not justified. Yes, itâs difficult.â

âBut itâs easier for me because you see I go away again, and then come back now and then to stay. So itâs easy for me to pretend things may be easier soon and that something may be done. But really, the other day when I came home and I found that Anthea had tried to engage a most expensive firm of landscape gardeners to renovate the garden, to build up the greenhouse againâwhich is quite absurd because even if you put vines in they would not bear for another two or three years. Clotilde knew nothing about it and she was extremely angry when she discovered the estimate for this work on Antheaâs desk. She was really quite unkind.â

âSo many things are difficult,â said Miss Marple.

It was a useful phrase which she used often.

âI shall have to go rather early tomorrow morning. I think,â said Miss Marple. âI was making enquiries at the Golden Boar where I understand the coach party assembles tomorrow morning. They are making quite an early start. Nine oâclock, I understand.â

âOh dear. I hope you will not find it too fatiguing.â

âOh, I donât think so. I gather we are going to a place calledânow wait a minute, what was it called?âStirling St. Mary. Something like that. And it does not seem to be very far away. Thereâs an interesting church to see on the way and a castle. In the afternoon there is a quite pleasant garden, not too many acres; but some special flowers. I feel sure that after this very nice rest that I have had here, I shall be quite all right. I understand now that I would have been very tired if I had had these days of climbing up cliffsides and all the rest of it.â

âWell, you must rest this afternoon, so as to be fresh for tomorrow,â said Mrs. Glynne, as they went into the house. âMiss Marple has been to visit the church,â said Mrs. Glynne to Clotilde.

âIâm afraid there is not very much to see,â said Clotilde. âVictorian glass of a most hideous kind, I think myself. No expense spared. Iâm afraid my uncle was partly to blame. He was very pleased with those rather crude reds and blues.â

âVery crude. Very vulgar, I always think,â said Lavinia Glynne.

Miss Marple settled down after lunch to have a nap, and she did not join her hostesses until nearly dinnertime. After dinner a good deal of chat went on until it was bedtime. Miss Marple set the tone in remembrances â¦ Remembrances of her own youth, her early days, places she had visited, travels or tours she had made, occasional people she had known.

She went to bed tired, with a sense of failure. She had learned nothing more, possibly because there was nothing more to learn. A fishing expedition where the fish did not riseâpossibly because there were no fish there. Or it could be that she did not know the right bait to use?

Eleven

ACCIDENT

I

Miss Marpleâs tea was brought at seven thirty the following morning so as to allow her plenty of time to get up and pack her few belongings. She was just closing her small suitcase when there was a rather hurried tap on the door and Clotilde came in, looking upset.

âOh dear, Miss Marple, there is a young man downstairs who has called to see you. Emlyn Price. He is on the tour with you and they sent him here.â

âOf course, I remember him. Yes. Quite young?â

âOh yes. Very modern-looking, and a lot of hair and all that, but he has really come toâwell, to break some bad news to you. There has been, I am sorry to say, an accident.â

âAn accident?â Miss Marple stared. âYou meanâto the coach? There has been an accident on the road? Someone has been hurt?â

âNo. No, it was not the coach. There was no trouble there. It was in the course of the expedition yesterday afternoon. There was a great deal of wind you may remember, though I donât think that had anything to do with it. People strayed about a bit, I think. There is a regular path, but you can also climb up and go across the downs. Both ways lead to the Memorial Tower on the top of Bonaventureâwhere they were all making for. People got separated a bit and I suppose, really, there was no one actually guiding them or looking after them which, perhaps, there ought to have been. People arenât very sure-footed always and the slope overhanging the gorge is very steep. There was a bad fall of stones or rocks which came crashing down the hillside and knocked someone out on the path below.â

âOh dear,â said Miss Marple, âI am sorry. I am most terribly sorry. Who was it who was hurt?â

âA Miss Temple or Tenderdon, I understand.â

âElizabeth Temple,â said Miss Marple. âOh dear, I am sorry. I talked to her a good deal. I sat in the next seat to her on the coach. She is, I believe, a retired schoolmistress, a very well known one.â

âOf course,â said Clotilde, âI know her quite well. She was Headmistress of Fallowfield, quite a famous school. Iâd no idea she was on this tour. She retired as Headmistress, I think a year or two ago, and there is a new, rather young Headmistress there now with rather advanced progressive ideas. But Miss Temple is not very old, really, sheâs about sixty, I should think, and very active, fond of climbing and walking and all the rest of it. This really seems most unfortunate. I hope sheâs not badly hurt. I havenât heard any details yet.â

âThis is quite ready now,â said Miss Marple, snapping down the lid of her suitcase. âI will come down at once and see Mr. Price.â

Clotilde seized the suitcase.

âLet me. I can carry this perfectly. Come down with me, and be careful of the stairs.â

Miss Marple came down. Emlyn Price was waiting for her. His hair was looking even wilder than usual and he was wearing a splendid array of fancy boots and a leather jerkin and brilliant emerald green trousers.

âSuch an unfortunate business,â he said, seizing Miss Marpleâs hand. âI thought Iâd come along myself andâwell, break it to you about the accident. I expect Miss Bradbury-Scott has told you. Itâs Miss Temple. You know. The school dame. I donât know quite what she was doing or what happened, but some stones, or rather boulders, rolled down from above. Itâs rather a precipitous slope and it knocked her out and they had to take her off to hospital with concussion last night. I gather sheâs rather bad. Anyway, the tour for today is cancelled and we are stopping on here tonight.â

âOh dear,â said Miss Marple, âI am sorry. Iâm very sorry.â

âI think theyâve decided not to go on today because they really have to wait and see what the medical report is, so we are proposing to spend one more night here at the Golden Boar and to rearrange the tour a little, so that perhaps we shall miss out altogether going to Grangmering which we were going to do tomorrow, and which is not very interesting really, or so they say. Mrs. Sandbourne has gone off early to the hospital to see how things are this morning. Sheâs going to join us at the Golden Boar for coffee at 11 oâclock. I thought perhaps youâd like to come along and hear the latest news.â

âIâll certainly come along with you,â said Miss Marple. âOf course. At once.â

She turned to say good-bye to Clotilde and Mrs. Glynne who had joined her.

âI must thank you so much,â she said. âYou have been so kind and it has been so delightful to have these two nights here. I feel so rested and everything. Most unfortunate this has occurred.â

âIf you would like to spend another night,â said Mrs. Glynne, âI am sureââ She looked at Clotilde.

It occurred to Miss Marple, who had as sharp a sideways glance as anyone could desire, that Clotilde had a slightly disapproving look. She almost shook her head, though it was such a small movement that it was hardly noticeable. But she was, Miss Marple thought, hushing down the suggestion that Mrs. Glynne was making.

ââ¦ although of course I expect it would be nicer for you to be with the others and toââ

âOh yes, I think it would be better,â said Miss Marple. âI shall know then what the plans are and what to do about things, and perhaps I could be of help in some way. One never knows. So thank you again very much. It will not be difficult, I expect, to get a room at the Golden Boar.â She looked at Emlyn, who said reassuringly, âThatâll be all right. Several rooms have been vacated today, They wonât be full at all. Mrs. Sandbourne, I think, has booked for all the party to stay there tonight, and tomorrow we shall seeâwell, we shall see how this all goes on.â

Good-byes were said again and thanks. Emlyn Price took Miss Marpleâs belongings and started out at a good striding pace.

âItâs really only just round the corner, and then the first street to the left,â he said.

âYes, I passed it yesterday, I think. Poor Miss Temple. I do hope sheâs not badly hurt.â

âI think she is rather,â said Emlyn Price. âOf course, you know what doctors are, and hospital people. They say the same thing always: âas well as can be expected.â Thereâs no local hospitalâthey had to take her to Carristown which is about eight miles away. Anyway, Mrs. Sandbourne will be back with the news by the time weâve fixed you up at the hotel.â

They got there to find the tour assembled in the coffee room and coffee and morning buns and pastries were being served. Mr. and Mrs. Butler were talking at the moment.

âOh, itâs just too, too tragic this happening,â said Mrs. Butler. âJust too upsetting, isnât it? Just when we were all so happy and enjoying everything so much. Poor Miss Temple. And I always thought she was very sure-footed. But there, you know, you never can tell, can you, Henry?â

âNo, indeed,â said Henry. âNo, indeed. I am wondering reallyâyes, our timeâs very short you knowâwhether we hadnât betterâwell, give up this tour at this point here. Not continue with it. It seems to me that thereâs bound to be a bit of difficulty resuming things until we know definitely. If this wasâwellâI mean, if this should be so serious that it could prove fatal, there mightâwellâI mean there might have to be an inquest or something of that kind.â

âOh Henry, donât say dreadful things like that!â

âIâm sure,â said Miss Cooke, âthat you are being a little too pessimistic, Mr. Butler. I am sure that things couldnât be as serious as that.â

In his foreign voice Mr. Caspar said: âBut yes, they are serious. I hear yesterday. When Mrs. Sandbourne talk on telephone to doctor. It is very, very serious. They say she has concussion badâvery bad. A special doctor he is coming to look at her and see if he can operate or if impossible. Yesâit is all very bad.â

âOh dear,â said Miss Lumley. âIf thereâs any doubt, perhaps we ought to go home, Mildred. I must look up the trains, I think.â She turned to Mrs. Butler. âYou see, I have made arrangements about my cats with the neighbours, and if I was delayed a day or two it might make great difficulties for everyone.â

âWell, itâs no good our working ourselves up too much,â said Mrs. Riseley-Porter, in her deep, authoritative voice. âJoanna, put this bun in the wastepaper basket, will you? It is really quite uneatable. Most unpleasant jam. But I donât want to leave it on my plate. It might make for bad feeling.â

Joanna got rid of the bun. She said:

âDo you think it would be all right if Emlyn and I went out for a walk? I mean, just saw something of the town. Itâs not much good our sitting about here, making gloomy remarks, is it? We canât do anything.â

âI think youâd be very wise to go out,â said Miss Cooke.

âYes, you go along,â said Miss Barrow before Mrs. Riseley-Porter could speak.

Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow looked at each other and sighed, shaking their heads.

âThe grass was very slippery,â said Miss Barrow. âI slid once or twice myself, you know, on that very short turf.â

âAnd the stones, too,â said Miss Cooke. âQuite a shower of small stones fell down just as I was turning a corner on the path. Yes, one struck me on the shoulder quite sharply.â

II

Tea, coffee, biscuits and cakes despatched, everyone seemed somewhat dissociated and ill at ease. When a catastrophe has occurred, it is very difficult to know what is the proper way to meet it. Everyone had given their view, had expressed surprise and distress. They were now awaiting news and at the same time had a slight hankering after some form of sightseeing, some interest to carry them through the morning. Lunch would not be served until one oâclock and they really felt that to sit around and repeat their same remarks would be rather a gloomy business.

Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow rose as one woman and explained that it was necessary for them to do a little shopping. One or two things they needed, and they also wished to go to the post office and buy stamps.

âI want to send off one or two postcards. And I want to enquire about postal dues on a letter to China,â said Miss Barrow.

âAnd I want to match some wools,â said Miss Cooke. âAnd also it seemed to me there was rather an interesting building on the other side of the Market Square.â

âI think it would do us all good to get out,â said Miss Barrow.

Colonel and Mrs. Walker also rose, and suggested to Mr. and Mrs. Butler that they too might go out and see what there was to see. Mrs. Butler expressed hopes of an antique shop.

âOnly I donât really mean a real antique shop. More what you would call a junk shop. Sometimes you can pick up some really interesting things there.â

They all trooped out. Emlyn Price had already sidled to the door and disappeared in pursuit of Joanna without troubling to use conversation to explain his departure. Mrs. Riseley-Porter, having made a belated attempt to call her niece back, said she thought that at least the lounge would be rather more pleasant to sit in. Miss Lumley agreedâMr. Caspar escorted the ladies with the air of a foreign equerry.

Professor Wanstead and Miss Marple remained.

âI think myself,â said Professor Wanstead, addressing Miss Marple, âthat it would be pleasant to sit outside the hotel. There is a small terrace giving on the street. If I might persuade you?â

Miss Marple thanked him and rose to her feet. She had hardly exchanged a word so far with Professor Wanstead. He had several learned looking books with him, one of which he was usually perusing. Even in the coach he continued to try and read.

âBut perhaps you too want to shop,â he said. âFor myself, I would prefer to wait somewhere peacefully for the return of Mrs. Sandbourne. It is important, I think, that we should know exactly what we are in for.â

âI quite agree with you, as to that,â said Miss Marple. âI did a certain amount of walking round the town yesterday and I donât feel any necessity to do so again today. Iâd rather wait here in case there is anything I can do to help. Not that I suppose there is, but one never knows.â

They moved together through the hotel door and round the corner to where there was a little square of garden with a raised stone walk close to the wall of the hotel and on which there were various forms of basket chairs. There was no one there at the moment so they sat down. Miss Marple looked thoughtfully at her vis-Ã -vis. At his corrugated and wrinkled face, his bushy brows, his luxuriant head of grey hair. He walked with a slight stoop. He had an interesting face, Miss Marple decided. His voice was dry and caustic, a professional man of some kind, she thought.

âI am not wrong, am I,â said Professor Wanstead. âYou are Miss Jane Marple?â

âYes, I am Jane Marple.â

She was slightly surprised, though for no particular reason. They had not been long enough together for people to be identified by the other travellers. The last two nights she had not been with the rest of the party. It was quite natural.

âI thought so,â said Professor Wanstead, âfrom a description I have had of you.â

âA description of me?â Miss Marple was again slightly surprised.

âYes, I had a description of youââ he paused for a moment. His voice was not exactly lowered, but it lost volume, although she could still hear it quite easily ââfrom Mr. Rafiel.â

âOh,â said Miss Marple, startled. âFrom Mr. Rafiel.â

âYou are surprised?â

âWell, yes, I am rather.â

âI donât know that you should be.â

âI didnât expectââ began Miss Marple and then stopped.

Professor Wanstead did not speak. He was merely sitting, looking at her intently. In a minute or two, thought Miss Marple to herself, he will say to me, âWhat symptoms exactly, dear lady? Any discomfort in swallowing? Any lack of sleep? Digestion in good order?â She was almost sure now that he was a doctor.

âWhen did he describe me to you? That must have beenââ

âYou were going to say some time agoâsome weeks ago. Before his deathâthat is so. He told me that you would be on this tour.â

âAnd he knew that you would be on it tooâthat you were going on it.â

âYou can put it that way,â said Professor Wanstead. âHe said,â he continued, âthat you would be travelling on this tour, that he had in fact arranged for you to be travelling on this tour.â

âIt was very kind of him,â said Miss Marple. âVery kind indeed. I was most surprised when I found heâd booked me. Such a treat. Which I could not have afforded for myself.â

âYes,â said Professor Wanstead. âVery well put.â He nodded his head as one who applauds a good performance by a pupil.

âIt is sad that it has been interrupted in this fashion,â said Miss Marple. âVery sad indeed. When I am sure we were all enjoying ourselves so much.â

âYes,â said Professor Wanstead. âYes, very sad. And unexpected, do you think, or not unexpected?â

âNow what do you mean by that, Professor Wanstead?â

His lips curled in a slight smile as he met her challenging look.

âMr. Rafiel,â he said, âspoke to me about you at some length, Miss Marple. He suggested that I should be on this tour with you. I should in due course almost certainly make your acquaintance, since members in a tour inevitably do make each otherâs acquaintance, though it usually takes a day or two for them to split up, as it were, into possible groupings led by similar tastes or interests. And he further suggested to me that I should, shall we say, keep an eye on you.â

âKeep an eye on me?â said Miss Marple, showing some slight displeasure. âAnd for what reason?â

âI think reasons of protection. He wanted to be quite sure that nothing should happen to you.â

âHappen to me? What should happen to me, I should like to know?â

âPossibly what happened to Miss Elizabeth Temple,â said Professor Wanstead.

Joanna Crawford came round the corner of the hotel. She was carrying a shopping basket. She passed them, nodding a little, she looked towards them with slight curiosity and went on down the street. Professor Wanstead did not speak until she had gone out of sight.

âA nice girl,â he said, âat least I think so. Content at present to be a beast of burden to an autocratic aunt, but I have no doubt will reach the age of rebellion fairly soon.â

âWhat did you mean by what you said just now?â said Miss Marple, uninterested for the moment in Joannaâs possible rebellion.

âThat is a question which, perhaps, owing to what has happened, we shall have to discuss.â

âYou mean because of the accident?â

âYes. If it was an accident.â

âDo you think it wasnât an accident?â

âWell, I think itâs just possible. Thatâs all.â

âI donât of course know anything about it,â said Miss Marple, hesitating.

âNo. You were absent from the scene. You wereâshall I put it this wayâwere you just possibly on duty elsewhere?â

Miss Marple was silent for a moment. She looked at Professor Wanstead once or twice and then she said:

âI donât think I know exactly what you mean.â

âYou are being careful. You are quite right to be careful.â

âI have made it a habit,â said Miss Marple.

âTo be careful?â

âI should not put it exactly like that, but I have made a point of being always ready to disbelieve as well as believe anything that is told to me.â

âYes, and you are quite right too. You donât know anything about me. You know my name from the passenger list of a very agreeable tour visiting castles and historic houses and splendid gardens. Possibly the gardens are what will interest you most.â

âPossibly.â

âThere are other people here too who are interested in gardens.â

âOr profess to be interested in gardens.â

âAh,â said Professor Wanstead. âYou have noticed that.â

He went on. âWell, it was my part, or at any rate to begin with, to observe you, to watch what you were doing, to be near at hand in case there was any possibility ofâwell, we might call it roughlyâdirty work of any kind. But things are slightly altered now. You must make up your mind if I am your enemy or your ally.â

âPerhaps you are right,â said Miss Marple. âYou put it very clearly but you have not given me any information about yourself yet on which to judge. You were a friend, I presume, of the late Mr. Rafiel?â

âNo,â said Professor Wanstead, âI was not a friend of Mr. Rafiel. I had met him once or twice. Once on a committee of a hospital, once at some other public event. I knew about him. He, I gather, also knew about me. If I say to you, Miss Marple, that I am a man of some eminence in my own profession, you may think me a man of bounding conceit.â

âI donât think so,â said Miss Marple. âI should say, if you say that about yourself, that you are probably speaking the truth. You are, perhaps, a medical man.â

âAh. You are perceptive, Miss Marple. Yes, you are quite perceptive. I have a medical degree, but I have a speciality too. I am a pathologist and psychologist. I donât carry credentials about with me. You will probably have to take my word up to a certain point, though I can show you letters addressed to me, and possibly official documents that might convince you. I undertake mainly specialist work in connection with medical jurisprudence. To put it in perfectly plain everyday language, I am interested in the different types of criminal brain. That has been a study of mine for many years. I have written books on the subject, some of them violently disputed, some of them which have attracted adherence to my ideas. I do not do very arduous work nowadays, I spend my time mainly writing up my subject, stressing certain points that have appealed to me. From time to time I come across things that strike me as interesting. Things that I want to study more closely. This I am afraid must seem rather tedious to you.â

âNot at all,â said Miss Marple. âI am hoping perhaps, from what you are saying now, that you will be able to explain to me certain things which Mr. Rafiel did not see fit to explain to me. He asked me to embark upon a certain project but he gave me no useful information on which to work. He left me to accept it and proceed, as it were, completely in the dark. It seemed to me extremely foolish of him to treat the matter in that way.â

âBut you accepted it?â

âI accepted it. I will be quite honest with you. I had a financial incentive.â

âDid that weigh with you?â

Miss Marple was silent for a moment and then she said slowly,

âYou may not believe it, but my answer to that is, âNot really.ââ

âI am not surprised. But your interest was aroused. That is what you are trying to tell me.â

âYes. My interest was aroused. I had known Mr. Rafiel not well, casually, but for a certain period of timeâsome weeks in factâin the West Indies. I see you know about it, more or less.â

âI know that that was where Mr. Rafiel met you and whereâshall I sayâyou two collaborated.â

Miss Marple looked at him rather doubtfully. âOh,â she said, âhe said that, did he?â She shook her head.

âYes, he did,â said Professor Wanstead. âHe said you had a remarkable flair for criminal matters.â

Miss Marple raised her eyebrows as she looked at him.

âAnd I suppose that seems to you most unlikely,â she said. âIt surprises you.â

âI seldom allow myself to be surprised at what happens,â said Professor Wanstead. âMr. Rafiel was a very shrewd and astute man, a good judge of people. He thought that you, too, were a good judge of people.â

âI would not set myself up as a good judge of people,â said Miss Marple. âI would only say that certain people remind me of certain other people that I have known, and that therefore I can presuppose a certain likeness between the way they would act. If you think I know all about what I am supposed to be doing here, you are wrong.â

âBy accident more than design,â said Professor Wanstead, âwe seem to have settled here in a particularly suitable spot for discussion of certain matters. We do not appear to be overlooked, we cannot easily be overheard, we are not near a window or a door and there is no balcony or window overhead. In fact, we can talk.â

âI should appreciate that,â said Miss Marple. âI am stressing the fact that I am myself completely in the dark as to what I am doing or supposed to be doing. I donât know why Mr. Rafiel wanted it that way.â

âI think I can guess that. He wanted you to approach a certain set of facts, of happenings, unbiased by what anyone would tell you first.â

âSo you are not going to tell me anything either?â Miss Marple sounded irritated. âReally!â she said, âthere are limits.â

âYes,â said Professor Wanstead. He smiled suddenly. âI agree with you. We must do away with some of these limits. I am going to tell you certain facts that will make certain things fairly clear to you. You in turn may be able to tell me certain facts.â

âI rather doubt it,â said Miss Marple. âOne or two rather peculiar indications perhaps, but indications are not facts.â

âThereforeââ said Professor Wanstead, and paused.

âFor goodnessâ sake, tell me something,â said Miss Marple.

Twelve

A CONSULTATION

âIâm not going to make a long story of things. Iâll explain quite simply how I came into this matter. I act as confidential adviser from time to time for the Home Office. I am also in touch with certain institutions. There are certain establishments which, in the event of crime, provide board and lodging for certain types of criminal who have been found guilty of certain acts. They remain there at what is termed Her Majestyâs pleasure, sometimes for a definite length of time and in direct association with their age. If they are below a certain age they have to be received in some place of detention specially indicated. You understand that, no doubt.â

âYes, I understand quite well what you mean.â

âUsually I am consulted fairly soon after whatever theâshall we call itâcrime has happened, to judge such matters as treatment, possibilities in the case, prognosis favourable or unfavourable, all the various words. They do not mean much and I will not go into them. But occasionally also I am consulted by a responsible Head of such an institution for a particular reason. In this matter I received a communication from a certain Department which was passed to me through the Home Office. I went to visit the Head of this institution. In fact, the Governor responsible for the prisoners or patients or whatever you like to call them. He was by way of being a friend of mine. A friend of fairly long standing though not one with whom I was on terms of great intimacy. I went down to the institution in question and the Governor laid his troubles before me. They referred to one particular inmate. He was not satisfied about this inmate. He had certain doubts. This was the case of a young man or one who had been a young man, in fact little more than a boy, when he came there. That was now several years ago. As time went on, and after the present Governor had taken up his own residence there (he had not been there at the original arrival of this prisoner), he became worried. Not because he himself was a professional man, but because he was a man of experience of criminal patients and prisoners. To put it quite simply, this had been a boy who from his early youth had been completely unsatisfactory. You can call it by what term you like. A young delinquent, a young thug, a bad lot, a person of diminished responsibility. There are many terms. Some of them fit, some of them donât fit, some of them are merely puzzling. He was a criminal type. That was certain. He had joined gangs, he had beaten up people, he was a thief, he had stolen, he had embezzled, he had taken part in swindles, he had initiated certain frauds. In fact, he was a son who would be any fatherâs despair.â

âOh, I see,â said Miss Marple.

âAnd what do you see, Miss Marple?â

âWell, what I think I see is that you are talking of Mr. Rafielâs son.â

âYou are quite right. I am talking of Mr. Rafielâs son. What do you know about him?â

âNothing,â said Miss Marple. âI only heardâand that was yesterdayâthat Mr. Rafiel had a delinquent, or unsatisfactory, if we like to put it mildly, son. A son with a criminal record. I know very little about him. Was he Mr. Rafielâs only son?â

âYes, he was Mr. Rafielâs only son. But Mr. Rafiel also had two daughters. One of them died when she was fourteen, the elder daughter married quite happily but had no children.â

âVery sad for him.â

âPossibly,â said Professor Wanstead. âOne never knows. His wife died young and I think it possible that her death saddened him very much, though he was never willing to show it. How much he cared for his son and daughters I donât know. He provided for them. He did his best for them. He did his best for his son, but what his feelings were one cannot say. He was not an easy man to read that way. I think his whole life and interest lay in his profession of making money. It was the making of it, like all great financiers, that interested him. Not the actual money which he secured by it. That, as you might say, was sent out like a good servant to earn more money in more interesting and unexpected ways. He enjoyed finance. He loved finance. He thought of very little else.

âI think he did all that was possible for his son. He got him out of scrapes at school, he employed good lawyers to get him released from Court proceedings whenever possible, but the final blow came, perhaps presaged by some early happenings. The boy was taken to Court on a charge of assault against a young girl. It was said to be assault and rape and he suffered a term of imprisonment for it, with some leniency shown because of his youth. But later, a second and really serious charge was brought against him.â

âHe killed a girl,â said Miss Marple. âIs that right? Thatâs what I heard.â

âHe lured a girl away from her home. It was some time before her body was found. She had been strangled. And afterwards her face and head had been disfigured by some heavy stones or rocks, presumably to prevent her identity being made known.â

âNot a very nice business,â said Miss Marple, in her most old-ladylike tone.

Professor Wanstead looked at her for a moment or two.

âYou describe it that way?â

âIt is how it seems to me,â said Miss Marple. âI donât like that sort of thing. I never have. If you expect me to feel sympathy, regret, urge an unhappy childhood, blame bad environment; if you expect me in fact to weep over him, this young murderer of yours, I do not feel inclined so to do. I do not like evil beings who do evil things.â

âI am delighted to hear it,â said Professor Wanstead. âWhat I suffer in the course of my profession from people weeping and gnashing their teeth, and blaming everything on some happening in the past, you would hardly believe. If people knew the bad environments that people have had, the unkindness, the difficulties of their lives and the fact that nevertheless they can come through unscathed, I donât think they would so often take the opposite point of view. The misfits are to be pitied, yes, they are to be pitied if I may say so for the genes with which they are born and over which they have no control themselves. I pity epileptics in the same way. If you know what genes areââ

âI know, more or less,â said Miss Marple. âItâs common knowledge nowadays, though naturally I have no exact chemical or technical knowledge.â

âThe Governor, a man of experience, told me exactly why he was so anxious to have my verdict. He had felt increasingly in his experience of this particular inmate that, in plain words, the boy was not a killer. He didnât think he was the type of a killer, he was like no killer he had ever seen before, he was of the opinion that the boy was the kind of criminal type who would never go straight no matter what treatment was given to him, would never reform himself; and for whom nothing in one sense of the word could be done, but at the same time he felt increasingly certain that the verdict upon him had been a wrong one. He did not believe that the boy had killed a girl, first strangled her and then disfigured her after rolling her body into a ditch. He just couldnât bring himself to believe it. Heâd looked over the facts of the case, which seemed to be fully proved. This boy had known the girl, he had been seen with her on several different occasions before the crime. They had presumably slept together and there were other points. His car had been seen in the neighbourhood. He himself had been recognized and all the rest of it. A perfectly fair case. But my friend was unhappy about it, he said. He was a man who had a very strong feeling for justice. He wanted a different opinion. He wanted, in fact, not the police side which he knew, he wanted a professional medical view. That was my field, he said. My line of country entirely. He wanted me to see this young man and talk with him, visit him, make a professional appraisal of him and give him my opinion.â

âVery interesting,â said Miss Marple. âYes, I call that very interesting. After all, your friendâI mean your Governorâwas a man of experience, a man who loved justice. He was a man whom youâd be willing to listen to. Presumably then, you did listen to him.â

âYes,â said Professor Wanstead, âI was deeply interested. I saw the subject, as I will call him, I approached him from several different attitudes. I talked to him, I discussed various changes likely to occur in the law. I told him it might be possible to bring down a lawyer, a Queenâs Counsel, to see what points there might be in his favour, and other things. I approached him as a friend but also as an enemy so that I could see how he responded to different approaches, and I also made a good many physical tests, such as we use very frequently nowadays. I will not go into those with you because they are wholly technical.â

âThen what did you think in the end?â

âI thought,â said Professor Wanstead, âI thought my friend was likely to be right. I did not think that Michael Rafiel was a murderer.â

âWhat about the earlier case you mentioned?â

âThat told against him, of course. Not in the juryâs mind, because of course they did not hear about that until after the judgeâs summing up, but certainly in the judgeâs mind. It told against him, but I made a few enquiries myself afterwards. He had assaulted a girl. He had conceivably raped her, but he had not attempted to strangle her and in my opinionâI have seen a great many cases which come before the Assizesâit seemed to me highly unlikely that there was a very definite case of rape. Girls, you must remember, are far more ready to be raped nowadays than they used to be. Their mothers insist, very often, that they should call it rape. The girl in question had had several boyfriends who had gone further than friendship. I did not think it counted very greatly as evidence against him. The actual murder caseâyes, that was undoubtedly murderâbut I continued to feel by all tests, physical tests, mental tests, psychological tests, none of them accorded with this particular crime.â

âThen what did you do?â

âI communicated with Mr. Rafiel. I told him that I would like an interview with him on a certain matter concerning his son. I went to him. I told him what I thought, what the Governor thought, that we had no evidence, that there were no grounds of appeal, at present, but that we both believed that a miscarriage of justice had been committed. I said I thought possibly an enquiry might be held, it might be an expensive business, it might bring out certain facts that could be laid before the Home Office, it might be successful, it might not. There might be something there, some evidence if you looked for it. I said it would be expensive to look for it but I presumed that would make no difference to anyone in his position. I had realized by that time that he was a sick man, a very ill man. He told me so himself. He told me that he had been in expectation of an early death, that heâd been warned two years ago that death could not be delayed for what they first thought was about a year, but later they realized that he would last rather longer because of his unusual physical strength. I asked him what he felt about his son.â

âAnd what did he feel about his son?â said Miss Marple.

âAh, you want to know that. So did I. He was, I think, extremely honest with me even ifââ

ââeven if rather ruthless?â said Miss Marple.

âYes, Miss Marple. You are using the right word. He was a ruthless man, but he was a just man and an honest man. He said, âIâve known what my son was like for many years. I have not tried to change him because I donât believe that anyone could change him. He is made a certain way. He is crooked. Heâs a bad lot. Heâll always be in trouble. Heâs dishonest. Nobody, nothing could make him go straight. I am well assured of that. I have in a sense washed my hands of him. Though not legally or outwardly; he has always had money if he required it. Help legal or otherwise if he gets into trouble. I have done always what I could do. Well, let us say if I had a son who was a spastic who was sick, who was epileptic, I would do what I could for him. If you have a son who is sick morally, shall we say, and for whom there is no cure, I have done what I could also. No more and no less. What can I do for him now?â I told him that it depended what he wanted to do. âThereâs no difficulty about that,â he said. âI am handicapped but I can see quite clearly what I want to do. I want to get him vindicated. I want to get him released from confinement. I want to get him free to continue to lead his own life as best he can lead it. If he must lead it in further dishonesties, then he must lead it that way. I will leave provision for him, to do for him everything that can be done. I donât want him suffering, imprisoned, cut off from his life because of a perfectly natural and unfortunate mistake. If somebody else, some other man killed that girl, I want the fact brought to light and recognized. I want justice for Michael. But I am handicapped. I am a very ill man. My time is measured now not in years or months but in weeks.â

âLawyers, I suggestedâI know a firmâHe cut me short. âYour lawyers will be useless. You can employ them but they will be useless. I must arrange what I can arrange in such a limited time.â He offered me a large fee to undertake the search for the truth and to undertake everything possible with no expense spared. âI can do next to nothing myself. Death may come at any moment. I empower you as my chief help, and to assist you at my request I will try to find a certain person.â He wrote down a name for me. Miss Jane Marple. He said âI donât want to give you her address. I want you to meet her in surroundings of my own choosing,â and he then told me of this tour, this charming, harmless, innocent tour of historic houses, castles and gardens. He would provide me with a reservation on it ahead for a certain date. âMiss Jane Marple,â he said, âwill also be on that tour. You will meet her there, you will encounter her casually, and thus it will be seen clearly to be a casual meeting.â

âI was to choose my own time and moment to make myself known to you if I thought that that would be the better way. You have already asked me if I or my friend, the Governor, had any reason to suspect or know of any other person who might have been guilty of the murder. My friend the Governor certainly suggested nothing of the kind, and he had already taken up the matter with the police officer who had been in charge of the case. A most reliable detective-superintendent with very good experience in these matters.â

âNo other man was suggested? No other friend of the girlâs? No other former friend who might have been supplanted?â

âThere was nothing of that kind to find. I asked him to tell me a little about you. He did not however consent to do so. He told me you were elderly. He told me that you were a person who knew about people. He told me one other thing.â He paused.

âWhatâs the other thing?â said Miss Marple. âI have some natural curiosity, you know. I really canât think of any other advantage I conceivably could have. I am slightly deaf. My eyesight is not quite as good as it used to be. I cannot really think that I have any advantages beyond the fact that I may, I suppose, seem rather foolish and simple, and am in fact, what used to be called in rather earlier days an âold pussy.â I am an old pussy. Is that the sort of thing he said?â

âNo,â said Professor Wanstead. âWhat he said was he thought you had a very fine sense of evil.â

âOh,â said Miss Marple. She was taken aback.

Professor Wanstead was watching her.

âWould you say that was true?â he said.

Miss Marple was quiet for quite a long time. At last she said,

âPerhaps it is. Yes, perhaps. I have at several different times in my life been apprehensive, have recognized that there was evil in the neighbourhood, the surroundings, that the environment of someone who was evil was near me, connected with what was happening.â

She looked at him suddenly and smiled.

âItâs rather, you know,â she said, âlike being born with a very keen sense of smell. You can smell a leak of gas when other people canât do so. You can distinguish one perfume from another very easily. I had an aunt once,â continued Miss Marple thoughtfully, âwho said she could smell when people told a lie. She said there was quite a distinctive odour came to her. Their noses twitched, she said, and then the smell came. I donât know if it was true or not, butâwell, on several occasions she was quite remarkable. She said to my uncle once, âDonât, Jack, engage that young man you were talking to this morning. He was telling you lies the whole time he was talking.â That turned out to be quite true.â

âA sense of evil,â said Professor Wanstead. âWell, if you do sense evil, tell me. I shall be glad to know. I donât think I have a particular sense of evil myself. Ill health, yes, but notânot evil up here.â He tapped his forehead.

âIâd better tell you briefly how I came into things now,â said Miss Marple. âMr. Rafiel, as you know, died. His lawyers asked me to come and see them, apprised me of his proposition. I received a letter from him which explained nothing. After that I heard nothing more for some little time. Then I got a letter from the company who run these tours saying that Mr. Rafiel before his death had made a reservation for me knowing that I should enjoy a trip very much, and wanting to give it me as a surprise present. I was very astonished but took it as an indication of the first step that I was to undertake. I was to go on this tour and presumably in the course of the tour some other indication or hint or clue or direction would come to me. I think it did. Yesterday, no, the day before, I was received on my arrival here by three ladies who live at an old manor house here and who very kindly extended an invitation to me. They had heard from Mr. Rafiel, they said, who had written some time before his death, saying that a very old friend of his would be coming on this tour and would they be kind enough to put her up for two or three days as he thought she was not fit to attempt the particular ascent of this rather difficult climb up the headland to where there was a memorial tower which was the principal event of yesterdayâs tour.â

âAnd you took that also as an indication of what you were to do?â

âOf course,â said Miss Marple. âThere can be no other reason for it. He was not a man to shower benefits for nothing, out of compassion for an old lady who wasnât good at walking up hills. No. He wanted me to go there.â

âAnd you went there? And what then?â

âNothing,â said Miss Marple. âThree sisters.â

âThree weird sisters?â

âThey ought to have been,â said Miss Marple, âbut I donât think they were. They didnât seem to be anyway. I donât know yet. I suppose they may have beenâthey may be, I mean. They seem ordinary enough. They didnât belong to this house. It had belonged to an uncle of theirs and theyâd come here to live some years ago. They are in rather poor circumstances, they are amiable, not particularly interesting. All slightly different in type. They do not appear to have been well acquainted with Mr. Rafiel. Any conversation I have had with them appears to yield nothing.â

âSo you learnt nothing during your stay?â

âI learnt the facts of the case youâve just told me. Not from them. From an elderly servant, who started her reminiscences dating back to the time of the uncle. She knew of Mr. Rafiel only as a name. But she was eloquent on the theme of the murder: it had all started with the visit here of a son of Mr. Rafielâs who was a bad lot, of how the girl had fallen in love with him and that heâd strangled the girl, and how sad and tragic and terrible it all was. âWith bells on,â as you might say,â said Miss Marple, using a phrase of her youth. âPlenty of exaggeration, but it was a nasty story, and she seemed to believe that the police view was that this hadnât been his only murderââ

âIt didnât seem to you to connect up with the three weird sisters?â

âNo, only that theyâd been the guardians of the girlâand had loved her dearly. No more than that.â

âThey might know somethingâsomething about another man?â

âYesâthatâs what we want, isnât it? The other manâa man of brutality, who wouldnât hesitate to bash in a girlâs head after heâd killed her. The kind of man who could be driven frantic with jealousy. There are men like that.â

âNo other curious things happened at The Old Manor?â

âNot really. One of the sisters, the youngest I think, kept talking about the garden. She sounded as though she was a very keen gardener, but she couldnât be because she didnât know the names of half the things. I laid a trap or two for her, mentioning special rare shrubs and saying did she know it? and yes, she said, wasnât it a wonderful plant? I said it was not very hardy and she agreed. But she didnât know anything about plants. That reminds meââ

âReminds you of what?â

âWell, youâll think Iâm just silly about gardens and plants, but I mean one does know things about them. I mean, I know a few things about birds and I know some things about gardens.â

âAnd I gather that itâs not birds but gardens that are troubling you.â

âYes. Have you noticed two middle-aged women on this tour? Miss Barrow and Miss Cooke.â

âYes. Iâve noticed them. Pair of middle-aged spinsters travelling together.â

âThatâs right. Well, Iâve found out something odd about Miss Cooke. That is her name, isnât it? I mean itâs her name on the tour.â

âWhyâhas she got another name?â

âI think so. Sheâs the same person who visited meâI wonât say visited me exactly, but she was outside my garden fence in St. Mary Mead, the village where I live. She expressed pleasure at my garden and talked about gardening with me. Told me she was living in the village and working in somebodyâs garden, whoâd moved into a new house there. I rather think,â said Miss Marple, âyes, I rather think that the whole thing was lies. There again, she knew nothing about gardening. She pretended to but it wasnât true.â

âWhy do you think she came there?â

âIâd no idea at the time. She said her name was Bartlettâand the name of the woman she said she was living with began with âH,â though I canât remember it for the moment. Her hair was not only differently done but it was a different colour and her clothes were of a different style. I didnât recognize her at first on this trip. Just wondered why her face was vaguely familiar. And then suddenly it came to me. Because of the dyed hair. I said where I had seen her before. She admitted that sheâd been thereâbut pretended that she, too, hadnât recognized me. All lies.â

âAnd whatâs your opinion about all that?â

âWell, one thing certainlyâMiss Cooke (to give her her present name) came to St. Mary Mead just to have a look at meâso that sheâd be quite sure to be able to recognize me when we met againââ

âAnd why was that felt to be necessary?â

âI donât know. There are two possibilities. Iâm not sure that I like one of them very much.â

âI donât know,â said Professor Wanstead, âthat I like it very much either.â

They were both silent for a minute or two, and then Professor Wanstead saidâ

âI donât like what happened to Elizabeth Temple. Youâve talked to her during this trip?â

âYes, I have. When sheâs better Iâd like to talk to her againâshe could tell meâusâthings about the girl who was murdered. She spoke to me of this girlâwho had been at her school, who had been going to marry Mr. Rafielâs sonâbut didnât marry him. Instead she died. I asked how or why she diedâand she answered with the word âLove.â I took it as meaning a suicideâbut it was murder. Murder through jealousy would fit. Another man. Some other man weâve got to find. Miss Temple may be able to tell us who he was.â

âNo other sinister possibilities?â

âI think, really, it is casual information we need. I see no reason to believe that there is any sinister suggestion in any of the coach passengersâor any sinister suggestion about the people living in The Old Manor House. But one of those three sisters may have known or remembered something that the girl or Michael once said. Clotilde used to take the girl abroad. Therefore, she may know of something that occurred on some foreign trip perhaps. Something that the girl said or mentioned or did on some trip. Some man that the girl met. Something which has nothing to do with The Old Manor House here. It is difficult because only by talking, by casual information, can you get any clue. The second sister, Mrs. Glynne, married fairly early, has spent time, I gather, in India and in Africa. She may have heard of something through her husband, or through her husbandâs relations, through various things that are unconnected with The Old Manor House here although she has visited it from time to time. She knew the murdered girl presumably, but I should think she knew her much less well than the other two. But that does not mean that she may not know some significant facts about the girl. The third sister is more scatty, more localized, does not seem to have known the girl as well. But still, she too may have information about possible loversâor boyfriendsâseen the girl with an unknown man. Thatâs her, by the way, passing the hotel now.â

Miss Marple, however occupied by her tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte, had not relinquished the habits of a lifetime. A public thoroughfare was always to her an observation post. All the passersby, either loitering or hurrying, had been noticed automatically.

âAnthea Bradbury-Scottâthe one with the big parcel. Sheâs going to the post office, I suppose. Itâs just round the corner, isnât it?â

âLooks a bit daft to me,â said Professor Wanstead, âall that floating hairâgrey hair tooâa kind of Ophelia of fifty.â

âI thought of Ophelia too, when I first saw her. Oh dear, I wish I knew what I ought to do next. Stay here at the Golden Boar for a day or two, or go on with the coach tour. Itâs like looking for a needle in a haystack. If you stick your fingers in it long enough, you ought to come up with somethingâeven if one does get pricked in the process.â

Thirteen

BLACK AND RED CHECK

I

Mrs. Sandbourne returned just as the party was sitting down to lunch. Her news was not good. Miss Temple was still unconscious. She certainly could not be moved for several days.

Having given the bulletin, Mrs. Sandbourne turned the conversation to practical matters. She produced suitable timetables of trains for those who wished to return to London and proposed suitable plans for the resumption of the tour on the morrow or the next day. She had a list of suitable short expeditions in the near neighbourhood for this afternoonâsmall groups in hired cars.

Professor Wanstead drew Miss Marple aside as they went out of the dining roomâ

âYou may want to rest this afternoon. If not, I will call for you here in an hourâs time. There is an interesting church you might care to seeâ?â

âThat would be very nice,â said Miss Marple.

II

Miss Marple sat quite still in the car that had come to fetch her. Professor Wanstead had called for her at the time he had said.

âI thought you might enjoy seeing this particular church. And a very pretty village, too,â he explained. âThereâs no reason really why one should not enjoy the local sights when one can.â

âItâs very kind of you, Iâm sure,â Miss Marple had said.

She had looked at him with that slightly fluttery gaze of hers.

âVery kind,â she said. âIt just seemsâwell, I donât want to say it seems heartless, but well, you know what I mean.â

âMy dear lady, Miss Temple is not an old friend of yours or anything like that. Sad as this accident has been.â

âWell,â said Miss Marple again, âthis is very kind of you.â

Professor Wanstead had opened the door of the car and Miss Marple got into it. It was, she presumed, a hired car. A kindly thought to take an elderly lady to see one of the sights of the neighbourhood. He might have taken somebody younger, more interesting and certainly better looking. Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully once or twice as they drove through the village. He was not looking at her. He was gazing out of his own window.

When they had left the village behind and were on a second class country road twisting round the hillside, he turned his head and said to her,

âWe are not going to a church, I am afraid.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âI thought perhaps we werenât.â

âYes, the idea would have come to you.â

âWhere are we going, may I ask?â

âWe are going to a hospital, in Carristown.â

âAh yes, that was where Miss Temple was taken?â

It was a question, though it hardly needed to be one.

âYes,â he said. âMrs. Sandbourne saw her and brought me back a letter from the Hospital Authorities. I have just finished talking to them on the telephone.â

âIs she going on well?â

âNo. Not going on very well.â

âI see. At leastâI hope I donât see,â said Miss Marple.

âHer recovery is very problematical but there is nothing that can be done. She may not recover consciousness again. On the other hand she may have a few lucid intervals.â

âAnd you are taking me there? Why? I am not a friend of hers, you know. I only just met her for the first time on this trip.â

âYes, I realize that. Iâm taking you there because in one of the lucid intervals she has had, she asked for you.â

âI see,â said Miss Marple. âI wonder why she should ask for me, why she should have thought that Iâthat I could be useful in any way to her, or do anything. She is a woman of perception. In her way, you know, a great woman. As Headmistress of Fallowfield she occupied a prominent position in the educational world.â

âThe best girlsâ school there is, I suppose?â

âYes. She was a great personality. She was herself a woman of considerable scholarship. Mathematics were her speciality, but she was an âall roundââwhat I should call an educator. Was interested in education, what girls were fitted for, how to encourage them. Oh, many other things. It is sad and very cruel if she dies,â said Miss Marple. âIt will seem such a waste of a life. Although she had retired from her Headmistresship she still exercised a lot of power. This accidentââ She stopped. âPerhaps you do not want us to discuss the accident?â

âI think it is better that we should do so. A big boulder crashed down the hillside. It has been known to happen before though only at very long divided intervals of time. However, somebody came and spoke to me about it,â said Professor Wanstead.

âCame and spoke to you about the accident? Who was it?â

âThe two young people. Joanna Crawford and Emlyn Price.â

âWhat did they say?â

âJoanna told me that she had the impression there was someone on the hillside. Rather high up. She and Emlyn were climbing up from the lower main path, following a rough track that wound round the curve of the hill. As they turned a corner she definitely saw, outlined against the skyline, a man or a woman who was trying to roll a big boulder forward along the ground. The boulder was rockingâand finally it started to roll, at first slowly and then gathering speed down the hillside. Miss Temple was walking along the main path below, and had come to a point just underneath it when the boulder hit her. If it was done deliberately it might not, of course, have succeeded; it might have missed herâbut it did succeed. If what was being attempted was a deliberate attack on the woman walking below it succeeded only too well.â

âWas it a man or a woman they saw?â asked Miss Marple.

âUnfortunately, Joanna Crawford could not say. Whoever it was, was wearing jeans or trousers, and had on a lurid polo-neck pullover in red and black checks. The figure turned and moved out of sight almost immediately. She is inclined to think it was a man but cannot be certain.â

âAnd she thinks, or you think, that it was a deliberate attempt on Miss Templeâs life?â

âThe more she mulls it over, the more she thinks that that was exactly what it was. The boy agrees.â

âYou have no idea who it might have been?â

âNo idea whatever. No more have they. It might be one of our fellow travellers, someone who went for a stroll that afternoon. It might be someone completely unknown who knew that the coach was making a halt here and chose this place to make an attack on one of the passengers. Some youthful lover of violence for violenceâs sake. Or it might have been an enemy.â

âIt seems very melodramatic if one says âa secret enemy,ââ said Miss Marple.

âYes, it does. Who would want to kill a retired and respected Headmistress? That is a question we want answered. It is possible, faintly possible that Miss Temple herself might be able to tell us. She might have recognized the figure above her or she might more likely have known of someone who bore her ill will for some special reason.â

âIt still seems unlikely.â

âI agree with you,â said Professor Wanstead. âShe seems a totally unlikely person to be a fit victim of attack, but yet when one reflects, a Headmistress knows a great many people. A great many people, shall we put it this way, have passed through her hands.â

âA lot of girls you mean have passed through her hands.â

âYes. Yes, that is what I meant. Girls and their families. A Headmistress must have knowledge of many things. Romances, for instance, that girls might indulge in, unknown to their parents. It happens, you know. It happens very often. Especially in the last ten or twenty years. Girls are said to mature earlier. That is physically true, through in a deeper sense of the word, they mature late. They remain childish longer. Childish in the clothes they like to wear, childish with their floating hair. Even their mini skirts represent a worship of childishness. Their Baby Doll nightdresses, their gymslips and shortsâall childrenâs fashions. They wish not to become adultânot to have to accept our kind of responsibility. And yet like all children, they want to be thought grown up, and free to do what they think are grown up things. And that leads sometimes to tragedy and sometimes to the aftermath of tragedy.â

âAre you thinking of some particular case?â

âNo. No, not really. Iâm only thinkingâwell, shall we say letting possibilities pass through my mind. I cannot believe that Elizabeth Temple had a personal enemy. An enemy ruthless enough to wish to take an opportunity of killing her. What I do thinkââ he looked at Miss Marple, ââwould you like to make a suggestion?â

âOf a possibility? Well, I think I know or guess what you are suggesting. You are suggesting that Miss Temple knew something, knew some fact or had some knowledge that would be inconvenient or even dangerous to somebody if it was known.â

âYes, I do feel exactly that.â

âIn that case,â said Miss Marple, âit seems indicated that there is someone on our coach tour who recognized Miss Temple or knew who she was, but who perhaps after the passage of some years was not remembered or might even not have been recognized by Miss Temple. It seems to throw it back on our passengers, does it not?â She paused. âThat pullover you mentionedâred and black checks, you said?â

âOh yes? The pulloverââ He looked at her curiously. âWhat was it that struck you about that?â

âIt was very noticeable,â said Miss Marple. âThat is what your words led me to infer. It was very mentionable. So much so that the girl Joanna mentioned it specifically.â

âYes. And what does that suggest to you?â

âThe trailing of flags,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully. âSomething that will be seen, remembered, observed, recognized.â

âYes.â Professor Wanstead looked at her with encouragement.

âWhen you describe a person you have seen, seen not close at hand but from a distance, the first thing you will describe will be their clothes. Not their faces, not their walk, not their hands, not their feet. A scarlet tam-oâ-shanter, a purple cloak, a bizarre leather jacket, a pullover of brilliant reds and blacks. Something very recognizable, very noticeable. The object of it being that when that person removes that garment, gets rid of it, sends it by post in a parcel to some address, say, about a hundred miles away, or thrusts it in a rubbish bin in a city or burns it or tears it up or destroys it, she or he will be the one person modestly and rather drably attired who will not be suspected or looked at or thought of. It must have been meant, that scarlet and black check jersey. Meant so that it will be recognized again though actually it will never again be seen on that particular person.â

âA very sound idea,â said Professor Wanstead. âAs I have told you,â continued the Professor, âFallowfield is situated not very far from here. Sixteen miles, I think. So this is Elizabeth Templeâs part of the world, a part she knows well with people in it that she also might know well.â

âYes. It widens the possibilities,â said Miss Marple. âI agree with you,â she said presently, âthat the attacker is more likely to have been a man than a woman. That boulder, if it was done with intent, was sent on its course very accurately. Accuracy is more a male quality than a female one. On the other hand there might easily have been someone on our coach, or possibly in the neighbourhood, who saw Miss Temple in the street, a former pupil of hers in past years. Someone whom she herself might not recognize after a period of time. But the girl or woman would have recognized her, because a Headmaster or Headmistress of over sixty is not unlike the same Headmaster or Headmistress at the age of fifty. She is recognizable. Some woman who recognized her former mistress and also knew that her mistress knew something damaging about her. Someone who might in some way prove a danger to her.â She sighed. âI myself do not know this part of the world at all. Have you any particular knowledge of it?â

âNo,â said Professor Wanstead. âI could not claim a personal knowledge of this part of the country. I know something, however, of various things that have happened in this part of the world entirely because of what you have told me. If it had not been for my acquaintanceship with you and the things you have told me I could have been more at sea than I am.

âWhat are you yourself actually doing here? You do not know. Yet you were sent here. It was deliberately arranged by Rafiel that you should come here, that you should take this coach tour, that you and I should meet. There have been other places where we have stopped or through which we have passed, but special arrangements were made so that you should actually stay for a couple of nights here. You were put up with former friends of his who would not have refused any request he made. Was there a reason for that?â

âSo that I could learn certain facts that I had to know,â said Miss Marple.

âA series of murders that took place a good many years ago?â Professor Wanstead looked doubtful. âThere is nothing unusual in that. You can say the same of many places in England and Wales. These things seem always to go in a series. First a girl found assaulted and murdered. Then another girl not very far away. Then something of the same kind perhaps twenty miles away. The same pattern of death.

âTwo girls were reported missing from Jocelyn St. Mary itself, the one that we have been discussing whose body was found six months later, many miles away and who was last seen in the company of Michael Rafielââ

âAnd the other?â

âA girl called Nora Broad. Not-a âquiet girl with no boyfriends.â Possibly with one boyfriend too many. Her body was never found. It will beâone day. There have been cases when twenty years have passed,â said Wanstead. He slowed down: âWe have arrived. This is Carristown, and here is the Hospital.â

Shepherded by Professor Wanstead, Miss Marple entered. The Professor was obviously expected. He was ushered into a small room where a woman rose from a desk.

âOh yes,â she said, âProfessor Wanstead. Andâerâthis isâerââ She hesitated slightly.

âMiss Jane Marple,â said Professor Wanstead. âI talked to Sister Barker on the telephone.â

âOh yes. Sister Barker said that she would be accompanying you.â

âHow is Miss Temple?â

âMuch the same, I think. I am afraid there is not much improvement to report.â She rose. âI will take you to Sister Barker.â

Sister Barker was a tall, thin woman. She had a low, decisive voice and dark grey eyes that had a habit of looking at you and looking away almost immediately, leaving you with the feeling that you had been inspected in a very short space of time, and judgment pronounced upon you.

âI donât know what arrangements you have in mind,â said Professor Wanstead.

âWell, I had better tell Miss Marple just what we have arranged. First I must make it clear to you that the patient, Miss Temple, is still in a coma with very rare intervals. She appears to come to occasionally, to recognize her surroundings and to be able to say a few words. But there is nothing one can do to stimulate her. It has to be left to the utmost patience. I expect Professor Wanstead has already told you that in one of her intervals of consciousness she uttered quite distinctly the words âMiss Jane Marple.â And then: âI want to speak to her. Miss Jane Marple.â After that she relapsed into unconsciousness. Doctor thought it advisable to get in touch with the other occupants of the coach. Professor Wanstead came to see us and explained various matters and said he would bring you over. I am afraid that all we can ask you to do is to sit in the private ward where Miss Temple is, and perhaps be ready to make a note of any words she should say, if she does regain consciousness. I am afraid the prognosis is not very helpful. To be quite frank, which is better I think, since you are not a near relative and are unlikely to be disturbed by this information, Doctor thinks that she is sinking fast, that she may die without recovering consciousness. There is nothing one can do to relieve the concussion. It is important that someone should hear what she says and Doctor thinks it advisable that she should not see too many people round her if she regains consciousness. If Miss Marple is not worried at the thought of sitting there alone, there will be a nurse in the room, though not obviously so. That is, she will not be noticed from the bed, and will not move unless sheâs asked for. She will sit in a corner of the room shielded by a screen.â She added, âWe have a police official there also, ready to take down anything. The Doctor thinks it advisable that he also should not be noticed by Miss Temple. One person alone, and that possibly a person she expects to see, will not alarm her or make her lose knowledge of what she wants to say to you. I hope this will not be too difficult a thing to ask you?â

âOh no,â said Miss Marple, âIâm quite prepared to do that. I have a small notebook with me and a Biro pen that will not be in evidence. I can remember things by heart for a very short time, so I need not appear to be obviously taking notes of what she says. You can trust my memory and I am not deafânot deaf in the real sense of the word. I donât think my hearing is quite as good as it used to be, but if I am sitting near a bedside, I ought to be able to hear anything she says quite easily even if it is whispered. I am used to sick people. I have had a good deal to do with them in my time.â

Again the lightning glance of Sister Barker went over Miss Marple. This time a faint inclination of the head showed satisfaction.

âIt is kind of you,â she said, âand I am sure that if there is any help you can give, we can rely on you to give it. If Professor Wanstead likes to sit in the waiting room downstairs, we can call him at any moment if it should be necessary. Now, Miss Marple, perhaps you will accompany me.â

Miss Marple followed Sister along a passage and into a small well appointed single room. In the bed there, in a dimly-lighted room since the blinds were half drawn, lay Elizabeth Temple. She lay there like a statue, yet she did not give the impression of being asleep. Her breath came uncertainly in slight gasps. Sister Barker bent to examine her patient, motioned Miss Marple into a chair beside the bed. She then crossed the room to the door again. A young man with a notebook in his hand came from behind the screen there.

âDoctorâs orders, Mr. Reckitt,â said Sister Barker.

A nurse also appeared. She had been sitting in the opposite corner of the room.

âCall me if necessary, Nurse Edmonds,â said Sister Barker, âand get Miss Marple anything she may need.â

Miss Marple loosened her coat. The room was warm. The nurse approached and took it from her. Then she retired to her former position, Miss Marple sat down in the chair. She looked at Elizabeth Temple thinking, as she had thought before when looking at her in the coach, what a fine shaped head she had. Her grey hair drawn back from it, fitted her face in a perfect cap-like effect. A handsome woman, and a woman of personality. Yes, a thousand pities, Miss Marple thought, a thousand pities if the world was going to lose Elizabeth Temple.

Miss Marple eased the cushion at her back, moved the chair a fraction of an inch and sat quietly to wait. Whether to wait in vain or to some point, she had no idea. Time passed. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour, thirty-five minutes. Then suddenly, quite unexpectedly as it were, a voice came. Low, but distinct, slightly husky. None of the resonance it had once held. âMiss Marple.â

Elizabeth Templeâs eyes were open now. They were looking at Miss Marple. They looked competent, perfectly sensible. She was studying the face of the woman who was sitting by her bed, studying her without any sign of emotion, of surprise. Only, one would say, of scrutiny. Fully conscious scrutiny. And the voice spoke again.

âMiss Marple. You are Jane Marple?â

âThat is right. Yes,â said Miss Marple. âJane Marple.â

âHenry often spoke of you. He said things about you.â

The voice stopped. Miss Marple said with a slight query in her voice,

âHenry?â

âHenry Clithering, an old friend of mineâvery old friend.â

âAn old friend of mine too,â said Miss Marple. âHenry Clithering.â

Her mind went back to the many years she had known him, Sir Henry Clithering, the things he had said to her, the assistance he had asked from her sometimes, and the assistance that she had asked from him. A very old friend.

âI remembered your name. On the passenger list. I thought it must be you. You could help. Thatâs what heâHenry, yesâwould say if he were here. You might be able to help. To find out. Itâs important. Very important althoughâitâs a long time ago nowâaâlongâtimeâago.â

Her voice faltered a little, her eyes half closed. Nurse got up, came across the room, picked up a small glass and held it to Elizabeth Templeâs lips. Miss Temple took a sip, nodded her head dismissively. Nurse put down the glass and went back to her chair.

âIf I can help, I will,â said Miss Marple. She asked no further questions.

Miss Temple said, âGood,â and after a minute or two, again, âGood.â

For two or three minutes she lay with her eyes closed. She might have been asleep or unconscious. Then her eyes opened again suddenly.

âWhich,â she said, âwhich of them? Thatâs what one has got to know. Do you know what I am talking about?â

âI think so. A girl who diedâNora Broad?â A frown came quickly to Elizabeth Templeâs forehead.

âNo, no, no. The other girl. Verity Hunt.â

There was a pause and then, âJane Marple. Youâre oldâolder than when he talked about you. Youâre older, but you can still find out things, canât you?â

Her voice became slightly higher, more insistent.

âYou can, canât you? Say you can. Iâve not much time. I know that. I know it quite well. One of them, but which? Find out. Henry would have said you can. It may be dangerous for youâbut youâll find out, wonât you?â

âWith Godâs help, I will,â said Miss Marple. It was a vow.

âAh.â

The eyes closed, then opened again. Something like a smile seemed to try and twitch the lips.

âThe big stone from above. The Stone of Death.â

âWho rolled that stone down?â

âDonât know. No matterâonlyâVerity. Find out about Verity. Truth. Another name for truth, Verity.â

Miss Marple saw the faint relaxation of the body on the bed. There was a faintly whispered: âGood-bye. Do your bestâ¦.â

Her body relaxed, the eyes closed. The nurse came again to the bedside. This time she took up the pulse, felt it, and beckoned to Miss Marple. Miss Marple rose obediently and followed her out of the room.

âThatâs been a big effort for her,â said the nurse. âShe wonât regain consciousness again for some time. Perhaps not at all. I hope you learnt something?â

âI donât think I did,â said Miss Marple, âbut one never knows, does one.â

âDid you get anything?â asked Professor Wanstead, as they went out to the car.

âA name,â said Miss Marple. âVerity. Was that the girlâs name?â

âYes. Verity Hunt.â

Elizabeth Temple died an hour and a half later. She died without regaining consciousness.

Fourteen

MR. BROADRIBB WONDERS

âSeen The Times this morning?â said Mr. Broadribb to his partner, Mr. Schuster.

Mr. Schuster said he couldnât afford The Times, he took the Telegraph.

âWell, it may be in that too,â said Mr. Broadribb. âIn the deaths, Miss Elizabeth Temple, D.Sc.â

Mr. Schuster looked faintly puzzled.

âHeadmistress of Fallowfield. Youâve heard of Fallowfield, havenât you?â

âOf course,â said Schuster. âGirlsâ school. Been going for fifty years or so. First class, fantastically expensive. So she was the Headmistress of it, was she? I thought the Headmistress had resigned some time ago. Six months at least. Iâm sure I read about it in the paper. That is to say there was a bit about the new Headmistress. Married woman. Youngish. Thirty-five to forty. Modern ideas. Give the girls lessons in cosmetics, let âem wear trouser suits. Something of that kind.â

âHum,â said Mr. Broadribb, making the noise that solicitors of his age are likely to make when they hear something which elicits criticism based on long experience. âDonât think sheâll ever make the name that Elizabeth Temple did. Quite someone, she was. Been there a long time, too.â

âYes,â said Mr. Schuster, somewhat uninterested. He wondered why Broadribb was so interested in defunct schoolmistresses.

Schools were not really of particular interest to either of the two gentlemen. Their own offspring were now more or less disposed of. Mr. Broadribbâs two sons were respectively in the Civil Service and in an oil firm, and Mr. Schusterâs rather younger progeny were at different universities where both of them respectively were making as much trouble for those in authority as they possibly could do. He said,

âWhat about her?â

âShe was on a coach tour,â said Mr. Broadribb.

âThose coaches,â said Mr. Schuster. âI wouldnât let any of my relations go on one of those. One went off a precipice in Switzerland last week and two months ago one had a crash and twenty were killed. Donât know who drives these things nowadays.â

âIt was one of those Country Houses and Gardens and Objects of Interest in Britainâor whatever they call itâtours,â said Mr. Broadribb. âThatâs not quite the right name, but you know what I mean.â

âOh yes, I know. Oh theâerâyes, thatâs the one we sent Miss Whatâs-a-name on. The one old Rafiel booked.â

âMiss Jane Marple was on it.â

âShe didnât get killed too, did she?â asked Mr. Schuster.

âNot so far as I know,â said Mr. Broadribb. âI just wondered a bit, though.â

âWas it a road accident?â

âNo. It was at one of the beauty spot places. They were walking on a path up a hill. It was a stiff walk. Up a rather steep hill with boulders and things on it. Some of the boulders got loose and came rushing down the mountainside. Miss Temple was knocked out and taken to hospital with concussion and diedââ

âBad luck,â said Mr. Schuster, and waited for more.

âI only wondered,â said Mr. Broadribb, âbecause I happened to remember thatâwell, that Fallowfield was the school where the girl was at.â

âWhat girl? I donât really know what youâre talking about, Broadribb.â

âThe girl who was done in by young Michael Rafiel. I was just recalling a few things which might seem to have some slight connection with this curious Jane Marple business that old Rafiel was so keen on. Wish heâd told us more.â

âWhatâs the connection?â said Mr. Schuster.

He looked more interested now. His legal wits were in process of being sharpened, to give a sound opinion on whatever it was that Mr. Broadribb was about to confide to him.

âThat girl. Canât remember her last name now. Christian name was Hope or Faith or something like that. Verity, that was her name. Verity Hunter, I think it was. She was one of that series of murdered girls. Found her body in a ditch about thirty miles away from where sheâd gone missing. Been dead six months. Strangled apparently, and her head and face had been bashed inâto delay recognition, they thought, but she was recognized all right. Clothes, handbag, jewellery nearbyâsome mole or scar. Oh yes, she was identified quite easilyââ

âActually, she was the one the trial was all about, wasnât she?â

âYes. Suspected of having done away with perhaps three other girls during the past year, Michael was. But evidence wasnât so good in the other deathsâso the police went all out on this oneâplenty of evidenceâbad record. Earlier cases of assault and rape. Well, we all know what rape is nowadays. Mum tells the girl sheâs got to accuse the young man of rape even if the young man hasnât had much chance, with the girl at him all the time to come to the house while mumâs away at work or dadâs gone on holiday. Doesnât stop badgering him until sheâs forced him to sleep with her. Then, as I say, mum tells the girl to call it rape. However, thatâs not the point,â said Mr. Broadribb. âI wondered if things mightnât tie up a bit, you know. I thought this Jane Marple business with Rafiel might have something to do with Michael.â

âFound guilty, wasnât he? And given a life sentence?â

âI canât remember nowâitâs so long ago. Or did they get away with a verdict of diminished responsibility?â

âAnd Verity Hunter or Hunt was educated at that school. Miss Templeâs school? She wasnât still a schoolgirl though, was she, when she was killed? Not that I can remember.â

âOh no. She was eighteen or nineteen, living with relations or friends of her parents, or something like that. Nice house, nice people, nice girl by all accounts. The sort of girl whose relations always say âshe was a very quiet girl, rather shy, didnât go about with strange people and had no boyfriends.â Relations never know what boyfriends a girl has. The girls take mighty good care of that. And young Rafiel was said to be very attractive to girls.â

âNever been any doubt that he did it?â asked Mr. Schuster.

âNot a scrap. Told a lot of lies in the witness box, anyway. His Counsel would have done better not to have let him give evidence. A lot of his friends gave him an alibi that didnât stand up, if you know what I mean. All his friends seemed to be fluent liars.â

âWhatâs your feeling about it, Broadribb?â

âOh, I havenât got any feelings,â said Mr. Broadribb, âI was just wondering if this womanâs death might tie up.â

âIn what way?â

âWell, you knowâabout these boulders that fall down cliff sides and drop on top of someone. Itâs not always in the course of nature. Boulders usually stay where they are, in my experience.â

Fifteen

VERITY

I

âVerity,â said Miss Marple.

Elizabeth Margaret Temple had died the evening before. It had been a peaceful death. Miss Marple, sitting once more amidst the faded chintz of the drawing room in The Old Manor House, had laid aside the babyâs pink coat which she had previously been engaged in knitting and had substituted a crocheted purple scarf. This half-mourning touch went with Miss Marpleâs early Victorian ideas of tactfulness in face of tragedy.

An inquest was to be held on the following day. The vicar had been approached and had agreed to hold a brief memorial service in the church as soon as arrangements could be made. Undertakers suitably attired, with proper mourning faces, took general charge of things in liaison with the police. The inquest was to take place on the following morning at 11 oâclock. Members of the coach tour had agreed to attend the inquest. And several of them had chosen to remain on so as to attend the church service also.

Mrs. Glynne had come to the Golden Boar and urged Miss Marple to return to The Old Manor House until she finally returned to the tour.

âYou will get away from all the reporters.â

Miss Marple had thanked all three sisters warmly and had accepted.

The coach tour would be resumed after the memorial service, driving first to South Bedestone, thirty-five miles away, where there was a good class hotel which had been originally chosen for a stopping place. After that the tour would go on as usual.

There were, however, as Miss Marple had considered likely, certain persons who were disengaging themselves and returning home, or were going in other directions and not continuing on the tour. There was something to be said in favour of either decision. To leave what would become a journey of painful memories, or to continue with the sightseeing that had already been paid for and which had been interrupted only by one of those painful accidents that may happen on any sightseeing expedition. A lot would depend, Miss Marple thought, on the outcome of the inquest.

Miss Marple, after exchanging various conventional remarks proper to the occasion with her three hostesses, had devoted herself to her purple wool and had sat considering her next line of investigation. And so it was that with her fingers still busy, she had uttered the one word, âVerity.â Throwing it as one throws a pebble into a stream, solely to observe what the resultâif anyâwould be. Would it mean something to her hostesses? It might or it might not. Otherwise, when she joined the members of the tour at their hotel meal this evening, which had been arranged, she would try the effect of it there. It had been, she thought to herself, the last word or almost the last word that Elizabeth Temple had spoken. So therefore, thought Miss Marple (her fingers still busy because she did not need to look at her crocheting, she could read a book or conduct a conversation while her fingers, though slightly crippled with rheumatism, would proceed correctly through their appointed movements). So therefore, âVerity.â

Like a stone into a pool, causing ripples, a splash, something? Or nothing. Surely there would be a reaction of one sort or another. Yes, she had not been mistaken. Although her face registered nothing, the keen eyes behind her glasses had watched three people in a simultaneous manner as she had trained herself to do for many years now, when wishing to observe her neighbours either in church, mothersâ meetings, or at other public functions in St. Mary Mead when she had been on the track of some interesting piece of news or gossip.

Mrs. Glynne had dropped the book she was holding and had looked across towards Miss Marple with slight surprise. Surprise, it seemed, at the particular word coming from Miss Marple, but not surprised really to hear it.

Clotilde reacted differently. Her head shot up, she leant forward a little, then she looked not at Miss Marple but across the room in the direction of the window. Her hands clenched themselves, she kept very still. Miss Marple, although dropping her head slightly as though she was not looking any more, noted that her eyes were filling with tears. Clotilde sat quite still and let the tears roll down her cheeks. She made no attempt to take out a handkerchief, she uttered no word. Miss Marple was impressed by the aura of grief that came from her.

Antheaâs reaction was different. It was quick, excited, almost pleasurable.

âVerity? Verity, did you say? Did you know her? Iâd no idea. It is Verity Hunt you mean?â

Lavinia Glynne said, âItâs a Christian name?â

âI never knew anyone of that name,â said Miss Marple, âbut I did mean a Christian name. Yes. It is rather unusual, I think. Verity.â She repeated it thoughtfully.

She let her purple wool ball fall and looked round with the slightly apologetic and embarrassed look of one who realizes she has made a serious faux pas, but not sure why.

âIâI am so sorry. Have I said something I shouldnât? It was only becauseâ¦.â

âNo, of course not,â said Mrs. Glynne. âIt was just that it isâit is a name we know, a name with which we haveâassociations.â

âIt just came into my mind,â said Miss Marple, still apologetic, âbecause, you know, it was poor Miss Temple who said it. I went to see her, you know, yesterday afternoon. Professor Wanstead took me. He seemed to think that I might be able toâtoâI donât know if itâs the proper wordâto rouse her, in some way. She was in a coma and they thoughtânot that I was a friend of hers at any time, but we had chatted together on the tour and we often sat beside each other, as you know, on some of the days and we had talked. And he thought perhaps I might be of some use. Iâm afraid I wasnât though. Not at all. I just sat there and waited and then she did say one or two words, but they didnât seem to mean anything. But finally, just when it was time for me to go, she did open her eyes and looked at meâI donât know if she was mistaking me for someoneâbut she did say that word. Verity! And, well of course it stuck in my mind, especially with her passing away yesterday evening. It must have been someone or something that she had in her mind. But of course it might just meanâwell, of course it might just mean Truth. Thatâs what verity means, doesnât it?â

She looked from Clotilde to Lavinia to Anthea.

âIt was the Christian name of a girl we knew,â said Lavinia Glynne. âThat is why it startled us.â

âEspecially because of the awful way she died,â said Anthea.

Clotilde said in her deep voice, âAnthea! thereâs no need to go into these details.â

âBut after all, everyone knows quite well about her,â said Anthea. She looked towards Miss Marple. âI thought perhaps you might have known about her because you knew Mr. Rafiel, didnât you? Well, I mean, he wrote to us about you so you must have known him. And I thought perhapsâwell, heâd mentioned the whole thing to you.â

âIâm so sorry,â said Miss Marple, âIâm afraid I donât quite understand what youâre talking about.â

âThey found her body in a ditch,â said Anthea.

There was never any holding Anthea, Miss Marple thought, not once she got going. But she thought that Antheaâs vociferous talk was putting additional strain on Clotilde. She had taken out a handkerchief now in a quiet, noncommittal way. She brushed tears from her eyes and then sat upright, her back very straight, her eyes deep and tragic.

âVerity,â she said, âwas a girl we cared for very much. She lived here for a while. I was very fond of herââ

âAnd she was very fond of you,â said Lavinia.

âHer parents were friends of mine,â said Clotilde. âThey were killed in a plane accident.â

âShe was at school at Fallowfield,â explained Lavinia. âI suppose that was how Miss Temple came to remember her.â

âOh I see,â said Miss Marple. âWhere Miss Temple was Headmistress, is that it? I have heard of Fallowfield often, of course. Itâs a very fine school, isnât it?â

âYes,â said Clotilde. âVerity was a pupil there. After her parents died she came to stay with us for a time while she could decide what she wanted to do with her future. She was eighteen or nineteen. A very sweet girl and a very affectionate and loving one. She thought perhaps of training for nursing, but she had very good brains and Miss Temple was very insistent that she ought to go to university. So she was studying and having coaching for that whenâwhen this terrible thing happened.â

She turned her face away.

âIâdo you mind if we donât talk about it any more just now?â

âOh, of course not,â said Miss Marple. âIâm so sorry to have impinged on some tragedy. I didnât know. IâI havenât heard â¦ I thoughtâwell I mean â¦â She became more and more incoherent.

II

That evening she heard a little more. Mrs. Glynne came to her bedroom when she was changing her dress to go out and join the others at the hotel.

âI thought I ought to come and explain a little to you,â said Mrs. Glynne, âaboutâabout the girl Verity Hunt. Of course you couldnât know that our sister Clotilde was particularly fond of her and that her really horrible death was a terrible shock. We never mention her if we can help it, butâI think it would be easier if I told you the facts completely and you will understand. Apparently Verity had, without our knowledge, made friends with an undesirableâa more than undesirableâit turned out to be a dangerousâyoung man who already had a criminal record. He came here to visit us when he was passing through once. We knew his father very well.â She paused. âI think Iâd better tell you the whole truth if you donât know, and you donât seem to. He was actually Mr. Rafielâs son, Michaelââ

âOh dear,â said Miss Marple, ânotânotâI canât remember his name but I do remember hearing that there was a sonâand, that he hadnât been very satisfactory.â

âA little more than that,â said Mrs. Glynne. âHeâd always given trouble. Heâd been had up in court once or twice for various things. Once assaulting a teenagerâother things of that type. Of course I consider myself that the magistrates are too lenient with that kind of thing. They donât want to upset a young manâs university career. And so they let them off with aâI forget what they call itâa suspended sentence, something of that kind. If these boys were sent to gaol at once it would perhaps warn them off that type of life. He was a thief, too. He had forged cheques, he pinched things. He was a thoroughly bad lot. We were friends of his motherâs. It was lucky for her, I think, that she died young before she had time to be upset by the way her son was turning out. Mr. Rafiel did all he could, I think. Tried to find suitable jobs for the boy, paid fines for him and things like that. But I think it was a great blow to him, though he pretended to be more or less indifferent and to write it off as one of those things that happen. We had, as probably people here in the village will tell you, we had a bad outbreak of murders and violence in this district. Not only here. They were in different parts of the country, twenty miles away, sometimes fifty miles away. One or two, itâs suspected by the police, were nearly a hundred miles away. But they seemed to centre more or less on this part of the world. Anyway, Verity one day went out to visit a friend andâwell, she didnât come back. We went to the police about it, the police sought for her, searched the whole countryside but they couldnât find any trace of her. We advertised, they advertised, and they suggested that sheâd gone off with a boyfriend. Then word began to get round that she had been seen with Michael Rafiel. By now the police had their eye on Michael as a possibility for certain crimes that had occurred, although they couldnât find any direct evidence. Verity was said to have been seen, described by her clothing and other things, with a young man of Michaelâs appearance and in a car that corresponded to a description of his car. But there was no further evidence until her body was discovered six months later, thirty miles from here in a rather wild part of wooded country, in a ditch covered with stones and piled earth. Clotilde had to go to identify itâit was Verity all right. Sheâd been strangled and her head beaten in. Clotilde has never quite got over the shock. There were certain marks, a mole and an old scar and of course her clothes and the contents of her handbag. Miss Temple was very fond of Verity. She must have thought of her just before she died.â

âIâm sorry,â said Miss Marple. âIâm really very, very sorry. Please tell your sister that I didnât know. I had no idea.â

Sixteen

THE INQUEST

I

Miss Marple walked slowly along the village street on her way towards the market place where the inquest was to take place in the old-fashioned Georgian building which had been known for a hundred years as the Curfew Arms. She glanced at her watch. There was still a good twenty minutes before she need be there. She looked into the shops. She paused before the shop that sold wool and babiesâ jackets, and peered inside for a few moments. A girl in the shop was serving. Small woolly coats were being tried on two children. Further along the counter there was an elderly woman.

Miss Marple went into the shop, went along the counter to a seat opposite the elderly woman, and produced a sample of pink wool. She had run out, she explained, of this particular brand of wool and had a little jacket she needed to finish. The match was soon made, some more samples of wool that Miss Marple had admired were brought out for her to look at, and soon she was in conversation. Starting with the sadness of the accident which had just taken place. Mrs. Merrypit, if her name was identical with that which was written up outside the shop, was full of the importance of the accident, and the general difficulties of getting local governments to do anything about the dangers of footpaths and public rights of way.

âAfter the rain, you see, you get all the soil washed off and then the boulders get loose and then down they comes. I remember one year they had three fallsâthree accidents there was. One boy nearly killed, he was, and then later that year, oh six months later, I think, there was a man got his arm broken, and the third time it was poor old Mrs. Walker. Blind she was and pretty well deaf too. She never heard nothing or she could have got out of the way, they say. Somebody saw it and they called out to her, but they was too far away to reach her or to run to get her. And so she was killed.â

âOh how sad,â said Miss Marple, âhow tragic. The sort of thing thatâs not easily forgotten, is it.â

âNo indeed. I expect the Coronerâll mention it today.â

âI expect he will,â said Miss Marple. âIn a terrible way it seems quite a natural thing to happen, doesnât it, though of course there are accidents sometimes by pushing things about, you know. Just pushing, making stones rock. That sort of thing.â

âAh well, thereâs boys as be up to anything. But I donât think Iâve ever seen them up that way, fooling about.â

Miss Marple went on to the subject of pullovers. Bright coloured pullovers.

âItâs not for myself,â she said, âitâs for one of my great-nephews. You know he wants a polo-necked pullover and very bright colours heâd like.â

âYes, they do like bright colours nowadays, donât they?â agreed Mrs. Merrypit. âNot in jeans. Black jeans they like. Black or dark blue. But they like a bit of brightness up above.â

Miss Marple described a pullover of check design in bright colours. There appeared to be quite a good stock of pullovers and jerseys, but anything in red and black did not seem to be on display, nor even was anything like it mentioned as having been lately in stock. After looking at a few samples Miss Marple prepared to take her departure, chatting first about the former murders she had heard about which had happened in this part of the world.

âThey got the fellow in the end,â said Mrs. Merrypit. âNice looking boy, hardly have thought it of him. Heâd been well brought up, you know. Been to university and all that. Father was very rich, they say. Touched in the head, I suppose. Not that they sent him to Broadway, or whatever the place is. No, they didnât do that, but I think myself he must have been a mental caseâthere was five or six other girls, so they said. The police had one after another of the young men round hereabouts to help them. Geoffrey Grant they had up. They were pretty sure it was him to begin with. He was always a bit queer, ever since he was a boy. Interfered with little girls going to school, you know. He used to offer them sweets and get them to come down the lanes with him and see the primroses, or something like that. Yes, they had very strong suspicions about him. But it wasnât him. And then there was another one. Bert Williams, but heâd been far away on two occasions, at leastâwhat they call an alibi, so it couldnât be him. And then at last it came to thisâwhatâsis-name, I canât remember him now. Luke I think his name wasâno Mike something. Very nice looking, as I say, but he had a bad record. Yes, stealing, forging cheques, all sorts of things like that. And two what-you-call âem paternity cases, no, I donât mean that, but you know what I mean. When a girlâs going to have a baby. You know and they make an order and make the fellow pay. Heâd got two girls in the family way before this.â

âWas this girl in the family way?â

âOh yes, she was. At first we thought when the body was found it might have been Nora Broad. That was Mrs. Broadâs niece, down at the mill shop. Great one for going with the boys, she was. Sheâd gone away missing from home in the same way. Nobody knew where she was. So when this body turned up six months later they thought at first it was her.â

âBut it wasnât?â

âNoâsomeone quite different.â

âDid her body ever turn up?â

âNo. I suppose it might some day, but they think on the whole it was pushed into the river. Ah well, you never know, do you? You never know what you may dig up off a ploughed field or something like that. I was taken once to see all that treasure. Luton Loo was itâsome name like that? Somewhere in the East Counties. Under a ploughed field it was. Beautiful. Gold ships and Viking ships and gold plate, enormous great platters. Well, you never know. Any day you may turn up a dead body or you may turn up a gold platter. And it may be hundreds of years old like that gold plate was, or it may be a three-or four-years-old body, like Mary Lucas whoâd been missing for four years, they say. Somewhere near Reigate she was found. Ah well, all these things! Itâs a sad life. Yes, itâs a very sad life. You never know whatâs coming.â

âThere was another girl whoâd lived here, wasnât there?â said Miss Marple, âwho was killed.â

âYou mean the body they thought was Nora Broadâs but it wasnât? Yes. Iâve forgotten her name now. Hope, it was, I think. Hope or Charity. One of those sort of names, if you know what I mean. Used to be used a lot in Victorian times but you donât hear them so much nowadays. Lived at the Manor House, she did. Sheâd been there for some time after her parents were killed.â

âHer parents died in an accident, didnât they?â

âThatâs right. In a plane going to Spain or Italy, one of those places.â

âAnd you say she came to live here? Were they relations of hers?â

âI donât know if they were relations, but Mrs. Glynne as she is now, was I think a great friend of her motherâs or something that way. Mrs. Glynne, of course, was married and gone abroad but Miss Clotildeâthatâs the eldest one, the dark oneâshe was very fond of the girl. She took her abroad, to Italy and France and all sorts of places, and she had her trained a bit of typewriting and shorthand and that sort of thing, and art classes too. Sheâs very arty, Miss Clotilde is. Oh, she was mighty fond of the girl. Brokenhearted she was when she disappeared. Quite different to Miss Antheaââ

âMiss Anthea is the youngest one, isnât she?â

âYes. Not quite all there, some people say. Scatty like, you know, in her mind. Sometimes you see her walking along, talking to herself, you know, and tossing her head in a very queer way. Children get frightened of her sometimes. They say sheâs a bit queer about things. I donât know. You hear everything in a village, donât you? The great-uncle who lived here before, he was a bit peculiar too. Used to practise revolver shooting in the garden. For no reason at all so far as anyone could see. Proud of his marksmanship, he said he was, whatever marksmanship is.â

âBut Miss Clotilde is not peculiar?â

âOh no, sheâs clever, she is. Knows Latin and Greek, I believe. Would have liked to go to university but she had to look after her mother who was an invalid for a long time. But she was very fond of Missânow, what was her name?âFaith perhaps. She was very fond of her and treated her like a daughter. And then along comes this young whatâs-his-name, Michael I think it wasâand then one day the girl just goes off without saying a word to anyone. I donât know if Miss Clotilde knew as she was in the family way.â

âBut you knew,â said Miss Marple.

âAh well, Iâve got a lot of experience. I usually know when a girlâs that way. Itâs plain enough to the eye. Itâs not only the shape, as you might say, you can tell by the look in their eyes and the way they walk and sit, and the sort of giddy fits they get and sick turns now and again. Oh yes, I thought to myself, hereâs another one of them. Miss Clotilde had to go and identify the body. Nearly broke her up, it did. She was like a different woman for weeks afterwards. Fairly loved that girl, she did.â

âAnd the other oneâMiss Anthea?â

âFunnily enough, you know, I thought she had a kind of pleased look as though she wasâyes, just pleased. Not nice, eh? Farmer Plummerâs daughter used to look like that. Always used to go and see pigs killed. Enjoyed it. Funny things goes on in families.â

Miss Marple said good-bye, saw she had another ten minutes to go and passed on to the post office. The post office and general store of Jocelyn St. Mary was just off the Market Square.

Miss Marple went into the post office, bought some stamps, looked at some of the postcards and then turned her attention to various paperback books. A middle-aged woman with rather a vinegary face presided behind the postal counter. She assisted Miss Marple to free a book from the wire support in which the books were.

âStick a bit sometimes, they do. People donât put them back straight, you see.â

There was by now no one else in the shop. Miss Marple looked with distaste at the jacket of the book, a naked girl with blood-stained markings on her face and a sinister-looking killer bending over her with a blood-stained knife in his hand.

âReally,â she said, âI donât like these horrors nowadays.â

âGone a bit too far with some of their jackets, havenât they,â said Mrs. Vinegar. âNot everyone as likes them. Too fond of violence in every way, Iâd say nowadays.â

Miss Marple detached a second book. âWhatever Happened to Baby Jane,â she read. âOh dear, itâs a sad world one lives in.â

âOh yes, I know. Saw in yesterdayâs paper, I did, some woman left her baby outside a supermarket and then someone else comes along and wheels it away. And all for no reason as far as one can see. The police found her all right. They all seem to say the same things, whether they steal from a supermarket or take away a baby. Donât know what came over them, they say.â

âPerhaps they really donât,â suggested Miss Marple.

Mrs. Vinegar looked even more like vinegar.

âTake me a lot to believe that, it would.â

Miss Marple looked roundâthe post office was still empty. She advanced to the window.

âIf you are not too busy, I wonder if you could answer a question of mine,â said Miss Marple. âI have done something extremely stupid. Of late years I make so many mistakes. This was a parcel addressed to a charity. I send them clothesâpullovers and childrenâs woollies, and I did it up and addressed it and it was sent offâand only this morning it came to me suddenly that Iâd made a mistake and written the wrong address. I donât suppose any list is kept of the address of parcelsâbut I thought someone might have just happened to remember it. The address I meant to put was The Dockyard and Thames Side Welfare Association.â

Mrs. Vinegar was looking quite kindly now, touched by Miss Marpleâs patent incapacity and general state of senility and dither.

âDid you bring it yourself?â

âNo, I didnâtâIâm staying at The Old Manor Houseâand one of them, Mrs. Glynne, I thinkâsaid she or her sister would post it. Very kind of herââ

âLet me see now. It would have been on Tuesday, would it? It wasnât Mrs. Glynne who brought it in, it was the youngest one, Miss Anthea.â

âYes, yes, I think that was the dayââ

âI remember it quite well. In a good sized dress boxâand moderately heavy, I think. But not what you said, Dockyard AssociationâI canât recall anything like that. It was the Reverend MatthewsâThe East Ham Women and Childrenâs Woollen Clothing Appeal.â

âOh yes.â Miss Marple clasped her hands in an ecstasy of relief. âHow clever of youâI see now how I came to do it. At Christmas I did send things to the East Ham Society in answer to a special appeal for knitted things, so I must have copied down the wrong address. Can you just repeat it?â She entered it carefully in a small notebook.

âIâm afraid the parcelâs gone off, thoughââ

âOh yes, but I can write, explaining the mistake and ask them to forward the parcel to the Dockyard Association instead. Thank you so much.â

Miss Marple trotted out.

Mrs. Vinegar produced stamps for her next customer, remarking in an aside to a colleagueââScatty as they make them, poor old creature. Expect sheâs always doing that sort of thing.â

Miss Marple went out of the post office and ran into Emlyn Price and Joanna Crawford.

Joanna, she noticed, was very pale and looked upset.

âIâve got to give evidence,â she said. âI donât knowâwhat will they ask me? Iâm so afraid. IâI donât like it. I told the police sergeant, I told him what I thought we saw.â

âDonât you worry, Joanna,â said Emlyn Price. âThis is just a coronerâs inquest, you know. Heâs a nice man, a doctor, I believe. Heâll just ask you a few questions and youâll say what you saw.â

âYou saw it too,â said Joanna.

âYes, I did,â said Emlyn. âAt least I saw there was someone up there. Near the boulders and things. Now come on, Joanna.â

âThey came and searched our rooms in the hotel,â said Joanna. âThey asked our permission but they had a search warrant. They looked in our rooms and among the things in our luggage.â

âI think they wanted to find that check pullover you described. Anyway, thereâs nothing for you to worry about. If youâd had a black and scarlet pullover yourself you wouldnât have talked about it, would you. It was black and scarlet, wasnât it?â

âI donât know,â said Emlyn Price. âI donât really know the colours of things very well. I think it was a sort of bright colour. Thatâs all I know.â

âThey didnât find one,â said Joanna. âAfter all, none of us have very many things with us. You donât when you go on a coach travel. There wasnât anything like that among anybodyâs things. Iâve never seen anyoneâof our lot, I mean, wearing anything like that. Not so far. Have you?â

âNo, I havenât, but I supposeâI donât know that I should know if I had seen it,â said Emlyn Price. âI donât always know red from green.â

âNo, youâre a bit colour-blind, arenât you,â said Joanna. âI noticed that the other day.â

âWhat do you mean, you noticed it.â

âMy red scarf. I asked if youâd seen it. You said youâd seen a green one somewhere and you brought me the red one. Iâd left it in the dining room. But you didnât really know it was red.â

âWell, donât go about saying Iâm colour-blind. I donât like it. Puts people off in some way.â

âMen are more often colour-blind than women,â said Joanna. âItâs one of those sex-link things,â she added, with an air of erudition. âYou know, it passes through the female and comes out in the male.â

âYou make it sound as though it was measles,â said Emlyn Price. âWell, here we are.â

âYou donât seem to mind,â said Joanna, as they walked up the steps.

âWell, I donât really. Iâve never been to an inquest. Things are rather interesting when you do them for the first time.â

II

Dr. Stokes was a middle-aged man with greying hair and spectacles. Police evidence was given first, then the medical evidence with technical details of the concussion injuries which had caused death. Mrs. Sandbourne gave particulars of the coach tour, the expedition as arranged for that particular afternoon, and particulars of how the fatality had occurred. Miss Temple, she said, although not young, was a very brisk walker. The party were going along a well-known footpath which led around the curve of a hill which slowly mounted to the old Moorland Church originally built in Elizabethan times, though repaired and added to later. On an adjoining crest was what was called the Bonaventure Memorial. It was a fairly steep ascent and people usually climbed it at different paces from each other. The younger ones very often ran or walked ahead and reached their destination much earlier than the others. The elderly ones took it slowly. She herself usually kept at the rear of the party so that she could, if necessary, suggest to people who were tired that they could, if they liked, go back. Miss Temple, she said, had been talking to a Mr. and Mrs. Butler. Miss Temple, though she was over sixty, had been slightly impatient at their slow pace and had outdistanced them, had turned a corner and gone on ahead rather rapidly, which she had done often before. She was inclined to get impatient if waiting for people to catch up for too long, and preferred to make her own pace. They had heard a cry ahead, and she and the others had run on, turned a curve of the pathway and had found Miss Temple lying on the ground. A large boulder detached from the hillside above where there were several others of the same kind, must, they had thought, have rolled down the hillside and struck Miss Temple as she was going along the path below. A most unfortunate and tragic accident.

âYou had no idea there was anything but an accident?â

âNo, indeed. I can hardly see how it could have been anything but an accident.â

âYou saw no one above you on the hillside?â

âNo. This is the main path round the hill but of course people do wander about over the top. I did not see anyone that particular afternoon.â

Then Joanna Crawford was called. After particulars of her name and age Dr. Stokes asked,

âYou were not walking with the remainder of the party?â

âNo, we had left the path. Weâd gone round the hill a little higher up the slope.â

âYou were walking with a companion?â

âYes. With Mr. Emlyn Price.â

âThere was no one else actually walking with you?â

âNo. We were talking and we were looking at one or two of the flowers. They seemed of rather an uncommon kind. Emlynâs interested in botany.â

âWere you out of sight of the rest of the party?â

âNot all the time. They were walking along the main pathâsome way below us, that is.â

âDid you see Miss Temple?â

âI think so. She was walking ahead of the others, and I think I saw her turn a corner of the path ahead of them after which we didnât see her because the contour of the hill hid her.â

âDid you see someone walking above you on the hillside?â

âYes. Up amongst a good many boulders. Thereâs a sort of great patch of boulders on the side of the hill.â

âYes,â said Dr. Stokes, âI know exactly the place you mean. Large granite boulders. People call them the Wethers, or the Grey Wethers sometimes.â

âI suppose they might look like sheep from a distance but we werenât so very far away from them.â

âAnd you saw someone up there?â

âYes. Someone was more or less in the middle of the boulders, leaning over them.â

âPushing them, do you think?â

âYes. I thought so, and wondered why. He seemed to be pushing at one on the outside of the group near the edge. They were so big and so heavy I would have thought it was impossible to push them. But the one he or she was pushing seemed to be balanced like a rocking stone.â

âYou said first he, now you say he or she, Miss Crawford. Which do you think it was?â

âWell, I thoughtâI supposeâI suppose I thought it was a man, but I wasnât actually thinking at the time. It wasâhe or she wasâwearing trousers and a pullover, a sort of manâs pullover with a polo-neck.â

âWhat colour was the pullover?â

âRather a bright red and black in checks. And there was longish hair at the back of a kind of beret, rather like a womanâs hair, but then it might just as well have been a manâs.â

âIt certainly might,â said Dr. Stokes, rather drily. âIdentifying a male or female figure by their hair is certainly not easy these days.â He went on, âWhat happened next?â

âWell, the stone began to roll over. It sort of toppled over the edge and then it began to gain speed. I said to Emlyn, âOh itâs going to go right over down the hill.â Then we heard a sort of crash as it fell. And I think I heard a cry from below but I might have imagined it.â

âAnd then?â

âOh, we ran on up a bit and round the corner of the hill to see what happened to the stone.â

âAnd what did you see?â

âWe saw the boulder below on the path with a body underneath itâand people coming running round the corner.â

âWas it Miss Temple who uttered the cry?â

âI think it must have been. It might have been one of the others who was catching up and turned the corner. Oh! it wasâit was horrible.â

âYes, Iâm sure it was. What had happened to the figure youâd seen above? The man or woman in the red and black pullover? Was that figure still there among the stones?â

âI donât know. I never looked up there. I wasâI was busy looking at the accident, and running down the hill to see if one could do anything. I did just look up, I think, but there wasnât anyone in sight. Only the stones. There were a lot of contours and you could lose anyone quite easily from view.â

âCould it have been one of your party?â

âOh, no. Iâm sure it wasnât one of us. I would have known because, I mean, one would have known by their clothes. Iâm sure nobody was wearing a scarlet and black pullover.â

âThank you, Miss Crawford.â

Emlyn Price was called next. His story was practically a replica of Joannaâs.

There was a little more evidence which did not amount to much.

The Coroner brought in that there was not sufficient evidence to show how Elizabeth Temple had come to her death, and adjourned the inquest for a fortnight.

Seventeen

MISS MARPLE MAKES A VISIT

I

As they walked back from the inquest to the Golden Boar hardly anyone spoke. Professor Wanstead walked beside Miss Marple, and since she was not a very fast walker, they fell slightly behind the others.

âWhat will happen next?â Miss Marple asked at last.

âDo you mean legally or to us?â

âI suppose both,â said Miss Marple, âbecause one will surely affect the other.â

âIt will be presumably a case of the police making further enquiries, arising out of the evidence given by those two young people.â

âYes.â

âFurther enquiry will be necessary. The inquest was bound to be adjourned. One can hardly expect the Coroner to give a verdict of accidental death.â

âNo, I understand that.â She said, âWhat did you think of their evidence?â

Professor Wanstead directed a sharp glance from under his beetling eyebrows.

âHave you any ideas on the subject, Miss Marple?â His voice was suggestive. âOf course,â said Professor Wanstead, âwe knew beforehand what they were going to say.â

âYes.â

âWhat you mean is that you are asking what I thought about them themselves, their feelings about it.â

âIt was interesting,â said Miss Marple. âVery interesting. The red and black check pullover. Rather important, I think, donât you? Rather striking?â

âYes, exactly that.â

He shot again that look at her under his eyebrows. âWhat does it suggest to you exactly?â

âI think,â said Miss Marple, âI think the description of that might give us a valuable clue.â

They came to the Golden Boar. It was only about half past twelve and Mrs. Sandbourne suggested a little refreshment before going in to luncheon. As sherry and tomato juice and other liquors were being consumed, Mrs. Sandbourne proceeded to make certain announcements.

âI have taken advice,â she said, âboth from the Coroner and Inspector Douglas. Since the medical evidence has been taken fully, there will be at the church a funeral memorial service tomorrow at eleven oâclock. Iâm going to make arrangements with Mr. Courtney, the local vicar, about it. On the following day it will be best, I think, to resume our tour. The programme will be slightly altered, since we have lost three days, but I think it can be reorganized on rather simpler lines. I have heard from one or two members of our party that they would prefer to return to London, presumably by rail. I can quite understand the feelings lying behind this, and would not like to try and influence you in any way. This death has been a very sad occurrence. I still cannot help but believe that Miss Templeâs death was the result of an accident. Such a thing has happened before on that particular pathway, though there do not appear in this case to have been any geological or atmospherical conditions causing it. I think a good deal more investigation will have to be made. Of course, some hiker on a walking tourâthat kind of thingâmay have been pushing about boulders quite innocently, not realizing that there was a danger for someone walking below in what he or she was doing. If so, if that person comes forward, the whole thing may be cleared up quite quickly, but I agree one cannot take that for granted at present. It seems unlikely that the late Miss Temple could have had an enemy, or anyone who wished her harm of any kind. What I should suggest is, that we do not discuss the accident any further. Investigations will be made by the local authorities whose business it is. I think we will probably all like to attend the memorial service in the church tomorrow. And after that, on continuing the tour, I hope that it may distract our minds from the shock we have had. There are still some very interesting and famous houses to see and some very beautiful scenery also.â

Luncheon being announced shortly after that, the subject was not discussed any further. That is to say, not openly. After lunch, as they took coffee in the lounge, people were prone to get together in little groups, discussing their further arrangements.

âAre you continuing on the tour?â asked Professor Wanstead of Miss Marple.

âNo,â said Miss Marple. She spoke thoughtfully. âNo. I thinkâI think that what has happened inclines me to remain here a little longer.â

âAt the Golden Boar or at The Old Manor House?â

âThat rather depends as to whether I receive any further invitation to go back to The Old Manor House. I would not like to suggest it myself because my original invitation was for the two nights that the tour was to have stayed here originally. I think possibly it would be better for me to remain at the Golden Boar.â

âYou donât feel like returning to St. Mary Mead?â

âNot yet,â said Miss Marple. âThere are one or two things I could do here, I think. One thing I have done already.â She met his enquiring gaze. âIf you are going on,â she said, âwith the rest of the party, I will tell you what I have put in hand, and suggest a small sideline of enquiry that might be helpful. The other reason that I wish to stay here I will tell you later. There are certain enquiriesâlocal enquiriesâthat I want to make. They may not lead anywhere so I think it as well not to mention them now. And you?â

âI should like to return to London. I have work there waiting to be done. Unless, that is, I can be helpful to you here?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âI do not think so at present. I expect you have various enquiries of your own that you wish to put in hand.â

âI came on the tour to meet you, Miss Marple.â

âAnd now you have met me and know what I know, or practically all that I know, you have other enquiries to put in hand. I understand that. But before you leave here, I think there are one or two thingsâwell, that might be helpful, might give a result.â

âI see. You have ideas.â

âI am remembering what you said.â

âYou have perhaps pinned down the smell of evil?â

âIt is difficult,â said Miss Marple, âto know exactly what something wrong in the atmosphere really means.â

âBut you do feel that there is something wrong in the atmosphere?â

âOh yes. Very clearly.â

âAnd especially since Miss Templeâs death which, of course, was not an accident, no matter what Mrs. Sandbourne hopes.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âit was not an accident. What I donât think I have told you is that Miss Temple said to me once that she was on a pilgrimage.â

âInteresting,â said the Professor. âYes, interesting. She didnât tell you what the pilgrimage was, to where or to whom?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âif sheâd lived just a little longer and not been so weak, she might have told me. But unfortunately, death came a little too soon.â

âSo that you have not any further ideas on that subject.â

âNo. Only a feeling of assurance that her pilgrimage was put an end to by malign design. Someone wanted to stop her going wherever she was going, or stop her going to whomever she was going to. One can only hope that chance or Providence may throw light on that.â

âThatâs why youâre staying here?â

âNot only that,â said Miss Marple. âI want to find out something more about a girl called Nora Broad.â

âNora Broad.â He looked faintly puzzled.

âThe other girl who disappeared about the same time as Verity Hunt did. You remember you mentioned her to me. A girl who had boyfriends and was, I understand, very ready to have boyfriends. A foolish girl, but attractive apparently to the male sex. I think,â said Miss Marple, âthat to learn a little more about her might help me in my enquiries.â

âHave it your own way, Detective-Inspector Marple,â said Professor Wanstead.

II

The service took place on the following morning. All the members of the tour were there. Miss Marple looked round the church. Several of the locals were there also. Mrs. Glynne was there and her sister Clotilde. The youngest one, Anthea, did not attend. There were one or two people from the village also, she thought. Probably not acquainted with Miss Temple but there out of a rather morbid curiosity in regard to what was now spoken of by the term âfoul play.â There was, too, an elderly clergyman; in gaiters, well over seventy, Miss Marple thought, a broad-shouldered old man with a noble mane of white hair. He was slightly crippled and found it difficult both to kneel and to stand. It was a fine face, Miss Marple thought, and she wondered who he was. Some old friend of Elizabeth Temple, she presumed, who might perhaps have come from quite a long distance to attend the service?

As they came out of the church Miss Marple exchanged a few words with her fellow travellers. She knew now pretty well who was doing what. The Butlers were returning to London.

âI told Henry I just couldnât go on with it,â said Mrs. Butler. âYou knowâI feel all the time that any minute just as we might be walking round a corner, someone, you know, might shoot us or throw a stone at us. Someone who has got a down on the Famous Houses of England.â

âNow then, Mamie, now then,â said Mr. Butler, âdonât you let your imagination go as far as that!â

âWell, you just donât know nowadays. What with hijackers about and kidnapping and all the rest of it, I donât feel really protected anywhere.â

Old Miss Lumley and Miss Bentham were continuing with the tour, their anxieties allayed.

âWeâve paid very highly for this tour and it seems a pity to miss anything just because this very sad accident has happened. We rang up a very good neighbour of ours last night, and they are going to see to the cats, so we donât need to worry.â

It was going to remain an accident for Miss Lumley and Miss Bentham. They had decided it was more comfortable that way.

Mrs. Riseley-Porter was also continuing on the tour. Colonel and Mrs. Walker were resolved that nothing would make them miss seeing a particularly rare collection of fuchsias in the garden due to be visited the day after tomorrow. The architect, Jameson, was also guided by his wish to see various buildings of special interest for him. Mr. Caspar, however, was departing by rail, he said. Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow seemed undecided.

âPretty good walks round here,â said Miss Cooke. âI think weâll stay at the Golden Boar for a little. Thatâs what youâre going to do, isnât it, Miss Marple?â

âI really think so,â said Miss Marple. âI donât feel quite equal to going on travelling and all that. I think a day or twoâs rest would be helpful to me after whatâs happened.â

As the little crowd dispersed, Miss Marple took an unostentatious route of her own. From her handbag she took out a leaf torn from her notebook on which she had entered two addresses. The first, a Mrs. Blackett, lived in a neat little house and garden just by the end of the road where it sloped down towards the valley. A small neat woman opened the door.

âMrs. Blackett?â

âYes, yes, maâam, thatâs my name.â

âI wonder if I might just come in and speak to you for a minute or two. I have just been to the service and I am feeling a little giddy. If I could just sit down for a minute or two?â

âDear me, now, dear me. Oh, Iâm sorry for that. Come right in, maâam, come right in. Thatâs right. You sit down here. Now Iâll get you a glass of waterâor maybe youâd like a pot of tea?â

âNo, thank you,â said Miss Marple, âa glass of water would put me right.â

Mrs. Blackett returned with a glass of water and a pleasurable prospect of talking about ailments and giddiness and other things.

âYou know, Iâve got a nephew like that. He oughtnât to be at his age, heâs not much over fifty but now and then heâll come over giddy all of a sudden and unless he sits down at onceâwhy you donât know, sometimes heâll pass out right on the floor. Terrible, it is. Terrible. And doctors, they donât seem able to do anything about it. Hereâs your glass of water.â

âAh,â said Miss Marple, sipping, âI feel much better.â

âBeen to the service, have you, for the poor lady as got done in, as some say, or accident as others. Iâd say itâs accident every time. But these inquests and coroners, they always want to make things look criminal, they do.â

âOh yes,â said Miss Marple. âIâve been so sorry to hear of a lot of things like that in the past. I was hearing a great deal about a girl called Nora. Nora Broad, I think.â

âAh, Nora, yes. Well, she was my cousinâs daughter. Yes. A long while ago, that was. Went off and never come back. These girls, thereâs no holding them. I said often, I did, to Nancy Broadâthatâs my cousinâI said to her, âYouâre out working all dayâ and I said âWhatâs Nora doing? You know sheâs the kind that likes the boys. Well,â I said, âthereâll be trouble. You see if there isnât.â And sure enough, I was quite right.â

âYou meanâ?â

âAh, the usual trouble. Yes, in the family way. Mind you, I donât think as my cousin Nancy knew about it yet. But of course, Iâm sixty-five and I know whatâs what and I know the way a girl looks and I think I know who it was, but Iâm not sure. I might have been wrong because he went on living in the place and he was real cut up when Nora was missing.â

âShe went off, did she?â

âWell, she accepted a lift from someoneâa stranger. Thatâs the last time she was seen. I forget the make of the car now. Some funny name it had. An Audit or something like that. Anyway, sheâd been seen once or twice in that car. And off she went in it. And it was said it was that same car that the poor girl what got herself murdered used to go riding in. But I donât think as that happened to Nora. If Noraâd been murdered, the body would have come to light by now. Donât you think so?â

âIt certainly seems likely,â said Miss Marple. âWas she a girl who did well at school and all that?â

âAh no, she wasnât. She was idle and she wasnât too clever at her books either. No. She was all for the boys from the time she was twelve-years-old onwards. I think in the end she must have gone off with someone or other for good. But she never let anyone know. She never sent as much as a postcard. Went off, I think, with someone as promised her things. You know. Another girl I knewâbut that was when I was youngâwent off with one of them Africans. He told her as his father was a Shake. Funny sort of word, but a shake I think it was. Anyway it was somewhere in Africa or in Algiers. Yes, in Algiers it was. Somewhere there. And she was going to have all sorts of wonderful things. He had six camels, the boyâs father, she said and a whole troop of horses and she was going to live in a wonderful house, she was, with carpets hanging up all over the walls, which seems a funny place to put carpets. And off she went. She come back again three years later. Yes. Terrible time, sheâd had. Terrible. They lived in a nasty little house made of earth. Yes, it was. And nothing much to eat except what they call cos-cos which I always thought was lettuce, but it seems it isnât. Something more like semolina pudding. Oh terrible it was. And in the end he said she was no good to him and heâd divorce her. He said heâd only got to say âI divorce youâ three times, and he did and walked out and somehow or other, some kind of Society out there took charge of her and paid her fare home to England. And there she was. Ah, but that was about thirty to forty years ago, that was. Now Nora, that was only about seven or eight years ago. But I expect sheâll be back one of these days, having learnt her lesson and finding out that all these fine promises didnât come to much.â

âHad she anyone to go to here except herâher motherâyour cousin, I mean? Anyone whoââ

âWell, thereâs many as was kind to her. There was the people at The Old Manor House, you know. Mrs. Glynne wasnât there then, but Miss Clotilde, she was always one to be good to the girls from school. Yes, many a nice present sheâs given Nora. She gave her a very nice scarf and a pretty dress once. Very nice, it was. A summer frock, a sort of foulard silk. Ah, she was very kind, Miss Clotilde was. Tried to make Nora take more interest in her schooling. Lots of things like that. Advised her against the way she was going on because, you seeâwell, I wouldnât like to say it, not when sheâs my cousinâs child though, mark you, my cousin is only one who married my boy cousin, that is to sayâbut I mean it was something terrible the way she went on with all the boys. Anyone could pick her up. Real sad it is. Iâd say sheâll go on the streets in the end. I donât believe she has any future but that. I donât like to say these things, but there it is. Anyway, perhaps itâs better than getting herself murdered like Miss Hunt did, what lived at The Old Manor House. Cruel, that was. They thought sheâd gone off with someone and the police, they was busy. Always asking questions and having the young men whoâd been with the girl up to help them with their enquiries and all that. Geoffrey Grant there was, Billy Thompson, and the Landfordsâ Harry. All unemployedâwith plenty of jobs going if theyâd wanted to take them. Things usednât to be like that when I was young. Girls behaved proper. And the boys knew theyâd got to work if they wanted to get anywhere.â

Miss Marple talked a little more, said that she was now quite restored, thanked Mrs. Blackett, and went out.

Her next visit was to a girl who was planting out lettuces.

âNora Broad? Oh, she hasnât been in the village for years. Went off with someone, she did. She was a great one for boys. I always wondered where sheâd end up. Did you want to see her for any particular reason?â

âI had a letter from a friend abroad,â said Miss Marple, untruthfully. âA very nice family and they were thinking of engaging a Miss Nora Broad. Sheâd been in some trouble, I think. Married someone who was rather a bad lot and had left her and gone off with another woman, and she wanted to get a job looking after children. My friend knew nothing about her, but I gathered she came from this village. So I wondered if there was anyone here who couldâwell, tell me something about her. You went to school with her, I understand?â

âOh yes, we were in the same class, we were. Mind you, I didnât approve of all Noraâs goings-on. She was boy mad, she was. Well, I had a nice boyfriend myself that I was going steady with at the time, and I told her sheâd do herself no good going off with every Tom, Dick and Harry that offered her a lift in a car or took her along to a pub where she told lies about her age, as likely as not. She was a good mature girl as looked a lot older than she was.â

âDark or fair?â

âOh, she had dark hair. Pretty hair it was. Always loose like, you know, as girls do.â

âWere the police worried about her when she disappeared?â

âYes. You see, she didnât leave no word behind. She just went out one night and didnât come back. She was seen getting into a car and nobody saw the car again and nobody saw her. Just at that time thereâd been a good many murders, you know. Not specially round here, but all over the country. The police, they were rounding up a lot of young men and boys. Thought as Nora might be a body at the time we did. But not she. She was all right. Iâd say as likely as not sheâs making a bit of money still in London or one of these big towns doing a striptease, something of that kind. Thatâs the kind she was.â

âI donât think,â said Miss Marple, âthat if itâs the same person, that sheâd be very suitable for my friend.â

âSheâd have to change a bit if she was to be suitable,â said the girl.

Eighteen

ARCHDEACON BRABAZON

When Miss Marple, slightly out of breath and rather tired, got back to the Golden Boar, the receptionist came out from her pen and across to greet her.

âOh, Miss Marple, there is someone here who wants to speak to you. Archdeacon Brabazon.â

âArchdeacon Brabazon?â Miss Marple looked puzzled.

âYes. Heâs been trying to find you. He had heard you were with this tour and he wanted to talk to you before you might have left or gone to London. I told him that some of them were going back to London by the later train this afternoon, but he is very, very anxious to speak to you before you go. I have put him in the television lounge. It is quieter there. The other is very noisy just at this moment.â

Slightly surprised, Miss Marple went to the room indicated. Archdeacon Brabazon turned out to be the elderly cleric whom she had noticed at the memorial service. He rose and came towards her.

âMiss Marple. Miss Jane Marple?â

âYes, that is my name. You wantedââ

âI am Archdeacon Brabazon. I came here this morning to attend the service for a very old friend of mine, Miss Elizabeth Temple.â

âOh yes?â said Miss Marple. âDo sit down.â

âThank you, I will, I am not quite as strong as I was.â He lowered himself carefully into a chair.

âAnd youââ

Miss Marple sat down beside him.

âYes,â she said, âyou wanted to see me?â

âWell, I must explain how that comes about. Iâm quite aware that I am a complete stranger to you. As a matter of fact I made a short visit to the hospital at Carristown, talking to the matron before going on to the church here. It was she who told me that before she died Elizabeth had asked to see a fellow member of the tour. Miss Jane Marple. And that Miss Jane Marple had visited her and sat with her just a very, very short time before Elizabeth died.â

He looked at her anxiously.

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âthat is so. It surprised me to be sent for.â

âYou are an old friend of hers?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âI only met her on this tour. Thatâs why I was surprised. We had expressed ideas to each other, occasionally sat next to each other in the coach, and had struck up quite an acquaintanceship. But I was surprised that she should have expressed a wish to see me when she was so ill.â

âYes. Yes, I can quite imagine that. She was, as I have said, a very old friend of mine. In fact, she was coming to see me, to visit me. I live in Fillminster, which is where your coach tour will be stopping the day after tomorrow. And by arrangement she was coming to visit me there, she wanted to talk to me about various matters about which she thought I could help her.â

âI see,â said Miss Marple. âMay I ask you a question? I hope it is not too intimate a question.â

âOf course, Miss Marple. Ask me anything you like.â

âOne of the things Miss Temple said to me was that her presence on the tour was not merely because she wished to visit historic homes and gardens. She described it by a rather unusual word to use, as a pilgrimage.â

âDid she,â said Archdeacon Brabazon. âDid she indeed now? Yes, thatâs interesting. Interesting and perhaps significant.â

âSo what I am asking you is, do you think that the pilgrimage she spoke of was her visit to you?â

âI think it must have been,â said the Archdeacon. âYes, I think so.â

âWe had been talking,â said Miss Marple, âabout a young girl. A girl called Verity.â

âAh yes. Verity Hunt.â

âI did not know her surname. Miss Temple, I think, mentioned her only as Verity.â

âVerity Hunt is dead,â said the Archdeacon. âShe died quite a number of years ago. Did you know that?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âI knew it. Miss Temple and I were talking about her. Miss Temple told me something that I did not know. She said she had been engaged to be married to the son of a Mr. Rafiel. Mr. Rafiel is, or again I must say was, a friend of mine. Mr. Rafiel has paid the expenses of this tour out of his kindness. I think, though, that possibly he wantedâindeed, intendedâme to meet Miss Temple on this tour. I think he thought she could give me certain information.â

âCertain information about Verity?â

âYes.â

âThat is why she was coming to me. She wanted to know certain facts.â

âShe wanted to know,â said Miss Marple, âwhy Verity broke off her engagement to marry Mr. Rafielâs son.â

âVerity,â said Archdeacon Brabazon, âdid not break off her engagement. I am certain of that. As certain as one can be of anything.â

âMiss Temple did not know that, did she?â

âNo. I think she was puzzled and unhappy about what happened and was coming to me to ask me why the marriage did not take place.â

âAnd why did it not take place?â asked Miss Marple. âPlease do not think that I am unduly curious. Itâs not idle curiosity that is driving me. I too am onânot a pilgrimageâbut what I should call a mission. I too want to know why Michael Rafiel and Verity Hunt did not marry.â

The Archdeacon studied her for a moment or two.

âYou are involved in some way,â he said. âI see that.â

âI am involved,â said Miss Marple, âby the dying wishes of Michael Rafielâs father. He asked me to do this for him.â

âI have no reason not to tell you all I know,â said the Archdeacon slowly. âYou are asking me what Elizabeth Temple would have been asking me, you are asking me something I do not know myself. Those two young people, Miss Marple, intended to marry. They had made arrangements to marry. I was going to marry them. It was a marriage, I gather, which was being kept a secret. I knew both these young people, I knew that dear child Verity from a long way back. I prepared her for confirmation, I used to hold services in Lent, for Easter, on other occasions, in Elizabeth Templeâs school. A very fine school it was, too. A very fine woman she was. A wonderful teacher with a great sense of each girlâs capabilitiesâfor what she was best fitted for in studies. She urged careers on girls she thought would relish careers, and did not force girls that she felt were not really suited to them. She was a great woman and a very dear friend. Verity was one of the most beautiful childrenâgirls, ratherâthat I have come across. Beautiful in mind, in heart, as well as in appearance. She had the great misfortune to lose her parents before she was truly adult. They were both killed in a charter plane going on a holiday to Italy. Verity went to live when she left school with a Miss Clotilde Bradbury-Scott whom you know, probably, as living here. She had been a close friend of Verityâs mother. There are three sisters, though the second one was married and living abroad, so there were only two of them living here. Clotilde, the eldest one, became extremely attached to Verity. She did everything possible to give her a happy life. She took her abroad once or twice, gave her art lessons in Italy and loved and cared for her dearly in every way. Verity, too, came to love her probably as much as she could have loved her own mother. She depended on Clotilde. Clotilde herself was an intellectual and well educated woman. She did not urge a university career on Verity, but this I gather was really because Verity did not really yearn after one. She preferred to study art and music and such subjects. She lived here at The Old Manor House and had, I think, a very happy life. She always seemed to be happy. Naturally, I did not see her after she came here since Fillminster, where I was in the cathedral, is nearly sixty miles from here. I wrote to her at Christmas and other festivals, and she remembered me always with a Christmas card. But I saw nothing of her until the day came when she suddenly turned up, a very beautiful and fully grown young woman by then, with an attractive young man whom I also happened to know slightly, Mr. Rafielâs son, Michael. They came to me because they were in love with each other and wanted to get married.â

âAnd you agreed to marry them?â

âYes, I did. Perhaps, Miss Marple, you may think that I should not have done so. They had come to me in secret, it was obvious. Clotilde Bradbury-Scott, I should imagine, had tried to discourage the romance between them. She was well within her rights in doing so. Michael Rafiel, I will tell you frankly, was not the kind of husband you would want for any daughter or relation of yours. She was too young really, to make up her mind, and Michael had been a source of trouble ever since his very young days. He had been had up before junior courts, he had had unsuitable friends, he had been drawn into various gangster activities, heâd sabotaged buildings and telephone boxes. He had been on intimate terms with various girls, had maintenance claims which he had had to meet. Yes, he was a bad lot with the girls as well as in other ways, yet he was extremely attractive and they fell for him and behaved in an extremely silly fashion. He had served two short jail sentences. Frankly, he had a criminal record. I was acquainted with his father, though I did not know him well, and I think that his father did all that he couldâall that a man of his character couldâto help his son. He came to his rescue, he got him jobs in which he might have succeeded. He paid up his debts, paid out damages. He did all this. I donât knowââ

âBut he could have done more, you think?â

âNo,â said the Archdeacon, âIâve come to an age now when I know that one must accept oneâs fellow human beings as being the kind of people and having the kind of, shall we say in modern terms, genetic makeup which gives them the characters they have. I donât think that Mr. Rafiel had affection for his son, a great affection at any time. To say he was reasonably fond of him would be the most you could say. He gave him no love. Whether it would have been better for Michael if he had had love from his father, I do not know. Perhaps it would have made no difference. As it was, it was sad. The boy was not stupid. He had a certain amount of intellect and talent. He could have done well if he had wished to do well, and had taken the trouble. But he was by natureâlet us admit it franklyâa delinquent. He had certain qualities one appreciated. He had a sense of humour, he was in various ways generous and kindly. He would stand by a friend, help a friend out of a scrape. He treated his girlfriends badly, got them into trouble as the local saying is, and then more or less abandoned them and took up with somebody else. So there I was faced with those two andâyesâI agreed to marry them. I told Verity, I told her quite frankly, the kind of boy she wanted to marry. I found that he had not tried to deceive her in any way. Heâd told her that heâd always been in trouble both with the police, and in every other way. He told her that he was going, when he married her, to turn over a new leaf. Everything would be changed. I warned her that that would not happen, he would not change. People do not change. He might mean to change. Verity, I think, knew that almost as well as I did. She admitted that she knew it. She said, âI know what Mike is like. I know heâll probably always be like it, but I love him. I may be able to help him and I may not. But Iâll take that risk.â And I will tell you this, Miss Marple. I knowânone better, I have done a lot with young people, I have married a lot of young people and I have seen them come to grief, I have seen them unexpectedly turn out wellâbut I know this and recognize it. I know when a couple are really in love with each other. And by that I do not mean just sexually attracted. There is too much talk about sex, too much attention is paid to it. I do not mean that anything about sex is wrong. That is nonsense. But sex cannot take the place of love, it goes with love but it cannot succeed by itself. To love means the words of the marriage service. For better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health. That is what you take on if you love and wish to marry. Those two loved each other. To love and to cherish until death do us part. And that,â said the Archdeacon, âis where my story ends. I cannot go on because I do not know what happened. I only know that I agreed to do as they asked, that I made the necessary arrangements; we settled a day, an hour, a time, a place. I think perhaps that I was to blame for agreeing to the secrecy.â

âThey didnât want anyone to know?â said Miss Marple.

âNo. Verity did not want anyone to know, and I should say most certainly Mike did not want anyone to know. They were afraid of being stopped. To Verity, I think, besides love, there was also a feeling of escape. Natural, I think, owing to the circumstances of her life. She had lost her real guardians, her parents, she had entered on her new life after their death, at an age when a school girl arrives at having a âcrushâ on someone. An attractive mistress. Anything from the games mistress to the mathematics mistress, or a prefect or an older girl. A state that does not last for very long, is merely a natural part of life. Then from that you go on to the next stage when you realize that what you want in your life is what complements yourself. A relationship between a man and a woman. You start then to look about you for a mate. The mate you want in life. And if you are wise, you take your time, you have friends, but you are looking, as the old nurses used to say to children, for Mr. Right to come along. Clotilde Bradbury-Scott was exceptionally good to Verity, and Verity, I think, gave her what I should call hero worship. She was a personality as a woman. Handsome, accomplished, interesting. I think Verity adored her in an almost romantic way and I think Clotilde came to love Verity as though she were her own daughter. And so Verity grew to maturity in an atmosphere of adoration, lived an interesting life with interesting subjects to stimulate her intellect. It was a happy life, but I think little by little she was consciousâconscious without knowing she was conscious, shall we sayâof a wish to escape. Escape from being loved. To escape, she didnât know into what or where. But she did know after she met Michael. She wanted to escape to a life where male and female come together to create the next stage of living in this world. But she knew that it was impossible to make Clotilde understand how she felt. She knew that Clotilde would be bitterly opposed to her taking her love for Michael seriously. And Clotilde, I fear, was right in her belief â¦ I know that now. He was not a husband that Verity ought to have taken or had. The road that she started out on led not to life, not to increased living and happiness. It led to shock, pain, death. You see, Miss Marple, that I have a grave feeling of guilt. My motives were good, but I didnât know what I ought to have known. I knew Verity, but I didnât know Michael. I understood Verityâs wish for secrecy because I knew what a strong personality Clotilde Bradbury-Scott had. She might have had a strong enough influence over Verity to persuade her to give up the marriage.â

âYou think then that that was what she did do? You think Clotilde told her enough about Michael to persuade her to give up the idea of marrying him?â

âNo, I do not believe that. I still do not. Verity would have told me if so. She would have got word to me.â

âWhat did actually happen on that day?â

âI havenât told you that yet. The day was fixed. The time, the hour and the place, and I waited. Waited for a bride and bridegroom who didnât come, who sent no word, no excuse, nothing. I didnât know why! I never have known why. It still seems to me unbelievable. Unbelievable, I mean, not that they did not come, that could be explicable easily enough, but that they sent no word. Some scrawled line of writing. And that is why I wondered and hoped that Elizabeth Temple, before she died, might have told you something. Given you some message perhaps for me. If she knew or had any idea that she was dying, she might have wanted to get a message to me.â

âShe wanted information from you,â said Miss Marple. âThat, I am sure, was the reason she was coming to you.â

âYes. Yes, that is probably true. It seemed to me, you see, that Verity would have said nothing to the people who could have stopped her. Clotilde and Anthea Bradbury-Scott, but because she had always been very devoted to Elizabeth Templeâand Elizabeth Temple had had great influence over herâit seems to me that she would have written and given her information of some kind.â

âI think she did,â said Miss Marple.

âInformation, you think?â

âThe information she gave to Elizabeth Temple,â said Miss Marple, âwas this. That she was going to marry Michael Rafiel. Miss Temple knew that. It was one of the things she said to me. She said: âI knew a girl called Verity who was going to marry Michael Rafielâ and the only person who could have told her that was Verity herself. Verity must have written to her or sent some word to her. And then when I said âWhy didnât she marry him?â she said: âShe died.ââ

âThen we come to a full stop,â said Archdeacon Brabazon. He sighed. âElizabeth and I know no more than those two facts. Elizabeth, that Verity was going to marry Michael. And I that those two were going to marry, that they had arranged it and that they were coming on a settled day and time. And I waited for them, but there was no marriage. No bride, no bridegroom, no word.â

âAnd you have no idea what happened?â said Miss Marple.

âI do not for one minute believe that Verity or Michael definitely parted, broke off.â

âBut something must have happened between them? Something that opened Verityâs eyes perhaps, to certain aspects of Michaelâs character and personality, that she had not realized or known before.â

âThat is not a satisfying answer because still she would have let me know. She would not have left me waiting to join them together in holy matrimony. To put the most ridiculous side of it, she was a girl with beautiful manners, well brought up. She would have sent word. No. Iâm afraid that only one thing could have happened.â

âDeath?â said Miss Marple. She was remembering that one word that Elizabeth Temple had said which had sounded like the deep tone of a bell.

âYes.â Archdeacon Brabazon sighed. âDeath.â

âLove,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

âBy that you meanââ he hesitated.

âItâs what Miss Temple said to me. I said âWhat killed her?â and she said âLoveâ and that love was the most frightening word in the world. The most frightening word.â

âI see,â said the Archdeacon. âI seeâor I think I see.â

âWhat is your solution?â

âSplit personality,â he sighed. âSomething that is not apparent to other people unless they are technically qualified to observe it. Jekyll and Hyde are real, you know. They were not Stevensonâs invention as such. Michael Rafiel was aâmust have been schizophrenic. He had a dual personality. I have no medical knowledge, no psychoanalytic experience. But there must have been in him the two parts of two identities. One, a well-meaning, almost lovable boy, a boy perhaps whose principal attraction was his wish for happiness. But there was also a second personality, someone who was forced by some mental deformation perhapsâsomething we as yet are not sure ofâto killânot an enemy, but the person he loved, and so he killed Verity. Not knowing perhaps why he had to or what it meant. There are very frightening things in this world of ours, mental quirks, mental disease or deformity of a brain. One of my parishioners was a very sad case in point. Two elderly women living together, pensioned. They had been friends in service together somewhere. They appeared to be a happy couple. And yet one day one of them killed the other. She sent for an old friend of hers, the vicar of her parish, and said: âI have killed Louisa. It is very sad,â she said, âbut I saw the devil looking out of her eyes and I knew I was being commanded to kill her.â Things like that make one sometimes despair of living. One says why? and how? and yet one day knowledge will come. Doctors will find out or learn just some small deformity of a chromosome or gene. Some gland that overworks or leaves off working.â

âSo you think thatâs what happened?â said Miss Marple.

âIt did happen. The body was not found, I know, for some time afterwards. Verity just disappeared. She went away from home and was not seen againâ¦.â

âBut it must have happened thenâthat very dayââ

âBut surely at the trialââ

âYou mean after the body was found, when the police finally arrested Michael?â

âHe had been one of the first, you know, to be asked to come and give assistance to the police. He had been seen about with the girl, she had been noticed in his car. They were sure all along that he was the man they wanted. He was their first suspect, and they never stopped suspecting him. The other young men who had known Verity were questioned, and one and all had alibis or lack of evidence. They continued to suspect Michael, and finally the body was found. Strangled and the head and face disfigured with heavy blows. A mad frenzied attack. He wasnât sane when he struck those blows. Mr. Hyde, let us say, had taken over.â

Miss Marple shivered.

The Archdeacon went on, his voice low and sad. âAnd yet, even now sometimes, I hope and feel that it was some other young man who killed her. Someone who was definitely mentally deranged, though no one had any idea of it. Some stranger, perhaps, whom she had met in the neighborhood. Someone who she had met by chance, who had given her a lift in a car, and thenââ He shook his head.

âI suppose that could have been true,â said Miss Marple.

âMike made a bad impression in court,â said the Archdeacon. âTold foolish and senseless lies. Lied as to where his car had been. Got his friends to give him impossible alibis. He was frightened. He said nothing of his plan to marry. I believe his Counsel was of the opinion that that would tell against himâthat she might have been forcing him to marry her and that he didnât want to. Itâs so long ago now, I remember no details. But the evidence was dead against him. He was guiltyâand he looked guilty.

âSo you see, do you not, Miss Marple, that Iâm a very sad and unhappy man. I made the wrong judgment, I encouraged a very sweet and lovely girl to go to her death, because I did not know enough of human nature. I was ignorant of the danger she was running. I believed that if she had had any fear of him, any sudden knowledge of something evil in him, she would have broken her pledge to marry him and have come to me and told me of her fear, of her knowledge of him. But nothing of that ever happened. Why did he kill her? Did he kill her because perhaps he knew she was going to have a child? Because by now he had formed a tie with some other girl and did not want to be forced to marry Verity? I canât believe it. Or was it some entirely different reason. Because she had suddenly felt a fear of him, a knowledge of danger from him, and had broken off her association with him? Did that rouse his anger, his fury, and did that lead him to violence and to killing her? One does not know.â

âYou do not know?â said Miss Marple, âbut you do still know and believe one thing, donât you?â

âWhat do you mean exactly by âbelieve?â Are you talking from the religious point of view?â

âOh no,â said Miss Marple, âI didnât mean that. I mean, there seems to be in you, or so I feel it, a very strong belief that those two loved each other, that they meant to marry, but that something happened that prevented it. Something that ended in her death, but you still really believe that they were coming to you to get married that day?â

âYou are quite right, my dear. Yes, I cannot help still believing in two lovers who wished to get married, who were ready to take each other on for better, for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. She loved him and she would have taken him for better or for worse. As far as she had gone, she took him for worse. It brought about her death.â

âYou must go on believing as you do,â said Miss Marple. âI think, you know, that I believe it too.â

âBut then what?â

âI donât know yet,â said Miss Marple. âIâm not sure, but I think Elizabeth Temple did know or was beginning to know what happened. A frightening word, she said. Love. I thought when she spoke that what she meant was that because of a love affair Verity committed suicide. Because she found out something about Michael, or because something about Michael suddenly upset her and revolted her. But it couldnât have been suicide.â

âNo,â said the Archdeacon, âthat couldnât be so. The injuries were described very fully at the trial. You donât commit suicide by beating in your own head.â

âHorrible!â said Miss Marple. âHorrible! And you couldnât do that to anyone you loved even if you had to kill âfor love,â could you? If heâd killed her, he couldnât have done it that way. Stranglingâperhaps, but you wouldnât beat in the face and the head that you loved.â She murmured, âLove, loveâa frightening word.â

Nineteen

GOOD-BYES ARE SAID

The coach was drawn up in front of the Golden Boar on the following morning. Miss Marple had come down and was saying good-bye to various friends. She found Mrs. Riseley-Porter in a state of high indignation.

âReally, girls nowadays,â she said. âNo vigour. No stamina.â

Miss Marple looked at her enquiringly.

âJoanna, I mean. My niece.â

âOh dear. Is she not well?â

âWell, she says not. I canât see anything much the matter with her. She says sheâs got a sore throat, she feels she might have a temperature coming on. All nonsense, I think.â

âOh, Iâm very sorry,â said Miss Marple. âIs there anything I can do? Look after her?â

âI should leave her alone, if I were you,â said Mrs. Riseley-Porter. âIf you ask me, itâs all an excuse.â

Miss Marple looked enquiringly at her once more.

âGirls are so silly. Always falling in love.â

âEmlyn Price?â said Miss Marple.

âOh, so youâve noticed it too. Yes, theyâre really getting to a stage of spooning about together. I donât much care for him anyway. One of these long-haired students, you know. Always going on demos or something like that. Why canât they say demonstration properly? I hate abbreviations. And how am I going to get along? Nobody to look after me, collect my luggage, take it in, take it out. Really. Iâm paying for this complete trip and everything.â

âI thought she seemed so attentive to you,â said Miss Marple.

âWell, not the last day or two. Girls donât understand that people have to have a little assistance when they get to middle age. They seem to have some absurd ideaâshe and the Price boyâof going to visit some mountain or some landmark. About a seven or eight mile walk there and back.â

âBut surely if she has a sore throat and a temperatureâ¦.â

âYouâll see, as soon as the coach is gone the sore throat will get better and the temperature will go down,â said Mrs. Riseley-Porter. âOh dear, weâve got to get on board now. Oh, good-bye, Miss Marple, itâs nice to have met you. Iâm sorry youâre not coming with us.â

âIâm very sorry myself,â said Miss Marple, âbut really you know, Iâm not so young and vigorous as you are, Mrs. Riseley-Porter, and I really feel after all theâwell, shock and everything else the last few days, I really must have a complete twenty-four hoursâ rest.â

âWell, hope to see you somewhere in the future.â

They shook hands. Mrs. Riseley-Porter climbed into the coach.

A voice behind Miss Marpleâs shoulder said:

âBon Voyage and Good Riddance.â

She turned to see Emlyn Price. He was grinning.

âWas that addressed to Mrs. Riseley-Porter?â

âYes. Who else.â

âIâm sorry to hear that Joanna is under the weather this morning.â

Emlyn Price grinned at Miss Marple again.

âSheâll be all right,â he said, âas soon as that coach is gone.â

âOh really!â said Miss Marple, âdo you meanâ?â

âYes, I do mean,â said Emlyn Price. âJoannaâs had enough of that aunt of hers, bossing her around all the time.â

âThen you are not going in the coach either?â

âNo. Iâm staying on here for a couple of days. Iâm going to get around a bit and do a few excursions. Donât look so disapproving, Miss Marple. Youâre not really as disapproving as all that, are you?â

âWell,â said Miss Marple, âI have known such things happen in my own youth. The excuses may have been different, and I think we had less chance of getting away with things than you do now.â

Colonel and Mrs. Walker came up and shook Miss Marple warmly by the hand.

âSo nice to have known you and had all those delightful horticultural talks,â said the Colonel. âI believe the day after tomorrow weâre going to have a real treat, if nothing else happens. Really itâs too sad, this very unfortunate accident. I must say I think myself it is an accident. I really think the Coroner was going beyond everything in his feelings about this.â

âIt seems very odd,â said Miss Marple, âthat nobody has come forward, if they were up on top there, pushing about rocks and boulders and things, that they havenât come forward to say so.â

âThink theyâll be blamed, of course,â said Colonel Walker. âTheyâre going to keep jolly quiet, thatâs what theyâre going to do. Well, good-bye. Iâll send you a cutting of that magnolia highdownensis and one of the mahonia japonica too. Though Iâm not quite sure if it would do as well where you live.â

They in turn got into the coach. Miss Marple turned away. She turned to see Professor Wanstead waving to the departing coach. Mrs. Sandbourne came out, said good-bye to Miss Marple and got in the coach and Miss Marple took Professor Wanstead by the arm.

âI want you,â she said. âCan we go somewhere where we can talk?â

âYes. What about the place where we sat the other day?â

âRound here thereâs a very nice verandah place, I think.â

They walked round the corner of the hotel. There was some gay horn blowing, and the coach departed.

âI wish, in a way, you know,â said Professor Wanstead, âthat you werenât staying behind. Iâd rather have seen you safely on your way in the coach.â He looked at her sharply. âWhy are you staying here? Nervous exhaustion or something else?â

âSomething else,â said Miss Marple. âIâm not particularly exhausted, though it makes a perfectly natural excuse for somebody of my age.â

âI feel really I ought to stay here and keep an eye on you.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âthereâs no need to do that. There are other things you ought to be doing.â

âWhat things?â He looked at her. âHave you got ideas or knowledge?â

âI think I have knowledge, but Iâll have to verify it. There are certain things that I canât do myself. I think you will help to do them because youâre in touch with what I refer to as the authorities.â

âMeaning Scotland Yard, Chief Constables and the Governors of Her Majestyâs Prisons?â

âYes. One or other or all of them. You might have the Home Secretary in your pocket, too.â

âYou certainly do have ideas! Well, what do you want me to do?â

âFirst of all I want to give you this address.â

She took out a notebook and tore out one page and handed it to him.

âWhatâs this? Oh yes, well-known charity, isnât it?â

âOne of the better ones, I believe. They do a lot of good. You send them clothes,â said Miss Marple, âchildrenâs clothes and womenâs clothes. Coats. Pullovers, all those sort of things.â

âWell, do you want me to contribute to this?â

âNo, itâs an appeal for charity, itâs a bit of what belongs to what weâre doing. What you and I are doing.â

âIn what way?â

âI want you to make enquiries there about a parcel which was sent from here two days ago, posted from this post office.â

âWho posted itâdid you?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âNo. But I assumed responsibility for it.â

âWhat does that mean?â

âIt means,â said Miss Marple, smiling slightly, âthat I went into the post office here and I explained rather scattily andâwell, like the old pussy I amâthat I had very foolishly asked someone to take a parcel for me and post it, and I had put the wrong address on it. I was very upset by this. The postmistress very kindly said she remembered the parcel, but the address on it was not the one I was mentioning. It was this one, the one I have just given to you. I explained that I had been very foolish and written the wrong address on it, confusing it with another one I sometimes send things to. She told me it was too late to do anything about it now because the parcel, naturally, had gone off. I said it was quite all right, that I would send a letter to the particular charity to which the parcel had been sent, and explain that it had been addressed to them by mistake. Would they very kindly forward it on to the charity that I had meant to receive it.â

âIt seems rather a roundabout way.â

âWell,â said Miss Marple, âone has to say something. Iâm not going to do that at all. You are going to deal with the matter. Weâve got to know whatâs inside that parcel! I have no doubt you can get means.â

âWill there be anything inside the parcel to say who actually sent it?â

âI rather think not. It may have a slip of paper saying âfrom friendsâ or it may have a fictitious name and addressâsomething like Mrs. Pippin, 14 Westbourne Groveâand if anyone made enquiries there, thereâd be no person of such a name living there.â

âOh. Any other alternatives?â

âIt might possibly, most unlikely but possible, have a slip saying âFrom Miss Anthea Bradbury-Scottâââ

âDid sheâ?â

âShe took it to the post,â said Miss Marple.

âAnd you had asked her to take it there?â

âOh no,â said Miss Marple. âI hadnât asked anyone to post anything. The first I saw of the parcel was when Anthea passed the garden of the Golden Boar where you and I were sitting talking, carrying it.â

âBut you went to the post office and represented that the parcel was yours.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âwhich was quite untrue. But post offices are careful. And, you see, I wanted to find out where it had been sent.â

âYou wanted to find out if such a parcel had been sent, and if it had been sent by one of the Bradbury-Scottsâor especially Miss Anthea?â

âI knew it would be Anthea,â said Miss Marple, âbecause weâd seen her.â

âWell?â He took the paper from her hand. âYes, I can set this in motion. You think this parcel will be interesting?â

âI think the contents of it might be quite important.â

âYou like keeping your secrets, donât you?â said Professor Wanstead.

âNot exactly secrets,â said Miss Marple, âthey are only probabilities that I am exploring. One does not like to make definite assertions unless one has a little more definite knowledge.â

âAnything else?â

âI thinkâI think that whoeverâs in charge of these things, ought to be warned that there might be a second body to be found.â

âDo you mean a second body connected with the particular crime that we have been considering? A crime that took place ten years ago?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âIâm quite sure of it, as a matter of fact.â

âAnother body. Whose body?â

âWell,â said Miss Marple, âitâs only my idea so far.â

âAny idea where this body is?â

âOh! Yes,â said Miss Marple, âIâm quite sure I know where it is, but I have to have a little more time before I can tell you that.â

âWhat kind of a body? Manâs? Womanâs? Childâs? Girlâs?â

âThereâs another girl who is missing,â said Miss Marple. âA girl called Nora Broad. She disappeared from here and sheâs never been heard anymore of. I think her body might be in a particular place.â

Professor Wanstead looked at her.

âYou know, the more you say, the less I like leaving you here,â he said. âHaving all these ideasâand possibly doing something foolishâeitherââ He stopped.

âEither itâs all nonsense?ââ said Miss Marple.

âNo, no, I didnât mean that. But either you know too muchâwhich might be dangerous â¦ I think I am going to stay here to keep an eye on you.â

âNo, youâre not,â said Miss Marple. âYouâve got to go to London and set certain things moving.â

âYou spoke as though you knew a good deal now, Miss Marple.â

âI think I do know a good deal now. But I have got to be sure.â

âYes, but if you make sure, that may be the last thing you do make sure of! We donât want a third body. Yours.â

âOh, Iâm not expecting anything like that,â said Miss Marple.

âThere might be danger, you know, if any of your ideas are right. Have you suspicions of any one particular person?â

âI think I have certain knowledge as to one person. I have got to find outâI have got to stay here. You asked me once if I felt an atmosphere of evil. Well, that atmosphere is here all right, an atmosphere of evil, of danger if you likeâof great unhappiness, of fear â¦ Iâve got to do something about that. The best I can do. But an old woman like me canât do very much.â

Professor Wanstead counted under his breath. âOneâtwoâthreeâfourââ

âWhat are you counting?â asked Miss Marple.

âThe people who left in the coach. Presumably youâre not interested in them, since youâve let them go off and youâre staying here.â

âWhy should I be interested in them?â

âBecause you said Mr. Rafiel had sent you in the coach for a particular reason and sent you on this tour for a particular reason and sent you to The Old Manor House for a particular reason. Very well then. The death of Elizabeth Temple ties up with someone in the coach. Your remaining here ties up with The Old Manor House.â

âYouâre not quite right,â said Miss Marple. âThere are connections between the two. I want someone to tell me things.â

âDo you think you can make anyone tell you things?â

âI think I might. Youâll miss your train if you donât go soon.â

âTake care of yourself,â said Professor Wanstead.

âI mean to take care of myself.â

The door into the lounge opened and two people came out. Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow.

âHullo,â said Professor Wanstead, âI thought youâd gone off with the coach.â

âWell, we changed our minds at the last moment,â said Miss Cooke cheerfully. âYou know weâve just discovered that there are some very agreeable walks near here and there are one or two places Iâm very anxious to see. A church with a very unusual Saxon font. Only four or five miles away and quite easily reached by the local bus, I think. You see, itâs not only houses and gardens. Iâm very interested in church architecture.â

âSo am I,â said Miss Barrow. âThereâs also Finley Park which is a very fine piece of horticultural planting not far from here. We really thought that it would be much pleasanter to stay here for a day or two.â

âYouâre staying here at the Golden Boar?â

âYes. We were fortunate enough to be able to get a very nice double room. Really a better one than the one we have had for the last two days.â

âYou will miss your train,â said Miss Marple again.

âI wish,â said Professor Wanstead, âthat youââ

âI shall be quite all right,â said Miss Marple urgently. âSuch a kind man,â she said, as he disappeared round the side of the house, âwho really takes so much care of meâI might be a great-aunt of his or something like that.â

âItâs all been a great shock, hasnât it,â said Miss Cooke. âPerhaps you may like to come with us when we go to visit St. Martins in the Grove.â

âYouâre very kind,â said Miss Marple, âbut I donât think today I feel quite strong enough for expeditions. Perhaps tomorrow if there is anything interesting to see.â

âWell, we must leave you then.â

Miss Marple smiled at them both and went into the hotel.

Twenty

MISS MARPLE HAS IDEAS

Having had lunch in the dining room, Miss Marple went out on the terrace to drink her coffee. She was just sipping her second cup when a tall, thin figure came striding up the steps, and approached her, speaking rather breathlessly. She saw that it was Anthea Bradbury-Scott.

âOh, Miss Marple, weâve only just heard, you know, that you didnât go with the coach, after all. We thought you were going on with the tour. We had no idea you were staying on here. Both Clotilde and Lavinia sent me here to say we do so hope you will come back to The Old Manor House and stay with us. Iâm sure it will be nicer for you to be there. There are so many people coming and going here always, especially over a weekend and things like that. So weâd be very, very gladâwe really wouldâif you would come back to us.â

âOh, thatâs very kind of you,â said Miss Marple. âReally very kind, but Iâm sureâI mean, you know it was just a two-day visit. I meant originally to go off with the coach. I mean, after the two days. If it hadnât been for this very, very tragic accident butâwell, I really felt I couldnât go on any longer. I thought I must have at least, well at least one nightâs rest.â

âBut I mean it would be so much better if you came to us. Weâd try and make you comfortable.â

âOh, thereâs no question of that,â said Miss Marple. âI was extremely comfortable staying with you. Oh yes, I did enjoy it very much. Such a beautiful house. And all your things are so nice. You know, your china and glass and furniture. Itâs such a pleasure to be in a home and not a hotel.â

âThen you must come with me now. Yes, you really must. I could go and pack your things for you.â

âOhâwell, thatâs very kind of you. I can do that myself.â

âWell, shall I come and help you?â

âThat would be very kind,â said Miss Marple.

They repaired to her bedroom where Anthea, in a somewhat slapdash manner, packed Miss Marpleâs belongings together. Miss Marple, who had her own ways of folding things, had to bite her lip to keep an air of complacency on her face. Really, she thought, she canât fold anything properly.

Anthea got hold of a porter from the hotel and he carried the suitcase round the corner and down the street to The Old Manor House. Miss Marple tipped him adequately and, still uttering fussy little speeches of thanks and pleasure, rejoined the sisters.

âThe Three Sisters!â she was thinking, âhere we are again.â She sat down in the drawing room, and closed her eyes for a minute, breathing rather fast. She appeared to be somewhat out of breath. It was only natural, she felt at her age, and after all Anthea and the hotel porter had set a fast pace. But really she was trying to acquire through her closed eyes what the feeling was she had on coming into this house again. Was something in it sinister? No, not so much sinister as unhappy. Deep unhappiness. So much so it was almost frightening.

She opened her eyes again and looked at the two other occupants of the room. Mrs. Glynne had just come in from the kitchen, bearing an afternoon tea tray. She looked as she had looked all along. Comfortable, no particular emotions or feelings. Perhaps almost too devoid of them, Miss Marple thought. Had she accustomed herself, through perhaps a life of some stress and difficulty, to show nothing to the outer world, to keep a reserve and let no one know what her inner feelings were?

She looked from her to Clotilde. She had a Clytemnestra look, as she had thought before. She had certainly not murdered her husband for she had never had a husband to murder and it seemed unlikely that she had murdered the girl to whom she was said to have been extremely attached. That, Miss Marple was quite sure, was true. She had seen before how the tears had welled from Clotildeâs eyes when the death of Verity had been mentioned.

And what about Anthea? Anthea had taken that cardboard box to the post office. Anthea had come to fetch her. Antheaâshe was very doubtful about Anthea. Scatty? Too scatty for her age. Eyes that wandered and came back to you. Eyes that seemed to see things that other people might not see, over your shoulder. Sheâs frightened, thought Miss Marple. Frightened of something. What was she frightened of? Was she perhaps a mental case of some kind? Frightened perhaps of going back to some institution or establishment where she might have spent part of her life? Frightened of those two sisters of hers feeling that it was unwise for her to remain at liberty? Were they uncertain, those two, what their sister Anthea might do or say?

There was some atmosphere here. She wondered, as she sipped the last of her tea, what Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow were doing. Had they gone to visit that church or was that all talk, meaningless talk? It was odd. Odd the way they had come and looked at her at St. Mary Mead so as to know her again on the coach, but not to acknowledge that they had ever seen or met her before.

There were quite a lot of difficult things going on. Presently Mrs. Glynne removed the tea tray, Anthea went out into the garden and Miss Marple was left alone with Clotilde.

âI think,â said Miss Marple, âthat you know an Archdeacon Brabazon, do you not?â

âOh yes,â said Clotilde, âhe was in church yesterday at the service. Do you know him?â

âOh no,â said Miss Marple, âbut he did come to the Golden Boar and he came and spoke to me there. I gather he had been to the hospital and was enquiring about poor Miss Templeâs death. He wondered if Miss Temple had sent any message to him. I gather she was thinking of paying him a visit. But of course I told him that although I did go there in case I could do anything there was nothing that could be done except sit by poor Miss Templeâs bed. She was unconscious, you know. I could have done nothing to help her.â

âShe didnât sayâsay anythingâany explanation of what had happened?â asked Clotilde.

She asked without much interest. Miss Marple wondered if she felt more interest than she expressed, but on the whole she thought not. She thought Clotilde was busy with thoughts of something quite different.

âDo you think it was an accident?â Miss Marple asked, âOr do you think there is something in that story that Mrs. Riseley-Porterâs niece told? About seeing someone pushing a boulder.â

âWell, I suppose if those two said so, they must have seen it.â

âYes. They both said so, didnât they,â said Miss Marple, âthough not quite in the same terms. But perhaps thatâs quite natural.â

Clotilde looked at her curiously.

âYou seem to be intrigued by that.â

âWell, it seems so very unlikely,â said Miss Marple, âan unlikely story, unlessââ

âUnless what?â

âWell, I just wondered,â said Miss Marple.

Mrs. Glynne came into the room again.

âYou just wondered what?â she asked.

âWeâre talking about the accident, or the nonaccident,â said Clotilde.

âBut whoââ

âIt seems a very odd story that they told,â said Miss Marple again.

âThereâs something about this place,â said Clotilde suddenly. âSomething about this atmosphere. We never got over it here. Never. Never sinceâsince Verity died. Itâs years but it doesnât go away. A shadowâs here.â She looked at Miss Marple. âDonât you think so too? Donât you feel a shadow here?â

âWell, Iâm a stranger,â said Miss Marple. âItâs different for you and your sisters whoâve lived here and who knew the dead girl. She was, I gather, as Archdeacon Brabazon was sayingâa very charming and beautiful girl.â

âShe was a lovely girl. A dear child too,â said Clotilde.

âI wish Iâd known her better,â said Mrs. Glynne. âOf course I was living abroad at that time. My husband and I came home on leave once, but we were mostly in London. We didnât come down here often.â

Anthea came in from the garden. She was carrying in her hand a great bunch of lilies.

âFuneral flowers,â she said. âThatâs what we ought to have here today, isnât it? Iâll put them in a great jar. Funeral flowers,â and she laughed suddenly. A queer, hysterical little giggle.

âAnthea,â said Clotilde, âdonâtâdonât do that. Itâs notâitâs not right.â

âIâll go and put them in water,â said Anthea, cheerfully. She went out of the room.

âReally,â said Mrs. Glynne, âAnthea! I do think sheâsââ

âSheâs getting worse,â said Clotilde.

Miss Marple adopted an attitude of not listening or hearing. She picked up a small enamel box and looked at it with admiring eyes.

âSheâll probably break a vase now,â said Lavinia.

She went out of the room. Miss Marple said,

âYou are worried about your sister, about Anthea?â

âWell yes, sheâs always been rather unbalanced. Sheâs the youngest and she was rather delicate as a girl. But lately, I think, sheâs got definitely worse. She hasnât got any idea, I think, of the gravity of things. She has these silly fits of hysteria. Hysterical laughter at things one ought to be serious about. We donât want toâwell, to send her anywhere orâyou know. She ought to have treatment, I think, but I donât think she would like to go away from home. This is her home, after all. Though sometimes itâsâitâs very difficult.â

âAll life is difficult sometimes,â said Miss Marple.

âLavinia talks of going away,â said Clotilde. âShe talks of going to live abroad again. At Taormina, I think. She was there with her husband a lot and they were very happy. Sheâs been at home with us now for many years, but she seems to have this longing to get away and to travel. Sometimes I thinkâsometimes I think she doesnât like being in the same house as Anthea.â

âOh dear,â said Miss Marple. âYes, I have heard of cases like that where these difficulties do arise.â

âSheâs afraid of Anthea,â said Clotilde. âDefinitely afraid of her. And really, I keep telling her thereâs nothing to be afraid of. Antheaâs just rather silly at times. You know, has queer ideas and says queer things. But I donât think thereâs any danger of herâwell, I mean ofâoh, I donât know what I mean. Doing anything dangerous or strange or queer.â

âThereâs never been any trouble of that kind?â enquired Miss Marple.

âOh no. Thereâs never been anything. She gets nervous fits of temper sometimes and she takes rather sudden dislikes to people. Sheâs very jealous, you know, over things. Very jealous of a lot ofâwell, fuss being made over different people. I donât know. Sometimes I think weâd better sell this house and leave it altogether.â

âIt is sad for you, isnât it,â said Miss Marple. âI think I can understand that it must be very sad for you living here with the memory of the past.â

âYou understand that, do you? Yes, I can see that you do. One cannot help it. Oneâs mind goes back to that dear, lovable child. She was like a daughter to me. She was the daughter, anyway, of one of my best friends. She was very intelligent too. She was a clever girl. She was a good artist. She was doing very well with her art training and designing. She was taking up a good deal of designing. I was very proud of her. And thenâthis wretched attachment, this terrible mentally afflicted boy.â

âYou mean Mr. Rafielâs son, Michael Rafiel?â

âYes. If only heâd never come here. It just happened that he was staying in this part of the world and his father suggested he might look us up and he came and had a meal with us. He could be very charming, you know. But he always had been a sad delinquent, a bad record. Heâd been in prison twice, and a very bad history with girls. But I never thought that Verity â¦ just a case of infatuation. I suppose it happens to girls of that age. She was infatuated with him. Insisted that everything that had happened to him had not been his fault. You know the things girls say. âEveryone is against him,â thatâs what they always say. Everyoneâs against him. Nobody made allowances for him. Oh, one gets tired of hearing these things said. Canât one put a little sense into girls?â

âThey have not usually very much sense, I agree,â said Miss Marple.

âShe wouldnât listen. IâI tried to keep him away from the house. I told him he was not to come here any more. That of course was stupid. I realized that afterwards. It only meant that she went and met him outside the house. I donât know where. They had various meeting places. He used to call for her in his car at an agreed spot and bring her home late at night. Once or twice he didnât bring her home until the next day. I tried to tell them it must stop, that it must all cease, but they wouldnât listen. Verity wouldnât listen. I didnât expect him to, of course.â

âShe intended to marry him?â asked Miss Marple.

âWell, I donât think it ever got as far as that. I donât think he ever wanted to marry her or thought of such a thing.â

âI am very sorry for you,â said Miss Marple. âYou must have suffered a lot.â

âYes. The worst was having to go and identify the body. That was some time afterâafter sheâd disappeared from here. We thought of course that sheâd run away with him and we thought that weâd get news of them some time. I knew the police seemed to be taking it rather seriously. They asked Michael to go to the police station and help them with enquiries and his account of himself didnât seem to agree with what local people were saying.

âThen they found her. A long way from here. About thirty miles away. In a kind of ditchy hedgy spot down an unfrequented lane where anyone hardly ever went. Yes, I had to go and view the body in the mortuary. A terrible sight. The cruelty, the force that had been used. What did he want to do that to her for? Wasnât it enough that he strangled her? He strangled her with her own scarf. I canâtâI canât talk about it any more. I canât bear it, I canât bear it.â

Tears rained suddenly down her face.

âIâm sorry for you,â said Miss Marple. âIâm very, very sorry.â

âI believe you are.â Clotilde looked at her suddenly. âAnd even you donât know the worst of it.â

âIn what way?â

âI donât knowâI donât know about Anthea.â

âWhat do you mean about Anthea?â

âShe was so queer at that time. She wasâshe was very jealous. She suddenly seemed to turn against Verity. To look at her as though she hated her. Sometimes I thoughtâI thought perhapsâoh no, itâs an awful thing to think, you canât think that about your own sisterâshe did once attack someone. You know, she used to get these storms of rage. I wondered if it could have beenâoh, I mustnât say such things. Thereâs no question of any such thing. Please forget what Iâve said. Thereâs nothing in it, nothing at all. Butâbutâwell, sheâs not quite normal. Iâve got to face that. When she was quite young queer things happened once or twiceâwith animals. We had a parrot. A parrot that said things, silly things like parrots do say and she wrung its neck and Iâve never felt the same since. Iâve never felt that I could trust her. Iâve never felt sure. Iâve never feltâoh, goodness, Iâm getting hysterical, too.â

âCome, come,â said Miss Marple, âdonât think of these things.â

âNo. Itâs bad enough to knowâto know that Verity died. Died in that horrible way. At any rate, other girls are safe from that boy. Life sentence he got. Heâs still in prison. They wonât let him out to do anything to anyone else. Though why they couldnât bring it in as some mental troubleâdiminished responsibilityâone of these things they use nowadays. He ought to have gone to Broadmoor. Iâm sure he wasnât responsible for anything that he did.â

She got up and went out of the room. Mrs. Glynne had come back and passed her sister in the doorway.

âYou mustnât pay any attention to Clotilde,â she said. âSheâs never quite recovered from that ghastly business years ago. She loved Verity very much.â

âShe seems to be worried about your other sister.â

âAbout Anthea? Antheaâs all right. Sheâsâerâwell, sheâs scatty, you know. Sheâs a bitâhysterical. Apt to get worked up about things, and she has queer fancies, imagination sometimes. But I donât think thereâs any need for Clotilde to worry so much. Dear me, whoâs that passing the window?â

Two apologetic figures suddenly showed themselves in the french window.

âOh do excuse us,â said Miss Barrow, âwe were just walking round the house to see if we could find Miss Marple. We had heard sheâd come here with you and I wonderâoh, there you are, my dear Miss Marple. I wanted to tell you that we didnât get to that church after all this afternoon. Apparently itâs closed for cleaning, so I think we shall have to give up any other expedition today and go on one tomorrow. I do hope you donât mind us coming in this way. I did ring at the front doorbell but it didnât seem to be ringing.â

âIâm afraid it doesnât sometimes,â said Mrs. Glynne. âYou know, itâs rather temperamental. Sometimes it rings and sometimes it doesnât. But do sit down and talk to us a little. Iâd no idea that you hadnât gone with the coach.â

âNo, we thought we would do a little sightseeing round here, as we had got so far, and going with the coach would really be ratherâwell, rather painful after what has happened just a day or two ago.â

âYou must have some sherry,â said Mrs. Glynne.

She went out of the room and presently returned. Anthea was with her, quite calm now, bringing glasses and a decanter of sherry, and they sat down together.

âI canât help wanting to know,â said Mrs. Glynne, âwhat really is going to happen in this business. I mean of poor Miss Temple. I mean, it seems so very impossible to know what the police think. They still seem to be in charge, and I mean the inquest being adjourned, so obviously they are not satisfied. I donât know if thereâs anything in the nature of the wound.â

âI shouldnât think so,â said Miss Barrow. âI mean a blow on the head, bad concussionâwell, I mean that came from the boulder. The only point is, Miss Marple, if the boulder rolled itself down or somebody rolled it.â

âOh,â said Miss Cooke, âbut surely you canât think thatâwho on earth would want to roll a boulder down, do that sort of thing? I suppose there are always hooligans about. You know, some young foreigners or students. I really wonder, you know, whetherâwellââ

âYou mean,â said Miss Marple, âyou wondered if that someone was one of our fellow travellers.â

âWell, IâI didnât say that,â said Miss Cooke.

âBut surely,â said Miss Marple, âwe canât helpâwell, thinking about that sort of thing. I mean, there must be some explanation. If the police seem sure it wasnât an accident, well then it must have been done by somebody andâwell, I mean, Miss Temple was a stranger to this place here. It doesnât seem as if anyone could have done itâanyone local I mean. So it really comes back toâwell, I mean, to all of us who were in the coach, doesnât it?â

She gave a faint, rather whinnying old ladyâs laugh.

âOh surely!â

âNo, I suppose I ought not to say such things. But you know, really crimes are very interesting. Sometimes the most extraordinary things have happened.â

âHave you any definite feeling yourself, Miss Marple? I should be interested to hear,â said Clotilde.

âWell, one does think of possibilities.â

âMr. Caspar,â said Miss Cooke. âYou know, I didnât like the look of that man from the first. He looked to meâwell, I thought he might have something to do with espionage or something. You know, perhaps come to this country to look for atomic secrets or something.â

âI donât think weâve got any atomic secrets round here,â said Mrs. Glynne.

âOf course we havenât,â said Anthea. âPerhaps it was someone who was following her. Perhaps it was someone who was tracking her because she was a criminal of some kind.â

âNonsense,â said Clotilde. âShe was the Headmistress, retired, of a very well-known school, she was a very fine scholar. Why should anyone be trying to track her down?â

âOh, I donât know. She might have gone peculiar or something.â

âIâm sure,â said Mrs. Glynne, âthat Miss Marple has some ideas.â

âWell, I have some ideas,â said Miss Marple. âIt seems to me thatâwell, the only people that could be â¦ Oh dear, this is so difficult to say. But I mean there are two people who just spring into oneâs mind as possibilities logically. I mean, I donât think that itâs really so at all because Iâm sure theyâre both very nice people, but I mean thereâs nobody else really logically who could be suspected, should I say.â

âWho do you mean? This is very interesting.â

âWell, I donât think I ought to say such things. Itâs only aâsort of wild conjecture.â

âWho do you think might have rolled the boulder down? Who do you think could have been the person that Joanna and Emlyn Price saw?â

âWell, what I did think was thatâthat perhaps they hadnât seen anybody.â

âI donât quite understand,â said Anthea, âthey hadnât seen anybody?â

âWell, perhaps they might have made it all up.â

âWhatâabout seeing someone?â

âWell, itâs possible, isnât it.â

âDo you mean as a sort of joke or a sort of unkind idea? What do you mean?â

âWell, I supposeâone does hear of young people doing very extraordinary things nowadays,â said Miss Marple. âYou know, putting things in horsesâ eyes, smashing Legation windows and attacking people. Throwing stones, at people, and itâs usually being done by somebody young, isnât it? And they were the only young people, werenât they?â

âYou mean Emlyn Price and Joanna might have rolled over that boulder?â

âWell, theyâre the only sort of obvious people, arenât they?â said Miss Marple.

âFancy!â said Clotilde. âOh, I should never have thought of that. But I seeâyes, I just see that there could be something in what you say. Of course, I donât know what those two were like. I havenât been travelling with them.â

âOh, they were very nice,â said Miss Marple. âJoanna seemed to me a particularlyâyou know, capable girl.â

âCapable of doing anything?â asked Anthea.

âAnthea,â said Clotilde, âdo be quiet.â

âYes. Quite capable,â said Miss Marple. âAfter all, if youâre going to do what may result in murder, youâd have to be rather capable so as to manage not to be seen or anything.â

âThey must have been in it together, though,â suggested Miss Barrow.

âOh yes,â said Miss Marple. âThey were in it together and they told roughly the same story. They are theâwell, they are the obvious suspects, thatâs all I can say. They were out of sight of the others. All the other people were on the lower path. They could have gone up to the top of the hill, they could have rocked the boulder. Perhaps they didnât mean to kill Miss Temple specially. They may have meant it just as aâwell, just as a piece of anarchy or smashing something or someoneâanyone in fact. They rolled it over. And then of course they told the story of seeing someone there. Some rather peculiar costume or other which also sounds very unlikely andâwell, I oughtnât to say these things but I have been thinking about it.â

âIt seems to me a very interesting thought,â said Mrs. Glynne. âWhat do you think, Clotilde?â

âI think itâs a possibility. I shouldnât have thought of it myself.â

âWell,â said Miss Cooke, rising to her feet, âwe must be going back to the Golden Boar now. Are you coming with us, Miss Marple?â

âOh no,â said Miss Marple. âI suppose you donât know. Iâve forgotten to tell you. Miss Bradbury-Scott very kindly asked me to come back and stay another nightâor two nightsâhere.â

âOh, I see. Well, Iâm sure thatâll be very nice for you. Much more comfortable. They seem rather a noisy lot that have arrived at the Golden Boar this evening.â

âWonât you come round and have some coffee with us after dinner?â suggested Clotilde. âItâs quite a warm evening. We canât offer you dinner because Iâm afraid we havenât got enough in the house, but if youâll come in and have some coffee with usâ¦.â

âThat would be very nice,â said Miss Cooke. âYes, we will certainly avail ourselves of your hospitality.â

Twenty-one

THE CLOCK STRIKES THREE

I

Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow arrived very promptly at 8:45. One wore beige lace and the other one a shade of olive green. During dinner Anthea had asked Miss Marple about these two ladies.

âIt seems very funny of them,â she said, âto want to stay behind.â

âOh, I donât think so,â said Miss Marple. âI think it is really quite natural. They have a rather exact plan, I imagine.â

âWhat do you mean by a plan?â asked Mrs. Glynne.

âWell, I should think they are always prepared for various eventualities and have a plan for dealing with them.â

âDo you mean,â said Anthea, with some interest, âdo you mean that they had a plan for dealing with murder?â

âI wish,â said Mrs. Glynne, âthat you wouldnât talk of poor Miss Templeâs death as murder.â

âBut of course itâs murder,â said Anthea. âAll I wonder is who wanted to murder her? I should think probably some pupil of hers at the school who always hated her and had it in for her.â

âDo you think hate can last as long as that?â asked Miss Marple.

âOh, I should think so. I should think you could hate anyone for years.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âI think hate would die out. You could try and keep it up artificially, but I think you would fail. Itâs not as strong a force as love,â she added.

âDonât you think that Miss Cooke or Miss Barrow or both of them might have done the murder?â

âWhy should they?â said Mrs. Glynne. âReally, Anthea! They seemed very nice women to me.â

âI think thereâs something rather mysterious about them,â said Anthea. âDonât you, Clotilde?â

âI think perhaps youâre right,â said Clotilde. âThey seemed to me to be slightly artificial, if you know what I mean.â

âI think thereâs something very sinister about them,â said Anthea.

âYouâve got such an imagination always,â said Mrs. Glynne. âAnyway, they were walking along the bottom path, werenât they? You saw them there, didnât you?â she said to Miss Marple.

âI canât say that I noticed them particularly,â said Miss Marple. âIn fact, I had no opportunity of doing so.â

âYou meanâ?â

âShe wasnât there,â said Clotilde. âShe was here in our garden.â

âOh, of course. I forgot.â

âA very nice, peaceful day it was,â said Miss Marple. âI enjoyed it very much. Tomorrow morning I would like to go out and look again at that mass of white flowers coming into bloom at the end of the garden near that raised up mound. It was just beginning to come out the other day. It must be a mass of bloom now. I shall always remember that as part of my visit here, you know.â

âI hate it,â said Anthea. âI want it taken away. I want to build up a greenhouse again there. Surely if we save enough money we can do that, Clotilde?â

âWeâll leave that alone,â said Clotilde. âI donât want that touched. What use is a greenhouse to us now? It would be years before grapes would bear fruit again.â

âCome,â said Mrs. Glynne, âwe canât go on arguing over that. Let us go into the drawing room. Our guests will be coming shortly for coffee.â

It was then that the guests had arrived. Clotilde brought in the tray of coffee. She poured out the cups and distributed them. She placed one before each guest and then brought one to Miss Marple. Miss Cooke leaned forward.

âOh, do forgive me, Miss Marple, but really, do you know, I shouldnât drink that if I were you. Coffee, I mean, at this time of night. You wonât sleep properly.â

âOh, do you think so?â said Miss Marple. âI am quite used to coffee in the evening.â

âYes, but this is very strong, good coffee. I should advise you not to drink it.â

Miss Marple looked at Miss Cooke. Miss Cookeâs face was very earnest, her fair, unnatural-looking hair flopped over one eye. The other eye blinked slightly.

âI see what you mean,â said Miss Marple. âPerhaps you are right. You know something, I gather, about diet.â

âOh yes, I make quite a study of it. I had some training in nursing, you know, and one thing and another.â

âIndeed.â Miss Marple pushed the cup away slightly. âI suppose there is no photograph of this girl?â she asked. âVerity Hunt, or whatever her name was? The Archdeacon was talking about her. He seemed to have been very fond of her.â

âI think he was. He was fond of all young people,â said Clotilde.

She got up, went across the room and lifted the lid of a desk. From that she brought a photograph and brought it over for Miss Marple to see.

âThat was Verity,â she said.

âA beautiful face,â said Miss Marple. âYes, a very beautiful and unusual face. Poor child.â

âItâs dreadful nowadays,â said Anthea, âthese things seem to be happening the whole time. Girls going out with every kind of young man. Nobody taking any trouble to look after them.â

âThey have to look after themselves nowadays,â said Clotilde, âand theyâve no idea of how to do it, heaven help them!â

She stretched out a hand to take back the photograph from Miss Marple. As she did so her sleeve caught the coffee cup and knocked it to the floor.

âOh dear!â said Miss Marple. âWas that my fault? Did I jog your arm?â

âNo,â said Clotilde, âit was my sleeve. Itâs rather a floating sleeve. Perhaps you would like some hot milk, if you are afraid to take coffee?â

âThat would be very kind,â said Miss Marple. âA glass of hot milk when I go to bed would be very soothing indeed, and always gives one a good night.â

After a little more desultory conversation, Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow took their departure. A rather fussy departure in which first one and then the other came back to collect some article theyâd left behind. A scarf, a handbag and a pocket handkerchief.

âFuss, fuss, fuss,â said Anthea, when they had departed.

âSomehow,â said Mrs. Glynne, âI agree with Clotilde that those two donât seem real, if you know what I mean,â she said to Miss Marple.

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âI do rather agree with you. They donât seem very real. I have wondered about them a good deal. Wondered, I mean, why they came on this tour and if they were really enjoying it. And what was their reason for coming.â

âAnd have you discovered the answers to all those things?â asked Clotilde.

âI think so,â said Miss Marple. She sighed. âIâve discovered the answers to a lot of things,â she said.

âUp to now I hope youâve enjoyed yourself,â said Clotilde.

âI am glad to have left the tour now,â said Miss Marple. âI donât think I should have enjoyed much more of it.â

âNo. I can quite understand that.â

Clotilde fetched a glass of hot milk from the kitchen and accompanied Miss Marple up to her room.

âIs there anything else I can get you?â she asked. âAnything at all?â

âNo, thank you,â said Miss Marple. âI have everything I want. I have my little night bag here, you see, so I need not do anymore unpacking. Thank you,â she said, âit is very kind of you and your sisters to put me up again tonight.â

âWell, we couldnât do much less, having had Mr. Rafielâs letter. He was a very thoughtful man.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âthe kind of man whoâwell, thinks of everything. A good brain, I should think.â

âI believe he was a very noted financier.â

âFinancially and otherwise, he thought of a lot of things,â said Miss Marple. âOh well, I shall be glad to get to bed. Good night, Miss Bradbury-Scott.â

âShall I send you breakfast up in the morning, youâd like to have it in bed?â

âNo, no, I wouldnât put you out for the world. No, no, I would rather come down. A cup of tea, perhaps, would be very nice, but I want to go out in the garden. I particularly want to see that mound all covered with white flowers, so beautiful and so triumphantââ

âGood night,â said Clotilde, âsleep well.â

II

In the hall of The Old Manor House the grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs struck two oâclock. The clocks in the house did not all strike in unison and some of them, indeed, did not strike at all. To keep a house full of antique clocks in working order was not easy. At three oâclock the clock on the first floor landing struck a soft-chimed three oâclock. A faint chink of light showed through the hinge of the door.

Miss Marple sat up in bed and put her fingers on the switch of the electric lamp by her bed. The door opened very softly. There was no light outside now but the soft footstep came through the door into the room. Miss Marple switched the light on.

âOh,â she said, âitâs you, Miss Bradbury-Scott. Is there anything special?â

âI just came to see if you wanted anything,â said Miss Bradbury-Scott.

Miss Marple looked at her. Clotilde had on a long purple robe. What a handsome woman she was, thought Miss Marple. Her hair framing her forehead, a tragic figure, a figure of drama. Again Miss Marple thought of Greek plays. Clytemnestra again.

âYouâre sure there is nothing I can bring you?â

âNo, thank you,â said Miss Marple. âIâm afraid,â she said apologetically, âthat I have not drunk my milk.â

âOh dear, why not?â

âI did not think it would be very good for me,â said Miss Marple.

Clotilde stood there, at the foot of the bed, looking at her.

âNot wholesome, you know,â said Miss Marple.

âJust what do you mean by that?â Clotildeâs voice was harsh now.

âI think you know what I mean,â said Miss Marple. âI think youâve known all the evening. Perhaps before that.â

âI have no idea what you are talking about.â

âNo?â There was a faint satirical note to the questioning monosyllable.

âI am afraid the milk is cold now. I will take it away and get you some hot.â

Clotilde stretched out a hand and took the glass of milk from the bedside.

âDonât trouble yourself,â said Miss Marple. âEven if you brought it me, I should not drink it.â

âI really cannot understand the point of what youâre saying. Really,â said Clotilde, looking at her. âWhat a very extraordinary person you are. What sort of a woman are you? Why are you talking like this? Who are you?â

Miss Marple pulled down the mass of pink wool that encircled her head, a pink wool scarf of the same kind that she had once worn in the West Indies.

âOne of my names,â she said, âis Nemesis.â

âNemesis? And what does that mean?â

âI think you know,â said Miss Marple. âYou are a very well educated woman. Nemesis is long delayed sometimes, but it comes in the end.â

âWhat are you talking about?â

âAbout a very beautiful girl whom you killed,â said Miss Marple.

âWhom I killed? What do you mean?â

âI mean the girl Verity.â

âAnd why should I kill her?â

âBecause you loved her,â said Miss Marple.

âOf course I loved her. I was devoted to her. And she loved me.â

âSomebody said to me not very long ago that love was a very frightening word. It is a frightening word. You loved Verity too much. She meant everything in the world to you. She was devoted to you until something else came into her life. A different kind of love came into her life. She fell in love with a boy, a young man. Not a very suitable one, not a very good specimen, not anyone with a good record, but she loved him and he loved her and she wanted to escape. To escape from the burden of the bondage of love she was living in with you. She wanted a normal womanâs life. To live with the man of her choice, to have children by him. She wanted marriage and the happiness of normality.â

Clotilde moved. She came to a chair and sat down in it, staring at Miss Marple.

âSo,â she said, âyou seem to understand very well.â

âYes, I do understand.â

âWhat you say is quite true. I shanât deny it. It doesnât matter if I do or do not deny it.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âyou are quite right there. It will not matter.â

âDo you know at allâcan you imagineâhow I have suffered?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âI can imagine it. Iâve always been able to imagine things.â

âDid you imagine the agony, the agony of thinking, of knowing you are going to lose the thing you love best in the world. And I was losing it to a miserable, depraved delinquent. A man unworthy of my beautiful, splendid girl. I had to stop it. I had toâI had to.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âSooner than let the girl go, you killed her. Because you loved her, you killed her.â

âDo you think I could ever do a thing like that? Do you think I could strangle the girl I loved? Do you think I could bash her face in, crush her head to a pulp? Nothing but a vicious, depraved man would do a thing like that.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âyou wouldnât do that. You loved her and you would not be able to do that.â

âWell then, you see, you are talking nonsense.â

âYou didnât do that to her. The girl that happened to was not the girl you loved. Verityâs here still, isnât she? Sheâs here in the garden. I donât think you strangled her. I think you gave her a drink of coffee or of milk, you gave her a painless overdose of sleeping stuff. And then when she was dead, you took her out into the garden, you pulled aside the fallen bricks of the greenhouse, and you made a vault for her there, under the floor with the bricks, and covered it over. And then the polygonum was planted there and has flowered ever since, growing bigger and stronger every year. Verity has remained here with you. You never let her go.â

âYou fool! You crazy old fool! Do you think you are ever going to get away to tell this story?â

âI think so,â said Miss Marple. âIâm not quite sure of it. You are a strong woman, a great deal stronger than I am.â

âIâm glad you appreciate that.â

âAnd you wouldnât have any scruples,â said Miss Marple. âYou know one doesnât stop at one murder. I have noticed that in the course of my life and in what I have observed of crime. You killed two girls, didnât you? You killed the girl you loved and you killed a different girl.â

âI killed a silly little tramp, an adolescent tart. Nora Broad. How did you know about her?â

âI wondered,â said Miss Marple. âI didnât think from what I saw of you that you could have borne to strangle and disfigure the girl you loved. But another girl disappeared also about that time, a girl whose body has never been found. But I thought the body had been found, only they hadnât known that the body was Nora Broadâs. It was dressed in Verityâs clothes, it was identified as Verity by the person who would be the first applied to, the person who knew her better than anyone else. You had to go and say if the body found was the body of Verity. You recognized it. You said that that dead body was Verityâs.â

âAnd why should I do that?â

âBecause you wanted the boy who had taken Verity away from you, the boy whom Verity had loved and who had loved Verity, you wanted him tried for murder. And so you hid that second body in a place where it would not be too easily discovered. When that was discovered, it would be thought to be the wrong girl. You would make sure that it was identified in the way you wanted. You dressed it in Verityâs clothes, put her handbag there; a letter or two, a bangle, a little cross on a chainâyou disfigured her face.

âA week ago you committed a third murder, the murder of Elizabeth Temple. You killed her because she was coming to this part of the world, and you were afraid of what she might have known, from what Verity might have written to her or told her, and you thought that if Elizabeth Temple got together with Archdeacon Brabazon, they might with what they both knew come at some appraisal of the truth. Elizabeth Temple must not be allowed to meet the Archdeacon. You are a very powerful woman. You could have rolled that boulder down the hillside. It must have taken some doing, but you are a very strong woman.â

âStrong enough to deal with you,â said Clotilde.

âI donât think,â said Miss Marple, âthat you will be allowed to do that.â

âWhat do you mean, you miserable, shrivelled up old woman?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âIâm an elderly pussy and I have very little strength in my arms or my legs. Very little strength anywhere. But I am in my own way an emissary of justice.â

Clotilde laughed, âAnd whoâll stop me from putting an end to you?â

âI think,â said Miss Marple, âmy guardian angel.â

âTrusting to your guardian angel, are you?â said Clotilde, and laughed again.

She advanced towards the bed.

âPossibly two guardian angels,â said Miss Marple. âMr. Rafiel always did things on a lavish scale.â

Her hand slipped under the pillow and out again. In it was a whistle which she put to her lips. It was something of a sensation in whistles. It had the shrill fury which would attract a policeman from the end of a street. Two things happened almost simultaneously. The door of the room opened. Clotilde turned. Miss Barrow was standing in the doorway. At the same moment the large wardrobe hanging cupboard opened and Miss Cooke stepped out of it. There was a grim air of professionalism about them both which was very noticeable, in contrast to their pleasant social behaviour a little earlier in the evening.

âTwo guardian angels,â said Miss Marple happily. âMr. Rafiel has done me very proud! as one used to say.â

Twenty-two

MISS MARPLE TELLS HER STORY

âWhen did you find out,â asked Professor Wanstead, âthat those two women were private agents accompanying you for your protection?â

He leaned forward in his chair looking thoughtfully at the white-haired old lady who sat in an upright position in the chair opposite him. They were in an official Government building in London, and there were four other persons present.

An official from the Public Prosecutorâs Office; the Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, Sir James Lloyd, the Governor of Manstone Prison, Sir Andrew McNeil. The fourth person was the Home Secretary.

âNot until the last evening,â said Miss Marple. âI wasnât actually sure until then. Miss Cooke had come to St. Mary Mead and I found out fairly quickly that she was not what she represented herself to be, which was a woman knowledgeable in gardening who had come there to help a friend with her garden. So I was left with the choice of deciding what her real object had been, once she had acquainted herself with my appearance, which was obviously the only thing she could have come for. When I recognized her again, on the coach, I had to make up my mind if she was accompanying the tour in the rÃ´le of guardianship, or whether those two women were enemies enlisted by what I might call the other side.

âI was only really sure that last evening when Miss Cooke prevented me, by very distinct words of warning, from drinking the cup of coffee that Clotilde Bradbury-Scott had just set down in front of me. She phrased it very cleverly, but the warning was clearly there. Later, when I was wishing those two good night, one of them took my hand in both of hers giving me a particularly friendly and affectionate handshake. And in doing so she passed something into my hand, which, when I examined it later, I found to be a high-powered whistle. I took it to bed with me, accepted the glass of milk which was urged upon me by my hostess, and wished her good night, being careful not to change my simple and friendly attitude.â

âYou didnât drink the milk?â

âOf course not,â said Miss Marple. âWhat do you take me for?â

âI beg your pardon,â said Professor Wanstead. âIt surprises me that you didnât lock your door.â

âThat would have been quite the wrong thing to do,â said Miss Marple. âI wanted Clotilde Bradbury-Scott to come in. I wanted to see what she would say or do. I thought it was almost certain that she would come in when sufficient time had elapsed, to make sure that I had drunk the milk, and was in an unconscious sleep from which presumably I would not have woken up again.â

âDid you help Miss Cooke to conceal herself in the wardrobe?â

âNo. It was a complete surprise when she came out of that suddenly. I suppose,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully, thinking it over, âI suppose she slipped in there just when I had gone down the passage to theâerâto the bathroom.â

âYou knew the two women were in the house?â

âI thought they would be at hand somewhere after theyâd given me the whistle. I do not think it was a difficult house to which to gain access, there were no shuttered windows or burglar alarms or anything of that kind. One of them came back on the pretext of having left a handbag and a scarf. Between them they probably managed to leave a window unfastened, and I should imagine they came back into the house almost as soon as they left it, while the inhabitants inside were going up to bed.â

âYou took a big risk, Miss Marple.â

âI hoped for the best,â said Miss Marple. âOne cannot go through life without attracting certain risks if they are necessary.â

âYour tip about the parcel dispatched to that charity, by the way, was entirely successful. It contained a brand new brightly coloured manâs polo-necked jumper in scarlet and black checks. Most noticeable. What made you think of that?â

âWell,â said Miss Marple, âthat was really very simple. The description that Emlyn and Joanna gave of the figure they had seen made it seem almost certain that these very bright coloured and noticeable clothes were meant to be noticed, and that therefore it would be very important that they should not be hidden locally or kept among the personâs own belongings. They must be got out of the way as soon as could be. And really there is only one way successfully of disposing of something. That is through the general post. Anything in the nature of clothes can be very easily dispatched to charities. Think how pleased the people who collect winter garments for Unemployed Mothers, or whatever the name of the charity, would be to find a nearly brand new woollen jumper. All I had to do was to find out the address where it had been sent.â

âAnd you asked them that at the post office?â The Home Secretary looked slightly shocked.

âNot directly, of course. I mean, I had to be a little flustered and explain how Iâd put the wrong address on some clothes that I was sending to a charity and could they by any chance tell me if the parcel one of my kind hostesses had brought up there, had been sent off. And a very nice woman there did her best and remembered that it was not the address I was hoping it had been sent to, and she gave me the address that she had noted. She had no suspicion, I think, that I had any wish for the information apart from beingâwell, rather muddleheaded, elderly, and very worried about where my parcel of worn clothes had gone.â

âAh,â said Professor Wanstead, âI see you are an actress, Miss Marple, as well as an avenger.â Then he said, âWhen did you first begin to discover what had happened ten years ago?â

âTo begin with,â said Miss Marple, âI found things very difficult, almost impossible. In my mind I was blaming Mr. Rafiel for not having made things clear to me. But I see now that heâd been very wise not to do so. Really, you know, he was extraordinary clever. I can see why he was such a big financier and made so much money so easily. He laid his plans so well. He gave me just enough information in small packets each time. I was, as it were, directed. First my guardian angels were alerted to note what I looked like. Then I was directed on the tour and to the people on it.â

âDid you suspect, if I may use that word, anyone on the tour at first?â

âOnly as possibilities.â

âNo feeling of evil?â

âAh, you have remembered that. No, I did not think there was any definite atmosphere of evil. I was not told who my contact was there, but she made herself known to me.â

âElizabeth Temple?â

âYes. It was like a searchlight,â said Miss Marple, âilluminating things on a dark night. So far, you see, I had been in the dark. There were certain things that must be, must logically be, I mean, because of what Mr. Rafiel had indicated. There must be somewhere a victim and somewhere a murderer. Yes, a killer was indicated because that was the only liaison that had existed between Mr. Rafiel and myself. There had been a murder in the West Indies. Both he and I had been involved in it and all he knew of me was my connection with that. So it could not be any other type of crime. And it could not, either, be a casual crime. It must be, and show itself definitely to be, the handiwork of someone who had accepted evil. Evil instead of good. There seemed to be two victims indicated. There must be someone who had been killed and there must be clearly a victim of injustice. A victim who had been accused of a crime he or she had not committed. So now, while I pondered these things, I had no light upon them until I talked to Miss Temple. She was very intense, very compelling. There came the first link which I had with Mr. Rafiel. She spoke of a girl she had known, a girl who had once been engaged to Mr. Rafielâs son. Here then was my first ray of light. Presently she also told me that the girl had not married him. I asked why not and she said âbecause she died.â I asked then how she died, what had killed her, and she said very strongly, very compellinglyâI can hear her voice still, it was like the sound of a deep bellâshe said Love. And she said after that âthe most frightening word there can be is Love.â I did not know then exactly what she meant. In fact the first idea that came to me was that the girl had committed suicide as a result of an unhappy love affair. It can happen often enough, and a very sad tragedy it is when it does happen. That was the most I knew then. That and the fact that the journey she herself was engaged upon was no mere pleasure tour. She was going, she told me, on a pilgrimage. She was going to some place or to some person. I did not learn then who the person was, that only came later.â

âArchdeacon Brabazon?â

âYes. I had no idea then of his existence. But from then on I felt that the chief charactersâthe chief actorsâin the drama, whichever way you like to put it, were not on the tour. They were not members of the coach party. I hesitated just for a short time, hesitated over some particular persons. I hesitated, considering Joanna Crawford and Emlyn Price.â

âWhy fix on them?â

âBecause of their youth,â said Miss Marple. âBecause youth is so often associated with suicide, with violence, with intense jealousy and tragic love. A man kills his girlâit happens. Yes, my mind went to them but it did not seem to me there was any association there. No shadow of evil, of despair, of misery. I used the idea of them later as a kind of false pointer when we were drinking sherry at The Old Manor House that last evening. I pointed out how they could be the most easy suspects in the death of Elizabeth Temple. When I see them again,â said Miss Marple, punctiliously, âI shall apologize to them for having used them as useful characters to distract attention from my real ideas.â

âAnd the next thing was the death of Elizabeth Temple?â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âActually the next thing was my arrival at The Old Manor House. The kindness of my reception and taking up my stay there under their hospitable roof. That again had been arranged by Mr. Rafiel. So I knew that I must go there, but not for what reason I was to go there. It might be merely a place where more information would come to me to lead me onwards in my quest. I am sorry,â Miss Marple said, suddenly becoming her normal apologetic and slightly fussy self, âI am talking at much too great a length. I really must not inflict on you all that I thought andâ¦.â

âPlease go on,â said Professor Wanstead. âYou may not know it but what you are telling me is particularly interesting to me. It ties up with so much I have known and seen in the work I do. Go on giving me what you felt.â

âYes, go on,â said Sir Andrew McNeil.

âIt was feeling,â said Miss Marple. âIt wasnât really, you know, logical deduction. It was based on a kind of emotional reaction or susceptibility toâwell, I can only call it atmosphere.â

âYes,â said Wanstead, âthere is atmosphere. Atmosphere in houses, atmosphere in places, in the garden, in the forest, in a public house, in a cottage.â

âThe three sisters. That is what I thought and felt and said to myself when I went into The Old Manor House. I was so kindly received by Lavinia Glynne. Thereâs something about the phraseâthe three sistersâthat springs up in your mind as sinister. It combines with the three sisters in Russian literature, the three witches on Macbethâs heath. It seemed to me that there was an atmosphere there of sorrow, of deep felt unhappiness, also an atmosphere of fear and a kind of struggling different atmosphere which I can only describe as an atmosphere of normality.â

âYour last word interests me,â said Wanstead.

âIt was due, I think, to Mrs. Glynne. She was the one who came to meet me when the coach arrived and explained the invitation. She was an entirely normal and pleasant woman, a widow. She was not very happy, but when I say she was not very happy it was nothing to do with sorrow or deep unhappiness, it was just that she had the wrong atmosphere for her own character. She took me back with her and I met the other two sisters. The next morning I was to hear from an aged housemaid who brought my early morning tea, a story of past tragedy, of a girl who had been killed by her boyfriend. Of several other girls in the neighbourhood whoâd fallen victims to violence, or sexual assault. I had to make my second appraisal. I had dismissed the people in the coach as not being personally concerned in my search. Somewhere still there was a killer. I had to ask myself if one of the killers could be here. Here in this house where I had been sent, Clotilde, Lavinia, Anthea. Three names of three weird sisters, three happyâunhappyâsufferingâfrightenedâwhat were they? My attention was caught first by Clotilde. A tall, handsome woman. A personality. Just as Elizabeth Temple had been a personality. I felt that here where the field was limited, I must at least sum up what I could about the three sisters. Three Fates. Who could be a killer? What kind of a killer? What kind of a killing? I could feel then rising up rather slowly, rather slowly like a miasma does, an atmosphere. I donât think there is any other word that expresses it except evil. Not necessarily that any of these three was evil, but they were certainly living in an atmosphere where evil had happened, had left its shadow or was still threatening them. Clotilde, the eldest, was the first one I considered. She was handsome, she was strong, she was, I thought, a woman of intense emotional feeling. I saw her, I will admit, as a possible Clytemnestra. I had recently,â Miss Marple dropped into her everyday tones, âbeen taken very kindly to a Greek play performed at a well-known boysâ public school not far from my home. I had been very, very impressed by the acting of the Agamemnon and particularly the performance of the boy who had played Clytemnestra. A very remarkable performance. It seemed to me that in Clotilde I could imagine a woman who could plan and carry out the killing of a husband in his bath.â

For a moment Professor Wanstead had all he could do to repress a laugh. It was the seriousness of Miss Marpleâs tone. She gave him a slight twinkle from her eyes.

âYes, it sounds rather silly, does it not, said like that? But I could see her that way, playing that part, that is to say. Very unfortunately, she had no husband. She had never had a husband, and therefore did not kill a husband. Then I considered my guide to the house. Lavinia Glynne. She seemed an extremely nice, wholesome and pleasant woman. But alas, certain people who have killed have produced much that effect on the world round them. They have been charming people. Many murderers have been delightful and pleasant men and people have been astonished. They are what I call the respectable killers. The ones who would commit murder from entirely utilitarian motives. Without emotion, but to gain a required end. I didnât think it was very likely and I should be highly surprised if it was so, but I could not leave out Mrs. Glynne. She had had a husband. She was a widow and had been a widow for some years. It could be. I left it at that. And then I came to the third sister. Anthea. She was a disquieting personality. Badly coordinated, it seemed to me, scatterbrained, and in a condition of some emotion which I thought on the whole was fear. She was frightened of something. Intensely frightened of something. Well, that could fit in too. If she had committed a crime of some kind, a crime which she had thought was finished with and past, there might have been some recrudescence, some raising up of old problems, something perhaps connected with the Elizabeth Temple enquiries; she might have felt fear that an old crime would be revived or discovered. She had a curious way of looking at you, and then looking sharply from side to side over one shoulder as though she saw something standing behind her. Something that made her afraid. So she too was a possible answer. A possibly slightly mentally unhinged killer who could have killed because she considered herself persecuted. Because she was afraid. These were only ideas. They were only a rather more pronounced assessment of possibilities that I had already gone through on the coach. But the atmosphere of the house was on me more than ever. The next day I walked in the garden with Anthea. At the end of the principal grass path was a mound. A mound created by the falling down of a former greenhouse. Owing to a lack of repairs and of gardeners at the end of the war it had fallen into disuse, come to pieces, bricks had been piled up surmounted with earth and turf, and had been planted with a certain creeper. A creeper well known when you want to hide or cover some rather ugly pieces of building in your garden. Polygonum it is called. One of the quickest flowering shrubs which swallows and kills and dries up and gets rid of everything it grows over. It grows over everything. It is in a way a rather frightening plant. It has beautiful white flowers, it can look very lovely. It was not yet in bloom but it was going to be. I stood there with Anthea, and she seemed to be desperately unhappy over the loss of the greenhouse. She said it had had such lovely grapes, it seemed to be the thing she remembered most about the garden when she had been a child there. And she wanted, she wanted desperately to have enough money so as to dig up the mound, level the ground and rebuild the greenhouse and stock it with muscat grapes and peaches as the old greenhouse had been. It was a terrible nostalgia for the past she was feeling. It was more than that. Again, very clearly, I felt an atmosphere of fear. Something about the mound made her frightened. I couldnât then think what it was. You know the next thing that happened. It was Elizabeth Templeâs death and there was no doubt from the story told by Emlyn Price and Joanna Crawford that there could be only one conclusion. It was not accident. It was deliberate murder.

âI think it was from then on,â said Miss Marple, âthat I knew. I came to the conclusion there had been three killings. I heard the full story of Mr. Rafielâs son, the delinquent boy, the exjailbird and I thought that he was all those things, but none of them showed him as being a killer or likely to be a killer. All the evidence was against him. There was no doubt in anyoneâs mind that he had killed the girl whose name I had now learned as being Verity Hunt. But Archdeacon Brabazon put the final crown on the business, as it were. He had known those two young people. They had come to him with their story of wanting to get married and he had taken it upon himself to decide that they should get married. He thought that it was not perhaps a wise marriage, but it was a marriage that was justified by the fact that they both loved each other. The girl loved the boy with what he called a true love. A love as true as her name. And he thought that the boy, for all his bad sexual reputation, had truly loved the girl and had every intention of being faithful to her and trying to reform some of his evil tendencies. The Archdeacon was not optimistic. He did not, I think, believe it would be a thoroughly happy marriage, but it was to his mind what he called a necessary marriage. Necessary because if you love enough you will pay the price, even if the price is disappointment and a certain amount of unhappiness. But one thing I was quite sure of. That disfigured face, that battered-in head could not have been the action of a boy who really loved the girl. This was not a story of sexual assault. I was ready to take the Archdeaconâs word for that. But I knew, too, that Iâd got the right clue, the clue that was given me by Elizabeth Temple. She had said that the cause of Verityâs death was Loveâone of the most frightening words there is.

âIt was quite clear then,â said Miss Marple. âI think Iâd known for some time really. It was just the small things that hadnât fitted in, but now they did. They fitted in with what Elizabeth Temple had said. The cause of Verityâs death. She had said first the one word âLoveâ and then that âLove could be the most frightening word there was.â It was all mapped out so plainly then. The overwhelming love that Clotilde had had for this girl. The girlâs hero worship of her, dependency on her, and then as she grew a little older, her normal instincts came into play. She wanted Love. She wanted to be free to love, to marry, to have children. And along came the boy that she could love. She knew that he was unreliable, she knew he was what was technically called a bad lot, but that,â said Miss Marple, in a more ordinary tone of voice, âis not what puts any girl off a boy. No. Young women like bad lots. They always have. They fall in love with bad lots. They are quite sure they can change them. And the nice, kind, steady, reliable husbands got the answer, in my young days, that one would be âa sister to them,â which never satisfied them at all. Verity fell in love with Michael Rafiel, and Michael Rafiel was prepared to turn over a new leaf and marry this girl and was sure he would never wish to look at another girl again. I donât say this would have been a happy-ever-after thing, but it was, as the Archdeacon said quite surely, it was real love. And so they planned to get married. And I think Verity wrote to Elizabeth and told her that she was going to marry Michael Rafiel. It was arranged in secret because I think Verity did realize that what she was doing was essentially an escape. She was escaping from a life that she didnât want to live any longer, from someone whom she loved very much but not in the way she loved Michael. And she would not be allowed to do so. Permission would not be willingly given, every obstacle would be put in their way. So, like other young people, they were going to elope. There was no need for them to fly off to Gretna Green, they were of sufficiently mature age to marry. So she appealed to Archdeacon Brabazon, her old friend who had confirmed herâwho was a real friend. And the wedding was arranged, the day, the time, probably even she bought secretly some garment in which to be married. They were to meet somewhere, no doubt. They were to come to the rendezvous separately. I think he came there, but she did not come. He waited perhaps. Waited and then tried to find out, perhaps, why she didnât come. I think then a message may have been given him, even a letter sent him, possibly in her forged handwriting, saying she had changed her mind. It was all over and she was going away for a time to get over it. I donât know. But I donât think he ever dreamt of the real reason of why she hadnât come, of why she had sent no word. He hadnât thought for one moment that she had been deliberately, cruelly, almost madly perhaps, destroyed. Clotilde was not going to lose the person she loved. She was not going to let her escape, she was not going to let her go to the young man whom she herself hated and loathed. She would keep Verity, keep her in her own way. But what I could not believe wasâI did not believe that sheâd strangled the girl and had then disfigured her face. I donât think she could have borne to do that. I think that she had rearranged the bricks of the fallen greenhouse and piled up earth and turf over most of it. The girl had already been given a drink, an overdose of sleeping draught probably. Grecian, as it were, in tradition. One cup of hemlockâeven if it wasnât hemlock. And she buried the girl there in the garden, piled the bricks over her and the earth and the turfââ

âDid neither of the other sisters suspect it?â

âMrs. Glynne was not there then. Her husband had not died and she was still abroad. But Anthea was there. I think Anthea did know something of what went on. I donât know that she suspected death at first, but she knew that Clotilde had been occupying herself with the raising up of a mound at the end of the garden to be covered with flowering shrubs, to be a place of beauty. I think perhaps the truth came to her little by little. And then Clotilde, having accepted evil, done evil, surrendered to evil, had no qualms about what she would do next. I think she enjoyed planning it. She had a certain amount of influence over a sly, sexy little village girl who came to her cadging for benefits now and then. I think it was easy for her to arrange one day to take the girl on a picnic or an expedition a good long way away. Thirty or forty miles. Sheâd chosen the place beforehand, I think. She strangled the girl, disfigured her, hid her under turned earth, leaves and branches. Why should anyone ever suspect her of doing any such thing? She put Verityâs handbag there and a little chain Verity used to wear round her neck and possibly dressed her in clothes belonging to Verity. She hoped the crime would not be found out for some time but in the meantime she spread abroad rumours of Nora Broad having been seen about in Michaelâs car, going about with Michael. Possibly she spread a story that Verity had broken off the engagement to be married because of his infidelity with this girl. She may have said anything and I think everything she said she enjoyed, poor lost soul.â

âWhy do you say âpoor lost soul,â Miss Marple?â

âBecause,â said Miss Marple, âI donât suppose there can be any agony so great as what Clotilde has suffered all this timeâten years nowâliving in eternal sorrow. Living, you see, with the thing she had to live with. She had kept Verity, kept her there at The Old Manor House, in the garden, kept her there for ever. She didnât realize at first what that meant. Her passionate longing for the girl to be alive again. I donât think she ever suffered from remorse. I donât think she had even that consolation. She just sufferedâwent on suffering year after year. And I know now what Elizabeth Temple meant. Better perhaps than she herself did. Love is a very terrible thing. It is alive to evil, it can be one of the most evil things there can be. And she had to live with that day after day, year after year. I think, you know, that Anthea was frightened of that. I think she knew more clearly the whole time what Clotilde had done and she thought that Clotilde knew that she knew. And she was afraid of what Clotilde might do. Clotilde gave that parcel to Anthea to post, the one with the pullover. She said things to me about Anthea, that she was mentally disturbed, that if she suffered from persecution or jealousy Anthea might do anything. I thinkâyesâthat in the not so distant futureâsomething might have happened to Antheaâan arranged suicide because of a guilty conscienceââ

âAnd yet you are sorry for that woman?â asked Sir Andrew. âMalignant evil is like cancerâa malignant tumour. It brings suffering.â

âOf course,â said Miss Marple.

âI suppose you have been told what happened that night,â said Professor Wanstead, âafter your guardian angels had removed you?â

âYou mean Clotilde? She had picked up my glass of milk, I remember. She was still holding it when Miss Cooke took me out of the room. I suppose sheâdrank it, did she?â

âYes. Did you know that might happen?â

âI didnât think of it, no, not at the moment. I suppose I could have known it if Iâd thought about it.â

âNobody could have stopped her. She was so quick about it, and nobody quite realized there was anything wrong in the milk.â

âSo she drank it.â

âDoes that surprise you?â

âNo, it would have seemed to her the natural thing to do, one canât really wonder. It had come by this time that she wanted to escapeâfrom all the things she was having to live with. Just as Verity had wanted to escape from the life that she was living there. Very odd, isnât it, that the retribution one brings on oneself fits so closely with what has caused it.â

âYou sound sorrier for her than you were for the girl who died.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple, âitâs a different kind of being sorry. Iâm sorry for Verity because of all that she missed, all that she was so near to obtaining. A life of love and devotion and service to the man she had chosen, and whom she truly loved. Truly and in all verity. She missed all that and nothing can give that back to her. Iâm sorry for her because of what she didnât have. But she escaped what Clotilde had to suffer. Sorrow, misery, fear and a growing cultivation and imbibing of evil. Clotilde had to live with all those. Sorrow, frustrated love which she could never get back, she had to live with the two sisters who suspected, who were afraid of her, and she had to live with the girl she had kept there.â

âYou mean Verity?â

âYes. Buried in the garden, buried in the tomb that Clotilde had prepared. She was there in The Old Manor House and I think Clotilde knew she was there. It might be that she even saw her or thought she saw her, sometimes when she went to pick a spray of polygonum blossom. She must have felt very close to Verity then. Nothing worse could happen to her, could it, than that? Nothing worseâ¦.â

Twenty-three

END PIECES

I

âThat old lady gives me the creeps,â said Sir Andrew McNeil, when he had said good-bye and thanks to Miss Marple.

âSo gentleâand so ruthless,â said the Assistant Commissioner.

Professor Wanstead took Miss Marple down to his car which was waiting, and then returned for a few final words.

âWhat do you think of her, Edmund?â

âThe most frightening woman I ever met,â said the Home Secretary.

âRuthless?â asked Professor Wanstead.

âNo, no, I donât mean that butâwell, a very frightening woman.â

âNemesis,â said Professor Wanstead thoughtfully.

âThose two women,â said the P.P.D. man, âyou know, the security agents who were looking after her, they gave a most extraordinary description of her that night. They got into the house quite easily, hid themselves in a small downstairs room until everyone went upstairs, then one went into the bedroom and into the wardrobe and the other stayed outside the room to watch. The one in the bedroom said that when she threw open the door of the wardrobe and came out, there was the old lady sitting up in bed with a pink fluffy shawl round her neck and a perfectly placid face, twittering away and talking like an elderly school marm. They said she gave them quite a turn.â

âA pink fluffy shawl,â said Professor Wanstead. âYes, yes, I do rememberâ.â

âWhat do you remember?â

âOld Rafiel. He told me about her, you know, and then he laughed. He said one thing heâd never forget in all his life. He said it was when one of the funniest scatterbrained old pussies heâd ever met came marching into his bedroom out in the West Indies, with a fluffy pink scarf round her neck, telling him he was to get up and do something to prevent a murder. And he said, âWhat on earth do you think youâre doing?â And she said she was Nemesis. Nemesis! He could not imagine anything less like it, he said. I like the touch of the pink woolly scarf,â said Professor Wanstead, thoughtfully, âI like that, very much.â

II

âMichael,â said Professor Wanstead, âI want to introduce you to Miss Jane Marple, whoâs been very active on your behalf.â

The young man of thirty-two looked at the white-haired, rather dicky old lady with a slightly doubtful expression.

âOhâerââ he said, âwell, I guess I have heard about it. Thanks very much.â

He looked at Wanstead.

âItâs true, is it, theyâre going to give me a free pardon or something silly like that?â

âYes. A release will be put through quite soon. Youâll be a free man in a very short time.â

âOh.â Michael sounded slightly doubtful.

âIt will take a little getting used to, I expect,â said Miss Marple kindly.

She looked at him thoughtfully. Seeing him in retrospect as he might have been ten years or so ago. Still quite attractiveâthough he showed all the signs of strain. Attractive, yes. Very attractive, she thought he would have been once. A gaiety about him then, there would have been, and a charm. Heâd lost that now, but it would come back perhaps. A weak mouth and attractively shaped eyes that could look you straight in the face, and probably had been always extremely useful for telling lies that you really wanted to believe. Very likeâwho was it?âshe dived into past memoriesâJonathan Birkin, of course. He had sung in the choir. A really delightful baritone voice. And how fond the girls had been of him! Quite a good job heâd had as a clerk in Messrs. Gabrielâs firm. A pity there had been that little matter of the cheques.

âOh,â said Michael. He said, with even more embarrassment, âItâs been very kind of you, Iâm sure, to take so much trouble.â

âIâve enjoyed it,â said Miss Marple. âWell, Iâm glad to have met you. Good-bye. I hope youâve got a very good time coming to you. Our country is in rather a bad way just now, but youâll probably find some job or other that you might quite enjoy doing.â

âOh yes. Thanks, thanks very much. IâI really am very grateful, you know.â

His tone sounded still extremely unsure about it.

âItâs not me you ought to be grateful to,â said Miss Marple, âyou ought to be grateful to your father.â

âDad? Dad never thought much of me.â

âYour father, when he was a dying man, was determined to see that you got justice.â

âJustice.â Michael Rafiel considered it.

âYes, your father thought Justice was important. He was, I think, a very just man himself. In the letter he wrote me asking me to undertake this proposition, he directed me to a quotation:

âLet Justice roll down like waters

And Righteousness like an everlasting stream.ââ

âOh! Whatâs it mean? Shakespeare?â

âNo, the Bibleâone has to think about itâI had to.â

Miss Marple unwrapped a parcel she had been carrying.

âThey gave me this,â she said. âThey thought I might like to have itâbecause I had helped to find out the truth of what had really happened. I think, though, that you are the person who should have first claim on itâthat is if you really want it. But maybe you do not want itââ

She handed him the photograph of Verity Hunt that Clotilde Bradbury-Scott had shown her once in the drawing room of The Old Manor House.

He took itâand stood with it, staring down on it â¦ His face changed, the lines of it softened, then hardened. Miss Marple watched him without speaking. The silence went on for some little time. Professor Wanstead also watchedâhe watched them both, the old lady and the boy.

It came to him that this was in some way a crisisâa moment that might affect a whole new way of life.

Michael Rafiel sighedâhe stretched out and gave the photograph back to Miss Marple.

âNo, you are right, I do not want it. All that life is goneâsheâs goneâI canât keep her with me. Anything I do now has got to be newâgoing forward. Youââ he hesitated, looking at herââYou understand?â

âYes,â said Miss MarpleââI understandâI think you are right. I wish you good luck in the life you are now going to begin.â

He said good-bye and went out.

âWell,â said Professor Wanstead, ânot an enthusiastic young man. He could have thanked you a bit more enthusiastically for what you did for him.â

âOh, thatâs quite all right,â said Miss Marple. âI didnât expect him to do so. It would have embarrassed him even more. It is, you know,â she added, âvery embarrassing when one has to thank people and start life again and see everything from a different angle and all that. I think he might do well. Heâs not bitter. Thatâs the great thing. I understand quite well why that girl loved himââ

âWell, perhaps heâll go straight this time.â

âOne rather doubts that,â said Miss Marple. âI donât know that heâd be able to help himself unlessâof course,â she said, âthe great thing to hope for is that heâll meet a really nice girl.â

âWhat I like about you,â said Professor Wanstead, âis your delightfully practical mind.â

III

âSheâll be here presently,â said Mr. Broadribb to Mr. Schuster.

âYes. The whole thingâs pretty extraordinary, isnât it?â

âI couldnât believe it at first,â said Broadribb. âYou know, when poor old Rafiel was dying, I thought this whole thing wasâwell, senility or something. Not that he was old enough for that.â

The buzzer went. Mr. Schuster picked up the phone.

âOh, sheâs here, is she? Bring her up,â he said. âSheâs come,â he said. âI wonder now. You know, itâs the oddest thing I ever heard in my life. Getting an old lady to go racketing round the countryside looking for she doesnât know what. The police think, you know, that that woman committed not just one murder but three. Three! I ask you! Verity Huntâs body was under the mound in the garden, just as the old lady said it was. She hadnât been strangled and the face was not disfigured.â

âI wonder the old lady herself didnât get done in,â said Mr. Broadribb. âFar too old to be able to take care of herself.â

âShe had a couple of detectives, apparently, looking after her.â

âWhat, two of them?â

âYes, I didnât know that.â

Miss Marple was ushered into their room.

âCongratulations, Miss Marple,â said Mr. Broadribb, rising to greet her.

âVery best wishes. Splendid job,â said Mr. Schuster, shaking hands.

Miss Marple sat down composedly on the other side of the desk.

âAs I told you in my letter,â she said, âI think I have fulfilled the terms of the proposition that was made to me. I have succeeded in what I was asked to do.â

âOh I know. Yes, weâve heard already. Weâve heard from Professor Wanstead and from the legal department and from the police authorities. Yes, itâs been a splendid job, Miss Marple. We congratulate you.â

âI was afraid,â said Miss Marple, âthat I would not be able to do what was required of me. It seemed so very difficult, almost impossible at first.â

âYes indeed. It seems quite impossible to me. I donât know how you did it, Miss Marple.â

âOh well,â said Miss Marple, âitâs just perseverance, isnât it, that leads to things.â

âNow about the sum of money we are holding. Itâs at your disposal at any time now. I donât know whether you would like us to pay it into your bank or whether you would like to consult us possibly as to the investment of it? Itâs quite a large sum.â

âTwenty thousand pounds,â said Miss Marple. âYes, it is a very large sum by my way of thinking. Quite extraordinary,â she added.

âIf you would like an introduction to our brokers, they could give you possibly some ideas about investing.â

âOh, I donât want to invest any of it.â

âBut surely it would beââ

âThereâs no point in saving at my age,â said Miss Marple. âI mean the point of this moneyâIâm sure Mr. Rafiel meant it that wayâis to enjoy a few things that one thought one never would have the money to enjoy.â

âWell, I see your point of view,â said Mr. Broadribb. âThen your instructions would be that we pay this sum of money into your bank?â

âMiddletonâs Bank, 132 High Street, St. Mary Mead,â said Miss Marple.

âYou have a deposit account, I expect. We will place it to your deposit account?â

âCertainly not,â said Miss Marple. âPut it into my current account.â

âYou donât thinkââ

âI do think,â said Miss Marple. âI want it in my current account.â

She got up and shook hands.

âYou could ask your bank managerâs advice, you know, Miss Marple. It really isâone never knows when one wants something for a rainy day.â

âThe only thing I shall want for a rainy day will be my umbrella,â said Miss Marple.

She shook hands with them both again.

âThank you so much, Mr. Broadribb. And you too, Mr. Schuster. Youâve been so kind to me, giving me all the information I needed.â

âYou really want that money put into your current account?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âIâm going to spend it, you know. Iâm going to have some fun with it.â

She looked back from the door and she laughed. Just for one moment Mr. Schuster, who was a man of more imagination than Mr. Broadribb, had a vague impression of a young and pretty girl shaking hands with the vicar at a garden party in the country. It was, as he realized a moment later, a recollection of his own youth. But Miss Marple had, for a minute, reminded him of that particular girl, young, happy, going to enjoy herself.

âMr. Rafiel would have liked me to have fun,â said Miss Marple.

She went out of the door.

âNemesis,â said Mr. Broadribb. âThatâs what Rafiel called her. Nemesis. Never seen anybody less like Nemesis, have you?â

Mr. Schuster shook his head.

âIt must have been another of Mr. Rafielâs little jokes,â said Mr. Broadribb.

Credits

Cover illustration and design by Sara Wood

Agatha Christie

Sleeping Murder

A Miss Marple Mystery

Contents

1. A House

2. Wallpaper

3. “Cover Her Face …”

4. Helen?

5. Murder in Retrospect

6. Exercise in Detection

7. Dr. Kennedy

8. Kelvin Halliday’s Delusion

9. Unknown Factor?

10. A Case History

11. The Men in Her Life

12. Lily Kimble

13. Walter Fane

14. Edith Pagett

15. An Address

16. Mother’s Son

17. Richard Erskine

18. Bindweed

19. Mr. Kimble Speaks

20. The Girl Helen

21. J. J. Afflick

22. Lily Keeps an Appointment

23. Which of Them?

24. The Monkey’s Paws

25. Postscript at Torquay

One

A HOUSE

Gwenda Reed stood, shivering a little, on the quayside.

The docks and the custom sheds and all of England that she could see, were gently waving up and down.

And it was in that moment that she made her decision—the decision that was to lead to such very momentous events.

She wouldn’t go by the boat train to London as she had planned.

After all, why should she? No one was waiting for her, nobody expected her. She had only just got off that heaving creaking boat (it had been an exceptionally rough three days through the Bay and up to Plymouth) and the last thing she wanted was to get into a heaving swaying train. She would go to a hotel, a nice firm steady hotel standing on good solid ground. And she would get into a nice steady bed that didn’t creak and roll. And she would go to sleep, and the next morning—why, of course—what a splendid idea! She would hire a car and she would drive slowly and without hurrying herself all through the South of England looking about for a house—a nice house—the house that she and Giles had planned she should find. Yes, that was a splendid idea.

In that way she would see something of England—of the England that Giles had told her about and which she had never seen; although, like most New Zealanders, she called it Home. At the moment, England was not looking particularly attractive. It was a grey day with rain imminent and a sharp irritating wind blowing. Plymouth, Gwenda thought, as she moved forward obediently in the queue for Passports and Customs, was probably not the best of England.

On the following morning, however, her feelings were entirely different. The sun was shining. The view from her window was attractive. And the universe in general was no longer waving and wobbling. It had steadied down. This was England at last and here she was, Gwenda Reed, young married woman of twenty-one, on her travels. Giles’s return to England was uncertain. He might follow her in a few weeks. It might be as long as six months. His suggestion had been that Gwenda should precede him to England and should look about for a suitable house. They both thought it would be nice to have, somewhere, a permanency. Giles’s job would always entail a certain amount of travelling. Sometimes Gwenda would come too, sometimes the conditions would not be suitable. But they both liked the idea of having a home—some place of their own. Giles had inherited some furniture from an aunt recently, so that everything combined to make the idea a sensible and practical one.

Since Gwenda and Giles were reasonably well-off the prospect presented no difficulties.

Gwenda had demurred at first at choosing a house on her own. “We ought to do it together,” she had said. But Giles had said laughingly: “I’m not much of a hand at houses. If you like it, I shall. A bit of a garden, of course, and not some brand-new horror—and not too big. Somewhere on the south coast was my idea. At any rate, not too far inland.”

“Was there any particular place?” Gwenda asked. But Giles said No. He’d been left an orphan young (they were both orphans) and had been passed around to various relations for holidays, and no particular spot had any particular association for him. It was to be Gwenda’s house—and as for waiting until they could choose it together, suppose he were held up for six months? What would Gwenda do with herself all that time? Hang about in hotels? No, she was to find a house and get settled in.

“What you mean is,” said Gwenda, “do all the work!”

But she liked the idea of finding a home and having it all ready, cosy and lived in, for when Giles came back.

They had been married just three months and she loved him very much.

After sending for breakfast in bed, Gwenda got up and arranged her plans. She spent a day seeing Plymouth which she enjoyed and on the following day she hired a comfortable Daimler car and chauffeur and set off on her journey through England.

The weather was good and she enjoyed her tour very much. She saw several possible residences in Devonshire but nothing that she felt was exactly right. There was no hurry. She would go on looking. She learned to read between the lines of the house agents’ enthusiastic descriptions and saved herself a certain number of fruitless errands.

It was on a Tuesday evening about a week later that the car came gently down the curving hill road into Dillmouth and on the outskirts of that still charming seaside resort, passed a For Sale board where, through the trees, a glimpse of a small white Victorian villa could be seen.

Immediately Gwenda felt a throb of appreciation—almost of recognition. This was her house! Already she was sure of it. She could picture the garden, the long windows—she was sure that the house was just what she wanted.

It was late in the day, so she put up at the Royal Clarence Hotel and went to the house agents whose name she had noted on the board the following morning.

Presently, armed with an order to view, she was standing in the old-fashioned long drawing room with its two french windows giving on to a flagged terrace in front of which a kind of rockery interspersed with flowering shrubs fell sharply to a stretch of lawn below. Through the trees at the bottom of the garden the sea could be seen.

This is my house, thought Gwenda. It’s home. I feel already as though I know every bit of it.

The door opened and a tall melancholy woman with a cold in the head entered, sniffing. “Mrs. Hengrave? I have an order from Messrs. Galbraith and Penderley. I’m afraid it’s rather early in the day—”

Mrs. Hengrave, blowing her nose, said sadly that that didn’t matter at all. The tour of the house began.

Yes, it was just right. Not too large. A bit old-fashioned, but she and Giles could put in another bathroom or two. The kitchen could be modernized. It already had an Aga, fortunately. With a new sink and up-to-date equipment—

Through all Gwenda’s plans and preoccupations, the voice of Mrs. Hengrave droned thinly on recounting the details of the late Major Hengrave’s last illness. Half of Gwenda attended to making the requisite noises of condolence, sympathy and understanding. Mrs. Hengrave’s people all lived in Kent—anxious she should come and settle near them … the Major had been very fond of Dillmouth, secretary for many years of the Golf Club, but she herself….

“Yes … Of course … Dreadful for you … Most natural … Yes, nursing homes are like that … Of course … You must be….”

And the other half of Gwenda raced along in thought: Linen cupboard here, I expect … Yes. Double room—nice view of sea—Giles will like that. Quite a useful little room here—Giles might have it as a dressing room … Bathroom—I expect the bath has a mahogany surround—Oh yes, it has! How lovely—and standing in the middle of the floor! I shan’t change that—it’s a period piece!

Such an enormous bath!

One could have apples on the surround. And sail boats—and painted ducks. You could pretend you were in the sea … I know: we’ll make that dark back spare room into a couple of really up-to-date green and chromium bathrooms—the pipes ought to be all right over the kitchen—and keep this just as it is….

“Pleurisy,” said Mrs. Hengrave. “Turning to double pneumonia on the third day—”

“Terrible,” said Gwenda. “Isn’t there another bedroom at the end of this passage?”

There was—and it was just the sort of room she had imagined it would be—almost round, with a big bow window. She’d have to do it up, of course. It was in quite good condition, but why were people like Mrs. Hengrave so fond of that mustard-cum-biscuit shade of wall paint?

They retraced their steps along the corridor. Gwenda murmured, conscientiously, “Six, no, seven bedrooms, counting the little one and the attic.”

The boards creaked faintly under her feet. Already she felt that it was she and not Mrs. Hengrave who lived here! Mrs. Hengrave was an interloper—a woman who did up rooms in mustard-cum-biscuit colour and liked a frieze of wisteria in her drawing room. Gwenda glanced down at the typewritten paper in her hand on which the details of the property and the price asked were given.

In the course of a few days Gwenda had become fairly conversant with house values. The sum asked was not large—of course the house needed a certain amount of modernization—but even then … And she noted the words “Open to offer.” Mrs. Hengrave must be very anxious to go to Kent and live near “her people”….

They were starting down the stairs when quite suddenly Gwenda felt a wave of irrational terror sweep over her. It was a sickening sensation, and it passed almost as quickly as it came. Yet it left behind it a new idea.

“The house isn’t—haunted, is it?” demanded Gwenda.

Mrs. Hengrave, a step below, and having just got to the moment in her narrative when Major Hengrave was sinking fast, looked up in an affronted manner.

“Not that I am aware of, Mrs. Reed. Why—has anyone—been saying something of the kind?”

“You’ve never felt or seen anything yourself? Nobody’s died here?”

Rather an unfortunate question, she thought, a split second of a moment too late, because presumably Major Hengrave—

“My husband died in the St. Monica’s Nursing Home,” said Mrs. Hengrave stiffly.

“Oh, of course. You told me so.”

Mrs. Hengrave continued in the same rather glacial manner: “In a house which was presumably built about a hundred years ago, there would normally be deaths during that period. Miss Elworthy from whom my dear husband acquired this house seven years ago, was in excellent health, and indeed planning to go abroad and do missionary work, and she did not mention any recent demises in her family.”

Gwenda hastened to soothe the melancholy Mrs. Hengrave down. They were now once more in the drawing room. It was a peaceful and charming room, with exactly the kind of atmosphere that Gwenda coveted. Her momentary panic just now seemed quite incomprehensible. What had come over her? There was nothing wrong with the house.

Asking Mrs. Hengrave if she could take a look at the garden, she went out through the french windows onto the terrace.

There should be steps here, thought Gwenda, going down to the lawn.

But instead there was a vast uprising of forsythia which at this particular place seemed to have got above itself and effectually shut out all view of the sea.

Gwenda nodded to herself. She would alter all that.

Following Mrs. Hengrave, she went along the terrace and down some steps at the far side onto the lawn. She noted that the rockery was neglected and overgrown, and that most of the flowering shrubs needed pruning.

Mrs. Hengrave murmured apologetically that the garden had been rather neglected. Only able to afford a man twice a week. And quite often he never turned up.

They inspected the small but adequate kitchen garden and returned to the house. Gwenda explained that she had other houses to see, and that though she liked Hillside (what a commonplace name!) very much, she could not decide immediately.

Mrs. Hengrave parted from her with a somewhat wistful look and a last long lingering sniff.

Gwenda returned to the agents, made a firm offer subject to surveyor’s report and spent the rest of the morning walking round Dillmouth. It was a charming and old-fashioned little seaside town. At the far, “modern” end, there were a couple of new-looking hotels and some raw-looking bungalows, but the geographical formation of the coast with the hills behind had saved Dillmouth from undue expansion.

After lunch Gwenda received a telephone call from the agents saying that Mrs. Hengrave accepted her offer. With a mischievous smile on her lips Gwenda made her way to the post office and despatched a cable to Giles.

Have bought a house. Love. Gwenda.

“That’ll tickle him up,” said Gwenda to herself. “Show him that the grass doesn’t grow under my feet!”

Two

WALLPAPER

I

A month had passed and Gwenda had moved into Hillside. Giles’s aunt’s furniture had come out of store and was arranged round the house. It was good quality old-fashioned stuff. One or two over-large wardrobes Gwenda had sold, but the rest fitted in nicely and was in harmony with the house. There were small gay papiermâché tables in the drawing room, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and painted with castles and roses. There was a prim little worktable with a gathered sack underneath of pure silk, there was a rosewood bureau and a mahogany sofa table.

The so-called easy chairs Gwenda had relegated to various bedrooms and had bought two large squashy wells of comfort for herself and Giles to stand each side of the fireplace. The large chesterfield sofa was placed near the windows. For curtains Gwenda had chosen old-fashioned chintz of pale eggshell blue with prim urns of roses and yellow birds on them. The room, she now considered, was exactly right.

She was hardly settled yet, since she had workmen in the house still. They should have been out by now, but Gwenda rightly estimated that until she herself came into residence, they would not go.

The kitchen alterations were finished, the new bathrooms nearly so. For further decorating Gwenda was going to wait a while. She wanted time to savour her new home and decide on the exact colour schemes she wanted for the bedrooms. The house was really in very good order and there was no need to do everything at once.

In the kitchen a Mrs. Cocker was now installed, a lady of condescending graciousness, inclined to repulse Gwenda’s over-democratic friendliness, but who, once Gwenda had been satisfactorily put in her place, was willing to unbend.

On this particular morning, Mrs. Cocker deposited a breakfast tray on Gwenda’s knees, as she sat up in bed.

“When there’s no gentleman in the house,” Mrs. Cocker affirmed, “a lady prefers her breakfast in bed.” And Gwenda had bowed to this supposedly English enactment.

“Scrambled this morning,” Mrs. Cocker observed, referring to the eggs. “You said something about finnan haddock, but you wouldn’t like it in the bedroom. It leaves a smell. I’m giving it to you for your supper, creamed on toast.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Cocker.”

Mrs. Cocker smiled graciously and prepared to withdraw.

Gwenda was not occupying the big double bedroom. That could wait until Giles returned. She had chosen instead the end room, the one with the rounded walls and the bow window. She felt thoroughly at home in it and happy.

Looking round her now, she exclaimed impulsively: “I do like this room.”

Mrs. Cocker looked round indulgently.

“It is quaite a naice room, madam, though small. By the bars on the window I should say it had been the nursery at one time.”

“I never thought of that. Perhaps it has.”

“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Cocker, with implication in her voice, and withdrew.

“Once we have a gentleman in the house,” she seemed to be saying, “who knows? A nursery may be needed.”

Gwenda blushed. She looked round the room. A nursery? Yes, it would be a nice nursery. She began furnishing it in her mind. A big dolls’ house there against the wall. And low cupboards with toys in them. A fire burning cheerfully in the grate and a tall guard round it with things airing on the rail. But not this hideous mustard wall. No, she would have a gay wallpaper. Something bright and cheerful. Little bunches of poppies alternating with bunches of cornflowers … Yes, that would be lovely. She’d try and find a wallpaper like that. She felt sure she had seen one somewhere.

One didn’t need much furniture in the room. There were two built-in cupboards, but one of them, a corner one, was locked and the key lost. Indeed the whole thing had been painted over, so that it could not have been opened for many years. She must get the men to open it up before they left. As it was, she hadn’t got room for all her clothes.

She felt more at home every day in Hillside. Hearing a throat being ponderously cleared and a short dry cough through the open window, she hurried over her breakfast. Foster, the temperamental jobbing gardener, who was not always reliable in his promises, must be here today as he had said he would be.

Gwenda bathed, dressed, put on a tweed skirt and a sweater and hurried out into the garden. Foster was at work outside the drawing room window. Gwenda’s first action had been to get a path made down through the rockery at this point. Foster had been recalcitrant, pointing out that the forsythia would have to go and the weigela, and them there lilacs, but Gwenda had been adamant, and he was now almost enthusiastic about his task.

He greeted her with a chuckle.

“Looks like you’re going back to old times, miss.” (He persisted in calling Gwenda “miss.”)

“Old times? How?”

Foster tapped with his spade.

“I come on the old steps—see, that’s where they went—just as you want ’em now. Then someone planted them over and covered them up.”

“It was very stupid of them,” said Gwenda. “You want a vista down to the lawn and the sea from the drawing room window.”

Foster was somewhat hazy about a vista—but he gave a cautious and grudging assent.

“I don’t say, mind you, that it won’t be an improvement … Gives you a view—and them shrubs made it dark in the drawing room. Still they was growing a treat—never seen a healthier lot of forsythia. Lilacs isn’t much, but them wiglers costs money—and mind you—they’re too old to replant.”

“Oh, I know. But this is much, much nicer.”

“Well.” Foster scratched his head. “Maybe it is.”

“It’s right,” said Gwenda, nodding her head. She asked suddenly, “Who lived here before the Hengraves? They weren’t here very long, were they?”

“Matter of six years or so. Didn’t belong. Afore them? The Miss Elworthys. Very churchy folk. Low church. Missions to the heathen. Once had a black clergyman staying here, they did. Four of ’em there was, and their brother—but he didn’t get much of a look-in with all those women. Before them—now let me see, it was Mrs. Findeyson—ah! she was the real gentry, she was. She belonged. Was living here afore I was born.”

“Did she die here?” asked Gwenda.

“Died out in Egypt or some such place. But they brought her home. She’s buried up to churchyard. She planted that magnolia and those labiurnams. And those pittispores. Fond of shrubs, she was.”

Foster continued: “Weren’t none of those new houses built up along the hill then. Countrified, it was. No cinema then. And none of them new shops. Or that there parade on the front!” His tone held the disapproval of the aged for all innovations. “Changes,” he said with a snort. “Nothing but changes.”

“I suppose things are bound to change,” said Gwenda. “And after all there are lots of improvements nowadays, aren’t there?”

“So they say. I ain’t noticed them. Changes!” He gestured towards the macrocarpa hedge on the left through which the gleam of a building showed. “Used to be the cottage hospital, that used,” he said. “Nice place and handy. Then they goes and builds a great place near to a mile out of town. Twenty minutes’ walk if you want to get there on a visiting day—or threepence on the bus.” He gestured once more towards the hedge … “It’s a girls’ school now. Moved in ten years ago. Changes all the time. People takes a house nowadays and lives in it ten or twelve years and then off they goes. Restless. What’s the good of that? You can’t do any proper planting unless you can look well ahead.”

Gwenda looked affectionately at the magnolia.

“Like Mrs. Findeyson,” she said.

“Ah. She was the proper kind. Come here as a bride, she did. Brought up her children and married them, buried her husband, had her grandchildren down in the summers, and took off in the end when she was nigh on eighty.”

Foster’s tone held warm approval.

Gwenda went back into the house smiling a little.

She interviewed the workmen, and then returned to the drawing room where she sat down at the desk and wrote some letters. Amongst the correspondence that remained to be answered was a letter from some cousins of Giles who lived in London. Anytime she wanted to come to London they begged her to come and stay with them at their house in Chelsea.

Raymond West was a well-known (rather than popular) novelist and his wife Joan, Gwenda knew, was a painter. It would be fun to go and stay with them, though probably they would think she was a most terrible Philistine. Neither Giles nor I are a bit highbrow, reflected Gwenda.

A sonorous gong boomed pontifically from the hall. Surrounded by a great deal of carved and tortured black wood, the gong had been one of Giles’s aunt’s prized possessions. Mrs. Cocker herself appeared to derive distinct pleasure from sounding it and always gave full measure. Gwenda put her hands to her ears and got up.

She walked quickly across the drawing room to the wall by the far window and then brought herself up short with an exclamation of annoyance. It was the third time she’d done that. She always seemed to expect to be able to walk through solid wall into the dining room next door.

She went back across the room and out into the front hall and then round the angle of the drawing room wall and so along to the dining room. It was a long way round, and it would be annoying in winter, for the front hall was draughty and the only central heating was in the drawing room and dining room and two bedrooms upstairs.

I don’t see, thought Gwenda to herself as she sat down at the charming Sheration dining table which she had just bought at vast expense in lieu of Aunt Lavender’s massive square mahogany one, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a doorway made through from the drawing room to the dining room. I’ll talk to Mr. Sims about it when he comes this afternoon.

Mr. Sims was the builder and decorator, a persuasive middle-aged man with a husky voice and a little notebook which he always held at the ready, to jot down any expensive idea that might occur to his patrons.

Mr. Sims, when consulted, was keenly appreciative.

“Simplest thing in the world, Mrs. Reed—and a great improvement, if I may say so.”

“Would it be very expensive?” Gwenda was by now a little doubtful of Mr. Sims’s assents and enthusiasms. There had been a little unpleasantness over various extras not included in Mr. Sims’s original estimate.

“A mere trifle,” said Mr. Sims, his husky voice indulgent and reassuring. Gwenda looked more doubtful than ever. It was Mr. Sims’s trifles that she had learnt to distrust. His straightforward estimates were studiously moderate.

“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Reed,” said Mr. Sims coaxingly, “I’ll get Taylor to have a look when he’s finished with the dressing room this afternoon, and then I can give you an exact idea. Depends what the wall’s like.”

Gwenda assented. She wrote to Joan West thanking her for her invitation, but saying that she would not be leaving Dillmouth at present since she wanted to keep an eye on the workmen. Then she went out for a walk along the front and enjoyed the sea breeze. She came back into the drawing room, and Taylor, Mr. Sims’s leading workman, straightened up from the corner and greeted her with a grin.

“Won’t be no difficulty about this, Mrs. Reed,” he said. “Been a door here before, there has. Somebody as didn’t want it has just had it plastered over.”

Gwenda was agreeably surprised. How extraordinary, she thought, that I’ve always seemed to feel there was a door there. She remembered the confident way she had walked to it at lunchtime. And remembering it, quite suddenly, she felt a tiny shiver of uneasiness. When you came to think of it, it was really rather odd … Why should she have felt so sure that there was a door there? There was no sign of it on the outside wall. How had she guessed—known—that there was a door just there? Of course it would be convenient to have a door through to the dining room, but why had she always gone so unerringly to that one particular spot? Anywhere on the dividing wall would have done equally well, but she had always gone automatically, thinking of other things, to the one place where a door had actually been.

I hope, thought Gwenda uneasily, that I’m not clairvoyant or anything….

There had never been anything in the least psychic about her. She wasn’t that kind of person. Or was she? That path outside from the terrace down through the shrubbery to the lawn. Had she in some way known it was there when she was so insistent on having it made in that particular place?

Perhaps I am a bit psychic, thought Gwenda uneasily. Or is it something to do with the house?

Why had she asked Mrs. Hengrave that day if the house was haunted?

It wasn’t haunted! It was a darling house! There couldn’t be anything wrong with the house. Why, Mrs. Hengrave had seemed quite surprised by the idea.

Or had there been a trace of reserve, of wariness, in her manner?

Good Heavens, I’m beginning to imagine things, thought Gwenda.

She brought her mind back with an effort to her discussion with Taylor.

“There’s one other thing,” she added. “One of the cupboards in my room upstairs is stuck. I want to get it opened.”

The man came up with her and examined the door.

“It’s been painted over more than once,” he said. “I’ll get the men to get it open for you tomorrow if that will do.”

Gwenda acquiesced and Taylor went away.

That evening Gwenda felt jumpy and nervous. Sitting in the drawing room and trying to read, she was aware of every creak of the furniture. Once or twice she looked over her shoulder and shivered. She told herself repeatedly that there was nothing in the incident of the door and the path. They were just coincidences. In any case they were the result of plain common sense.

Without admitting it to herself, she felt nervous of going up to bed. When she finally got up and turned off the lights and opened the door into the hall, she found herself dreading to go up the stairs. She almost ran up them in her haste, hurried along the passage and opened the door of her room. Once inside she at once felt her fears calmed and appeased. She looked round the room affectionately. She felt safe in here, safe and happy. Yes, now she was here, she was safe. (Safe from what, you idiot? she asked herself.) She looked at her pyjamas spread out on the bed and her bedroom slippers below them.

Really, Gwenda, you might be six years old! You ought to have bunny shoes, with rabbits on them.

She got into bed with a sense of relief and was soon asleep.

The next morning she had various matters to see to in the town. When she came back it was lunchtime.

“The men have got the cupboard open in your bedroom, madam,” said Mrs. Cocker as she brought in the delicately fried sole, the mashed potatoes and the creamed carrots.

“Oh good,” said Gwenda.

She was hungry and enjoyed her lunch. After having coffee in the drawing room, she went upstairs to her bedroom. Crossing the room she pulled open the door of the corner cupboard.

Then she uttered a sudden frightened little cry and stood staring.

The inside of the cupboard revealed the original papering of the wall, which elsewhere had been done over in the yellowish wall paint. The room had once been gaily papered in a floral design, a design of little bunches of scarlet poppies alternating with bunches of blue cornflowers….

II

Gwenda stood there staring a long time, then she went shakily over to the bed and sat down on it.

Here she was in a house she had never been in before, in a country she had never visited—and only two days ago she had lain in bed imagining a paper for this very room—and the paper she had imagined corresponded exactly with the paper that had once hung on the walls.

Wild fragments of explanation whirled round in her head. Dunne, Experiment with Time—seeing forward instead of back….

She could explain the garden path and the connecting door as coincidence—but there couldn’t be coincidence about this. You couldn’t conceivably imagine a wallpaper of such a distinctive design and then find one exactly as you had imagined it … No, there was some explanation that eluded her and that—yes, frightened her. Every now and then she was seeing, not forward, but back—back to some former state of the house. Any moment she might see something more—something she didn’t want to see … The house frightened her … But was it the house or herself? She didn’t want to be one of those people who saw things….

She drew a long breath, put on her hat and coat and slipped quickly out of the house. At the post office she sent the following telegram:

West, 19 Addway Square Chelsea London. May I change my mind and come to you tomorrow Gwenda.

She sent it reply paid.

Three

“COVER HER FACE …”

Raymond West and his wife did all they could to make young Giles’s wife feel welcome. It was not their fault that Gwenda found them secretly rather alarming. Raymond, with his odd appearance, rather like a pouncing raven, his sweep of hair and his sudden crescendos of quite incomprehensible conversation, left Gwenda round-eyed and nervous. Both he and Joan seemed to talk a language of their own. Gwenda had never been plunged in a highbrow atmosphere before and practically all its terms were strange.

“We’ve planned to take you to a show or two,” said Raymond whilst Gwenda was drinking gin and rather wishing she could have had a cup of tea after her journey.

Gwenda brightened up immediately.

“The Ballet tonight at Sadler’s Wells, and tomorrow we’ve got a birthday party on for my quite incredible Aunt Jane—the Duchess of Malfi with Gielgud, and on Friday you simply must see They Walked without Feet. Translated from the Russian—absolutely the most significent piece of drama for the last twenty years. It’s at the little Witmore Theatre.”

Gwenda expressed herself grateful for these plans for her entertainment. After all, when Giles came home, they would go together to the musical shows and all that. She flinched slightly at the prospect of They Walked without Feet, but supposed she might enjoy it—only the point about “significant” plays was that you usually didn’t.

“You’ll adore my Aunt Jane,” said Raymond. “She’s what I should describe as a perfect Period Piece. Victorian to the core. All her dressing tables have their legs swathed in chintz. She lives in a village, the kind of village where nothing ever happens, exactly like a stagnant pond.”

“Something did happen there once,” his wife said drily.

“A mere drama of passion—crude—no subtlety to it.”

“You enjoyed it frightfully at the time,” Joan reminded him with a slight twinkle.

“I sometimes enjoy playing village cricket,” said Raymond, with dignity.

“Anyway, Aunt Jane distinguished herself over that murder.”

“Oh, she’s no fool. She adores problems.”

“Problems?” said Gwenda, her mind flying to arithmetic.

Raymond waved a hand.

“Any kind of problem. Why the grocer’s wife took her umbrella to the church social on a fine evening. Why a gill of pickled shrimps was found where it was. What happened to the Vicar’s surplice. All grist to my Aunt Jane’s mill. So if you’ve any problem in your life, put it to her, Gwenda. She’ll tell you the answer.”

He laughed and Gwenda laughed too, but not very heartily. She was introduced to Aunt Jane, otherwise Miss Marple, on the following day. Miss Marple was an attractive old lady, tall and thin, with pink cheeks and blue eyes, and a gentle, rather fussy manner. Her blue eyes often had a little twinkle in them.

After an early dinner at which they drank Aunt Jane’s health, they all went off to His Majesty’s Theatre. Two extra men, an elderly artist and a young barrister were in the party. The elderly artist devoted himself to Gwenda and the young barrister divided his attentions between Joan and Miss Marple whose remarks he seemed to enjoy very much. At the theatre, however, this arrangement was reversed. Gwenda sat in the middle of the row between Raymond and the barrister.

The lights went down and the play began.

It was superbly acted and Gwenda enjoyed it very much. She had not seen very many first-rate theatrical productions.

The play drew to a close, came to that supreme moment of horror. The actor’s voice came over the footlights filled with the tragedy of a warped and perverted mentality.

“Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle, she died young….”

Gwenda screamed.

She sprang up from her seat, pushed blindly past the others out into the aisle, through the exit and up the stairs and so to the street. She did not stop, even then, but half walked, half ran, in a blind panic up the Haymarket.

It was not until she had reached Piccadilly that she noticed a free taxi cruising along, hailed it and, getting in, gave the address of the Chelsea house. With fumbling fingers she got out money, paid the taxi and went up the steps. The servant who let her in glanced at her in surprise.

“You’ve come back early, miss. Didn’t you feel well?”

“I—no, yes—I—I felt faint.”

“Would you like anything, miss? Some brandy?”

“No, nothing. I’ll go straight up to bed.”

She ran up the stairs to avoid further questions.

She pulled off her clothes, left them on the floor in a heap and got into bed. She lay there shivering, her heart pounding, her eyes staring at the ceiling.

She did not hear the sound of fresh arrivals downstairs, but after about five minutes the door opened and Miss Marple came in. She had two hot-water bottles tucked under her arm and a cup in her hand.

Gwenda sat up in bed, trying to stop her shivering.

“Oh, Miss Marple, I’m frightfully sorry. I don’t know what—it was awful of me. Are they very annoyed with me?”

“Now don’t worry, my dear child,” said Miss Marple. “Just tuck yourself up warmly with these hot-water bottles.”

“I don’t really need a hot-water bottle.”

“Oh yes, you do. That’s right. And now drink this cup of tea….”

It was hot and strong and far too full of sugar, but Gwenda drank it obediently. The shivering was less acute now.

“Just lie down now and go to sleep,” said Miss Marple. “You’ve had a shock, you know. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Don’t worry about anything. Just go to sleep.”

She drew the covers up, smiled, patted Gwenda and went out.

Downstairs Raymond was saying irritably to Joan: “What on earth was the matter with the girl? Did she feel ill, or what?”

“My dear Raymond, I don’t know, she just screamed! I suppose the play was a bit too macabre for her.”

“Well, of course Webster is a bit grisly. But I shouldn’t have thought—” He broke off as Miss Marple came into the room. “Is she all right?”

“Yes, I think so. She’d had a bad shock, you know.”

“Shock? Just seeing a Jacobean drama?”

“I think there must be a little more to it than that,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

Gwenda’s breakfast was sent up to her. She drank some coffee and nibbled a little piece of toast. When she got up and came downstairs, Joan had gone to her studio, Raymond was shut up in his workroom and only Miss Marple was sitting by the window, which had a view over the river; she was busily engaged in knitting.

She looked up with a placid smile as Gwenda entered.

“Good morning, my dear. You’re feeling better, I hope.”

“Oh yes, I’m quite all right. How I could make such an utter idiot of myself last night, I don’t know. Are they—are they very mad with me?”

“Oh no, my dear. They quite understand.”

“Understand what?”

Miss Marple glanced up over her knitting.

“That you had a bad shock last night.” She added gently: “Hadn’t you better tell me all about it?”

Gwenda walked restlessly up and down.

“I think I’d better go and see a psychiatrist or someone.”

“There are excellent mental specialists in London, of course. But are you sure it is necessary?”

“Well—I think I’m going mad … I must be going mad.”

An elderly parlourmaid entered the room with a telegram on a salver which she handed to Gwenda.

“The boy wants to know if there’s an answer, ma’am?”

Gwenda tore it open. It had been retelegraphed on from Dillmouth. She stared at it for a moment or two uncomprehendingly, then screwed it into a ball.

“There’s no answer,” she said mechanically.

The maid left the room.

“Not bad news, I hope, dear?”

“It’s Giles—my husband. He’s flying home. He’ll be here in a week.”

Her voice was bewildered and miserable. Miss Marple gave a gentle little cough.

“Well—surely—that is very nice, isn’t it?”

“Is it? When I’m not sure if I’m mad or not? If I’m mad I ought never to have married Giles. And the house and everything. I can’t go back there. Oh, I don’t know what to do.”

Miss Marple patted the sofa invitingly.

“Now suppose you sit down here, dear, and just tell me all about it.”

It was with a sense of relief that Gwenda accepted the invitation. She poured out the whole story, starting with her first view of Hillside and going onto the incidents that had first puzzled her and then worried her.

“And so I got rather frightened,” she ended. “And I thought I’d come up to London—get away from it all. Only, you see, I couldn’t get away from it. It followed me. Last night—” she shut her eyes and gulped reminiscently.

“Last night?” prompted Miss Marple.

“I dare say you won’t believe this,” said Gwenda, speaking very fast. “You’ll think I’m hysterical or queer or something. It happened quite suddenly, right at the end. I’d enjoyed the play. I’d never thought once of the house. And then it came—out of the blue—when he said those words—”

She repeated in a low quivering voice: “Cover her face, mine eyes dazzle, she died young.

“I was back there—on the stairs, looking down on the hall through the banisters, and I saw her lying there. Sprawled out—dead. Her hair all golden and her face all—all blue! She was dead, strangled, and someone was saying those words in that same horrible gloating way—and I saw his hands—grey, wrinkled—not hands—monkey’s paws … It was horrible, I tell you. She was dead….”

Miss Marple asked gently: “Who was dead?”

The answer came back quick and mechanical.

“Helen….”

Four

HELEN?

For a moment Gwenda stared at Miss Marple, then she pushed back the hair from her forehead.

“Why did I say that?” she said. “Why did I say Helen? I don’t know any Helen!”

She dropped her hands with a gesture of despair.

“You see,” she said, “I’m mad! I imagine things! I go about seeing things that aren’t there. First it was only wallpapers—but now it’s dead bodies. So I’m getting worse.”

“Now don’t rush to conclusions, my dear—”

“Or else it’s the house. The house is haunted—or bewitched or something … I see things that have happened there—or else I see things that are going to happen there—and that would be worse. Perhaps a woman called Helen is going to be murdered there … Only I don’t see if it’s the house that’s haunted why I should see these awful things when I am away from it. So I think really that it must be me that’s going queer. And I’d better go and see a psychiatrist at once—this morning.”

“Well, of course, Gwenda dear, you can always do that when you’ve exhausted every other line of approach, but I always think myself that it’s better to examine the simplest and most commonplace explanations first. Let me get the facts quite clear. There were three definite incidents that upset you. A path in the garden that had been planted over but that you felt was there, a door that had been bricked up, and a wallpaper which you imagined correctly and in detail without having seen it? Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the easiest, the most natural explanation would be that you had seen them before.”

“In another life, you mean?”

“Well no, dear. I meant in this life. I mean that they might be actual memories.”

“But I’ve never been in England until a month ago, Miss Marple.”

“You are quite sure of that, my dear?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’ve lived near Christchurch in New Zealand all my life.”

“Were you born there?”

“No, I was born in India. My father was a British Army officer. My mother died a year or two after I was born and he sent me back to her people in New Zealand to bring up. Then he himself died a few years later.”

“You don’t remember coming from India to New Zealand?”

“Not really. I do remember, frightfully vaguely, being on a boat. A round window thing—a porthole, I suppose. And a man in white uniform with a red face and blue eyes, and a mark on his chin—a scar, I suppose. He used to toss me up in the air and I remember being half frightened and half loving it. But it’s all very fragmentary.”

“Do you remember a nurse—or an ayah?”

“Not an ayah—Nannie. I remember Nannie because she stayed for some time—until I was five years old. She cut ducks out of paper. Yes, she was on the boat. She scolded me when I cried because the Captain kissed me and I didn’t like his beard.”

“Now that’s very interesting, dear, because you see you are mixing up two different voyages. In one, the Captain had a beard and in the other he had a red face and a scar on his chin.”

“Yes,” Gwenda considered, “I suppose I must be.”

“It seems possible to me,” said Miss Marple, “that when your mother died, your father brought you to England with him first, and that you actually lived at this house, Hillside. You’ve told me, you know, that the house felt like home to you as soon as you got inside it. And that room you chose to sleep in, it was probably your nursery—”

“It was a nursery. There were bars on the windows.”

“You see? It had this pretty gay paper of cornflowers and poppies. Children remember their nursery walls very well. I’ve always remembered the mauve irises on my nursery walls and yet I believe it was repapered when I was only three.”

“And that’s why I thought at once of the toys, the dolls’ house and the toy cupboards?”

“Yes. And the bathroom. The bath with the mahogany surround. You told me that you thought of sailing ducks in it as soon as you saw it.”

Gwenda said thoughtfully. “It’s true that I seemed to know right away just where everything was—the kitchen and the linen cupboard. And that I kept thinking there was a door through from the drawing room to the dining room. But surely it’s quite impossible that I should come to England and actually buy the identical house I’d lived in long ago?”

“It’s not impossible, my dear. It’s just a very remarkable coincidence—and remarkable coincidences do happen. Your husband wanted a house on the south coast, you were looking for one, and you passed a house that stirred memories, and attracted you. It was the right size and a reasonable price and so you bought it. No, it’s not too wildly improbable. Had the house been merely what is called (perhaps rightly) a haunted house, you would have reacted differently, I think. But you had no feeling of violence or repulsion except, so you have told me, at one very definite moment, and that was when you were just starting to come down the staircase and looking down into the hall.”

Some of the scared expression came back into Gwenda’s eyes.

She said: “You mean—that—that Helen—that that’s true too?”

Miss Marple said very gently: “Well, I think so, my dear … I think we must face the position that if the other things are memories, that is a memory too….”

“That I really saw someone killed—strangled—and lying there dead?”

“I don’t suppose you knew consciously that she was strangled, that was suggested by the play last night and fits in with your adult recognition of what a blue convulsed face must mean. I think a very young child, creeping down the stairs, would realize violence and death and evil and associate them with a certain series of words—for I think there’s no doubt that the murderer actually said those words. It would be a very severe shock to a child. Children are odd little creatures. If they are badly frightened, especially by something they don’t understand, they don’t talk about it. They bottle it up. Seemingly, perhaps, they forget it. But the memory is still there deep down.”

Gwenda drew a deep breath.

“And you think that’s what happened to me? But why don’t I remember it all now?”

“One can’t remember to order. And often when one tries to, the memory goes further away. But I think there are one or two indications that that is what did happen. For instance when you told me just now about your experience in the theatre last night you used a very revealing turn of words. You said you seemed to be looking “through the banisters”—but normally, you know, one doesn’t look down into a hall through the banisters but over them. Only a child would look through.”

“That’s clever of you,” said Gwenda appreciatively.

“These little things are very significant.”

“But who was Helen?” asked Gwenda in a bewildered way.

“Tell me, my dear, are you still quite sure it was Helen?”

“Yes … It’s frightfully odd, because I don’t know who ‘Helen’ is—but at the same time I do know—I mean I know that it was ‘Helen’ lying there … How am I going to find out more?”

“Well, I think the obvious thing to do is to find out definitely if you ever were in England as a child, or if you could have been. Your relatives—”

Gwenda interrupted. “Aunt Alison. She would know, I’m sure.”

“Then I should write to her by airmail. Tell her circumstances have arisen which make it imperative for you to know if you have ever been in England. You would probably get an answer by airmail by the time your husband arrives.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Marple. You’ve been frightfully kind. And I do hope what you’ve suggested is true. Because if so, well, it’s quite all right. I mean, it won’t be anything supernatural.”

Miss Marple smiled.

“I hope it turns out as we think. I am going to stay with some old friends of mine in the North of England the day after tomorrow. I shall be passing back through London in about ten days. If you and your husband are here then, or if you have received an answer to your letter, I should be very curious to know the result.”

“Of course, dear Miss Marple! Anyway, I want you to meet Giles. He’s a perfect pet. And we’ll have a good pow-wow about the whole thing.”

Gwenda’s spirits were fully restored by now.

Miss Marple, however, looked thoughtful.

Five

MURDER IN RETROSPECT

I

It was some ten days later that Miss Marple entered a small hotel in Mayfair, and was given an enthusiastic reception by young Mr. and Mrs. Reed.

“This is my husband, Miss Marple. Giles, I can’t tell you how kind Miss Marple was to me.”

“I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Marple. I hear Gwenda nearly panicked herself into a lunatic asylum.”

Miss Marple’s gentle blue eyes summed up Giles Reed favourably. A very likeable young man, tall and fair with a disarming way of blinking every now and then out of a natural shyness. She noted his determined chin and the set of his jaw.

“We’ll have tea in the little waiting room, the dark one,” said Gwenda. “Nobody ever comes there. And then we can show Miss Marple Aunt Alison’s letter.

“Yes,” she added, as Miss Marple looked up sharply. “It’s come, and it’s almost exactly what you thought.”

Tea over, the airmail letter was spread out and read.

Dearest Gwenda, (Miss Dandy had written)

I was much disturbed to hear you had had some worrying experience. To tell you the truth, it had really entirely escaped my memory that you had actually resided for a short time in England as a young child.

Your mother, my sister Megan, met your father, Major Halliday, when she was on a visit to some friends of ours at that time stationed in India. They were married and you were born there. About two years after your birth your mother died. It was a great shock to us and we wrote to your father with whom we had corresponded, but whom actually we had never seen, begging him to entrust you to our care, as we would be only too glad to have you, and it might be difficult for an Army man stranded with a young child. Your father, however, refused, and told us he was resigning from the Army and taking you back with him to England. He said he hoped we would at some time come over and visit him there.

I understand that on the voyage home, your father met a young woman, became engaged to her, and married her as soon as he got to England. The marriage was not, I gather, a happy one, and I understand they parted about a year later. It was then that your father wrote to us and asked if we were still willing to give you a home. I need hardly tell you, my dear, how happy we were to do so. You were sent out to us in the charge of an English nurse, and at the same time your father settled the bulk of his estate upon you and suggested that you might legally adopt our name. This, I may say, seemed a little curious to us, but we felt that it was kindly meant—and intended to make you more one of the family—we did not, however, adopt that suggestion. About a year later your father died in a nursing home. I surmise that he had already received bad news about his health at the time when he sent you out to us.

I’m afraid I cannot tell you where you lived whilst with your father in England. His letter naturally had the address on it at the time but that is now eighteen years ago and I’m afraid one doesn’t remember such details. It was in the South of England, I know—and I fancy Dillmouth is correct. I had a vague idea it was Dartmouth, but the two names are not unlike. I believe your stepmother married again, but I have no recollection of her name, nor even of her unmarried name, though your father had mentioned it in the original letter telling of his remarriage. We were, I think, a little resentful of his marrying again so soon, but of course one knows that on board ship the influence of propinquity is very great—and he may also have thought that it would be a good thing on your account.

It seemed stupid of me not to have mentioned to you that you had been in England even if you didn’t remember the fact, but, as I say, the whole thing had faded from my mind. Your mother’s death in India and your subsequently coming to live with us always seemed the important points.

I hope this is all cleared up now?

I do trust Giles will soon be able to join you. It is hard for you both being parted at this early stage.

All my news in my next letter, as I am sending this off hurriedly in answer to your wire.

Your loving aunt,

Alison Danby.

PS. You do not say what your worrying experience was?

“You see,” said Gwenda. “It’s almost exactly as you suggested.”

Miss Marple smoothed out the flimsy sheet.

“Yes—yes, indeed. The commonsense explanation. I’ve found, you know, that that is so often right.”

“Well, I’m very grateful to you, Miss Marple,” said Giles. “Poor Gwenda was thoroughly upset, and I must say I’d have been rather worried myself to think that Gwenda was clairvoyant or psychic or something.”

“It might be a disturbing quality in a wife,” said Gwenda. “Unless you’ve always led a thoroughly blameless life.”

“Which I have,” said Giles.

“And the house? What do you feel about the house?” asked Miss Marple.

“Oh, that’s all right. We’re going down tomorrow. Giles is dying to see it.”

“I don’t know whether you realize it, Miss Marple,” said Giles, “but what it amounts to is, that we’ve got a first-class murder mystery on our hands. Actually on our very doorstep—or more accurately in our front hall.”

“I had thought of that, yes,” said Miss Marple slowly.

“And Giles simply loves detective stories,” said Gwenda.

“Well, I mean, it is a detective story. Body in the hall of a beautiful strangled woman. Nothing known of her but her Christian name. Of course I know it’s nearly twenty years ago. There can’t be any clues after all this time, but one can at least cast about, and try to pick up some of the threads. Oh! I dare say one won’t succeed in solving the riddle—”

“I think you might,” said Miss Marple. “Even after eighteen years. Yes, I think you might.”

“But at any rate it won’t do any harm to have a real good try?”

Giles paused, his face beaming.

Miss Marple moved uneasily, her face was grave—almost troubled.

“But it might do a great deal of harm,” she said. “I would advise you both—oh yes, I really would advise it very strongly—to leave the whole thing alone.”

“Leave it alone? Our very own murder mystery—if it was murder!”

“It was murder, I think. And that’s just why I should leave it alone. Murder isn’t—it really isn’t—a thing to tamper with lightheartedly.”

Giles said: “But, Miss Marple, if everybody felt like that—”

She interrupted him.

“Oh, I know. There are times when it is one’s duty—an innocent person accused—suspicion resting on various other people—a dangerous criminal at large who may strike again. But you must realize that this murder is very much in the past. Presumably it wasn’t known for murder—if so, you would have heard fast enough from your old gardener or someone down there—a murder, however long ago, is always news. No, the body must have been disposed of somehow, and the whole thing never suspected. Are you sure—are you really sure, that you are wise to dig it all up again?”

“Miss Marple,” cried Gwenda, “you sound really concerned?”

“I am, my dear. You are two very nice and charming young people (if you will allow me to say so). You are newly married and happy together. Don’t, I beg of you, start to uncover things that may—well, that may—how shall I put it?—that may upset and distress you.”

Gwenda stared at her. “You’re thinking of something special—of something—what is it you’re hinting at?”

“Not hinting, dear. Just advising you (because I’ve lived a long time and know how very upsetting human nature can be) to let well alone. That’s my advice: let well alone.”

“But it isn’t letting well alone.” Giles’s voice held a different note, a sterner note. “Hillside is our house, Gwenda’s and mine, and someone was murdered in that house, or so we believe. I’m not going to stand for murder in my house and do nothing about it, even if it is eighteen years ago!”

Miss Marple sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I imagine that most young men of spirit would feel like that. I even sympathize and almost admire you for it. But I wish—oh, I do wish—that you wouldn’t do it.”

II

On the following day, news went round the village of St. Mary Mead that Miss Marple was at home again. She was seen in the High Street at eleven o’clock. She called at the Vicarage at ten minutes to twelve. That afternoon three of the gossipy ladies of the village called upon her and obtained her impressions of the gay Metropolis and, this tribute to politeness over, themselves plunged into details of an approaching battle over the fancywork stall at the Fête and the position of the tea tent.

Later that evening Miss Marple could be seen as usual in her garden, but for once her activities were more concentrated on the depredations of weeds than on the activities of her neighbours. She was distraite at her frugal evening meal, and hardly appeared to listen to her little maid Evelyn’s spirited account of the goings-on of the local chemist. The next day she was still distraite, and one or two people, including the Vicar’s wife, remarked upon it. That evening Miss Marple said that she did not feel very well and took to her bed. The following morning she sent for Dr. Haydock.

Dr. Haydock had been Miss Marple’s physician, friend and ally for many years. He listened to her account of her symptoms, gave her an examination, then sat back in his chair and waggled his stethoscope at her.

“For a woman of your age,” he said, “and in spite of that misleading frail appearance, you’re in remarkably good fettle.”

“I’m sure my general health is sound,” said Miss Marple. “But I confess I do feel a little overtired—a little run-down.”

“You’ve been gallivanting about. Late nights in London.”

“That, of course. I do find London a little tiring nowadays. And the air—so used up. Not like fresh seaside air.”

“The air of St. Mary Mead is nice and fresh.”

“But often damp and rather muggy. Not, you know, exactly bracing.”

Dr. Haydock eyed her with a dawning of interest.

“I’ll send you round a tonic,” he said obligingly.

“Thank you, Doctor. Easton’s syrup is always very helpful.”

“There’s no need for you to do my prescribing for me, woman.”

“I wondered if, perhaps, a change of air—?”

Miss Marple looked questioningly at him with guileless blue eyes.

“You’ve just been away for three weeks.”

“I know. But to London which, as you say, is enervating. And then up North—a manufacturing district. Not like bracing sea air.”

Dr. Haydock packed up his bag. Then he turned round, grinning.

“Let’s hear why you sent for me,” he said. “Just tell me what it’s to be and I’ll repeat it after you. You want my professional opinion that what you need is sea air—”

“I knew you’d understand,” said Miss Marple gratefully.

“Excellent thing, sea air. You’d better go to Eastbourne right away, or your health may suffer seriously.”

“Eastbourne, I think, is rather cold. The downs, you know.”

“Bournemouth, then, or the Isle of Wight.”

Miss Marple twinkled at him.

“I always think a small place is much pleasanter.”

Dr. Haydock sat down again.

“My curiosity is roused. What small seaside town are you suggesting?”

“Well, I had thought of Dillmouth.”

“Pretty little place. Rather dull. Why Dillmouth?”

For a moment or two Miss Marple was silent. The worried look had returned to her eyes. She said: “Supposing that one day, by accident, you turned up a fact that seemed to indicate that many years ago—nineteen or twenty—a murder had occurred. That fact was known to you alone, nothing of the kind had ever been suspected or reported. What would you do about it?”

“Murder in retrospect in fact?”

“Just exactly that.”

Haydock reflected for a moment.

“There had been no miscarriage of justice? Nobody had suffered as a result of this crime?”

“As far as one can see, no.”

“Hm. Murder in retrospect. Sleeping murder. Well, I’ll tell you. I’d let sleeping murder lie—that’s what I’d do. Messing about with murder is dangerous. It could be very dangerous.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“People say a murderer always repeats his crimes. That’s not true. There’s a type who commits a crime, manages to get away with it, and is darned careful never to stick his neck out again. I won’t say they live happily ever after—I don’t believe that’s true—there are many kinds of retribution. But outwardly at least all goes well. Perhaps that was so in the case of Madeleine Smith or again in the case of Lizzie Borden. It was not proven in the case of Madeleine Smith and Lizzie was acquitted—but many people believe both of those women were guilty. I could name you others. They never repeated their crimes—one crime gave them what they wanted and they were content. But suppose some danger had menaced them? I take it your killer, whoever he or she is, was one of that kind. He committed a crime and got away with it and nobody suspected. But supposing somebody goes poking about, digging into things, turning up stones and exploring avenues and finally, perhaps, hitting the target? What’s your killer going to do about it? Just stay there smiling while the hunt comes nearer and nearer? No, if there’s no principle involved, I’d say let it alone.” He repeated his former phrase: “Let sleeping murder lie.”

He added firmly: “And those are my orders to you. Let the whole thing alone.”

“But it’s not I who am involved. It’s two very delightful children. Let me tell you!”

She told him the story and Haydock listened.

“Extraordinary,” he said when she had finished. “Extraordinary coincidence. Extraordinary business altogether. I suppose you see what the implications are?”

“Oh, of course. But I don’t think it’s occurred to them yet.”

“It will mean a good deal of unhappiness and they’ll wish they’d never meddled with the thing. Skeletons should be kept in their cupboards. Still, you know, I can quite see young Giles’s point of view. Dash it all, I couldn’t leave the thing alone myself. Even now, I’m curious….”

He broke off and directed a stern glance at Miss Marple.

“So that’s what you’re doing with your excuses to get to Dillmouth. Mixing yourself up in something that’s no concern of yours.”

“Not at all, Dr. Haydock. But I’m worried about those two. They’re very young and inexperienced and much too trusting and credulous. I feel I ought to be there to look after them.”

“So that’s why you’re going. To look after them! Can’t you ever leave murder alone, woman? Even murder in retrospect?”

Miss Marple gave a small prim smile.

“But you do think, don’t you, that a few weeks at Dillmouth would be beneficial to my health?”

“More likely to be the end of you,” said Dr. Haydock. “But you won’t listen to me!”

III

On her way to call upon her friends, Colonel and Mrs. Bantry, Miss Marple met Colonel Bantry coming along the drive, his gun in his hand and his spaniel at his heels. He welcomed her cordially.

“Glad to see you back again. How’s London?”

Miss Marple said that London was very well. Her nephew had taken her to several plays.

“Highbrow ones, I bet. Only care for a musical comedy myself.”

Miss Marple said that she had been to a Russian play that was very interesting, though perhaps a little too long.

“Russians!” said Colonel Bantry explosively. He had once been given a novel by Dostoievsky to read in a nursing home.

He added that Miss Marple would find Dolly in the garden.

Mrs. Bantry was almost always to be found in the garden. Gardening was her passion. Her favourite literature was bulb catalogues and her conversation dealt with primulas, bulbs, flowering shrubs and alpine novelties. Miss Marple’s first view of her was a substantial posterior clad in faded tweed.

At the sound of approaching steps, Mrs. Bantry reassumed an erect position with a few creaks and winces, her hobby had made her rheumaticky, wiped her hot brow with an earth-stained hand and welcomed her friend.

“Heard you were back, Jane,” she said. “Aren’t my new delphiniums doing well? Have you seen these new little gentians? I’ve had a bit of trouble with them, but I think they’re all set now. What we need is rain. It’s been terribly dry.” She added, “Esther told me you were ill in bed.” Esther was Mrs. Bantry’s cook and liaison officer with the village. “I’m glad to see it’s not true.”

“Just a little overtired,” said Miss Marple. “Dr. Haydock thinks I need some sea air. I’m rather run-down.”

“Oh, but you couldn’t go away now,” said Mrs. Bantry. “This is absolutely the best time of the year in the garden. Your border must be just coming into flower.”

“Dr. Haydock thinks it would be advisable.”

“Well, Haydock’s not such a fool as some doctors,” admitted Mrs. Bantry grudgingly.

“I was wondering, Dolly, about that cook of yours.”

“Which cook? Do you want a cook? You don’t mean that woman who drank, do you?”

“No, no, no. I mean the one who made such delicious pastry. With a husband who was the butler.”

“Oh, you mean the Mock Turtle,” said Mrs. Bantry with immediate recognition. “Woman with a deep mournful voice who always sounded as though she was going to burst into tears. She was a good cook. Husband was a fat, rather lazy man. Arthur always said he watered the whisky. I don’t know. Pity there’s always one of a couple that’s unsatisfactory. They got left a legacy by some former employer and they went off and opened a boardinghouse on the south coast.”

“That’s just what I thought. Wasn’t it at Dillmouth?”

“That’s right. 14 Sea Parade, Dillmouth.”

“I was thinking that as Dr. Haydock has suggested the seaside I might go to—was their name Saunders?”

“Yes. That’s an excellent idea, Jane. You couldn’t do better. Mrs. Saunders will look after you well, and as it’s out of the season they’ll be glad to get you and won’t charge very much. With good cooking and sea air you’ll soon pick up.”

“Thank you, Dolly,” said Miss Marple, “I expect I shall.”

Six

EXERCISE IN DETECTION

I

“Where do you think the body was? About here?” asked Giles.

He and Gwenda were standing in the front hall of Hillside. They had arrived back the night before, and Giles was now in full cry. He was as pleased as a small boy with his new toy.

“Just about,” said Gwenda. She retreated up the stairs and peered down critically. “Yes—I think that’s about it.”

“Crouch down,” said Giles. “You’re only about three years old, you know.”

Gwenda crouched obligingly.

“You couldn’t actually see the man who said the words?”

“I can’t remember seeing him. He must have been just a bit further back—yes, there. I could only see his paws.”

“Paws.” Giles frowned.

“They were paws. Grey paws—not human.”

“But look here, Gwenda. This isn’t a kind of Murder in the Rue Morgue. A man doesn’t have paws.”

“Well, he had paws.”

Giles looked doubtfully at her.

“You must have imagined that bit afterwards.”

Gwenda said slowly, “Don’t you think I may have imagined the whole thing? You know, Giles, I’ve been thinking. It seems to me far more probable that the whole thing was a dream. It might have been. It was the sort of dream a child might have, and be terribly frightened, and go on remembering about. Don’t you think really that’s the proper explanation? Because nobody in Dillmouth seems to have the faintest idea that there was ever a murder, or a sudden death, or a disappearance or anything odd about this house.”

Giles looked like a different kind of little boy—a little boy who has had his nice new toy taken away from him.

“I suppose it might have been a nightmare,” he admitted grudgingly. Then his face cleared suddenly.

“No,” he said. “I don’t believe it. You could have dreamt about monkeys’ paws and someone dead—but I’m damned if you could have dreamt that quotation from The Duchess of Malfi.”

“I could have heard someone say it and then dreamt about it afterwards.”

“I don’t think any child could do that. Not unless you heard it in conditions of great stress—and if that was the case we’re back again where we were—hold on, I’ve got it. It was the paws you dreamt. You saw the body and heard the words and you were scared stiff and then you had a nightmare about it, and there were waving monkeys’ paws too—probably you were frightened of monkeys.”

Gwenda looked slightly dubious—she said slowly: “I suppose that might be it….”

“I wish you could remember a bit more … Come down here in the hall. Shut your eyes. Think … Doesn’t anything more come back to you?”

“No, it doesn’t, Giles … The more I think, the further it all goes away … I mean, I’m beginning to doubt now if I ever really saw anything at all. Perhaps the other night I just had a brainstorm in the theatre.”

“No. There was something. Miss Marple thinks so, too. What about ‘Helen’? Surely you must remember something about Helen?”

“I don’t remember anything at all. It’s just a name.”

“It mightn’t even be the right name.”

“Yes, it was. It was Helen.”

Gwenda looked obstinate and convinced.

“Then if you’re so sure it was Helen, you must know something about her,” said Giles reasonably. “Did you know her well? Was she living here? Or just staying here?”

“I tell you I don’t know.” Gwenda was beginning to look strained and nervy.

Giles tried another tack.

“Who else can you remember? Your father?”

“No. I mean, I can’t tell. There was always his photograph, you see. Aunt Alison used to say: ‘That’s your Daddy.’ I don’t remember him here, in this house….”

“And no servants—nurses—anything like that?”

“No—no. The more I try to remember, the more it’s all a blank. The things I know are all underneath—like walking to that door automatically. I didn’t remember a door there. Perhaps if you wouldn’t worry me so much, Giles, things would come back more. Anyway, trying to find out about it all is hopeless. It’s so long ago.”

“Of course it’s not hopeless—even old Miss Marple admitted that.”

“She didn’t help us with any ideas of how to set about it,” said Gwenda. “And yet I feel, from the glint in her eye, that she had a few. I wonder how she would have gone about it.”

“I don’t suppose she would be likely to think of ways that we wouldn’t,” said Giles positively. “We must stop speculating, Gwenda, and set about things in a systematic way. We’ve made a beginning—I’ve looked through the Parish registers of deaths. There’s no ‘Helen’ of the right age amongst them. In fact there doesn’t seem to be a Helen at all in the period I covered—Ellen Pugg, ninety-four, was the nearest. Now we must think of the next profitable approach. If your father, and presumably your stepmother, lived in this house, they must either have bought it or rented it.”

“According to Foster, the gardener, some people called Elworthy had it before the Hengraves and before them Mrs. Findeyson. Nobody else.”

“Your father might have bought it and lived in it for a very short time—and then sold it again. But I think that it’s much more likely that he rented it—probably rented it furnished. If so, our best bet is to go round the house agents.”

Going round the house agents was not a prolonged labour. There were only two house agents in Dillmouth. Messrs. Wilkinson were a comparatively new arrival. They had only opened their premises eleven years ago. They dealt mostly with the small bungalows and new houses at the far end of the town. The other agents, Messrs. Galbraith and Penderley, were the ones from whom Gwenda had bought the house. Calling upon them, Giles plunged into his story. He and his wife were delighted with Hillside and with Dillmouth generally. Mrs. Reed had only just discovered that she had actually lived in Dillmouth as a small child. She had some very faint memories of the place, and had an idea that Hillside was actually the house in which she had lived but could not be quite certain about it. Had they any record of the house being let to a Major Halliday? It would be about eighteen or nineteen years ago….

Mr. Penderley stretched out apologetic hands.

“I’m afraid it’s not possible to tell you, Mr. Reed. Our records do not go back that far—not, that is, of furnished or short-period lets. Very sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Reed. As a matter of fact if our old head clerk, Mr. Narracott, had still been alive—he died last winter—he might have been able to assist you. A most remarkable memory, really quite remarkable. He had been with the firm for nearly thirty years.”

“There’s no one else who would possibly remember?”

“Our staff is all on the comparatively young side. Of course there is old Mr. Galbraith himself. He retired some years ago.”

“Perhaps I could ask him?” said Gwenda.

“Well, I hardly know about that …” Mr. Penderley was dubious. “He had a stroke last year. His faculties are sadly impaired. He’s over eighty, you know.”

“Does he live in Dillmouth?”

“Oh yes. At Calcutta Lodge. A very nice little property on the Seaton road. But I really don’t think—”

II

“It’s rather a forlorn hope,” said Giles to Gwenda. “But you never know. I don’t think we’ll write. We’ll go there together and exert our personality.”

Calcutta Lodge was surrounded by a neat trim garden, and the sitting room into which they were shown was also neat if slightly overcrowded. It smelt of beeswax and Ronuk. Its brasses shone. Its windows were heavily festooned.

A thin middle-aged woman with suspicious eyes came into the room.

Giles explained himself quickly, and the expression of one who expects to have a vacuum cleaner pushed at her left Miss Galbraith’s face.

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I can help you,” she said. “It’s so long ago, isn’t it?”

“One does sometimes remember things,” said Gwenda.

“Of course I shouldn’t know anything myself. I never had any connection with the business. A Major Halliday, you said? No, I never remember coming across anyone in Dillmouth of that name.”

“Your father might remember, perhaps,” said Gwenda.

“Father?” Miss Galbraith shook her head. “He doesn’t take much notice nowadays, and his memory’s very shaky.”

Gwenda’s eyes were resting thoughtfully on a Benares brass table and they shifted to a procession of ebony elephants marching along the mantelpiece.

“I thought he might remember, perhaps,” she said, “because my father had just come from India. Your house is called Calcutta Lodge?”

She paused interrogatively.

“Yes,” said Miss Galbraith. “Father was out in Calcutta for a time. In business there. Then the war came and in 1920 he came into the firm here, but would have liked to go back, he always says. But my mother didn’t fancy foreign parts—and of course you can’t say the climate’s really healthy. Well, I don’t know—perhaps you’d like to see my father. I don’t know that it’s one of his good days—”

She led them into a small black study. Here, propped up in a big shabby leather chair sat an old gentleman with a white walrus moustache. His face was pulled slightly sideways. He eyed Gwenda with distinct approval as his daughter made the introductions.

“Memory’s not what it used to be,” he said in a rather indistinct voice. “Halliday, you say? No, I don’t remember the name. Knew a boy at school in Yorkshire—but that’s seventy-odd years ago.”

“He rented Hillside, we think,” said Giles.

“Hillside? Was it called Hillside then?” Mr. Galbraith’s one movable eyelid snapped shut and open. “Findeyson lived there. Fine woman.”

“My father might have rented it furnished … He’d just come from India.”

“India? India, d’you say? Remember a fellow—Army man. Knew that old rascal Mohammed Hassan who cheated me over some carpets. Had a young wife—and a baby—little girl.”

“That was me,” said Gwenda firmly.

“In—deed—you don’t say so! Well, well, time flies. Now what was his name? Wanted a place furnished—yes—Mrs. Findeyson had been ordered to Egypt or some such place for the winter—all tomfoolery. Now what was his name?”

“Halliday,” said Gwenda.

“That’s right, my dear—Halliday. Major Halliday. Nice fellow. Very pretty wife—quite young—fair-haired, wanted to be near her people or something like that. Yes, very pretty.”

“Who were her people?”

“No idea at all. No idea. You don’t look like her.”

Gwenda nearly said, “She was only my stepmother,” but refrained from complicating the issue. She said, “What did she look like?”

Unexpectedly Mr. Galbraith replied: “Looked worried. That’s what she looked, worried. Yes, very nice fellow, that Major chap. Interested to hear I’d been out in Calcutta. Not like these chaps that have never been out of England. Narrow—that’s what they are. Now I’ve seen the world. What was his name, that Army chap—wanted a furnished house?”

He was like a very old gramophone, repeating a worn record.

“St. Catherine’s. That’s it. Took St. Catherine’s—six guineas a week—while Mrs. Findeyson was in Egypt. Died there, poor soul. House was put up for auction—who bought it now? Elworthys—that’s it—pack of women—sisters. Changed the name—said St. Catherine’s was Popish. Very down on anything Popish—Used to send out tracts. Plain women, all of ’em—Took an interest in niggers—Sent ’em out trousers and bibles. Very strong on converting the heathen.”

He sighed suddenly and leant back.

“Long time ago,” he said fretfully. “Can’t remember names. Chap from India—nice chap … I’m tired, Gladys. I’d like my tea.”

Giles and Gwenda thanked him, thanked his daughter, and came away.

“So that’s proved,” said Gwenda. “My father and I were at Hillside. What do we do next?”

“I’ve been an idiot,” said Giles. “Somerset House.”

“What’s Somerset House?” asked Gwenda.

“It’s a record office where you can look up marriages. I’m going there to look up your father’s marriage. According to your aunt, your father was married to his second wife immediately on arriving in England. Don’t you see, Gwenda—it ought to have occurred to us before—it’s perfectly possible that ‘Helen’ may have been a relation of your stepmother’s—a young sister, perhaps. Anyway, once we know what her surname was, we may be able to get on to someone who knows about the general setup at Hillside. Remember the old boy said they wanted a house in Dillmouth to be near Mrs. Halliday’s people. If her people live near here we may get something.”

“Giles,” said Gwenda. “I think you’re wonderful.”

III

Giles did not, after all, find it necessary to go to London. Though his energetic nature always made him prone to rush hither and thither and try to do everything himself, he admitted that a purely routine enquiry could be delegated.

He put through a trunk call to his office.

“Got it,” he exclaimed enthusiastically, when the expected reply arrived.

From the covering letter he extracted a certified copy of a marriage certificate.

“Here we are, Gwenda. Friday, Aug. 7th Kensington Registry Office. Kelvin James Halliday to Helen Spenlove Kennedy.”

Gwenda cried out sharply!

“Helen?”

They looked at each other.

Giles said slowly: “But—but—it can’t be her. I mean—they separated, and she married again—and went away.”

“We don’t know,” said Gwenda, “that she went away….”

She looked again at the plainly written name:

Helen Spenlove Kennedy.

Helen….

Seven

DR. KENNEDY

I

A few days later Gwenda, walking along the Esplanade in a sharp wind, stopped suddenly beside one of the glass shelters which a thoughtful Corporation had provided for the use of its visitors.

“Miss Marple?” she exclaimed in lively surprise.

For indeed Miss Marple it was, nicely wrapped up in a thick fleecy coat and well wound round with scarves.

“Quite a surprise to you, I’m sure, to find me here,” said Miss Marple briskly. “But my doctor ordered me away to the seaside for a little change, and your description of Dillmouth sounded so attractive that I decided to come here—especially as the cook and butler of a friend of mine take in boarders.”

“But why didn’t you come and see us?” demanded Gwenda.

“Old people can be rather a nuisance, my dear. Newly married young couples should be left to themselves.” She smiled at Gwenda’s protest. “I’m sure you’d have made me very welcome. And how are you both? And are you progressing with your mystery?”

“We’re hot on the trail,” Gwenda said, sitting beside her.

She detailed their various investigations up to date.

“And now,” she ended, “we’ve put an advertisement in lots of papers—local ones and The Times and the other big dailies. We’ve just said will anyone with any knowledge of Helen Spenlove Halliday, née Kennedy, communicate etc. I should think, don’t you, that we’re bound to get some answers.”

“I should think so, my dear—yes, I should think so.”

Miss Marple’s tone was placid as ever, but her eyes looked troubled. They flashed a quick appraising glance at the girl sitting beside her. That tone of determined heartiness did not ring quite true. Gwenda, Miss Marple thought, looked worried. What Dr. Haydock had called “the implications” were, perhaps, beginning to occur to her. Yes, but now it was too late to go back….

Miss Marple said gently and apologetically, “I have really become most interested in all this. My life, you know, has so few excitements. I hope you won’t think me very inquisitive if I ask you to let me know how you progress?”

“Of course we’ll let you know,” said Gwenda warmly. “You shall be in on everything. Why, but for you, I should be urging doctors to shut me up in a loony bin. Tell me your address here, and then you must come and have a drink—I mean, have tea with us, and see the house. You’ve got to see the scene of the crime, haven’t you?”

She laughed, but there was a slightly nervy edge to her laugh.

When she had gone on her way Miss Marple shook her head very gently and frowned.

II

Giles and Gwenda scanned the mail eagerly every day, but at first their hopes were disappointed. All they got was two letters from private enquiry agents who pronounced themselves willing and skilled to undertake investigations on their behalf.

“Time enough for them later,” said Giles. “And if we do have to employ some agency, it will be a thoroughly first-class firm, not one that touts through the mail. But I don’t really see what they could do that we aren’t doing.”

His optimism (or self-esteem) was justified a few days later. A letter arrived, written in one of those clear and yet somewhat illegible handwritings that stamp the professional man.

Galls Hill
Woodleigh Bolton.

Dear Sir,

In answer to your advertisement in The Times, Helen Spenlove Kennedy is my sister. I have lost touch with her for many years and should be glad to have news of her.

Yours faithfully,

James Kennedy, MD

“Woodleigh Bolton,” said Giles. “That’s not too far away. Woodleigh Camp is where they go for picnics. Up on the moorland. About thirty miles from here. We’ll write and ask Dr. Kennedy if we may come and see him, or if he would prefer to come to us.”

A reply was received that Dr. Kennedy would be prepared to receive them on the following Wednesday; and on that day they set off.

Woodleigh Bolton was a straggling village set along the side of a hill. Galls Hill was the highest house just at the top of the rise, with a view over Woodleigh Camp and the moors towards the sea.

“Rather a bleak spot,” said Gwenda shivering.

The house itself was bleak and obviously Dr. Kennedy scorned such modern innovations as central heating. The woman who opened the door was dark and rather forbidding. She led them across the rather bare hall, and into a study where Dr. Kennedy rose to receive them. It was a long, rather high room, lined with well-filled bookshelves.

Dr. Kennedy was a grey-haired elderly man with shrewd eyes under tufted brows. His gaze went sharply from one to the other of them.

“Mr. and Mrs. Reed? Sit here, Mrs. Reed, it’s probably the most comfortable chair. Now, what’s all this about?”

Giles went fluently into their prearranged story.

He and his wife had been recently married in New Zealand. They had come to England, where his wife had lived for a short time as a child, and she was trying to trace old family friends and connections.

Dr. Kennedy remained stiff and unbending. He was polite but obviously irritated by Colonial insistence on sentimental family ties.

“And you think my sister—my half-sister—and possibly myself—are connections of yours?” he asked Gwenda, civilly, but with slight hostility.

“She was my stepmother,” said Gwenda. “My father’s second wife. I can’t really remember her properly, of course. I was so small. My maiden name was Halliday.”

He stared at her—and then suddenly a smile illuminated his face. He became a different person, no longer aloof.

“Good Lord,” he said. “Don’t tell me that you’re Gwennie!”

Gwenda nodded eagerly. The pet name, long forgotten, sounded in her ears with reassuring familiarity.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m Gwennie.”

“God bless my soul. Grown-up and married. How time flies! It must be—what—fifteen years—no, of course, much longer than that. You don’t remember me, I suppose?”

Gwenda shook her head.

“I don’t even remember my father. I mean, it’s all a vague kind of blur.”

“Of course—Halliday’s first wife came from New Zealand—I remember his telling me so. A fine country, I should think.”

“It’s the loveliest country in the world—but I’m quite fond of England, too.”

“On a visit—or settling down here?” He rang the bell. “We must have tea.”

When the tall woman came, he said, “Tea, please—and—er—hot buttered toast, or—or cake, or something.”

The respectable housekeeper looked venomous, but said, “Yes, sir,” and went out.

“I don’t usually go in for tea,” said Dr. Kennedy vaguely. “But we must celebrate.”

“It’s very nice of you,” said Gwenda. “No, we’re not on a visit. We’ve bought a house.” She paused and added, “Hillside.”

Dr. Kennedy said vaguely, “Oh yes. In Dillmouth. You wrote from there.”

“It’s the most extraordinary coincidence,” said Gwenda. “Isn’t it, Giles?”

“I should say so,” said Giles. “Really quite staggering.”

“It was for sale, you see,” said Gwenda, and added in face of Dr. Kennedy’s apparent non-comprehension, “It’s the same house where we used to live long ago.”

Dr. Kennedy frowned. “Hillside? But surely—Oh yes, I did hear they’d changed the name. Used to be St. Something or other—if I’m thinking of the right house—on the Leahampton road, coming down into the town, on the right-hand side?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the one. Funny how names go out of your head. Wait a minute. St. Catherine’s—that’s what it used to be called.”

“And I did live there, didn’t I?” Gwenda said.

“Yes, of course you did.” He stared at her, amused. “Why did you want to come back there? You can’t remember much about it, surely?”

“No. But somehow—it felt like home.”

“It felt like home,” the doctor repeated. There was no expression in the words, but Giles wondered what he was thinking about.

“So you see,” said Gwenda, “I hoped you’d tell me about it all—about my father and Helen and—” she ended lamely—“and everything….”

He looked at her reflectively.

“I suppose they didn’t know very much—out in New Zealand. Why should they? Well, there isn’t much to tell. Helen—my sister—was coming back from India on the same boat with your father. He was a widower with a small daughter. Helen was sorry for him or fell in love with him. He was lonely, or fell in love with her. Difficult to know just the way things happen. They were married in London on arrival, and came down to Dillmouth to me. I was in practice there, then. Kelvin Halliday seemed a nice chap, rather nervy and run-down—but they seemed happy enough together—then.”

He was silent for a moment before he said, “However, in less than a year, she ran away with someone else. You probably know that?”

“Who did she run away with?” asked Gwenda.

He bent his shrewd eyes upon her.

“She didn’t tell me,” he said. “I wasn’t in her confidence. I’d seen—couldn’t help seeing—that there was friction between her and Kelvin. I didn’t know why. I was always a strait-laced sort of fellow—a believer in marital fidelity. Helen wouldn’t have wanted me to know what was going on. I’d heard rumours—one does—but there was no mention of any particular name. They often had guests staying with them who came from London, or from other parts of England. I imagined it was one of them.”

“There wasn’t a divorce, then?”

“Helen didn’t want a divorce. Kelvin told me that. That’s why I imagined, perhaps wrongly, that it was a case of some married man. Someone whose wife was an RC perhaps.”

“And my father?”

“He didn’t want a divorce, either.”

Dr. Kennedy spoke rather shortly.

“Tell me about my father,” said Gwenda. “Why did he decide suddenly to send me out to New Zealand?”

Kennedy paused a moment before saying, “I gather your people out there had been pressing him. After the breakup of his second marriage, he probably thought it was the best thing.”

“Why didn’t he take me out there himself?”

Dr. Kennedy looked along the mantelpiece searching vaguely for a pipe cleaner.

“Oh, I don’t know … He was in rather poor health.”

“What was the matter with him? What did he die of?”

The door opened and the scornful housekeeper appeared with a laden tray.

There was buttered toast and some jam, but no cake. With a vague gesture Dr. Kennedy motioned Gwenda to pour out. She did so. When the cups were filled and handed round and Gwenda had taken a piece of toast, Dr. Kennedy said with rather forced cheerfulness: “Tell me what you’ve done to the house? I don’t suppose I’d recognize it now—after you two have finished with it.”

“We’re having a little fun with bathrooms,” admitted Giles.

Gwenda, her eyes on the doctor, said: “What did my father die of?”

“I couldn’t really tell, my dear. As I say, he was in rather poor health for a while, and he finally went into a Sanatorium—somewhere on the east coast. He died about two years later.”

“Where was this Sanatorium exactly?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t remember now. As I say, I have an impression it was on the east coast.”

There was definite evasion now in his manner. Giles and Gwenda looked at each other for a brief second.

Giles said, “At least, sir, you can tell us where he’s buried? Gwenda is—naturally—very anxious to visit his grave.”

Dr. Kennedy bent over the fireplace, scraping in the bowl of his pipe with a penknife.

“Do you know,” he said, rather indistinctly, “I don’t really think I should dwell too much on the past. All this ancestor worship—it’s a mistake. The future is what matters. Here you are, you two, young and healthy with the world in front of you. Think forward. No use going about putting flowers on the grave of someone whom, for all practical purposes, you hardly knew.”

Gwenda said mutinously: “I should like to see my father’s grave.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Dr. Kennedy’s tones were pleasant but cold. “It’s a long time ago, and my memory isn’t what it was. I lost touch with your father after he left Dillmouth. I think he wrote to me once from the Sanatorium and, as I say, I have an impression it was on the east coast—but I couldn’t really be sure even of that. And I’ve no idea at all of where he is buried.”

“How very odd,” said Giles.

“Not really. The link between us, you see, was Helen. I was always very fond of Helen. She’s my half sister and very many years younger than I am, but I tried to bring her up as well as I could. The right schools and all that. But there’s no gainsaying that Helen—well, that she never had a stable character. There was trouble when she was quite young with a very undesirable young man. I got her out of that safely. Then she elected to go out to India and marry Walter Fane. Well, that was all right, nice lad, son of Dillmouth’s leading solicitor, but frankly, dull as ditchwater. He’d always adored her, but she never looked at him. Still, she changed her mind and went out to India to marry him. When she saw him again, it was all off. She wired to me for money for her passage home. I sent it. On the way back, she met Kelvin. They were married before I knew about it. I’ve felt, shall we say, apologetic for that sister of mine. It explains why Kelvin and I didn’t keep up the relationship after she went away.” He added suddenly: “Where’s Helen now? Can you tell me? I’d like to get in touch with her.”

“But we don’t know,” said Gwenda. “We don’t know at all.”

“Oh! I thought from your advertisement—” He looked at them with sudden curiosity. “Tell me, why did you advertise?”

Gwenda said: “We wanted to get in touch—” and stopped.

“With someone you can hardly remember?” Dr. Kennedy looked puzzled.

Gwenda said quickly: “I thought—if I could get in touch with her—she’d tell me—about my father.”

“Yes—yes—I see. Sorry I can’t be of much use. Memory not what it was. And it’s a long time ago.”

“At least,” said Giles, “you know what kind of a Sanatorium it was? Tubercular?”

Dr. Kennedy’s face again looked suddenly wooden: “Yes—yes, I rather believe it was.”

“Then we ought to be able to trace that quite easily,” said Giles. “Thank you very much, sir, for all you’ve told us.”

He got up and Gwenda followed suit.

“Thank you very much,” she said. “And do come and see us at Hillside.”

They went out of the room and Gwenda, glancing back over her shoulder, had a final view of Dr. Kennedy standing by the mantelpiece, pulling his grizzled moustache and looking troubled.

“He knows something he won’t tell us,” said Gwenda, as they got into the car. “There’s something—oh, Giles! I wish—I wish now that we’d never started….”

They looked at each other, and in each mind, unacknowledged to the other, the same fear sprang.

“Miss Marple was right,” said Gwenda. “We should have left the past alone.”

“We needn’t go any further,” said Giles uncertainly. “I think perhaps, Gwenda darling, we’d better not.”

Gwenda shook her head.

“No, Giles, we can’t stop now. We should always be wondering and imagining. No, we’ve got to go on … Dr. Kennedy wouldn’t tell us because he wanted to be kind—but that sort of business is no good. We’ll have to go on and find out what really happened. Even if—even if—it was my father who …” But she couldn’t go on.

Eight

KELVIN HALLIDAY’S DELUSION

They were in the garden on the following morning when Mrs. Cocker came out and said: “Excuse me, sir. There’s a Doctor Kennedy on the telephone.”

Leaving Gwenda in consultation with old Foster, Giles went into the house and picked up the telephone receiver.

“Giles Reed here.”

“This is Dr. Kennedy. I’ve been thinking over our conversation yesterday, Mr. Reed. There are certain facts which I think perhaps you and your wife ought to know. Will you be at home if I come over this afternoon?”

“Certainly we shall. What time?”

“Three o’clock?”

“Suits us.”

In the garden old Foster said to Gwenda, “Is that Dr. Kennedy as used to live over at West Cliff?”

“I expect so. Did you know him?”

“E was allus reckoned to be the best doctor here—not but what Dr. Lazenby wasn’t more popular. Always had a word and a laugh to jolly you along, Dr. Lazenby did. Dr. Kennedy was always short and a bit dry, like—but he knew his job.”

“When did he give up his practice?”

“Long time ago now. Must be fifteen years or so. His health broke down, so they say.”

Giles came out of the window and answered Gwenda’s unspoken question.

“He’s coming over this afternoon.”

“Oh.” She turned once more to Foster. “Did you know Dr. Kennedy’s sister at all?”

“Sister? Not as I remember. She was only a bit of a lass. Went away to school, and then abroad, though I heard she come back here for a bit after she married. But I believe she run off with some chap—always wild she was, they said. Don’t know as I ever laid eyes on her myself. I was in a job over to Plymouth for a while, you know.”

Gwenda said to Giles as they walked to the end of the terrace, “Why is he coming?”

“We’ll know at three o’clock.”

Dr. Kennedy arrived punctually. Looking round the drawing room he said: “Seems odd to be here again.”

Then he came to the point without preamble.

“I take it that you two are quite determined to track down the Sanatorium where Kelvin Halliday died and learn all the details you can about his illness and death?”

“Definitely,” said Gwenda.

“Well, you can manage that quite easily, of course. So I’ve come to the conclusion that it will be less shock to you to hear the facts from me. I’m sorry to have to tell you, for it won’t do you or anybody else a bit of good, and it will probably cause you, Gwennie, a good deal of pain. But there it is. Your father wasn’t suffering from tuberculosis and the Sanatorium in question was a mental home.”

“A mental home? Was he out of his mind, then?”

Gwenda’s face had gone very white.

“He was never certified. And in my opinion he was not insane in the general meaning of the term. He had had a very severe nervous breakdown and suffered from certain delusional obsessions. He went into the nursing home of his own will and volition and could, of course, have left it at any time he wanted to. His condition did not improve, however, and he died there.”

“Delusional obsessions?” Giles repeated the words questioningly. “What kind of delusions?”

Dr. Kennedy said drily, “He was under the impression that he had strangled his wife.”

Gwenda gave a stifled cry. Giles stretched out a hand quickly and took her cold hand in his.

Giles said, “And—and had he?”

“Eh?” Dr. Kennedy stared at him. “No, of course he hadn’t. No question of such a thing.”

“But—but how do you know?” Gwenda’s voice came uncertainly.

“My dear child! There was never any question of such a thing. Helen left him for another man. He’d been in a very unbalanced condition for some time; nervous dreams, sick fancies. The final shock sent him over the edge. I’m not a psychiatrist myself. They have their explanations for such matters. If a man would rather his wife was dead than unfaithful, he can manage to make himself believe that she is dead—even that he has killed her.”

Warily, Giles and Gwenda exchanged a warning glance.

Giles said quietly, “So you are quite sure that there was no question of his having actually done what he said he had done?”

“Oh, quite sure. I had two letters from Helen. The first one from France about a week after she went away and one about six months later. Oh no, the whole thing was a delusion pure and simple.”

Gwenda drew a deep breath.

“Please,” she said. “Will you tell me all about it?”

“I’ll tell you everything I can, my dear. To begin with, Kelvin had been in a rather peculiar neurotic state for some time. He came to me about it. Said he had had various disquieting dreams. These dreams, he said, were always the same, and they ended in the same way—with his throttling Helen. I tried to get at the root of the trouble—there must, I think, have been some conflict in early childhood. His father and mother, apparently, were not a happy couple … Well, I won’t go into all that. That’s only interesting to a medical man. I actually suggested that Kelvin should consult a psychiatrist, there are several first-class chaps—but he wouldn’t hear of it—thought that kind of thing was all nonsense.

“I had an idea that he and Helen weren’t getting along too well, but he never spoke about that, and I didn’t like to ask questions. The whole thing came to a head when he walked into my house one evening—it was a Friday, I remember, I’d just come back from the hospital and found him waiting for me in the consulting room; he’d been there about a quarter of an hour. As soon as I came in, he looked up and said, ‘I’ve killed Helen.’

“For a moment I didn’t know what to think. He was so cool and matter-of-fact. I said, ‘You mean—you’ve had another dream?’ He said, ‘It isn’t a dream this time. It’s true. She’s lying there strangled. I strangled her.’

“Then he said—quite coolly and reasonably: ‘You’d better come back with me to the house. Then you can ring up the police from there.’ I didn’t know what to think. I got out the car again, and we drove along here. The house was quiet and dark. We went up to the bedroom—”

Gwenda broke in, “The bedroom?” Her voice held pure astonishment.

Dr. Kennedy looked faintly surprised.

“Yes, yes, that’s where it all happened. Well, of course when we got up there—there was nothing at all! No dead woman lying across the bed. Nothing disturbed—the coverlets not even rumpled. The whole thing had been an hallucination.”

“But what did my father say?”

“Oh, he persisted in his story, of course. He really believed it, you see. I persuaded him to let me give him a sedative and I put him to bed in the dressing room. Then I had a good look round. I found a note that Helen had left crumpled up in the wastepaper basket in the drawing room. It was quite clear. She had written something like this: ‘This is Good-bye. I’m sorry—but our marriage has been a mistake from the beginning. I’m going away with the only man I’ve ever loved. Forgive me if you can. Helen.’

“Evidently Kelvin had come in, read her note, gone upstairs, had a kind of emotional brainstorm and had then come over to me persuaded that he had killed Helen.

“Then I questioned the housemaid. It was her evening out and she had come in late. I took her into Helen’s room and she went through Helen’s clothes, etc. It was all quite clear. Helen had packed a suitcase and a bag and had taken them away with her. I searched the house, but there was no trace of anything unusual—certainly no sign of a strangled woman.

“I had a very difficult time with Kelvin in the morning, but he realized at last that it was a delusion—or at least he said he did, and he consented to go into a nursing home for treatment.

“A week later I got, as I say, a letter from Helen. It was posted from Biarritz, but she said she was going on to Spain. I was to tell Kelvin that she did not want a divorce. He had better forget her as soon as possible.

“I showed the letter to Kelvin. He said very little. He was going ahead with his plans. He wired out to his first wife’s people in New Zealand asking them to take the child. He settled up his affairs and he then entered a very good private mental home and consented to have appropriate treatment. That treatment, however, did nothing to help him. He died there two years later. I can give you the address of the place. It’s in Norfolk. The present Superintendent was a young doctor there at the time, and will probably be able to give you full details of your father’s case.”

Gwenda said: “And you got another letter from your sister—after that again?”

“Oh yes. About six months later. She wrote from Florence—gave an address poste restante as ‘Miss Kennedy.’ She said she realized that perhaps it was unfair to Kelvin not to have a divorce—though she herself did not want one. If he wanted a divorce and I would let her know, she would see that he had the necessary evidence. I took the letter to Kelvin. He said at once that he did not want a divorce. I wrote to her and told her so. Since then I have never heard anymore. I don’t know where she is living, or indeed if she is alive or dead. That is why I was attracted by your advertisement and hoped that I should get news of her.”

He added gently: “I’m very sorry about this, Gwennie. But you had to know. I only wish you could have left well alone….”

Nine

UNKNOWN FACTOR?

I

When Giles came back from seeing Dr. Kennedy off, he found Gwenda sitting where he had left her. There was a bright red patch on each of her cheeks, and her eyes looked feverish. When she spoke her voice was harsh and brittle.

“What’s the old catchphrase? Death or madness either way? That’s what this is—death or madness.”

“Gwenda—darling.” Giles went to her—put his arm round her. Her body felt hard and stiff.

“Why didn’t we leave it all alone? Why didn’t we? It was my own father who strangled her. And it was my own father’s voice I heard saying those words. No wonder it all came back—no wonder I was so frightened. My own father.”

“Wait, Gwenda—wait. We don’t really know—”

“Of course we know! He told Dr. Kennedy he had strangled his wife, didn’t he?”

“But Kennedy is quite positive he didn’t—”

“Because he didn’t find a body. But there was a body—and I saw it.”

“You saw it in the hall—not the bedroom.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Well, it’s queer, isn’t it? Why should Halliday say he strangled his wife in the bedroom if he actually strangled her in the hall?”

“Oh, I don’t know. That’s just a minor detail.”

“I’m not so sure. Pull your socks up, darling. There are some very funny points about the whole setup. We’ll take it, if you like, that your father did strangle Helen. In the hall. What happened next?”

“He went off to Dr. Kennedy.”

“And told him he had strangled his wife in the bedroom, brought him back with him and there was no body in the hall—or in the bedroom. Dash it all, there can’t be a murder without a body. What had he done with the body?”

“Perhaps there was one and Dr. Kennedy helped him and hushed it all up—only of course he couldn’t tell us that.”

Giles shook his head.

“No, Gwenda—I don’t see Kennedy acting that way. He’s a hardheaded, shrewd, unemotional Scotsman. You’re suggesting that he’d be willing to put himself in jeopardy as an accessory after the fact. I don’t believe he would. He’d do his best for Halliday by giving evidence as to his mental state—that, yes. But why should he stick his neck out to hush the whole thing up? Kelvin Halliday wasn’t any relation to him, nor a close friend. It was his own sister who had been killed and he was clearly fond of her—even if he did show slight Victorian disapproval of her gay ways. It’s not, even, as though you were his sister’s child. No, Kennedy wouldn’t connive at concealing murder. If he did, there’s only one possible way he could have set about it, and that would be deliberately to give a death certificate that she had died of heart failure or something. I suppose he might have got away with that—but we know definitely that he didn’t do that. Because there’s no record of her death in the Parish registers, and if he had done it, he would have told us that his sister had died. So go on from there and explain, if you can, what happened to the body.”

“Perhaps my father buried it somewhere—in the garden?”

“And then went to Kennedy and told him he’d murdered his wife? Why? Why not rely on the story that she’d ‘left him’?”

Gwenda pushed back her hair from her forehead. She was less stiff and rigid now, and the patches of sharp colour were fading.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It does seem a bit screwy now you’ve put it that way. Do you think Dr. Kennedy was telling us the truth?”

“Oh yes—I’m pretty sure of it. From his point of view it’s a perfectly reasonable story. Dreams, hallucinations—finally a major hallucination. He’s got no doubt that it was a hallucination because, as we’ve just said, you can’t have a murder without a body. That’s where we’re in a different position from him. We know that there was a body.”

He paused and went on: “From his point of view, everything fits in. Missing clothes and suitcase, the farewell note. And later, two letters from his sister.

Gwenda stirred.

“Those letters. How do we explain those?”

“We don’t—but we’ve got to. If we assume that Kennedy was telling us the truth (and as I say, I’m pretty sure that he was), we’ve got to explain those letters.”

“I suppose they really were in his sister’s handwriting? He recognized it?”

“You know, Gwenda, I don’t believe that point would arise. It’s not like a signature on a doubtful cheque. If those letters were written in a reasonably close imitation of his sister’s writing, it wouldn’t occur to him to doubt them. He’s already got the preconceived idea that she’s gone away with someone. The letters just confirmed that belief. If he had never heard from her at all—why, then he might have got suspicious. All the same, there are certain curious points about those letters that wouldn’t strike him, perhaps, but do strike me. They’re strangely anonymous. No address except a poste restante. No indication of who the man in the case was. A clearly stated determination to make a clean break with all old ties. What I mean is, they’re exactly the kind of letters a murderer would devise if he wanted to allay any suspicions on the part of his victim’s family. It’s the old Crippen touch again. To get the letters posted from abroad would be easy.”

“You think my father—”

“No—that’s just it—I don’t. Take a man who’s deliberately decided to get rid of his wife. He spreads rumours about her possible unfaithfulness. He stages her departure—note left behind, clothes packed and taken. Letters will be received from her at carefully spaced intervals from somewhere abroad. Actually he has murdered her quietly and put her, say, under the cellar floor. That’s one pattern of murder—and it’s often been done. But what that type of murderer doesn’t do is to rush to his brother-in-law and say he’s murdered his wife and hadn’t they better go to the police? On the other hand, if your father was the emotional type of killer, and was terribly in love with his wife and strangled her in a fit of frenzied jealousy—Othello fashion—(and that fits in with the words you heard) he certainly doesn’t pack clothes and arrange for letters to come, before he rushes off to broadcast his crime to a man who isn’t the type likely to hush it up. It’s all wrong, Gwenda. The whole pattern is wrong.”

“Then what are you trying to get at, Giles?”

“I don’t know … It’s just that throughout it all, there seems to be an unknown factor—call him X. Someone who hasn’t appeared as yet. But one gets glimpses of his technique.”

“X?” said Gwenda wonderingly. Then her eyes darkened. “You’re making that up, Giles. To comfort me.”

“I swear I’m not. Don’t you see yourself that you can’t make a satisfactory outline to fit all the facts? We know that Helen Halliday was strangled because you saw—”

He stopped.

“Good Lord! I’ve been a fool. I see it now. It covers everything. You’re right. And Kennedy’s right, too. Listen, Gwenda. Helen’s preparing to go away with a lover—who that is we don’t know.”

“X?”

Giles brushed her interpolation aside impatiently.

“She’s written her note to her husband—but at that moment he comes in, reads what she’s writing and goes haywire. He crumples up the note, slings it into the wastebasket, and goes for her. She’s terrified, rushes out into the hall—he catches up with her, throttles her—she goes limp and he drops her. And then, standing a little way from her, he quotes those words from The Duchess of Malfi just as the child upstairs has reached the banisters and is peering down.”

“And after that?”

“The point is, that she isn’t dead. He may have thought she was dead—but she’s merely semisuffocated. Perhaps her lover comes round—after the frantic husband has started for the doctor’s house on the other side of the town, or perhaps she regains consciousness by herself. Anyway, as soon as she has come to, she beats it. Beats it quickly. And that explains everything. Kelvin’s belief that he has killed her. The disappearance of the clothes; packed and taken away earlier in the day. And the subsequent letters which are perfectly genuine. There you are—that explains everything.”

Gwenda said slowly, “It doesn’t explain why Kelvin said he had strangled her in the bedroom.”

“He was so het up, he couldn’t quite remember where it had all happened.”

Gwenda said: “I’d like to believe you. I want to believe … But I go on feeling sure—quite sure—that when I looked down she was dead—quite dead.”

“But how could you possibly tell? A child of barely three.”

She looked at him queerly.

“I think one can tell—better than if one was older. It’s like dogs—they know death and throw back their heads and howl. I think children—know death….”

“That’s nonsense—that’s fantastic.”

The ring of the frontdoor bell interrupted him. He said, “Who’s that, I wonder?”

Gwenda looked dismayed.

“I quite forgot. It’s Miss Marple. I asked her to tea today. Don’t let’s go saying anything about all this to her.”

II

Gwenda was afraid that tea might prove a difficult meal—but Miss Marple fortunately seemed not to notice that her hostess talked a little too fast and too feverishly, and that her gaiety was somewhat forced. Miss Marple herself was gently garrulous—she was enjoying her stay in Dillmouth so much and—wasn’t it exciting?—some friends of friends of hers had written to friends of theirs in Dillmouth, and as a result she had received some very pleasant invitations from the local residents.

“One feels so much less of an outsider, if you know what I mean, my dear, if one gets to know some of the people who have been established here for years. For instance, I am going to tea with Mrs. Fane—she is the widow of the senior partner in the best firm of solicitors here. Quite an old-fashioned family firm. Her son is carrying it on now.”

The gentle gossiping voice went on. Her landlady was so kind—and made her so comfortable—“and really delicious cooking. She was for some years with my old friend Mrs. Bantry—although she does not come from this part of the world herself—her aunt lived here for many years and she and her husband used to come here for holidays—so she knows a great deal of the local gossip. Do you find your gardener satisfactory, by the way? I hear that he is considered locally as rather a scrimshanker—more talk than work.”

“Talk and tea is his speciality,” said Giles. “He has about five cups of tea a day. But he works splendidly when we are looking.”

“Come out and see the garden,” said Gwenda.

They showed her the house and the garden, and Miss Marple made the proper comments. If Gwenda had feared her shrewd observation of something amiss, then Gwenda was wrong. For Miss Marple showed no cognizance of anything unusual.

Yet, strangely enough, it was Gwenda who acted in an unpredictable manner. She interrupted Miss Marple in the midst of a little anecdote about a child and a seashell to say breathlessly to Giles:

“I don’t care—I’m going to tell her….”

Miss Marple turned her head attentively. Giles started to speak, then stopped. Finally he said, “Well, it’s your funeral, Gwenda.”

And so Gwenda poured it all out. Their call on Dr. Kennedy and his subsequent call on them and what he had told them.

“That was what you meant in London, wasn’t it?” Gwenda asked breathlessly. “You thought, then, that—that my father might be involved?”

Miss Marple said gently, “It occurred to me as a possibility—yes. ‘Helen’ might very well be a young stepmother—and in a case of—er—strangling, it is so often a husband who is involved.”

Miss Marple spoke as one who observes natural phenomena without surprise or emotion.

“I do see why you urged us to leave it alone,” said Gwenda. “Oh, and I wish now we had. But one can’t go back.”

“No,” said Miss Marple, “one can’t go back.”

“And now you’d better listen to Giles. He’s been making objections and suggestions.”

“All I say is,” said Giles, “that it doesn’t fit.”

And lucidly, clearly, he went over the points as he had previously outlined them to Gwenda.

Then he particularized his final theory.

“If you’ll only convince Gwenda that that’s the only way it could have been.”

Miss Marple’s eyes went from him to Gwenda and back again.

“It is a perfectly reasonable hypothesis,” she said. “But there is always, as you yourself pointed out, Mr. Reed, the possibility of X.”

“X!” said Gwenda.

“The unknown factor,” said Miss Marple. “Someone, shall we say, who hasn’t appeared yet—but whose presence, behind the obvious facts, can be deduced.”

“We’re going to the Sanatorium in Norfolk where my father died,” said Gwenda. “Perhaps we’ll find out something there.”

Ten

A CASE HISTORY

I

Saltmarsh House was set pleasantly about six miles inland from the coast. It had a good train service to London from the five-miles-distant town of South Benham.

Giles and Gwenda were shown into a large airy sitting room with cretonne covers patterned with flowers. A very charming-looking old lady with white hair came into the room holding a glass of milk. She nodded to them and sat down near the fireplace. Her eyes rested thoughtfully on Gwenda and presently she leaned forward towards her and spoke in what was almost a whisper.

“Is it your poor child, my dear?”

Gwenda looked slightly taken aback. She said doubtfully: “No—no. It isn’t.”

“Ah, I wondered.” The old lady nodded her head and sipped her milk. Then she said conversationally, “Half past ten—that’s the time. It’s always at half past ten. Most remarkable.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward again.

“Behind the fireplace,” she breathed. “But don’t say I told you.”

At this moment, a white uniformed maid came into the room and requested Giles and Gwenda to follow her.

They were shown into Dr. Penrose’s study, and Dr. Penrose rose to greet them.

Dr. Penrose, Gwenda could not help thinking, looked a little mad himself. He looked, for instance, much madder than the nice old lady in the drawing room—but perhaps psychiatrists always looked a little mad.

“I had your letter, and Dr. Kennedy’s,” said Dr. Penrose. “And I’ve been looking up your father’s case history, Mrs. Reed. I remembered his case quite well, of course, but I wanted to refresh my memory so that I should be in a position to tell you everything you wanted to know. I understand that you have only recently become aware of the facts?”

Gwenda explained that she had been brought up in New Zealand by her mother’s relations and that all she had known about her father was that he had died in a nursing home in England.

Dr. Penrose nodded. “Quite so. Your father’s case, Mrs. Reed, presented certain rather peculiar features.”

“Such as?” Giles asked.

“Well, the obsession—or delusion—was very strong. Major Halliday, though clearly in a very nervous state, was most emphatic and categorical in his assertion that he had strangled his second wife in a fit of jealous rage. A great many of the usual signs in these cases were absent, and I don’t mind telling you frankly, Mrs. Reed, that had it not been for Dr. Kennedy’s assurance that Mrs. Halliday was actually alive, I should have been prepared, at that time, to take your father’s assertion at its face value.”

“You formed the impression that he had actually killed her?” Giles asked.

“I said ‘at that time.’ Later, I had cause to revise my opinion, as Major Halliday’s character and mental makeup became more familiar to me. Your father, Mrs. Reed, was most definitely not a paranoiac type. He had no delusions of persecution, no impulses of violence. He was a gentle, kindly, and well-controlled individual. He was neither what the world calls mad, nor was he dangerous to others. But he did have this obstinate fixation about Mrs. Halliday’s death and to account for its origin I am quite convinced we have to go back a long way—to some childish experience. But I admit that all methods of analysis failed to give us the right clue. Breaking down a patient’s resistance to analysis is sometimes a very long business. It may take several years. In your father’s case, the time was insufficient.”

He paused, and then, looking up sharply, said: “You know, I presume, that Major Halliday committed suicide.”

“Oh no!” cried Gwenda.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Reed. I thought you knew that. You are entitled, perhaps, to attach some blame to us on that account. I admit that proper vigilance would have prevented it. But frankly I saw no sign of Major Halliday’s being a suicidal type. He showed no tendency to melancholia—no brooding or despondency. He complained of sleeplessness and my colleague allowed him a certain amount of sleeping tablets. Whilst pretending to take them, he actually kept them until he had accumulated a sufficient amount and—”

He spread out his hands.

“Was he so dreadfully unhappy?”

“No. I do not think so. It was more, I should judge, a guilt complex, a desire for a penalty to be exacted. He had insisted at first, you know, on calling in the police, and though persuaded out of that, and assured that he had actually committed no crime at all, he obstinately refused to be wholly convinced. Yet it was proved to him over and over again, and he had to admit, that he had no recollection of committing the actual act.” Dr. Penrose ruffled over the papers in front of him. “His account of the evening in question never varied. He came into the house, he said, and it was dark. The servants were out. He went into the dining room, as he usually did, poured himself out a drink and drank it, then went through the connecting door into the drawing room. After that he remembered nothing—nothing at all, until he was standing in his bedroom looking down at his wife who was dead—strangled. He knew he had done it—”

Giles interrupted. “Excuse me, Dr. Penrose, but why did he know he had done it?”

“There was no doubt in his mind. For some months past he had found himself entertaining wild and melodramatic suspicions. He told me, for instance, that he had been convinced his wife was administering drugs to him. He had, of course, lived in India, and the practice of wives driving their husbands insane by datura poisoning often comes up there in the native courts. He had suffered fairly often from hallucinations, with confusion of time and place. He denied strenuously that he suspected his wife of infidelity, but nevertheless I think that that was the motivating power. It seems that what actually occurred was that he went into the drawing room, read the note his wife left saying she was leaving him, and that his way of eluding this fact was to prefer to ‘kill’ her. Hence the hallucination.”

“You mean he cared for her very much?” asked Gwenda.

“Obviously, Mrs. Reed.”

“And he never—recognized—that it was a hallucination?”

“He had to acknowledge that it must be—but his inner belief remained unshaken. The obsession was too strong to yield to reason. If we could have uncovered the underlying childish fixation—”

Gwenda interrupted. She was uninterested in childish fixations.

“But you’re quite sure, you say, that he—that he didn’t do it?”

“Oh, if that is what is worrying you, Mrs. Reed, you can put it right out of your head. Kelvin Halliday, however jealous he may have been of his wife, was emphatically not a killer.”

Dr. Penrose coughed and picked up a small shabby black book.

“If you would like this, Mrs. Reed, you are the proper person to have it. It contains various jottings set down by your father during the time he was here. When we turned over his effects to his executor (actually a firm of solicitors), Dr. McGuire, who was then Superintendent, retained this as part of the case history. Your father’s case, you know, appears in Dr. McGuire’s book—only under initials, of course. Mr. K.H. If you would like this diary—”

Gwenda stretched out her hand eagerly.

“Thank you,” she said. “I should like it very much.”

II

In the train on the way back to London, Gwenda took out the shabby little black book and began to read.

She opened it at random.

Kelvin Halliday had written:

I suppose these doctor wallahs know their business … It all sounds such poppycock. Was I in love with my mother? Did I hate my father? I don’t believe a word of it … I can’t help feeling this is a simple police case—criminal court—not a crazy loonybin matter. And yet—some of these people here—so natural, so reasonable—just like everyone else—except when you suddenly come across the kink. Very well, then, it seems that I, too, have a kink….

I’ve written to James … urged him to communicate with Helen … Let her come and see me in the flesh if she’s alive … He says he doesn’t know where she is … that’s because he knows that she’s dead and that I killed her … he’s a good fellow, but I’m not deceived … Helen is dead….

When did I begin to suspect her? A long time ago … Soon after we came to Dillmouth … Her manner changed … She was concealing something … I used to watch her … Yes, and she used to watch me….

Did she give me drugs in my food? Those queer awful nightmares. Not ordinary dreams … living nightmares … I know it was drugs … Only she could have done that … Why?… There’s some man … Some man she was afraid of….

Let me be honest. I suspected, didn’t I, that she had a lover? There was someone—I know there was someone—She said as much to me on the boat … Someone she loved and couldn’t marry … It was the same for both of us … I couldn’t forget Megan … How like Megan little Gwennie looks sometimes. Helen played with Gwennie so sweetly on the boat … Helen … You are so lovely, Helen….

Is Helen alive? Or did I put my hands round her throat and choke the life out of her? I went through the dining room door and I saw the note—propped up on the desk, and then—and then—all black—just blackness. But there’s no doubt about it … I killed her … Thank God Gwennie’s all right in New Zealand. They’re good people. They’ll love her for Megan’s sake. Megan—Megan, how I wish you were here….

It’s the best way … No scandal … The best way for the child. I can’t go on. Not year after year. I must take the short way out. Gwennie will never know anything about all this. She’ll never know her father was a murderer….

Tears blinded Gwenda’s eyes. She looked across at Giles, sitting opposite her. But Giles’s eyes were riveted on the opposite corner.

Aware of Gwenda’s scrutiny, he motioned faintly with his head.

Their fellow passenger was reading an evening paper. On the outside of it, clearly presented to their view was a melodramatic caption: Who were the men in her life?

Slowly, Gwenda nodded her head. She looked down at the diary.

There was someone—I know there was someone….

Eleven

THE MEN IN HER LIFE

I

Miss Marple crossed Sea Parade and walked along Fore Street, turning up the hill by the Arcade. The shops here were the old-fashioned ones. A wool and art needlework shop, a confectioner, a Victorian-looking Ladies’ Outfitter and Draper and others of the same kind.

Miss Marple looked in at the window of the art needlework shop. Two young assistants were engaged with customers, but an elderly woman at the back of the shop was free.

Miss Marple pushed open the door and went in. She seated herself at the counter and the assistant, a pleasant woman with grey hair, asked, “What can I do for you, madam?”

Miss Marple wanted some pale blue wool to knit a baby’s jacket. The proceedings were leisurely and unhurried. Patterns were discussed, Miss Marple looked through various children’s knitting books and in the course of it discussed her great-nephews and nieces. Neither she nor the assistant displayed impatience. The assistant had attended to customers such as Miss Marple for many years. She preferred these gentle, gossipy, rambling old ladies to the impatient, rather impolite young mothers who didn’t know what they wanted and had an eye for the cheap and showy.

“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I think that will be very nice indeed. And I always find Storkleg so reliable. It really doesn’t shrink. I think I’ll take an extra two ounces.”

The assistant remarked that the wind was very cold today, as she wrapped up the parcel.

“Yes, indeed, I noticed it as I was coming along the front. Dillmouth has changed a good deal. I have not been here for, let me see, nearly nineteen years.”

“Indeed, madam? Then you will find a lot of changes. The Superb wasn’t built then, I suppose, nor the Southview Hotel?”

“Oh no, it was quite a small place. I was staying with friends … A house called St. Catherine’s—perhaps you know it? On the Leahampton road.”

But the assistant had only been in Dillmouth a matter of ten years.

Miss Marple thanked her, took the parcel, and went into the draper’s next door. Here, again, she selected an elderly assistant. The conversation ran much on the same lines, to an accompaniment of summer vests. This time, the assistant responded promptly.

“That would be Mrs. Findeyson’s house.”

“Yes—yes. Though the friends I knew had it furnished. A Major Halliday and his wife and a baby girl.”

“Oh yes, madam. They had it for about a year, I think.”

“Yes. He was home from India. They had a very good cook—she gave me a wonderful recipe for baked apple pudding—and also, I think, for gingerbread. I often wonder what became of her.”

“I expect you mean Edith Pagett, madam. She’s still in Dillmouth. She’s in service now—at Windrush Lodge.”

“Then there were some other people—the Fanes. A lawyer, I think he was!”

“Old Mr. Fane died some years ago—young Mr. Fane, Mr. Walter Fane, lives with his mother. Mr. Walter Fane never married. He’s the senior partner now.”

“Indeed? I had an idea Mr. Walter Fane had gone out to India—tea-planting or something.”

“I believe he did, madam. As a young man. But he came home and went into the firm after about a year or two. They do all the best business round here—they’re very highly thought of. A very nice quiet gentleman, Mr. Walter Fane. Everybody likes him.”

“Why, of course,” exclaimed Miss Marple. “He was engaged to Miss Kennedy, wasn’t he? And then she broke it off and married Major Halliday.”

“That’s right, madam. She went out to India to marry Mr. Fane, but it seems as she changed her mind and married the other gentleman instead.”

A faintly disapproving note had entered the assistant’s voice.

Miss Marple leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“I was always so sorry for poor Major Halliday (I knew his mother) and his little girl. I understand his second wife left him. Ran way with someone. A rather flighty type, I’m afraid.”

“Regular flibbertigibbet, she was. And her brother the doctor, such a nice man. Did my rheumatic knee a world of good.”

“Whom did she run away with? I never heard.”

“That I couldn’t tell you, madam. Some said it was one of the summer visitors. But I know Major Halliday was quite broken up. He left the place and I believe his health gave way. Your change, madam.”

Miss Marple accepted her change and her parcel.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “I wonder if—Edith Pagett, did you say—still has that nice recipe for gingerbread? I lost it—or rather my careless maid lost it—and I’m so fond of good gingerbread.”

“I expect so, madam. As a matter of fact her sister lives next door here, married to Mr. Mountford, the confectioner. Edith usually comes there on her days out and I’m sure Mrs. Mountford would give her a message.”

“That’s a very good idea. Thank you so much for all the trouble you’ve taken.”

“A pleasure, madam, I assure you.”

Miss Marple went out into the street.

“A nice old-fashioned firm,” she said to herself. “And those vests are really very nice, so it isn’t as though I had wasted any money.” She glanced at the pale blue enamel watch that she wore pinned to one side of her dress. “Just five minutes to go before meeting those two young things at the Ginger Cat. I hope they didn’t find things too upsetting at the Sanatorium.”

II

Giles and Gwenda sat together at a corner table at the Ginger Cat. The little black notebook lay on the table between them.

Miss Marple came in from the street and joined them.

“What will you have, Miss Marple? Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you—no, not cakes, just a scone and butter.”

Giles gave the order, and Gwenda pushed the little black book across to Miss Marple.

“First you must read that,” she said, “and then we can talk. It’s what my father—what he wrote himself when he was at the nursing home. Oh, but first of all, just tell Miss Marple exactly what Dr. Penrose said, Giles.”

Giles did so. Then Miss Marple opened the little black book and the waitress brought three cups of weak coffee, and a scone and butter, and a plate of cakes. Giles and Gwenda did not talk. They watched Miss Marple as she read.

Finally she closed the book and laid it down. Her expression was difficult to read. There was, Gwenda thought, anger in it. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her eyes shone very brightly, unusually so, considering her age.

“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Yes, indeed!”

Gwenda said: “You advised us once—do you remember?—not to go on. I can see why you did. But we did go on—and this is where we’ve got to. Only now, it seems as though we’d got to another place where one could—if one liked—stop … Do you think we ought to stop? Or not?”

Miss Marple shook her head slowly. She seemed worried, perplexed.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know. It might be better to do so, much better to do so. Because after this lapse of time there is nothing that you can do—nothing, I mean, of a constructive nature.”

“You mean that after this lapse of time, there is nothing we can find out?” asked Giles.

“Oh no,” said Miss Marple. “I didn’t mean that at all. Nineteen years is not such a long time. There are people who would remember things, who could answer questions—quite a lot of people. Servants for instance. There must have been at least two servants in the house at the time, and a nurse, and probably a gardener. It will only take time and a little trouble to find and talk to these people. As a matter of fact, I’ve found one of them already. The cook. No, it wasn’t that. It was more the question of what practical good you can accomplish, and I’d be inclined to say to that—None. And yet….”

She stopped: “There is a yet … I’m a little slow in thinking things out, but I have a feeling that there is something—something, perhaps, not very tangible—that would be worth taking risks for—even that one should take risks for—but I find it difficult to say just what that is….”

Giles began “It seems to me—” and stopped.

Miss Marple turned to him gratefully.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “always seem to be able to tabulate things so clearly. I’m sure you have thought things out.”

“I’ve been thinking things out,” said Giles. “And it seems to me that there are just two conclusions one can come to. One is the same as I suggested before. Helen Halliday wasn’t dead when Gwennie saw her lying in the hall. She came to, and went away with her lover, whoever he was. That would still fit the facts as we know them. It would square with Kelvin Halliday’s rooted belief that he had killed his wife, and it would square with the missing suitcase and clothes and with the note that Dr. Kennedy found. But it leaves certain points unaccounted for. It doesn’t explain why Kelvin was convinced he strangled his wife in the bedroom. And it doesn’t cover the one, to my mind, really staggering question—where is Helen Halliday now? Because it seems to me against all reason that Helen should never have been heard of or from again. Grant that the two letters she wrote are genuine, what happened after that? Why did she never write again? She was on affectionate terms with her brother, he’s obviously deeply attached to her and always has been. He might disapprove of her conduct, but that doesn’t mean that he expected never to hear from her again. And if you ask me, that point has obviously been worrying Kennedy himself. Let’s say he accepted at the time absolutely the story he’s told us. His sister’s going off and Kelvin’s breakdown. But he didn’t expect never to hear from his sister again. I think, as the years went on, and he didn’t hear, and Kelvin Halliday persisted in his delusion and finally committed suicide, that a terrible doubt began to creep up in his mind. Supposing that Kelvin’s story was true? That he actually had killed Helen? There’s no word from her—and surely if she had died somewhere abroad, word would have come to him? I think that explains his eagerness when he saw our advertisement. He hoped that it might lead to some account of where she was or what she had been doing. I’m sure it’s absolutely unnatural for someone to disappear as—as completely as Helen seems to have done. That, in itself, is highly suspicious.”

“I agree with you,” said Miss Marple. “But the alternative, Mr. Reed?”

Giles said slowly, “I’ve been thinking out the alternative. It’s pretty fantastic, you know, and even rather frightening. Because it involves—how can I put it—a kind of malevolence….”

“Yes,” said Gwenda. “Malevolence is just right. Even, I think, something that isn’t quite sane …” She shivered.

“That is indicated, I think,” said Miss Marple. “You know, there’s a great deal of—well, queerness about—more than people imagine. I have seen some of it….”

Her face was thoughtful.

“There can’t be, you see, any normal explanation,” said Giles. “I’m taking now the fantastic hypothesis that Kelvin Halliday didn’t kill his wife, but genuinely thought he had done so. That’s what Dr. Penrose, who seems a decent sort of bloke, obviously wants to think. His first impression of Halliday was that there was a man who had killed his wife and wanted to give himself up to the police. Then he had to take Kennedy’s word for it that that wasn’t so, so he had perforce to believe that Halliday was a victim of a complex or a fixation or whatever the jargon is—but he didn’t really like that solution. He’s had a good experience of the type and Halliday didn’t square with it. However, on knowing Halliday better he became quite genuinely sure that Halliday was not the type of man who would strangle a woman under any provocation. So he accepted the fixation theory, but with misgivings. And that really means that only one theory will fit the case—Halliday was induced to believe that he had killed his wife, by someone else. In other words, we’ve come to X.

“Going over the facts very carefully, I’d say that that hypothesis is at least possible. According to his own account, Halliday came into the house that evening, went into the dining room, took a drink as he usually did—and then went into the next room, saw a note on the desk and had a blackout—”

Giles paused and Miss Marple nodded her head in approval. He went on:

“Say it wasn’t a blackout—that it was just simply dope—knock-out drops in the whisky. The next step is quite clear, isn’t it? X had strangled Helen in the hall, but afterwards he took her upstairs and arranged her artistically as a crime passionel on the bed, and that’s where Kelvin is when he comes to; and the poor devil, who may have been suffering from jealousy where she’s concerned, thinks that he’s done it. What does he do next? Goes off to find his brother-in-law—on the other side of the town and on foot. And that gives X time to do his next trick. Pack and remove a suitcase of clothes and also remove the body—though what he did with the body,” Giles ended vexedly, “beats me completely.”

“It surprises me you should say that, Mr. Reed,” said Miss Marple. “I should say that that problem would present few difficulties. But do please go on.”

“Who Were The Men In Her Life?” quoted Giles. “I saw that in a newspaper as we came back in the train. It set me wondering, because that’s really the crux of the matter, isn’t it? If there is an X, as we believe, all we know about him is that he must have been crazy about her—literally crazy about her.”

“And so he hated my father,” said Gwenda. “And he wanted him to suffer.”

“So that’s where we come up against it,” said Giles. “We know what kind of a girl Helen was—” he hesitated.

“Man mad,” supplied Gwenda.

Miss Marple looked up suddenly as though to speak, and then stopped.

“—and that she was beautiful. But we’ve no clue to what other men there were in her life besides her husband. There may have been any number.”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“Hardly that. She was quite young, you know. But you are not quite accurate, Mr. Reed. We do know something about what you have termed ‘the men in her life.’ There was the man she was going out to marry—”

“Ah yes—the lawyer chap? What was his name?”

“Walter Fane,” said Miss Marple.

“Yes. But you can’t count him. He was out in Malaya or India or somewhere.”

“But was he? He didn’t remain a tea-planter, you know,” Miss Marple pointed out. “He came back here and went into the firm, and is now the senior partner.”

Gwenda exclaimed: “Perhaps he followed her back here?”

“He may have done. We don’t know.”

Giles was looking curiously at the old lady.

“How did you find all this out?”

Miss Marple smiled apologetically.

“I’ve been gossiping a little. In shops—and waiting for buses. Old ladies are supposed to be inquisitive. Yes, one can pick up quite a lot of local news.”

“Walter Fane,” said Giles thoughtfully. “Helen turned him down. That may have rankled quite a lot. Did he ever marry?”

“No,” said Miss Marple. “He lives with his mother. I’m going to tea there at the end of the week.”

“There’s someone else we know about, too,” said Gwenda suddenly. “You remember there was somebody she got engaged to, or entangled with, when she left school—someone undesirable, Dr. Kennedy said. I wonder just why he was undesirable….”

“That’s two men,” said Giles. “Either of them may have had a grudge, may have brooded … Perhaps the first young man may have had some unsatisfactory mental history.”

“Dr. Kennedy could tell us that,” said Gwenda. “Only it’s going to be a little difficult asking him. I mean, it’s all very well for me to go along and ask for news of my stepmother whom I barely remember. But it’s going to take a bit of explaining if I want to know about her early love affairs. It seems rather excessive interest in a stepmother you hardly knew.”

“There are probably other ways of finding out,” said Miss Marple. “Oh yes, I think with time and patience, we can gather the information we want.”

“Anyway, we’ve got two possibilities,” said Giles.

“We might, I think, infer a third,” said Miss Marple. “It would be, of course, a pure hypothesis, but justified, I think, by the turn of events.”

Gwenda and Giles looked at her in slight surprise.

“It is just an inference,” said Miss Marple, turning a little pink. “Helen Kennedy went out to India to marry young Fane. Admittedly she was not wildly in love with him, but she must have been fond of him, and quite prepared to spend her life with him. Yet as soon as she gets there, she breaks off the engagement and wires her brother to send her money to get home. Now why?”

“Changed her mind, I suppose,” said Giles.

Both Miss Marple and Gwenda looked at him in mild contempt.

“Of course she changed her mind,” said Gwenda. “We know that. What Miss Marple means is—why?”

“I suppose girls do change their minds,” said Giles vaguely.

“Under certain circumstances,” said Miss Marple.

Her words held all the pointed innuendo that elderly ladies are able to achieve with the minimum of actual statement.

“Something he did—” Giles was suggesting vaguely, when Gwenda chipped in sharply.

“Of course,” she said. “Another man!”

She and Miss Marple looked at each other with the assurance of those admitted to a freemasonry from which men were excluded.

Gwenda added with certainty: “On the boat! Going out!”

“Propinquity,” said Miss Marple.

“Moonlight on the boat deck,” said Gwenda. “All that sort of thing. Only—it must have been serious—not just a flirtation.”

“Oh yes,” said Miss Marple, “I think it was serious.”

“If so, why didn’t she marry the chap?” demanded Giles.

“Perhaps he didn’t really care for her,” Gwenda said slowly. Then shook her head. “No, I think in that case she would still have married Walter Fane. Oh, of course, I’m being stupid. Married man.”

She looked triumphantly at Miss Marple.

“Exactly,” said Miss Marple. “That’s how I should reconstruct it. They fell in love, probably desperately in love. But if he was a married man—with children, perhaps—and probably an honourable type—well, that would be the end of it.”

“Only she couldn’t go on and marry Walter Fane,” said Gwenda. “So she wired her brother and went home. Yes, that all fits. And on the boat home, she met my father….”

She paused, thinking it out.

“Not wildly in love,” she said. “But attracted … and then there was me. They were both unhappy … and they consoled each other. My father told her about my mother, and perhaps she told him about the other man … Yes—of course—” She flicked over the pages of the diary.

“I knew there was someone—she said as much to me on the boat—someone she loved and couldn’t marry.

Yes—that’s it. Helen and my father felt they were alike—and there was me to be looked after, and she thought she could make him happy—and she even thought, perhaps, that she’d be quite happy herself in the end.”

She stopped, nodded violently at Miss Marple, and said brightly: “That’s it.”

Giles was looking exasperated.

“Really, Gwenda, you make a whole lot of things up and pretend that they actually happened.”

“They did happen. They must have happened. And that gives us a third person for X.”

“You mean—?”

“The married man. We don’t know what he was like. He mayn’t have been nice at all. He may have been a little mad. He may have followed her here—”

“You’ve just placed him as going out to India.”

“Well, people can come back from India, can’t they? Walter Fane did. It was nearly a year later. I don’t say this man did come back, but I say he’s a possibility. You keep harping on who the men were in her life. Well, we’ve got three of them. Walter Fane, and some young man whose name we don’t know, and a married man—”

“Whom we don’t know exists,” finished Giles.

“We’ll find out,” said Gwenda. “Won’t we, Miss Marple?”

“With time and patience,” said Miss Marple, “we may find out a great deal. Now for my contribution. As a result of a very fortunate little conversation in the draper’s today, I have discovered that Edith Pagett who was cook at St. Catherine’s at the time we are interested in, is still in Dillmouth. Her sister is married to a confectioner here. I think it would be quite natural, Gwenda, for you to want to see her. She may be able to tell us a good deal.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Gwenda. “I’ve thought of something else,” she added. “I’m going to make a new will. Don’t look so grave, Giles, I shall still leave my money to you. But I shall get Walter Fane to do it for me.”

“Gwenda,” said Giles. “Do be careful.”

“Making a will,” said Gwenda, “is a most natural thing to do. And the line of approach I’ve thought up is quite good. Anyway, I want to see him. I want to see what he’s like, and if I think that possibly—”

She left the sentence unfinished.

“What surprises me,” said Giles, “is that no one else answered that advertisement of ours—this Edith Pagett, for example—”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“People take a long time to make up their minds about a thing like that in these country districts,” she said. “They’re suspicious. They like to think things over.”

Twelve

LILY KIMBLE

Lily Kimble spread a couple of old newspapers on the kitchen table in readiness for draining the chipped potatoes which were hissing in the pan. Humming tunelessly a popular melody of the day she leaned forward aimlessly studying the newsprint spread out before her.

Then suddenly she stopped humming and called: “Jim—Jim. Listen here, will you?”

Jim Kimble, an elderly man of few words, was washing at the scullery sink. To answer his wife, he used his favourite monosyllable.

“Ar?” said Jim Kimble.

“It’s a piece in the paper. Will anyone with any knowledge of Helen Spenlove Halliday, née Kennedy, communicate with Messrs. Reed and Hardy, Southampton Row! Seems to me they might be meaning Mrs. Halliday as I was in service with at St. Catherine’s. Took it from Mrs. Findeyson, they did, she and ’er ’usband. Her name was Helen right enough—Yes, and she was sister to Dr. Kennedy, him as always said I ought to have had my adenoids out.”

There was a momentary pause as Mrs. Kimble adjusted the frying chips with an expert touch. Jim Kimble was snorting into the roller towel as he dried his face.

“Course, it’s an old paper, this,” resumed Mrs. Kimble. She studied its date. “Nigh on a week or more old. Wonder what it’s all about? Think as there’s any money in it, Jim?”

Mr. Kimble said, “Ar,” noncommittally.

“Might be a will or something,” speculated his wife. “Powerful lot of time ago.”

“Ar.”

“Eighteen years or more, I shouldn’t wonder … Wonder what they’re raking it all up for now? You don’t think it could be police, do you, Jim?

“Whatever?” asked Mr. Kimble.

“Well, you know what I always thought,” said Mrs. Kimble mysteriously. “Told you at the time, I did, when we was walking out. Pretending that she’d gone off with a feller. That’s what they say, husbands, when they do their wives in. Depend upon it, it was murder. That’s what I said to you and what I said to Edie, but Edie she wouldn’t have it at any price. Never no imagination, Edie hadn’t. Those clothes she was supposed to have took away with her—well, they weren’t right, if you know what I mean. There was a suitcase gone and a bag, and enough clothes to fill ’em, but they wasn’t right, those clothes. And that’s when I said to Edie, ‘Depend upon it,’ I said, ‘the master’s murdered her and put her in the cellar.’ Only not really the cellar, because that Layonee, the Swiss nurse, she saw something. Out of the window. Come to the cinema along of me, she did, though she wasn’t supposed to leave the nursery—but there, I said, the child never wakes up—good as gold she was, always, in her bed at night. ‘And madam never comes up to the nursery in the evening,’ I says. ‘Nobody will know if you slip out with me.’ So she did. And when we got in there was ever such a schemozzle going on. Doctor was there and the master ill and sleeping in the dressing room, and the doctor looking after him, and it was then he asked me about the clothes, and it seemed all right at the time. I thought she’d gone off all right with that fellow she was so keen on—and him a married man, too—and Edie said she did hope and pray we wouldn’t be mixed up in any divorce case. What was his name now? I can’t remember. Began with an M—or was it an R? Bless us, your memory does go.”

Mr. Kimble came in from the scullery and ignoring all matters of lesser moment demanded if his supper was ready.

“I’ll just drain the chips … Wait, I’ll get another paper. Better keep this one. ’T wouldn’t be likely to be police—not after all this time. Maybe it’s lawyers—and money in it. It doesn’t say something to your advantage … but it might be all the same … Wish I knew who I could ask about it. It says write to some address in London—but I’m not sure I’d like to do a thing like that … not to a lot of people in London … What do you say, Jim?”

“Ar,” said Mr. Kimble, hungrily eyeing the fish and chips.

The discussion was postponed.

Thirteen

WALTER FANE

I

Gwenda looked across the broad mahogany desk at Mr. Walter Fane.

She saw a rather tired-looking man of about fifty, with a gentle, nondescript face. The sort of man, Gwenda thought, that you would find it a little difficult to recollect if you had just met him casually … A man who, in modern phrase, lacked personality. His voice, when he spoke, was slow and careful and pleasant. Probably, Gwenda decided, a very sound lawyer.

She stole a glance round the office—the office of the senior partner of the firm. It suited Walter Fane, she decided. It was definitely old-fashioned, the furniture was shabby, but was made of good solid Victorian material. There were deed boxes piled up against the walls—boxes with respectable County names on them. Sir John Vavasour-Trench. Lady Jessup. Arthur ffoulkes, Esq. Deceased.

The big sash windows, the panes of which were rather dirty, looked into a square backyard flanked by the solid walls of a seventeenth-century adjoining house. There was nothing smart or up to date anywhere, but there was nothing sordid either. It was superficially an untidy office with its piled-up boxes, and its littered desk, and its row of law books leaning crookedly on a shelf—but it was actually the office of someone who knew exactly where to lay his hand upon anything he wanted.

The scratching of Walter Fane’s pen ceased. He smiled his slow, pleasant smile.

“I think that’s all quite clear, Mrs. Reed,” he said. “A very simple will. When would you like to come in and sign it?”

Gwenda said whenever he liked. There was no particular hurry.

“We’ve got a house down here, you know,” she said. “Hillside.”

Walter Fane said, glancing down at his notes, “Yes, you gave me the address….”

There was no change in the even tenor of his voice.

“It’s a very nice house,” said Gwenda. “We love it.”

“Indeed?” Walter Fane smiled. “Is it on the sea?”

“No,” said Gwenda. “I believe the name has been changed. It used to be St. Catherine’s.”

Mr. Fane took off his pince-nez. He polished them with a silk handkerchief, looking down at the desk.

“Oh yes,” he said. “On the Leahampton road?”

He looked up and Gwenda thought how different people who habitually wear glasses look without them. His eyes, a very pale grey, seemed strangely weak and unfocussed.

It makes his whole face look, thought Gwenda, as though he isn’t really there.

Walter Fane put on the pince-nez again. He said in his precise lawyer’s voice, “I think you said you did make a will on the occasion of your marriage?”

“Yes. But I’d left things in it to various relatives in New Zealand who have died since, so I thought it would be simpler really to make a new one altogether—especially as we mean to live permanently in this country.”

Walter Fane nodded.

“Yes, quite a sound view to take. Well, I think this is all quite clear, Mrs. Reed. Perhaps if you come in the day after tomorrow? Will eleven o’clock suit you?”

“Yes, that will be quite all right.”

Gwenda rose to her feet and Walter Fane rose also.

Gwenda said, with exactly the little rush she had rehearsed beforehand, “I—I asked specially for you, because I think—I mean I believe—that you once knew my—my mother.”

“Indeed?” Walter Fane put a little additional social warmth into his manner. “What was her name?”

“Halliday. Megan Halliday. I think—I’ve been told—that you were once engaged to her?”

A clock on the wall ticked. One, two, one two, one two.

Gwenda suddenly felt her heart beating a little faster. What a very quiet face Walter Fane had. You might see a house like that—a house with all the blinds pulled down. That would mean a house with a dead body in it. (What idiotic thoughts you do have, Gwenda!)

Walter Fane, his voice unchanged, unruffled, said, “No, I never knew your mother, Mrs. Reed. But I was once engaged, for a short period, to Helen Kennedy who afterwards married Major Halliday as his second wife.”

“Oh, I see. How stupid of me. I’ve got it all wrong. It was Helen—my stepmother. Of course it’s all long before I remember. I was only a child when my father’s second marriage broke up. But I heard someone say that you’d once been engaged to Mrs. Halliday in India—and I thought of course it was my own mother—because of India, I mean … My father met her in India.”

“Helen Kennedy came out to India to marry me,” said Walter Fane. “Then she changed her mind. On the boat going home she met your father.”

It was a plain unemotional statement of fact. Gwenda still had the impression of a house with the blinds down.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Have I put my foot in it?”

Walter Fane smiled—his slow, pleasant smile. The blinds were up.

“It’s nineteen or twenty years ago, Mrs. Reed,” he said. “One’s youthful troubles and follies don’t mean much after that space of time. So you are Halliday’s baby daughter. You know, don’t you, that your father and Helen actually lived here in Dillmouth for a while?”

“Oh yes,” said Gwenda, “that’s really why we came here. I didn’t remember it properly, of course, but when we had to decide where we’d live in England, I came to Dillmouth first of all, to see what it was really like, and I thought it was such an attractive place that I decided that we’d park ourselves right here and nowhere else. And wasn’t it luck? We’ve actually got the same house that my people lived in long ago.”

“I remember the house,” said Walter Fane. Again he gave that slow, pleasant smile. “You may not remember me, Mrs. Reed, but I rather imagine I used to give you piggybacks once.”

Gwenda laughed.

“Did you really? Then you’re quite an old friend, aren’t you? I can’t pretend I remember you—but then I was only about two and a half or three, I suppose … Were you back on leave from India or something like that?”

“No, I’d chucked India for good. I went out to try tea-planting—but the life didn’t suit me. I was cut out to follow in my father’s footsteps and be a prosy unadventurous country solicitor. I’d passed all my law exams earlier, so I simply came back and went straight into the firm.” He paused and said, “I’ve been here ever since.”

Again there was a pause and he repeated in a lower voice, “Yes—ever since….”

But eighteen years, thought Gwenda, isn’t really such a long time as all that….

Then, with a change of manner, he shook hands with her and said, “Since we seem to be old friends, you really must bring your husband to tea with my mother one day. I’ll get her to write to you. In the meanwhile, eleven o’clock on Thursday?”

Gwenda went out of the office and down the stairs. There was a cobweb in the angle of the stairway. In the middle of the web was a pale, rather nondescript spider. It didn’t look, Gwenda thought, like a real spider. Not the fat juicy kind of spider who caught flies and ate them. It was more like a ghost of a spider. Rather like Walter Fane, in fact.

II

Giles met his wife on the seafront.

“Well?” he asked.

“He was here in Dillmouth at the time,” said Gwenda. “Back from India, I mean. Because he gave me piggybacks. But he couldn’t have murdered anyone—not possibly. He’s much too quiet and gentle. Very nice, really, but the kind of person you never really notice. You know, they come to parties, but you never notice when they leave. I should think he was frightfully upright and all that, and devoted to his mother, and with a lot of virtues. But from a woman’s point of view, terribly dull. I can see why he didn’t cut any ice with Helen. You know, a nice safe person to marry—but you don’t really want to.”

“Poor devil,” said Giles. “And I suppose he was just crazy about her.”

“Oh, I don’t know … I shouldn’t think so, really. Anyway, I’m sure he wouldn’t be our malevolent murderer. He’s not my idea of a murderer at all.”

“You don’t really know a lot about murderers, though, do you, my sweet?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well—I was thinking about quiet Lizzie Borden—only the jury said she didn’t do it. And Wallace, a quiet man whom the jury insisted did kill his wife, though the sentence was quashed on appeal. And Armstrong who everybody said for years was such a kind unassuming fellow. I don’t believe murderers are ever a special type.”

“I really can’t believe that Walter Fane—”

Gwenda stopped.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

But she was remembering Walter Fane polishing his eyeglasses and the queer blind stare of his eyes when she had first mentioned St. Catherine’s.

“Perhaps,” she said uncertainly, “he was crazy about her….”

Fourteen

EDITH PAGETT

Mrs. Mountford’s back parlour was a comfortable room. It had a round table covered with a cloth, and some old-fashioned armchairs and a stern-looking but unexpectedly well-sprung sofa against the wall. There were china dogs and other ornaments on the mantelpiece, and a framed coloured representation of the Princess Elizabeth and Margaret Rose. On another wall was the King in Naval uniform, and a photograph of Mr. Mountford in a group of other bakers and confectioners. There was a picture made with shells and a watercolour of a very green sea at Capri. There were a great many other things, none of them with any pretensions to beauty or the higher life; but the net result was a happy, cheerful room where people sat round and enjoyed themselves whenever there was time to do so.

Mrs. Mountford, née Pagett, was short and round and darkhaired with a few grey streaks in the dark. Her sister, Edith Pagett, was tall and dark and thin. There was hardly any grey in her hair though she was at a guess round about fifty.

“Fancy now,” Edith Pagett was saying. “Little Miss Gwennie. You must excuse me, m’am, speaking like that, but it does take one back. You used to come into my kitchen, as pretty as could be. ‘Winnies,’ you used to say. ‘Winnies.’ And what you meant was raisins—though why you called them winnies is more than I can say. But raisins was what you meant and raisins it was I used to give you, sultanas, that is, on account of the stones.”

Gwenda stared hard at the upright figure and the red cheeks and black eyes, trying to remember—to remember—but nothing came. Memory was an inconvenient thing.

“I wish I could remember—” she began.

“It’s not likely that you would. Just a tiny little mite, that’s all you were. Nowadays nobody seems to want to go in a house where there’s children. I can’t see it, myself. Children give life to a house, that’s what I feel. Though nursery meals are always liable to cause a bit of trouble. But if you know what I mean, m’am, that’s the nurse’s fault, not the child’s. Nurses are nearly always difficult—trays and waiting upon and one thing and another. Do you remember Layonee at all, Miss Gwennie? Excuse me, Mrs. Reed, I should say.”

“Léonie? Was she my nurse?”

“Swiss girl, she was. Didn’t speak English very well, and very sensitive in her feelings. Used to cry a lot if Lily said something to upset her. Lily was house-parlourmaid. Lily Abbott. A young girl and pert in her ways and a bit flighty. Many a game Lily used to have with you, Miss Gwennie. Play peep-bo through the stairs.”

Gwenda gave a quick uncontrollable shiver.

The stairs …

Then she said suddenly, “I remember Lily. She put a bow on the cat.”

“There now, fancy you remembering that! On your birthday it was, and Lily she was all for it, Thomas must have a bow on. Took one off the chocolate box, and Thomas was mad about it. Ran off into the garden and rubbed through the bushes until he got it off. Cats don’t like tricks being played on them.”

“A black and white cat.”

“That’s right. Poor old Tommy. Caught mice something beautiful. A real proper mouser.” Edith Pagett paused and coughed primly. “Excuse me running on like this, m’am. But talking brings the old days back. You wanted to ask me something?”

“I like hearing you talk about the old days,” said Gwenda. “That’s just what I want to hear about. You see, I was brought up by relations in New Zealand and of course they could never tell me anything about—about my father, and my stepmother. She—she was nice, wasn’t she?”

“Very fond of you, she was. Oh yes, she used to take you down to the beach and play with you in the garden. She was quite young herself, you understand. Nothing but a girl, really. I often used to think she enjoyed the games as much as you did. You see she’d been an only child, in a manner of speaking. Dr. Kennedy, her brother, was years and years older and always shut up with his books. When she wasn’t away at school, she had to play by herself….”

Miss Marple, sitting back against the wall, asked gently, “You’ve lived in Dillmouth all your life, haven’t you?”

“Oh yes, madam. Father had the farm up behind the hill—Rylands it was always called. He’d no sons, and Mother couldn’t carry on after he died, so she sold it and bought the little fancy shop at the end of the High Street. Yes, I’ve lived here all my life.”

“And I suppose you know all about everyone in Dillmouth?”

“Well, of course it used to be a small place, then. Though there used always to be a lot of summer visitors as long as I can remember. But nice quiet people who came here every year, not these trippers and charabancs we have nowadays. Good families they were, who’d come back to the same rooms year after year.”

“I suppose,” said Giles, “that you knew Helen Kennedy before she was Mrs. Halliday?”

“Well, I knew of her, so to speak, and I may have seen her about. But I didn’t know her proper until I went into service there.”

“And you liked her,” said Miss Marple.

Edith Pagett turned towards her.

“Yes, madam, I did,” she said. There was a trace of defiance in her manner. “No matter what anybody says. She was as nice as could be to me always. I’d never have believed she’d do what she did do. Took my breath away, it did. Although, mind you, there had been talk—”

She stopped rather abruptly and gave a quick apologetic glance at Gwenda.

Gwenda spoke impulsively.

“I want to know,” she said. “Please don’t think I shall mind anything you say. She wasn’t my own mother—”

“That’s true enough, m’am.”

“And you see, we are very anxious to—to find her. She went away from here—and she seems to have been quite lost sight of. We don’t know where she is living now, or even if she is alive. And there are reasons—”

She hesitated and Giles said quickly, “Legal reasons. We don’t know whether to presume death or—or what.”

“Oh, I quite understand, sir. My cousin’s husband was missing—after Ypres it was—and there was a lot of trouble about presuming death and that. Real vexing it was for her. Naturally, sir, if there is anything I can tell you that will help in any way—it isn’t as if you were strangers. Miss Gwenda and her ‘winnies.’ So funny you used to say it.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Giles. “So, if you don’t mind, I’ll just fire away. Mrs. Halliday left home quite suddenly, I understand?”

“Yes, sir, it was a great shock to all of us—and especially to the Major, poor man. He collapsed completely.”

“I’m going to ask you right out—have you any idea who the man was she went away with?”

Edith Pagett shook her head.

“That’s what Dr. Kennedy asked me—and I couldn’t tell him. Lily couldn’t either. And of course that Layonee, being a foreigner, didn’t know a thing about it.”

“You didn’t know,” said Giles. “But could you make a guess? Now that it’s all so long ago, it wouldn’t matter—even if the guess is all wrong. You must, surely, have had some suspicion.”

“Well, we had our suspicions … but mind you, it wasn’t more than suspicions. And as far as I’m concerned, I never saw anything at all. But Lily who, as I told you, was a sharp kind of girl, Lily had her ideas—had had them for a long time. ‘Mark my words,’ she used to say. ‘That chap’s sweet on her. Only got to see him looking at her as she pours out the tea. And does his wife look daggers!’”

“I see. And who was the—er—chap?”

“Now I’m afraid, sir, I just don’t remember his name. Not after all these years. A Captain—Esdale—no, that wasn’t it—Emery—no. I have a kind of feeling it began with an E. Or it might have been H. Rather an unusual kind of name. But I’ve never even thought of it for sixteen years. He and his wife were staying at the Royal Clarence.”

“Summer visitors?”

“Yes, but I think that he—or maybe both of them—had known Mrs. Halliday before. They came to the house quite often. Anyway, according to Lily he was sweet on Mrs. Halliday.”

“And his wife didn’t like it.”

“No, sir … But mind you, I never believed for a moment that there was anything wrong about it. And I still don’t know what to think.”

Gwenda asked, “Were they still here—at the Royal Clarence—when—when Helen—my stepmother went away?”

“As far as I recollect they went away just about the same time, a day earlier or a day later—anyway, it was close enough to make people talk. But I never heard anything definite. It was all kept very quiet if it was so. Quite a nine days’ wonder Mrs. Halliday going off like that, so sudden. But people did say she’d always been flighty—not that I ever saw anything of the kind myself. I wouldn’t have been willing to go to Norfolk with them if I’d thought that.”

For a moment three people stared at her intently. Then Giles said, “Norfolk? Were they going to Norfolk?”

“Yes, sir. They’d bought a house there. Mrs. Halliday told me about three weeks before—before all this happened. She asked me if I’d come with them when they moved, and I said I would. After all, I’d never been away from Dillmouth, and I thought perhaps I’d like a change—seeing as I liked the family.”

“I never heard they had bought a house in Norfolk,” said Giles.

“Well, it’s funny you should say that, sir, because Mrs. Halliday seemed to want it kept very quiet. She asked me not to speak about it to anyone at all—so of course I didn’t. But she’d been wanting to go away from Dillmouth for some time. She’d been pressing Major Halliday to go, but he liked it at Dillmouth. I even believe he wrote to Mrs. Findeyson whom St. Catherine’s belonged to, asking if she’d consider selling it. But Mrs. Halliday was dead against it. She seemed to have turned right against Dillmouth. It’s almost as though she was afraid to stop there.”

The words came out quite naturally, yet at the sound of them the three people listening again stiffened to attention.

Giles said, “You don’t think she wanted to go to Norfolk to be near this—the man whose name you can’t remember?”

Edith Pagett looked distressed.

“Oh indeed, sir, I wouldn’t like to think that. And I don’t think it, not for a moment. Besides I don’t think that—I remember now—they came from up North somewhere, that lady and gentleman did. Northumberland, I think it was. Anyway, they liked coming south for a holiday because it was so mild down here.”

Gwenda said: “She was afraid of something, wasn’t she? Or of someone? My stepmother, I mean.”

“I do remember—now that you say that—”

“Yes?”

“Lily came into the kitchen one day. She’d been dusting the stairs, and she said, ‘Ructions!’ she said. She had a very common way of talking sometimes, Lily had, so you must excuse me.

“So I asked her what she meant and she said that the missus had come in from the garden with the master into the drawing room and the door to the hall being open, Lily heard what they said.

“‘I’m afraid of you,’ that’s what Mrs. Halliday had said.

“‘And she sounded scared too,’ Lily said. ‘I’ve been afraid of you for a long time. You’re mad. You’re not normal. Go away and leave me alone. You must leave me alone. I’m frightened. I think, underneath, I’ve always been frightened of you... .’

“Something of that kind—of course I can’t say now to the exact words. But Lily, she took it very seriously, and that’s why, after it all happened, she—”

Edith Pagett stopped dead. A curious frightened look came over her face.

“I didn’t mean, I’m sure—” she began. “Excuse me, madam, my tongue runs away with me.”

Giles said gently: “Please tell us, Edith. It’s really important, you see, that we should know. It’s all a long time ago now, but we’ve got to know.”

“I couldn’t say, I’m sure,” said Edith helplessly.

Miss Marple asked: “What was it Lily didn’t believe—or did believe?”

Edith Pagett said apologetically: “Lily was always one to get ideas in her head. I never took no notice of them. She was always one for going to the pictures and she got a lot of silly melodramatic ideas that way. She was out at the pictures the night it happened—and what’s more she took Layonee with her—and very wrong that was, and I told her so. ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s not leaving the child alone in the house. You’re down in the kitchen and the master and the missus will be in later and anyway that child never wakes once she’s off to sleep.’ But it was wrong, and I told her so, though of course I never knew about Layonee going till afterwards. If I had, I’d have run up to see she—you, I mean, Miss Gwenda—were quite all right. You can’t hear a thing from the kitchen when the baize door’s shut.”

Edith Pagett paused and then went on: “I was doing some ironing. The evening passed ever so quick and the first thing I knew Dr. Kennedy came out in the kitchen and asked me where Lily was and I said it was her night off but she’d be in any minute now and sure enough she came in that very minute and he took her upstairs to the mistress’s room. Wanted to know if she’d taken any clothes away with her, and what. So Lily looked about and told him and then she come down to me. All agog she was. ‘She’s hooked it,’ she said. ‘Gone off with someone. The master’s all in. Had a stroke or something. Apparently it’s been a terrible shock to him. More fool he. He ought to have seen it coming.’ ‘You shouldn’t speak like that,’ I said. ‘How do you know she’s gone off with anybody? Maybe she had a telegram from a sick relation.’ ‘Sick relation my foot,’ Lily says (always a common way of speaking, as I said). ‘She left a note.’ ‘Who’s she gone off with?’ I said. ‘Who do you think?’ Lily said. ‘Not likely to be Mr. Sobersides Fane, for all his sheep’s eyes and the way he follows her round like a dog.’ So I said, ‘You think it’s Captain—whatever his name was.’ And she said, ‘He’s my bet. Unless it’s our mystery man in the flashy car.’ (That’s just a silly joke we had.) And I said, ‘I don’t believe it. Not Mrs. Halliday. She wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ And Lily says, ‘Well, it seems she’s done it.’

“All this was at first, you understand. But later on, up in our bedroom, Lily woke me up. ‘Look here,’ she says. ‘It’s all wrong.’ ‘What’s wrong?’ I said. And she said, ‘Those clothes.’ ‘Whatever are you talking about?’ I said. ‘Listen, Edie,’ she said. ‘I went through her clothes because the doctor asked me to. And there’s a suitcase gone and enough to fill it—but they’re the wrong things.’ ‘What do you mean?’ I said. And Lily said, ‘She took an evening dress, her grey and silver—but she didn’t take her evening belt and brassière, nor the slip that goes with it, and she took her gold brocade evening shoes, not the silver strap ones. And she took her green tweed—which she never wears until late on in the autumn, but she didn’t take that fancy pullover and she took her lace blouses that she only wears with a town suit. Oh and her undies, too, they were a job lot. You mark my words, Edie,’ Lily said. ‘She’s not gone away at all. The master’s done her in.’

“Well, that made me wide awake. I sat right up and asked her what on earth she was talking about.

“‘Just like it was in the News of the World last week,’ Lily says. ‘The master found she’d been carrying on and he killed her and put her down in the cellar and buried her under the floor. You’d never hear anything because it’s under the front hall. That’s what he’s done, and then he packed a suitcase to make it look as though she’d gone away. But that’s where she is—under the cellar floor. She never left this house alive.’ I gave her a piece of my mind then, saying such awful things. But I’ll admit I slipped down to the cellar the next morning. But there, it was all just as usual and nothing disturbed and no digging been done—and I went and told Lily she’d just been making a fool of herself, but she stuck to it as the master had done her in. ‘Remember,’ she says, ‘she was scared to death of him. I heard her telling him so.’ ‘And that’s just where you’re wrong, my girl,’ I said, ‘because it wasn’t the master at all. Just after you’d told me, that day, I looked out of the window and there was the master coming down the hill with his golf clubs, so it couldn’t have been him who was with the mistress in the drawing room. It was someone else.’”

The words echoed lingeringly in the comfortable commonplace sitting room.

Giles said softly under his breath, “It was someone else….”

Fifteen

AN ADDRESS

The Royal Clarence was the oldest hotel in the town. It had a mellow bowfronted façade and an old-world atmosphere. It still catered for the type of family who came for a month to the seaside.

Miss Narracott who presided behind the reception desk was a full-bosomed lady of forty-seven with an old-fashioned style of hairdressing.

She unbent to Giles whom her accurate eye summed up as “one of our nice people.” And Giles, who had a ready tongue and a persuasive way with him when he liked, spun a very good tale. He had a bet on with his wife—about her godmother—and whether she had stayed at the Royal Clarence eighteen years ago. His wife had said that they could never settle the dispute because of course all the old registers would be thrown away by this time, but he had said Nonsense. An establishment like the Royal Clarence would keep its registers. They must go back for a hundred years.

“Well, not quite that, Mr. Reed. But we do keep all our old Visitors’ Books as we prefer to call them. Very interesting names in them, too. Why, the King stayed here once when he was Prince of Wales, and Princess Adlemar of Holstein-Rotz used to come every winter with her lady-in-waiting. And we’ve had some very famous novelists, too, and Mr. Dovey, the portrait-painter.”

Giles responded in suitable fashion with interest and respect and in due course the sacred volume for the year in question was brought out and exhibited to him.

Having first had various illustrious names pointed out to him, he turned the pages to the month of August.

Yes, here surely was the entry he was seeking.

Major and Mrs. Setoun Erskine, Anstell Manor, Daith, Northumberland, July 27th—August 17th.

“If I may copy this out?”

“Of course, Mr. Reed. Paper and ink—Oh, you have your pen. Excuse me, I must just go back to the outer office.”

She left him with the open book, and Giles set to work.

On his return to Hillside he found Gwenda in the garden, bending over the herbaceous border.

She straightened herself and gave him a quick glance of interrogation.

“Any luck?”

“Yes, I think this must be it.”

Gwenda said softly, reading the words: “Anstell Manor, Daith, Northumberland. Yes, Edith Pagett said Northumberland. I wonder if they’re still living there—”

“We’ll have to go and see.”

“Yes—yes, it would be better to go—when?”

“As soon as possible. Tomorrow? We’ll take the car and drive up. It will show you a little more of England.”

“Suppose they’re dead—or gone away and somebody else is living there?”

Giles shrugged his shoulders.

“Then we come back and go on with our other leads. I’ve written to Kennedy, by the way, and asked him if he’ll send me those letters Helen wrote after she went away—if he’s still got them—and a specimen of her handwriting.”

“I wish,” said Gwenda, “that we could get in touch with the other servant—with Lily—the one who put the bow on Thomas—”

“Funny your suddenly remembering that, Gwenda.”

“Yes, wasn’t it? I remember Tommy, too. He was black with white patches and he had three lovely kittens.”

“What? Thomas?”

“Well, he was called Thomas—but actually he turned out to be Thomasina. You know what cats are. But about Lily—I wonder what’s become of her? Edith Pagett seems to have lost sight of her entirely. She didn’t come from round here—and after the breakup at St. Catherine’s she took a place in Torquay. She wrote once or twice but that was all. Edith said she’d heard she’d got married but she didn’t know who to. If we could get hold of her we might learn a lot more.”

“And from Léonie, the Swiss girl.”

“Perhaps—but she was a foreigner and wouldn’t catch on to much of what went on. You know, I don’t remember her at all. No, it’s Lily I feel would be useful. Lily was the sharp one … I know, Giles, let’s put in another advertisement—an advertisement for her—Lily Abbott, her name was.”

“Yes,” said Giles. “We might try that. And we’ll definitely go north tomorrow and see what we can find out about the Erskines.”

Sixteen

MOTHER’S SON

“Down, Henry,” said Mrs. Fane to an asthmatic spaniel whose liquid eyes burned with greed. “Another scone, Miss Marple, while they’re hot?”

“Thank you. Such delicious scones. You have an excellent cook.”

“Louisa is not bad, really. Forgetful, like all of them. And no variety in her puddings. Tell me, how is Dorothy Yarde’s sciatica nowadays? She used to be a martyr to it. Largely nerves, I suspect.”

Miss Marple hastened to oblige with details of their mutual acquaintance’s ailments. It was fortunate, she thought, that amongst her many friends and relations scattered over England, she had managed to find a woman who knew Mrs. Fane and who had written explaining that a Miss Marple was at present in Dillmouth, and would dear Eleanor be very kind and ask her to something.

Eleanor Fane was a tall, commanding woman with a steely grey eye, crisp white hair, and a baby pink and white complexion which masked the fact that there was no baby-like softness whatever about her.

They discussed Dorothy’s ailments or imagined ailments and went on to Miss Marple’s health, the air of Dillmouth, and the general poor condition of most of the younger generation.

“Not made to eat their crusts as children,” Mrs. Fane pronounced. “None of that allowed in my nursery.”

“You have more than one son?” asked Miss Marple.

“Three. The eldest, Gerald, is in Singapore in the Far East Bank. Robert is in the Army.” Mrs. Fane sniffed. “Married a Roman Catholic,” she said with significance. “You know what that means! All the children brought up as Catholics. What Robert’s father would have said, I don’t know. My husband was very low church. I hardly ever hear from Robert nowadays. He takes exception to some of the things I have said to him purely for his own good. I believe in being sincere and saying exactly what one thinks. His marriage was, in my opinion, a great misfortune. He may pretend to be happy, poor boy—but I can’t feel that it is at all satisfactory.”

“Your youngest son is not married, I believe?”

Mrs. Fane beamed.

“No, Walter lives at home. He is slightly delicate—always was from a child—and I have always had to look after his health very carefully. (He will be in presently.) I can’t tell you what a thoughtful and devoted son he is. I am really a very lucky woman to have such a son.”

“And he has never thought of marrying?” enquired Miss Marple.

“Walter always says he really cannot be bothered with the modern young woman. They don’t appeal to him. He and I have so much in common that I’m afraid he doesn’t go out as much as he should. He reads Thackeray to me in the evenings, and we usually have a game of picquet. Walter is a real home bird.”

“How very nice,” said Miss Marple. “Has he always been in the firm? Somebody told me that you had a son who was out in Ceylon, as a tea-planter, but perhaps they got it wrong.”

A slight frown came over Mrs. Fane’s face. She urged walnut cake upon her guest and explained.

“That was as a very young man. One of those youthful impulses. A boy always longs to see the world. Actually, there was a girl at the bottom of it. Girls can be so unsettling.”

“Oh yes, indeed. My own nephew, I remember—”

Mrs. Fane swept on, ignoring Miss Marple’s nephew. She held the floor and was enjoying the opportunity to reminisce to this sympathetic friend of dear Dorothy’s.

“A most unsuitable girl—as seems always to be the way. Oh, I don’t mean an actress or anything like that. The local doctor’s sister—more like his daughter, really, years younger—and the poor man with no idea how to bring her up. Men are so helpless, aren’t they? She ran quite wild, entangled herself first with a young man in the office—a mere clerk—and a very unsatisfactory character, too. They had to get rid of him. Repeated confidential information. Anyway, this girl, Helen Kennedy, was, I suppose, very pretty. I didn’t think so. I always thought her hair was touched up. But Walter, poor boy, fell very much in love with her. As I say, quite unsuitable, no money and no prospects, and not the kind of girl one wanted as a daughter-in-law. Still, what can a mother do? Walter proposed to her and she refused him, and then he got this silly idea into his head of going out to India and being a tea-planter. My husband said, “Let him go,” though of course he was very disappointed. He had been looking forward to having Walter with him in the firm and Walter had passed all his law exams and everything. Still, there it was. Really, the havoc these young women cause!”

“Oh, I know. My nephew—”

Once again Mrs. Fane swept over Miss Marple’s nephew.

“So the dear boy went out to Assam or was it Bangalore—really I can’t remember after all these years. And I felt most upset because I knew his health wouldn’t stand it. And he hadn’t been out there a year (doing very well, too. Walter does everything well) than—would you believe it?—this impudent chit of a girl changes her mind and writes out that she’d like to marry him after all.”

“Dear, dear.” Miss Marple shook her head.

“Gets together her trousseau, books her passage—and what do you think the next move is?”

“I can’t imagine.” Miss Marple leaned forward in rapt attention.

“Has a love affair with a married man, if you please. On the boat going out. A married man with three children, I believe. Anyway there is Walter on the quay to meet her and the first thing she does is to say she can’t marry him after all. Don’t you call that a wicked thing to do?”

“Oh, I do indeed. It might have completely destroyed your son’s faith in human nature.”

“It should have shown her to him in her true colours. But there, that type of woman gets away with anything.”

“He didn’t—” Miss Marple hesitated—“resent her action? Some men would have been terribly angry.”

“Walter has always had wonderful self-control. However upset and annoyed Walter may be over anything, he never shows it.”

Miss Marple peered at her speculatively. Hesitantly, she put out a feeler.

“That is because it goes really deep, perhaps? One is really astonished sometimes, with children. A sudden outburst from some child that one has thought didn’t care at all. A sensitive nature that can’t express itself until it’s driven absolutely beyond endurance.”

“Ah, it’s very curious you should say that, Miss Marple. I remember so well. Gerald and Robert, you know, both hot-tempered and always apt to fight. Quite natural, of course, for healthy boys—”

“Oh, quite natural.”

“And dear Walter, always so quiet and patient. And then, one day, Robert got hold of his model aeroplane—he’d built it up himself with days of work—so patient and clever with his fingers—and Robert, who was a dear high-spirited boy but careless, smashed it. And when I came into the schoolroom there was Robert down on the floor and Walter attacking him with the poker, he’d practically knocked him out—and I simply had all I could do to drag Walter off him. He kept repeating. ‘He did it on purpose—he did it on purpose. I’m going to kill him.’ You know, I was quite frightened. Boys feel things so intensely, do they not?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Marple. Her eyes were thoughtful.

She reverted to the former topic.

“And so the engagement was finally broken off. What happened to the girl?”

“She came home. Had another love affair on the way back, and this time married the man. A widower with one child. A man who has just lost his wife is always a fair target—helpless, poor fellow. She married him and they settled down here in a house the other side of the town—St. Catherine’s—next door to the hospital. It didn’t last, of course—she left him within the year. Went off with some man or other.”

“Dear, dear!” Miss Marple shook her head. “What a lucky escape your son had!”

“That’s what I always tell him.”

“And did he give up tea-planting because his health wouldn’t stand it?”

A slight frown appeared on Mrs. Fane’s brow.

“The life wasn’t really congenial to him,” she said. “He came home about six months after the girl did.”

“It must have been rather awkward,” ventured Miss Marple. “If the young woman was actually living here. In the same town—”

“Walter was wonderful,” said Walter’s mother. “He behaved exactly as though nothing had happened. I should have thought myself (indeed I said so at the time) that it would be advisable to make a clean break—after all, meetings could only be awkward for both parties. But Walter insisted on going out of his way to be friendly. He used to call at the house in the most informal fashion, and play with the child—Rather curious, by the way, the child’s come back here. She’s grown-up now, with a husband. Came into Walter’s office to make her will the other day. Reed, that’s her name now. Reed.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Reed! I know them. Such a nice unaffected young couple. Fancy that now—and she is actually the child—”

“The first wife’s child. The first wife died out in India. Poor Major—I’ve forgotten his name—Hallway—something like that—was completely broken up when that minx left him. Why the worst women should always attract the best men is something hard to fathom!”

“And the young man who was originally entangled with her? A clerk, I think you said, in your son’s office. What happened to him?”

“Did very well for himself. He runs a lot of those Coach Tours. Daffodil Coaches. Afflick’s Daffodil Coaches. Painted bright yellow. It’s a vulgar world nowadays.”

“Afflick?” said Miss Marple.

“Jackie Afflick. A nasty pushing fellow. Always determined to get on, I imagine. Probably why he took up with Helen Kennedy in the first place. Doctor’s daughter and all that—thought it would better his social position.”

“And this Helen has never come back again to Dillmouth?”

“No. Good riddance. Probably gone completely to the bad by now. I was sorry for Dr. Kennedy. Not his fault. His father’s second wife was a fluffy little thing, years younger than he was. Helen inherited her wild blood from her, I expect. I’ve always thought—”

Mrs. Fane broke off.

“Here is Walter.” Her mother’s ear had distinguished certain well-known sounds in the hall. The door opened and Walter Fane came in.

“This is Miss Marple, my son. Ring the bell, son, and we’ll have some fresh tea.”

“Don’t bother, Mother. I had a cup.”

“Of course we will have fresh tea—and some scones, Beatrice,” she added to the parlourmaid who had appeared to take the teapot.

“Yes, madam.”

With a slow, likeable smile Walter Fane said: “My mother spoils me, I’m afraid.”

Miss Marple studied him as she made a polite rejoinder.

A gentle quiet-looking person, slightly diffident and apologetic in manner—colourless. A very nondescript personality. The devoted type of young man whom women ignore and only marry because the man they love does not return their affection. Walter, who is Always There. Poor Walter, his mother’s darling … Little Walter Fane who had attacked his older brother with a poker and had tried to kill him….

Miss Marple wondered.

Seventeen

RICHARD ERSKINE

I

Anstell Manor had a bleak aspect. It was a white house, set against a background of bleak hills. A winding drive led up through dense shrubbery.

Giles said to Gwenda, “Why have we come? What can we possibly say?”

“We’ve got it worked out.”

“Yes—so far as that goes. It’s lucky that Miss Marple’s cousin’s sister’s aunt’s brother-in-law or whatever it was lives near here … But it’s a far step from a social call to asking your host about his bygone love affairs.”

“And such a long time ago. Perhaps—perhaps he doesn’t even remember her.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t. And perhaps there never was a love affair.”

“Giles, are we making unutterable fools of ourselves?”

“I don’t know … Sometimes I feel that. I don’t see why we’re concerning ourselves with all this. What does it matter now?”

“So long after … Yes, I know … Miss Marple and Dr. Kennedy both said, “Leave it alone.” Why don’t we, Giles? What makes us go on? Is it her?”

“Her?”

“Helen. Is that why I remember? Is my childish memory the only link she’s got with life—with truth? Is it Helen who’s using me—and you—so that the truth will be known?”

“You mean, because she died a violent death—?”

“Yes. They say—books say—that sometimes they can’t rest….”

“I think you’re being fanciful, Gwenda.”

“Perhaps I am. Anyway, we can—choose. This is only a social call. There’s no need for it to be anything more—unless we want it to be—”

Giles shook his head.

“We shall go on. We can’t help ourselves.”

“Yes—you’re right. All the same, Giles, I think I’m rather frightened—”

II

“Looking for a house, are you?” said Major Erskine.

He offered Gwenda a plate of sandwiches. Gwenda took one, looking up at him. Richard Erskine was a small man, five foot nine or so. His hair was grey and he had tired, rather thoughtful eyes. His voice was low and pleasant with a slight drawl. There was nothing remarkable about him, but he was, Gwenda thought, definitely attractive … He was actually not nearly as good-looking as Walter Fane, but whereas most women would pass Fane without a second glance, they would not pass Erskine. Fane was nondescript. Erskine, in spite of his quietness, had personality. He talked of ordinary things in an ordinary manner, but there was something—that something that women are quick to recognize and to which they react in a purely female way. Almost unconsciously Gwenda adjusted her skirt, tweaked at a side curl, retouched her lips. Nineteen years ago Helen Kennedy could have fallen in love with this man. Gwenda was quite sure of that.

She looked up to find her hostess’s eyes full upon her, and involuntarily she flushed. Mrs. Erskine was talking to Giles, but she was watching Gwenda and her glance was both appraising and suspicious. Janet Erskine was a tall woman, her voice was deep—almost as deep as a man’s. Her build was athletic, she wore a well-cut tweed with big pockets. She looked older than her husband, but, Gwenda decided, well might not be so. There was a certain haggardness about her face. An unhappy, hungry woman, thought Gwenda.

I bet she gives him Hell, she said to herself.

Aloud she continued the conversation.

“House-hunting is terribly discouraging,” she said. “House agents’ descriptions are always glowing—and then, when you actually get there, the place is quite unspeakable.”

“You’re thinking of settling down in this neighbourhood?”

“Well—this is one of the neighbourhoods we thought of. Really because it’s near Hadrian’s Wall. Giles has always been fascinated by Hadrian’s Wall. You see—it sounds rather odd, I expect, to you—but almost anywhere in England is the same to us. My own home is in New Zealand and I haven’t any ties here. And Giles was taken in by different aunts for different holidays and so hasn’t any particular ties either. The one thing we don’t want is to be too near London. We want the real country.”

Erskine smiled.

“You’ll certainly find it real country all round here. It’s completely isolated. Our neighbours are few and far between.”

Gwenda thought she detected an undercurrent of bleakness in the pleasant voice. She had a sudden glimpse of a lonely life—of short dark winter days with the wind whistling in the chimneys—the curtains drawn—shut in—shut in with that woman with the hungry, unhappy eyes—and neighbours few and far between.

Then the vision faded. It was summer again, with the french windows open to the garden—with the scent of roses and the sounds of summer drifting in.

She said: “This is an old house, isn’t it?”

Erskine nodded.

“Queen Anne. My people have lived here for nearly three hundred years.”

“It’s a lovely house. You must be very proud of it.”

“It’s rather a shabby house now. Taxation makes it difficult to keep anything up properly. However, now the children are out in the world, the worst strain is over.”

“How many children have you?”

“Two boys. One’s in the Army. The other’s just come down from Oxford. He’s going into a publishing firm.”

His glance went to the mantelpiece and Gwenda’s eyes followed his. There was a photograph there of two boys—presumably about eighteen and nineteen, taken a few years ago, she judged. There was pride and affection in his expression.

“They’re good lads,” he said, “though I say it myself.”

“They look awfully nice,” said Gwenda.

“Yes,” said Erskine. “I think it’s worth it—really. Making sacrifices for one’s children, I mean,” he added in answer to Gwenda’s enquiring look.

“I suppose—often—one has to give up a good deal,” said Gwenda.

“A great deal sometimes….”

Again she caught a dark undercurrent, but Mrs. Erskine broke in, saying in her deep authoritative voice, “And you are really looking for a house in this part of the world? I’m afraid I don’t know of anything at all suitable round here.”

And wouldn’t tell me if you did, thought Gwenda, with a faint spurt of mischief. That foolish old woman is actually jealous, she thought. Jealous because I’m talking to her husband and because I’m young and attractive!

“It depends how much of a hurry you’re in,” said Erskine.

“No hurry at all really,” said Giles cheerfully. “We want to be sure of finding something we really like. At the moment we’ve got a house in Dillmouth—on the south coast.”

Major Erskine turned away from the tea table. He went to get a cigarette box from a table by the window.

“Dillmouth,” said Mrs. Erskine. Her voice was expressionless. Her eyes watched the back of her husband’s head.

“Pretty little place,” said Giles. “Do you know it at all?”

There was a moment’s silence, then Mrs. Erskine said in that same expressionless voice, “We spent a few weeks there one summer—many, many years ago. We didn’t care for it—found it too relaxing.”

“Yes,” said Gwenda. “That’s just what we find. Giles and I feel we’d prefer more bracing air.”

Erskine came back with the cigarettes. He offered the box to Gwenda.

“You’ll find it bracing enough round here,” he said. There was a certain grimness in his voice.

Gwenda looked up at him as he lighted her cigarette for her.

“Do you remember Dillmouth at all well?” she asked artlessly.

His lips twitched in what she guessed to be a sudden spasm of pain. In a noncommittal voice he answered, “Quite well, I think. We stayed—let me see—at the Royal George—no, Royal Clarence Hotel.”

“Oh yes, that’s the nice old-fashioned one. Our house is quite near there. Hillside it’s called, but it used to be called St.—St.—Mary’s, was it, Giles?”

“St. Catherine’s,” said Giles.

This time there was no mistaking the reaction. Erskine turned sharply away, Mrs. Erskine’s cup clattered on her saucer.

“Perhaps,” she said abruptly, “you would like to see the garden.”

“Oh yes, please.”

They went out through the french windows. It was a well-kept, well-stocked garden, with a long border and flagged walks. The care of it was principally Major Erskine’s, so Gwenda gathered. Talking to her about roses, about herbaceous plants, Erskine’s dark, sad face lit up. Gardening was clearly his enthusiasm.

When they finally took their leave, and were driving away in the car, Giles asked hesitantly, “Did you—did you drop it?”

Gwenda nodded.

“By the second clump of delphiniums.” She looked down at her finger and twisted the wedding ring on it absently.

“And supposing you never find it again?”

“Well, it’s not my real engagement ring. I wouldn’t risk that.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’m very sentimental about that ring. Do you remember what you said when you put it on my finger? A green emerald because I was an intriguing green-eyed little cat.”

“I dare say,” said Giles dispassionately, “that our peculiar form of endearments might sound odd to someone of, say, Miss Marple’s generation.”

“I wonder what she’s doing now, the dear old thing. Sitting in the sun on the front?”

“Up to something—if I know her! Poking here, or prying there, or asking a few questions. I hope she doesn’t ask too many one of these days.”

“It’s quite a natural thing to do—for an old lady, I mean. It’s not as noticeable as though we did it.”

Giles’s face sobered again.

“That’s why I don’t like—” He broke off. “It’s you having to do it that I mind. I can’t bear the feeling that I sit at home and send you out to do the dirty work.”

Gwenda ran a finger down his worried cheek.

“I know, darling, I know. But you must admit, it’s tricky. It’s impertinent to catechize a man about his past love affairs—but it’s the kind of impertinence a woman can just get away with—if she’s clever. And I mean to be clever.”

“I know you’re clever. But if Erskine is the man we are looking for—”

Gwenda said meditatively: “I don’t think he is.”

“You mean we’re barking up the wrong tree?”

“Not entirely. I think he was in love with Helen all right. But he’s nice, Giles, awfully nice. Not the strangling kind at all.”

“You haven’t an awful lot of experience of the strangling kind, have you, Gwenda?”

“No. But I’ve got my woman’s instinct.”

“I dare say that’s what a strangler’s victims often say. No, Gwenda, joking apart, do be careful, won’t you?”

“Of course. I feel so sorry for the poor man—that dragon of a wife. I bet he’s had a miserable life.”

“She’s an odd woman … Rather alarming somehow.”

“Yes, quite sinister. Did you see how she watched me all the time?”

“I hope the plan will go off all right.”

III

The plan was put into execution the following morning.

Giles, feeling, as he put it, rather like a shady detective in a divorce suit, took up his position at a point of vantage overlooking the front gate of Anstell Manor. About half past eleven he reported to Gwenda that all had gone well. Mrs. Erskine had left in a small Austin car, clearly bound for the market town three miles away. The coast was clear.

Gwenda drove up to the front door and rang the bell. She asked for Mrs. Erskine and was told she was out. She then asked for Major Erskine. Major Erskine was in the garden. He straightened up from operations on a flowerbed as Gwenda approached.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” said Gwenda. “But I think I must have dropped a ring somewhere out here yesterday. I know I had it when we came out from tea. It’s rather loose, but I couldn’t bear to lose it because it’s my engagement ring.”

The hunt was soon under way. Gwenda retraced her steps of yesterday, tried to recollect where she had stood and what flowers she had touched. Presently the ring came to light near a large clump of delphiniums. Gwenda was profuse in her relief.

“And now can I get you a drink, Mrs. Reed? Beer? A glass of sherry? Or would you prefer coffee, or something like that?”

“I don’t want anything—no, really. Just a cigarette—thanks.”

She sat down on a bench and Erskine sat down beside her.

They smoked for a few minutes in silence. Gwenda’s heart was beating rather fast. No two ways about it. She had to take the plunge.

“I want to ask you something,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll think it terribly impertinent of me. But I want to know dreadfully—and you’re probably the only person who could tell me. I believe you were once in love with my stepmother.”

He turned an astonished face towards her.

“With your stepmother?”

“Yes. Helen Kennedy. Helen Halliday as she became afterwards.”

“I see.” The man beside her was very quiet. His eyes looked out across the sunlit lawn unseeingly. The cigarette between his fingers smouldered. Quiet as he was, Gwenda sensed a turmoil within that taut figure, the arm of which touched her own.

As though answering some question he had put to himself, Erskine said: “Letters, I suppose.”

Gwenda did not answer.

“I never wrote her many—two, perhaps three. She said she had destroyed them—but women never do destroy letters, do they? And so they came into your hands. And you want to know.”

“I want to know more about her. I was—very fond of her. Although I was such a small child when—she went away.”

“She went away?”

“Didn’t you know?”

His eyes, candid and surprised, met hers.

“I’ve no news of her,” he said, “since—since that summer in Dillmouth.”

“Then you don’t know where she is now?”

“How should I? It’s years ago—years. All finished and done with. Forgotten.”

“Forgotten?”

He smiled rather bitterly.

“No, perhaps not forgotten … You’re very perceptive, Mrs. Reed. But tell me about her. She’s not—dead, is she?”

A small cold wind sprang up suddenly, chilled their necks and passed.

“I don’t know if she is dead or not,” said Gwenda. “I don’t know anything about her. I thought perhaps you might know?”

She went on as he shook his head: “You see, she went away from Dillmouth that summer. Quite suddenly one evening. Without telling anyone. And she never came back.”

“And you thought I might have heard from her?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head.

“No. Never a word. But surely her brother—doctor chap—lives in Dillmouth. He must know. Or is he dead too?”

“No, he’s alive. But he doesn’t know either. You see—they all thought she went away—with somebody.”

He turned his head to look at her. Deep sorrowful eyes.

“They thought she went away with me?”

“Well, it was a possibility.”

“Was it a possibility? I don’t think so. It was never that. Or were we fools—conscientious fools who passed up our chance of happiness?”

Gwenda did not speak. Again Erskine turned his head and looked at her.

“Perhaps you’d better hear about it. There isn’t really very much to hear. But I wouldn’t like you to misjudge Helen. We met on a boat going out to India. One of the children had been ill, and my wife was following on the next boat. Helen was going out to marry a man in the Woods and Forests or something of that kind. She didn’t love him. He was just an old friend, nice and kind, and she wanted to get away from home where she wasn’t happy. We fell in love.”

He paused.

“Always a bald kind of statement. But it wasn’t—I want to make that quite clear—just the usual shipboard love affair. It was serious. We were both—well—shattered by it. And there wasn’t anything to be done. I couldn’t let Janet and the children down. Helen saw it the same way as I did. If it had been only Janet—but there were the boys. It was all hopeless. We agreed to say good-bye and try and forget.”

He laughed, a short mirthless laugh.

“Forget? I never forgot—not for one moment. Life was just a living Hell. I couldn’t stop thinking about Helen….

“Well, she didn’t marry the chap she had been going out to marry. At the last moment, she just couldn’t face it. She went home to England and on the way home she met this other man—your father, I suppose. She wrote to me a couple of months later telling me what she had done. He was very unhappy over the loss of his wife, she said, and there was a child. She thought that she could make him happy and that it was the best thing to do. She wrote from Dillmouth. About eight months later my father died and I came into this place. I sent in my papers and came back to England. We wanted a few weeks’ holiday until we could get into this house. My wife suggested Dillmouth. Some friend had mentioned it as a pretty place and quiet. She didn’t know, of course, about Helen. Can you imagine the temptation? To see her again. To see what this man she had married was like.”

There was a short silence, then Erskine said:

“We came and stayed at the Royal Clarence. It was a mistake. Seeing Helen again was Hell … She seemed happy enough, on the whole—I didn’t know whether she cared still, or whether she didn’t … Perhaps she’d got over it. My wife, I think, suspected something … She’s—she’s a very jealous woman—always has been.”

He added brusquely, “That’s all there is to it. We left Dillmouth—”

“On August 17th,” said Gwenda.

“Was that the date? Probably. I can’t remember exactly.”

“It was a Saturday,” said Gwenda.

“Yes, you’re right. I remember Janet said it might be a crowded day to travel north—but I don’t think it was….”

“Please try and remember, Major Erskine. When was the last time you saw my stepmother—Helen?”

He smiled, a gentle, tired smile.

“I don’t need to try very hard. I saw her the evening before we left. On the beach. I’d strolled down there after dinner—and she was there. There was no one else about. I walked up with her to her house. We went through the garden—”

“What time?”

“I don’t know … Nine o’clock, I suppose.”

“And you said good-bye?”

“And we said good-bye.” Again he laughed. “Oh, not the kind of good-bye you’re thinking of. It was very brusque and curt. Helen said: ‘Please go away now. Go quickly. I’d rather not—’ She stopped then—and I—I just went.”

“Back to the hotel?”

“Yes, yes, eventually. I walked a long way first—right out into the country.”

Gwenda said, “It’s difficult with dates—after so many years. But I think that that was the night she went away—and didn’t come back.”

“I see. And as I and my wife left the next day, people gossiped and said she’d gone away with me. Charming minds people have.”

“Anyway,” said Gwenda bluntly, “she didn’t go away with you?”

“Good Lord, no, there was never any question of such a thing.”

“Then why do you think,” asked Gwenda, “that she went away?”

Erskine frowned. His manner changed, became interested.

“I see,” he said. “That is a bit of a problem. She didn’t—er—leave any explanation?”

Gwenda considered. Then she voiced her own belief.

“I don’t think she left any word at all. Do you think she went away with someone else?”

“No, of course she didn’t.”

“You seem rather sure about that.”

“I am sure.”

“Then why did she go?”

“If she went off—suddenly—like that—I can only see one possible reason. She was running away from me.”

“From you?”

“Yes. She was afraid, perhaps, that I’d try to see her again—that I’d pester her. She must have seen that I was still—crazy about her … Yes, that must have been it.”

“It doesn’t explain,” said Gwenda, “why she never came back. Tell me, did Helen say anything to you about my father? That she was worried about him? Or—or afraid of him? Anything like that?”

“Afraid of him? Why? Oh I see, you thought he might have been jealous. Was he a jealous man?”

“I don’t know. He died when I was a child.”

“Oh, I see. No—looking back—he always seemed normal and pleasant. He was fond of Helen, proud of her—I don’t think more. No, I was the one who was jealous of him.”

“They seemed to you reasonably happy together?”

“Yes, they did. I was glad—and yet, at the same time, it hurt, to see it … No, Helen never discussed him with me. As I tell you, we were hardly ever alone, never confidential together. But now that you have mentioned it, I do remember thinking that Helen was worried….”

“Worried?”

“Yes. I thought perhaps it was because of my wife—” He broke off. “But it was more than that.”

He looked again sharply at Gwenda.

“Was she afraid of her husband? Was he jealous of other men where she was concerned?”

“You seem to think not.”

“Jealousy is a very queer thing. It can hide itself sometimes so that you’d never suspect it.” He gave a short quick shiver. “But it can be frightening—very frightening….”

“Another thing I would like to know—” Gwenda broke off.

A car had come up the drive. Major Erskine said, “Ah, my wife has come back from shopping.”

In a moment, as it were, he became a different person. His tone was easy yet formal, his face expressionless. A slight tremor betrayed that he was nervous.

Mrs. Erskine came striding round the corner of the house.

Her husband went towards her.

“Mrs. Reed dropped one of her rings in the garden yesterday,” he said.

Mrs. Erskine said abruptly: “Indeed?”

“Good morning,” said Gwenda. “Yes, luckily I have found it.”

“That’s very fortunate.”

“Oh, it is. I should have hated to lose it. Well, I must be going.”

Mrs. Erskine said nothing. Major Erskine said: “I’ll see you to your car.”

He started to follow Gwenda along the terrace. His wife’s voice came sharply.

“Richard. If Mrs. Reed will excuse you, there is a very important call—”

Gwenda said hastily, “Oh, that’s quite all right. Please don’t bother.”

She ran quickly along the terrace and round the side of the house to the drive.

Then she stopped. Mrs. Erskine had drawn up her car in such a way that Gwenda doubted whether she could get her own car past and down the drive. She hesitated, then slowly retraced her steps to the terrace.

Just short of the french windows she stopped dead. Mrs. Erskine’s voice, deep and resonant, came distinctly to her ears.

“I don’t care what you say. You arranged it—arranged it yesterday. You fixed it up with that girl to come here whilst I was in Daith. You’re always the same—any pretty girl. I won’t stand it, I tell you. I won’t stand it.”

Erskine’s voice cut in—quiet, almost despairing.

“Sometimes, Janet, I really think you’re insane.”

“I’m not the one who’s insane. It’s you! You can’t leave women alone.”

“You know that’s not true, Janet.”

“It is true! Even long ago—in the place where this girl comes from—Dillmouth. Do you dare tell me that you weren’t in love with that yellow-haired Halliday woman?”

“Can you never forget anything? Why must you go on harping on these things? You simply work yourself up and—”

“It’s you! You break my heart … I won’t stand it, I tell you! I won’t stand it! Planning assignations! Laughing at me behind my back! You don’t care for me—you’ve never cared for me. I’ll kill myself! I’ll throw myself over a cliff—I wish I were dead—”

“Janet—Janet—for God’s sake….”

The deep voice had broken. The sound of passionate sobbing floated out into the summer air.

On tip-toe Gwenda crept away and round into the drive again. She cogitated for a moment, then rang the front doorbell.

“I wonder,” she said, “if there is anyone who—er—could move this car. I don’t think I can get out.”

The servant went into the house. Presently a man came round from what had been the stable yard. He touched his cap to Gwenda, got into the Austin and drove it into the yard. Gwenda got into her car and drove rapidly back to the hotel where Giles was waiting for her.

“What a time you’ve been,” he greeted her. “Get anything?”

“Yes. I know all about it now. It’s really rather pathetic. He was terribly in love with Helen.”

She narrated the events of the morning.

“I really think,” she ended, “that Mrs. Erskine is a bit insane. She sounded quite mad. I see now what he meant by jealousy. It must be awful to feel like that. Anyway, we know now that Erskine wasn’t the man who went away with Helen, and that he knows nothing about her death. She was alive that evening when he left her.”

“Yes,” said Giles. “At least—that’s what he says.”

Gwenda looked indignant.

“That,” repeated Giles firmly, “is what he says.”

Eighteen

BINDWEED

Miss Marple bent down on the terrace outside the french window and dealt with some insidious bindweed. It was only a minor victory, since beneath the surface the bindweed remained in possession as always. But at least the delphiniums knew a temporary deliverance.

Mrs. Cocker appeared in the drawing room window.

“Excuse me, madam, but Dr. Kennedy has called. He is anxious to know how long Mr. and Mrs. Reed will be away, and I told him I couldn’t take it upon myself to say exactly, but that you might know. Shall I ask him to come out here?”

“Oh. Oh, yes please, Mrs. Cocker.”

Mrs. Cocker reappeared shortly afterwards with Dr. Kennedy.

Rather flutteringly, Miss Marple introduced herself.

“—and I arranged with dear Gwenda that I would come round and do a little weeding while she was away. I think, you know, that my young friends are being imposed upon by their jobbing gardener, Foster. He comes twice a week, drinks a great many cups of tea, does a lot of talking, and not—so far as I can see—very much work.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Kennedy rather absently. “Yes. They’re all alike—all alike.”

Miss Marple looked at him appraisingly. He was an older man than she had thought from the Reeds’ description of him. Prematurely old, she guessed. He looked, too, both worried and unhappy. He stood there, his fingers caressing the long, pugnacious line of his jaw.

“They’ve gone away,” he said. “Do you know for how long?”

“Oh, not for long. They have gone to visit some friends in the North of England. Young people seem to me so restless, always dashing about here and there.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Kennedy. “Yes—that’s true enough.”

He paused and then said rather diffidently, “Young Giles Reed wrote and asked me for some papers—er—letters, if I could find them—”

He hesitated, and Miss Marple said quietly, “Your sister’s letters?”

He shot her a quick, shrewd glance.

“So—you’re in their confidence, are you? A relation?”

“Only a friend,” said Miss Marple. “I have advised them to the best of my capacity. But people seldom take advice … A pity, perhaps, but there it is….”

“What was your advice?” he asked curiously.

“To let sleeping murder lie,” said Miss Marple firmly.

Dr. Kennedy sat down heavily on an uncomfortable rustic seat.

“That’s not badly put,” he said. “I’m fond of Gwennie. She was a nice small child. I should judge that she’s grown up to be a nice young woman. I’m afraid that she’s heading for trouble.”

“There are so many kinds of trouble,” said Miss Marple.

“Eh? Yes—yes—true enough.”

He sighed. Then he said, “Giles Reed wrote and asked me if I could let him have my sister’s letters, written after she left here—and also some authentic specimen of her handwriting.” He shot a keen glance at her. “You see what that means?”

Miss Marple nodded. “I think so.”

“They’re harking back to the idea that Kelvin Halliday, when he said he had strangled his wife, was speaking neither more nor less than the truth. They believe that the letters my sister Helen wrote after she went away weren’t written by her at all—that they were forgeries. They believe that she never left this house alive.”

Miss Marple said gently, “And you are not, by now, so very sure yourself?”

“I was at the time.” Kennedy still stared ahead of him. “It seemed absolutely clear. Pure hallucination on Kelvin’s part. There was no body, a suitcase and clothes were taken—what else could I think?”

“And your sister had been—recently—rather—ahem—” Miss Marple coughed delicately—“interested in—in a certain gentleman?”

Dr. Kennedy looked at her. There was deep pain in his eyes.

“I loved my sister,” he said, “but I have to admit that, with Helen, there was always some man in the offing. There are women who are made that way—they can’t help it.”

“It all seemed clear to you at the time,” said Miss Marple. “But it does not seem so clear now. Why?”

“Because,” said Kennedy with frankness, “it seems incredible to me that, if Helen is still alive, she has not communicated with me all these years. In the same way, if she is dead, it is equally strange that I have not been notified of the fact. Well—”

He got up. He took a packet from his pocket.

“Here is the best I can do. The first letter I received from Helen I must have destroyed. I can find no trace of it. But I did keep the second one—the one that gave the poste restante address. And here, for comparison, is the only bit of Helen’s handwriting I’ve been able to find. It’s a list of bulbs, etc., for planting. A copy that she had kept of some order. The handwriting of the order and the letter look alike to me, but then I’m no expert. I’ll leave them here for Giles and Gwenda when they return. It’s probably not worth forwarding.”

“Oh no, I believe they expect to return tomorrow—or the next day.”

The doctor nodded. He stood, looking along the terrace, his eyes still absent. He said suddenly, “You know what’s worrying me? If Kelvin Halliday did kill his wife, he must have concealed the body or got rid of it in some way—and that means (I don’t know what else it can mean) that his story to me was a cleverly made-up tale—that he’d already hidden a suitcase full of clothes to give colour to the idea that Helen had gone away—that he’d even arranged for letters to arrive from abroad … It means, in fact, that it was a cold-blooded premeditated murder. Little Gwennie was a nice child. It would be bad enough for her to have a father who’s a paranoiac, but it’s ten times worse to have a father who’s a deliberate murderer.”

He swung round to the open window. Miss Marple arrested his departure by a swift question.

“Who was your sister afraid of, Dr. Kennedy?”

He turned back to her and stared.

“Afraid of? No one, as far as I know.”

“I only wondered … Pray excuse me if I am asking indiscreet questions—but there was a young man, wasn’t there?—I mean, some entanglement—when she was very young. Somebody called Afflick, I believe.”

“Oh, that. Silly business most girls go through. An undesirable young fellow, shifty—and of course not her class, not her class at all. He got into trouble here afterwards.”

“I just wondered if he could have been—revengeful.”

Dr. Kennedy smiled rather sceptically.

“Oh, I don’t think it went deep. Anyway, as I say, he got into trouble here, and left the place for good.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Oh, nothing criminal. Just indiscretions. Blabbed about his employer’s affairs.”

“And his employer was Mr. Walter Fane?”

Dr. Kennedy looked a little surprised.

“Yes—yes—now you say so, I remember, he did work in Fane and Watchman’s. Not articled. Just an ordinary clerk.”

Just an ordinary clerk? Miss Marple wondered, as she stooped again to the bindweed, after Dr. Kennedy had gone….

Nineteen

MR. KIMBLE SPEAKS

“I dunno, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Kimble.

Her husband, driven into speech by what was neither more nor less than an outrage, became vocal.

He shoved his cup forward.

“What you thinking of, Lily?” he demanded. “No sugar!”

Mrs. Kimble hastily remedied the outrage, and then proceeded to elaborate on her own theme.

“Thinking about this advert, I am,” she said. “Lily Abbott, it says, plain as plain. And “formerly house-parlourmaid at St. Catherine’s Dillmouth.” That’s me, all right.”

“Ar,” agreed Mr. Kimble.

“After all these years—you must agree it’s odd, Jim.”

“Ar,” said Mr. Kimble.

“Well, what am I going to do, Jim?”

“Leave it be.”

“Suppose there’s money in it?”

There was a gurgling sound as Mr. Kimble drained his teacup to fortify himself for the mental effort of embarking on a long speech. He pushed his cup along and prefaced his remarks with a laconic: “More.” Then he got under way.

“You went on a lot at one time about what ’appened at St. Catherine’s. I didn’t take much account of it—reckoned as it was mostly foolishness—women’s chatter. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe something did ’appen. If so it’s police business and you don’t want to be mixed up in it. All over and done with, ain’t it? You leave well alone, my girl.”

“All very well to say that. It may be money as has been left me in a will. Maybe Mrs. Halliday’s alive all the time and now she’s dead and left me something in ’er will.”

“Left you something in ’er will? What for? Ar!” said Mr. Kimble, reverting to his favourite monosyllable to express scorn.

“Even if it’s police … You know, Jim, there’s a big reward sometimes for anyone as can give information to catch a murderer.”

“And what could you give? All you know you made up yourself in your head!”

“That’s what you say. But I’ve been thinking—”

“Ar,” said Mr. Kimble disgustedly.

“Well, I have. Ever since I saw that first piece in the paper. Maybe I got things a bit wrong. That Layonee, she was a bit stupid like all foreigners, couldn’t understand proper what you said to her—and her English was something awful. If she didn’t mean what I thought she meant … I’ve been trying to remember the name of that man … Now if it was him she saw … Remember that picture I told you about? Secret Lover. Ever so exciting. They tracked him down in the end through his car. Fifty thousand dollars he paid the garage man to forget he filled up with petrol that night. Dunno what that is in pounds … And the other one was there, too, and the husband crazy with jealousy. All mad about her, they were. And in the end—”

Mr. Kimble pushed back his chair with a grating sound. He rose to his feet with slow and ponderous authority. Preparatory to leaving the kitchen, he delivered an ultimatum—the ultimatum of a man who, though usually inarticulate, had a certain shrewdness.

“You leave the whole thing alone, my girl,” he said. “Or else, likely as not, you’ll be sorry.”

He went into the scullery, put on his boots (Lily was particular about her kitchen floor) and went out.

Lily sat on at the table, her sharp foolish little brain working things out. Of course she couldn’t exactly go against what her husband said, but all the same … Jim was so hidebound, so stick-in-the-mud. She wished there was somebody else she could ask. Someone who would know all about rewards and the police and what it all meant. Pity to turn up a chance of good money.

That wireless set … the home perm … that cherry-coloured coat in Russell’s (ever so smart)… even, maybe, a whole Jacobean suite for the sitting room….

Eager, greedy, shortsighted, she went on dreaming … What exactly had Layonee said all those years ago?

Then an idea came to her. She got up and fetched the bottle of ink, the pen, and a pad of writing paper.

“Know what I’ll do,” she said to herself. “I’ll write to the doctor, Mrs. Halliday’s brother. He’ll tell me what I ought to do—if he’s alive still, that is. Anyway, it’s on my conscience I never told him about Layonee—or about that car.”

There was silence for some time apart from the laborious scratching of Lily’s pen. It was very seldom that she wrote a letter and she found the composition of it a considerable effort.

However it was done at last and she put it into an envelope and sealed it up.

But she felt less satisfied than she had expected. Ten to one the doctor was dead or had gone away from Dillmouth.

Was there anyone else?

What was the name, now, of that fellow?

If she could only remember that….

Twenty

THE GIRL HELEN

Giles and Gwenda had just finished breakfast on the morning after their return from Northumberland when Miss Marple was announced. She came rather apologetically.

“I’m afraid this is a very early call. Not a thing I am in the habit of doing. But there was something I wanted to explain.”

“We’re delighted to see you,” said Giles, pulling out a chair for her. “Do have a cup of coffee.”

“Oh no, no, thank you—nothing at all. I have breakfasted most adequately. Now let me explain. I came in whilst you were away, as you kindly said I might, to do a little weeding—”

“Angelic of you,” said Gwenda.

“And it really did strike me that two days a week is not quite enough for this garden. In any case I think Foster is taking advantage of you. Too much tea and too much talk. I found out that he couldn’t manage another day himself, so I took it upon myself to engage another man just for one day a week—Wednesdays—today, in fact.”

Giles looked at her curiously. He was a little surprised. It might be kindly meant, but Miss Marple’s action savoured, very faintly, of interference. And interference was unlike her.

He said slowly: “Foster’s far too old, I know, for really hard work.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Reed, that Manning is even older. Seventy-five, he tells me. But you see, I thought employing him, just for a few odd days, might be quite an advantageous move, because he used, many years ago, to be employed at Dr. Kennedy’s. The name of the young man Helen got engaged to was Afflick, by the way.”

“Miss Marple,” said Giles, “I maligned you in thought. You are a genius. You know I’ve got those specimens of Helen’s handwriting from Kennedy?”

“I know. I was here when he brought them.”

“I’m posting them off today. I got the address of a good handwriting expert last week.”

“Let’s go into the garden and see Manning,” said Gwenda.

Manning was a bent, crabbed-looking old man with a rheumy and slightly cunning eye. The pace at which he was raking a path accelerated noticeably as his employers drew near.

“Morning, sir. Morning, m’am. The lady said as how you could do with a little extra help of a Wednesday. I’ll be pleased. Shameful neglected, this place looks.”

“I’m afraid the garden’s been allowed to run down for some years.”

“It has that. Remember it, I do, in Mrs. Findeyson’s time. A picture it were, then. Very fond of her garden she was, Mrs. Findeyson.”

Giles leaned easily against a roller. Gwenda snipped off some rose heads. Miss Marple, retreating a little up stage, bent to the bindweed. Old Manning leant on his rake. All was set for a leisurely morning discussion of old times and gardening in the good old days.

“I suppose you know most of the gardens round here, said Giles encouragingly.

“Ar, I know this place moderate well, I do. And the fancies people went in for. Mrs. Yule, up at Niagra, she had a yew hedge used to be clipped like a squirrel. Silly, I thought it. Peacocks is one thing and squirrels is another. Then Colonel Lampard, he was a great man for begonias—lovely beds of begonias he used to have. Bedding out now, that’s going out of fashion. I wouldn’t like to tell you how often I’ve had to fill up beds in the front lawns and turf ’em over in the last six years. Seems people ain’t got no eye for geraniums and a nice bit of lobelia edging no more.”

“You worked at Dr. Kennedy’s, didn’t you?”

“Ar. Long time ago, that were. Must have been 1920 and on. He’s moved now—given up. Young Dr. Brent’s up at Crosby Lodge now. Funny ideas, he has—little white tablets and so on. Vittapins he calls ’em.”

“I suppose you remember Miss Helen Kennedy, the doctor’s sister.”

“Ar, I remember Miss Helen right enough. Prettymaid, she was, with her long yellow hair. The doctor set a lot of store by her. Come back and lived in this very house here, she did, after she was married. Army gentleman from India.”

“Yes,” said Gwenda. “We know.”

“Ar. I did ’ear—Saturday night it was—as you and your ’usband was some kind of relations. Pretty as a picter, Miss Helen was, when she first come back from school. Full of fun, too. Wanting to go everywhere—dances and tennis and all that. ’Ad to mark the tennis court, I ’ad—hadn’t been used for nigh twenty years, I’d say. And the shrubs overgrowing it cruel. ’Ad to cut ’em back, I did. And get a lot of whitewash and mark out the lines. Lot of work it made—and in the end hardly played on. Funny thing I always thought that was.”

“What was a funny thing?” asked Giles.

“Business with the tennis court. Someone come along one night—and cut it to ribbons. Just to ribbons it was. Spite, as you might say. That was what it was—nasty bit of spite.”

“But who would do a thing like that?”

“That’s what the doctor wanted to know. Proper put out about it he was—and I don’t blame him. Just paid for it, he had. But none of us could tell who’d done it. We never did know. And he said he wasn’t going to get another—quite right, too, for if it’s spite one time, it would be spite again. But Miss Helen, she was rare and put out. She didn’t have no luck, Miss Helen didn’t. First that net—and then her bad foot.”

“A bad foot?” asked Gwenda.

“Yes—fell over a scraper or somesuch and cut it. Not much more than a graze, it seemed, but it wouldn’t heal. Fair worried about it, the doctor was. He was dressing it and treating it, but it didn’t get well. I remember him saying ‘I can’t understand it—there must have been something spectic—or some word like that—on that scraper. And anyway,’ he says, ‘what was the scraper doing out in the middle of the drive?’ Because that’s where it was when Miss Helen fell over it, walking home on a dark night. The poor maid, there she was, missing going to dances and sitting about with her foot up. Seemed as though there was nothing but bad luck for her.”

The moment had come, Giles thought. He asked casually, “Do you remember somebody called Afflick?”

“Ar. You mean Jackie Afflick? As was in Fane and Watchman’s office?”

“Yes. Wasn’t he a friend of Miss Helen’s?”

“That were just a bit of nonsense. Doctor put a stop to it and quite right too. He wasn’t any class, Jackie Afflick. And he was the kind that’s too sharp by half. Cut themselves in the end, that kind do. But he weren’t here long. Got himself into hot water. Good riddance. Us don’t want the likes of he in Dillmouth. Go and be smart somewhere else, that’s what he were welcome to do.”

Gwenda said: “Was he here when that tennis net was cut up?”

“Ar. I see what you’re thinking. But he wouldn’t do a senseless thing like that. He were smart, Jackie Afflick were. Whoever did that it was just spite.”

“Was there anybody who had a down on Miss Helen? Who would be likely to feel spiteful?”

Old Manning chuckled softly.

“Some of the young ladies might have felt spiteful all right. Not a patch on Miss Helen to look at, most of ’em weren’t. No, I’d say that was done just in foolishness. Some tramp with a grudge.”

“Was Helen very upset about Jackie Afflick?” asked Gwenda.

“Don’t think as Miss Helen cared much about any of the young fellows. Just liked to enjoy herself, that’s all. Very devoted some of them were—young Mr. Walter Fane, for one. Used to follow her round like a dog.”

“But she didn’t care for him at all?”

“Not Miss Helen. Just laughed—that’s all she did. Went abroad to foreign parts, he did. But he come back later. Top one in the firm he is now. Never married. I don’t blame him. Women causes a lot of trouble in a man’s life.”

“Are you married?” asked Gwenda.

“Buried two, I have,” said old Manning. “Ar, well, I can’t complain. Smoke me pipe in peace where I likes now.”

In the ensuing silence, he picked up his rake again.

Giles and Gwenda walked back up the path towards the house and Miss Marple desisting from her attack on bindweed joined them.

“Miss Marple,” said Gwenda. “You don’t look well. Is there anything—”

“It’s nothing, my dear.” The old lady paused for a moment before saying with a strange kind of insistence, “You know, I don’t like that bit about the tennis net. Cutting it to ribbons. Even then—”

She stopped. Giles looked at her curiously.

“I don’t quite understand—” he began.

“Don’t you? It seems so horribly plain to me. But perhaps it’s better that you shouldn’t understand. And anyway—perhaps I am wrong. Now do tell me how you got on in Northumberland.”

They gave her an account of their activities, and Miss Marple listened attentively.

“It’s really all very sad,” said Gwenda. “Quite tragic, in fact.”

“Yes, indeed. Poor thing—poor thing.”

“That’s what I felt. How that man must suffer—”

“He? Oh yes. Yes, of course.”

“But you meant—”

“Well, yes—I was thinking of her—of the wife. Probably very deeply in love with him, and he married her because she was suitable, or because he was sorry for her, or for one of those quite kindly and sensible reasons that men often have, and which are actually so terribly unfair.”

“I know a hundred ways of love,

And each one makes the loved one rue,”

quoted Giles softly.

Miss Marple turned to him.

“Yes, that is so true. Jealousy, you know, is usually not an affair of causes. It is much more—how shall I say?—fundamental than that. Based on the knowledge that one’s love is not returned. And so one goes on waiting, watching, expecting … that the loved one will turn to someone else. Which, again, invariably happens. So this Mrs. Erskine has made life a hell for her husband, and he, without being able to help it, has made life a hell for her. But I think she has suffered most. And yet, you know, I dare say he is really quite fond of her.”

“He can’t be,” cried Gwenda.

“Oh, my dear, you are very young. He has never left his wife, and that means something, you know.”

“Because of the children. Because it was his duty.”

“The children, perhaps,” said Miss Marple. “But I must confess that gentlemen do not seem to me to have a great regard for duty in so far as their wives are concerned—public service is another matter.”

Giles laughed.

“What a wonderful cynic you are, Miss Marple.”

“Oh dear, Mr. Reed, I do hope not that. One always has hope for human nature.”

“I still don’t feel it can have been Walter Fane,” said Gwenda thoughtfully. “And I’m sure it wasn’t Major Erskine. In fact I know it wasn’t.”

“One’s feelings are not always reliable guides,” said Miss Marple. “The most unlikely people do things—quite a sensation there was in my own little village when the Treasurer of the Christmas Club was found to have put every penny of the funds on a horse. He disapproved of horse racing and indeed any kind of betting or gambling. His father had been a Turf Agent and had treated his mother very badly—so, intellectually speaking, he was quite sincere. But he chanced one day to be motoring near Newmarket and saw some horses training. And then it all came over him—blood does tell.”

“The antecedents of both Walter Fane and Richard Erskine seem above suspicion,” said Giles gravely but with a slight amused twist to his mouth. “But then murder is by way of being an amateur crime.”

“The important thing is,” said Miss Marple, “that they were there. On the spot. Walter Fane was here in Dillmouth. Major Erskine, by his own account, must actually have been with Helen Halliday very shortly before her death—and he did not return to his hotel for some time that night.”

“But he was quite frank about it. He—”

Gwenda broke off. Miss Marple was looking at her very hard.

“I only want to emphasize,” said Miss Marple, “the importance of being on the spot.” She looked from one to the other of them.

Then she said, “I think you will have no trouble in finding out J. J. Afflick’s address. As proprietor of the Daffodil Coaches, it should be easy enough.”

Giles nodded. “I’ll get on to it. Probably in the telephone directory.” He paused. “You think we should go and see him?”

Miss Marple waited for a moment or two, then she said: “If you do—you must be very careful. Remember what that old gardener just said—Jackie Afflick is smart. Please—please be careful….”

Twenty-one

J. J. AFFLICK

I

J. J. Afflick, Daffodil Coaches, Devon & Dorset Tours, etc. had two numbers listed in the telephone book. An office address in Exeter and a private address on the outskirts of that town.

An appointment was made for the following day.

Just as Giles and Gwenda were leaving in the car, Mrs. Cocker ran out and gesticulated. Giles put on the brake and stopped.

“It’s Dr. Kennedy on the telephone, sir.”

Giles got out and ran back. He picked up the receiver.

“Giles Reed here.”

“Morning. I’ve just received rather an odd letter. From a woman called Lily Kimble. I’ve been racking my brains to remember who she is. Thought of a patient first—that put me off the scent. But I rather fancy she must be a girl who was in service once at your house. House-parlourmaid at the time we know of. I’m almost sure her name was Lily, though I don’t recollect her last name.”

“There was a Lily. Gwenda remembers her. She tied a bow on the cat.”

“Gwennie must have a very remarkable memory.”

“Oh, she has.”

“Well, I’d like to have a word with you about this letter—not over the phone. Will you be in if I come over?”

“We’re just on our way to Exeter. We could drop in on you, if you prefer, sir. It’s all on our way.”

“Good. That’ll do splendidly.”

“I don’t like to talk too much about all this over the phone,” explained the doctor when they arrived. “I always have an idea the local exchanges listen in. Here’s the woman’s letter.”

He spread the letter on the table. It was written on cheap lined paper in an uneducated hand.

Dear sir (Lily Kimble had written)

I’d be grateful if you could give me advise about the enclosed wot i cut out of paper. I been thinking and i talked it over with mr. Kimble, but i don’t know wots best to do about it. Do you think as it means money or a reward becos i could do with the money im sure but woodnt want the police or anything like that, i often hav been thinking about that nite wen mrs. Halliday went away and i don’t think sir she ever did becos the clothes was wrong. i thort at first the master done it but now im not so sure becos of the car i saw out of the window. A posh car it was and i seen it before but i woodnt like to do anything without asking you first if it was all rite and not police becos i never hav been mixed up with police and mr. Kimble woodnt like it. I could come and see you sir if i may next thursday as its market day and mr. Kimble will be out. id be very grateful if you could.

yours respectfully,

Lily Kimble.

“It was addressed to my old house in Dillmouth,” said Kennedy, “and forwarded on to me here. The cutting is your advertisement.”

“It’s wonderful,” said Gwenda. “This Lily—you see—she doesn’t think it was my father who did it!”

She spoke with jubilation. Dr. Kennedy looked at her with tired, kindly eyes.

“Good for you, Gwennie,” he said gently. “I hope you’re right. Now this is what I think we’d better do. I’ll answer her letter and tell her to come here on Thursday. The train connection is quite good. By changing at Dillmouth Junction she can get here shortly after 4.30. If you two will come over that afternoon, we can tackle her all together.”

“Splendid,” said Giles. He glanced at his watch. “Come on, Gwenda, we must hurry. We’ve got an appointment,” he explained. “With Mr. Afflick of the Daffodil Coaches, and, so he told us, he’s a busy man.”

“Afflick?” Kennedy frowned. “Of course! Devon Tours in Daffodil Coaches, horrible great butter-coloured brutes. But the name seemed familiar in some other way.”

“Helen,” said Gwenda.

“My goodness—not that chap?”

“Yes.”

“But he was a miserable little rat. So he’s come up in the world?”

“Will you tell me something, sir?” said Giles. “You broke up some funny business between him and Helen. Was that simply because of his—well, social position?”

Dr. Kennedy gave him a dry glance.

“I’m old-fashioned, young man. In the modern gospel, one man is as good as another. That holds morally, no doubt. But I’m a believer in the fact that there is a state of life into which you are born—and I believe you’re happiest staying in it. Besides,” he added, “I thought the fellow was a wrong ’un. As he proved to be.”

“What did he do exactly?”

“That I can’t remember now. It was a case, as far as I can recall, of his trying to cash in on some information obtained through his employment with Fane. Some confidential matter relating to one of their clients.”

“Was he—sore about his dismissal?”

Kennedy gave him a sharp glance and said briefly: “Yes.”

“And there wasn’t any other reason at all for your disliking his friendship with your sister? You didn’t think he was—well—odd in any way.”

“Since you have brought the matter up, I will answer you frankly. It seemed to me, especially after his dismissal from his employment, that Jackie Afflick displayed certain signs of an unbalanced temperament. Incipient persecution mania, in fact. But that does not seem to have been borne out by his subsequent rise in life.”

“Who dismissed him? Walter Fane?”

“I have no idea if Walter Fane was concerned. He was dismissed by the firm.”

“And he complained that he had been victimized?”

Kennedy nodded.

“I see … Well, we must drive like the wind. Till Thursday, sir.”

II

The house was newly built. It was of Snowcrete, heavily curved, with a big expanse of window. They were shown in through an opulent hall to a study, half of which was taken up by a big chromium-plated desk.

Gwenda murmured nervously to Giles, “Really, I don’t know what we should have done without Miss Marple. We lean upon her at every turn. First her friends in Northumberland and now her Vicar’s wife’s Boys’ Club Annual Outing.”

Giles raised an admonitory hand as the door opened and J. J. Afflick surged into the room.

He was a stout man of middle age, dressed in a rather violently checked suit. His eyes were dark and shrewd, his face rubicund and good-natured. He looked like the popular idea of a successful bookmaker.

“Mr. Reed? Good morning. Pleased to meet you.”

Giles introduced Gwenda. She felt her hand taken in a rather over-zealous grip.

“And what can I do for you, Mr. Reed?”

Afflick sat down behind his huge desk. He offered cigarettes from an onyx box.

Giles entered upon the subject of the Boys’ Club Outing. Old friends of his ran the show. He was anxious to arrange for a couple of days’ touring in Devon.

Afflick replied promptly in a businesslike manner—quoting prices and making suggestions. But there was a faintly puzzled look on his face.

Finally he said: “Well, that’s all clear enough, Mr. Reed, and I’ll send you a line to confirm it. But this is strictly office business. I understood from my clerk that you wanted a private appointment at my private address.”

“We did, Mr. Afflick. There were actually two matters on which I wanted to see you. We’ve disposed of one. The other is a purely private matter. My wife here is very anxious to get in touch with her stepmother whom she has not seen for many years, and we wondered if you could possibly help us.”

“Well, if you tell me the lady’s name—I gather that I’m acquainted with her?”

“You were acquainted with her at one time. Her name is Helen Halliday and before her marriage she was Miss Helen Kennedy.”

Afflick sat quite still. He screwed up his eyes and tilted his chair slowly backwards.

“Helen Halliday—I don’t recall … Helen Kennedy….”

“Formerly of Dillmouth,” said Gwenda.

The legs of Afflick’s chair came down sharply.

“Got it,” he said. “Of course.” His round rubicund face beamed with pleasure. “Little Helen Kennedy! Yes, I remember her. But it’s a long time ago. Must be twenty years.”

“Eighteen.”

“Is it really? Time flies, as the saying goes. But I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed, Mrs. Reed. I haven’t seen anything of Helen since that time. Never heard of her, even.”

“Oh dear,” said Gwenda. “That’s very disappointing. We did so hope you could help.”

“What’s the trouble?” His eyes flickered quickly from one face to another. “Quarrel? Left home? Matter of money?”

Gwenda said: “She went away—suddenly—from Dillmouth—eighteen years ago with—with someone.”

Jackie Afflick said amusedly: “And you thought she might have gone away with me? Now why?”

Gwenda spoke boldly: “Because we heard that you—and she—had once—been—well, fond of each other.”

“Me and Helen? Oh, but there was nothing in that. Just a boy and girl affair. Neither of us took it seriously.” He added drily, “We weren’t encouraged to do so.”

“You must think us dreadfully impertinent,” began Gwenda, but he interrupted her.

“What’s the odds? I’m not sensitive. You want to find a certain person and you think I may be able to help. Ask me anything you please—I’ve nought to conceal.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “So you’re Halliday’s daughter?”

“Yes. Did you know my father?”

He shook his head.

“I dropped in to see Helen once when I was over at Dillmouth on business. I’d heard she was married and living there. She was civil enough—” he paused—“but she didn’t ask me to stay to dinner. No, I didn’t meet your father.”

Had there, Gwenda wondered, been a trace of rancour in that “She didn’t ask me to stay to dinner?”

“Did she—if you remember—seem happy?”

Afflick shrugged his shoulders.

“Happy enough. But there, it’s a long time ago. I’d have remembered if she’d looked unhappy.”

He added with what seemed a perfectly natural curiosity: “Do you mean to say you’ve never heard anything of her since Dillmouth eighteen years ago?”

“Nothing.”

“No—letters?”

“There were two letters,” said Giles. “But we have some reason to think that she didn’t write them.”

“You think she didn’t write them?” Afflick seemed faintly amused. “Sounds like a mystery on the flicks.”

“That’s rather what it seems like to us.”

“What about her brother, the doctor chap, doesn’t he know where she is?”

“No.”

“I see. Regular mystery, isn’t it? Why not advertise?”

“We have.”

Afflick said casually: “Looks as though she’s dead. You mightn’t have heard.”

Gwenda shivered.

“Cold, Mrs. Reed?”

“No. I was thinking of Helen dead. I don’t like to think of her dead.”

“You’re right there. I don’t like to think of it myself. Stunning looks she had.”

Gwenda said impulsively: “You knew her. You knew her well. I’ve only got a child’s memory of her. What was she like? What did people feel about her? What did you feel?”

He looked at her for a moment or two.

“I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Reed. Believe it or not, as you like. I was sorry for the kid.”

“Sorry?” She turned a puzzled stare on him.

“Just that. There she was—just home from school. Longing for a bit of fun like any girl might, and there was that stiff middle-aged brother of hers with his ideas about what a girl could do and couldn’t do. No fun at all, that kid hadn’t. Well, I took her about a bit—showed her a bit of life. I wasn’t really keen on her and she wasn’t really keen on me. She just liked the fun of being a daredevil. Then of course they found out we were meeting and he put a stop to it. Don’t blame him, really. Cut above me, she was. We weren’t engaged or anything of that kind. I meant to marry sometime—but not till I was a good bit older. And I meant to get on and to find a wife who’d help me get on. Helen hadn’t any money, and it wouldn’t have been a suitable match in any way. We were just good friends with a bit of flirtation thrown in.”

“But you must have been angry with the doctor—”

Gwenda paused and Afflick said: “I was riled, I admit. You don’t fancy being told you’re not good enough. But there, it’s no good being thin-skinned.”

“And then,” said Giles, “you lost your job.”

Afflick’s face was not quite so pleasant.

“Fired, I was. Out of Fane and Watchman’s. And I’ve a very good idea who was responsible for that.”

“Oh?” Giles made his tone interrogative, but Afflick shook his head.

“I’m not saying anything. I’ve my own ideas. I was framed—that’s all—and I’ve a very fair idea of who did it. And why!” The colour suffused his cheeks. “Dirty work,” he said. “Spying on a man—laying traps for him—lying about him. Oh, I’ve had my enemies all right. But I’ve never let them get me down. I’ve always given as good as I got. And I don’t forget.”

He stopped. Suddenly his manner changed back again. He was genial once more.

“So I can’t help you, I’m afraid. A little bit of fun between me and Helen—that was all. It didn’t go deep.”

Gwenda stared at him. It was a clear enough story—but was it true? she wondered. Something jarred—it came to the surface of her mind what that something was.

“All the same,” she said, “you looked her up when you came to Dillmouth later.”

He laughed.

“You’ve got me there, Mrs. Reed. Yes, I did. Wanted to show her perhaps that I wasn’t down and out just because a long-faced lawyer had pushed me out of his office. I had a nice business and I was driving a posh car and I’d done very well for myself.”

“You came to see her more than once, didn’t you?”

He hesitated a moment.

“Twice—perhaps three times. Just dropped in.” He nodded with sudden finality. “Sorry I can’t help you.”

Giles got up.

“We must apologize for taking up so much of your time.”

“That’s all right. Quite a change to talk about old times.”

The door opened and a woman looked in and apologized swiftly.

“Oh, I’m so sorry—I didn’t know you had anyone—”

“Come in, my dear, come in. Meet my wife. This is Mr. and Mrs. Reed.”

Mrs. Afflick shook hands. She was a tall, thin, depressed-looking woman, dressed in rather unexpectedly well-cut clothes.

“Been talking over old times, we have,” said Mr. Afflick. “Old times before I met you, Dorothy.”

He turned to them.

“Met my wife on a cruise,” he said. “She doesn’t come from this part of the world. Cousin of Lord Polterham’s, she is.”

He spoke with pride—the thin woman flushed.

“They’re very nice, these cruises,” said Giles.

“Very educational,” said Afflick. “Now, I didn’t have any education to speak of.”

“I always tell my husband we must go on one of those Hellenic cruises,” said Mrs. Afflick.

“No time. I’m a busy man.”

“And we mustn’t keep you,” said Giles. “Good-bye and thank you. You’ll let me know about the quotation for the outing?”

Afflick escorted them to the door. Gwenda glanced back over her shoulder. Mrs. Afflick was standing in the doorway of the study. Her face, fastened on her husband’s back, was curiously and rather unpleasantly apprehensive.

Giles and Gwenda said good-bye again and went towards their car.

“Bother, I’ve left my scarf,” said Gwenda.

“You’re always leaving something,” said Giles.

“Don’t looked martyred. I’ll get it.”

She ran back into the house. Through the open door of the study she heard Afflick say loudly: “What do you want to come butting in for? Never any sense.”

“I’m sorry, Jackie. I didn’t know. Who are those people and why have they upset you so?”

“They haven’t upset me. I—” He stopped as he saw Gwenda standing in the doorway.

“Oh, Mr. Afflick, did I leave a scarf?”

“Scarf? No, Mrs. Reed, it’s not here.”

“Stupid of me. It must be in the car.”

She went out again.

Giles had turned the car. Drawn up by the kerb was a large yellow limousine resplendent with chromium.

“Some car,” said Giles.

“‘A posh car,’” said Gwenda. “Do you remember, Giles? Edith Pagett when she was telling us what Lily said? Lily had put her money on Captain Erskine, not ‘our mystery man in the flashy car.’ Don’t you see, the mystery man in the flashy car was Jackie Afflick?”

“Yes,” said Giles. “And in her letter to the doctor Lily mentioned a ‘posh car.’”

They looked at each other.

“He was there—‘on the spot,’ as Miss Marple would say—on that night. Oh Giles, I can hardly wait until Thursday to hear what Lily Kimble says.”

“Suppose she gets cold feet and doesn’t turn up after all?”

“Oh, she’ll come. Giles, if that flashy car was there that night—”

“Think it was a yellow peril like this?”

“Admiring my bus?” Mr. Afflick’s genial voice made them jump. He was leaning over the neatly clipped hedge behind them. “Little Buttercup, that’s what I call her. I’ve always liked a nice bit of bodywork. Hits you in the eye, doesn’t she?”

“She certainly does,” said Giles.

“Fond of flowers, I am,” said Mr. Afflick. “Daffodils, buttercups, calceolarias—they’re all my fancy. Here’s your scarf, Mrs. Reed. It had slipped down behind the table. Good-bye. Pleased to have met you.”

“Do you think he heard us calling his car a yellow peril?” asked Gwenda as they drove away.

“Oh, I don’t think so. He seemed quite amiable, didn’t he?”

Giles looked slightly uneasy.

“Ye-es—but I don’t think that means much … Giles, that wife of his—she’s frightened of him, I saw her face.”

“What? That jovial pleasant chap?”

“Perhaps he isn’t so jovial and pleasant underneath … Giles, I don’t think I like Mr. Afflick … I wonder how long he’d been there behind us listening to what we were saying … Just what did we say?”

“Nothing much,” said Giles.

But he still looked uneasy.

Twenty-two

LILY KEEPS AN APPOINTMENT

I

“Well, I’m damned,” exclaimed Giles.

He had just torn open a letter that had arrived by the after-lunch post and was staring in complete astonishment at its contents.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s the report of the handwriting experts.”

Gwenda said eagerly: “And she didn’t write that letter from abroad?”

“That’s just it, Gwenda. She did.”

They stared at each other.

Gwenda said incredulously: “Then those letters weren’t a fake. They were genuine. Helen did go away from the house that night. And she did write from abroad. And she wasn’t strangled at all?”

Giles said slowly: “It seems so. But it really is very upsetting. I don’t understand it. Just as everything seems to be pointing the other way.”

“Perhaps the experts are wrong?”

“I suppose they might be. But they seem quite confident. Gwenda, I really don’t understand a single thing about all this. Have we been making the most colossal idiots of ourselves?”

“All based on my silly behaviour at the theatre? I tell you what, Giles, let’s call round on Miss Marple. We’ll have time before we get to Dr. Kennedy’s at four thirty.”

Miss Marple, however, reacted rather differently from the way they had expected. She said it was very nice indeed.

“But darling Miss Marple,” said Gwenda, “what do you mean by that?”

“I mean, my dear, that somebody hasn’t been as clever as they might have been.”

“But how—in what way?”

“Slipped up,” said Miss Marple, nodding her head with satisfaction.

“But how?”

“Well, dear Mr. Reed, surely you can see how it narrows the field.”

“Accepting the fact that Helen actually wrote the letters—do you mean that she might still have been murdered?”

“I mean that it seemed very important to someone that the letters should actually be in Helen’s handwriting.”

“I see … At least I think I see. There must be certain possible circumstances in which Helen could have been induced to write those particular letters … That would narrow things down. But what circumstances exactly?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Reed. You’re not really thinking. It’s perfectly simple, really.”

Giles looked annoyed and mutinous.

“It’s not obvious to me, I can assure you.”

“If you’d just reflect a little—”

“Come on, Giles,” said Gwenda. “We’ll be late.”

They left Miss Marple smiling to herself.

“That old woman annoys me sometimes,” said Giles. “I don’t know now what the hell she was driving at.”

They reached Dr. Kennedy’s house in good time.

The doctor himself opened the door to them.

“I’ve let my housekeeper go out for the afternoon,” he explained. “It seemed to be better.”

He led the way into the sitting room where a tea tray with cups and saucers, bread and butter and cakes was ready.

“Cup of tea’s a good move, isn’t it?” he asked rather uncertainly of Gwenda. “Put this Mrs. Kimble at her ease and all that.”

“You’re absolutely right,” said Gwenda.

“Now what about you two? Shall I introduce you straight away? Or will it put her off?”

Gwenda said slowly: “Country people are very suspicious. I believe it would be better if you received her alone.”

“I think so too,” said Giles.

Dr. Kennedy said, “If you were to wait in the room next door, and if this communicating door were slightly ajar, you would be able to hear what went on. Under the circumstances of the case, I think that you would be justified.”

“I suppose it’s eavesdropping, but I really don’t care,” said Gwenda.

Dr. Kennedy smiled faintly and said: “I don’t think any ethical principle is involved. I do not propose, in any case, to give a promise of secrecy—though I am willing to give my advice if I am asked for it.”

He glanced at his watch.

“The train is due at Woodleigh Road at four thirty-five. It should arrive in a few minutes now. Then it will take her about five minutes to walk up the hill.”

He walked restlessly up and down the room. His face was lined and haggard.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t understand in the least what it all means. If Helen never left that house, if her letters to me were forgeries.” Gwenda moved sharply—but Giles shook his head at her. The doctor went on: “If Kelvin, poor fellow, didn’t kill her, then what on earth did happen?”

“Somebody else killed her,” said Gwenda.

“But my dear child, if somebody else killed her, why on earth should Kelvin insist that he had done so?”

“Because he thought he had. He found her there on the bed and he thought he had done it. That could happen, couldn’t it?”

Dr. Kennedy rubbed his nose irritably.

“How should I know? I’m not a psychiatrist. Shock? Nervous condition already? Yes, I suppose it’s possible. But who would want to kill Helen?”

“We think one of three people,” said Gwenda.

“Three people? What three people? Nobody could have any possible reason for killing Helen—unless they were completely off their heads. She’d no enemies. Everybody liked her.”

He went to the desk drawer and fumbled through its contents.

He held out a faded snapshot. It showed a tall schoolgirl in a gym tunic, her hair tied back, her face radiant. Kennedy, a younger, happy-looking Kennedy, stood beside her, holding a terrier puppy.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about her lately,” he said indistinctly. “For many years I hadn’t thought about her at all—almost managed to forget … Now I think about her all the time. That’s your doing.”

His words sounded almost accusing.

“I think it’s her doing,” said Gwenda.

He wheeled round on her sharply.

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. I can’t explain. But it’s not really us. It’s Helen herself.”

The faint melancholy scream of an engine came to their ears. Dr. Kennedy stepped out of the window and they followed him. A trail of smoke showed itself retreating slowly along the valley.

“There goes the train,” said Kennedy.

“Coming into the station?”

“No, leaving it.” He paused. “She’ll be here any minute now.”

But the minutes passed and Lily Kimble did not come.

II

Lily Kimble got out of the train at Dillmouth Junction and walked across the bridge to the siding where the little local train was waiting. There were few passengers—a half-dozen at most. It was a slack time of day and in any case it was market day at Helchester.

Presently the train started—puffing its way importantly along a winding valley. There were three stops before the terminus at Lonsbury Bay: Newton Langford, Matchings Halt (for Woodleigh Camp) and Woodleigh Bolton.

Lily Kimble looked out of the window with eyes that did not see the lush countryside, but saw instead a Jacobean suite upholstered in jade green….

She was the only person to alight at the tiny station of Matchings Halt. She gave up her ticket and went out through the booking office. A little way along the road a signpost with “To Woodleigh Camp” indicated a footpath leading up a steep hill.

Lily Kimble took the footpath and walked briskly uphill. The path skirted the side of a wood, on the other side the hill rose steeply covered with heather and gorse.

Someone stepped out from the trees and Lily Kimble jumped.

“My, you did give me a start,” she exclaimed. “I wasn’t expecting to meet you here.”

“Gave you a surprise, did I? I’ve got another surprise for you.”

It was very lonely in among the trees. There was no one to hear a cry or a struggle. Actually there was no cry and the struggle was very soon over.

A wood-pigeon, disturbed, flew out of the wood….

III

“What can have become of the woman?” demanded Dr. Kennedy irritably.

The hands of the clock pointed to ten minutes to five.

“Could she have lost her way coming from the station?”

“I gave her explicit directions. In any case it’s quite simple. Turn to the left when she got out of the station and then take the first road to the right. As I say, it’s only a few minutes’ walk.”

“Perhaps she’s changed her mind,” said Giles.

“It looks like it.”

“Or missed the train,” suggested Gwenda.

Kennedy said slowly, “No, I think it’s more likely that she decided not to come after all. Perhaps her husband stepped in. All these country people are quite incalculable.”

He walked up and down the room.

Then he went to the telephone and asked for a number.

“Hullo? Is that the station? This is Dr. Kennedy speaking. I was expecting someone by the four thirty-five. Middle-aged country woman. Did anyone ask to be directed to me? Or—what do you say?”

The others were near enough to hear the soft lazy accent of Woodleigh Bolton’s one porter.

“Don’t think as there could be anyone for you, Doctor. Weren’t no strangers on the four thirty-five. Mr. Narracotts from Meadows, and Johnnie Lawes, and old Benson’s daughter. Weren’t no other passengers at all.”

“So she changed her mind,” said Dr. Kennedy. “Well, I can offer you tea. The kettle’s on. I’ll go out and make it.”

He returned with the teapot and they sat down.

“It’s only a temporary check,” he said more cheerfully. “We’ve got her address. We’ll go over and see her, perhaps.”

The telephone rang and the doctor got up to answer.

“Dr. Kennedy?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Inspector Last, Longford police station. Were you expecting a woman called Lily Kimble—Mrs. Lily Kimble—to call upon you this afternoon?”

“I was. Why? Has there been an accident?”

“Not what you’d call an accident exactly. She’s dead. We found a letter from you on the body. That’s why I rang you up. Can you make it convenient to come along to Longford police station as soon as possible?”

“I’ll come at once.”

IV

“Now let’s get this quite clear,” Inspector Last was saying.

He looked from Kennedy to Giles and Gwenda who had accompanied the doctor. Gwenda was very pale and held her hands tightly clasped together. “You were expecting this woman by the train that leaves Dillmouth Junction at four-five? And gets to Woodleigh Bolton at four thirty-five?”

Dr. Kennedy nodded.

Inspector Last looked down at the letter he had taken from the dead woman’s body. It was quite clear.

Dear Mrs. Kimble (Dr. Kennedy had written)

I shall be glad to advise you to the best of my power. As you will see from the heading of this letter I no longer live in Dillmouth. If you will take the train leaving Coombeleigh at 3.30, change at Dillmouth Junction, and come by the Lonsbury Bay train to Woodleigh Bolton, my house is only a few minutes’ walk. Turn to the left as you come out of the station, then take the first road on the right. My house is at the end of it on the right. The name is on the gate.

Yours truly,

James Kennedy.

“There was no question of her coming by an earlier train?”

“An earlier train?” Dr. Kennedy looked astonished.

“Because that’s what she did. She left Coombeleigh, not at three thirty but at one thirty—caught the two-five from Dillmouth Junction and got out, not at Woodleigh Bolton, but at Matchings Halt, the station before it.”

“But that’s extraordinary!”

“Was she consulting you professionally, Doctor?”

“No. I retired from practice some years ago.”

“That’s what I thought. You knew her well?”

Kennedy shook his head.

“I hadn’t seen her for nearly twenty years.”

“But you—er—recognized her just now?”

Gwenda shivered, but dead bodies did not affect a doctor and Kennedy replied thoughtfully: “Under the circumstances it is hard to say if I recognized her or not. She was strangled, I presume?”

“She was strangled. The body was found in a copse a short way along the track leading from Matchings Halt to Woodleigh Camp. It was found by a hiker coming down from the Camp at about ten minutes to four. Our police surgeon puts the time of death at between two fifteen and three o’clock. Presumably she was killed shortly after she left the station. No other passenger got out at Matchings Halt. She was the only person to get out of the train there.

“Now why did she get out at Matchings Halt? Did she mistake the station? I hardly think so. In any case she was two hours early for her appointment with you, and had not come by the train you suggested, although she had your letter with her.

“Now just what was her business with you, Doctor?”

Dr. Kennedy felt in his pocket and brought out Lily’s letter.

“I brought this with me. The enclosed cutting and the insertion put in the local paper by Mr. and Mrs. Reed here.”

Inspector Last read Lily Kimble’s letter and the enclosure. Then he looked from Dr. Kennedy to Giles and Gwenda.

“Can I have the story behind all this? It goes back a long way, I gather?”

“Eighteen years,” said Gwenda.

Piecemeal, with additions, and parentheses, the story came out. Inspector Last was a good listener. He let the three people in front of him tell things in their own way. Kennedy was dry, and factual, Gwenda was slightly incoherent, but her narrative had imaginative power. Giles gave, perhaps, the most valuable contribution. He was clear and to the point, with less reserve than Kennedy, and with more coherence than Gwenda. It took a long time.

Then Inspector Last sighed and summed up.

“Mrs. Halliday was Dr. Kennedy’s sister and your stepmother, Mrs. Reed. She disappeared from the house you are at present living in eighteen years ago. Lily Kimble (whose maiden name was Abbott) was a servant (house-parlourmaid) in the house at the time. For some reason Lily Kimble inclines (after the passage of years) to the theory that there was foul play. At the time it was assumed that Mrs. Halliday had gone away with a man (identity unknown). Major Halliday died in a mental establishment fifteen years ago still under the delusion that he had strangled his wife—if it was a delusion—”

He paused.

“These are all interesting but somewhat unrelated facts. The crucial point seems to be, is Mrs. Halliday alive or dead? If dead, when did she die? And what did Lily Kimble know?”

“It seems, on the face of it, that she must have known something rather important. So important that she was killed in order to prevent her talking about it.”

Gwenda cried, “But how could anyone possibly know she was going to talk about it—except us?”

Inspector Last turned his thoughtful eyes on her.

“It is a significant point, Mrs. Reed, that she took the two-five instead of the four-five train from Dillmouth Junction. There must be some reason for that. Also, she got out at the station before Woodleigh Bolton. Why? It seems possible to me that, after writing to the doctor, she wrote to someone else, suggesting a rendezvous at Woodleigh Camp, perhaps, and that she proposed after that rendezvous, if it was unsatisfactory, to go on to Dr. Kennedy and ask his advice. It is possible that she had suspicions of some definite person, and she may have written to that person hinting at her knowledge and suggesting a rendezvous.”

“Blackmail,” said Giles bluntly.

“I don’t suppose she thought of it that way,” said Inspector Last. “She was just greedy and hopeful—and a little muddled about what she could get out of it all. We’ll see. Maybe the husband can tell us more.”

V

“Warned her, I did,” said Mr. Kimble heavily. “‘Don’t have nought to do with it,’ them were my words. Went behind my back, she did. Thought as she knew best. That were Lily all over. Too smart by half.”

Questioning revealed that Mr. Kimble had little to contribute.

Lily had been in service at St. Catherine’s before he met her and started walking out with her. Fond of the pictures, she was, and told him that likely as not, she’d been in a house where there’d been a murder.

“Didn’t pay much account, I didn’t. All imagination, I thought. Never content with plain fact, Lily wasn’t. Long rigmarole she told me, about the master doing in the missus and maybe putting the body in the cellar—and something about a French girl what had looked out of the window and seen something or somebody. ‘Don’t you pay no attention to foreigners, my girl,’ I said. ‘One and all they’re liars. Not like us.’ And when she run on about it, I didn’t listen because, mark you, she was working it all up out of nothing. Liked a bit of crime, Lily did. Used to take the Sunday News what was running a series about Famous Murderers. Full of it, she was, and if she liked to think she’d been in a house where there was a murder, well, thinking don’t hurt nobody. But when she was on at me about answering this advertisement—‘You leave it alone,’ I says to her. ‘It’s no good stirring up trouble.’ And if she’d done as I telled her, she’d be alive today.”

He thought for a moment or two.

“Ar,” he said. “She’d be alive right now. Too smart by half, that was Lily.”

Twenty-three

WHICH OF THEM?

Giles and Gwenda had not gone with Inspector Last and Dr. Kennedy to interview Mr. Kimble. They arrived home about seven o’clock. Gwenda looked white and ill. Dr. Kennedy had said to Giles: “Give her some brandy and make her eat something, then get her to bed. She’s had a bad shock.”

“It’s so awful, Giles,” Gwenda kept saying. “So awful. That silly woman, making an appointment with the murderer, and going along so confidently—to be killed. Like a sheep to the slaughter.”

“Well, don’t think about it, darling. After all, we did know there was someone—a killer.”

“No, we didn’t. Not a killer now. I mean, it was then—eighteen years ago. It wasn’t, somehow, quite real … It might all have been a mistake.”

“Well, this proves that it wasn’t a mistake. You were right all the time, Gwenda.”

Giles was glad to find Miss Marple at Hillside. She and Mrs. Cocker between them fussed over Gwenda who refused brandy because she said it always reminded her of Channel steamers, but accepted some hot whisky and lemon, and then, coaxed by Mrs. Cocker, sat down and ate an omelette.

Giles would have talked determinedly of other things, but Miss Marple, with what Giles admitted to be superior tactics, discussed the crime in a gentle aloof manner.

“Very dreadful, my dear,” she said. “And of course a great shock, but interesting, one must admit. And of course I am so old that death doesn’t shock me as much as it does you—only something lingering and painful like cancer really distresses me. The really vital thing is that this proves definitely and beyond any possible doubt that poor young Helen Halliday was killed. We’ve thought so all along and now we know.”

“And according to you we ought to know where the body is,” said Giles. “The cellar, I suppose.”

“No, no, Mr. Reed. You remember Edith Pagett said she went down there on the morning after because she was disturbed by what Lily had said, and she found no signs of anything of the kind—and there would be signs, you know, if somebody was really looking for them.”

“Then what happened to it? Taken away in a car and thrown over a cliff into the sea?”

“No. Come now, my dears, what struck you first of all when you came here—struck you, Gwenda, I should say. The fact that from the drawing room window, you had no view down to the sea. Where you felt, very properly, that steps should lead down to the lawn—there was instead a plantation of shrubs. The steps, you found subsequently, had been there originally, but had at some time been transferred to the end of the terrace. Why were they moved?”

Gwenda stared at her with dawning comprehension.

“You mean that that’s where—”

“There must have been a reason for making the change, and there doesn’t really seem to be a sensible one. It is, frankly, a stupid place to have steps down to the lawn. But that end of the terrace is a very quiet place—it’s not overlooked from the house except by one window—the window of the nursery, on the first floor. Don’t you see, that if you want to bury a body the earth will be disturbed and there must be a reason for its being disturbed. The reason was that it had been decided to move the steps from in front of the drawing room to the end of the terrace. I’ve learnt already from Dr. Kennedy that Helen Halliday and her husband were very keen on the garden, and did a lot of work in it. The daily gardener they employed used merely to carry out their orders, and if he arrived to find that this change was in progress and some of the flags had already been moved, he would only have thought that the Hallidays had started on the work when he wasn’t there. The body, of course, could have been buried at either place, but we can be quite certain, I think, that it is actually buried at the end of the terrace and not in front of the drawing room window.”

“Why can we be sure?” asked Gwenda.

“Because of what poor Lily Kimble said in her letter—that she changed her mind about the body being in the cellar because of what Léonie saw when she looked out of the window. That makes it very clear, doesn’t it? The Swiss girl looked out of the nursery window at some time during the night and saw the grave being dug. Perhaps she actually saw who it was digging it.”

“And never said anything to the police?”

“My dear, there was no question at the time of a crime having occurred. Mrs. Halliday had run away with a lover—that was all that Léonie would grasp. She probably couldn’t speak much English anyway. She did mention to Lily, perhaps not at the time, but later, a curious thing she had observed from her window that night, and that stimulated Lily’s belief in a crime having occurred. But I’ve no doubt that Edith Pagett told Lily off for talking nonsense, and the Swiss girl would accept her point of view and would certainly not wish to be mixed-up with the police. Foreigners always seem to be particularly nervous about the police when they are in a strange country. So she went back to Switzerland and very likely never thought of it again.”

Giles said: “If she’s alive now—if she can be traced—”

Miss Marple nodded her head. “Perhaps.”

Giles demanded: “How can we set about it?”

Miss Marple said: “The police will be able to do that much better than you can.”

“Inspector Last is coming over here tomorrow morning.”

“Then I think I should tell him—about the steps.”

“And about what I saw—or think I saw—in the hall?” asked Gwenda nervously.

“Yes, dear. You’ve been very wise to say nothing of that until now. Very wise. But I think the time has come.”

Giles said slowly: “She was strangled in the hall, and then the murderer carried her upstairs and put her on the bed. Kelvin Halliday came in, passed out with doped whisky, and in his turn was carried upstairs to the bedroom. He came to, and thought he had killed her. The murderer must have been watching somewhere near at hand. When Kelvin went off to Dr. Kennedy’s, the murderer took away the body, probably hid it in the shrubbery at the end of the terrace and waited until everybody had gone to bed and was presumably asleep, before he dug the grave and buried the body. That means he must have been here, hanging about the house, pretty well all that night?”

Miss Marple nodded.

“He had to be—on the spot. I remember your saying that that was important. We’ve got to see which of our three suspects fits in best with the requirements. We’ll take Erskine first. Now he definitely was on the spot. By his own admission he walked up here with Helen Kennedy from the beach at round about nine o’clock. He said good-bye to her. But did he say good-bye to her? Let’s say instead that he strangled her.”

“But it was all over between them,” cried Gwenda. “Long ago. He said himself that he was hardly ever alone with Helen.”

“But don’t you see, Gwenda, that the way we must look at it now, we can’t depend on anything anyone says.”

“Now I’m so glad to hear you say that,” said Miss Marple. “Because I’ve been a little worried, you know, by the way you two have seemed willing to accept, as actual fact, all the things that people have told you. I’m afraid I have a sadly distrustful nature, but, especially in a matter of murder, I make it a rule to take nothing that is told to me as true, unless it is checked. For instance, it does seem quite certain that Lily Kimble mentioned the clothes packed and taken away in a suitcase were not the ones Helen Halliday would herself have taken, because not only did Edith Pagett tell us that Lily said so to her, but Lily herself mentioned the fact in her letter to Dr. Kennedy. So that is one fact. Dr. Kennedy told us that Kelvin Halliday believed that his wife was secretly drugging him, and Kelvin Halliday in his diary confirms that—so there is another fact—and a very curious fact it is, don’t you think? However, we will not go into that now.

“But I would like to point out that a great many of the assumptions you have made have been based upon what has been told you—possibly told you very plausibly.”

Giles stared hard at her.

Gwenda, her colour restored, sipped coffee, and leaned across the table.

Giles said: “Let’s check up now on what three people have said to us. Take Erskine first. He says—”

“You’ve got a down on him,” said Gwenda. “It’s waste of time going on about him, because now he’s definitely out of it. He couldn’t have killed Lily Kimble.”

Giles went on imperturbly: “He says that he met Helen on the boat going out to India and they fell in love, but that he couldn’t bring himself to leave his wife and children, and that they agreed they must say good-bye. Suppose it wasn’t quite like that. Suppose he fell desperately in love with Helen, and that it was she who wouldn’t run off with him. Supposing he threatened that if she married anyone else he would kill her.”

“Most improbable,” said Gwenda.

“Things like that do happen. Remember what you overheard his wife say to him. You put it all down to jealousy, but it may have been true. Perhaps she has had a terrible time with him where women are concerned—he may be a little bit of a sex maniac.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“No, because he’s attractive to women. I think, myself, that there is something a little queer about Erskine. However, let’s go on with my case against him. Helen breaks off her engagement to Fane and comes home and marries your father and settles down here. And then suddenly, Erskine turns up. He comes down ostensibly on a summer holiday with his wife. That’s an odd thing to do, really. He admits he came here to see Helen again. Now let’s take it that Erskine was the man in the drawing room with her that day when Lily overheard her say she was afraid of him. ‘I’m afraid of you—I’ve always been afraid of you—I think you’re mad.’

“And, because she’s afraid, she makes plans to go and live in Norfolk, but she’s very secretive about it. No one is to know. No one is to know, that is, until the Erskines have left Dillmouth. So far that fits. Now we come to the fatal night. What the Hallidays were doing earlier that evening we don’t know—”

Miss Marple coughed.

“As a matter of fact, I saw Edith Pagett again. She remembers that there was early supper that night—seven o’clock—because Major Halliday was going to some meeting—Golf Club, she thinks it was, or some Parish meeting. Mrs. Halliday went out after supper.”

“Right. Helen meets Erskine, by appointment, perhaps, on the beach. He is leaving the following day. Perhaps he refuses to go. He urges Helen to go away with him. She comes back here and he comes with her. Finally, in a fit of frenzy he strangles her. The next bit is as we have already agreed. He’s slightly mad, he wants Kelvin Halliday to believe it is he who has killed her. Later, Erskine buries the body. You remember, he told Gwenda that he didn’t go back to the hotel until very late because he was walking about Dillmouth.”

“One wonders,” said Miss Marple, “what his wife was doing?”

“Probably frenzied with jealousy,” said Gwenda. “And gave him hell when he did get in.”

“That’s my reconstruction,” said Giles. “And it’s possible.”

“But he couldn’t have killed Lily Kimble,” said Gwenda, “because he lives in Northumberland. So thinking about him is just waste of time. Let’s take Walter Fane.”

“Right. Walter Fane is the repressed type. He seems gentle and mild and easily pushed around. But Miss Marple has brought us one valuable bit of testimony. Walter Fane was once in such a rage that he nearly killed his brother. Admittedly he was a child at the time, but it was startling because he had always seemed of such a gentle forgiving nature. Anyway, Walter Fane falls in love with Helen Halliday. Not merely in love, he’s crazy about her. She won’t have him and he goes off to India. Later she writes him that she will come out and marry him. She starts. Then comes the second blow. She arrives and promptly jilts him. She has ‘met someone on the boat.’ She goes home and marries Kelvin Halliday. Possibly Walter Fane thinks that Kelvin Halliday was the original cause of her turning him down. He broods, nurses a crazy jealous hate and comes home. He behaves in a most forgiving, friendly manner, is often at this house, has become apparently a tame cat around the house, the faithful Dobbin. But perhaps Helen realizes that this isn’t true. She gets a glimpse of what is going on below the surface. Perhaps, long ago, she sensed something disturbing in quiet young Walter Fane. She says to him, ‘I think I’ve always been afraid of you.’ She makes plans, secretly, to go right away from Dillmouth and live in Norfolk. Why? Because she’s afraid of Walter Fane.

“Now we come again to the fatal evening. Here, we’re not on very sure ground. We don’t know what Walter Fane was doing that night, and I don’t see any probability of ever finding out. But he fulfils Miss Marple’s requirement of being ‘on the spot’ to the extent of living in a house that is only two or three minutes’ walk away. He may have said he was going to bed early with a headache, or shut himself into his study with work to do—something of that kind. He could have done all the things we’ve decided the murderer did do, and I think that he’s the most likely of the three to have made mistakes in packing a suitcase. He wouldn’t know enough about what women wear to do it properly.”

“It was queer,” said Gwenda. “In his office that day I had an odd sort of feeling that he was like a house with its blinds pulled down … and I even had a fanciful idea that—that there was someone dead in the house.”

She looked at Miss Marple.

“Does that seem very silly to you?” she asked.

“No, my dear. I think that perhaps you were right.”

“And now,” said Gwenda, “we come to Afflick. Afflick’s Tours. Jackie Afflick who was always too smart by half. The first thing against him is that Dr. Kennedy believed he had incipient persecution mania. That is—he was never really normal. He’s told us about himself and Helen—but we’ll agree now that that was all a pack of lies. He didn’t just think she was a cute kid—he was madly, passionately in love with her. But she wasn’t in love with him. She was just amusing herself. She was man mad, as Miss Marple says.”

“No, dear. I didn’t say that. Nothing of the kind.”

“Well, a nymphomaniac if you prefer the term. Anyway, she had an affair with Jackie Afflick and then wanted to drop him. He didn’t want to be dropped. Her brother got her out of her scrape, but Jackie Afflick never forgave or forgot. He lost his job—according to him through being framed by Walter Fane. That shows definite signs of persecution mania.”

“Yes,” agreed Giles. “But on the other hand, if it was true, it’s another point against Fane—quite a valuable point.”

Gwenda went on.

“Helen goes abroad, and he leaves Dillmouth. But he never forgets her, and when she returns to Dillmouth, married, he comes over and visits her. He said first of all, he came once, but later on, he admits that he came more than once. And, oh Giles, don’t you remember? Edith Pagett used a phrase about ‘our mystery man in a flashy car.’ You see, he came often enough to make the servants talk. But Helen took pains not to ask him to a meal—not to let him meet Kelvin. Perhaps she was afraid of him. Perhaps—”

Giles interrupted.

“This might cut both ways. Supposing Helen was in love with him—the first man she ever was in love with, and supposing she went on being in love with him. Perhaps they had an affair together and she didn’t let anyone know about it. But perhaps he wanted her to go away with him, and by that time she was tired of him, and wouldn’t go, and so—and so—he killed her. And all the rest of it. Lily said in her letter to Dr. Kennedy there was a posh car standing outside that night. It was Jackie Afflick’s car. Jackie Afflick was ‘on the spot,’ too.

“It’s an assumption,” said Giles. “But it seems to me a reasonable one. But there are Helen’s letters to be worked into our reconstruction. I’ve been puzzling my brains to think of the ‘circumstances,’ as Miss Marple put it, under which she could have been induced to write those letters. It seems to me that to explain them, we’ve got to admit that she actually had a lover, and that she was expecting to go away with him. We’ll test our three possibles again. Erskine first. Say that he still wasn’t prepared to leave his wife or break up his home, but that Helen had agreed to leave Kelvin Halliday and go somewhere where Erskine could come and be with her from time to time. The first thing would be to disarm Mrs. Erskine’s suspicions, so Helen writes a couple of letters to reach her brother in due course which will look as though she has gone abroad with someone. That fits in very well with her being so mysterious about who the man in question is.”

“But if she was going to leave her husband for him, why did he kill her?” asked Gwenda.

“Perhaps because she suddenly changed her mind. Decided that she did really care for her husband after all. He just saw red and strangled her. Then, he took the clothes and suitcase and used the letters. That’s a perfectly good explanation covering everything.”

“The same might apply to Walter Fane. I should imagine that scandal might be absolutely disastrous to a country solicitor. Helen might have agreed to go somewhere nearby where Fane could visit her but pretend that she had gone abroad with someone else. Letters all prepared and then, as you suggested, she changed her mind. Walter went mad and killed her.”

“What about Jackie Afflick?”

“It’s more difficult to find a reason for the letters with him. I shouldn’t imagine that scandal would affect him. Perhaps Helen was afraid, not of him, but of my father—and so thought it would be better to pretend she’d gone abroad—or perhaps Afflick’s wife had the money at that time, and he wanted her money to invest in his business. Oh yes, there are lots of possibilities for the letters.”

“Which one do you fancy, Miss Marple?” asked Gwenda. “I don’t really think Walter Fane—but then—”

Mrs. Cocker had just come in to clear away the coffee cups.

“There now, madam,” she said. “I quite forgot. All this about a poor woman being murdered and you and Mr. Reed mixed up in it, not at all the right thing for you, madam, just now. Mr. Fane was here this afternoon, asking for you. He waited quite half an hour. Seemed to think you were expecting him.”

“How strange,” said Gwenda. “What time?”

“It must have been about four o’clock or just after. And then, after that, there was another gentleman, came in a great big yellow car. He was positive you were expecting him. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Waited twenty minutes. I wondered if you’d had some idea of a tea party and forgotten it.”

“No,” said Gwenda. “How odd.”

“Let’s ring up Fane now,” said Giles. “He won’t have gone to bed.”

He suited the action to the word.

“Hullo, is that Fane speaking? Giles Reed here. I hear you came round to see us this afternoon—What?—No—no, I’m sure of it—no, how very odd. Yes, I wonder, too.”

He laid down the receiver.

“Here’s an odd thing. He was rung up in his office this morning. A message left would he come round and see us this afternoon. It was very important.”

Giles and Gwenda stared at each other. Then Gwenda said, “Ring up Afflick.”

Again Giles went to the telephone, found the number and rang through. It took a little longer, but presently he got the connection.

“Mr. Afflick? Giles Reed, I—”

Here he was obviously interrupted by a flow of speech from the other end.

At last he was able to say:

“But we didn’t—no, I assure you—nothing of the kind—Yes—yes, I know you’re a busy man. I wouldn’t have dreamed of—Yes, but look here, who was it rang you—a man?—No, I tell you it wasn’t me. No—no, I see. Well, I agree, it’s quite extraordinary.”

He replaced the receiver and came back to the table.

“Well, there it is,” he said. “Somebody, a man who said he was me, rang up Afflick and asked him to come over here. It was urgent—big sum of money involved.”

They looked at each other.

“It could have been either of them,” said Gwenda. “Don’t you see, Giles? Either of them could have killed Lily and come on here as an alibi.”

“Hardly an alibi, dear,” put in Miss Marple.

“I don’t mean quite an alibi, but an excuse for being away from their office. What I mean is, one of them is speaking the truth and one is lying. One of them rang up the other and asked him to come here—to throw suspicion on him—but we don’t know which. It’s a clear issue now between the two of them. Fane or Afflick. I say—Jackie Afflick.”

“I think Walter Fane,” said Giles.

They both looked at Miss Marple.

She shook her head.

“There’s another possibility,” she said.

“Of course. Erskine.”

Giles fairly ran across to the telephone.

“What are you going to do?” asked Gwenda.

“Put through a trunk call to Northumberland.”

“Oh Giles—you can’t really think—”

“We’ve got to know. If he’s there—he can’t have killed Lily Kimble this afternoon. No private aeroplanes or silly stuff like that.”

They waited in silence until the telephone bell rang.

Giles picked up the receiver.

“You were asking for a personal call to Major Erskine. Go ahead, please. Major Erskine is waiting.”

Clearing his throat nervously, Giles said, “Er—Erskine? Giles Reed here—Reed, yes.”

He cast a sudden agonized glance at Gwenda which said as plainly as possible, “What the hell do I say now?”

Gwenda got up and took the receiver from him.

“Major Erskine? This is Mrs. Reed here. We’ve heard of—of a house. Linscott Brake. Is—is it—do you know anything about it? It’s somewhere near you, I believe.”

Erskine’s voice said: “Linscott Brake? No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it. What’s the postal town?”

“It’s terribly blurred,” said Gwenda. “You know those awful typescripts agents send out. But it says fifteen miles from Daith so we thought—”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t heard of it. Who lives there?”

“Oh, it’s empty. But never mind, actually we’ve—we’ve practically settled on a house. I’m so sorry to have bothered you. I expect you were busy.”

“No, not at all. At least only busy domestically. My wife’s away. And our cook had to go off to her mother, so I’ve been dealing with domestic routine. I’m afraid I’m not much of a hand at it. Better in the garden.”

“I’d always rather do gardening than housework. I hope your wife isn’t ill?”

“Oh no, she was called away to a sister. She’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Well, good night, and so sorry to have bothered you.”

She put down the receiver.

“Erskine is out of it,” she said triumphantly. “His wife’s away and he’s doing all the chores. So that leaves it between the two others. Doesn’t it, Miss Marple?”

Miss Marple was looking grave.

“I don’t think, my dears,” she said, “that you have given quite enough thought to the matter. Oh dear—I am really very worried. If only I knew exactly what to do….”

Twenty-four

THE MONKEY’S PAWS

I

Gwenda leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands while her eyes roamed dispassionately over the remains of a hasty lunch. Presently she must deal with them, carry them out to the scullery, wash up, put things away, see what there would be, later, for supper.

But there was no wild hurry. She felt she needed a little time to take things in. Everything had been happening too fast.

The events of the morning, when she reviewed them, seemed to be chaotic and impossible. Everything had happened too quickly and too improbably.

Inspector Last had appeared early—at half past nine. With him had come Detective Inspector Primer from headquarters and the Chief Constable of the County. The latter had not stayed long. It was Inspector Primer who was now in charge of the case of Lily Kimble deceased and all the ramifications arising therefrom.

It was Inspector Primer, a man with a deceptively mild manner and a gentle apologetic voice, who had asked her if it would inconvenience her very much if his men did some digging in the garden.

From the tone of his voice, it might have been a case of giving his men some healthful exercise, rather than of seeking for a dead body which had been buried for eighteen years.

Giles had spoken up then. He had said: “I think, perhaps, we could help you with a suggestion or two.”

And he told the Inspector about the shifting of the steps leading down to the lawn, and took the Inspector out on to the terrace.

The Inspector had looked up at the barred window on the first floor at the corner of the house and had said: “That would be the nursery, I presume.”

And Giles said that it would.

Then the Inspector and Giles had come back into the house, and two men with spades had gone out into the garden, and Giles, before the Inspector could get down to questions, had said:

“I think, Inspector, you had better hear something that my wife has so far not mentioned to anyone except myself—and—er—one other person.”

The gentle, rather compelling gaze of Inspector Primer came to rest on Gwenda. It was faintly speculative. He was asking himself, Gwenda thought: “Is this a woman who can be depended upon, or is she the kind who imagines things?”

So strongly did she feel this, that she started in a defensive way: “I may have imagined it. Perhaps I did. But it seems awfully real.”

Inspector Primer said softly and soothingly:

“Well, Mrs. Reed, let’s hear about it.”

And Gwenda had explained. How the house had seemed familiar to her when she first saw it. How she had subsequently learned that she had, in fact, lived there as a child. How she had remembered the nursery wallpaper, and the connecting door, and the feeling she had had that there ought to be steps down to the lawn.

Inspector Primer nodded. He did not say that Gwenda’s childish recollections were not particularly interesting, but Gwenda wondered whether he were thinking it.

Then she nerved herself to the final statement. How she had suddenly remembered, when sitting in a theatre, looking through the banisters at Hillside and seeing a dead woman in the hall.

“With a blue face, strangled, and golden hair—and it was Helen—But it was so stupid, I didn’t know at all who Helen was.”

“We think that—” Giles began, but Inspector Primer, with unexpected authority, held up a restraining hand.

“Please let Mrs. Reed tell me in her own words.”

And Gwenda had stumbled on, her face flushed, with Inspector Primer gently helping her out, using a dexterity that Gwenda did not appreciate as the highly technical performance it was.

“Webster?” he said thoughtfully. “Hm, Duchess of Malfi. Monkey’s paws?”

“But that was probably a nightmare,” said Giles.

“Please, Mr. Reed.”

“It may all have been a nightmare,” said Gwenda.

“No, I don’t think it was,” said Inspector Primer. “It would be very hard to explain Lily Kimble’s death, unless we assume that there was a woman murdered in this house.”

That seemed so reasonable and almost comforting, that Gwenda hurried on.

“And it wasn’t my father who murdered her. It wasn’t, really. Even Dr. Penrose says he wasn’t the right type, and that he couldn’t have murdered anybody. And Dr. Kennedy was quite sure he hadn’t done it, but only thought he had. So you see it was someone who wanted it to seem as though my father had done it, and we think we know who—at least it’s one of two people—”

“Gwenda,” said Giles. “We can’t really—”

“I wonder, Mr. Reed,” said the Inspector, “if you would mind going out into the garden and seeing how my men are getting on. Tell them I sent you.”

He closed the french windows after Giles and latched them and came back to Gwenda.

“Now just tell me all your ideas, Mrs. Reed. Never mind if they are rather incoherent.”

And Gwenda had poured out all her and Giles’s speculations and reasonings, and the steps they had taken to find out all they could about the three men who might have figured in Helen Halliday’s life, and the final conclusions they had come to—and how both Walter Fane and J. J. Afflick had been rung up, as though by Giles, and had been summoned to Hillside the preceding afternoon.

“But you do see, don’t you, Inspector—that one of them might be lying?”

And in a gentle, rather tired voice, the Inspector said: “That’s one of the principal difficulties in my kind of work. So many people may be lying. And so many people usually are … Though not always for the reasons that you’d think. And some people don’t even know they’re lying.”

“Do you think I’m like that?” Gwenda asked apprehensively.

And the Inspector had smiled and said: “I think you’re a very truthful witness, Mrs. Reed.”

“And you think I’m right about who murdered her?”

The Inspector sighed and said: “It’s not a question of thinking—not with us. It’s a question of checking up. Where everybody was, what account everybody gives of their movements. We know accurately enough, to within ten minutes or so, when Lily Kimble was killed. Between two twenty and two forty-five. Anyone could have killed her and then come on here yesterday afternoon. I don’t see, myself, any reason for those telephone calls. It doesn’t give either of the people you mention an alibi for the time of the murder.”

“But you will find out, won’t you, what they were doing at the time? Between two twenty and two forty-five. You will ask them.”

Inspector Primer smiled.

“We shall ask all the questions necessary, Mrs. Reed, you may be sure of that. All in good time. There’s no good in rushing things. You’ve got to see your way ahead.”

Gwenda had a sudden vision of patience and quiet unsensational work. Unhurried, remorseless….

She said: “I see … yes. Because you’re professional. And Giles and I are just amateurs. We might make a lucky hit—but we wouldn’t really know how to follow it up.”

“Something of the kind, Mrs. Reed.”

The Inspector smiled again. He got up and unfastened the french windows. Then, just as he was about to step through them, he stopped. Rather, Gwenda thought, like a pointing dog.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Reed. That lady wouldn’t be a Miss Jane Marple, would she?”

Gwenda had come to stand beside him. At the bottom of the garden Miss Marple was still waging a losing war with bindweed.

“Yes, that’s Miss Marple. She’s awfully kind in helping us with the garden.”

“Miss Marple,” said the Inspector. “I see.”

And as Gwenda looked at him enquiringly and said, “She’s rather a dear,” he replied:

“She’s a very celebrated lady, is Miss Marple. Got the Chief Constables of at least three counties in her pocket. She’s not got my Chief yet, but I dare say that will come. So Miss Marple’s got her finger in this pie.”

“She’s made an awful lot of helpful suggestions,” said Gwenda.

“I bet she has,” said the Inspector. “Was it her suggestion where to look for the deceased Mrs. Halliday?”

“She said that Giles and I ought to know quite well where to look,” said Gwenda. “And it did seem stupid of us not to have thought of it before.”

The Inspector gave a soft little laugh, and went down to stand by Miss Marple. He said: “I don’t think we’ve been introduced, Miss Marple. But you were pointed out to me once by Colonel Melrose.”

Miss Marple stood up, flushed and grasping a handful of clinging green.

“Oh yes. Dear Colonel Melrose. He has always been most kind. Ever since—”

“Ever since a churchwarden was shot in the Vicar’s study. Quite a while ago. But you’ve had other successes since then. A little poison pen trouble down near Lymstock.”

“You seem to know quite a lot about me, Inspector—”

“Primer, my name is. And you’ve been busy here, I expect.”

“Well, I try to do what I can in the garden. Sadly neglected. This bindweed, for instance, such nasty stuff. Its roots,” said Miss Marple, looking very earnestly at the Inspector, “go down underground a long way. A very long way—they run along underneath the soil.”

“I think you’re right about that,” said the Inspector. “A long way down. A long way back … this murder, I mean. Eighteen years.”

“And perhaps before that,” said Miss Marple. “Running underground … And terribly harmful, Inspector, squeezing the life out of the pretty growing flowers….”

One of the police constables came along the path. He was perspiring and had a smudge of earth on his forehead.

“We’ve come to—something, sir. Looks as though it’s her all right.”

II

And it was then, Gwenda reflected, that the nightmarish quality of the day had begun. Giles coming in, his face rather pale, saying: “It’s—she’s there all right, Gwenda.”

Then one of the constables had telephoned and the police surgeon, a short, bustling man, had arrived.

And it was then that Mrs. Cocker, the calm and imperturbable Mrs. Cocker, had gone out into the garden—not led, as might have been expected, by ghoulish curiosity, but solely in the quest of culinary herbs for the dish she was preparing for lunch. And Mrs. Cocker, whose reaction to the news of a murder on the preceding day had been shocked censure and an anxiety for the effect upon Gwenda’s health (for Mrs. Cocker had made up her mind that the nursery upstairs was to be tenanted after the due number of months), had walked straight in upon the gruesome discovery, and had been immediately “taken queer” to an alarming extent.

“Too horrible, madam. Bones is a thing I never could abide. Not skeleton bones, as one might say. And here in the garden, just by the mint and all. And my heart’s beating at such a rate—palpitations—I can hardly get my breath. And if I might make so bold, just a thimbleful of brandy….”

Alarmed by Mrs. Cocker’s gasps and her ashy colour, Gwenda had rushed to the sideboard, poured out some brandy and brought it to Mrs. Cocker to sip.

And Mrs. Cocker had said: “That’s just what I needed, madam—” when, quite suddenly, her voice had failed, and she had looked so alarming, that Gwenda had screamed for Giles, and Giles had yelled to the police surgeon.

“And it’s fortunate I was on the spot,” the latter said afterwards. “It was touch and go anyway. Without a doctor, that woman would have died then and there.”

And then Inspector Primer had taken the brandy decanter, and then he and the doctor had gone into a huddle over it, and Inspector Primer had asked Gwenda when she and Giles had last had any brandy out of it.

Gwenda said she thought not for some days. They’d been away—up North, and the last few times they’d had a drink, they’d had gin. “But I nearly had some brandy yesterday,” said Gwenda. “Only it makes me think of Channel steamers, so Giles opened a new bottle of whisky.”

“That was very lucky for you, Mrs. Reed. If you’d drunk brandy yesterday, I doubt if you would be alive today.”

“Giles nearly drank some—but in the end he had whisky with me.”

Gwenda shivered.

Even now, alone in the house, with the police gone and Giles gone with them after a hasty lunch scratched up out of tins (since Mrs. Cocker had been removed to hospital), Gwenda could hardly believe in the morning turmoil of events.

One thing stood out clearly: the presence in the house yesterday of Jackie Afflick and Walter Fane. Either of them could have tampered with the brandy, and what was the purpose of the telephone calls unless it was to afford one or other of them the opportunity to poison the brandy decanter? Gwenda and Giles had been getting too near the truth. Or had a third person come in from outside, through the open dining room window perhaps, whilst she and Giles had been sitting in Dr. Kennedy’s house waiting for Lily Kimble to keep her appointment? A third person who had engineered the telephone calls to steer suspicion on the other two?

But a third person, Gwenda thought, didn’t make sense. For a third person, surely, would have telephoned to only one of the two men. A third person would have wanted one suspect, not two. And anyway, who could the third person be? Erskine had definitely been in Northumberland. No, either Walter Fane had telephoned to Afflick and had pretended to be telephoned to himself. Or else Afflick had telephoned Fane, and had made the same pretence of receiving a summons. One of those two, and the police, who were cleverer and had more resources than she and Giles had, would find out which. And in the meantime both of those men would be watched. They wouldn’t be able to—to try again.

Again Gwenda shivered. It took a little getting used to—the knowledge that someone had tried to kill you. “Dangerous,” Miss Marple had said long ago. But she and Giles had not really taken the idea of danger seriously. Even after Lily Kimble had been killed, it still hadn’t occurred to her that anyone would try and kill her and Giles. Just because she and Giles were getting too near the truth of what had happened eighteen years ago. Working out what must have happened then—and who had made it happen.

Walter Fane and Jackie Afflick….

Which?

Gwenda closed her eyes, seeing them afresh in the light of her new knowledge.

Quiet Walter Fane, sitting in his office—the pale spider in the centre of its web. So quiet, so harmless-looking. A house with its blinds down. Someone dead in the house. Someone dead eighteen years ago—but still there. How sinister the quiet Walter Fane seemed now. Walter Fane who had once flung himself murderously upon his brother. Walter Fane whom Helen had scornfully refused to marry, once here at home, and once again in India. A double rebuff. A double ignominy. Walter Fane, so quiet, so unemotional, who could express himself, perhaps, only in sudden murderous violence—as, possibly, quiet Lizzie Borden had once done….

Gwenda opened her eyes. She had convinced herself, hadn’t she, that Walter Fane was the man?

One might, perhaps, just consider Afflick. With her eyes open, not shut.

His loud check suit, his domineering manner—just the opposite to Walter Fane—nothing repressed or quiet about Afflick. But possibly he had put that manner on because of an inferiority complex. It worked that way, experts said. If you weren’t sure of yourself, you had to boast and assert yourself, and be overbearing. Turned down by Helen because he wasn’t good enough for her. The sore festering, not forgotten. Determination to get on in the world. Persecution. Everyone against him. Discharged from his employment by a faked charge made up by an “enemy.” Surely that did show that Afflick wasn’t normal. And what a feeling of power a man like that would get out of killing. That good-natured, jovial face of his, it was a cruel face really. He was a cruel man—and his thin pale wife knew it and was afraid of him. Lily Kimble had threatened him and Lily Kimble had died. Gwenda and Giles had interfered—then Gwenda and Giles must die, too, and he would involve Walter Fane who had sacked him long ago. That fitted in very nicely.

Gwenda shook herself, came out of her imaginings, and returned to practicality. Giles would be home and want his tea. She must clear away and wash up lunch.

She fetched a tray and took the things out to the kitchen. Everything in the kitchen was exquisitely neat. Mrs. Cocker was really a treasure.

By the side of the sink was a pair of surgical rubber gloves. Mrs. Cocker always wore a pair for washing up. Her niece, who worked in a hospital, got them at a reduced price.

Gwenda fitted them on over her hands and began to wash up the dishes. She might as well keep her hands nice.

She washed the plates and put them in the rack, washed and dried the other things and put everything neatly away.

Then, still lost in thought, she went upstairs. She might as well, she thought, wash out those stockings and a jumper or two. She’d keep the gloves on.

These things were in the forefront of her mind. But somewhere, underneath them, something was nagging at her.

Walter Fane or Jackie Afflick, she had said. One or the other of them. And she had made out quite a good case against either of them. Perhaps that was what really worried her. Because, strictly speaking, it would be much more satisfactory if you could only make out a good case against one of them. One ought to be sure, by now, which. And Gwenda wasn’t sure.

If only there was someone else … But there couldn’t be anyone else. Because Richard Erskine was out of it. Richard Erskine had been in Northumberland when Lily Kimble was killed and when the brandy in the decanter had been tampered with. Yes, Richard Erskine was right out of it.

She was glad of that, because she liked Richard Erskine. Richard Erskine was attractive, very attractive. How sad for him to be married to that megalith of a woman with her suspicious eyes and deep bass voice. Just like a man’s voice….

Like a man’s voice….

The idea flashed through her mind with a queer misgiving.

A man’s voice … Could it have been Mrs. Erskine, not her husband, who had replied to Giles on the telephone last night?

No—no, surely not. No, of course not. She and Giles would have known. And anyway, to begin with, Mrs. Erskine could have had no idea of who was ringing up. No, of course it was Erskine speaking, and his wife, as he said, was away.

His wife was away …

Surely—no, that was impossible … Could it have been Mrs. Erskine? Mrs. Erskine, driven insane by jealousy? Mrs. Erskine to whom Lily Kimble had written? Was it a woman Léonie had seen in the garden that night when she looked out of the window?

There was a sudden bang in the hall below. Somebody had come in through the front door.

Gwenda came out from the bathroom on to the landing and looked over the banisters. She was relieved to see it was Dr. Kennedy. She called down:

“I’m here.”

Her hands were held out in front of her—wet, glistening, a queer pinkish grey—they reminded her of something….

Kennedy looked up, shading his eyes.

“Is that you, Gwennie? I can’t see your face … My eyes are dazzled—”

And then Gwenda screamed….

Looking at those smooth monkey’s paws and hearing that voice in the hall—

“It was you,” she gasped. “You killed her … killed Helen … I—know now. It was you … all along … You….”

He came up the stairs towards her. Slowly. Looking up at her.

“Why couldn’t you leave me alone?” he said. “Why did you have to meddle? Why did you have to bring—Her—back? Just when I’d begun to forget—to forget. You brought her back again—Helen—my Helen. Bringing it all up again. I had to kill Lily—now I’ll have to kill you. Like I killed Helen … Yes, like I killed Helen….”

He was close upon her now—his hands out towards her—reaching, she knew, for her throat. That kind, quizzical face—that nice, ordinary, elderly face—the same still, but for the eyes—the eyes were not sane….

Gwenda retreated before him, slowly, the scream frozen in her throat. She had screamed once. She could not scream again. And if she did scream no one would hear.

Because there was no one in the house—not Giles, and not Mrs. Cocker, not even Miss Marple in the garden. Nobody. And the house next door was too far away to hear if she screamed. And anyway, she couldn’t scream … Because she was too frightened to scream. Frightened of those horrible reaching hands….

She could back away to the nursery door and then—and then—those hands would fasten round her throat….

A pitiful little stifled whimper came from between her lips.

And then, suddenly, Dr. Kennedy stopped and reeled back as a jet of soapy water struck him between the eyes. He gasped and blinked and his hands went to his face.

“So fortunate,” said Miss Marple’s voice, rather breathless, for she had run violently up the back stairs, “that I was just syringing the greenfly off your roses.”

Twenty-five

POSTSCRIPT AT TORQUAY

“But, of course, dear Gwenda, I should never have dreamed of going away and leaving you alone in the house,” said Miss Marple. “I knew there was a very dangerous person at large, and I was keeping an unobtrusive watch from the garden.”

“Did you know it was—him—all along?” asked Gwenda.

They were all three, Miss Marple, Gwenda and Giles, sitting on the terrace of the Imperial Hotel at Torquay.

“A change of scene,” Miss Marple had said, and Giles had agreed, would be the best thing for Gwenda. So Inspector Primer had concurred and they had driven to Torquay forthwith.

Miss Marple said in answer to Gwenda’s question, “Well, he did seem indicated, my dear. Although unfortunately there was nothing in the way of evidence to go upon. Just indications, nothing more.”

Looking at her curiously, Giles said, “But I can’t see any indications even.”

“Oh dear, Giles, think. He was on the spot, to begin with.”

“On the spot?”

“But certainly. When Kelvin Halliday came to him that night he had just come back from the hospital. And the hospital, at that time, as several people told us, was actually next door to Hillside, or St. Catherine’s as it was then called. So that, as you see, puts him in the right place at the right time. And then there were a hundred and one little significant facts. Helen Halliday told Richard Erskine she had gone out to marry Walter Fane because she wasn’t happy at home. Not happy, that is, living with her brother. Yet her brother was by all accounts devoted to her. So why wasn’t she happy? Mr. Afflick told you that ‘he was sorry for the poor kid.’ I think that he was absolutely truthful when he said that. He was sorry for her. Why did she have to go and meet young Afflick in that clandestine way? Admittedly she was not wildly in love with him. Was it because she couldn’t meet young men in the ordinary normal way? Her brother was ‘strict’ and ‘old-fashioned.’ It is vaguely reminiscent, is it not, of Mr. Barrett of Wimpole Street?”

Gwenda shivered.

“He was mad,” she said. “Mad.”

“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “He wasn’t normal. He adored his half-sister, and that affection became possessive and unwholesome. That kind of thing happens oftener than you’d think. Fathers who don’t want their daughters to marry—or even to meet young men. Like Mr. Barrett. I thought of that when I heard about the tennis net.”

“The tennis net?”

“Yes, that seemed to me very significant. Think of that girl, young Helen, coming home from school, and eager for all a young girl wants out of life, anxious to meet young men—to flirt with them—”

“A little sex-crazy.”

“No,” said Miss Marple with emphasis. “That is one of the wickedest things about this crime. Dr. Kennedy didn’t only kill her physically. If you think back carefully, you’ll see that the only evidence for Helen Kennedy’s having been man mad or practically—what is the word you used, dear? oh yes, a nymphomaniac—came actually from Dr. Kennedy himself. I think, myself, that she was a perfectly normal young girl who wanted to have fun and a good time and flirt a little and finally settle down with the man of her choice—no more than that. And see what steps her brother took. First he was strict and old-fashioned about allowing her liberty. Then, when she wanted to give tennis parties—a most normal and harmless desire—he pretended to agree and then one night secretly cut the tennis net to ribbons—a very significant and sadistic action. Then, since she could still go out to play tennis or to dances, he took advantage of a grazed foot which he treated, to infect it so that it wouldn’t heal. Oh yes, I think he did that … in fact, I’m sure of it.

“Mind you. I don’t think Helen realized any of all this. She knew her brother had a deep affection for her and I don’t think she knew why she felt uneasy and unhappy at home. But she did feel like that and at last she decided to go out to India and marry young Fane simply in order to get away. To get away from what? She didn’t know. She was too young and guileless to know. So she went off to India and on the way she met Richard Erskine and fell in love with him. There again, she behaved not like a sex-crazy girl, but like a decent and honourable girl. She didn’t urge him to leave his wife. She urged him not to do so. But when she saw Walter Fane she knew that she couldn’t marry him, and because she didn’t know what else to do, she wired her brother for money to go home.

“On the way home she met your father—and another way of escape showed itself. This time it was one with good prospect of happiness.

“She didn’t marry your father under false pretences, Gwenda. He was recovering from the death of a dearly loved wife. She was getting over an unhappy love affair. They could both help each other. I think it is significant that she and Kelvin Halliday were married in London and then went down to Dillmouth to break the news to Dr. Kennedy. She must have had some instinct that that would be a wiser thing to do than to go down and be married in Dillmouth, which ordinarily would have been the normal thing to do. I still think she didn’t know what she was up against—but she was uneasy, and she felt safer in presenting her brother with the marriage as a fait accompli.

“Kelvin Halliday was very friendly to Kennedy and liked him. Kennedy seems to have gone out of his way to appear pleased about the marriage. The couple took a furnished house there.

“And now we come to that very significant fact—the suggestion that Kelvin was being drugged by his wife. There are only two possible explanations of that—because there are only two people who could have had the opportunity of doing such a thing. Either Helen Halliday was drugging her husband, and if so, why? Or else the drugs were being administered by Dr. Kennedy. Kennedy was Halliday’s physician as is clear by Halliday’s consulting him. He had confidence in Kennedy’s medical knowledge—and the suggestion that his wife was drugging him was very cleverly put to him by Kennedy.”

“But could any drug make a man have the hallucination that he was strangling his wife?” asked Giles. “I mean there isn’t any drug, is there, that has that particular effect?”

“My dear Giles, you’ve fallen into the trap again—the trap of believing what is said to you. There is only Dr. Kennedy’s word for it that Halliday ever had that hallucination. He himself never says so in his diary. He had hallucinations, yes, but he does not mention their nature. But I dare say Kennedy talked to him about men who had strangled their wives after passing through a phase such as Kelvin Halliday was experiencing.”

“Dr. Kennedy was really wicked,” said Gwenda.

“I think,” said Miss Marple, “that he’d definitely passed the borderline between sanity and madness by that time. And Helen, poor girl, began to realize it. It was to her brother she must have been speaking that day when she was overheard by Lily. “I think I’ve always been afraid of you.” That was one of the things she said. And that always was very significant. And so she determined to leave Dillmouth. She persuaded her husband to buy a house in Norfolk, she persuaded him not to tell anyone about it. The secrecy about it was very illuminating. She was clearly very afraid of someone knowing about it—but that did not fit in with the Walter Fane theory or the Jackie Afflick theory—and certainly not with Richard Erskine’s being concerned. No, it pointed to somewhere much nearer home.

“And in the end, Kelvin Halliday, whom doubtless the secrecy irked and who felt it to be pointless, told his brother-in-law.

“And in so doing, sealed his own fate and that of his wife. For Kennedy was not going to let Helen go and live happily with her husband. I think perhaps his idea was simply to break down Halliday’s health with drugs. But at the revelation that his victim and Helen were going to escape him, he became completely unhinged. From the hospital he went through into the garden of St. Catherine’s and he took with him a pair of surgical gloves. He caught Helen in the hall, and he strangled her. Nobody saw him, there was no one there to see him, or so he thought, and so, racked with love and frenzy, he quoted those tragic lines that were so apposite.”

Miss Marple sighed and clucked her tongue.

“I was stupid—very stupid. We were all stupid. We should have seen at once. Those lines from The Duchess of Malfi were really the clue to the whole thing. They are said, are they not, by a brother who has just contrived his sister’s death to avenge her marriage to the man she loved. Yes, we were stupid—”

“And then?” asked Giles.

“And then he went through with the whole devilish plan. The body carried upstairs. The clothes packed in a suitcase. A note, written and thrown in the wastepaper basket to convince Halliday later.”

“But I should have thought,” said Gwenda, “that it would have been better from his point of view for my father actually to have been convicted of the murder.”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“Oh no, he couldn’t risk that. He had a lot of shrewd Scottish common sense, you know. He had a wholesome respect for the police. The police take a lot of convincing before they believe a man guilty of murder. The police might have asked a lot of awkward questions and made a lot of awkward enquiries as to times and places. No, his plan was simpler and, I think, more devilish. He only had Halliday to convince. First, that he had killed his wife. Secondly that he was mad. He persuaded Halliday to go into a mental home, but I don’t think he really wanted to convince him that it was all a delusion. Your father accepted that theory, Gwennie, mainly, I should imagine, for your sake. He continued to believe that he had killed Helen. He died believing that.”

“Wicked,” said Gwenda. “Wicked—wicked—wicked.”

“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “There isn’t really any other word. And I think, Gwenda, that that is why your childish impression of what you saw remained so strong. It was real evil that was in the air that night.”

“But the letters,” said Giles. “Helen’s letters? They were in her handwriting, so they couldn’t be forgeries.”

“Of course they were forgeries! But that is where he overreached himself. He was so anxious, you see, to stop you and Giles making investigations. He could probably imitate Helen’s handwriting quite nicely—but it wouldn’t fool an expert. So the sample of Helen’s handwriting he sent you with the letter wasn’t her handwriting either. He wrote it himself. So naturally it tallied.”

“Goodness,” said Giles. “I never thought of that.”

“No,” said Miss Marple. “You believed what he said. It really is very dangerous to believe people. I never have for years.”

“And the brandy?”

“He did that the day he came to Hillside with Helen’s letter and talked to me in the garden. He was waiting in the house while Mrs. Cocker came out and told me he was there. It would only take a minute.”

“Good Lord,” said Giles. “And he urged me to take Gwenda home and give her brandy after we were at the police station when Lily Kimble was killed. How did he arrange to meet her earlier?”

“That was very simple. The original letter he sent her asked her to meet him at Woodleigh Camp and come to Matchings Halt by the two-five train from Dillmouth Junction. He came out of the copse of trees, probably, and accosted her as she was going up the lane—and strangled her. Then he simply substituted the letter you all saw for the letter she had with her (and which he had asked her to bring because of the directions in it) and went home to prepare for you and play out the little comedy of waiting for Lily.”

“And Lily really was threatening him? Her letter didn’t sound as though she was. Her letter sounded as though she suspected Afflick.”

“Perhaps she did. But Léonie, the Swiss girl, had talked to Lily, and Léonie was the one danger to Kennedy. Because she looked out of the nursery window and saw him digging in the garden. In the morning he talked to her, told her bluntly that Major Halliday had killed his wife—that Major Halliday was insane, and that he, Kennedy, was hushing up the matter for the child’s sake. If, however, Léonie felt she ought to go to the police, she must do so, but it would be very unpleasant for her—and so on.

“Léonie took immediate fright at the mention of the police. She adored you and had implicit faith in what M. le docteur thought best. Kennedy paid her a handsome sum of money and hustled her back to Switzerland. But before she went, she hinted something to Lily as to your father’s having killed his wife and that she had seen the body buried. That fitted in with Lily’s ideas at the time. She took it for granted that it was Kelvin Halliday Léonie had seen digging the grave.”

“But Kennedy didn’t know that, of course,” said Gwenda.

“Of course not. When he got Lily’s letter the words in it that frightened him were that Léonie had told Lily what she had seen out of the window and the mention of the car outside.”

“The car? Jackie Afflick’s car?”

“Another misunderstanding. Lily remembered, or thought she remembered, a car like Jackie Afflick’s being outside in the road. Already her imagination had got to work on the Mystery Man who came over to see Mrs. Halliday. With the hospital next door, no doubt a good many cars did park along this road. But you must remember that the doctor’s car was actually standing outside the hospital that night—he probably leaped to the conclusion that she meant his car. The adjective posh was meaningless to him.”

“I see,” said Giles. “Yes, to a guilty conscience that letter of Lily’s might look like blackmail. But how do you know all about Léonie?”

Her lips pursed close together, Miss Marple said: “He went—right over the edge, you know. As soon as the men Inspector Primer had left rushed in and seized him, he went over the whole crime again and again—everything he’d done. Léonie died, it seems, very shortly after her return to Switzerland. Overdose of some sleeping tablets … Oh no, he wasn’t taking any chances.”

“Like trying to poison me with the brandy.”

“You were very dangerous to him, you and Giles. Fortunately you never told him about your memory of seeing Helen dead in the hall. He never knew there had been an eyewitness.”

“Those telephone calls to Fane and Afflick,” said Giles. “Did he put those through?”

“Yes. If there was an enquiry as to who could have tampered with the brandy, either of them would make an admirable suspect, and if Jackie Afflick drove over in his car alone, it might tie him in with Lily Kimble’s murder. Fane would most likely have an alibi.”

“And he seemed fond of me,” said Gwenda. “Little Gwennie.”

“He had to play his part,” said Miss Marple. “Imagine what it meant to him. After eighteen years, you and Giles come along, asking questions, burrowing into the past, disturbing a murder that had seemed dead but was only sleeping … Murder in retrospect … A horribly dangerous thing to do, my dears. I have been sadly worried.”

“Poor Mrs. Cocker,” said Gwenda. “She had a terribly near escape. I’m glad she’s going to be all right. Do you think she’ll come back to us, Giles? After all this?”

“She will if there’s a nursery,” said Giles gravely, and Gwenda blushed, and Miss Marple smiled a little and looked out across Torbay.

“How very odd it was that it should happen the way it did,” mused Gwenda. “My having those rubber gloves on, and looking at them, and then his coming into the hall and saying those words that sounded so like the others. ‘Face’… and then: ‘Eyes dazzled’—”

She shuddered.

“Cover her face … Mine eyes dazzle … she died young … that might have been me … if Miss Marple hadn’t been there.”

She paused and said softly, “Poor Helen … Poor lovely Helen, who died young … You know, Giles, she isn’t there anymore—in the house—in the hall. I could feel that yesterday before we left. There’s just the house. And the house is fond of us. We can go back if we like….”

Loved this Miss Marple? Read The Murder at the Vicarage, another title in the collection.

Contents

Author’s Foreword

From The Thirteen Problems

1 The Tuesday Night Club

2 The Idol House of Astarte

3 Ingots of Gold

4 The Bloodstained Pavement

5 Motive v. Opportunity

6 The Thumbmark of St. Peter

7 The Blue Geranium

8 The Companion

9 The Four Suspects

10 A Christmas Tragedy

11 The Herb of Death

12 The Affair at the Bungalow

13 Death by Drowning

  From The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

14 Miss Marple Tells a Story

  From Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

15 Strange Jest

16 The Case of the Perfect Maid

17 The Case of the Caretaker

18 Tape-Measure Murder

  From Double Sin and Other Stories

19 Greenshaw’s Folly

20 Sanctuary

Credits

Author’s Foreword to The Thirteen Problems

These problems were Miss Marple’s first introduction to the world of detective story readers. Miss Marple has some faint affinity with my own grandmother, also a pink and white pretty old lady who, although having led the most sheltered and Victorian of lives, nevertheless always appeared to be intimately acquainted with all the depths of human depravity. One could be made to feel incredibly naïve and credulous by her reproachful remark: “But did you believe what they said to you? You shouldn’t do that. I never do!”

I enjoyed writing the Miss Marple stories very much, conceived a great affection for my fluffy old lady, and hoped that she might be a success. She was. After the first six stories had appeared, six more were requested, Miss Marple had definitely come to stay.

She has appeared now in several books and also in a play—and actually rivals Hercule Poirot in popularity. I get about an equal number of letters, one lot saying: “I wish you would always have Miss Marple and not Poirot,” and the other “I wish you would have Poirot and not Miss Marple.” I myself incline to her side. I think, that she is at her best in the solving of short problems; they suit her more intimate style. Poirot, on the other hand, insists on a full-length book to display his talents.

These Thirteen Problems contain, I consider, the real essence of Miss Marple for those who like her.

Penguin edition, 1953

One

THE TUESDAY NIGHT CLUB

“Unsolved mysteries.”

Raymond West blew out a cloud of smoke and repeated the words with a kind of deliberate self-conscious pleasure.

“Unsolved mysteries.”

He looked round him with satisfaction. The room was an old one with broad black beams across the ceiling and it was furnished with good old furniture that belonged to it. Hence Raymond West’s approving glance. By profession he was a writer and he liked the atmosphere to be flawless. His Aunt Jane’s house always pleased him as the right setting for her personality. He looked across the hearth to where she sat erect in the big grandfather chair. Miss Marple wore a black brocade dress, very much pinched in round the waist. Mechlin lace was arranged in a cascade down the front of the bodice. She had on black lace mittens, and a black lace cap surmounted the piled-up masses of her snowy hair. She was knitting—something white and soft and fleecy. Her faded blue eyes, benignant and kindly, surveyed her nephew and her nephew’s guests with gentle pleasure. They rested first on Raymond himself, self-consciously debonair, then on Joyce Lemprière, the artist, with her close-cropped black head and queer hazel-green eyes, then on that well-groomed man of the world, Sir Henry Clithering. There were two other people in the room, Dr. Pender, the elderly clergyman of the parish, and Mr. Petherick, the solicitor, a dried-up little man with eyeglasses which he looked over and not through. Miss Marple gave a brief moment of attention to all these people and returned to her knitting with a gentle smile upon her lips.

Mr. Petherick gave the dry little cough with which he usually prefaced his remarks.

“What is that you say, Raymond? Unsolved mysteries? Ha—and what about them?”

“Nothing about them,” said Joyce Lemprière. “Raymond just likes the sound of the words and of himself saying them.”

Raymond West threw her a glance of reproach at which she threw back her head and laughed.

“He is a humbug, isn’t he, Miss Marple?” she demanded. “You know that, I am sure.”

Miss Marple smiled gently at her but made no reply.

“Life itself is an unsolved mystery,” said the clergyman gravely.

Raymond sat up in his chair and flung away his cigarette with an impulsive gesture.

“That’s not what I mean. I was not talking philosophy,” he said. “I was thinking of actual bare prosaic facts, things that have happened and that no one has ever explained.”

“I know just the sort of thing you mean, dear,” said Miss Marple. “For instance Mrs. Carruthers had a very strange experience yesterday morning. She bought two gills of picked shrimps at Elliot’s. She called at two other shops and when she got home she found she had not got the shrimps with her. She went back to the two shops she had visited but these shrimps had completely disappeared. Now that seems to me very remarkable.”

“A very fishy story,” said Sir Henry Clithering gravely.

“There are, of course, all kinds of possible explanations,” said Miss Marple, her cheeks growing slightly pinker with excitement. “For instance, somebody else—”

“My dear Aunt,” said Raymond West with some amusement, “I didn’t mean that sort of village incident. I was thinking of murders and disappearances—the kind of thing that Sir Henry could tell us about by the hour if he liked.”

“But I never talk shop,” said Sir Henry modestly. “No, I never talk shop.”

Sir Henry Clithering had been until lately Commissioner of Scotland Yard.

“I suppose there are a lot of murders and things that never are solved by the police,” said Joyce Lemprière.

“That is an admitted fact, I believe,” said Mr. Petherick.

“I wonder,” said Raymond West, “what class of brain really succeeds best in unravelling a mystery? One always feels that the average police detective must be hampered by lack of imagination.”

“That is the layman’s point of view,” said Sir Henry dryly.

“You really want a committee,” said Joyce, smiling. “For psychology and imagination go to the writer—”

She made an ironical bow to Raymond but he remained serious.

“The art of writing gives one an insight into human nature,” he said gravely. “One sees, perhaps, motives that the ordinary person would pass by.”

“I know, dear,” said Miss Marple, “that your books are very clever. But do you think that people are really so unpleasant as you make them out to be?”

“My dear Aunt,” said Raymond gently, “keep your beliefs. Heaven forbid that I should in any way shatter them.”

“I mean,” said Miss Marple, puckering her brow a little as she counted the stitches in her knitting, “that so many people seem to me not to be either bad or good, but simply, you know, very silly.”

Mr. Petherick gave his dry little cough again.

“Don’t you think, Raymond,” he said, “that you attach too much weight to imagination? Imagination is a very dangerous thing, as we lawyers know only too well. To be able to sift evidence impartially, to take the facts and look at them as facts—that seems to me the only logical method of arriving at the truth. I may add that in my experience it is the only one that succeeds.”

“Bah!” cried Joyce, flinging back her black head indignantly. “I bet I could beat you all at this game. I am not only a woman—and say what you like, women have an intuition that is denied to men—I am an artist as well. I see things that you don’t. And then, too, as an artist I have knocked about among all sorts and conditions of people. I know life as darling Miss Marple here cannot possibly know it.”

“I don’t know about that, dear,” said Miss Marple. “Very painful and distressing things happen in villages sometimes.”

“May I speak?” said Dr. Pender smiling. “It is the fashion nowadays to decry the clergy, I know, but we hear things, we know a side of human character which is a sealed book to the outside world.”

“Well,” said Joyce, “it seems to me we are a pretty representative gathering. How would it be if we formed a Club? What is today? Tuesday? We will call it The Tuesday Night Club. It is to meet every week, and each member in turn has to propound a problem. Some mystery of which they have personal knowledge, and to which, of course, they know the answer. Let me see, how many are we? One, two, three, four, five. We ought really to be six.”

“You have forgotten me, dear,” said Miss Marple, smiling brightly.

Joyce was slightly taken aback, but she concealed the fact quickly.

“That would be lovely, Miss Marple,” she said. “I didn’t think you would care to play.”

“I think it would be very interesting,” said Miss Marple, “especially with so many clever gentlemen present. I am afraid I am not clever myself, but living all these years in St. Mary Mead does give one an insight into human nature.”

“I am sure your cooperation will be very valuable,” said Sir Henry, courteously.

“Who is going to start?” said Joyce.

“I think there is no doubt as to that,” said Dr. Pender, “when we have the great good fortune to have such a distinguished man as Sir Henry staying with us—”

He left his sentence unfinished, making a courtly bow in the direction of Sir Henry.

The latter was silent for a minute or two. At last he sighed and recrossed his legs and began:

“It is a little difficult for me to select just the kind of thing you want, but I think, as it happens, I know of an instance which fits these conditions very aptly. You may have seen some mention of the case in the papers of a year ago. It was laid aside at the time as an unsolved mystery, but, as it happens, the solution came into my hands not very many days ago.

“The facts are very simple. Three people sat down to a supper consisting, amongst other things, of tinned lobster. Later in the night, all three were taken ill, and a doctor was hastily summoned. Two of the people recovered, the third one died.”

“Ah!” said Raymond approvingly.

“As I say, the facts as such were very simple. Death was considered to be due to ptomaine poisoning, a certificate was given to that effect, and the victim was duly buried. But things did not rest at that.”

Miss Marple nodded her head.

“There was talk, I suppose,” she said, “there usually is.”

“And now I must describe the actors in this little drama. I will call the husband and wife Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and the wife’s companion Miss Clark. Mr. Jones was a traveller for a firm of manufacturing chemists. He was a good-looking man in a kind of coarse, florid way, aged about fifty. His wife was a rather commonplace woman, of about forty-five. The companion, Miss Clark, was a woman of sixty, a stout cheery woman with a beaming rubicund face. None of them, you might say, very interesting.

“Now the beginning of the troubles arose in a very curious way. Mr. Jones had been staying the previous night at a small commercial hotel in Birmingham. It happened that the blotting paper in the blotting book had been put in fresh that day, and the chambermaid, having apparently nothing better to do, amused herself by studying the blotter in the mirror just after Mr. Jones had been writing a letter there. A few days later there was a report in the papers of the death of Mrs. Jones as the result of eating tinned lobster, and the chambermaid then imparted to her fellow servants the words that she had deciphered on the blotting pad. They were as follows: Entirely dependent on my wife . . . when she is dead I will . . . hundreds and thousands. . . .

“You may remember that there had recently been a case of a wife being poisoned by her husband. It needed very little to fire the imagination of these maids. Mr. Jones had planned to do away with his wife and inherit hundreds of thousands of pounds! As it happened one of the maids had relations living in the small market town where the Joneses resided. She wrote to them, and they in return wrote to her. Mr. Jones, it seemed, had been very attentive to the local doctor’s daughter, a good-looking young woman of thirty-three. Scandal began to hum. The Home Secretary was petitioned. Numerous anonymous letters poured into Scotland Yard all accusing Mr. Jones of having murdered his wife. Now I may say that not for one moment did we think there was anything in it except idle village talk and gossip. Nevertheless, to quiet public opinion an exhumation order was granted. It was one of these cases of popular superstition based on nothing solid whatever, which proved to be so surprisingly justified. As a result of the autopsy sufficient arsenic was found to make it quite clear that the deceased lady had died of arsenical poisoning. It was for Scotland Yard working with the local authorities to prove how that arsenic had been administered, and by whom.”

“Ah!” said Joyce. “I like this. This is the real stuff.”

“Suspicion naturally fell on the husband. He benefited by his wife’s death. Not to the extent of the hundreds of thousands romantically imagined by the hotel chambermaid, but to the very solid amount of £8000. He had no money of his own apart from what he earned, and he was a man of somewhat extravagant habits with a partiality for the society of women. We investigated as delicately as possible the rumour of his attachment to the doctor’s daughter; but while it seemed clear that there had been a strong friendship between them at one time, there had been a most abrupt break two months previously, and they did not appear to have seen each other since. The doctor himself, an elderly man of a straightforward and unsuspicious type, was dumbfounded at the result of the autopsy. He had been called in about midnight to find all three people suffering. He had realized immediately the serious condition of Mrs. Jones, and had sent back to his dispensary for some opium pills, to allay the pain. In spite of all his efforts, however, she succumbed, but not for a moment did he suspect that anything was amiss. He was convinced that her death was due to a form of botulism. Supper that night had consisted of tinned lobster and salad, trifle and bread and cheese. Unfortunately none of the lobster remained—it had all been eaten and the tin thrown away. He had interrogated the young maid, Gladys Linch. She was terribly upset, very tearful and agitated, and he found it hard to get her to keep to the point, but she declared again and again that the tin had not been distended in any way and that the lobster had appeared to her in a perfectly good condition.

“Such were the facts we had to go upon. If Jones had feloniously administered arsenic to his wife, it seemed clear that it could not have been done in any of the things eaten at supper, as all three persons had partaken of the meal. Also—another point—Jones himself had returned from Birmingham just as supper was being brought in to table, so that he would have had no opportunity of doctoring any of the food beforehand.”

“What about the companion?” asked Joyce—“the stout woman with the good-humoured face.”

Sir Henry nodded.

“We did not neglect Miss Clark, I can assure you. But it seemed doubtful what motive she could have had for the crime. Mrs. Jones left her no legacy of any kind and the net result of her employer’s death was that she had to seek for another situation.”

“That seems to leave her out of it,” said Joyce thoughtfully.

“Now one of my inspectors soon discovered a significant fact,” went on Sir Henry. “After supper on that evening Mr. Jones had gone down to the kitchen and had demanded a bowl of cornflour for his wife who had complained of not feeling well. He had waited in the kitchen until Gladys Linch prepared it, and then carried it up to his wife’s room himself. That, I admit, seemed to clinch the case.”

The lawyer nodded.

“Motive,” he said, ticking the points off on his fingers. “Opportunity. As a traveller for a firm of druggists, easy access to the poison.”

“And a man of weak moral fibre,” said the clergyman.

Raymond West was staring at Sir Henry.

“There is a catch in this somewhere,” he said. “Why did you not arrest him?”

Sir Henry smiled rather wryly.

“That is the unfortunate part of the case. So far all had gone swimmingly, but now we come to the snags. Jones was not arrested because on interrogating Miss Clark she told us that the whole of the bowl of cornflour was drunk not by Mrs. Jones but by her.

“Yes, it seems that she went to Mrs. Jones’s room as was her custom. Mrs. Jones was sitting up in bed and the bowl of cornflour was beside her.

“‘I am not feeling a bit well, Milly,’ she said. ‘Serves me right, I suppose, for touching lobster at night. I asked Albert to get me a bowl of cornflour, but now that I have got it I don’t seem to fancy it.’

“‘A pity,’ commented Miss Clark—‘it is nicely made too, no lumps. Gladys is really quite a nice cook. Very few girls nowadays seem to be able to make a bowl of cornflour nicely. I declare I quite fancy it myself, I am that hungry.’

“‘I should think you were with your foolish ways,’ said Mrs. Jones.

“I must explain,” broke off Sir Henry, “that Miss Clark, alarmed at her increasing stoutness, was doing a course of what is popularly known as ‘banting.’

“‘It is not good for you, Milly, it really isn’t,’ urged Mrs. Jones. ‘If the Lord made you stout he meant you to be stout. You drink up that bowl of cornflour. It will do you all the good in the world.’

“And straight away Miss Clark set to and did in actual fact finish the bowl. So, you see, that knocked our case against the husband to pieces. Asked for an explanation of the words on the blotting book Jones gave one readily enough. The letter, he explained, was in answer to one written from his brother in Australia who had applied to him for money. He had written, pointing out that he was entirely dependent on his wife. When his wife was dead he would have control of money and would assist his brother if possible. He regretted his inability to help but pointed out that there were hundreds and thousands of people in the world in the same unfortunate plight.”

“And so the case fell to pieces?” said Dr. Pender.

“And so the case fell to pieces,” said Sir Henry gravely. “We could not take the risk of arresting Jones with nothing to go upon.”

There was a silence and then Joyce said, “And that is all, is it?”

“That is the case as it has stood for the last year. The true solution is now in the hands of Scotland Yard, and in two or three days’ time you will probably read of it in the newspapers.”

“The true solution,” said Joyce thoughtfully. “I wonder. Let’s all think for five minutes and then speak.”

Raymond West nodded and noted the time on his watch. When the five minutes were up he looked over at Dr. Pender.

“Will you speak first?” he said.

The old man shook his head. “I confess,” he said, “that I am utterly baffled. I can but think that the husband in some way must be the guilty party, but how he did it I cannot imagine. I can only suggest that he must have given her the poison in some way that has not yet been discovered, although how in that case it should have come to light after all this time I cannot imagine.”

“Joyce?”

“The companion!” said Joyce decidedly. “The companion every time! How do we know what motive she may have had? Just because she was old and stout and ugly it doesn’t follow that she wasn’t in love with Jones herself. She may have hated the wife for some other reason. Think of being a companion—always having to be pleasant and agree and stifle yourself and bottle yourself up. One day she couldn’t bear it any longer and then she killed her. She probably put the arsenic in the bowl of cornflour and all that story about eating it herself is a lie.”

“Mr. Petherick?”

The lawyer joined the tips of his fingers together professionally. “I should hardly like to say. On the facts I should hardly like to say.”

“But you have got to, Mr. Petherick,” said Joyce. “You can’t reserve judgement and say ‘without prejudice,’ and be legal. You have got to play the game.”

“On the facts,” said Mr. Petherick, “there seems nothing to be said. It is my private opinion, having seen, alas, too many cases of this kind, that the husband was guilty. The only explanation that will cover the facts seems to be that Miss Clark for some reason or other deliberately sheltered him. There may have been some financial arrangement made between them. He might realize that he would be suspected, and she, seeing only a future of poverty before her, may have agreed to tell the story of drinking the cornflour in return for a substantial sum to be paid to her privately. If that was the case it was of course most irregular. Most irregular indeed.”

“I disagree with you all,” said Raymond. “You have forgotten the one important factor in the case. The doctor’s daughter. I will give you my reading of the case. The tinned lobster was bad. It accounted for the poisoning symptoms. The doctor was sent for. He finds Mrs. Jones, who has eaten more lobster than the others, in great pain, and he sends, as you told us, for some opium pills. He does not go himself, he sends. Who will give the messenger the opium pills? Clearly his daughter. Very likely she dispenses his medicines for him. She is in love with Jones and at this moment all the worst instincts in her nature rise and she realizes that the means to procure his freedom are in her hands. The pills she sends contain pure white arsenic. That is my solution.”

“And now, Sir Henry, tell us,” said Joyce eagerly.

“One moment,” said Sir Henry. “Miss Marple has not yet spoken.”

Miss Marple was shaking her head sadly.

“Dear, dear,” she said. “I have dropped another stitch. I have been so interested in the story. A sad case, a very sad case. It reminds me of old Mr. Hargraves who lived up at the Mount. His wife never had the least suspicion—until he died, leaving all his money to a woman he had been living with and by whom he had five children. She had at one time been their housemaid. Such a nice girl, Mrs. Hargraves always said—thoroughly to be relied upon to turn the mattresses every day—except Fridays, of course. And there was old Hargraves keeping this woman in a house in the neighbouring town and continuing to be a Churchwarden and to hand round the plate every Sunday.”

“My dear Aunt Jane,” said Raymond with some impatience. “What has dead and gone Hargraves got to do with the case?”

“This story made me think of him at once,” said Miss Marple. “The facts are so very alike, aren’t they? I suppose the poor girl has confessed now and that is how you know, Sir Henry.”

“What girl?” said Raymond. “My dear Aunt, what are you talking about?”

“That poor girl, Gladys Linch, of course—the one who was so terribly agitated when the doctor spoke to her—and well she might be, poor thing. I hope that wicked Jones is hanged, I am sure, making that poor girl a murderess. I suppose they will hang her too, poor thing.”

“I think, Miss Marple, that you are under a slight misapprehension,” began Mr. Petherick.

But Miss Marple shook her head obstinately and looked across at Sir Henry.

“I am right, am I not? It seems so clear to me. The hundreds and thousands—and the trifle—I mean, one cannot miss it.”

“What about the trifle and the hundreds and thousands?” cried Raymond.

His aunt turned to him.

“Cooks nearly always put hundreds and thousands on trifle, dear,” she said. “Those little pink and white sugar things. Of course when I heard that they had trifle for supper and that the husband had been writing to someone about hundreds and thousands, I naturally connected the two things together. That is where the arsenic was—in the hundreds and thousands. He left it with the girl and told her to put it on the trifle.”

“But that is impossible,” said Joyce quickly. “They all ate the trifle.”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Marple. “The companion was banting, you remember. You never eat anything like trifle if you are banting; and I expect Jones just scraped the hundreds and thousands off his share and left them at the side of his plate. It was a clever idea, but a very wicked one.”

The eyes of the others were all fixed upon Sir Henry.

“It is a very curious thing,” he said slowly, “but Miss Marple happens to have hit upon the truth. Jones had got Gladys Linch into trouble, as the saying goes. She was nearly desperate. He wanted his wife out of the way and promised to marry Gladys when his wife was dead. He doctored the hundreds and thousands and gave them to her with instructions how to use them. Gladys Linch died a week ago. Her child died at birth and Jones had deserted her for another woman. When she was dying she confessed the truth.”

There was a few moments’ silence and then Raymond said:

“Well, Aunt Jane, this is one up to you. I can’t think how on earth you managed to hit upon the truth. I should never have thought of the little maid in the kitchen being connected with the case.”

“No, dear,” said Miss Marple, “but you don’t know as much of life as I do. A man of that Jones’s type—coarse and jovial. As soon as I heard there was a pretty young girl in the house I felt sure that he would not have left her alone. It is all very distressing and painful, and not a very nice thing to talk about. I can’t tell you the shock it was to Mrs. Hargraves, and a nine days’ wonder in the village.”

Two

THE IDOL HOUSE OF ASTARTE

“And now, Dr. Pender, what are you going to tell us?”

The old clergyman smiled gently.

“My life has been passed in quiet places,” he said. “Very few eventful happenings have come my way. Yet once, when I was a young man, I had one very strange and tragic experience.”

“Ah!” said Joyce Lemprière encouragingly.

“I have never forgotten it,” continued the clergyman. “It made a profound impression on me at the time, and to this day by a slight effort of memory I can feel again the awe and horror of that terrible moment when I saw a man stricken to death by apparently no mortal agency.”

“You make me feel quite creepy, Pender,” complained Sir Henry.

“It made me feel creepy, as you call it,” replied the other. “Since then I have never laughed at the people who use the word atmosphere. There is such a thing. There are certain places imbued and saturated with good or evil influences which can make their power felt.”

“That house, The Larches, is a very unhappy one,” remarked Miss Marple. “Old Mr. Smithers lost all his money and had to leave it, then the Carslakes took it and Johnny Carslake fell downstairs and broke his leg and Mrs. Carslake had to go away to the south of France for her health, and now the Burdens have got it and I hear that poor Mr. Burden has got to have an operation almost immediately.”

“There is, I think, rather too much superstition about such matters,” said Mr. Petherick. “A lot of damage is done to property by foolish reports heedlessly circulated.”

“I have known one or two ‘ghosts’ that have had a very robust personality,” remarked Sir Henry with a chuckle.

“I think,” said Raymond, “we should allow Dr. Pender to go on with his story.”

Joyce got up and switched off the two lamps, leaving the room lit only by the flickering firelight.

“Atmosphere,” she said. “Now we can get along.”

Dr. Pender smiled at her, and leaning back in his chair and taking off his pince-nez, he began his story in a gentle reminiscent voice.

“I don’t know whether any of you know Dartmoor at all. The place I am telling you about is situated on the borders of Dartmoor. It was a very charming property, though it had been on the market without finding a purchaser for several years. The situation was perhaps a little bleak in winter, but the views were magnificent and there were certain curious and original features about the property itself. It was bought by a man called Haydon—Sir Richard Haydon. I had known him in his college days, and though I had lost sight of him for some years, the old ties of friendship still held, and I accepted with pleasure his invitation to go down to Silent Grove, as his new purchase was called.

“The house party was not a very large one. There was Richard Haydon himself, and his cousin, Elliot Haydon. There was a Lady Mannering with a pale, rather inconspicuous daughter called Violet. There was a Captain Rogers and his wife, hard riding, weatherbeaten people, who lived only for horses and hunting. There was also a young Dr. Symonds and there was Miss Diana Ashley. I knew something about the last named. Her picture was very often in the Society papers and she was one of the notorious beauties of the Season. Her appearance was indeed very striking. She was dark and tall, with a beautiful skin of an even tint of pale cream, and her half closed dark eyes set slantways in her head gave her a curiously piquant oriental appearance. She had, too, a wonderful speaking voice, deep-toned and bell-like.

“I saw at once that my friend Richard Haydon was very much attracted by her, and I guessed that the whole party was merely arranged as a setting for her. Of her own feelings I was not so sure. She was capricious in her favours. One day talking to Richard and excluding everyone else from her notice, and another day she would favour his cousin, Elliot, and appear hardly to notice that such a person as Richard existed, and then again she would bestow the most bewitching smiles upon the quiet and retiring Dr. Symonds.

“On the morning after my arrival our host showed us all over the place. The house itself was unremarkable, a good solid house built of Devonshire granite. Built to withstand time and exposure. It was unromantic but very comfortable. From the windows of it one looked out over the panorama of the Moor, vast rolling hills crowned with weather-beaten Tors.

“On the slopes of the Tor nearest to us were various hut circles, relics of the bygone days of the late Stone Age. On another hill was a barrow which had recently been excavated, and in which certain bronze implements had been found. Haydon was by way of being interested in antiquarian matters and he talked to us with a great deal of energy and enthusiasm. This particular spot, he explained, was particularly rich in relics of the past.

“Neolithic hut dwellers, Druids, Romans, and even traces of the early Phoenicians were to be found.

“‘But this place is the most interesting of all,’ he said ‘You know its name—Silent Grove. Well, it is easy enough to see what it takes its name from.’

“He pointed with his hand. That particular part of the country was bare enough—rocks, heather and bracken, but about a hundred yards from the house there was a densely planted grove of trees.

“‘That is a relic of very early days,’ said Haydon, ‘The trees have died and been replanted, but on the whole it has been kept very much as it used to be—perhaps in the time of the Phoenician settlers. Come and look at it.’

“We all followed him. As we entered the grove of trees a curious oppression came over me. I think it was the silence. No birds seemed to nest in these trees. There was a feeling about it of desolation and horror. I saw Haydon looking at me with a curious smile.

“‘Any feeling about this place, Pender?’ he asked me. ‘Antagonism now? Or uneasiness?’

“‘I don’t like it,’ I said quietly.

“‘You are within your rights. This was a stronghold of one of the ancient enemies of your faith. This is the Grove of Astarte.’

“‘Astarte?’

“‘Astarte, or Ishtar, or Ashtoreth, or whatever you choose to call her. I prefer the Phoenician name of Astarte. There is, I believe, one known Grove of Astarte in this country—in the North on the Wall. I have no evidence, but I like to believe that we have a true and authentic Grove of Astarte here. Here, within this dense circle of trees, sacred rites were performed.’

“‘Sacred rites,’ murmured Diana Ashley. Her eyes had a dreamy faraway look. ‘What were they, I wonder?’

“‘Not very reputable by all accounts,’ said Captain Rogers with a loud unmeaning laugh. ‘Rather hot stuff, I imagine.’

“Haydon paid no attention to him.

“‘In the centre of the Grove there should be a Temple,’ he said. ‘I can’t run to Temples, but I have indulged in a little fancy of my own.’

“We had at that moment stepped out into a little clearing in the centre of the trees. In the middle of it was something not unlike a summerhouse made of stone. Diana Ashley looked inquiringly at Haydon.

“‘I call it The Idol House,’ he said. ‘It is the Idol House of Astarte.’

“He led the way up to it. Inside, on a rude ebony pillar, there reposed a curious little image representing a woman with crescent horns, seated on a lion.

“‘Astarte of the Phoenicians,’ said Haydon, ‘the Goddess of the Moon.’

“‘The Goddess of the Moon,’ cried Diana. ‘Oh, do let us have a wild orgy tonight. Fancy dress. And we will come out here in the moonlight and celebrate the rites of Astarte.’

“I made a sudden movement and Elliot Haydon, Richard’s cousin, turned quickly to me.

“‘You don’t like all this, do you, Padre?’ he said.

“‘No,’ I said gravely. ‘I don’t.’

“He looked at me curiously. ‘But it is only tomfoolery. Dick can’t know that this really is a sacred grove. It is just a fancy of his; he likes to play with the idea. And anyway, if it were—’

“‘If it were?’

“‘Well—’ he laughed uncomfortably. ‘You don’t believe in that sort of thing, do you? You, a parson.’

“‘I am not sure that as a parson I ought not to believe in it.’

“‘But that sort of thing is all finished and done with.’

“‘I am not so sure,’ I said musingly. ‘I only know this: I am not as a rule a sensitive man to atmosphere, but ever since I entered this grove of trees I have felt a curious impression and sense of evil and menace all round me.’

“He glanced uneasily over his shoulder.

“Yes,’ he said, ‘it is—it is queer, somehow. I know what you mean but I suppose it is only our imagination makes us feel like that. What do you say, Symonds?’

“The doctor was silent a minute or two before he replied. Then he said quietly:

“‘I don’t like it. I can’t tell you why. But somehow or other, I don’t like it.’

“At that moment Violet Mannering came across to me.

“‘I hate this place,’ she cried. ‘I hate it. Do let’s get out of it.’

“We moved away and the others followed us. Only Diana Ashley lingered. I turned my head over my shoulder and saw her standing in front of the Idol House gazing earnestly at the image within it.

“The day was an unusually hot and beautiful one and Diana Ashley’s suggestion of a Fancy Dress party that evening was received with general favour. The usual laughing and whispering and frenzied secret sewing took place and when we all made our appearance for dinner there were the usual outcries of merriment. Rogers and his wife were Neolithic hut dwellers—explaining the sudden lack of hearth rugs. Richard Haydon called himself a Phoenician sailor, and his cousin was a Brigand Chief, Dr. Symonds was a chef, Lady Mannering was a hospital nurse, and her daughter was a Circassian slave. I myself was arrayed somewhat too warmly as a monk. Diana Ashley came down last and was somewhat of a disappointment to all of us, being wrapped in a shapeless black domino.

“‘The Unknown,’ she declared airily. ‘That is what I am. Now for goodness’ sake let’s go in to dinner.’

“After dinner we went outside. It was a lovely night, warm and soft, and the moon was rising.

“We wandered about and chatted and the time passed quickly enough. It must have been an hour later when we realized that Diana Ashley was not with us.

“‘Surely she has not gone to bed,’ said Richard Haydon.

“Violet Mannering shook her head.

“‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘I saw her going off in that direction about a quarter of an hour ago.’ She pointed as she spoke towards the grove of trees that showed black and shadowy in the moonlight.

“‘I wonder what she is up to,’ said Richard Haydon, ‘some devilment, I swear. Let’s go and see.’

“We all trooped off together, somewhat curious as to what Miss Ashley had been up to. Yet I, for one, felt a curious reluctance to enter that dark foreboding belt of trees. Something stronger than myself seemed to be holding me back and urging me not to enter. I felt more definitely convinced than ever of the essential evilness of the spot. I think that some of the others experienced the same sensations that I did, though they would have been loath to admit it. The trees were so closely planted that the moonlight could not penetrate. There were a dozen soft sounds all round us, whisperings and sighings. The feeling was eerie in the extreme, and by common consent we all kept close together.

“Suddenly we came out into the open clearing in the middle of the grove and stood rooted to the spot in amazement, for there, on the threshold of the Idol House, stood a shimmering figure wrapped tightly round in diaphanous gauze and with two crescent horns rising from the dark masses of her hair.

“‘My God!’ said Richard Haydon, and the sweat sprang out on his brow.

“But Violet Mannering was sharper.

“‘Why, it’s Diana,’ she exclaimed. ‘What has she done to herself? Oh, she looks quite different somehow!’

“The figure in the doorway raised her hands. She took a step forward and chanted in a high sweet voice.

“‘I am the Priestess of Astarte,’ she crooned. ‘Beware how you approach me, for I hold death in my hand.’

“‘Don’t do it, dear,’ protested Lady Mannering. ‘You give us the creeps, you really do.’

“Haydon sprang forward towards her.

“‘My God, Diana!’ he cried. ‘You are wonderful.’

“My eyes were accustomed to the moonlight now and I could see more plainly. She did, indeed, as Violet had said, look quite different. Her face was more definitely oriental, and her eyes more of slits with something cruel in their gleam, and the strange smile on her lips was one that I had never seen there before.

“‘Beware,’ she cried warningly. ‘Do not approach the Goddess. If anyone lays a hand on me it is death.’

“‘You are wonderful, Diana,’ cried Haydon, ‘but do stop it. Somehow or other I—I don’t like it.’

“He was moving towards her across the grass and she flung out a hand towards him.

“‘Stop,’ she cried. ‘One step nearer and I will smite you with the magic of Astarte.’

“Richard Haydon laughed and quickened his pace, when all at once a curious thing happened. He hesitated for a moment, then seemed to stumble and fall headlong.

“He did not get up again, but lay where he had fallen prone on the ground.

“Suddenly Diana began to laugh hysterically. It was a strange horrible sound breaking the silence of the glade.

“With an oath Elliot sprang forward.

“‘I can’t stand this,’ he cried, ‘get up, Dick, get up, man.’

“But still Richard Haydon lay where he had fallen. Elliot Haydon reached his side, knelt by him and turned him gently over. He bent over him, peering in his face.

“Then he rose sharply to his feet and stood swaying a little.

“‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘Doctor, for God’s sake come. I—I think he is dead.’

“Symonds ran forward and Elliot rejoined us walking very slowly. He was looking down at his hands in a way I didn’t understand.

“At that moment there was a wild scream from Diana.

“‘I have killed him,’ she cried. ‘Oh, my God! I didn’t mean to, but I have killed him.’

“And she fainted dead away, falling in a crumpled heap on the grass.

“There was a cry from Mrs. Rogers.

“‘Oh, do let us get away from this dreadful place,’ she wailed, ‘anything might happen to us here. Oh, it’s awful!’

“Elliot got hold of me by the shoulder.

“‘It can’t be, man,’ he murmured. ‘I tell you it can’t be. A man cannot be killed like that. It is—it’s against Nature.’

“I tried to soothe him.

“‘There is some explanation,’ I said. ‘Your cousin must have had some unsuspected weakness of the heart. The shock and excitement—’

“He interrupted me.

“‘You don’t understand,’ he said. He held up his hands for me to see and I noticed a red stain on them.

“‘Dick didn’t die of shock, he was stabbed—stabbed to the heart, and there is no weapon.’

“I stared at him incredulously. At that moment Symonds rose from his examination of the body and came towards us. He was pale and shaking all over.

“‘Are we all mad?’ he said. ‘What is this place—that things like this can happen in it?’

“‘Then it is true,’ I said.

“He nodded.

“‘The wound is such as would be made by a long thin dagger, but—there is no dagger there.’

“We all looked at each other.

“‘But it must be there,’ cried Elliot Haydon. ‘It must have dropped out. It must be on the ground somewhere. Let us look.’

“We peered about vainly on the ground. Violet Mannering said suddenly:

“‘Diana had something in her hand. A kind of dagger. I saw it. I saw it glitter when she threatened him.’

“Elliot Haydon shook his head.

“‘He never even got within three yards of her,’ he objected.

“Lady Mannering was bending over the prostrate girl on the ground.

“‘There is nothing in her hand now,’ she announced, ‘and I can’t see anything on the ground. Are you sure you saw it, Violet? I didn’t.’

“Dr. Symonds came over to the girl.

“‘We must get her to the house,’ he said. ‘Rogers, will you help?’

“Between us we carried the unconscious girl back to the house. Then we returned and fetched the body of Sir Richard.”

Dr. Pender broke off apologetically and looked round.

“One would know better nowadays,” he said, “owing to the prevalence of detective fiction. Every street boy knows that a body must be left where it is found. But in these days we had not the same knowledge, and accordingly we carried the body of Richard Haydon back to his bedroom in the square granite house and the butler was despatched on a bicycle in search of the police—a ride of some twelve miles.

“It was then that Elliot Haydon drew me aside.

“‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I am going back to the grove. That weapon has got to be found.’

“‘If there was a weapon,’ I said doubtfully.

“He seized my arm and shook it fiercely. ‘You have got that superstitious stuff into your head. You think his death was supernatural; well, I am going back to the grove to find out.’

“I was curiously averse to his doing so. I did my utmost to dissuade him, but without result. The mere idea of that thick circle of trees was abhorrent to me and I felt a strong premonition of further disaster. But Elliot was entirely pigheaded. He was, I think, scared himself, but would not admit it. He went off fully armed with determination to get to the bottom of the mystery.

“It was a very dreadful night, none of us could sleep, or attempt to do so. The police, when they arrived, were frankly incredulous of the whole thing. They evinced a strong desire to cross-examine Miss Ashley, but there they had to reckon with Dr. Symonds, who opposed the idea vehemently. Miss Ashley had come out of her faint or trance and he had given her a long sleeping draught. She was on no account to be disturbed until the following day.

“It was not until about seven o’clock in the morning that anyone thought about Elliot Haydon, and then Symonds suddenly asked where he was. I explained what Elliot had done and Symonds’s grave face grew a shade graver. ‘I wish he hadn’t. It is—it is foolhardy,’ he said.

“‘You don’t think any harm can have happened to him?’

“‘I hope not. I think, Padre, that you and I had better go and see.’

“I knew he was right, but it took all the courage in my command to nerve myself for the task. We set out together and entered once more that ill-fated grove of trees. We called him twice and got no reply. In a minute or two we came into the clearing, which looked pale and ghostly in the early morning light. Symonds clutched my arm and I uttered a muttered exclamation. Last night when we had seen it in the moonlight there had been the body of a man lying face downwards on the grass. Now in the early morning light the same sight met our eyes. Elliot Haydon was lying on the exact spot where his cousin had been.

“‘My God!’ said Symonds. ‘It has got him too!’

“We ran together over the grass. Elliot Haydon was unconscious but breathing feebly and this time there was no doubt of what had caused the tragedy. A long thin bronze weapon remained in the wound.

“‘Got him through the shoulder, not through the heart. That is lucky,’ commented the doctor. ‘On my soul, I don’t know what to think. At any rate he is not dead and he will be able to tell us what happened.’

“But that was just what Elliot Haydon was not able to do. His description was vague in the extreme. He had hunted about vainly for the dagger and at last giving up the search had taken up a stand near the Idol House. It was then that he became increasingly certain that someone was watching him from the belt of trees. He fought against this impression but was not able to shake it off. He described a cold strange wind that began to blow. It seemed to come not from the trees but from the interior of the Idol House. He turned round, peering inside it. He saw the small figure of the Goddess and he felt he was under an optical delusion. The figure seemed to grow larger and larger. Then he suddenly received something that felt like a blow between his temples which sent him reeling back, and as he fell he was conscious of a sharp burning pain in his left shoulder.

“The dagger was identified this time as being the identical one which had been dug up in the barrow on the hill, and which had been bought by Richard Haydon. Where he had kept it, in the house or in the Idol House in the grove, none seemed to know.

“The police were of the opinion, and always will be, that he was deliberately stabbed by Miss Ashley, but in view of our combined evidence that she was never within three yards of him, they could not hope to support the charge against her. So the thing has been and remains a mystery.”

There was a silence.

“There doesn’t seem anything to say,” said Joyce Lemprière at length. “It is all so horrible—and uncanny. Have you no explanation for yourself, Dr. Pender?”

The old man nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I have an explanation—a kind of explanation, that is. Rather a curious one—but to my mind it still leaves certain factors unaccounted for.”

“I have been to séances,” said Joyce, “and you may say what you like, very queer things can happen. I suppose one can explain it by some kind of hypnotism. The girl really turned herself into a Priestess of Astarte, and I suppose somehow or other she must have stabbed him. Perhaps she threw the dagger that Miss Mannering saw in her hand.”

“Or it might have been a javelin,” suggested Raymond West. “After all, moonlight is not very strong. She might have had a kind of spear in her hand and stabbed him at a distance, and then I suppose mass hypnotism comes into account. I mean, you were all prepared to see him stricken down by supernatural means and so you saw it like that.”

“I have seen many wonderful things done with weapons and knives at music halls,” said Sir Henry. “I suppose it is possible that a man could have been concealed in the belt of trees, and that he might from there have thrown a knife or a dagger with sufficient accuracy—agreeing, of course, that he was a professional. I admit that that seems rather far-fetched, but it seems the only really feasible theory. You remember that the other man was distinctly under the impression that there was someone in the grove of trees watching him. As to Miss Mannering saying that Miss Ashley had a dagger in her hand and the others saying she hadn’t, that doesn’t surprise me. If you had had my experience you would know that five persons’ account of the same thing will differ so widely as to be almost incredible.”

Mr. Petherick coughed.

“But in all these theories we seem to be overlooking one essential fact,” he remarked. “What became of the weapon? Miss Ashley could hardly get rid of a javelin standing as she was in the middle of an open space; and if a hidden murderer had thrown a dagger, then the dagger would still have been in the wound when the man was turned over. We must, I think, discard all far-fetched theories and confine ourselves to sober fact.”

“And where does sober fact lead us?”

“Well, one thing seems quite clear. No one was near the man when he was stricken down, so the only person who could have stabbed him was he himself. Suicide, in fact.”

“But why on earth should he wish to commit suicide?” asked Raymond West incredulously.

The lawyer coughed again. “Ah, that is a question of theory once more,” he said. “At the moment I am not concerned with theories. It seems to me, excluding the supernatural in which I do not for one moment believe, that that was the only way things could have happened. He stabbed himself, and as he fell his arms flew out, wrenching the dagger from the wound and flinging it far into the zone of the trees. That is, I think, although somewhat unlikely, a possible happening.”

“I don’t like to say, I am sure,” said Miss Marple. “It all perplexes me very much indeed. But curious things do happen. At Lady Sharpley’s garden party last year the man who was arranging the clock golf tripped over one of the numbers—quite unconscious he was—and didn’t come round for about five minutes.”

“Yes, dear Aunt,” said Raymond gently, “but he wasn’t stabbed, was he?”

“Of course not, dear,” said Miss Marple. “That is what I am telling you. Of course there is only one way that poor Sir Richard could have been stabbed, but I do wish I knew what caused him to stumble in the first place. Of course, it might have been a tree root. He would be looking at the girl, of course, and when it is moonlight one does trip over things.”

“You say that there is only one way that Sir Richard could have been stabbed, Miss Marple,” said the clergyman, looking at her curiously.

“It is very sad and I don’t like to think of it. He was a right-handed man, was he not? I mean to stab himself in the left shoulder he must have been. I was always so sorry for poor Jack Baynes in the War. He shot himself in the foot, you remember, after very severe fighting at Arras. He told me about it when I went to see him in hospital, and very ashamed of it he was. I don’t expect this poor man, Elliot Haydon, profited much by his wicked crime.”

“Elliot Haydon,” cried Raymond. “You think he did it?”

“I don’t see how anyone else could have done it,” said Miss Marple, opening her eyes in gentle surprise. “I mean if, as Mr. Petherick so wisely says, one looks at the facts and disregards all that atmosphere of heathen goddesses which I don’t think is very nice. He went up to him first and turned him over, and of course to do that he would have to have had his back to them all, and being dressed as a brigand chief he would be sure to have a weapon of some kind in his belt. I remember dancing with a man dressed as a brigand chief when I was a young girl. He had five kinds of knives and daggers, and I can’t tell you how awkward and uncomfortable it was for his partner.”

All eyes were turned towards Dr. Pender.

“I knew the truth,” said he, “five years after that tragedy occurred. It came in the shape of a letter written to me by Elliot Haydon. He said in it that he fancied that I had always suspected him. He said it was a sudden temptation. He too loved Diana Ashley, but he was only a poor struggling barrister. With Richard out of the way and inheriting his title and estates, he saw a wonderful prospect opening up before him. The dagger had jerked out of his belt as he knelt down by his cousin, and almost before he had time to think he drove it in and returned it to his belt again. He stabbed himself later in order to divert suspicion. He wrote to me on the eve of starting on an expedition to the South Pole in case, as he said, he should never come back. I do not think that he meant to come back, and I know that, as Miss Marple has said, his crime profited him nothing. ‘For five years,’ he wrote, ‘I have lived in Hell. I hope, at least, that I may expiate my crime by dying honourably.’”

There was a pause.

“And he did die honourably,” said Sir Henry. “You have changed the names in your story, Dr. Pender, but I think I recognize the man you mean.”

“As I said,” went on the old clergyman, “I do not think that explanation quite covers the facts. I still think there was an evil influence in that grove, an influence that directed Elliot Haydon’s action. Even to this day I can never think without a shudder of The Idol House of Astarte.”

Three

INGOTS OF GOLD

“I do not know that the story that I am going to tell you is a fair one,” said Raymond West, “because I can’t give you the solution of it. Yet the facts were so interesting and so curious that I should like to propound it to you as a problem. And perhaps between us we may arrive at some logical conclusion.

“The date of these happenings was two years ago, when I went down to spend Whitsuntide with a man called John Newman, in Cornwall.”

“Cornwall?” said Joyce Lemprière sharply.

“Yes. Why?”

“Nothing. Only it’s odd. My story is about a place in Cornwall, too—a little fishing village called Rathole. Don’t tell me yours is the same?”

“No. My village is called Polperran. It is situated on the west coast of Cornwall; a very wild and rocky spot. I had been introduced a few weeks previously and had found him a most interesting companion. A man of intelligence and independent means, he was possessed of a romantic imagination. As a result of his latest hobby he had taken the lease of Pol House. He was an authority on Elizabethan times, and he described to me in vivid and graphic language the rout of the Spanish Armada. So enthusiastic was he that one could almost imagine that he had been an eyewitness at the scene. Is there anything in reincarnation? I wonder—I very much wonder.”

“You are so romantic, Raymond dear,” said Miss Marple, looking benignantly at him.

“Romantic is the last thing that I am,” said Raymond West, slightly annoyed. “But this fellow Newman was chock-full of it, and he interested me for that reason as a curious survival of the past. It appears that a certain ship belonging to the Armada, and known to contain a vast amount of treasure in the form of gold from the Spanish Main, was wrecked off the coast of Cornwall on the famous and treacherous Serpent Rocks. For some years, so Newman told me, attempts had been made to salve the ship and recover the treasure. I believe such stories are not uncommon, though the number of mythical treasure ships is largely in excess of the genuine ones. A company had been formed, but had gone bankrupt, and Newman had been able to buy the rights of the thing—or whatever you call it—for a mere song. He waxed very enthusiastic about it all. According to him it was merely a question of the latest scientific, up-to-date machinery. The gold was there, and he had no doubt whatever that it could be recovered.

“It occurred to me as I listened to him how often things happen that way. A rich man such as Newman succeeds almost without effort, and yet in all probability the actual value in money of his find would mean little to him. I must say that his ardour infected me. I saw galleons drifting up the coast, flying before the storm, beaten and broken on the black rocks. The mere word galleon has a romantic sound. The phrase ‘Spanish Gold’ thrills the schoolboy—and the grown-up man also. Moreover, I was working at the time upon a novel, some scenes of which were laid in the sixteenth century, and I saw the prospect of getting valuable local colour from my host.

“I set off that Friday morning from Paddington in high spirits, and looking forward to my trip. The carriage was empty except for one man, who sat facing me in the opposite corner. He was a tall, soldierly-looking man, and I could not rid myself of the impression that somewhere or other I had seen him before. I cudgelled my brains for some time in vain; but at last I had it. My travelling companion was Inspector Badgworth, and I had run across him when I was doing a series of articles on the Everson disappearance case.

“I recalled myself to his notice, and we were soon chatting pleasantly enough. When I told him I was going to Polperran he remarked that that was a rum coincidence, because he himself was also bound for that place. I did not like to seem inquisitive, so was careful not to ask him what took him there. Instead, I spoke of my own interest in the place, and mentioned the wrecked Spanish galleon. To my surprise the Inspector seemed to know all about it. ‘That will be the Juan Fernandez,’ he said. ‘Your friend won’t be the first who has sunk money trying to get money out of her. It is a romantic notion.’

“‘And probably the whole story is a myth,’ I said. ‘No ship was ever wrecked there at all.’

“‘Oh, the ship was sunk there right enough,’ said the Inspector—‘along with a good company of others. You would be surprised if you knew how many wrecks there are on that part of the coast. As a matter of fact, that is what takes me down there now. That is where the Otranto was wrecked six months ago.’

“‘I remember reading about it,’ I said. ‘No lives were lost, I think?’

“No lives were lost,’ said the Inspector; ‘but something else was lost. It is not generally known, but the Otranto was carrying bullion.’

“‘Yes?’ I said, much interested.

“Naturally we have had divers at work on salvage operations, but—the gold has gone, Mr. West.’

“‘Gone!’ I said, staring at him. ‘How can it have gone?’

“‘That is the question,’ said the Inspector. ‘The rocks tore a gaping hole in her strongroom. It was easy enough for the divers to get in that way, but they found the strongroom empty. The question is, was the gold stolen before the wreck or afterwards? Was it ever in the strongroom at all?’

“‘It seems a curious case,’ I said.

“‘It is a very curious case, when you consider what bullion is. Not a diamond necklace that you could put into your pocket. When you think how cumbersome it is and how bulky—well, the whole thing seems absolutely impossible. There may have been some hocus-pocus before the ship sailed; but if not, it must have been removed within the last six months—and I am going down to look into the matter.’

“I found Newman waiting to meet me at the station. He apologized for the absence of his car, which had gone to Truro for some necessary repairs. Instead, he met me with a farm lorry belonging to the property.

“I swung myself up beside him, and we wound carefully in and out of the narrow streets of the fishing village. We went up a steep ascent, with a gradient, I should say, of one in five, ran a little distance along a winding lane, and turned in at the granite-pillared gates of Pol House.

“The place was a charming one; it was situated high up the cliffs, with a good view out to sea. Part of it was some three or four hundred years old, and a modern wing had been added. Behind it farming land of about seven or eight acres ran inland.

“‘Welcome to Pol House,’ said Newman. ‘And to the Sign of the Golden Galleon.’ And he pointed to where, over the front door, hung a perfect reproduction of a Spanish galleon with all sails set.

“My first evening was a most charming and instructive one. My host showed me the old manuscripts relating to the Juan Fernandez. He unrolled charts for me and indicated positions on them with dotted lines, and he produced plans of diving apparatus, which, I may say, mystified me utterly and completely.

“I told him of my meeting with Inspector Badgworth, in which he was much interested.

“‘They are a queer people round this coast,’ he said reflectively. ‘Smuggling and wrecking is in their blood. When a ship goes down on their coast they cannot help regarding it as lawful plunder meant for their pockets. There is a fellow here I should like you to see. He is an interesting survival.’

“Next day dawned bright and clear. I was taken down into Polperran and there introduced to Newman’s diver, a man called Higgins. He was a wooden-faced individual, extremely taciturn, and his contributions to the conversation were mostly monosyllables. After a discussion between them on highly technical matters, we adjourned to the Three Anchors. A tankard of beer somewhat loosened the worthy fellow’s tongue.

“‘Detective gentleman from London has come down,’ he grunted. ‘They do say that that ship that went down there last November was carrying a mortal lot of gold. Well, she wasn’t the first to go down, and she won’t be the last.’

“‘Hear, hear,’ chimed in the landlord of the Three Anchors. ‘That is a true word you say there, Bill Higgins.’

“‘I reckon it is, Mr. Kelvin,’ said Higgins.

“I looked with some curiosity at the landlord. He was a remarkable-looking man, dark and swarthy, with curiously broad shoulders. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had a curiously furtive way of avoiding one’s glance. I suspected that this was the man of whom Newman had spoken, saying he was an interesting survival.

“‘We don’t want interfering foreigners on this coast,’ he said, somewhat truculently.

“‘Meaning the police?’ asked Newman, smiling.

“‘Meaning the police—and others,’ said Kelvin significantly. ‘And don’t you forget it, mister.’

“‘Do you know, Newman, that sounded to me very like a threat,’ I said as we climbed the hill homewards.

“My friend laughed.

“‘Nonsense; I don’t do the folk down here any harm.’

“I shook my head doubtfully. There was something sinister and uncivilized about Kelvin. I felt that his mind might run in strange, unrecognized channels.

“I think I date the beginning of my uneasiness from that moment. I had slept well enough that first night, but the next night my sleep was troubled and broken. Sunday dawned, dark and sullen, with an overcast sky and the threatenings of thunder in the air. I am always a bad hand at hiding my feelings, and Newman noticed the change in me.

“‘What is the matter with you, West? You are a bundle of nerves this morning.’

“‘I don’t know,’ I confessed, ‘but I have got a horrible feeling of foreboding.’

“‘It’s the weather.’

“‘Yes, perhaps.’

“I said no more. In the afternoon we went out in Newman’s motor boat, but the rain came on with such vigour that we were glad to return to shore and change into dry clothing.

“And that evening my uneasiness increased. Outside the storm howled and roared. Towards ten o’clock the tempest calmed down. Newman looked out of the window.

“‘It is clearing,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if it was a perfectly fine night in another half hour. If so, I shall go out for a stroll.’

“I yawned. ‘I am frightfully sleepy,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night. I think that tonight I shall turn in early.’

“This I did. On the previous night I had slept little. Tonight I slept heavily. Yet my slumbers were not restful. I was still oppressed with an awful foreboding of evil. I had terrible dreams. I dreamt of dreadful abysses and vast chasms, amongst which I was wandering, knowing that a slip of the foot meant death. I waked to find the hands of my clock pointing to eight o’clock. My head was aching badly, and the terror of my night’s dreams was still upon me.

“So strongly was this so that when I went to the window and drew it up I started back with a fresh feeling of terror, for the first thing I saw, or thought I saw—was a man digging an open grave.

“It took me a minute or two to pull myself together; then I realized that the gravedigger was Newman’s gardener, and the ‘grave’ was destined to accommodate three new rose trees which were lying on the turf waiting for the moment they should be securely planted in the earth.

“The gardener looked up and saw me and touched his hat.

“‘Good morning, sir. Nice morning, sir.’

“‘I suppose it is,’ I said doubtfully, still unable to shake off completely the depression of my spirits.

“However, as the gardener had said, it was certainly a nice morning. The sun was shining and the sky a clear pale blue that promised fine weather for the day. I went down to breakfast whistling a tune. Newman had no maids living in the house. Two middle-aged sisters, who lived in a farmhouse nearby, came daily to attend to his simple wants. One of them was placing the coffeepot on the table as I entered the room.

“‘Good morning, Elizabeth,’ I said. ‘Mr. Newman not down yet?’

“‘He must have been out very early, sir,’ she replied. ‘He wasn’t in the house when we arrived.’

“Instantly my uneasiness returned. On the two previous mornings Newman had come down to breakfast somewhat late; and I didn’t fancy that at any time he was an early riser. Moved by those forebodings, I ran up to his bedroom. It was empty, and, moreover, his bed had not been slept in. A brief examination of his room showed me two other things. If Newman had gone out for a stroll he must have gone out in his evening clothes, for they were missing.

“I was sure now that my premonition of evil was justified. Newman had gone, as he had said he would do, for an evening stroll. For some reason or other he had not returned. Why? Had he met with an accident? Fallen over the cliffs? A search must be made at once.

“In a few hours I had collected a large band of helpers, and together we hunted in every direction along the cliffs and on the rocks below. But there was no sign of Newman.

“In the end, in despair, I sought out Inspector Badgworth. His face grew very grave.

“‘It looks to me as if there has been foul play,’ he said. ‘There are some not over-scrupulous customers in these parts. Have you seen Kelvin, the landlord of the Three Anchors?’

“I said that I had seen him.

“‘Did you know he did a turn in gaol four years ago? Assault and battery.’

“‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ I said.

“‘The general opinion in this place seems to be that your friend is a bit too fond of nosing his way into things that do not concern him. I hope he has come to no serious harm.’

“The search was continued with redoubled vigour. It was not until late that afternoon that our efforts were rewarded. We discovered Newman in a deep ditch in a corner of his own property. His hands and feet were securely fastened with rope, and a handkerchief had been thrust into his mouth and secured there so as to prevent him crying out.

“He was terribly exhausted and in great pain; but after some frictioning of his wrists and ankles, and a long draught from a whisky flask, he was able to give his account of what had occurred.

“The weather having cleared, he had gone out for a stroll about eleven o’clock. His way had taken him some distance along the cliffs to a spot commonly known as Smugglers’ Cove, owing to the large number of caves to be found there. Here he had noticed some men landing something from a small boat, and had strolled down to see what was going on. Whatever the stuff was it seemed to be a great weight, and it was being carried into one of the farthermost caves.

“With no real suspicion of anything being amiss, nevertheless Newman had wondered. He had drawn quite near them without being observed. Suddenly there was a cry of alarm, and immediately two powerful seafaring men had set upon him and rendered him unconscious. When next he came to himself he found himself lying on a motor vehicle of some kind, which was proceeding, with many bumps and bangs, as far as he could guess, up the lane which led from the coast to the village. To his great surprise, the lorry turned in at the gate of his own house. There, after a whispered conversation between the men, they at length drew him forth and flung him into a ditch at a spot where the depth of it rendered discovery unlikely for some time. Then the lorry drove on, and, he thought, passed out through another gate some quarter of a mile nearer the village. He could give no description of his assailants except that they were certainly seafaring men and, by their speech, Cornishmen.

“Inspector Badgworth was very interested.

“‘Depend upon it that is where the stuff has been hidden,’ he cried. ‘Somehow or other it has been salvaged from the wreck and has been stored in some lonely cave somewhere. It is known that we have searched all the caves in Smugglers’ Cove, and that we are now going farther afield, and they have evidently been moving the stuff at night to a cave that has been already searched and is not likely to be searched again. Unfortunately they have had at least eighteen hours to dispose of the stuff. If they got Mr. Newman last night I doubt if we will find any of it there by now.’

“The Inspector hurried off to make a search. He found definite evidence that the bullion had been stored as supposed, but the gold had been once more removed, and there was no clue as to its fresh hiding place.

“One clue there was, however, and the Inspector himself pointed it out to me the following morning.

“‘That lane is very little used by motor vehicles,’ he said, ‘and in one or two places we get the traces of the tyres very clearly. There is a three-cornered piece out of one tyre, leaving a mark which is quite unmistakable. It shows going into the gate; here and there is a faint mark of it going out of the other gate, so there is not much doubt that it is the right vehicle we are after. Now, why did they take it out through the farther gate? It seems quite clear to me that the lorry came from the village. Now, there aren’t many people who own a lorry in the village—not more than two or three at most. Kelvin, the landlord of the Three Anchors, has one.’

“‘What was Kelvin’s original profession?’ asked Newman.

“‘It is curious that you should ask me that, Mr. Newman. In his young days Kelvin was a professional diver.’

“Newman and I looked at each other. The puzzle seemed to be fitting itself together piece by piece.

“‘You didn’t recognize Kelvin as one of the men on the beach?’ asked the Inspector.

“Newman shook his head.

“‘I am afraid I can’t say anything as to that,’ he said regretfully. ‘I really hadn’t time to see anything.’

“The Inspector very kindly allowed me to accompany him to the Three Anchors. The garage was up a side street. The big doors were closed, but by going up a little alley at the side we found a small door that led into it, and the door was open. A very brief examination of the tyres sufficed for the Inspector. ‘We have got him, by Jove!’ he exclaimed. ‘Here is the mark as large as life on the rear left wheel. Now, Mr. Kelvin, I don’t think you will be clever enough to wriggle out of this.’”

Raymond West came to a halt.

“Well?” said Joyce. “So far I don’t see anything to make a problem about—unless they never found the gold.”

“They never found the gold certainly,” said Raymond. “And they never got Kelvin either. I expect he was too clever for them, but I don’t quite see how he worked it. He was duly arrested—on the evidence of the tyre mark. But an extraordinary hitch arose. Just opposite the big doors of the garage was a cottage rented for the summer by a lady artist.”

“Oh, these lady artists!” said Joyce, laughing.

“As you say, ‘Oh, these lady artists!’ This particular one had been ill for some weeks, and, in consequence, had two hospital nurses attending her. The nurse who was on night duty had pulled her armchair up to the window, where the blind was up. She declared that the motor lorry could not have left the garage opposite without her seeing it, and she swore that in actual fact it never left the garage that night.”

“I don’t think that is much of a problem,” said Joyce. “The nurse went to sleep, of course. They always do.”

“That has—er—been known to happen,” said Mr. Petherick, judiciously; “but it seems to me that we are accepting facts without sufficient examination. Before accepting the testimony of the hospital nurse, we should inquire very closely into her bona fides. The alibi coming with such suspicious promptness is inclined to raise doubts in one’s mind.”

“There is also the lady artist’s testimony,” said Raymond. “She declared that she was in pain, and awake most of the night, and that she would certainly have heard the lorry, it being an unusual noise, and the night being very quiet after the storm.”

“H’m,” said the clergyman, “that is certainly an additional fact. Had Kelvin himself any alibi?”

“He declared that he was at home and in bed from ten o’clock onwards, but he could produce no witnesses in support of that statement.”

“The nurse went to sleep,” said Joyce, “and so did the patient. Ill people always think they have never slept a wink all night.”

Raymond West looked inquiringly at Dr. Pender.

“Do you know, I feel very sorry for that man Kelvin. It seems to me very much a case of ‘Give a dog a bad name.’ Kelvin had been in prison. Apart from the tyre mark, which certainly seems too remarkable to be coincidence, there doesn’t seem to be much against him except his unfortunate record.”

“You, Sir Henry?”

Sir Henry shook his head.

“As it happens,” he said, smiling, “I know something about this case. So clearly I mustn’t speak.”

“Well, go on, Aunt Jane; haven’t you got anything to say?”

“In a minute, dear,” said Miss Marple. “I am afraid I have counted wrong. Two purl, three plain, slip one, two purl—yes, that’s right. What did you say, dear?”

“What is your opinion?”

“You wouldn’t like my opinion, dear. Young people never do, I notice. It is better to say nothing.”

“Nonsense, Aunt Jane; out with it.”

“Well, dear Raymond,” said Miss Marple, laying down her knitting and looking across at her nephew. “I do think you should be more careful how you choose your friends. You are so credulous, dear, so easily gulled. I suppose it is being a writer and having so much imagination. All that story about a Spanish galleon! If you were older and had more experience of life you would have been on your guard at once. A man you had known only a few weeks, too!”

Sir Henry suddenly gave vent to a great roar of laughter and slapped his knee.

“Got you this time, Raymond,” he said. “Miss Marple, you are wonderful. Your friend Newman, my boy, has another name—several other names in fact. At the present moment he is not in Cornwall but in Devonshire—Dartmoor, to be exact—a convict in Princetown prison. We didn’t catch him over the stolen bullion business, but over the rifling of the strongroom of one of the London banks. Then we looked up his past record and we found a good portion of the gold stolen buried in the garden at Pol House. It was rather a neat idea. All along that Cornish coast there are stories of wrecked galleons full of gold. It accounted for the diver and it would account later for the gold. But a scapegoat was needed, and Kelvin was ideal for the purpose. Newman played his little comedy very well, and our friend Raymond, with his celebrity as a writer, made an unimpeachable witness.”

“But the tyre mark?” objected Joyce.

“Oh, I saw that at once, dear, although I know nothing about motors,” said Miss Marple. “People change a wheel, you know—I have often seen them doing it—and, of course, they could take a wheel off Kelvin’s lorry and take it out through the small door into the alley and put it on to Mr. Newman’s lorry and take the lorry out of one gate down to the beach, fill it up with the gold and bring it up through the other gate, and then they must have taken the wheel back and put it back on Mr. Kelvin’s lorry while, I suppose, someone else was tying up Mr. Newman in a ditch. Very uncomfortable for him and probably longer before he was found than he expected. I suppose the man who called himself the gardener attended to that side of the business.”

“Why do you say, ‘called himself the gardener,’ Aunt Jane?” asked Raymond curiously.

“Well, he can’t have been a real gardener, can he?” said Miss Marple. “Gardeners don’t work on Whit Monday. Everybody knows that.”

She smiled and folded up her knitting.

“It was really that little fact that put me on the right scent,” she said. She looked across at Raymond.

“When you are a householder, dear, and have a garden of your own, you will know these little things.”

Four

THE BLOODSTAINED PAVEMENT

“It’s curious,” said Joyce Lemprière, “but I hardly like telling you my story. It happened a long time ago—five years ago to be exact—but it’s sort of haunted me ever since. The smiling, bright, top part of it—and the hidden gruesomeness underneath. And the queer thing is that the sketch I painted at the time has become tinged with the same atmosphere. When you look at it first it is just a rough sketch of a little steep Cornish street with the sunlight on it. But if you look long enough at it something sinister creeps in. I have never sold it but I never look at it. It lives in the studio in a corner with its face to the wall.

“The name of the place was Rathole. It is a queer little Cornish fishing village, very picturesque—too picturesque perhaps. There is rather too much of the atmosphere of ‘Ye Olde Cornish Tea House’ about it. It has shops with bobbed-headed girls in smocks doing hand-illuminated mottoes on parchment. It is pretty and it is quaint, but it is very self-consciously so.”

“Don’t I know,” said Raymond West, groaning. “The curse of the charabanc, I suppose. No matter how narrow the lanes leading down to them no picturesque village is safe.”

Joyce nodded.

“They are narrow lanes that lead down to Rathole and very steep, like the side of a house. Well, to get on with my story. I had come down to Cornwall for a fortnight, to sketch. There is an old inn in Rathole, The Polharwith Arms. It was supposed to be the only house left standing by the Spaniards when they shelled the place in fifteen hundred and something.”

“Not shelled,” said Raymond West, frowning. “Do try to be historically accurate, Joyce.”

“Well, at all events they landed guns somewhere along the coast and they fired them and the houses fell down. Anyway that is not the point. The inn was a wonderful old place with a kind of porch in front built on four pillars. I got a very good pitch and was just settling down to work when a car came creeping and twisting down the hill. Of course, it would stop before the inn—just where it was most awkward for me. The people got out—a man and a woman—I didn’t notice them particularly. She had a kind of mauve linen dress on and a mauve hat.

“Presently the man came out again and to my great thankfulness drove the car down to the quay and left it there. He strolled back past me towards the inn. Just at that moment another beastly car came twisting down, and a woman got out of it dressed in the brightest chintz frock I have ever seen, scarlet poinsettias, I think they were, and she had on one of those big native straw hats—Cuban, aren’t they?—in very bright scarlet.

“This woman didn’t stop in front of the inn but drove the car farther down the street towards the other one. Then she got out and the man seeing her gave an astonished shout. ‘Carol,’ he cried, ‘in the name of all that is wonderful. Fancy meeting you in this out-of-the-way spot. I haven’t seen you for years. Hello, there’s Margery—my wife, you know. You must come and meet her.’

“They went up the street towards the inn side by side, and I saw the other woman had just come out of the door and was moving down towards them. I had had just a glimpse of the woman called Carol as she passed by me. Just enough to see a very white powdered chin and a flaming scarlet mouth and I wondered—I just wondered—if Margery would be so very pleased to meet her. I hadn’t seen Margery near to, but in the distance she looked dowdy and extra prim and proper.

“Well, of course, it was not any of my business but you get very queer little glimpses of life sometimes, and you can’t help speculating about them. From where they were standing I could just catch fragments of their conversation that floated down to me. They were talking about bathing. The husband, whose name seemed to be Denis, wanted to take a boat and row round the coast. There was a famous cave well worth seeing, so he said, about a mile along. Carol wanted to see the cave too but suggested walking along the cliffs and seeing it from the land side. She said she hated boats. In the end they fixed it that way. Carol was to go along the cliff path and meet them at the cave, and Denis and Margery would take a boat and row round.

“Hearing them talk about bathing made me want to bathe too. It was a very hot morning and I wasn’t doing particularly good work. Also, I fancied that the afternoon sunlight would be far more attractive in effect. So I packed up my things and went off to a little beach that I knew of—it was quite the opposite direction from the cave, and was rather a discovery of mine. I had a ripping bathe there and I lunched off a tinned tongue and two tomatoes, and I came back in the afternoon full of confidence and enthusiasm to get on with my sketch.

“The whole of Rathole seemed to be asleep. I had been right about the afternoon sunlight, the shadows were far more telling. The Polhar with Arms was the principal note of my sketch. A ray of sunlight came slanting obliquely down and hit the ground in front of it and had rather a curious effect. I gathered that the bathing party had returned safely, because two bathing dresses, a scarlet one and a dark blue one, were hanging from the balcony, drying in the sun.

“Something had gone a bit wrong with one corner of my sketch and I bent over it for some moments doing something to put it right. When I looked up again there was a figure leaning against one of the pillars of The Polharwith Arms, who seemed to have appeared there by magic. He was dressed in seafaring clothes and was, I suppose, a fisherman. But he had a long dark beard, and if I had been looking for a model for a wicked Spanish captain I couldn’t have imagined anyone better. I got to work with feverish haste before he should move away, though from his attitude he looked as though he was pefectly prepared to prop up the pillars through all eternity.

“He did move, however, but luckily not until I had got what I wanted. He came over to me and he began to talk. Oh, how that man talked.

“‘Rathole,’ he said, ‘was a very interesting place.’

“I knew that already but although I said so that didn’t save me. I had the whole history of the shelling—I mean the destroying—of the village, and how the landlord of the Polharwith Arms was the last man to be killed. Run through on his own threshold by a Spanish captain’s sword, and of how his blood spurted out on the pavement and no one could wash out the stain for a hundred years.

“It all fitted in very well with the languorous drowsy feeling of the afternoon. The man’s voice was very suave and yet at the same time there was an undercurrent in it of something rather frightening. He was very obsequious in his manner, yet I felt underneath he was cruel. He made me understand the Inquisition and the terrors of all the things the Spaniards did better than I have ever done before.

“All the time he was talking to me I went on painting, and suddenly I realized that in the excitement of listening to his story I had painted in something that was not there. On that white square of pavement where the sun fell before the door of The Polharwith Arms, I had painted in bloodstains. It seemed extraordinary that the mind could play such tricks with the hand, but as I looked over towards the inn again I got a second shock. My hand had only painted what my eyes saw—drops of blood on the white pavement.

“I stared for a minute or two. Then I shut my eyes, said to myself, ‘Don’t be so stupid, there’s nothing there, really,’ then I opened them again, but the bloodstains were still there.

“I suddenly felt I couldn’t stand it. I interrupted the fisherman’s flood of language.

“‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘my eyesight is not very good. Are those bloodstains on that pavement over there?’

“He looked at me indulgently and kindly.

“‘No bloodstains in these days, lady. What I am telling you about is nearly five hundred years ago.’

“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but now—on the pavement’—the words died away in my throat. I knew—I knew that he wouldn’t see what I was seeing. I got up and with shaking hands began to put my things together. As I did so the young man who had come in the car that morning came out of the inn door. He looked up and down the street perplexedly. On the balcony above his wife came out and collected the bathing things. He walked down towards the car but suddenly swerved and came across the road towards the fisherman.

“‘Tell me, my man,’ he said. ‘You don’t know whether the lady who came in that second car there has got back yet?’

“‘Lady in a dress with flowers all over it? No, sir, I haven’t seen her. She went along the cliff towards the cave this morning.’

“‘I know, I know. We all bathed there together, and then she left us to walk home and I have not seen her since. It can’t have taken her all this time. The cliffs round here are not dangerous, are they?’

“‘It depends, sir, on the way you go. The best way is to take a man what knows the place with you.’

“He very clearly meant himself and was beginning to enlarge on the theme, but the young man cut him short unceremoniously and ran back towards the inn calling up to his wife on the balcony.

“‘I say, Margery, Carol hasn’t come back yet. Odd, isn’t it?’

“I didn’t hear Margery’s reply, but her husband went on. ‘Well, we can’t wait any longer. We have got to push on to Penrithar. Are you ready? I will turn the car.’

“He did as he had said, and presently the two of them drove off together. Meanwhile I had deliberately been nerving myself to prove how ridiculous my fancies were. When the car had gone I went over to the inn and examined the pavement closely. Of course there were no bloodstains there. No, all along it had been the result of my distorted imagination. Yet, somehow, it seemed to make the thing more frightening. It was while I was standing there that I heard the fisherman’s voice.

“He was looking at me curiously. ‘You thought you saw bloodstains here, eh, lady?’

“I nodded.

“‘That is very curious, that is very curious. We have got a superstition here, lady. If anyone sees those bloodstains—’

“He paused.

“‘Well?’ I said.

“He went on in his soft voice, Cornish in intonation, but unconsciously smooth and well-bred in its pronunciation, and completely free from Cornish turns of speech.

“‘They do say, lady, that if anyone sees those bloodstains that there will be a death within twenty-four hours.’

“Creepy! It gave me a nasty feeling all down my spine.

“He went on persuasively. ‘There is a very interesting tablet in the church, lady, about a death—’

“‘No thanks,’ I said decisively, and I turned sharply on my heel and walked up the street towards the cottage where I was lodging. Just as I got there I saw in the distance the woman called Carol coming along the cliff path. She was hurrying. Against the grey of the rocks she looked like some poisonous scarlet flower. Her hat was the colour of blood. . . .

“I shook myself. Really, I had blood on the brain.

“Later I heard the sound of her car. I wondered whether she too was going to Penrithar; but she took the road to the left in the opposite direction. I watched the car crawl up the hill and disappear, and I breathed somehow more easily. Rathole seemed its quiet sleepy self once more.”

“If that is all,” said Raymond West as Joyce came to a stop, “I will give my verdict at once. Indigestion, spots before the eyes after meals.”

“It isn’t all,” said Joyce. “You have got to hear the sequel. I read it in the paper two days later under the heading of ‘Sea Bathing Fatality.’ It told how Mrs. Dacre, the wife of Captain Denis Dacre, was unfortunately drowned at Landeer Cove, just a little farther along the coast. She and her husband were staying at the time at the hotel there, and had declared their intention of bathing, but a cold wind sprang up. Captain Dacre had declared it was too cold, so he and some other people in the hotel had gone off to the golf links nearby. Mrs. Dacre, however, had said it was not too cold for her and she went off alone down to the cove. As she didn’t return her husband became alarmed, and in company with his friends went down to the beach. They found her clothes lying beside a rock, but no trace of the unfortunate lady. Her body was not found until nearly a week later when it was washed ashore at a point some distance down the coast. There was a bad blow on her head which had occurred before death, and the theory was that she must have dived into the sea and hit her head on a rock. As far as I could make out her death would have occurred just twenty-four hours after the time I saw the bloodstains.”

“I protest,” said Sir Henry. “This is not a problem—this is a ghost story. Miss Lemprière is evidently a medium.”

Mr. Petherick gave his usual cough.

“One point strikes me—” he said, “that blow on the head. We must not, I think, exclude the possibility of foul play. But I do not see that we have any data to go upon. Miss Lemprière’s hallucination, or vision, is interesting certainly, but I do not see clearly the point on which she wishes us to pronounce.”

“Indigestion and coincidence,” said Raymond, “and anyway you can’t be sure that they were the same people. Besides, the curse, or whatever it was, would only apply to the actual inhabitants of Rathole.”

“I feel,” said Sir Henry, “that the sinister seafaring man has something to do with this tale. But I agree with Mr. Petherick, Miss Lemprière has given us very little data.”

Joyce turned to Dr. Pender who smilingly shook his head.

“It is a most interesting story,” he said, “but I am afraid I agree with Sir Henry and Mr. Petherick that there is very little data to go upon.”

Joyce then looked curiously at Miss Marple, who smiled back at her.

“I, too, think you are just a little unfair, Joyce dear,” she said. “Of course, it is different for me. I mean, we, being women, appreciate the point about clothes. I don’t think it is a fair problem to put to a man. It must have meant a lot of rapid changing. What a wicked woman! And a still more wicked man.”

Joyce stared at her.

“Aunt Jane,” she said. “Miss Marple, I mean, I believe—I do really believe you know the truth.”

“Well, dear,” said Miss Marple, “it is much easier for me sitting here quietly than it was for you—and being an artist you are so susceptible to atmosphere, aren’t you? Sitting here with one’s knitting, one just sees the facts. Bloodstains dropped on the pavement from the bathing dress hanging above, and being a red bathing dress, of course, the criminals themselves did not realize it was bloodstained. Poor thing, poor young thing!”

“Excuse me, Miss Marple,” said Sir Henry, “but you do know that I am entirely in the dark still. You and Miss Lemprière seem to know what you are talking about, but we men are still in utter darkness.”

“I will tell you the end of the story now,” said Joyce. “It was a year later. I was at a little east coast seaside resort, and I was sketching, when suddenly I had that queer feeling one has of something having happened before. There were two people, a man and a woman, on the pavement in front of me, and they were greeting a third person, a woman dressed in a scarlet poinsettia chintz dress. ‘Carol, by all that is wonderful! Fancy meeting you after all these years. You don’t know my wife? Joan, this is an old friend of mine, Miss Harding.’

“I recognized the man at once. It was the same Denis I had seen at Rathole. The wife was different—that is, she was a Joan instead of a Margery; but she was the same type, young and rather dowdy and very inconspicuous. I thought for a minute I was going mad. They began to talk of going bathing. I will tell you what I did. I marched straight then and there to the police station. I thought they would probably think I was off my head, but I didn’t care. And as it happened everything was quite all right. There was a man from Scotland Yard there, and he had come down just about this very thing. It seems—oh, it’s horrible to talk about—that the police had got suspicions of Denis Dacre. That wasn’t his real name—he took different names on different occasions. He got to know girls, usually quiet inconspicuous girls without many relatives or friends, he married them and insured their lives for large sums and then—oh, it’s horrible! The woman called Carol was his real wife, and they always carried out the same plan. That is really how they came to catch him. The insurance companies became suspicious. He would come to some quiet seaside place with his new wife, then the other woman would turn up and they would all go bathing together. Then the wife would be murdered and Carol would put on her clothes and go back in the boat with him. Then they would leave the place, wherever it was, after inquiring for the supposed Carol and when they got outside the village Carol would hastily change back into her own flamboyant clothes and her vivid makeup and would go back there and drive off in her own car. They would find out which way the current was flowing and the supposed death would take place at the next bathing place along the coast that way. Carol would play the part of the wife and would go down to some lonely beach and would leave the wife’s clothes there by a rock and depart in her flowery chintz dress to wait quietly until her husband could rejoin her.

“I suppose when they killed poor Margery some of the blood must have spurted over Carol’s bathing suit, and being a red one they didn’t notice it, as Miss Marple says. But when they hung it over the balcony it dripped. Ugh!” she gave a shiver. “I can see it still.”

“Of course,” said Sir Henry, “I remember very well now. Davis was the man’s real name. It had quite slipped my memory that one of his many aliases was Dacre. They were an extraordinarily cunning pair. It always seemed so amazing to me that no one spotted the change of identity. I suppose, as Miss Marple says, clothes are more easily identified than faces; but it was a very clever scheme, for although we suspected Davis it was not easy to bring the crime home to him as he always seemed to have an unimpeachable alibi.”

“Aunt Jane,” said Raymond, looking at her curiously, “how do you do it? You have lived such a peaceful life and yet nothing seems to surprise you.”

“I always find one thing very like another in this world,” said Miss Marple. “There was Mrs. Green, you know, she buried five children—and every one of them insured. Well, naturally, one began to get suspicious.”

She shook her head.

“There is a great deal of wickedness in village life. I hope you dear young people will never realize how very wicked the world is.”

Five

MOTIVE V. OPPORTUNITY

Mr. Petherick cleared his throat rather more importantly than usual.

“I am afraid my little problem will seem rather tame to you all,” he said apologetically, “after the sensational stories we have been hearing. There is no bloodshed in mine, but it seems to me an interesting and rather ingenious little problem, and fortunately I am in the position to know the right answer to it.”

“It isn’t terribly legal, is it?” asked Joyce Lemprière. “I mean points of law and lots of Barnaby v Skinner in the year 1881, and things like that.”

Mr. Petherick beamed appreciatively at her over his eyeglasses.

“No, no, my dear young lady. You need have no fears on that score. The story I am about to tell is a perfectly simple and straightforward one and can be followed by any layman.”

“No legal quibbles, now,” said Miss Marple, shaking a knitting needle at him.

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Petherick.

“Ah well, I am not so sure, but let’s hear the story.”

“It concerns a former client of mine. I will call him Mr. Clode—Simon Clode. He was a man of considerable wealth and lived in a large house not very far from here. He had had one son killed in the War and this son had left one child, a little girl. Her mother had died at her birth, and on her father’s death she had come to live with her grandfather who at once became passionately attached to her. Little Chris could do anything she liked with her grandfather. I have never seen a man more completely wrapped up in a child, and I cannot describe to you his grief and despair when, at the age of eleven, the child contracted pneumonia and died.

“Poor Simon Clode was inconsolable. A brother of his had recently died in poor circumstances and Simon Clode had generously offered a home to his brother’s children—two girls, Grace and Mary, and a boy, George. But though kind and generous to his nephew and nieces, the old man never expended on them any of the love and devotion he had accorded to his little grandchild. Employment was found for George Clode in a bank nearby, and Grace married a clever young research chemist of the name of Philip Garrod. Mary, who was a quiet, self-contained girl, lived at home and looked after her uncle. She was, I think, fond of him in her quiet undemonstrative way. And to all appearances things went on very peacefully. I may say that after the death of little Christobel, Simon Clode came to me and instructed me to draw up a new will. By this will, his fortune, a very considerable one, was divided equally between his nephew and nieces, a third share to each.

“Time went on. Chancing to meet George Clode one day I inquired for his uncle, whom I had not seen for some time. To my surprise George’s face clouded over. ‘I wish you could put some sense into Uncle Simon,’ he said ruefully. His honest but not very brilliant countenance looked puzzled and worried. ‘This spirit business is getting worse and worse.’

“‘What spirit business?’ I asked, very much surprised.

“Then George told me the whole story. How Mr. Clode had gradually got interested in the subject and how on the top of this interest he had chanced to meet an American medium, a Mrs. Eurydice Spragg. This woman, whom George did not hesitate to characterize as an out and out swindler, had gained an immense ascendancy over Simon Clode. She was practically always in the house and many séances were held in which the spirit of Christobel manifested itself to the doting grandfather.

“I may say here and now that I do not belong to the ranks of those who cover spiritualism with ridicule and scorn. I am, as I have told you, a believer in evidence. And I think that when we have an impartial mind and weigh the evidence in favour of spiritualism there remains much that cannot be put down to fraud or lightly set aside. Therefore, as I say, I am neither a believer nor an unbeliever. There is certain testimony with which one cannot afford to disagree.

“On the other hand, spiritualism lends itself very easily to fraud and imposture, and from all young George Clode told me about this Mrs. Eurydice Spragg I felt more and more convinced that Simon Clode was in bad hands and that Mrs. Spragg was probably an imposter of the worst type. The old man, shrewd as he was in practical matters, would be easily imposed on where his love for his dead grandchild was concerned.

“Turning things over in my mind I felt more and more uneasy. I was fond of the young Clodes, Mary and George, and I realized that this Mrs. Spragg and her influence over their uncle might lead to trouble in the future.

“At the earliest opportunity I made a pretext for calling on Simon Clode. I found Mrs. Spragg installed as an honoured and friendly guest. As soon as I saw her my worst apprehensions were fulfilled. She was a stout woman of middle age, dressed in a flamboyant style. Very full of cant phrases about ‘Our dear ones who have passed over,’ and other things of the kind.

“Her husband was also staying in the house, Mr. Absalom Spragg, a thin lank man with a melancholy expression and extremely furtive eyes. As soon as I could, I got Simon Clode to myself and sounded him tactfully on the subject. He was full of enthusiasm. Eurydice Spragg was wonderful! She had been sent to him directly in answer to a prayer! She cared nothing for money, the joy of helping a heart in affliction was enough for her. She had quite a mother’s feeling for little Chris. He was beginning to regard her almost as a daughter. Then he went on to give me details—how he had heard his Chris’s voice speaking—how she was well and happy with her father and mother. He went on to tell other sentiments expressed by the child, which in my remembrance of little Christobel seemed to me highly unlikely. She laid stress on the fact that ‘Father and Mother loved dear Mrs. Spragg.’

“‘But, of course,’ he broke off, ‘you are a scoffer, Petherick.’

“‘No, I am not a scoffer. Very far from it. Some of the men who have written on the subject are men whose testimony I would accept unhesitatingly, and I should accord any medium recommended by them respect and credence. I presume that this Mrs. Spragg is well vouched for?’

“Simon went into ecstasies over Mrs. Spragg. She had been sent to him by Heaven. He had come across her at the watering place where he had spent two months in the summer. A chance meeting, with what a wonderful result!

“I went away very dissatisfied. My worst fears were realized, but I did not see what I could do. After a good deal of thought and deliberation I wrote to Philip Garrod who had, as I mentioned, just married the eldest Clode girl, Grace. I set the case before him—of course, in the most carefully guarded language. I pointed out the danger of such a woman gaining ascendancy over the old man’s mind. And I suggested that Mr. Clode should be brought into contact if possible with some reputable spiritualistic circles. This, I thought, would not be a difficult matter for Philip Garrod to arrange.

“Garrod was prompt to act. He realized, which I did not, that Simon Clode’s health was in a very precarious condition, and as a practical man he had no intention of letting his wife or her sister and brother be despoiled of the inheritance which was so rightly theirs. He came down the following week, bringing with him as a guest no other than the famous Professor Longman. Longman was a scientist of the first order, a man whose association with spiritualism compelled the latter to be treated with respect. Not only a brilliant scientist; he was a man of the utmost uprightness and probity.

“The result of the visit was most unfortunate. Longman, it seemed, had said very little while he was there. Two séances were held—under what conditions I do not know. Longman was noncommittal all the time he was in the house, but after his departure he wrote a letter to Philip Garrod. In it he admitted that he had not been able to detect Mrs. Spragg in fraud, nevertheless his private opinion was that the phenomena were not genuine. Mr. Garrod, he said, was at liberty to show this letter to his uncle if he thought fit, and he suggested that he himself should put Mr. Clode in touch with a medium of perfect integrity.

“Philip Garrod had taken this letter straight to his uncle, but the result was not what he had anticipated. The old man flew into a towering rage. It was all a plot to discredit Mrs. Spragg who was a maligned and injured saint! She had told him already what bitter jealousy there was of her in this country. He pointed out that Longman was forced to say he had not detected fraud. Eurydice Spragg had come to him in the darkest hour of his life, had given him help and comfort, and he was prepared to espouse her cause even if it meant quarrelling with every member of his family. She was more to him than anyone else in the world.

“Philip Garrod was turned out of the house with scant ceremony; but as a result of his rage Clode’s own health took a decided turn for the worse. For the last month he had kept to his bed pretty continuously, and now there seemed every possibility of his being a bedridden invalid until such time as death should release him. Two days after Philip’s departure I received an urgent summons and went hurriedly over. Clode was in bed and looked even to my layman’s eye very ill indeed. He was gasping for breath.

“‘This is the end of me,’ he said. ‘I feel it. Don’t argue with me, Petherick. But before I die I am going to do my duty by the one human being who has done more for me than anyone else in the world. I want to make a fresh will.’

“‘Certainly,’ I said, ‘if you will give me your instructions now I will draft out a will and send it to you.’

“‘That won’t do,’ he said. ‘Why, man, I might not live through the night. I have written out what I want here,’ he fumbled under his pillow, ‘and you can tell me if it is right.’

“He produced a sheet of paper with a few words roughly scribbled on it in pencil. It was quite simple and clear. He left £5000 to each of his nieces and nephew, and the residue of his vast property outright to Eurydice Spragg ‘in gratitude and admiration.’

“I didn’t like it, but there it was. There was no question of unsound mind, the old man was as sane as anybody.

“He rang the bell for two of the servants. They came promptly. The housemaid, Emma Gaunt, was a tall middle-aged woman who had been in service there for many years and who had nursed Clode devotedly. With her came the cook, a fresh buxom young woman of thirty. Simon Clode glared at them both from under his bushy eyebrows.

“‘I want you to witness my will. Emma, get me my fountain pen.’

“Emma went over obediently to the desk.

“‘Not that left-hand drawer, girl,’ said old Simon irritably. ‘Don’t you know it is in the right-hand one?’

“‘No, it is here, sir,’ said Emma, producing it.

“‘Then you must have put it away wrong last time,’ grumbled the old man. ‘I can’t stand things not being kept in their proper places.’

“Still grumbling he took the pen from her and copied his own rough draught, amended by me, onto a fresh piece of paper. Then he signed his name. Emma Gaunt and the cook, Lucy David, also signed. I folded the will up and put it into a long blue envelope. It was necessarily, you understand, written on an ordinary piece of paper.

“Just as the servants were turning to leave the room Clode lay back on the pillows with a gasp and a distorted face. I bent over him anxiously and Emma Gaunt came quickly back. However, the old man recovered and smiled weakly.

“‘It is all right, Petherick, don’t be alarmed. At any rate I shall die easy now having done what I wanted to.’

“Emma Gaunt looked inquiringly at me as if to know whether she could leave the room. I nodded reassuringly and she went out—first stopping to pick up the blue envelope which I had let slip to the ground in my moment of anxiety. She handed it to me and I slipped it into my coat pocket and then she went out.

“‘You are annoyed, Petherick,’ said Simon Clode. ‘You are prejudiced, like everybody else.’

“‘It is not a question of prejudice,’ I said. ‘Mrs. Spragg may be all that she claims to be. I should see no objection to you leaving her a small legacy as a memento of gratitude; but I tell you frankly, Clode, that to disinherit your own flesh and blood in favour of a stranger is wrong.’

“With that I turned to depart. I had done what I could and made my protest.

“Mary Clode came out of the drawing room and met me in the hall.

“‘You will have tea before you go, won’t you? Come in here,’ and she led me into the drawing room.

“A fire was burning on the hearth and the room looked cosy and cheerful. She relieved me of my overcoat just as her brother, George, came into the room. He took it from her and laid it across a chair at the far end of the room, then he came back to the fireside where we drank tea. During the meal a question arose about some point concerning the estate. Simon Clode said he didn’t want to be bothered with it and had left it to George to decide. George was rather nervous about trusting to his own judgment. At my suggestion, we adjourned to the study after tea and I looked over the papers in question. Mary Clode accompanied us.

“A quarter of an hour later I prepared to take my departure. Remembering that I had left my overcoat in the drawing room, I went there to fetch it. The only occupant of the room was Mrs. Spragg, who was kneeling by the chair on which the overcoat lay. She seemed to be doing something rather unnecessary to the cretonne cover. She rose with a very red face as we entered.

“‘That cover never did sit right,’ she complained. ‘My! I could make a better fit myself.’

“I took up my overcoat and put it on. As I did so I noticed that the envelope containing the will had fallen out of the pocket and was lying on the floor. I replaced it in my pocket, said goodbye, and took my departure.

“On arrival at my office, I will describe my next actions carefully. I removed my overcoat and took the will from the pocket. I had it in my hand and was standing by the table when my clerk came in. Somebody wished to speak to me on the telephone, and the extension to my desk was out of order. I accordingly accompanied him to the outer office and remained there for about five minutes engaged in conversation over the telephone.

“When I emerged, I found my clerk waiting for me.

“‘Mr. Spragg has called to see you, sir. I showed him into your office.’

“I went there to find Mr. Spragg sitting by the table. He rose and greeted me in a somewhat unctuous manner, then proceeded to a long discursive speech. In the main it seemed to be an uneasy justification of himself and his wife. He was afraid people were saying etc., etc. His wife had been known from her babyhood upwards for the pureness of her heart and her motives. . . and so on and so on. I was, I am afraid, rather curt with him. In the end I think he realized that his visit was not being a success and he left somewhat abruptly. I then remembered that I had left the will lying on the table. I took it, sealed the envelope, and wrote on it and put it away in the safe.

“Now I come to the crux of my story. Two months later Mr. Simon Clode died. I will not go into long-winded discussions, I will just state the bare facts. When the sealed envelope containing the will was opened it was found to contain a sheet of blank paper.”

He paused, looking round the circle of interested faces. He smiled himself with a certain enjoyment.

“You appreciate the point, of course? For two months the sealed envelope had lain in my safe. It could not have been tampered with then. No, the time limit was a very short one. Between the moment the will was signed and my locking it away in the safe. Now who had had the opportunity, and to whose interests would it be to do so?

“I will recapitulate the vital points in a brief summary: The will was signed by Mr. Clode, placed by me in an envelope—so far so good. It was then put by me in my overcoat pocket. That overcoat was taken from me by Mary and handed by her to George, who was in full sight of me whilst handling the coat. During the time that I was in the study Mrs. Eurydice Spragg would have had plenty of time to extract the envelope from the coat pocket and read its contents and, as a matter of fact, finding the envelope on the ground and not in the pocket seemed to point to her having done so. But here we come to a curious point: she had the opportunity of substituting the blank paper, but no motive. The will was in her favour, and by substituting a blank piece of paper she despoiled herself of the heritage she had been so anxious to gain. The same applied to Mr. Spragg. He, too, had the opportunity. He was left alone with the document in question for some two or three minutes in my office. But again, it was not to his advantage to do so. So we are faced with this curious problem: the two people who had the opportunity of substituting a blank piece of paper had no motive for doing so, and the two people who had a motive had no opportunity. By the way, I would not exclude the housemaid, Emma Gaunt, from suspicion. She was devoted to her young master and mistress and detested the Spraggs. She would, I feel sure, have been quite equal to attempting the substitution if she had thought of it. But although she actually handled the envelope when she picked it up from the floor and handed it to me, she certainly had no opportunity of tampering with its contents and she could not have substituted another envelope by some sleight of hand (of which anyway she would not be capable) because the envelope in question was brought into the house by me and no one there would be likely to have a duplicate.”

He looked round, beaming on the assembly.

“Now, there is my little problem. I have, I hope, stated it clearly. I should be interested to hear your views.”

To everyone’s astonishment Miss Marple gave vent to a long and prolonged chuckle. Something seemed to be amusing her immensely.

“What is the matter, Aunt Jane? Can’t we share the joke?” said Raymond.

“I was thinking of little Tommy Symonds, a naughty little boy, I am afraid, but sometimes very amusing. One of those children with innocent childlike faces who are always up to some mischief or other. I was thinking how last week in Sunday School he said, ‘Teacher, do you say yolk of eggs is white or yolk of eggs are white?’ And Miss Durston explained that anyone would say ‘yolks of eggs are white, or yolk of egg is white’—and naughty Tommy said: ‘Well, I should say yolk of egg is yellow!’ Very naughty of him, of course, and as old as the hills. I knew that one as a child.”

“Very funny, my dear Aunt Jane,” Raymond said gently, “but surely that has nothing to do with the very interesting story that Mr. Petherick has been telling us.”

“Oh yes, it has,” said Miss Marple. “It is a catch! And so is Mr. Petherick’s story a catch. So like a lawyer! Ah, my dear old friend!” She shook a reproving head at him.

“I wonder if you really know,” said the lawyer with a twinkle.

Miss Marple wrote a few words on a piece of paper, folded them up and passed them across to him.

Mr. Petherick unfolded the paper, read what was written on it and looked across at her appreciatively.

“My dear friend,” he said, “is there anything you do not know?”

“I knew that as a child,” said Miss Marple. “Played with it too.”

“I feel rather out of this,” said Sir Henry. “I feel sure that Mr. Petherick has some clever legal legerdemain up his sleeve.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Petherick. “Not at all. It is a perfectly fair straightforward proposition. You must not pay any attention to Miss Marple. She has her own way of looking at things.”

“We should be able to arrive at the truth,” said Raymond West a trifle vexedly. “The facts certainly seem plain enough. Five persons actually touched that envelope. The Spraggs clearly could have meddled with it but equally clearly they did not do so. There remains the other three. Now, when one sees the marvellous ways that conjurers have of doing a thing before one’s eyes, it seems to me that the paper could have been extracted and another substituted by George Clode during the time he was carrying the overcoat to the far end of the room.”

“Well, I think it was the girl,” said Joyce. “I think the housemaid ran down and told her what was happening and she got hold of another blue envelope and just substituted the one for the other.”

Sir Henry shook his head. “I disagree with you both,” he said slowly. “These sort of things are done by conjurers, and they are done on the stage and in novels, but I think they would be impossible to do in real life, especially under the shrewd eyes of a man like my friend Mr. Petherick here. But I have an idea—it is only an idea and nothing more. We know that Professor Longman had just been down for a visit and that he said very little. It is only reasonable to suppose that the Spraggs may have been very anxious as to the result of that visit. If Simon Clode did not take them into his confidence, which is quite probable, they may have viewed his sending for Mr. Petherick from quite another angle. They may have believed that Mr. Clode had already made a will which benefited Eurydice Spragg and that this new one might be made for the express purpose of cutting her out as a result of Professor Longman’s revelations, or alternatively, as you lawyers say, Philip Garrod had impressed on his uncle the claims of his own flesh and blood. In that case, suppose Mrs. Spragg prepared to effect a substitution. This she does, but Mr. Petherick coming in at an unfortunate moment she had no time to read the real document and hastily destroys it by fire in case the lawyer should discover his loss.”

Joyce shook her head very decidedly.

“She would never burn it without reading it.”

“The solution is rather a weak one,” admitted Sir Henry. “I suppose—er—Mr. Petherick did not assist Providence himself.”

The suggestion was only a laughing one, but the little lawyer drew himself up in offended dignity.

“A most improper suggestion,” he said with some asperity.

“What does Dr. Pender say?” asked Sir Henry.

“I cannot say I have any very clear ideas. I think the substitution must have been effected by either Mrs. Spragg or her husband, possibly for the motive that Sir Henry suggests. If she did not read the will until after Mr. Petherick had departed, she would then be in somewhat of a dilemma, since she could not own up to her action in the matter. Possibly she would place it among Mr. Clode’s papers where she thought it would be found after his death. But why it wasn’t found I don’t know. It might be a mere speculation this—that Emma Gaunt came across it—and out of misplaced devotion to her employers—deliberately destroyed it.”

“I think Dr. Pender’s solution is the best of all,” said Joyce. “Is it right, Mr. Petherick?”

The lawyer shook his head.

“I will go on where I left off. I was dumbfounded and quite as much at sea as all of you are. I don’t think I should ever have guessed the truth—probably not—but I was enlightened. It was cleverly done too.

“I went and dined with Philip Garrod about a month later and in the course of our after-dinner conversation he mentioned an interesting case that had recently come to his notice.”

“‘I should like to tell you about it, Petherick, in confidence, of course.’

“‘Quite so,’ I replied.

“‘A friend of mine who had expectations from one of his relatives was greatly distressed to find that that relative had thoughts of benefiting a totally unworthy person. My friend, I am afraid, is a trifle unscrupulous in his methods. There was a maid in the house who was greatly devoted to the interests of what I may call the legitimate party. My friend gave her very simple instructions. He gave her a fountain pen, duly filled. She was to place this in a drawer in the writing table in her master’s room, but not the usual drawer where the pen was generally kept. If her master asked her to witness his signature to any document and asked her to bring him his pen, she was to bring him not the right one, but this one which was an exact duplicate of it. That was all she had to do. He gave her no other information. She was a devoted creature and she carried out his instructions faithfully.’

“He broke off and said:

“‘I hope I am not boring you, Petherick.’

“‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I am keenly interested.’

“Our eyes met.

“‘My friend is, of course, not known to you,’ he said.

“‘Of course not,’ I replied.

“‘Then that is all right,’ said Philip Garrod.

“He paused then said smilingly, ‘You see the point? The pen was filled with what is commonly known as Evanescent Ink—a solution of starch in water to which a few drops of iodine has been added. This makes a deep blue-black fluid, but the writing disappears entirely in four or five days.’”

Miss Marple chuckled.

“Disappearing ink,” she said. “I know it. Many is the time I have played with it as a child.”

And she beamed round on them all, pausing to shake a finger once more at Mr. Petherick.

“But all the same it’s a catch, Mr. Petherick,” she said. “Just like a lawyer.”

Six

THE THUMB MARK OF ST. PETER

“And now, Aunt Jane, it is up to you,” said Raymond West.

“Yes, Aunt Jane, we are expecting something really spicy,” chimed in Joyce Lemprière.

“Now, you are laughing at me, my dears,” said Miss Marple placidly. “You think that because I have lived in this out-of-the-way spot all my life I am not likely to have had any very interesting experiences.”

“God forbid that I should ever regard village life as peaceful and uneventful,” said Raymond with fervour. “Not after the horrible revelations we have heard from you! The cosmopolitan world seems a mild and peaceful place compared with St. Mary Mead.”

“Well, my dear,” said Miss Marple, “human nature is much the same everywhere, and, of course, one has opportunities of observing it at close quarters in a village.”

“You really are unique, Aunt Jane,” cried Joyce. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you Aunt Jane?” she added. “I don’t know why I do it.”

“Don’t you, my dear?” said Miss Marple.

She looked up for a moment or two with something quizzical in her glance, which made the blood flame to the girl’s cheeks. Raymond West fidgeted and cleared his throat in a somewhat embarrassed manner.

Miss Marple looked at them both and smiled again, and bent her attention once more to her knitting.

“It is true, of course, that I have lived what is called a very uneventful life, but I have had a lot of experience in solving different little problems that have arisen. Some of them have been really quite ingenious, but it would be no good telling them to you, because they are about such unimportant things that you would not be interested—just things like: Who cut the meshes of Mrs. Jones’s string bag? and why Mrs. Sims only wore her new fur coat once. Very interesting things, really, to any student of human nature. No, the only experience I can remember that would be of interest to you is the one about my poor niece Mabel’s husband.

“It is about ten or fifteen years ago now, and happily it is all over and done with, and everyone has forgotten about it. People’s memories are very short—a lucky thing, I always think.”

Miss Marple paused and murmured to herself:

“I must just count this row. The decreasing is a little awkward. One, two, three, four, five, and then three purl; that is right. Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes, about poor Mabel.

“Mabel was my niece. A nice girl, really a very nice girl, but just a trifle what one might call silly. Rather fond of being melodramatic and of saying a great deal more than she meant whenever she was upset. She married a Mr. Denman when she was twenty-two, and I am afraid it was not a very happy marriage. I had hoped very much that the attachment would not come to anything, for Mr. Denman was a man of very violent temper—not the kind of man who would be patient with Mabel’s foibles—and I also learned that there was insanity in his family. However, girls were just as obstinate then as they are now, and as they always will be. And Mabel married him.

“I didn’t see very much of her after her marriage. She came to stay with me once or twice, and they asked me there several times, but, as a matter of fact, I am not very fond of staying in other people’s houses, and I always managed to make some excuse. They had been married ten years when Mr. Denman died suddenly. There were no children, and he left all his money to Mabel. I wrote, of course, and offered to come to Mabel if she wanted me; but she wrote back a very sensible letter, and I gathered that she was not altogether overwhelmed by grief. I thought that was only natural, because I knew they had not been getting on together for some time. It was not until about three months afterwards that I got a most hysterical letter from Mabel, begging me to come to her, and saying that things were going from bad to worse, and she couldn’t stand it much longer.

“So, of course,” continued Miss Marple, “I put Clara on board wages and sent the plate and the King Charles tankard to the bank, and I went off at once. I found Mabel in a very nervous state. The house, Myrtle Dene, was a fairly large one, very comfortably furnished. There was a cook and a house-parlourmaid as well as a nurse-attendant to look after old Mr. Denman, Mabel’s husband’s father, who was what is called ‘not quite right in the head.’ Quite peaceful and well-behaved, but distinctly odd at times. As I say, there was insanity in the family.

“I was really shocked to see the change in Mabel. She was a mass of nerves, twitching all over, yet I had the greatest difficulty in making her tell me what the trouble was. I got at it, as one always does get at these things, indirectly. I asked her about some friends of hers she was always mentioning in her letters, the Gallaghers. She said, to my surprise, that she hardly ever saw them nowadays. Other friends whom I mentioned elicited the same remark. I spoke to her then of the folly of shutting herself up and brooding, and especially of the silliness of cutting herself adrift from her friends. Then she came bursting out with the truth.

“‘It is not my doing, it is theirs. There is not a soul in the place who will speak to me now. When I go down the High Street they all get out of the way so that they shan’t have to meet me or speak to me. I am like a kind of leper. It is awful, and I can’t bear it any longer. I shall have to sell the house and go abroad. Yet why should I be driven away from a home like this? I have done nothing.’

“I was more disturbed than I can tell you. I was knitting a comforter for old Mrs. Hay at the time, and in my perturbation I dropped two stitches and never discovered it until long after.

“‘My dear Mabel,’ I said, ‘you amaze me. But what is the cause of all this?’

“Even as a child Mabel was always difficult. I had the greatest difficulty in getting her to give me a straightforward answer to my question. She would only say vague things about wicked talk and idle people who had nothing better to do than gossip, and people who put ideas into other people’s heads.

“‘That is all quite clear to me,’ I said. ‘There is evidently some story being circulated about you. But what that story is you must know as well as anyone. And you are going to tell me.’

“‘It is so wicked,’ moaned Mabel.

“‘Of course it is wicked,’ I said briskly. ‘There is nothing that you can tell me about people’s minds that would astonish or surprise me. Now, Mabel, will you tell me in plain English what people are saying about you?’

“Then it all came out.

“It seemed that Geoffrey Denman’s death, being quite sudden and unexpected, gave rise to various rumours. In fact—and in plain English as I had put it to her—people were saying that she had poisoned her husband.

“Now, as I expect you know, there is nothing more cruel than talk, and there is nothing more difficult to combat. When people say things behind your back there is nothing you can refute or deny, and the rumours go on growing and growing, and no one can stop them. I was quite certain of one thing: Mabel was quite incapable of poisoning anyone. And I didn’t see why life should be ruined for her and her home made unbearable just because in all probability she had been doing something silly and foolish.

“‘There is no smoke without fire,’ I said. ‘Now, Mabel, you have got to tell me what started people off on this tack. There must have been something.’

“Mabel was very incoherent, and declared there was nothing—nothing at all, except, of course, that Geoffrey’s death had been very sudden. He had seemed quite well at supper that evening, and had taken violently ill in the night. The doctor had been sent for, but the poor man had died a few minutes after the doctor’s arrival. Death had been thought to be the result of eating poisoned mushrooms.

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘I suppose a sudden death of that kind might start tongues wagging, but surely not without some additional facts. Did you have a quarrel with Geoffrey or anything of that kind?’

“She admitted that she had had a quarrel with him on the preceding morning at breakfast time.

“‘And the servants heard it, I suppose?’ I asked.

“‘They weren’t in the room.’

“‘No, my dear,’ I said, ‘but they probably were fairly near the door outside.’

“I knew the carrying power of Mabel’s high-pitched hysterical voice only too well. Geoffrey Denman, too, was a man given to raising his voice loudly when angry.

“‘What did you quarrel about?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, the usual things. It was always the same things over and over again. Some little thing would start us off, and then Geoffrey became impossible and said abominable things, and I told him what I thought of him.’

“‘There had been a lot of quarrelling, then?’ I asked.

“‘It wasn’t my fault—’

“‘My dear child,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t matter whose fault it was. That is not what we are discussing. In a place like this everybody’s private affairs are more or less public property. You and your husband were always quarrelling. You had a particularly bad quarrel one morning, and that night your husband died suddenly and mysteriously. Is that all, or is there anything else?’

“‘I don’t know what you mean by anything else,’ said Mabel sullenly.

“‘Just what I say, my dear. If you have done anything silly, don’t for Heaven’s sake keep it back now. I only want to do what I can to help you.’

“‘Nothing and nobody can help me,’ said Mabel wildly, ‘except death.’

“‘Have a little more faith in Providence, dear,’ I said. ‘Now then, Mabel, I know perfectly well there is something else that you are keeping back.’

“I always did know, even when she was a child, when she was not telling me the whole truth. It took a long time, but I got it out at last. She had gone down to the chemist’s that morning and had bought some arsenic. She had had, of course, to sign the book for it. Naturally, the chemist had talked.

“‘Who is your doctor?’ I asked.

“‘Dr. Rawlinson.’

“I knew him by sight. Mabel had pointed him out to me the other day. To put it in perfectly plain language he was what I would describe as an old dodderer. I have had too much experience of life to believe in the infallibility of doctors. Some of them are clever men and some of them are not, and half the time the best of them don’t know what is the matter with you. I have no truck with doctors and their medicines myself.

“I thought things over, and then I put my bonnet on and went to call on Dr. Rawlinson. He was just what I had thought him—a nice old man, kindly, vague, and so shortsighted as to be pitiful, slightly deaf, and, withal, touchy and sensitive to the last degree. He was on his high horse at once when I mentioned Geoffrey Denman’s death, talked for a long time about various kinds of fungi, edible and otherwise. He had questioned the cook, and she had admitted that one or two of the mushrooms cooked had been ‘a little queer,’ but as the shop had sent them she thought they must be all right. The more she had thought about them since, the more she was convinced that their appearance was unusual.

“‘She would be,’ I said. ‘They would start by being quite like mushrooms in appearance, and they would end by being orange with purple spots. There is nothing that class cannot remember if it tries.’

“I gathered that Denman had been past speech when the doctor got to him. He was incapable of swallowing, and had died within a few minutes. The doctor seemed perfectly satisfied with the certificate he had given. But how much of that was obstinacy and how much of it was genuine belief I could not be sure.

“I went straight home and asked Mabel quite frankly why she had bought arsenic.

“‘You must have had some idea in your mind,’ I pointed out.

“Mabel burst into tears. ‘I wanted to make away with myself,’ she moaned. ‘I was too unhappy. I thought I would end it all.’

“‘Have you the arsenic still?’ I asked.

“‘No, I threw it away.’

“I sat there turning things over and over in my mind.

“‘What happened when he was taken ill? Did he call you?’

“‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘He rang the bell violently. He must have rung several times. At last Dorothy, the house-parlourmaid, heard it, and she waked the cook up, and they came down. When Dorothy saw him she was frightened. He was rambling and delirious. She left the cook with him and came rushing to me. I got up and went to him. Of course I saw at once he was dreadfully ill. Unfortunately Brewster, who looks after old Mr. Denman, was away for the night, so there was no one who knew what to do. I sent Dorothy off for the doctor, and cook and I stayed with him, but after a few minutes I couldn’t bear it any longer; it was too dreadful. I ran away back to my room and locked the door.’

“‘Very selfish and unkind of you,’ I said; ‘and no doubt that conduct of yours has done nothing to help you since, you may be sure of that. Cook will have repeated it everywhere. Well, well, this is a bad business.’

“Next I spoke to the servants. The cook wanted to tell me about the mushrooms, but I stopped her. I was tired of these mushrooms. Instead, I questioned both of them very closely about their master’s condition on that night. They both agreed that he seemed to be in great agony, that he was unable to swallow, and he could only speak in a strangled voice, and when he did speak it was only rambling—nothing sensible.

“‘What did he say when he was rambling?’ I asked curiously.

“‘Something about some fish, wasn’t it?’ turning to the other.

“Dorothy agreed.

“‘A heap of fish,’ she said; ‘some nonsense like that. I could see at once he wasn’t in his right mind, poor gentleman.’

“There didn’t seem to be any sense to be made out of that. As a last resource I went up to see Brewster, who was a gaunt, middle-aged woman of about fifty.

“‘It is a pity that I wasn’t here that night,’ she said. ‘Nobody seems to have tried to do anything for him until the doctor came.’

“‘I suppose he was delirious,’ I said doubtfully; ‘but that is not a symptom of ptomaine poisoning, is it?’

“‘It depends,’ said Brewster.

“I asked her how her patient was getting on.

“She shook her head.

“‘He is pretty bad,’ she said.

“‘Weak?’

“‘Oh no, he is strong enough physically—all but his eyesight. That is failing badly. He may outlive all of us, but his mind is failing very fast now. I have already told both Mr. and Mrs. Denman that he ought to be in an institution, but Mrs. Denman wouldn’t hear of it at any price.’

“I will say for Mabel that she always had a kindly heart.

“Well, there the thing was. I thought it over in every aspect, and at last I decided that there was only one thing to be done. In view of the rumours that were going about, permission must be applied for to exhume the body, and a proper postmortem must be made and lying tongues quietened once and for all. Mabel, of course, made a fuss, mostly on sentimental grounds—disturbing the dead man in his peaceful grave, etc., etc.—but I was firm.

“I won’t make a long story of this part of it. We got the order and they did the autopsy, or whatever they call it, but the result was not so satisfactory as it might have been. There was no trace of arsenic—that was all to the good—but the actual words of the report were that there was nothing to show by what means deceased had come to his death.

“So, you see, that didn’t lead us out of trouble altogether. People went on talking—about rare poisons impossible to detect, and rubbish of that sort. I had seen the pathologist who had done the postmortem, and I had asked him several questions, though he tried his best to get out of answering most of them; but I got out of him that he considered it highly unlikely that the poisoned mushrooms were the cause of death. An idea was simmering in my mind, and I asked him what poison, if any, could have been employed to obtain that result. He made a long explanation to me, most of which, I must admit, I did not follow, but it amounted to this: That death might have been due to some strong vegetable alkaloid.

“The idea I had was this: Supposing the taint of insanity was in Geoffrey Denman’s blood also, might he not have made away with himself? He had, at one period of his life, studied medicine, and he would have a good knowledge of poisons and their effects.

“I didn’t think it sounded very likely, but it was the only thing I could think of. And I was nearly at my wits’ end, I can tell you. Now, I dare say you modern young people will laugh, but when I am in really bad trouble I always say a little prayer to myself—anywhere, when I am walking along the street, or at a bazaar. And I always get an answer. It may be some trifling thing, apparently quite unconnected with the subject, but there it is. I had that text pinned over my bed when I was a little girl: Ask and you shall receive. On the morning that I am telling you about, I was walking along the High Street, and I was praying hard. I shut my eyes, and when I opened them, what do you think was the first thing that I saw?”

Five faces with varying degrees of interest were turned to Miss Marple. It may be safely assumed, however, that no one would have guessed the answer to the question right.

“I saw,” said Miss Marple impressively, “the window of the fishmonger’s shop. There was only one thing in it, a fresh haddock.”

She looked round triumphantly.

“Oh, my God!” said Raymond West. “An answer to prayer—a fresh haddock!”

“Yes, Raymond,” said Miss Marple severely, “and there is no need to be profane about it. The hand of God is everywhere. The first thing I saw were the black spots—the marks of St. Peter’s thumb. That is the legend, you know. St. Peter’s thumb. And that brought things home to me. I needed faith, the ever true faith of St. Peter. I connected the two things together, faith—and fish.”

Sir Henry blew his nose rather hurriedly. Joyce bit her lip.

“Now what did that bring to my mind? Of course, both the cook and house-parlourmaid mentioned fish as being one of the things spoken of by the dying man. I was convinced, absolutely convinced, that there was some solution of the mystery to be found in these words. I went home determined to get to the bottom of the matter.”

She paused.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” the old lady went on, “how much we go by what is called, I believe, the context? There is a place on Dartmoor called Grey Wethers. If you were talking to a farmer there and mentioned Grey Wethers, he would probably conclude that you were speaking of these stone circles, yet it is possible that you might be speaking of the atmosphere; and in the same way, if you were meaning the stone circles, an outsider, hearing a fragment of the conversation, might think you meant the weather. So when we repeat a conversation, we don’t, as a rule, repeat the actual words; we put in some other words that seem to us to mean exactly the same thing.

“I saw both the cook and Dorothy separately. I asked the cook if she was quite sure that her master had really mentioned a heap of fish. She said she was quite sure.

“‘Were these his exact words,’ I asked, ‘or did he mention some particular kind of fish?’

“‘That’s it,’ said the cook; ‘it was some particular kind of fish, but I can’t remember what now. A heap of—now what was it? Not any of the fish you send to table. Would it be a perch now—or pike? No. It didn’t begin with a P.’

“Dorothy also recalled that her master had mentioned some special kind of fish. ‘Some outlandish kind of fish it was,’ she said.

“‘A pile of—now what was it?’

“‘Did he say heap or pile?’ I asked.

“‘I think he said pile. But there, I really can’t be sure—it’s so hard to remember the actual words, isn’t it, miss, especially when they don’t seem to make sense. But now I come to think of it, I am pretty sure that it was a pile, and the fish began with C; but it wasn’t a cod or a crayfish.’

“The next part is where I am really proud of myself,” said Miss Marple, “because, of course, I don’t know anything about drugs—nasty, dangerous things I call them. I have got an old recipe of my grandmother’s for tansy tea that is worth any amount of your drugs. But I knew that there were several medical volumes in the house, and in one of them there was an index of drugs. You see, my idea was that Geoffrey had taken some particular poison, and was trying to say the name of it.

“Well, I looked down the list of H’s, beginning He. Nothing there that sounded likely; then I began on the P’s, and almost at once I came to—what do you think?”

She looked round, postponing her moment of triumph.

“Pilocarpine. Can’t you understand a man who could hardly speak trying to drag that word out? What would that sound like to a cook who had never heard the word? Wouldn’t it convey the impression ‘pile of carp?’”

“By Jove!” said Sir Henry.

“I should never have hit upon that,” said Dr. Pender.

“Most interesting,” said Mr. Petherick. “Really most interesting.”

“I turned quickly to the page indicated in the index. I read about pilocarpine and its effect on the eyes and other things that didn’t seem to have any bearing on the case, but at last I came to a most significant phrase: Has been tried with success as an antidote for atropine poisoning.

“I can’t tell you the light that dawned upon me then. I never had thought it likely that Geoffrey Denman would commit suicide. No, this new solution was not only possible, but I was absolutely sure it was the correct one, because all the pieces fitted in logically.”

“I am not going to try to guess,” said Raymond. “Go on, Aunt Jane, and tell us what was so startlingly clear to you.”

“I don’t know anything about medicine, of course,” said Miss Marple, “but I did happen to know this, that when my eyesight was failing, the doctor ordered me drops with atropine sulphate in them. I went straight upstairs to old Mr. Denman’s room. I didn’t beat about the bush.

“‘Mr. Denman,’ I said, ‘I know everything. Why did you poison your son?’

“He looked at me for a minute or two—rather a handsome old man he was, in his way—and then he burst out laughing. It was one of the most vicious laughs I have ever heard. I can assure you it made my flesh creep. I had only heard anything like it once before, when poor Mrs. Jones went off her head.

“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I got even with Geoffrey. I was too clever for Geoffrey. He was going to put me away, was he? Have me shut up in an asylum? I heard them talking about it. Mabel is a good girl—Mabel stuck up for me, but I knew she wouldn’t be able to stand up against Geoffrey. In the end he would have his own way; he always did. But I settled him—I settled my kind, loving son! Ha, ha! I crept down in the night. It was quite easy. Brewster was away. My dear son was asleep; he had a glass of water by the side of his bed; he always woke up in the middle of the night and drank it off. I poured it away—ha, ha!—and I emptied the bottle of eyedrops into the glass. He would wake up and swill it down before he knew what it was. There was only a tablespoonful of it—quite enough, quite enough. And so he did! They came to me in the morning and broke it to me very gently. They were afraid it would upset me. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’

“Well,” said Miss Marple, “that is the end of the story. Of course, the poor old man was put in an asylum. He wasn’t really responsible for what he had done, and the truth was known, and everyone was sorry for Mabel and could not do enough to make up to her for the unjust suspicions they had had. But if it hadn’t been for Geoffrey realizing what the stuff was he had swallowed and trying to get everybody to get hold of the antidote without delay, it might never have been found out. I believe there are very definite symptoms with atropine—dilated pupils of the eyes, and all that; but, of course, as I have said, Dr. Rawlinson was very shortsighted, poor old man. And in the same medical book which I went on reading—and some of it was most interesting—it gave the symptoms of ptomaine poisoning and atropine, and they are not unlike. But I can assure you I have never seen a pile of fresh haddock without thinking of the thumb mark of St. Peter.”

There was a very long pause.

“My dear friend,” said Mr. Petherick. “My very dear friend, you really are amazing.”

“I shall recommend Scotland Yard to come to you for advice,” said Sir Henry.

“Well, at all events, Aunt Jane,” said Raymond, “there is one thing that you don’t know.”

“Oh, yes, I do, dear,” said Miss Marple. “It happened just before dinner, didn’t it? When you took Joyce out to admire the sunset. It is a very favourite place, that. There by the jasmine hedge. That is where the milkman asked Annie if he could put up the banns.”

“Dash it all, Aunt Jane,” said Raymond, “don’t spoil all the romance. Joyce and I aren’t like the milkman and Annie.”

“That is where you make a mistake, dear,” said Miss Marple. “Everybody is very much alike, really. But fortunately, perhaps, they don’t realize it.”

Seven

THE BLUE GERANIUM

“When I was down here last year—” said Sir Henry Clithering, and stopped.

His hostess, Mrs. Bantry, looked at him curiously.

The Ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard was staying with old friends of his, Colonel and Mrs. Bantry, who lived near St. Mary Mead.

Mrs. Bantry, pen in hand, had just asked his advice as to who should be invited to make a sixth guest at dinner that evening.

“Yes?” said Mrs. Bantry encouragingly. “When you were here last year?”

“Tell me,” said Sir Henry, “do you know a Miss Marple?”

Mrs. Bantry was surprised. It was the last thing she had expected.

“Know Miss Marple? Who doesn’t! The typical old maid of fiction. Quite a dear, but hopelessly behind the times. Do you mean you would like me to ask her to dinner?”

“You are surprised?”

“A little, I must confess. I should hardly have thought you—but perhaps there’s an explanation?”

“The explanation is simple enough. When I was down here last year we got into the habit of discussing unsolved mysteries—there were five or six of us—Raymond West, the novelist, started it. We each supplied a story to which we knew the answer, but nobody else did. It was supposed to be an exercise in the deductive faculties—to see who could get nearest the truth.”

“Well?”

“Like in the old story—we hardly realized that Miss Marple was playing; but we were very polite about it—didn’t want to hurt the old dear’s feelings. And now comes the cream of the jest. The old lady outdid us every time!”

“What?”

“I assure you—straight to the truth like a homing pigeon.”

“But how extraordinary! Why, dear old Miss Marple has hardly ever been out of St. Mary Mead.”

“Ah! But according to her, that has given her unlimited opportunities of observing human nature—under the microscope as it were.”

“I suppose there’s something in that,” conceded Mrs. Bantry. “One would at least know the petty side of people. But I don’t think we have any really exciting criminals in our midst. I think we must try her with Arthur’s ghost story after dinner. I’d be thankful if she’d find a solution to that.”

“I didn’t know that Arthur believed in ghosts?”

“Oh! he doesn’t. That’s what worries him so. And it happened to a friend of his, George Pritchard—a most prosaic person. It’s really rather tragic for poor George. Either this extraordinary story is true—or else—”

“Or else what?”

Mrs. Bantry did not answer. After a minute or two she said irrelevantly:

“You know, I like George—everyone does. One can’t believe that he—but people do do such extraordinary things.”

Sir Henry nodded. He knew, better than Mrs. Bantry, the extraordinary things that people did.

So it came about that that evening Mrs. Bantry looked round her dinner table (shivering a little as she did so, because the dining room, like most English dining rooms, was extremely cold) and fixed her gaze on the very upright old lady sitting on her husband’s right. Miss Marple wore black lace mittens; an old lace fichu was draped round her shoulders and another piece of lace surmounted her white hair. She was talking animatedly to the elderly doctor, Dr. Lloyd, about the Workhouse and the suspected shortcomings of the District Nurse.

Mrs. Bantry marvelled anew. She even wondered whether Sir Henry had been making an elaborate joke—but there seemed no point in that. Incredible that what he had said could be really true.

Her glance went on and rested affectionately on her red-faced broad-shouldered husband as he sat talking horses to Jane Helier, the beautiful and popular actress. Jane, more beautiful (if that were possible) off the stage than on, opened enormous blue eyes and murmured at discreet intervals: “Really?” “Oh fancy!” “How extraordinary!” She knew nothing whatever about horses and cared less.

“Arthur,” said Mrs. Bantry, “you’re boring poor Jane to distraction. Leave horses alone and tell her your ghost story instead. You know . . . George Pritchard.”

“Eh, Dolly? Oh! but I don’t know—”

“Sir Henry wants to hear it too. I was telling him something about it this morning. It would be interesting to hear what everyone has to say about it.”

“Oh do!” said Jane. “I love ghost stories.”

“Well—” Colonel Bantry hesitated. “I’ve never believed much in the supernatural. But this—

“I don’t think any of you know George Pritchard. He’s one of the best. His wife—well, she’s dead now, poor woman. I’ll just say this much: she didn’t give George any too easy a time when she was alive. She was one of those semi-invalids—I believe she had really something wrong with her, but whatever it was she played it for all it was worth. She was capricious, exacting, unreasonable. She complained from morning to night. George was expected to wait on her hand and foot, and every thing he did was always wrong and he got cursed for it. Most men, I’m fully convinced, would have hit her over the head with a hatchet long ago. Eh, Dolly, isn’t that so?”

“She was a dreadful woman,” said Mrs. Bantry with conviction. “If George Pritchard had brained her with a hatchet, and there had been any woman on the jury, he would have been triumphantly acquitted.”

“I don’t quite know how this business started. George was rather vague about it. I gather Mrs. Pritchard had always had a weakness for fortune-tellers, palmists, clairvoyantes—anything of that sort. George didn’t mind. If she found amusement in it well and good. But he refused to go into rhapsodies himself, and that was another grievance.

“A succession of hospital nurses was always passing through the house, Mrs. Pritchard usually becoming dissatisfied with them after a few weeks. One young nurse had been very keen on this fortune-telling stunt, and for a time Mrs. Pritchard had been very fond of her. Then she suddenly fell out with her and insisted on her going. She had back another nurse who had been with her previously—an older woman, experienced and tactful in dealing with a neurotic patient. Nurse Copling, according to George, was a very good sort—a sensible woman to talk to. She put up with Mrs. Pritchard’s tantrums and nerve storms with complete indifference.

“Mrs. Pritchard always lunched upstairs, and it was usual at lunchtime for George and the nurse to come to some arrangement for the afternoon. Strictly speaking, the nurse went off from two to four, but ‘to oblige’ as the phrase goes, she would sometimes take her time off after tea if George wanted to be free for the afternoon. On this occasion, she mentioned that she was going to see a sister at Golders Green and might be a little late returning. George’s face fell, for he had arranged to play a round of golf. Nurse Copling, however, reassured him.

“‘We’ll neither of us be missed, Mr. Pritchard.’ A twinkle came into her eye. ‘Mrs. Pritchard’s going to have more exciting company than ours.’

“‘Who’s that?’

“‘Wait a minute,’ Nurse Copling’s eyes twinkled more than ever. ‘Let me get it right. Zarida, Psychic Reader of the Future.’

“‘Oh Lord!’ groaned George. ‘That’s a new one, isn’t it?’

“‘Quite new. I believe my predecessor, Nurse Carstairs, sent her along. Mrs. Pritchard hasn’t seen her yet. She made me write, fixing an appointment for this afternoon.’

“‘Well, at any rate, I shall get my golf,’ said George, and he went off with the kindliest feelings towards Zarida, the Reader of the Future.

“On his return to the house, he found Mrs. Pritchard in a state of great agitation. She was, as usual, lying on her invalid couch, and she had a bottle of smelling salts in her hand which she sniffed at frequent intervals.

“‘George,’ she exclaimed. ‘What did I tell you about this house? The moment I came into it, I felt there was something wrong! Didn’t I tell you so at the time?’

“Repressing his desire to reply, ‘You always do,’ George said, ‘No, I can’t say I remember it.’

“‘You never do remember anything that has to do with me. Men are all extraordinarily callous—but I really believe that you are even more insensitive than most.’

“‘Oh, come now, Mary dear, that’s not fair.’

“‘Well, as I was telling you, this woman knew at once! She—she actually blenched—if you know what I mean—as she came in at the door, and she said: ‘There is evil here—evil and danger. I feel it’”

“Very unwisely George laughed.

“‘Well, you have had your money’s worth this afternoon.’

“His wife closed her eyes and took a long sniff from her smelling bottle.

“‘How you hate me! You would jeer and laugh if I were dying.’

“George protested and after a minute or two she went on.

“‘You may laugh, but I shall tell you the whole thing. This house is definitely dangerous to me—the woman said so.’

“George’s formerly kind feeling towards Zarida underwent a change. He knew his wife was perfectly capable of insisting on moving to a new house if the caprice got hold of her.

“‘What else did she say?’ he asked.

“‘She couldn’t tell me very much. She was so upset. One thing she did say. I had some violets in a glass. She pointed at them and cried out:

“‘Take those away. No blue flowers—never have blue flowers. Blue flowers are fatal to you—remember that’”

“‘And you know,’ added Mrs. Pritchard, ‘I always have told you that blue as a colour is repellent to me. I feel a natural instinctive sort of warning against.’

“George was much too wise to remark that he had never heard her say so before. Instead he asked what the mysterious Zarida was like. Mrs. Pritchard entered with gusto upon a description.

“‘Black hair in coiled knobs over her ears—her eyes were half closed—great black rims round them—she had a black veil over her mouth and chin—and she spoke in a kind of singing voice with a marked foreign accent—Spanish, I think—’

“‘In fact all the usual stock-in-trade,’ said George cheerfully.

“His wife immediately closed her eyes.

“‘I feel extremely ill,’ she said. ‘Ring for nurse. Unkindness upsets me, as you know only too well.’

“It was two days later that Nurse Copling came to George with a grave face.

“‘Will you come to Mrs. Pritchard, please. She has had a letter which upsets her greatly.’

“He found his wife with the letter in her hand. She held it out to him.

“‘Read it,’ she said.

“George read it. It was on heavily scented paper, and the writing was big and black.

“I have seen the future. Be warned before it is too late. Beware of the Full Moon. The Blue Primrose means Warning; the Blue Hollyhock means Danger; the Blue Geranium means Death. . . .

“Just about to burst out laughing, George caught Nurse Copling’s eye. She made a quick warning gesture. He said rather awkwardly, ‘The woman’s probably trying to frighten you, Mary. Anyway there aren’t such things as blue primroses and blue geraniums.’

“But Mrs. Pritchard began to cry and say her days were numbered. Nurse Copling came out with George upon the landing.

“‘Of all the silly tomfoolery,’ he burst out.

“‘I suppose it is.’

“Something in the nurse’s tone struck him, and he stared at her in amazement.

“‘Surely, nurse, you don’t believe—’

“No, no, Mr. Pritchard. I don’t believe in reading the future—that’s nonsense. What puzzles me is the meaning of this. Fortunetellers are usually out for what they can get. But this woman seems to be frightening Mrs. Pritchard with no advantage to herself. I can’t see the point. There’s another thing—’

“‘Yes?’

“‘Mrs. Pritchard says that something about Zarida was faintly familiar to her.’

“‘Well?’

“‘Well, I don’t like it, Mr. Pritchard, that’s all.’

“‘I didn’t know you were so superstitious, nurse.’

“‘I’m not superstitious; but I know when a thing is fishy.’

“It was about four days after this that the first incident happened. To explain it to you, I shall have to describe Mrs. Pritchard’s room—”

“You’d better let me do that,” interrupted Mrs. Bantry. “It was papered with one of those new wallpapers where you apply clumps of flowers to make a kind of herbaceous border. The effect is almost like being in a garden—though, of course, the flowers are all wrong. I mean they simply couldn’t be in bloom all at the same time—”

“Don’t let a passion for horticultural accuracy run away with you, Dolly,” said her husband. “We all know you’re an enthusiastic gardener.”

“Well, it is absurd,” protested Mrs. Bantry. “To have bluebells and daffodils and lupins and hollyhocks and Michaelmas daisies all grouped together.”

“Most unscientific,” said Sir Henry. “But to proceed with the story.”

“Well, among these massed flowers were primroses, clumps of yellow and pink primroses and—oh go on, Arthur, this is your story—”

Colonel Bantry took up the tale.

“Mrs. Pritchard rang her bell violently one morning. The household came running—thought she was in extremis; not at all. She was violently excited and pointing at the wallpaper; and there sure enough was one blue primrose in the midst of the others. . . .”

“Oh!” said Miss Helier, “how creepy!”

“The question was: Hadn’t the blue primrose always been there? That was George’s suggestion and the nurse’s. But Mrs. Pritchard wouldn’t have it at any price. She had never noticed it till that very morning and the night before had been full moon. She was very upset about it.”

“I met George Pritchard that same day and he told me about it,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I went to see Mrs. Pritchard and did my best to ridicule the whole thing; but without success. I came away really concerned, and I remember I met Jean Instow and told her about it. Jean is a queer girl. She said, ‘So she’s really upset about it?’ I told her that I thought the woman was perfectly capable of dying of fright—she was really abnormally superstitious.

“I remember Jean rather startled me with what she said next. She said, ‘Well, that might be all for the best, mightn’t it?’ And she said it so coolly, in so matter-of-fact a tone that I was really—well, shocked. Of course I know it’s done nowadays—to be brutal and outspoken; but I never get used to it. Jean smiled at me rather oddly and said, ‘You don’t like my saying that—but it’s true. What use is Mrs. Pritchard’s life to her? None at all; and it’s hell for George Pritchard. To have his wife frightened out of existence would be the best thing that could happen to him.’ I said, ‘George is most awfully good to her always.’ And she said, ‘Yes, he deserves a reward, poor dear. He’s a very attractive person, George Pritchard. The last nurse thought so—the pretty one—what was her name? Carstairs. That was the cause of the row between her and Mrs. P.’

“Now I didn’t like hearing Jean say that. Of course one had wondered—”

Mrs. Bantry paused significantly.

“Yes, dear,” said Miss Marple placidly. “One always does. Is Miss Instow a pretty girl? I suppose she plays golf?”

“Yes. She’s good at all games. And she’s nice-looking, attractive-looking, very fair with a healthy skin, and nice steady blue eyes. Of course we always have felt that she and George Pritchard—I mean if things had been different—they are so well suited to one another.”

“And they were friends?” asked Miss Marple.

“Oh yes. Great friends.”

“Do you think, Dolly,” said Colonel Bantry plaintively, “that I might be allowed to go on with my story?”

“Arthur,” said Mrs. Bantry resignedly, “wants to get back to his ghosts.”

“I had the rest of the story from George himself,” went on the Colonel. “There’s no doubt that Mrs. Pritchard got the wind up badly towards the end of the next month. She marked off on a calendar the day when the moon would be full, and on that night she had both the nurse and then George into her room and made them study the wallpaper carefully. There were pink hollyhocks and red ones, but there were no blue amongst them. Then when George left the room she locked the door—”

“And in the morning there was a large blue hollyhock,” said Miss Helier joyfully.

“Quite right,” said Colonel Bantry. “Or at any rate, nearly right. One flower of a hollyhock just above her head had turned blue. It staggered George; and of course the more it staggered him the more he refused to take the thing seriously. He insisted that the whole thing was some kind of practical joke. He ignored the evidence of the locked door and the fact that Mrs. Pritchard discovered the change before anyone—even Nurse Copling—was admitted.

“It staggered George; and it made him unreasonable. His wife wanted to leave the house, and he wouldn’t let her. He was inclined to believe in the supernatural for the first time, but he wasn’t going to admit it. He usually gave in to his wife, but this time he wouldn’t. Mary was not to make a fool of herself, he said. The whole thing was the most infernal nonsense.

“And so the next month sped away. Mrs. Pritchard made less protest than one would have imagined. I think she was superstitious enough to believe that she couldn’t escape her fate. She repeated again and again: ‘The blue primrose—warning. The blue hollyhock—danger. The blue geranium—death.’ And she would lie looking at the clump of pinky-red geraniums nearest her bed.

“The whole business was pretty nervy. Even the nurse caught the infection. She came to George two days before full moon and begged him to take Mrs. Pritchard away. George was angry.

“‘If all the flowers on that damned wall turned into blue devils it couldn’t kill anyone!’ he shouted.

“‘It might. Shock has killed people before now.’

“‘Nonsense,’ said George.

“George has always been a shade pigheaded. You can’t drive him. I believe he had a secret idea that his wife worked the change herself and that it was all some morbid hysterical plan of hers.

“Well, the fatal night came. Mrs. Pritchard locked the door as usual. She was very calm—in almost an exalted state of mind. The nurse was worried by her state—wanted to give her a stimulant, an injection of strychnine, but Mrs. Pritchard refused. In a way, I believe, she was enjoying herself. George said she was.”

“I think that’s quite possible,” said Mrs. Bantry. “There must have been a strange sort of glamour about the whole thing.”

“There was no violent ringing of a bell the next morning. Mrs. Pritchard usually woke about eight. When, at eight thirty, there was no sign from her, nurse rapped loudly on the door. Getting no reply, she fetched George, and insisted on the door being broken open. They did so with the help of a chisel.

“One look at the still figure on the bed was enough for Nurse Copling. She sent George to telephone for the doctor, but it was too late. Mrs. Pritchard, he said, must have been dead at least eight hours. Her smelling salts lay by her hand on the bed, and on the wall beside her one of the pinky-red geraniums was a bright deep blue.”

“Horrible,” said Miss Helier with a shiver.

Sir Henry was frowning.

“No additional details?”

Colonel Bantry shook his head, but Mrs. Bantry spoke quickly.

“The gas.”

“What about the gas?” asked Sir Henry.

“When the doctor arrived there was a slight smell of gas, and sure enough he found the gas ring in the fireplace very slightly turned on; but so little it couldn’t have mattered.”

“Did Mr. Pritchard and the nurse not notice it when they first went in?”

“The nurse said she did notice a slight smell. George said he didn’t notice gas, but something made him feel very queer and overcome; but he put that down to shock—and probably it was. At any rate there was no question of gas poisoning. The smell was scarcely noticeable.”

“And that’s the end of the story?”

“No, it isn’t. One way and another, there was a lot of talk. The servants, you see, had overheard things—had heard, for instance, Mrs. Pritchard telling her husband that he hated her and would jeer if she were dying. And also more recent remarks. She had said one day, apropos of his refusing to leave the house: ‘Very well, when I am dead, I hope everyone will realize that you have killed me.’ And as ill luck would have it, he had been mixing some weed killer for the garden paths the day before. One of the younger servants had seen him and had afterwards seen him taking up a glass of hot milk for his wife.

“The talk spread and grew. The doctor had given a certificate—I don’t know exactly in what terms—shock, syncope, heart failure, probably some medical terms meaning nothing much. However the poor lady had not been a month in her grave before an exhumation order was applied for and granted.”

“And the result of the autopsy was nil, I remember,” said Sir Henry gravely. “A case, for once, of smoke without fire.”

“The whole thing is really very curious,” said Mrs. Bantry. “That fortune-teller, for instance—Zarida. At the address where she was supposed to be, no one had ever heard of any such person!”

“She appeared once—out of the blue,” said her husband, “and then utterly vanished. Out of the blue—that’s rather good!”

“And what is more,” continued Mrs. Bantry, “little Nurse Carstairs, who was supposed to have recommended her, had never even heard of her.”

They looked at each other.

“It’s a mysterious story,” said Dr. Lloyd. “One can make guesses; but to guess—”

He shook his head.

“Has Mr. Pritchard married Miss Instow?” asked Miss Marple in her gentle voice.

“Now why do you ask that?” inquired Sir Henry.

Miss Marple opened gentle blue eyes.

“It seems to me so important,” she said. “Have they married?”

Colonel Bantry shook his head.

“We—well, we expected something of the kind—but it’s eighteen months now. I don’t believe they even see much of each other.”

“That is important,” said Miss Marple. “Very important.”

“Then you think the same as I do,” said Mrs. Bantry. “You think—”

“Now, Dolly,” said her husband. “It’s unjustifiable—what you’re going to say. You can’t go about accusing people without a shadow of proof.”

“Don’t be so—so manly, Arthur. Men are always afraid to say anything. Anyway, this is all between ourselves. It’s just a wild fantastic idea of mine that possibly—only possibly—Jean Instow disguised herself as a fortune-teller. Mind you, she may have done it for a joke. I don’t for a minute think that she meant any harm; but if she did do it, and if Mrs. Pritchard was foolish enough to die of fright—well, that’s what Miss Marple meant, wasn’t it?”

“No, dear, not quite,” said Miss Marple. “You see, if I were going to kill anyone—which, of course, I wouldn’t dream of doing for a minute, because it would be very wicked, and besides I don’t like killing—not even wasps, though I know it has to be, and I’m sure the gardener does it as humanely as possible. Let me see, what was I saying?”

“If you wished to kill anyone,” prompted Sir Henry.

“Oh yes. Well, if I did, I shouldn’t be at all satisfied to trust to fright. I know one reads of people dying of it, but it seems a very uncertain sort of thing, and the most nervous people are far more brave than one really thinks they are. I should like something definite and certain, and make a thoroughly good plan about it.”

“Miss Marple,” said Sir Henry, “you frighten me. I hope you will never wish to remove me. Your plans would be too good.”

Miss Marple looked at him reproachfully.

“I thought I had made it clear that I would never contemplate such wickedness,” she said. “No, I was trying to put myself in the place of—er—a certain person.”

“Do you mean George Pritchard?” asked Colonel Bantry. “I’ll never believe it of George—though—mind you, even the nurse believes it. I went and saw her about a month afterwards, at the time of the exhumation. She didn’t know how it was done—in fact, she wouldn’t say anything at all—but it was clear enough that she believed George to be in some way responsible for his wife’s death. She was convinced of it.”

“Well,” said Dr. Lloyd, “perhaps she wasn’t so far wrong. And mind you, a nurse often knows. She can’t say—she’s got no proof—but she knows.”

Sir Henry leant forward.

“Come now, Miss Marple,” he said persuasively. “You’re lost in a daydream. Won’t you tell us all about it?”

Miss Marple started and turned pink.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I was just thinking about our District Nurse. A most difficult problem.”

“More difficult than the problem of the blue geranium?”

“It really depends on the primroses,” said Miss Marple. “I mean, Mrs. Bantry said they were yellow and pink. If it was a pink primrose that turned blue, of course, that fits in perfectly. But if it happened to be a yellow one—”

“It was a pink one,” said Mrs. Bantry.

She stared. They all stared at Miss Marple.

“Then that seems to settle it,” said Miss Marple. She shook her head regretfully. “And the wasp season and everything. And of course the gas.”

“It reminds you, I suppose, of countless village tragedies?” said Sir Henry.

“Not tragedies,” said Miss Marple. ‘And certainly nothing criminal. But it does remind me a little of the trouble we are having with the District Nurse. After all, nurses are human beings, and what with having to be so correct in their behaviour and wearing those uncomfortable collars and being so thrown with the family—well, can you wonder that things sometimes happen?”

A glimmer of light broke upon Sir Henry.

“You mean Nurse Carstairs?”

“Oh no. Not Nurse Carstairs. Nurse Copling. You see, she had been there before, and very much thrown with Mr. Pritchard, who you say is an attractive man. I dare say she thought, poor thing—well, we needn’t go into that. I don’t suppose she knew about Miss Instow, and of course afterwards, when she found out, it turned her against him and she tried to do all the harm she could. Of course the letter really gave her away, didn’t it?”

“What letter?”

“Well, she wrote to the fortune-teller at Mrs. Pritchard’s request, and the fortune-teller came, apparently in answer to the letter. But later it was discovered that there never had been such a person at that address. So that shows that Nurse Copling was in it. She only pretended to write—so what could be more likely than that she was the fortune-teller herself?”

“I never saw the point about the letter,” said Sir Henry. “That’s a most important point, of course.”

“Rather a bold step to take,” said Miss Marple, “because Mrs. Pritchard might have recognized her in spite of the disguise—though of course if she had, the nurse could have pretended it was a joke.”

“What did you mean,” said Sir Henry, “when you said that if you were a certain person you would not have trusted to fright?”

“One couldn’t be sure that way,” said Miss Marple. “No, I think that the warnings and the blue flowers were, if I may use a military term,” she laughed self-consciously—“just camouflage.”

“And the real thing?”

“I know,” said Miss Marple apologetically, “that I’ve got wasps on the brain. Poor things, destroyed in their thousands—and usually on such a beautiful summer’s day. But I remember thinking, when I saw the gardener shaking up the cyanide of potassium in a bottle with water, how like smelling salts it looked. And if it were put in a smelling salt bottle and substituted for the real one—well, the poor lady was in the habit of using her smelling salts. Indeed you said they were found by her hand. Then, of course, while Mr. Pritchard went to telephone to the doctor, the nurse would change it for the real bottle, and she’d just turn on the gas a little bit to mask any smell of almonds and in case anyone felt queer, and I always have heard that cyanide leaves no trace if you wait long enough. But, of course I may be wrong, and it may have been something entirely different in the bottle; but that doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Miss Marple paused, a little out of breath.

Jane Helier leant forward and said, “But the blue geranium, and the other flowers?”

“Nurses always have litmus paper, don’t they?” said Miss Marple, “for—well, for testing. Not a very pleasant subject. We won’t dwell on it. I have done a little nursing myself.” She grew delicately pink. “Blue turns red with acids, and red turns blue with alkalis. So easy to paste some red litmus over a red flower—near the bed, of course. And then, when the poor lady used her smelling salts, the strong ammonia fumes would turn it blue. Really most ingenious. Of course, the geranium wasn’t blue when they first broke into the room—nobody noticed it till afterwards. When nurse changed the bottles, she held the Sal Ammoniac against the wallpaper for a minute, I expect.”

“You might have been there, Miss Marple,” said Sir Henry.

“What worries me,” said Miss Marple, “is poor Mr. Pritchard and that nice girl, Miss Instow. Probably both suspecting each other and keeping apart—and life so very short.”

She shook her head.

“You needn’t worry,” said Sir Henry. “As a matter of fact I have something up my sleeve. A nurse has been arrested on a charge of murdering an elderly patient who had left her a legacy. It was done with cyanide of potassium substituted for smelling salts. Nurse Copling trying the same trick again. Miss Instow and Mr. Pritchard need have no doubts as to the truth.”

“Now isn’t that nice?” cried Miss Marple. “I don’t mean about the new murder, of course. That’s very sad, and shows how much wickedness there is in the world, and that if once you give way—which reminds me I must finish my little conversation with Dr. Lloyd about the village nurse.”

Eight

THE COMPANION

“Now, Dr. Lloyd,” said Miss Helier. “Don’t you know any creepy stories?”

She smiled at him—the smile that nightly bewitched the theatre-going public. Jane Helier was sometimes called the most beautiful woman in England, and jealous members of her own profession were in the habit of saying to each other: “Of course Jane’s not an artist. She can’t act—if you know what I mean. It’s those eyes!”

And those “eyes” were at this minute fixed appealingly on the grizzled elderly bachelor doctor who, for the last five years, had ministered to the ailments of the village of St. Mary Mead.

With an unconscious gesture, the doctor pulled down his waistcoat (inclined of late to be uncomfortably tight) and racked his brains hastily, so as not to disappoint the lovely creature who addressed him so confidently.

“I feel,” said Jane dreamily, “that I would like to wallow in crime this evening.”

“Splendid,” said Colonel Bantry, her host. “Splendid, splendid.” And he laughed a loud hearty military laugh. “Eh, Dolly?”

His wife, hastily recalled to the exigencies of social life (she had been planning her spring border) agreed enthusiastically.

“Of course it’s splendid,” she said heartily but vaguely. “I always thought so.”

“Did you, my dear?” said old Miss Marple, and her eyes twinkled a little.

“We don’t get much in the creepy line—and still less in the criminal line—in St. Mary Mead, you know, Miss Helier,” said Dr. Lloyd.

“You surprise me,” said Sir Henry Clithering. The ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard turned to Miss Marple. “I always understood from our friend here that St. Mary Mead is a positive hotbed of crime and vice.”

“Oh, Sir Henry!” protested Miss Marple, a spot of colour coming into her cheeks. “I’m sure I never said anything of the kind. The only thing I ever said was that human nature is much the same in a village as anywhere else, only one has opportunities and leisure for seeing it at closer quarters.”

“But you haven’t always lived here,” said Jane Helier, still addressing the doctor. “You’ve been in all sorts of queer places all over the world—places where things happen!”

“That is so, of course,” said Dr. Lloyd, still thinking desperately. “Yes, of course . . . Yes. . . Ah! I have it!”

He sank back with a sigh of relief.

“It is some years ago now—I had almost forgotten. But the facts were really very strange—very strange indeed. And the final coincidence which put the clue into my hand was strange also.”

Miss Helier drew her chair a little nearer to him, applied some lipstick and waited expectantly. The others also turned interested faces towards him.

“I don’t know whether any of you know the Canary Islands,” began the doctor.

“They must be wonderful,” said Jane Helier. “They’re in the South Seas, aren’t they? Or is it the Mediterranean?”

“I’ve called in there on my way to South Africa,” said the Colonel. “The Peak of Tenerife is a fine sight with the setting sun on it.”

“The incident I am describing happened in the island of Grand Canary, not Tenerife. It is a good many years ago now. I had had a breakdown in health and was forced to give up my practice in England and go abroad. I practised in Las Palmas, which is the principal town of Grand Canary. In many ways I enjoyed the life out there very much. The climate was mild and sunny, there was excellent surf bathing (and I am an enthusiastic bather) and the sea life of the port attracted me. Ships from all over the world put in at Las Palmas. I used to walk along the mole every morning far more interested than any member of the fair sex could be in a street of hat shops.

“As I say, ships from all over the world put in at Las Palmas. Sometimes they stay a few hours, sometimes a day or two. In the principal hotel there, the Metropole, you will see people of all races and nationalities—birds of passage. Even the people going to Tenerife usually come here and stay a few days before crossing to the other island.

“My story begins there, in the Metropole Hotel, one Thursday evening in January. There was a dance going on and I and a friend had been sitting at a small table watching the scene. There were a fair sprinkling of English and other nationalities, but the majority of the dancers were Spanish; and when the orchestra struck up a tango, only half a dozen couples of the latter nationality took the floor. They all danced well and we looked on and admired. One woman in particular excited our lively admiration. Tall, beautiful and sinuous, she moved with the grace of a half-tamed leopardess. There was something dangerous about her. I said as much to my friend and he agreed.

“‘Women like that,’ he said, ‘are bound to have a history. Life will not pass them by.’

“‘Beauty is perhaps a dangerous possession,’ I said.

“‘It’s not only beauty,’ he insisted. ‘There is something else. Look at her again. Things are bound to happen to that woman, or because of her. As I said, life will not pass her by. Strange and exciting events will surround her. You’ve only got to look at her to know it.’

“He paused and then added with a smile:

“‘Just as you’ve only got to look at those two women over there, and know that nothing out of the way could ever happen to either of them! They are made for a safe and uneventful existence.’

“I followed his eyes. The two women he referred to were travellers who had just arrived—a Holland Lloyd boat had put into port that evening, and the passengers were just beginning to arrive.

“As I looked at them I saw at once what my friend meant. They were two English ladies—the thoroughly nice travelling English that you do find abroad. Their ages, I should say, were round about forty. One was fair and a little—just a little—too plump; the other was dark and a little—again just a little—inclined to scragginess. They were what is called well-preserved, quietly and inconspicuously dressed in well-cut tweeds, and innocent of any kind of makeup. They had that air of quiet assurance which is the birthright of well-bred Englishwomen. There was nothing remarkable about either of them. They were like thousands of their sisters. They would doubtless see what they wished to see, assisted by Baedeker, and be blind to everything else. They would use the English library and attend the English Church in any place they happened to be, and it was quite likely that one or both of them sketched a little. And as my friend said, nothing exciting or remarkable would ever happen to either of them, though they might quite likely travel half over the world. I looked from them back to our sinuous Spanish woman with her half-closed smouldering eyes and I smiled.”

“Poor things,” said Jane Helier with a sigh. “But I do think it’s so silly of people not to make the most of themselves. That woman in Bond Street—Valentine—is really wonderful. Audrey Denman goes to her; and have you seen her in ‘The Downward Step’? As the schoolgirl in the first act she’s really marvellous. And yet Audrey is fifty if she’s a day. As a matter of fact I happen to know she’s really nearer sixty.”

“Go on,” said Mrs. Bantry to Dr. Lloyd. “I love stories about sinuous Spanish dancers. It makes me forget how old and fat I am.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Lloyd apologetically. “But you see, as a matter of fact, this story isn’t about the Spanish woman.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. As it happens my friend and I were wrong. Nothing in the least exciting happened to the Spanish beauty. She married a clerk in a shipping office, and by the time I left the island she had had five children and was getting very fat.”

“Just like that girl of Israel Peters,” commented Miss Marple. “The one who went on the stage and had such good legs that they made her principal boy in the pantomime. Everyone said she’d come to no good, but she married a commercial traveller and settled down splendidly.”

“The village parallel,” murmured Sir Henry softly.

“No,” went on the doctor. “My story is about the two English ladies.”

“Something happened to them?” breathed Miss Helier.

“Something happened to them—and the very next day, too.”

“Yes?” said Mrs. Bantry encouragingly.

“Just for curiosity, as I went out that evening I glanced at the hotel register. I found the names easily enough. Miss Mary Barton and Miss Amy Durrant of Little Paddocks, Caughton Weir, Bucks. I little thought then how soon I was to encounter the owners of those names again—and under what tragic circumstances.

“The following day I had arranged to go for a picnic with some friends. We were to motor across the island, taking our lunch, to a place called (as far as I remember—it is so long ago) Las Nieves, a well-sheltered bay where we could bathe if we felt inclined. This programme we duly carried out, except that we were somewhat late in starting, so that we stopped on the way and picnicked, going on to Las Nieves afterwards for a bathe before tea.

“As we approached the beach, we were at once aware of a tremendous commotion. The whole population of the small village seemed to be gathered on the shore. As soon as they saw us they rushed towards the car and began explaining excitedly. Our Spanish not being very good, it took me a few minutes to understand, but at last I got it.

“Two of the mad English ladies had gone in to bathe, and one had swum out too far and got into difficulties. The other had gone after her and had tried to bring her in, but her strength in turn had failed and she too would have drowned had not a man rowed out in a boat and brought in rescuer and rescued—the latter beyond help.

“As soon as I got the hang of things I pushed the crowd aside and hurried down the beach. I did not at first recognize the two women. The plump figure in the black stockinet costume and the tight green rubber bathing cap awoke no chord of recognition as she looked up anxiously. She was kneeling beside the body of her friend, making somewhat amateurish attempts at artificial respiration. When I told her that I was a doctor she gave a sigh of relief, and I ordered her off at once to one of the cottages for a rub down and dry clothing. One of the ladies in my party went with her. I myself worked unavailingly on the body of the drowned woman in vain. Life was only too clearly extinct, and in the end I had reluctantly to give in.

“I rejoined the others in the small fisherman’s cottage and there I had to break the sad news. The survivor was attired now in her own clothes, and I immediately recognized her as one of the two arrivals of the night before. She received the sad news fairly calmly, and it was evidently the horror of the whole thing that struck her more than any great personal feeling.

“‘Poor Amy,’ she said. ‘Poor, poor Amy. She had been looking forward to the bathing here so much. And she was a good swimmer too. I can’t understand it. What do you think it can have been, doctor?’

“‘Possibly cramp. Will you tell me exactly what happened?’

“‘We had both been swimming about for some time—twenty minutes, I should say. Then I thought I would go in, but Amy said she was going to swim out once more. She did so, and suddenly I heard her call and realized she was crying for help. I swam out as fast as I could. She was still afloat when I got to her, but she clutched at me wildly and we both went under. If it hadn’t been for that man coming out with his boat I should have been drowned too.’

“‘That has happened fairly often,’ I said. ‘To save anyone from drowning is not an easy affair.’

“‘It seems so awful,’ continued Miss Barton. ‘We only arrived yesterday, and were so delighting in the sunshine and our little holiday. And now this—this terrible tragedy occurs.’

“I asked her then for particulars about the dead woman, explaining that I would do everything I could for her, but that the Spanish authorities would require full information. This she gave me readily enough.

“The dead woman, Miss Amy Durrant, was her companion and had come to her about five months previously. They had got on very well together, but Miss Durrant had spoken very little about her people. She had been left an orphan at an early age and had been brought up by an uncle and had earned her own living since she was twenty-one.

“And so that was that,” went on the doctor. He paused and said again, but this time with a certain finality in his voice, “And so that was that.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jane Helier. “Is that all? I mean, it’s very tragic, I suppose, but it isn’t—well, it isn’t what I call creepy.”

“I think there’s more to follow,” said Sir Henry.

“Yes,” said Dr. Lloyd, “there’s more to follow. You see, right at the time there was one queer thing. Of course I asked questions of the fishermen, etc., as to what they’d seen. They were eyewitnesses. And one woman had rather a funny story. I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time, but it came back to me afterwards. She insisted, you see, that Miss Durrant wasn’t in difficulties when she called out. The other swam out to her and, according to this woman, deliberately held Miss Durrant’s head under water. I didn’t, as I say, pay much attention. It was such a fantastic story, and these things look so differently from the shore. Miss Barton might have tried to make her friend lose consciousness, realizing that the latter’s panic-stricken clutching would drown them both. You see, according to the Spanish woman’s story, it looked as though—well, as though Miss Barton was deliberately trying to drown her companion.

“As I say, I paid very little attention to this story at the time. It came back to me later. Our great difficulty was to find out anything about this woman, Amy Durrant. She didn’t seem to have any relations. Miss Barton and I went through her things together. We found one address and wrote there, but it proved to be simply a room she had taken in which to keep her things. The landlady knew nothing, had only seen her when she took the room. Miss Durrant had remarked at the time that she always liked to have one place she could call her own to which she could return at any moment. There were one or two nice pieces of old furniture and some bound numbers of Academy pictures, and a trunk full of pieces of material bought at sales, but no personal belongings. She had mentioned to the landlady that her father and mother had died in India when she was a child and that she had been brought up by an uncle who was a clergyman, but she did not say if he was her father’s or her mother’s brother, so the name was no guide.

“It wasn’t exactly mysterious, it was just unsatisfactory. There must be many lonely women, proud and reticent, in just that position. There were a couple of photographs amongst her belongings in Las Palmas—rather old and faded and they had been cut to fit the frames they were in, so that there was no photographer’s name upon them, and there was an old daguerreotype which might have been her mother or more probably her grandmother.

“Miss Barton had had two references with her. One she had forgotten, the other name she recollected after an effort. It proved to be that of a lady who was now abroad, having gone to Australia. She was written to. Her answer, of course, was a long time in coming, and I may say that when it did arrive there was no particular help to be gained from it. She said Miss Durrant had been with her as companion and had been most efficient and that she was a very charming woman, but that she knew nothing of her private affairs or relations.

“So there it was—as I say, nothing unusual, really. It was just the two things together that aroused my uneasiness. This Amy Durrant of whom no one knew anything, and the Spanish woman’s queer story. Yes, and I’ll add a third thing: When I was first bending over the body and Miss Barton was walking away towards the huts, she looked back. Looked back with an expression on her face that I can only describe as one of poignant anxiety—a kind of anguished uncertainty that imprinted itself on my brain.

“It didn’t strike me as anything unusual at the time. I put it down to her terrible distress over her friend. But, you see, later I realized that they weren’t on those terms. There was no devoted attachment between them, no terrible grief. Miss Barton was fond of Amy Durrant and shocked by her death—that was all.

“But, then, why that terrible poignant anxiety? That was the question that kept coming back to me. I had not been mistaken in that look. And almost against my will, an answer began to shape itself in my mind. Supposing the Spanish woman’s story were true; supposing that Mary Barton wilfully and in coldblood tried to drown Amy Durrant. She succeeds in holding her under water whilst pretending to be saving her. She is rescued by a boat. They are on a lonely beach far from anywhere. And then I appear—the last thing she expects. A doctor! And an English doctor! She knows well enough that people who have been under water far longer than Amy Durrant have been revived by artificial respiration. But she has to play her part—to go off leaving me alone with her victim. And as she turns for one last look, a terrible poignant anxiety shows in her face. Will Amy Durrant come back to life and tell what she knows?”

“Oh!” said Jane Helier. “I’m thrilled now.”

“Viewed in that aspect the whole business seemed more sinister, and the personality of Amy Durrant became more mysterious. Who was Amy Durrant? Why should she, an insignificant paid companion, be murdered by her employer? What story lay behind that fatal bathing expedition? She had entered Mary Barton’s employment only a few months before. Mary Barton had brought her abroad, and the very day after they landed the tragedy had occurred. And they were both nice, commonplace, refined Englishwomen! The whole thing was fantastic, and I told myself so. I had been letting my imagination run away with me.”

“You didn’t do anything, then?” asked Miss Helier.

“My dear young lady, what could I do? There was no evidence. The majority of the eyewitnesses told the same story as Miss Barton. I had built up my own suspicions out of a fleeting expression which I might possibly have imagined. The only thing I could and did do was to see that the widest inquiries were made for the relations of Amy Durrant. The next time I was in England I even went and saw the landlady of her room, with the results I have told you.”

“But you felt there was something wrong,” said Miss Marple.

Dr. Lloyd nodded.

“Half the time I was ashamed of myself for thinking so. Who was I to go suspecting this nice, pleasant-mannered English lady of a foul and cold-blooded crime? I did my best to be as cordial as possible to her during the short time she stayed on the island. I helped her with the Spanish authorities. I did everything I could do as an Englishman to help a compatriot in a foreign country; and yet I am convinced that she knew I suspected and disliked her.”

“How long did she stay out there?” asked Miss Marple.

“I think it was about a fortnight. Miss Durrant was buried there, and it must have been about ten days later when she took a boat back to England. The shock had upset her so much that she felt she couldn’t spend the winter there as she had planned. That’s what she said.”

“Did it seem to have upset her?” asked Miss Marple.

The doctor hesitated.

“Well, I don’t know that it affected her appearance at all,” he said cautiously.

“She didn’t, for instance, grow fatter?” asked Miss Marple.

“Do you know—it’s a curious thing your saying that. Now I come to think back, I believe you’re right. She—yes, she did seem, if anything, to be putting on weight.”

“How horrible,” said Jane Helier with a shudder. “It’s like—it’s like fattening on your victim’s blood.”

“And yet, in another way, I may be doing her an injustice,” went on Dr. Lloyd. “She certainly said something before she left, which pointed in an entirely different direction. There may be, I think there are, consciences which work very slowly—which take some time to awaken to the enormity of the deed committed.

“It was the evening before her departure from the Canaries. She had asked me to go and see her, and had thanked me very warmly for all I had done to help her. I, of course, made light of the matter, said I had only done what was natural under the circumstances, and so on. There was a pause after that, and then she suddenly asked me a question.

“‘Do you think,’ she asked, ‘that one is ever justified in taking the law into one’s own hands?’

“I replied that that was rather a difficult question, but that on the whole, I thought not. The law was the law, and we had to abide by it.

“‘Even when it is powerless?’

“‘I don’t quite understand.’

“‘It’s difficult to explain; but one might do something that is considered definitely wrong—that is considered a crime, even, for a good and sufficient reason.’

“I replied drily that possibly several criminals had thought that in their time, and she shrank back.

“‘But that’s horrible,’ she murmured. ‘Horrible.’

“And then with a change of tone she asked me to give her something to make her sleep. She had not been able to sleep properly since—she hesitated—since that terrible shock.

“‘You’re sure it is that? There is nothing worrying you? Nothing on your mind?’

“‘On my mind? What should be on my mind?’

“She spoke fiercely and suspiciously.

“‘Worry is a cause of sleeplessness sometimes,’ I said lightly.

“She seemed to brood for a moment.

“‘Do you mean worrying over the future, or worrying over the past, which can’t be altered?’

“‘Either.’

“‘Only it wouldn’t be any good worrying over the past. You couldn’t bring back—Oh! what’s the use! One mustn’t think. One must not think.’

“I prescribed her a mild sleeping draught and made my adieu. As I went away I wondered not a little over the words she had spoken. ‘You couldn’t bring back—’ What? Or who?

“I think that last interview prepared me in a way for what was to come. I didn’t expect it, of course, but when it happened, I wasn’t surprised. Because, you see, Mary Barton struck me all along as a conscientious woman—not a weak sinner, but a woman with convictions, who would act up to them, and who would not relent as long as she still believed in them. I fancied that in the last conversation we had she was beginning to doubt her own convictions. I know her words suggested to me that she was feeling the first faint beginnings of that terrible soul-searcher—remorse.

“The thing happened in Cornwall, in a small watering-place, rather deserted at that season of the year. It must have been—let me see—late March. I read about it in the papers. A lady had been staying at a small hotel there—a Miss Barton. She had been very odd and peculiar in her manner. That had been noticed by all. At night she would walk up and down her room, muttering to herself, and not allowing the people on either side of her to sleep. She had called on the vicar one day and had told him that she had a communication of the gravest importance to make to him. She had, she said, committed a crime. Then, instead of proceeding, she had stood up abruptly and said she would call another day. The vicar put her down as being slightly mental, and did not take her self-accusation seriously.

“The very next morning she was found to be missing from her room. A note was left addressed to the coroner. It ran as follows:

“I tried to speak to the vicar yesterday, to confess all, but was not allowed. She would not let me. I can make amends only one way—a life for a life; and my life must go the same way as hers did. I, too, must drown in the deep sea. I believed I was justified. I see now that that was not so. If I desire Amy’s forgiveness I must go to her. Let no one be blamed for my death—Mary Barton.

“Her clothes were found lying on the beach in a secluded cove nearby, and it seemed clear that she had undressed there and swum resolutely out to sea where the current was known to be dangerous, sweeping one down the coast.

“The body was not recovered, but after a time leave was given to presume death. She was a rich woman, her estate being proved at a hundred thousand pounds. Since she died intestate it all went to her next of kin—a family of cousins in Australia. The papers made discreet references to the tragedy in the Canary Islands, putting forward the theory that the death of Miss Durrant had unhinged her friend’s brain. At the inquest the usual verdict of Suicide whilst temporarily insane was returned.

“And so the curtain falls on the tragedy of Amy Durrant and Mary Barton.”

There was a long pause and then Jane Helier gave a great gasp.

“Oh, but you mustn’t stop there—just at the most interesting part. Go on.”

“But you see, Miss Helier, this isn’t a serial story. This is real life; and real life stops just where it chooses.”

“But I don’t want it to,” said Jane. “I want to know.”

“This is where we use our brains, Miss Helier,” explained Sir Henry. “Why did Mary Barton kill her companion? That’s the problem Dr. Lloyd has set us.”

“Oh, well,” said Miss Helier, “she might have killed her for lots of reasons. I mean—oh, I don’t know. She might have got on her nerves, or else she got jealous, although Dr. Lloyd doesn’t mention any men, but still on the boat out—well, you know what everyone says about boats and sea voyages.”

Miss Helier paused, slightly out of breath, and it was borne in upon her audience that the outside of Jane’s charming head was distinctly superior to the inside.

“I would like to have a lot of guesses,” said Mrs. Bantry. “But I suppose I must confine myself to one. Well, I think that Miss Barton’s father made all his money out of ruining Amy Durrant’s father, so Amy determined to have her revenge. Oh, no, that’s the wrong way round. How tiresome! Why does the rich employer kill the humble companion? I’ve got it. Miss Barton had a young brother who shot himself for love of Amy Durrant. Miss Barton waits her time. Amy comes down in the world. Miss B. engages her as companion and takes her to the Canaries and accomplishes her revenge. How’s that?”

“Excellent,” said Sir Henry. “Only we don’t know that Miss Barton ever had a young brother.”

“We deduce that,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Unless she had a young brother there’s no motive. So she must have had a young brother. Do you see, Watson?”

“That’s all very fine, Dolly,” said her husband. “But it’s only a guess.”

“Of course it is,” said Mrs. Bantry. “That’s all we can do—guess. We haven’t got any clues. Go on, dear, have a guess yourself.”

“Upon my word, I don’t know what to say. But I think there’s something in Miss Helier’s suggestion that they fell out about a man. Look here, Dolly, it was probably some high church parson. They both embroidered him a cope or something, and he wore the Durrant woman’s first. Depend upon it, it was something like that. Look how she went off to a parson at the end. These women all lose their heads over a good-looking clergyman. You hear of it over and over again.”

“I think I must try to make my explanation a little more subtle,” said Sir Henry, “though I admit it’s only a guess. I suggest that Miss Barton was always mentally unhinged. There are more cases like that than you would imagine. Her mania grew stronger and she began to believe it her duty to rid the world of certain persons—possibly what is termed unfortunate females. Nothing much is known about Miss Durrant’s past. So very possibly she had a past—an ‘unfortunate’ one. Miss Barton learns of this and decides on extermination. Later, the righteousness of her act begins to trouble her and she is overcome by remorse. Her end shows her to be completely unhinged. Now, do say you agree with me, Miss Marple.”

“I’m afraid I don’t, Sir Henry,” said Miss Marple, smiling apologetically. “I think her end shows her to have been a very clever and resourceful woman.”

Jane Helier interrupted with a little scream.

“Oh! I’ve been so stupid. May I guess again? Of course it must have been that. Blackmail! The companion woman was blackmailing her. Only I don’t see why Miss Marple says it was clever of her to kill herself. I can’t see that at all.”

“Ah!” said Sir Henry. “You see, Miss Marple knew a case just like it in St. Mary Mead.”

“You always laugh at me, Sir Henry,” said Miss Marple reproachfully. “I must confess it does remind me, just a little, of old Mrs. Trout. She drew the old age pension, you know, for three old women who were dead, in different parishes.”

“It sounds a most complicated and resourceful crime,” said Sir Henry. “But it doesn’t seem to me to throw any light upon our present problem.”

“Of course not,” said Miss Marple. “It wouldn’t—to you. But some of the families were very poor, and the old age pension was a great boon to the children. I know it’s difficult for anyone outside to understand. But what I really meant was that the whole thing hinged upon one old woman being so like any other old woman.”

“Eh?” said Sir Henry, mystified.

“I always explain things so badly. What I mean is that when Dr. Lloyd described the two ladies first, he didn’t know which was which, and I don’t suppose anyone else in the hotel did. They would have, of course, after a day or so, but the very next day one of the two was drowned, and if the one who was left said she was Miss Barton, I don’t suppose it would ever occur to anyone that she mightn’t be.”

“You think—Oh! I see,” said Sir Henry slowly.

“It’s the only natural way of thinking of it. Dear Mrs. Bantry began that way just now. Why should the rich employer kill the humble companion? It’s so much more likely to be the other way about. I mean—that’s the way things happen.”

“Is it?” said Sir Henry. “You shock me.”

“But of course,” went on Miss Marple, “she would have to wear Miss Barton’s clothes, and they would probably be a little tight on her, so that her general appearance would look as though she had got a little fatter. That’s why I asked that question. A gentleman would be sure to think it was the lady who had got fatter, and not the clothes that had got smaller—though that isn’t quite the right way of putting it.”

“But if Amy Durrant killed Miss Barton, what did she gain by it?” asked Mrs. Bantry. “She couldn’t keep up the deception for ever.”

“She only kept it up for another month or so,” pointed out Miss Marple. “And during that time I expect she travelled, keeping away from anyone who might know her. That’s what I meant by saying that one lady of a certain age looks so like another. I don’t suppose the different photograph on her passport was ever noticed—you know what passports are. And then in March, she went down to this Cornish place and began to act queerly and draw attention to herself so that when people found her clothes on the beach and read her last letter they shouldn’t think of the commonsense conclusion.”

“Which was?” asked Sir Henry.

“No body,” said Miss Marple firmly. “That’s the thing that would stare you in the face, if there weren’t such a lot of red herrings to draw you off the trail—including the suggestion of foul play and remorse. No body. That was the real significant fact.”

“Do you mean—” said Mrs. Bantry—“do you mean that there wasn’t any remorse? That there wasn’t—that she didn’t drown herself?”

“Not she!” said Miss Marple. “It’s just Mrs. Trout over again. Mrs. Trout was very good at red herrings, but she met her match in me. And I can see through your remorse-driven Miss Barton. Drown herself? Went off to Australia, if I’m any good at guessing.”

“You are, Miss Marple,” said Dr. Lloyd. “Undoubtedly you are. Now it again took me quite by surprise. Why, you could have knocked me down with a feather that day in Melbourne.”

“Was that what you spoke of as a final coincidence?”

Dr. Lloyd nodded.

“Yes, it was rather rough luck on Miss Barton—or Miss Amy Durrant—whatever you like to call her. I became a ship’s doctor for a while, and landing in Melbourne, the first person I saw as I walked down the street was the lady I thought had been drowned in Cornwall. She saw the game was up as far as I was concerned, and she did the bold thing—took me into her confidence. A curious woman, completely lacking, I suppose, in some moral sense. She was the eldest of a family of nine, all wretchedly poor. They had applied once for help to their rich cousin in England and been repulsed, Miss Barton having quarrelled with their father. Money was wanted desperately, for the three youngest children were delicate and wanted expensive medical treatment. Amy Barton then and there seems to have decided on her plan of cold-blooded murder. She set out for England, working her passage over as a children’s nurse. She obtained the situation of companion to Miss Barton, calling herself Amy Durrant. She engaged a room and put some furniture into it so as to create more of a personality for herself. The drowning plan was a sudden inspiration. She had been waiting for some opportunity to present itself. Then she staged the final scene of the drama and returned to Australia, and in due time she and her brothers and sisters inherited Miss Barton’s money as next of kin.”

“A very bold and perfect crime,” said Sir Henry. “Almost the perfect crime. If it had been Miss Barton who had died in the Canaries, suspicion might attach to Amy Durrant and her connection with the Barton family might have been discovered; but the change of identity and the double crime, as you may call it, effectually did away with that. Yes, almost the perfect crime.”

“What happened to her?” asked Mrs. Bantry. “What did you do in the matter, Dr. Lloyd?”

“I was in a very curious position, Mrs. Bantry. Of evidence as the law understands it, I still have very little. Also, there were certain signs, plain to me as a medical man, that though strong and vigorous in appearance, the lady was not long for this world. I went home with her and saw the rest of the family—a charming family, devoted to their eldest sister and without an idea in their heads that she might prove to have committed a crime. Why bring sorrow on them when I could prove nothing? The lady’s admission to me was unheard by anyone else. I let Nature take its course. Miss Amy Barton died six months after my meeting with her. I have often wondered if she was cheerful and unrepentant up to the last.”

“Surely not,” said Mrs. Bantry.

“I expect so,” said Miss Marple. “Mrs. Trout was.”

Jane Helier gave herself a little shake.

“Well,” she said. “It’s very, very thrilling. I don’t quite understand now who drowned which. And how does this Mrs. Trout come into it?”

“She doesn’t, my dear,” said Miss Marple. “She was only a person—not a very nice person—in the village.”

“Oh!” said Jane. “In the village. But nothing ever happens in a village, does it?” She sighed. “I’m sure I shouldn’t have any brains at all if I lived in a village.”

Nine

THE FOUR SUSPECTS

The conversation hovered round undiscovered and unpunished crimes. Everyone in turn vouchsafed their opinion: Colonel Bantry, his plump amiable wife, Jane Helier, Dr. Lloyd, and even old Miss Marple. The one person who did not speak was the one best fitted in most people’s opinion to do so. Sir Henry Clithering, ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard, sat silent, twisting his moustache—or rather stroking it—and half smiling, as though at some inward thought that amused him.

“Sir Henry,” said Mrs. Bantry at last. “If you don’t say something I shall scream. Are there a lot of crimes that go unpunished, or are there not?”

“You’re thinking of newspaper headlines, Mrs. Bantry. SCOTLAND YARD AT FAULT AGAIN. And a list of unsolved mysteries to follow.”

“Which really, I suppose, form a very small percentage of the whole?” said Dr. Lloyd.

“Yes; that is so. The hundreds of crimes that are solved and the perpetrators punished are seldom heralded and sung. But that isn’t quite the point at issue, is it? When you talk of undiscovered crimes and unsolved crimes, you are talking of two different things. In the first category come all the crimes that Scotland Yard never hears about, the crimes that no one even knows have been committed.”

“But I suppose there aren’t very many of those?” said Mrs. Bantry.

“Aren’t there?”

“Sir Henry! You don’t mean there are?”

“I should think,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully, “that there must be a very large number.”

The charming old lady, with her old-world unruffled air, made her statement in a tone of the utmost placidity.

“My dear Miss Marple,” said Colonel Bantry.

“Of course,” said Miss Marple, “a lot of people are stupid. And stupid people get found out, whatever they do. But there are quite a number of people who aren’t stupid, and one shudders to think of what they might accomplish unless they had very strongly rooted principles.”

“Yes,” said Sir Henry, “there are a lot of people who aren’t stupid. How often does some crime come to light simply by reason of a bit of unmitigated bungling, and each time one asks oneself the question: If this hadn’t been bungled, would anyone ever have known?”

“But that’s very serious, Clithering,” said Colonel Bantry. “Very serious, indeed.”

“Is it?”

“What do you mean! It is! Of course it’s serious.”

“You say crime goes unpunished; but does it? Unpunished by the law perhaps; but cause and effect works outside the law. To say that every crime brings its own punishment is by way of being a platitude, and yet in my opinion nothing can be truer.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” said Colonel Bantry. “But that doesn’t alter the seriousness—the—er—seriousness—” He paused, rather at a loss.

Sir Henry Clithering smiled.

“Ninety-nine people out of a hundred are doubtless of your way of thinking,” he said. “But you know, it isn’t really guilt that is important—it’s innocence. That’s the thing that nobody will realize.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jane Helier.

“I do,” said Miss Marple. “When Mrs. Trent found half a crown missing from her bag, the person it affected most was the daily woman, Mrs. Arthur. Of course the Trents thought it was her, but being kindly people and knowing she had a large family and a husband who drinks, well—they naturally didn’t want to go to extremes. But they felt differently towards her, and they didn’t leave her in charge of the house when they went away, which made a great difference to her; and other people began to get a feeling about her too. And then it suddenly came out that it was the governess. Mrs. Trent saw her through a door reflected in a mirror. The purest chance—though I prefer to call it Providence. And that, I think, is what Sir Henry means. Most people would be only interested in who took the money, and it turned out to be the most unlikely person—just like in detective stories! But the real person it was life and death to was poor Mrs. Arthur, who had done nothing. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Sir Henry?”

“Yes, Miss Marple, you’ve hit off my meaning exactly. Your charwoman person was lucky in the instance you relate. Her innocence was shown. But some people may go through a lifetime crushed by the weight of a suspicion that is really unjustified.”

“Are you thinking of some particular instance, Sir Henry?” asked Mrs. Bantry shrewdly.

“As a matter of fact, Mrs. Bantry, I am. A very curious case. A case where we believe murder to have been committed, but with no possible chance of ever proving it.”

“Poison, I suppose,” breathed Jane. “Something untraceable.”

Dr. Lloyd moved restlessly and Sir Henry shook his head.

“No, dear lady. Not the secret arrow poison of the South American Indians! I wish it were something of that kind. We have to deal with something much more prosaic—so prosaic, in fact, that there is no hope of bringing the deed home to its perpetrator. An old gentleman who fell downstairs and broke his neck; one of those regrettable accidents which happen every day.”

“But what happened really?”

“Who can say?” Sir Henry shrugged his shoulders. “A push from behind? A piece of cotton or string tied across the top of the stairs and carefully removed afterwards? That we shall never know.”

“But you do think that it—well, wasn’t an accident? Now why?” asked the doctor.

“That’s rather a long story, but—well, yes, we’re pretty sure. As I said there’s no chance of being able to bring the deed home to anyone—the evidence would be too flimsy. But there’s the other aspect of the case—the one I was speaking about. You see, there were four people who might have done the trick. One’s guilty; but the other three are innocent. And unless the truth is found out, those three are going to remain under the terrible shadow of doubt.”

“I think,” said Mrs. Bantry, “that you’d better tell us your long story.”

“I needn’t make it so very long after all,” said Sir Henry. “I can at any rate condense the beginning. That deals with a German secret society—the Schwartze Hand—something after the lines of the Camorra or what is most people’s idea of the Camorra. A scheme of blackmail and terrorization. The thing started quite suddenly after the War, and spread to an amazing extent. Numberless people were victimized by it. The authorities were not successful in coping with it, for its secrets were jealously guarded, and it was almost impossible to find anyone who could be induced to betray them.

“Nothing much was ever known about it in England, but in Germany it was having a most paralysing effect. It was finally broken up and dispersed through the efforts of one man, a Dr. Rosen, who had at one time been very prominent in Secret Service work. He became a member, penetrated its inmost circle, and was, as I say, instrumental in bringing about its downfall.

“But he was, in consequence, a marked man, and it was deemed wise that he should leave Germany—at any rate for a time. He came to England, and we had letters about him from the police in Berlin. He came and had a personal interview with me. His point of view was both dispassionate and resigned. He had no doubts of what the future held for him.

“‘They will get me, Sir Henry,’ he said. ‘Not a doubt of it.’ He was a big man with a fine head, and a very deep voice, with only a slight guttural intonation to tell of his nationality. ‘That is a foregone conclusion. It does not matter, I am prepared. I faced the risk when I undertook this business. I have done what I set out to do. The organization can never be got together again. But there are many members of it at liberty, and they will take the only revenge they can—my life. It is simply a question of time; but I am anxious that that time should be as long as possible. You see, I am collecting and editing some very interesting material—the result of my life’s work. I should like, if possible, to be able to complete my task.’

“He spoke very simply, with a certain grandeur which I could not but admire. I told him we would take all precautions, but he waved my words aside.

“‘Someday, sooner or later, they will get me,’ he repeated. ‘When that day comes, do not distress yourself. You will, I have no doubt, have done all that is possible.’

“He then proceeded to outline his plans which were simple enough. He proposed to take a small cottage in the country where he could live quietly and go on with his work. In the end he selected a village in Somerset—King’s Gnaton, which was seven miles from a railway station, and singularly untouched by civilization. He bought a very charming cottage, had various improvements and alterations made, and settled down there most contentedly. His household consisted of his niece, Greta, a secretary, an old German servant who had served him faithfully for nearly forty years, and an outside handyman and gardener who was a native of King’s Gnaton.”

“The four suspects,” said Dr. Lloyd softly.

“Exactly. The four suspects. There is not much more to tell. Life went on peacefully at King’s Gnaton for five months and then the blow fell. Dr. Rosen fell down the stairs one morning and was found dead about half an hour later. At the time the accident must have taken place, Gertrud was in her kitchen with the door closed and heard nothing—so she says. Fräulein Greta was in the garden planting some bulbs—again, so she says. The gardener, Dobbs, was in the small potting shed having his elevenses—so he says; and the secretary was out for a walk, and once more there is only his own word for it. No one has an alibi—no one can corroborate anyone else’s story. But one thing is certain. No one from outside could have done it, for a stranger in the little village of King’s Gnaton would be noticed without fail. Both the back and the front doors were locked, each member of the household having their own key. So you see it narrows down to those four. And yet each one seems to be above suspicion. Greta, his own brother’s child. Gertrud, with forty years of faithful service. Dobbs, who has never been out of King’s Gnaton. And Charles Templeton, the secretary—”

“Yes,” said Colonel Bantry, “what about him? He seems the suspicious person to my mind. What do you know about him?”

“It is what I knew about him that put him completely out of court—at any rate at the time,” said Sir Henry gravely. “You see, Charles Templeton was one of my own men.”

“Oh!” said Colonel Bantry, considerably taken aback.

“Yes. I wanted to have someone on the spot, and at the same time I didn’t want to cause talk in the village. Rosen really needed a secretary. I put Templeton on the job. He’s a gentleman, he speaks German fluently, and he’s altogether a very able fellow.”

“But, then, which do you suspect?” asked Mrs. Bantry in a bewildered tone. “They all seem so—well, impossible.”

“Yes, so it appears. But you can look at the thing from another angle. Fräulein Greta was his niece and a very lovely girl, but the War has shown us time and again that brother can turn against sister, or father against son and so on, and the loveliest and gentlest of young girls did some of the most amazing things. The same thing applies to Gertrud, and who knows what other forces might be at work in her case. A quarrel, perhaps, with her master, a growing resentment all the more lasting because of the long faithful years behind her. Elderly women of that class can be amazingly bitter sometimes. And Dobbs? Was he right outside it because he had no connection with the family? Money will do much. In some way Dobbs might have been approached and bought.

“For one thing seems certain: Some message or some order must have come from outside. Otherwise why five months’ immunity? No, the agents of the society must have been at work. Not yet sure of Rosen’s perfidy, they delayed till the betrayal had been traced to him beyond any possible doubt. And then, all doubts set aside, they must have sent their message to the spy within the gates—the message that said, ‘Kill.’”

“How nasty!” said Jane Helier, and shuddered.

“But how did the message come? That was the point I tried to elucidate—the one hope of solving my problem. One of those four people must have been approached or communicated with in some way. There would be no delay—I knew that—as soon as the command came, it would be carried out. That was a peculiarity of the Schwartze Hand.

“I went into the question, went into it in a way that will probably strike you as being ridiculously meticulous. Who had come to the cottage that morning? I eliminated nobody. Here is the list.”

He took an envelope from his pocket and selected a paper from its contents.

“The butcher, bringing some neck of mutton. Investigated and found correct.

“The grocer’s assistant, bringing a packet of cornflour, two pounds of sugar, a pound of butter, and a pound of coffee. Also investigated and found correct.

“The postman, bringing two circulars for Fräulein Rosen, a local letter for Gertrud, three letters for Dr. Rosen, one with a foreign stamp and two letters for Mr. Templeton, one also with a foreign stamp.”

Sir Henry paused and then took a sheaf of documents from the envelope.

“It may interest you to see these for yourself. They were handed me by the various people concerned, or collected from the waste-paper basket. I need hardly say they’ve been tested by experts for invisible ink, etc. No excitement of that kind is possible.”

Everyone crowded round to look. The catalogues were respectively from a nurseryman and from a prominent London fur establishment. The two bills addressed to Dr. Rosen were a local one for seeds for the garden and one from a London stationery firm. The letter addressed to him ran as follows:

My Dear Rosen—just back from Dr. Helmuth Spath’s. I saw Edgar Jackson the other day. He and Amos Perry have just come back from Tsingtau. In all Honesty I can’t say I envy them the trip. Let me have news of you soon. As I said before: Beware of a certain person. You know who I mean, though you don’t agree.—

Yours, Georgine.

“Mr. Templeton’s mail consisted of this bill, which as you see, is an account rendered from his tailor, and a letter from a friend in Germany,” went on Sir Henry. “The latter, unfortunately, he tore up whilst out on his walk. Finally we have the letter received by Gertrud.”

Dear Mrs. Swartz,—We’re hoping as how you be able to come the social on friday evening, the vicar says has he hopes you will—one and all being welcome. The resipy for the ham was very good, and I thanks you for it. Hoping as this finds you well and that we shall see you friday I remain.—Yours faithfully, Emma Greene.

Dr. Lloyd smiled a little over this and so did Mrs. Bantry.

“I think the last letter can be put out of court,” said Dr. Lloyd.

“I thought the same,” said Sir Henry; “but I took the precaution of verifying that there was a Mrs. Greene and a Church Social. One can’t be too careful, you know.”

“That’s what our friend Miss Marple always says,” said Dr. Lloyd, smiling. “You’re lost in a daydream, Miss Marple. What are you thinking out?”

Miss Marple gave a start.

“So stupid of me,” she said. “I was just wondering why the word Honesty in Dr. Rosen’s letter was spelt with a capital H.”

Mrs. Bantry picked it up.

“So it is,” she said. “Oh!”

“Yes, dear,” said Miss Marple. “I thought you’d notice!”

“There’s a definite warning in that letter,” said Colonel Bantry. “That’s the first thing caught my attention. I notice more than you’d think. Yes, a definite warning—against whom?”

“There’s rather a curious point about that letter,” said Sir Henry. “According to Templeton, Dr. Rosen opened the letter at breakfast and tossed it across to him saying he didn’t know who the fellow was from Adam.”

“But it wasn’t a fellow,” said Jane Helier. “It was signed ‘Georgina.’”

“It’s difficult to say which it is,” said Dr. Lloyd. “It might be Georgey; but it certainly looks more like Georgina. Only it strikes me that the writing is a man’s.”

“You know, that’s interesting,” said Colonel Bantry. “His tossing it across the table like that and pretending he knew nothing about it. Wanted to watch somebody’s face. Whose face—the girl’s? or the man’s?”

“Or even the cook’s?” suggested Mrs. Bantry. “She might have been in the room bringing in the breakfast. But what I don’t see is . . . it’s most peculiar—”

She frowned over the letter. Miss Marple drew closer to her. Miss Marple’s finger went out and touched the sheet of paper. They murmured together.

“But why did the secretary tear up the other letter?” asked Jane Helier suddenly. “It seems—oh! I don’t know—it seems queer. Why should he have letters from Germany? Although, of course, if he’s above suspicion, as you say—”

“But Sir Henry didn’t say that,” said Miss Marple quickly, looking up from her murmured conference with Mrs. Bantry. “He said four suspects. So that shows that he includes Mr. Templeton. I’m right, am I not, Sir Henry?”

“Yes, Miss Marple. I have learned one thing through bitter experience. Never say to yourself that anyone is above suspicion. I gave you reasons just now why three of these people might after all be guilty, unlikely as it seemed. I did not at that time apply the same process to Charles Templeton. But I came to it at last through pursuing the rule I have just mentioned. And I was forced to recognize this: That every army and every navy and every police force has a certain number of traitors within its ranks, much as we hate to admit the idea. And I examined dispassionately the case against Charles Templeton.

“I asked myself very much the same questions as Miss Helier has just asked. Why should he, alone of all the house, not be able to produce the letter he had received—a letter, moreover, with a German stamp on it. Why should he have letters from Germany?

“The last question was an innocent one, and I actually put it to him. His reply came simply enough. His mother’s sister was married to a German. The letter had been from a German girl cousin. So I learned something I did not know before—that Charles Templeton had relations with people in Germany. And that put him definitely on the list of suspects—very much so. He is my own man—a lad I have always liked and trusted; but in common justice and fairness I must admit that he heads that list.

“But there it is—I do not know! I do not know . . . And in all probability I never shall know. It is not a question of punishing a murderer. It is a question that to me seems a hundred times more important. It is the blighting, perhaps, of an honourable man’s whole career . . . because of suspicion—a suspicion that I dare not disregard.”

Miss Marple coughed and said gently:

“Then, Sir Henry, if I understand you rightly, it is this young Mr. Templeton only who is so much on your mind?”

“Yes, in a sense. It should, in theory, be the same for all four, but that is not actually the case. Dobbs, for instance—suspicion may attach to him in my mind, but it will not actually affect his career. Nobody in the village has ever had any idea that old Dr. Rosen’s death was anything but an accident. Gertrud is slightly more affected. It must make, for instance, a difference in Fräulein Rosen’s attitude toward her. But that, possibly, is not of great importance to her.

“As for Greta Rosen—well, here we come to the crux of the matter. Greta is a very pretty girl and Charles Templeton is a good-looking young man, and for five months they were thrown together with no outer distractions. The inevitable happened. They fell in love with each other—even if they did not come to the point of admitting the fact in words.

“And then the catastrophe happens. It is three months ago now and a day or two after I returned, Greta Rosen came to see me. She had sold the cottage and was returning to Germany, having finally settled up her uncle’s affairs. She came to me personally, although she knew I had retired, because it was really about a personal matter she wanted to see me. She beat about the bush a little, but at last it all came out. What did I think? That letter with the German stamp—she had worried about it and worried about it—the one Charles had torn up. Was it all right? Surely it must be all right. Of course she believed his story, but—oh! if she only knew! If she knew—for certain.

“You see? The same feeling: the wish to trust—but the horrible lurking suspicion, thrust resolutely to the back of the mind, but persisting nevertheless. I spoke to her with absolute frankness, and asked her to do the same. I asked her whether she had been on the point of caring for Charles, and he for her.

“‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Oh, yes, I know it was so. We were so happy. Every day passed so contentedly. We knew—we both knew. There was no hurry—there was all the time in the world. Someday he would tell me he loved me, and I should tell him that I too—Ah! But you can guess! And now it is all changed. A black cloud has come between us—we are constrained, when we meet we do not know what to say. It is, perhaps, the same with him as with me . . . We are each saying to ourselves, “If I were sure!” That is why, Sir Henry, I beg of you to say to me, “You may be sure, whoever killed your uncle, it was not Charles Templeton!” Say it to me! Oh, say it to me! I beg—I beg!’

“And, damn it all,” said Sir Henry, bringing down his fist with a bang on the table, “I couldn’t say it to her. They’ll drift farther and farther apart, those two—with suspicion like a ghost between them—a ghost that can’t be laid.”

He leant back in his chair, his face looked tired and grey. He shook his head once or twice despondently.

“And there’s nothing more can be done, unless—” He sat up straight again and a tiny whimsical smile crossed his face—“unless Miss Marple can help us. Can’t you, Miss Marple? I’ve a feeling that letter might be in your line, you know. The one about the Church Social. Doesn’t it remind you of something or someone that makes everything perfectly plain? Can’t you do something to help two helpless young people who want to be happy?”

Behind the whimsicality there was something earnest in his appeal. He had come to think very highly of the mental powers of this frail old-fashioned maiden lady. He looked across at her with something very like hope in his eyes.

Miss Marple coughed and smoothed her lace.

“It does remind me a little of Annie Poultny,” she admitted. “Of course the letter is perfectly plain—both to Mrs. Bantry and myself. I don’t mean the Church Social letter, but the other one. You living so much in London and not being a gardener, Sir Henry, would not have been likely to notice.”

“Eh?” said Sir Henry. “Notice what?”

Mrs. Bantry reached out a hand and selected a catalogue. She opened it and read aloud with gusto:

“Dr. Helmuth Spath. Pure lilac, a wonderfully fine flower, carried on exceptionally long and stiff stem. Splendid for cutting and garden decoration. A novelty of striking beauty.

“Edgar Jackson. Beautifully shaped chrysanthemum-like flower of a distinct brick-red colour.

“Amos Perry. Brilliant red, highly decorative.

“Tsingtau. Brilliant orange-red, showy garden plant and lasting cut flower.

“Honesty—”

“With a capital H, you remember,” murmured Miss Marple.

“Honesty. Rose and white shades, enormous perfect shaped flower.”

Mrs. Bantry flung down the catalogue, and said with immense explosive force:

“Dahlias!”

“And their initial letters spell ‘DEATH,’ explained Miss Marple.

“But the letter came to Dr. Rosen himself,” objected Sir Henry.

“That was the clever part of it,” said Miss Marple. “That and the warning in it. What would he do, getting a letter from someone he didn’t know, full of names he didn’t know. Why, of course, toss it over to his secretary.”

“Then, after all—”

“Oh, no!” said Miss Marple. “Not the secretary. Why, that’s what makes it so perfectly clear that it wasn’t him. He’d never have let that letter be found if so. And equally he’d never have destroyed a letter to himself with a German stamp on it. Really, his innocence is—if you’ll allow me to use the word—just shining.”

“Then who—”

“Well, it seems almost certain—as certain as anything can be in this world. There was another person at the breakfast table, and she would—quite naturally under the circumstances—put out her hand for the letter and read it. And that would be that. You remember that she got a gardening catalogue by the same post—”

“Greta Rosen,” said Sir Henry, slowly. “Then her visit to me—”

“Gentlemen never see through these things,” said Miss Marple. “And I’m afraid they often think we old women are—well, cats, to see things the way we do. But there it is. One does know a great deal about one’s own sex, unfortunately. I’ve no doubt there was a barrier between them. The young man felt a sudden inexplicable repulsion. He suspected, purely through instinct, and couldn’t hide the suspicion. And I really think that the girl’s visit to you was just pure spite. She was safe enough really; but she just went out of her way to fix your suspicions definitely on poor Mr. Templeton. You weren’t nearly so sure about him until after her visit.”

“I’m sure it was nothing that she said—” began Sir Henry.

“Gentlemen,” said Miss Marple calmly, “never see through these things.”

“And that girl—” he stopped. “She commits a cold-blooded murder and gets off scot-free!”

“Oh! no, Sir Henry,” said Miss Marple. “Not scot-free. Neither you nor I believe that. Remember what you said not long ago. No. Greta Rosen will not escape punishment. To begin with, she must be in with a very queer set of people—blackmailers and terrorists—associates who will do her no good, and will probably bring her to a miserable end. As you say, one mustn’t waste thoughts on the guilty—it’s the innocent who matter. Mr. Templeton, who I dare say will marry that German cousin, his tearing up her letter looks—well, it looks suspicious—using the word in quite a different sense from the one we’ve been using all the evening. A little as though he were afraid of the other girl noticing or asking to see it? Yes, I think there must have been some little romance there. And then there’s Dobbs—though, as you say, I dare say it won’t matter much to him. His elevenses are probably all he thinks about. And then there’s that poor old Gertrud—the one who reminded me of Annie Poultny. Poor Annie Poultny. Fifty years’ faithful service and suspected of making away with Miss Lamb’s will, though nothing could be proved. Almost broke the poor creature’s faithful heart; and then after she was dead it came to light in the secret drawer of the tea caddy where old Miss Lamb had put it herself for safety. But too late then for poor Annie.

“That’s what worries me so about that poor old German woman. When one is old, one becomes embittered very easily. I felt much more sorry for her than for Mr. Templeton, who is young and good-looking and evidently a favourite with the ladies. You will write to her, won’t you, Sir Henry, and just tell her that her innocence is established beyond doubt? Her dear old master dead, and she no doubt brooding and feeling herself suspected of . . . Oh! It won’t bear thinking about!”

“I will write, Miss Marple,” said Sir Henry. He looked at her curiously. “You know, I shall never quite understand you. Your outlook is always a different one from what I expect.”

“My outlook, I am afraid, is a very petty one,” said Miss Marple humbly. “I hardly ever go out of St. Mary Mead.”

“And yet you have solved what may be called an International mystery,” said Sir Henry. “For you have solved it. I am convinced of that.”

Miss Marple blushed, then bridled a little.

“I was, I think, well educated for the standard of my day. My sister and I had a German governess—a Fräulein. A very sentimental creature. She taught us the language of flowers—a forgotten study nowadays, but most charming. A yellow tulip, for instance, means Hopeless Love, whilst a China Aster means I die of Jealousy at your feet. That letter was signed Georgine, which I seem to remember is Dahlia in German, and that of course made the whole thing perfectly clear. I wish I could remember the meaning of Dahlia, but alas, that eludes me. My memory is not what it was.”

“At any rate it didn’t mean DEATH.”

“No, indeed. Horrible, is it not? There are very sad things in the world.”

“There are,” said Mrs. Bantry with a sigh. “It’s lucky one has flowers and one’s friends.”

“She puts us last, you observe,” said Dr. Lloyd.

“A man used to send me purple orchids every night to the theatre,” said Jane dreamily.

“‘I await your favours,’—that’s what that means,” said Miss Marple brightly.

Sir Henry gave a peculiar sort of cough and turned his head away.

Miss Marple gave a sudden exclamation.

“I’ve remembered. Dahlias mean ‘Treachery and Misrepresentation.’”

“Wonderful,” said Sir Henry. “Absolutely wonderful.”

And he sighed.

Ten

A CHRISTMAS TRAGEDY

“I have a complaint to make,” said Sir Henry Clithering. His eyes twinkled gently as he looked round at the assembled company. Colonel Bantry, his legs stretched out, was frowning at the mantelpiece as though it were a delinquent soldier on parade, his wife was surreptitiously glancing at a catalogue of bulbs which had come by the late post, Dr. Lloyd was gazing with frank admiration at Jane Helier, and that beautiful young actress herself was thoughtfully regarding her pink polished nails. Only that elderly, spinster lady, Miss Marple, was sitting bolt upright, and her faded blue eyes met Sir Henry’s with an answering twinkle.

“A complaint?” she murmured.

“A very serious complaint. We are a company of six, three representatives of each sex, and I protest on behalf of the downtrodden males. We have had three stories told tonight—and told by the three men! I protest that the ladies have not done their fair share.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Bantry with indignation. “I’m sure we have. We’ve listened with the most intelligent appreciation. We’ve displayed the true womanly attitude—not wishing to thrust ourselves in the limelight!”

“It’s an excellent excuse,” said Sir Henry; “but it won’t do. And there’s a very good precedent in the Arabian Nights! So, forward, Scheherazade.”

“Meaning me?” said Mrs. Bantry. “But I don’t know anything to tell. I’ve never been surrounded by blood or mystery.”

“I don’t absolutely insist upon blood,” said Sir Henry. “But I’m sure one of you three ladies has got a pet mystery. Come now, Miss Marple—the ‘Curious Coincidence of the Charwoman’ or the ‘Mystery of the Mothers’ Meeting.’ Don’t disappoint me in St. Mary Mead.”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“Nothing that would interest you, Sir Henry. We have our little mysteries, of course—there was that gill of picked shrimps that disappeared so incomprehensibly; but that wouldn’t interest you because it all turned out to be so trivial, though throwing a considerable light on human nature.”

“You have taught me to dote on human nature,” said Sir Henry solemnly.

“What about you, Miss Helier?” asked Colonel Bantry. “You must have had some interesting experiences.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Dr. Lloyd.

“Me?” said Jane. “You mean—you want me to tell you something that happened to me?”

“Or to one of your friends,” amended Sir Henry.

“Oh!” said Jane vaguely. “I don’t think anything has ever happened to me—I mean not that kind of thing. Flowers, of course, and queer messages—but that’s just men, isn’t it? I don’t think”—she paused and appeared lost in thought.

“I see we shall have to have that epic of the shrimps,” said Sir Henry. “Now then, Miss Marple.”

“You’re so fond of your joke, Sir Henry. The shrimps are only nonsense; but now I come to think of it, I do remember one incident—at least not exactly an incident, something very much more serious—a tragedy. And I was, in a way, mixed up in it; and for what I did, I have never had any regrets—no, no regrets at all. But it didn’t happen in St. Mary Mead.”

“That disappoints me,” said Sir Henry. “But I will endeavour to bear up. I knew we should not rely upon you in vain.”

He settled himself in the attitude of a listener. Miss Marple grew slightly pink.

“I hope I shall be able to tell it properly,” she said anxiously. “I fear I am very inclined to become rambling. One wanders from the point—altogether without knowing that one is doing so. And it is so hard to remember each fact in its proper order. You must all bear with me if I tell my story badly. It happened a very long time ago now.

“As I say, it was not connected with St. Mary Mead. As a matter of fact, it had to do with a Hydro—”

“Do you mean a seaplane?” asked Jane with wide eyes.

“You wouldn’t know, dear,” said Mrs. Bantry, and explained. Her husband added his quota:

“Beastly places—absolutely beastly! Got to get up early and drink filthy-tasting water. Lot of old women sitting about. Ill-natured tittle tattle. God, when I think—”

“Now, Arthur,” said Mrs. Bantry placidly. “You know it did you all the good in the world.”

“Lot of old women sitting round talking scandal,” grunted Colonel Bantry.

“That I am afraid is true,” said Miss Marple. “I myself—”

“My dear Miss Marple,” cried the Colonel, horrified. “I didn’t mean for one moment—”

With pink cheeks and a little gesture of the hand, Miss Marple stopped him.

“But it is true, Colonel Bantry. Only I should just like to say this. Let me recollect my thoughts. Yes. Talking scandal, as you say—well, it is done a good deal. And people are very down on it—especially young people. My nephew, who writes books—and very clever ones, I believe—has said some most scathing things about taking people’s characters away without any kind of proof—and how wicked it is, and all that. But what I say is that none of these young people ever stop to think. They really don’t examine the facts. Surely the whole crux of the matter is this: How often is tittle tattle, as you call it, true! And I think if, as I say, they really examined the facts they would find that it was true nine times out of ten! That’s really just what makes people so annoyed about it.”

“The inspired guess,” said Sir Henry.

“No, not that, not that at all! It’s really a matter of practice and experience. An Egyptologist, so I’ve heard, if you show him one of those curious little beetles, can tell you by the look and the feel of the thing what date BC it is, or if it’s a Birmingham imitation. And he can’t always give a definite rule for doing so. He just knows. His life has been spent handling such things.

“And that’s what I’m trying to say (very badly, I know). What my nephew calls ‘superfluous women’ have a lot of time on their hands, and their chief interest is usually people. And so, you see, they get to be what one might call experts. Now young people nowadays—they talk very freely about things that weren’t mentioned in my young days, but on the other hand their minds are terribly innocent. They believe in everyone and everything. And if one tries to warn them, ever so gently, they tell one that one has a Victorian mind—and that, they say, is like a sink.”

“After all,” said Sir Henry, “what is wrong with a sink?”

“Exactly,” said Miss Marple eagerly. “It’s the most necessary thing in any house; but, of course, not romantic. Now I must confess that I have my feelings, like everyone else, and I have sometimes been cruelly hurt by unthinking remarks. I know gentlemen are not interested in domestic matters, but I must just mention my maid Ethel—a very good-looking girl and obliging in every way. Now I realized as soon as I saw her that she was the same type as Annie Webb and poor Mrs. Bruitt’s girl. If the opportunity arose mine and thine would mean nothing to her. So I let her go at the month and I gave her a written reference saying she was honest and sober, but privately I warned old Mrs. Edwards against taking her; and my nephew, Raymond, was exceedingly angry and said he had never heard of anything so wicked—yes, wicked. Well, she went to Lady Ashton, whom I felt no obligation to warn—and what happened? All the lace cut off her underclothes and two diamond brooches taken—and the girl departed in the middle of the night and never heard of since!”

Miss Marple paused, drew a long breath, and then went on.

“You’ll be saying this has nothing to do with what went on at Keston Spa Hydro—but it has in a way. It explains why I felt no doubt in my mind the first moment I saw the Sanders together that he meant to do away with her.”

“Eh?” said Sir Henry, leaning forward.

Miss Marple turned a placid face to him.

“As I say, Sir Henry, I felt no doubt in my own mind. Mr. Sanders was a big, good-looking, florid-faced man, very hearty in his manner and popular with all. And nobody could have been pleasanter to his wife than he was. But I knew! He meant to make away with her.”

“My dear Miss Marple—”

“Yes, I know. That’s what my nephew, Raymond West, would say. He’d tell me I hadn’t a shadow of proof. But I remember Walter Hones, who kept the Green Man. Walking home with his wife one night she fell into the river—and he collected the insurance money! And one or two other people that are walking about scot-free to this day—one indeed in our own class of life. Went to Switzerland for a summer holiday climbing with his wife. I warned her not to go—the poor dear didn’t get angry with me as she might have done—she only laughed. It seemed to her funny that a queer old thing like me should say such things about her Harry. Well, well, there was an accident—and Harry is married to another woman now. But what could I do? I knew, but there was no proof.”

“Oh! Miss Marple,” cried Mrs. Bantry. “You don’t really mean—”

“My dear, these things are very common—very common indeed. And gentlemen are especially tempted, being so much the stronger. So easy if a thing looks like an accident. As I say, I knew at once with the Sanders. It was on a tram. It was full inside and I had had to go on top. We all three got up to get off and Mr. Sanders lost his balance and fell right against his wife, sending her headfirst down the stairs. Fortunately the conductor was a very strong young man and caught her.”

“But surely that must have been an accident.”

“Of course it was an accident—nothing could have looked more accidental! But Mr. Sanders had been in the Merchant Service, so he told me, and a man who can keep his balance on a nasty tilting boat doesn’t lose it on top of a tram if an old woman like me doesn’t. Don’t tell me!”

“At any rate we can take it that you made up your mind, Miss Marple,” said Sir Henry. “Made it up then and there.”

The old lady nodded.

“I was sure enough, and another incident in crossing the street not long afterwards made me surer still. Now I ask you, what could I do, Sir Henry? Here was a nice contented happy little married woman shortly going to be murdered.”

“My dear lady, you take my breath away.”

“That’s because, like most people nowadays, you won’t face facts. You prefer to think such a thing couldn’t be. But it was so, and I knew it. But one is so sadly handicapped! I couldn’t, for instance, go to the police. And to warn the young woman would, I could see, be useless. She was devoted to the man. I just made it my business to find out as much as I could about them. One has a lot of opportunities doing one’s needlework round the fire. Mrs. Sanders (Gladys, her name was) was only too willing to talk. It seems they had not been married very long. Her husband had some property that was coming to him, but for the moment they were very badly off. In fact, they were living on her little income. One has heard that tale before. She bemoaned the fact that she could not touch the capital. It seems that somebody had had some sense somewhere! But the money was hers to will away—I found that out. And she and her husband had made wills in favour of each other directly after their marriage. Very touching. Of course, when Jack’s affairs came right—That was the burden all day long, and in the meantime they were very hard up indeed—actually had a room on the top floor, all among the servants—and so dangerous in case of fire, though, as it happened, there was a fire escape just outside their window. I inquired carefully if there was a balcony—dangerous things, balconies. One push—you know!

“I made her promise not to go out on the balcony; I said I’d had a dream. That impressed her—one can do a lot with superstition sometimes. She was a fair girl, rather washed-out complexion, and an untidy roll of hair on her neck. Very credulous. She repeated what I had said to her husband, and I noticed him looking at me in a curious way once or twice. He wasn’t credulous; and he knew I’d been on that tram.

“But I was very worried—terribly worried—because I couldn’t see how to circumvent him. I could prevent anything happening at the Hydro, just by saying a few words to show him I suspected. But that only meant his putting off his plan till later. No, I began to believe that the only policy was a bold one—somehow or other to lay a trap for him. If I could induce him to attempt her life in a way of my own choosing—well, then he would be unmasked, and she would be forced to face the truth however much of a shock it was to her.”

“You take my breath away,” said Dr. Lloyd. “What conceivable plan could you adopt?”

“I’d have found one—never fear,” said Miss Marple. “But the man was too clever for me. He didn’t wait. He thought I might suspect, and so he struck before I could be sure. He knew I would suspect an accident. So he made it murder.”

A little gasp went round the circle. Miss Marple nodded and set her lips grimly together.

“I’m afraid I’ve put that rather abruptly. I must try and tell you exactly what occurred. I’ve always felt very bitterly about it—it seems to me that I ought, somehow, to have prevented it. But doubtless Providence knew best. I did what I could at all events.

“There was what I can only describe as a curiously eerie feeling in the air. There seemed to be something weighing on us all. A feeling of misfortune. To begin with, there was George, the hall porter. Had been there for years and knew everybody. Bronchitis and pneumonia, and passed away on the fourth day. Terribly sad. A real blow to everybody. And four days before Christmas too. And then one of the housemaids—such a nice girl—a septic finger, actually died in twenty-four hours.

“I was in the drawing room with Miss Trollope and old Mrs. Carpenter, and Mrs. Carpenter was being positively ghoulish—relishing it all, you know.

“‘Mark my words,’ she said. ‘This isn’t the end. You know the saying? Never two without three. I’ve proved it true time and again. There’ll be another death. Not a doubt of it. And we shan’t have long to wait. Never two without three.’

“As she said the last words, nodding her head and clicking her knitting needles, I just chanced to look up and there was Mr. Sanders standing in the doorway. Just for a minute he was off guard, and I saw the look in his face as plain as plain. I shall believe till my dying day that it was that ghoulish Mrs. Carpenter’s words that put the whole thing into his head. I saw his mind working.

“He came forward into the room smiling in his genial way.

“‘Any Christmas shopping I can do for you ladies?’ he asked. ‘I’m going down to Keston presently.’

“He stayed a minute or two, laughing and talking, and then went out. As I tell you, I was troubled, and I said straight away:

“‘Where’s Mrs. Sanders? Does anyone know?’

“Mrs. Trollope said she’d gone out to some friends of hers, the Mortimers, to play bridge, and that eased my mind for the moment. But I was still very worried and most uncertain as to what to do. About half an hour later I went up to my room. I met Dr. Coles, my doctor, there, coming down the stairs as I was going up, and as I happened to want to consult him about my rheumatism, I took him into my room with me then and there. He mentioned to me then (in confidence, he said) about the death of the poor girl Mary. The manager didn’t want the news to get about, he said, so would I keep it to myself. Of course I didn’t tell him that we’d all been discussing nothing else for the last hour—ever since the poor girl breathed her last. These things are always known at once, and a man of his experience should know that well enough; but Dr. Coles always was a simple unsuspicious fellow who believed what he wanted to believe and that’s just what alarmed me a minute later. He said as he was leaving that Sanders had asked him to have a look at his wife. It seemed she’d been seedy of late—indigestion, etc.

“Now that very self-same day Gladys Sanders had said to me that she’d got a wonderful digestion and was thankful for it.

“You see? All my suspicions of that man came back a hundredfold. He was preparing the way—for what? Dr. Coles left before I could make up my mind whether to speak to him or not—though really if I had spoken I shouldn’t have known what to say. As I came out of my room, the man himself—Sanders—came down the stairs from the floor above. He was dressed to go out and he asked me again if he could do anything for me in the town. It was all I could do to be civil to the man! I went straight into the lounge and ordered tea. It was just on half past five, I remember.

“Now I’m very anxious to put clearly what happened next. I was still in the lounge at a quarter to seven when Mr. Sanders came in. There were two gentlemen with him and all three of them were inclined to be a little on the lively side. Mr. Sanders left his two friends and came right over to where I was sitting with Miss Trollope. He explained that he wanted our advice about a Christmas present he was giving his wife. It was an evening bag.

“‘And you see, ladies,’ he said. ‘I’m only a rough sailorman. What do I know about such things? I’ve had three sent to me on approval and I want an expert opinion on them.’

“We said, of course, that we would be delighted to help him, and he asked if we’d mind coming upstairs, as his wife might come in any minute if he brought the things down. So we went up with him. I shall never forget what happened next—I can feel my little fingers tingling now.

“Mr. Sanders opened the door of the bedroom and switched on the light. I don’t know which of us saw it first. . . .

“Mrs. Sanders was lying on the floor, face downwards—dead.

“I got to her first. I knelt down and took her hand and felt for the pulse, but it was useless, the arm itself was cold and stiff. Just by her head was a stocking filled with sand—the weapon she had been struck down with. Miss Trollope, silly creature, was moaning and moaning by the door and holding her head. Sanders gave a great cry of ‘My wife, my wife,’ and rushed to her. I stopped him touching her. You see, I was sure at the moment he had done it, and there might have been something that he wanted to take away or hide.

“‘Nothing must be touched,’ I said. ‘Pull yourself together, Mr. Sanders. Miss Trollope, please go down and fetch the manager.’

“I stayed there, kneeling by the body. I wasn’t going to leave Sanders alone with it. And yet I was forced to admit that if the man was acting, he was acting marvellously. He looked dazed and bewildered and scared out of his wits.

“The manager was with us in no time. He made a quick inspection of the room then turned us all out and locked the door, the key of which he took. Then he went off and telephoned to the police. It seemed a positive age before they came (we learnt afterwards that the line was out of order). The manager had to send a messenger to the police station, and the Hydro is right out of the town, up on the edge of the moor; and Mrs. Carpenter tried us all very severely. She was so pleased at her prophecy of ‘Never two without three’ coming true so quickly. Sanders, I hear, wandered out into the grounds, clutching his head and groaning and displaying every sign of grief.

“However, the police came at last. They went upstairs with the manager and Mr. Sanders. Later they sent down for me. I went up. The Inspector was there, sitting at a table writing. He was an intelligent-looking man and I liked him.

“‘Miss Jane Marple?’ he said.

“‘Yes.’

“‘I understand, Madam, that you were present when the body of the deceased was found?’

“I said I was and I described exactly what had occurred. I think it was a relief to the poor man to find someone who could answer his questions coherently, having previously had to deal with Sanders and Emily Trollope, who, I gather, was completely demoralized—she would be, the silly creature! I remember my dear mother teaching me that a gentlewoman should always be able to control herself in public, however much she may give way in private.”

“An admirable maxim,” said Sir Henry gravely.

“When I had finished the Inspector said:

“‘Thank you, Madam. Now I’m afraid I must ask you just to look at the body once more. Is that exactly the position in which it was lying when you entered the room? It hasn’t been moved in any way?’

“I explained that I had prevented Mr. Sanders from doing so, and the Inspector nodded approval.

“‘The gentleman seems terribly upset,’ he remarked.

“‘He seems so—yes,’ I replied.

“I don’t think I put any special emphasis on the ‘seems,’ but the Inspector looked at me rather keenly.

“‘So we can take it that the body is exactly as it was when found?’ he said.

“‘Except for the hat, yes,’ I replied.

“The Inspector looked up sharply.

“‘What do you mean—the hat?’

“I explained that the hat had been on poor Gladys’s head, whereas now it was lying beside her. I thought, of course, that the police had done this. The Inspector, however, denied it emphatically. Nothing had, as yet, been moved or touched. He stood looking down at that poor prone figure with a puzzled frown. Gladys was dressed in her outdoor clothes—a big dark-red tweed coat with a grey fur collar. The hat, a cheap affair of red felt, lay just by her head.

“The Inspector stood for some minutes in silence, frowning to himself. Then an idea struck him.

“‘Can you, by any chance, remember, Madam, whether there were earrings in the ears, or whether the deceased habitually wore earrings?’

“Now fortunately I am in the habit of observing closely. I remembered that there had been a glint of pearls just below the hat brim, though I had paid no particular notice to it at the time. I was able to answer his first question in the affirmative.

“‘Then that settles it. The lady’s jewel case was rifled—not that she had anything much of value, I understand—and the rings were taken from her fingers. The murderer must have forgotten the earrings, and come back for them after the murder was discovered. A cool customer! Or perhaps—’ He stared round the room and said slowly, ‘He may have been concealed here in this room—all the time.’

“But I negatived that idea. I myself, I explained, had looked under the bed. And the manager had opened the doors of the wardrobe. There was nowhere else where a man could hide. It is true the hat cupboard was locked in the middle of the wardrobe, but as that was only a shallow affair with shelves, no one could have been concealed there.

“The Inspector nodded his head slowly whilst I explained all this.

“‘I’ll take your word for it, Madam,’ he said. ‘In that case, as I said before, he must have come back. A very cool customer.’

“‘But the manager locked the door and took the key!’

“‘That’s nothing. The balcony and the fire escape—that’s the way the thief came. Why, as likely as not, you actually disturbed him at work. He slips out of the window, and when you’ve all gone, back he comes and goes on with his business.’

“‘You are sure,’ I said, ‘that there was a thief?’

“He said drily:

“‘Well, it looks like it, doesn’t it?’

“But something in his tone satisfied me. I felt that he wouldn’t take Mr. Sanders in the role of the bereaved widower too seriously.

“You see, I admit it frankly. I was absolutely under the opinion of what I believe our neighbours, the French, call the idée fixe. I knew that that man, Sanders, intended his wife to die. What I didn’t allow for was that strange and fantastic thing, coincidence. My views about Mr. Sanders were—I was sure of it—absolutely right and true. The man was a scoundrel. But although his hypocritical assumptions of grief didn’t deceive me for a minute, I do remember feeling at the time that his surprise and bewilderment were marvellously well done. They seemed absolutely natural—if you know what I mean. I must admit that after my conversation with the Inspector, a curious feeling of doubt crept over me. Because if Sanders had done this dreadful thing, I couldn’t imagine any conceivable reason why he should creep back by means of the fire escape and take the earrings from his wife’s ears. It wouldn’t have been a sensible thing to do, and Sanders was such a very sensible man—that’s just why I always felt he was so dangerous.”

Miss Marple looked round at her audience.

“You see, perhaps, what I am coming to? It is, so often, the unexpected that happens in this world. I was so sure, and that, I think, was what blinded me. The result came as a shock to me. For it was proved, beyond any possible doubt, that Mr. Sanders could not possibly have committed the crime. . ..”

A surprised gasp came from Mrs. Bantry. Miss Marple turned to her.

“I know, my dear, that isn’t what you expected when I began this story. It wasn’t what I expected either. But facts are facts, and if one is proved to be wrong, one must just be humble about it and start again. That Mr. Sanders was a murderer at heart I knew—and nothing ever occurred to upset that firm conviction of mine.

“And now, I expect, you would like to hear the actual facts themselves. Mrs. Sanders, as you know, spent the afternoon playing bridge with some friends, the Mortimers. She left them at about a quarter past six. From her friends’ house to the Hydro was about a quarter of an hour’s walk—less if one hurried. She must have come in then about six thirty. No one saw her come in, so she must have entered by the side door and hurried straight up to her room. There she changed (the fawn coat and skirt she wore to the bridge party were hanging up in the cupboard) and was evidently preparing to go out again, when the blow fell. Quite possibly, they say, she never even knew who struck her. The sandbag, I understand, is a very efficient weapon. That looks as though the attackers were concealed in the room, possibly in one of the big wardrobe cupboards—the one she didn’t open.

“Now as to the movements of Mr. Sanders. He went out, as I have said, at about five thirty—or a little after. He did some shopping at a couple of shops and at about six o’clock he entered the Grand Spa Hotel where he encountered two friends—the same with whom he returned to the Hydro later. They played billiards and, I gather, had a good many whiskies and sodas together. These two men (Hitchcock and Spender, their names were) were actually with him the whole time from six o’clock onwards. They walked back to the Hydro with him and he only left them to come across to me and Miss Trollope. That, as I told you, was about a quarter to seven—at which time his wife must have been already dead.

“I must tell you that I talked myself to these two friends of his. I did not like them. They were neither pleasant nor gentlemanly men, but I was quite certain of one thing, that they were speaking the absolute truth when they said that Sanders had been the whole time in their company.

“There was just one other little point that came up. It seems that while bridge was going on Mrs. Sanders was called to the telephone. A Mr. Littleworth wanted to speak to her. She seemed both excited and pleased about something—and incidentally made one or two bad mistakes. She left rather earlier than they had expected her to do.

“Mr. Sanders was asked whether he knew the name of Little-worth as being one of his wife’s friends, but he declared he had never heard of anyone of that name. And to me that seems borne out by his wife’s attitude—she too, did not seem to know the name of Littleworth. Nevertheless she came back from the telephone smiling and blushing, so it looks as though whoever it was did not give his real name, and that in itself has a suspicious aspect, does it not?

“Anyway, that is the problem that was left. The burglar story, which seems unlikely—or the alternative theory that Mrs. Sanders was preparing to go out and meet somebody. Did that somebody come to her room by means of the fire escape? Was there a quarrel? Or did he treacherously attack her?”

Miss Marple stopped.

“Well?” said Sir Henry. “What is the answer?”

“I wondered if any of you could guess.”

“I’m never good at guessing,” said Mrs. Bantry. “It seems a pity that Sanders had such a wonderful alibi; but if it satisfied you it must have been all right.”

Jane Helier moved her beautiful head and asked a question.

“Why,” she said, “was the hat cupboard locked?”

“How very clever of you, my dear,” said Miss Marple, beaming. “That’s just what I wondered myself. Though the explanation was quite simple. In it were a pair of embroidered slippers and some pocket handkerchiefs that the poor girl was embroidering for her husband for Christmas. That’s why she locked the cupboard. The key was found in her handbag.”

“Oh!” said Jane. “Then it isn’t very interesting after all.”

“Oh! but it is,” said Miss Marple. “It’s just the one really interesting thing—the thing that made all the murderer’s plans go wrong.”

Everyone stared at the old lady.

“I didn’t see it myself for two days,” said Miss Marple. “I puzzled and puzzled—and then suddenly there it was, all clear. I went to the Inspector and asked him to try something and he did.”

“What did you ask him to try?”

“I asked him to fit that hat on the poor girl’s head—and of course he couldn’t. It wouldn’t go on. It wasn’t her hat, you see.”

Mrs. Bantry stared.

“But it was on her head to begin with?”

“Not on herh ead—”

Miss Marple stopped a moment to let her words sink in, and then went on.

“We took it for granted that it was poor Gladys’s body there; but we never looked at the face. She was face downwards, remember, and the hat hid everything.”

“But she was killed?”

“Yes, later. At the moment that we were telephoning to the police, Gladys Sanders was alive and well.”

“You mean it was someone pretending to be her? But surely when you touched her—”

“It was a dead body, right enough,” said Miss Marple gravely.

“But, dash it all,” said Colonel Bantry, “you can’t get hold of dead bodies right and left. What did they do with the—the first corpse afterwards?”

“He put it back,” said Miss Marple. “It was a wicked idea—but a very clever one. It was our talk in the drawing room that put it into his head. The body of poor Mary, the housemaid—why not use it? Remember, the Sanders’ room was up amongst the servants’ quarters. Mary’s room was two doors off. The undertakers wouldn’t come till after dark—he counted on that. He carried the body along the balcony (it was dark at five), dressed it in one of his wife’s dresses and her big red coat. And then he found the hat cupboard locked! There was only one thing to be done, he fetched one of the poor girl’s own hats. No one would notice. He put the sandbag down beside her. Then he went off to establish his alibi.

“He telephoned to his wife—calling himself Mr. Littleworth. I don’t know what he said to her—she was a credulous girl, as I said just now. But he got her to leave the bridge party early and not to go back to the Hydro, and arranged with her to meet him in the grounds of the Hydro near the fire escape at seven o’clock. He probably told her he had some surprise for her.

“He returns to the Hydro with his friends and arranges that Miss Trollope and I shall discover the crime with him. He even pretends to turn the body over—and I stop him! Then the police are sent for, and he staggers out into the grounds.

“Nobody asked him for an alibi after the crime. He meets his wife, takes her up the fire escape, they enter their room. Perhaps he has already told her some story about the body. She stoops over it, and he picks up his sandbag and strikes. . . Oh, dear! It makes me sick to think of, even now! Then quickly he strips off her coat and skirt, hangs them up, and dresses her in the clothes from the other body.

“But the hat won’t go on. Mary’s head is shingled—Gladys Sanders, as I say, had a great bun of hair. He is forced to leave it beside the body and hope no one will notice. Then he carries poor Mary’s body back to her own room and arranges it decorously once more.”

“It seems incredible,” said Dr. Lloyd. “The risks he took. The police might have arrived too soon.”

“You remember the line was out of order,” said Miss Marple. “That was a piece of his work. He couldn’t afford to have the police on the spot too soon. When they did come, they spent some time in the manager’s office before going up to the bedroom. That was the weakest point—the chance that someone might notice the difference between a body that had been dead two hours and one that had been dead just over half an hour; but he counted on the fact that the people who first discovered the crime would have no expert knowledge.”

Dr. Lloyd nodded.

“The crime would be supposed to have been committed about a quarter to seven or thereabouts, I suppose,” he said. “It was actually committed at seven or a few minutes after. When the police surgeon examined the body it would be about half past seven at the earliest. He couldn’t possibly tell.”

“I am the person who should have known,” said Miss Marple. “I felt the poor girl’s hand and it was icy cold. Yet a short time later the Inspector spoke as though the murder must have been committed just before we arrived—and I saw nothing!”

“I think you saw a good deal, Miss Marple,” said Sir Henry. “The case was before my time. I don’t even remember hearing of it. What happened?”

“Sanders was hanged,” said Miss Marple crisply. “And a good job too. I have never regretted my part in bringing that man to justice. I’ve no patience with modern humanitarian scruples about capital punishment.”

Her stern face softened.

“But I have often reproached myself bitterly with failing to save the life of that poor girl. But who would have listened to an old woman jumping to conclusions? Well, well—who knows? Perhaps it was better for her to die while life was still happy than it would have been for her to live on, unhappy and disillusioned, in a world that would have seemed suddenly horrible. She loved that scoundrel and trusted him. She never found him out.”

“Well, then,” said Jane Helier, “she was all right. Quite all right. I wish—” she stopped.

Miss Marple looked at the famous, the beautiful, the successful Jane Helier and nodded her head gently.

“I see, my dear,” she said very gently. “I see.”

Eleven

THE HERB OF DEATH

“Now then, Mrs. B.,” said Sir Henry Clithering encouragingly.

Mrs. Bantry, his hostess, looked at him in cold reproof.

“I’ve told you before that I will not be called Mrs. B. It’s not dignified.”

“Scheherazade, then.”

“And even less am I Sche—what’s her name! I never can tell a story properly, ask Arthur if you don’t believe me.”

“You’re quite good at the facts, Dolly,” said Colonel Bantry, “but poor at the embroidery.”

“That’s just it,” said Mrs. Bantry. She flapped the bulb catalogue she was holding on the table in front of her. “I’ve been listening to you all and I don’t know how you do it. ‘He said, she said, you wondered, they thought, everyone implied’—well, I just couldn’t and there it is! And besides I don’t know anything to tell a story about.”

“We can’t believe that, Mrs. Bantry,” said Dr. Lloyd. He shook his grey head in mocking disbelief.

Old Miss Marple said in her gentle voice: “Surely dear—”

Mrs. Bantry continued obstinately to shake her head.

“You don’t know how banal my life is. What with the servants and the difficulties of getting scullery maids, and just going to town for clothes, and dentists, and Ascot (which Arthur hates) and then the garden—”

“Ah!” said Dr. Lloyd. “The garden. We all know where your heart lies, Mrs. Bantry.”

“It must be nice to have a garden,” said Jane Helier, the beautiful young actress. “That is, if you hadn’t got to dig, or to get your hands messed up. I’m ever so fond of flowers.”

“The garden,” said Sir Henry. “Can’t we take that as a starting point? Come, Mrs. B. The poisoned bulb, the deadly daffodils, the herb of death!”

“Now it’s odd your saying that,” said Mrs. Bantry. “You’ve just reminded me. Arthur, do you remember that business at Clodderham Court? You know. Old Sir Ambrose Bercy. Do you remember what a courtly charming old man we thought him?”

“Why, of course. Yes, that was a strange business. Go ahead, Dolly.”

“You’d better tell it, dear.”

“Nonsense. Go ahead. Must paddle your own canoe. I did my bit just now.”

Mrs. Bantry drew a deep breath. She clasped her hands and her face registered complete mental anguish. She spoke rapidly and fluently.

“Well, there’s really not much to tell. The Herb of Death—that’s what put it into my head, though in my own mind I call it sage and onions.”

“Sage and onions?” asked Dr. Lloyd.

Mrs. Bantry nodded.

“That was how it happened you see,” she explained. “We were staying, Arthur and I, with Sir Ambrose Bercy at Clodderham Court, and one day, by mistake (though very stupidly, I’ve always thought) a lot of foxglove leaves were picked with the sage. The ducks for dinner that night were stuffed with it and everyone was very ill, and one poor girl—Sir Ambrose’s ward—died of it.”

She stopped.

“Dear, dear,” said Miss Marple, “how very tragic.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Well,” said Sir Henry, “what next?”

“There isn’t any next,” said Mrs. Bantry, “that’s all.”

Everyone gasped. Though warned beforehand, they had not expected quite such brevity as this.

“But, my dear lady,” remonstrated Sir Henry, “it can’t be all. What you have related is a tragic occurrence, but not in any sense of the word a problem.”

“Well, of course there’s some more,” said Mrs. Bantry. “But if I were to tell you it, you’d know what it was.”

She looked defiantly round the assembly and said plaintively:

“I told you I couldn’t dress things up and make it sound properly like a story ought to do.”

“Ah ha!” said Sir Henry. He sat up in his chair and adjusted an eyeglass. “Really, you know, Scheherazade, this is most refreshing. Our ingenuity is challenged. I’m not so sure you haven’t done it on purpose—to stimulate our curiosity. A few brisk rounds of ‘Twenty Questions’ is indicated, I think. Miss Marple, will you begin?”

“I’d like to know something about the cook,” said Miss Marple. “She must have been a very stupid woman, or else very inexperienced.”

“She was just very stupid,” said Mrs. Bantry. “She cried a great deal afterwards and said the leaves had been picked and brought in to her as sage, and how was she to know?”

“Not one who thought for herself,” said Miss Marple.

“Probably an elderly woman and, I dare say, a very good cook?”

“Oh! excellent,” said Mrs. Bantry.

“Your turn, Miss Helier,” said Sir Henry.

“Oh! You mean—to ask a question?” There was a pause while Jane pondered. Finally she said helplessly, “Really—I don’t know what to ask.”

Her beautiful eyes looked appealingly at Sir Henry.

“Why not dramatis personae, Miss Helier?” he suggested smiling.

Jane still looked puzzled.

“Characters in order of their appearance,” said Sir Henry gently.

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

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

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

“If it is my turn,” said Sir Henry, “and I suppose it is, as I’m sitting next to Miss Helier, I want a good deal. I want a short verbal portrait, please, Mrs. Bantry, of all the foregoing.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Bantry hesitated.

“Sir Ambrose now,” continued Sir Henry. “Start with him. What was he like?”

“Oh! he was a very distinguished-looking old man—and not so very old really—not more than sixty, I suppose. But he was very delicate—he had a weak heart, could never go upstairs—he had to have a lift put in, and so that made him seem older than he was. Very charming manners—courtly—that’s the word that describes him best. You never saw him ruffled or upset. He had beautiful white hair and a particularly charming voice.”

“Good,” said Sir Henry. “I see Sir Ambrose. Now the girl Sylvia—what did you say her name was?”

“Sylvia Keene. She was pretty—really very pretty. Fair-haired, you know, and a lovely skin. Not, perhaps, very clever. In fact, rather stupid.”

“Oh! come, Dolly,” protested her husband.

“Arthur, of course, wouldn’t think so,” said Mrs. Bantry drily. “But she was stupid—she really never said anything worth listening to.”

“One of the most graceful creatures I ever saw,” said Colonel Bantry warmly. “See her playing tennis—charming, simply charming. And she was full of fun—most amusing little thing. And such a pretty way with her. I bet the young fellows all thought so.”

“That’s just where you’re wrong,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Youth, as such, has no charms for young men nowadays. It’s only old buffers like you, Arthur, who sit maundering on about young girls.”

“Being young’s no good,” said Jane. “You’ve got to have SA.”

“What,” said Miss Marple, “is SA?”

“Sex appeal,” said Jane.

“Ah! yes,” said Miss Marple. “What in my day they used to call ‘having the come hither in your eye.’”

“Not a bad description,” said Sir Henry. “The dame de compagnie you described, I think, as a pussy, Mrs. Bantry?”

“I didn’t mean a cat, you know,” said Mrs. Bantry. “It’s quite different. Just a big soft white purry person. Always very sweet. That’s what Adelaide Carpenter was like.”

“What sort of aged woman?”

“Oh! I should say fortyish. She’d been there some time—ever since Sylvia was eleven, I believe. A very tactful person. One of those widows left in unfortunate circumstances with plenty of aristocratic relations, but no ready cash. I didn’t like her myself—but then I never do like people with very white long hands. And I don’t like pussies.”

“Mr. Curle?”

“Oh! one of those elderly stooping men. There are so many of them about, you’d hardly know one from the other. He showed enthusiasm when talking about his musty books, but not at any other time. I don’t think Sir Ambrose knew him very well.”

“And Jerry next door?”

“A really charming boy. He was engaged to Sylvia. That’s what made it so sad.”

“Now I wonder—” began Miss Marple, and then stopped.

“What?”

“Nothing, dear.”

Sir Henry looked at the old lady curiously. Then he said thoughtfully:

“So this young couple were engaged. Had they been engaged long?”

“About a year. Sir Ambrose had opposed the engagement on the plea that Sylvia was too young. But after a year’s engagement he had given in and the marriage was to have taken place quite soon.”

“Ah! Had the young lady any property?”

“Next to nothing—a bare hundred or two a year.”

“No rat in that hole, Clithering,” said Colonel Bantry, and laughed.

“It’s the doctor’s turn to ask a question,” said Sir Henry. “I stand down.”

“My curiosity is mainly professional,” said Dr. Lloyd. “I should like to know what medical evidence was given at the inquest—that is, if our hostess remembers, or, indeed, if she knows.”

“I know roughly,” said Mrs. Bantry. “It was poisoning by digitalin—is that right?”

Dr. Lloyd nodded.

“The active principle of the foxglove—digitalis—acts on the heart. Indeed, it is a very valuable drug in some forms of heart trouble. A very curious case altogther. I would never have believed that eating a preparation of foxglove leaves could possibly result fatally. These ideas of eating poisonous leaves and berries are very much exaggerated. Very few people realize that the vital principle, or alkaloid, has to be extracted with much care and preparation.”

“Mrs. MacArthur sent some special bulbs round to Mrs. Toomie the other day,” said Miss Marple. “And Mrs. Toomie’s cook mistook them for onions, and all the Toomies were very ill indeed.”

“But they didn’t die of it,” said Dr. Lloyd.

“No. They didn’t die of it,” admitted Miss Marple.

“A girl I knew died of ptomaine poisoning,” said Jane Helier.

“We must get on with investigating the crime,” said Sir Henry.

“Crime?” said Jane, startled. “I thought it was an accident.”

“If it were an accident,” said Sir Henry gently, “I do not think Mrs. Bantry would have told us this story. No, as I read it, this was an accident only in appearance—behind it is something more sinister. I remember a case—various guests in a house party were chatting after dinner. The walls were adorned with all kinds of old-fashioned weapons. Entirely as a joke one of the party seized an ancient horse pistol and pointed it at another man, pretending to fire it. The pistol was loaded and went off, killing the man. We had to ascertain in that case, first, who had secretly prepared and loaded that pistol, and secondly who had so led and directed the conversation that that final bit of horseplay resulted—for the man who had fired the pistol was entirely innocent!

“It seems to me we have much the same problem here. Those digitalin leaves were deliberately mixed with the sage, knowing what the result would be. Since we exonerate the cook—we do exonerate the cook, don’t we?—the question arises: Who picked the leaves and delivered them to the kitchen?”

“That’s easily answered,” said Mrs. Bantry. “At least the last part of it is. It was Sylvia herself who took the leaves to the kitchen. It was part of her daily job to gather things like salad or herbs, bunches of young carrots—all the sort of things that gardeners never pick right. They hate giving you anything young and tender—they wait for them to be fine specimens. Sylvia and Mrs. Carpenter used to see to a lot of these things themselves. And there was foxglove actually growing all amongst the sage in one corner, so the mistake was quite natural.”

“But did Sylvia actually pick them herself?”

“That, nobody ever knew. It was assumed so.”

“Assumptions,” said Sir Henry, “are dangerous things.”

“But I do know that Mrs. Carpenter didn’t pick them,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Because, as it happened, she was walking with me on the terrace that morning. We went out there after breakfast. It was unusually nice and warm for early spring. Sylvia went alone down into the garden, but later I saw her walking arm-in-arm with Maud Wye.”

“So they were great friends, were they?” asked Miss Marple.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bantry. She seemed as though about to say something, but did not do so.

“Had she been staying there long?” asked Miss Marple.

“About a fortnight,” said Mrs. Bantry.

There was a note of trouble in her voice.

“You didn’t like Miss Wye?” suggested Sir Henry.

“I did. That’s just it. I did.”

The trouble in her voice had grown to distress.

“You’re keeping something back, Mrs. Bantry,” said Sir Henry accusingly.

“I wondered just now,” said Miss Marple, “but I didn’t like to go on.”

“When did you wonder?”

“When you said that the young people were engaged. You said that that was what made it so sad. But, if you know what I mean, your voice didn’t sound right when you said it—not convincing, you know.”

“What a dreadful person you are,” said Mrs. Bantry. “You always seem to know. Yes, I was thinking of something. But I don’t really know whether I ought to say it or not.”

“You must say it,” said Sir Henry. “Whatever your scruples, it mustn’t be kept back.”

“Well, it was just this,” said Mrs. Bantry. “One evening—in fact the very evening before the tragedy—I happened to go out on the terrace before dinner. The window in the drawing room was open. And as it chanced I saw Jerry Lorimer and Maud Wye. He was—well—kissing her. Of course I didn’t know whether it was just a sort of chance affair, or whether—well, I mean, one can’t tell. I knew Sir Ambrose never had really liked Jerry Lorimer—so perhaps he knew he was that kind of young man. But one thing I am sure of: that girl, Maud Wye, was really fond of him. You’d only to see her looking at him when she was off guard. And I think, too, they were really better suited than he and Sylvia were.”

“I am going to ask a question quickly, before Miss Marple can,” said Sir Henry. “I want to know whether, after the tragedy, Jerry Lorimer married Maud Wye?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bantry. “He did. Six months afterwards.”

“Oh! Scheherezade, Scheherezade,” said Sir Henry. “To think of the way you told us this story at first! Bare bones indeed—and to think of the amount of flesh we’re finding on them now.”

“Don’t speak so ghoulishly,” said Mrs. Bantry. “And don’t use the word flesh. Vegetarians always do. They say, ‘I never eat flesh’ in a way that puts you right off your little beefsteak. Mr. Curle was a vegetarian. He used to eat some peculiar stuff that looked like bran for breakfast. Those elderly stooping men with beards are often faddy. They have patent kinds of underwear, too.”

“What on earth, Dolly,” said her husband, “do you know about Mr. Curle’s underwear?”

“Nothing,” said Mrs. Bantry with dignity. “I was just making a guess.”

“I’ll amend my former statement,” said Sir Henry. “I’ll say instead that the dramatis personae in your problem are very interesting. I’m beginning to see them all—eh, Miss Marple?”

“Human nature is always interesting, Sir Henry. And it’s curious to see how certain types always tend to act in exactly the same way.”

“Two women and a man,” said Sir Henry. “The old eternal human triangle. Is that the base of our problem here? I rather fancy it is.”

Dr. Lloyd cleared his throat.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said rather diffidently. “Do you say, Mrs. Bantry, that you yourself were ill?”

“Was I not! So was Arthur! So was everyone!”

“That’s just it—everyone,” said the doctor. “You see what I mean? In Sir Henry’s story which he told us just now, one man shot another—he didn’t have to shoot the whole room full.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jane. “Who shot who?”

“I’m saying that whoever planned this thing went about it very curiously, either with a blind belief in chance, or else with an absolutely reckless disregard for human life. I can hardly believe there is a man capable of deliberately poisoning eight people with the object of removing one amongst them.”

“I see your point,” said Sir Henry, thoughtfully. “I confess I ought to have thought of that.”

“And mightn’t he have poisoned himself too?” asked Jane.

“Was anyone absent from dinner that night?” asked Miss Marple.

Mrs. Bantry shook her head.

“Everyone was there.”

“Except Mr. Lorimer, I suppose, my dear. He wasn’t staying in the house, was he?”

“No; but he was dining there that evening,” said Mrs. Bantry.

“Oh!” said Miss Marple in a changed voice. “That makes all the difference in the world.”

She frowned vexedly to herself.

“I’ve been very stupid,” she murmured. “Very stupid indeed.”

“I confess your point worries me, Lloyd,” said Sir Henry.

“How ensure that the girl, and the girl only, should get a fatal dose?”

“You can’t,” said the doctor. “That brings me to the point I’m going to make. Supposing the girl was not the intended victim after all?”

“What?”

“In all cases of food poisoning, the result is very uncertain. Several people share a dish. What happens? One or two are slightly ill, two more, say, are seriously indisposed, one dies. That’s the way of it—there’s no certainty anywhere. But there are cases where another factor might enter in. Digitalin is a drug that acts directly on the heart—as I’ve told you it’s prescribed in certain cases. Now, there was one person in that house who suffered from a heart complaint. Suppose he was the victim selected? What would not be fatal to the rest would be fatal to him—or so the murderer might reasonably suppose. That the thing turned out differently is only a proof of what I was saying just now—the uncertainty and unreliability of the effects of drugs on human beings.”

“Sir Ambrose,” said Sir Henry, “you think he was the person aimed at? Yes, yes—and the girl’s death was a mistake.”

“Who got his money after he was dead?” asked Jane.

“A very sound question, Miss Helier. One of the first we always ask in my late profession,” said Sir Henry.

“Sir Ambrose had a son,” said Mrs. Bantry slowly. “He had quarrelled with him many years previously. The boy was wild, I believe. Still, it was not in Sir Ambrose’s power to disinherit him—Clodderham Court was entailed. Martin Bercy succeeded to the title and estate. There was, however, a good deal of other property that Sir Ambrose could leave as he chose, and that he left to his ward Sylvia. I know this because Sir Ambrose died less than a year after the events I am telling you of, and he had not troubled to make a new will after Sylvia’s death. I think the money went to the Crown—or perhaps it was to his son as next of kin—I don’t really remember.”

“So it was only to the interest of a son who wasn’t there and the girl who died herself to make away with him,” said Sir Henry thoughtfully. “That doesn’t seem very promising.”

“Didn’t the other woman get anything?” asked Jane. “The one Mrs. Bantry calls the Pussy woman.”

“She wasn’t mentioned in the will,” said Mrs. Bantry.

“Miss Marple, you’re not listening,” said Sir Henry. “You’re somewhere faraway.”

“I was thinking of old Mr. Badger, the chemist,” said Miss Marple. “He had a very young housekeeper—young enough to be not only his daughter, but his granddaughter. Not a word to anyone, and his family, a lot of nephews and nieces, full of expectations. And when he died, would you believe it, he’d been secretly married to her for two years? Of course Mr. Badger was a chemist, and a very rude, common old man as well, and Sir Ambrose Bercy was a very courtly gentleman, so Mrs. Bantry says, but for all that human nature is much the same everywhere.”

There was a pause. Sir Henry looked very hard at Miss Marple who looked back at him with gently quizzical blue eyes. Jane Helier broke the silence.

“Was this Mrs. Carpenter good-looking?” she asked.

“Yes, in a very quiet way. Nothing startling.”

“She had a very sympathetic voice,” said Colonel Bantry.

“Purring—that’s what I call it,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Purring!”

“You’ll be called a cat yourself one of these days, Dolly.”

“I like being a cat in my home circle,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I don’t much like women anyway, and you know it. I like men and flowers.”

“Excellent taste,” said Sir Henry. “Especially in putting men first.”

“That was tact,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Well, now, what about my little problem? I’ve been quite fair, I think. Arthur, don’t you think I’ve been fair?”

“Yes, my dear. I don’t think there’ll be any inquiry into the running by the stewards of the Jockey Club.”

“First boy,” said Mrs. Bantry, pointing a finger at Sir Henry.

“I’m going to be long-winded. Because, you see, I haven’t really got any feeling of certainty about the matter. First, Sir Ambrose. Well, he wouldn’t take such an original method of committing suicide—and on the other hand he certainly had nothing to gain by the death of his ward. Exit Sir Ambrose. Mr. Curle. No motive for death of girl. If Sir Ambrose was intended victim, he might possibly have purloined a rare manuscript or two that no one else would miss. Very thin and most unlikely. So I think, that in spite of Mrs. Bantry’s suspicions as to his underclothing, Mr. Curle is cleared. Miss Wye. Motive for death of Sir Ambrose—none. Motive for death of Sylvia pretty strong. She wanted Sylvia’s young man, and wanted him rather badly—from Mrs. Bantry’s account. She was with Sylvia that morning in the garden, so had opportunity to pick leaves. No, we can’t dismiss Miss Wye so easily. Young Lorimer. He’s got a motive in either case. If he gets rid of his sweetheart, he can marry the other girl. Still it seems a bit drastic to kill her—what’s a broken engagement these days? If Sir Ambrose dies, he will marry a rich girl instead of a poor one. That might be important or not—depends on his financial position. If I find that his estate was heavily mortgaged and that Mrs. Bantry has deliberately withheld that fact from us, I shall claim a foul. Now Mrs. Carpenter. You know, I have suspicions of Mrs. Carpenter. Those white hands, for one thing, and her excellent alibi at the time the herbs were picked—I always distrust alibis. And I’ve got another reason for suspecting her which I will keep to myself. Still, on the whole, if I’ve got to plump, I shall plump for Miss Maude Wye, because there’s more evidence against her than anyone else.”

“Next boy,” said Mrs. Bantry, and pointed at Dr. Lloyd.

“I think you’re wrong, Clithering, in sticking to the theory that the girl’s death was meant. I am convinced that the murderer intended to do away with Sir Ambrose. I don’t think that young Lorimer had the necessary knowledge. I am inclined to believe that Mrs. Carpenter was the guilty party. She had been a long time with the family, knew all about the state of Sir Ambrose’s health, and could easily arrange for this girl Sylvia (who, you said yourself, was rather stupid) to pick the right leaves. Motive, I confess, I don’t see; but I hazard the guess that Sir Ambrose had at one time made a will in which she was mentioned. That’s the best I can do.”

Mrs. Bantry’s pointing finger went on to Jane Helier.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Jane, “except this: Why shouldn’t the girl herself have done it? She took the leaves into the kitchen after all. And you say Sir Ambrose had been sticking out against her marriage. If he died, she’d get the money and be able to marry at once. She’d know just as much about Sir Ambrose’s health as Mrs. Carpenter would.”

Mrs. Bantry’s finger came slowly round to Miss Marple.

“Now then, School Marm,” she said.

“Sir Henry has put it all very clearly—very clearly indeed,” said Miss Marple. “And Dr. Lloyd was so right in what he said. Between them they seem to have made things so very clear. Only I don’t think Dr. Lloyd quite realized one aspect of what he said. You see, not being Sir Ambrose’s medical adviser, he couldn’t know just what kind of heart trouble Sir Ambrose had, could he?”

“I don’t quite see what you mean, Miss Marple,” said Dr. Lloyd.

“You’re assuming—aren’t you?—that Sir Ambrose had the kind of heart that digitalin would affect adversely? But there’s nothing to prove that that’s so. It might be just the other way about.”

“The other way about?”

“Yes, you did say that it was often prescribed for heart trouble?”

“Even then, Miss Marple, I don’t see what that leads to?”

“Well, it would mean that he would have digitalin in his possession quite naturally—without having to account for it. What I am trying to say (I always express myself so badly) is this: Supposing you wanted to poison anyone with a fatal dose of digitalin. Wouldn’t the simplest and easiest way be to arrange for everyone to be poisoned—actually by digitalin leaves? It wouldn’t be fatal in anyone else’s case, of course, but no one would be surprised at one victim because, as Dr. Lloyd said, these things are so uncertain. No one would be likely to ask whether the girl had actually had a fatal dose of infusion of digitalis or something of that kind. He might have put it in a cocktail, or in her coffee or even made her drink it quite simply as a tonic.”

“You mean Sir Ambrose poisoned his ward, the charming girl whom he loved?”

“That’s just it,” said Miss Marple. “Like Mr. Badger and his young housekeeper. Don’t tell me it’s absurd for a man of sixty to fall in love with a girl of twenty. It happens every day—and I dare say with an old autocrat like Sir Ambrose, it might take him queerly. These things become a madness sometimes. He couldn’t bear the thought of her getting married—did his best to oppose it—and failed. His mad jealousy became so great that he preferred killing her to letting her go to young Lorimer. He must have thought of it sometime beforehand, because that foxglove seed would have to be sown among the sage. He’d pick it himself when the time came, and send her into the kitchen with it. It’s horrible to think of, but I suppose we must take as merciful a view of it as we can. Gentlemen of that age are sometimes very peculiar indeed where young girls are concerned. Our last organist—but there, I mustn’t talk scandal.”

“Mrs. Bantry,” said Sir Henry. “Is this so?”

Mrs. Bantry nodded.

“Yes. I’d no idea of it—never dreamed of the thing being anything but an accident. Then, after Sir Ambrose’s death, I got a letter. He had left directions to send it to me. He told me the truth in it. I don’t know why—but he and I always got on very well together.”

In the momentary silence, she seemed to feel an unspoken criticism and went on hastily:

“You think I’m betraying a confidence—but that isn’t so. I’ve changed all the names. He wasn’t really called Sir Ambrose Bercy. Didn’t you see how Arthur stared stupidly when I said that name to him? He didn’t understand at first. I’ve changed everything. It’s like they say in magazines and in the beginning of books: ‘All the characters in this story are purely fictitious.’ You never know who they really are.”

Twelve

THE AFFAIR AT THE BUNGALOW

“I’ve thought of something,” said Jane Helier.

Her beautiful face was lit up with the confident smile of a child expecting approbation. It was a smile such as moved audiences nightly in London, and which had made the fortunes of photographers.

“It happened,” she went on carefully, “to a friend of mine.”

Everyone made encouraging but slightly hypocritical noises. Colonel Bantry, Mrs. Bantry, Sir Henry Clithering, Dr. Lloyd and old Miss Marple were one and all convinced that Jane’s “friend” was Jane herself. She would have been quite incapable of remembering or taking an interest in anything affecting anyone else.

“My friend,” went on Jane, “(I won’t mention her name) was an actress—a very well-known actress.”

No one expressed surprise. Sir Henry Clithering thought to himself: “Now I wonder how many sentences it will be before she forgets to keep up the fiction, and says ‘I’ instead of ‘She?’”

“My friend was on tour in the provinces—this was a year or two ago. I suppose I’d better not give the name of the place. It was a riverside town not very far from London. I’ll call it—”

She paused, her brows perplexed in thought. The invention of even a simple name appeared to be too much for her. Sir Henry came to the rescue.

“Shall we call it Riverbury?” he suggested gravely.

“Oh, yes, that would do splendidly. Riverbury, I’ll remember that. Well, as I say, this—my friend—was at Riverbury with her company, and a very curious thing happened.”

She puckered her brows again.

“It’s very difficult,” she said plaintively, “to say just what you want. One gets things mixed up and tells the wrong things first.”

“You’re doing it beautifully,” said Dr. Lloyd encouragingly. “Go on.”

“Well, this curious thing happened. My friend was sent for to the police station. And she went. It seemed there had been a burglary at a riverside bungalow and they’d arrested a young man, and he told a very odd story. And so they sent for her.

“She’d never been to a police station before, but they were very nice to her—very nice indeed.”

“They would be, I’m sure,” said Sir Henry.

“The sergeant—I think it was a sergeant—or it may have been an inspector—gave her a chair and explained things, and of course I saw at once that it was some mistake—”

“Aha,” thought Sir Henry. “I. Here we are. I thought as much.”

“My friend said so,” continued Jane, serenely unconscious of her self-betrayal. “She explained she had been rehearsing with her understudy at the hotel and that she’d never even heard of this Mr. Faulkener. And the sergeant said, ‘Miss Hel—’”

She stopped and flushed.

“Miss Helman,” suggested Sir Henry with a twinkle.

“Yes—yes, that would do. Thank you. He said, ‘Well, Miss Helman, I felt it must be some mistake, knowing that you were stopping at the Bridge Hotel,’ and he said would I have any objection to confronting—or was it being confronted? I can’t remember.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” said Sir Henry reassuringly.

“Anyway, with the young man. So I said, ‘Of course not.’ And they brought him and said, ‘This is Miss Helier,’ and—Oh!” Jane broke off openmouthed.

“Never mind, my dear,” said Miss Marple consolingly. “We were bound to guess, you know. And you haven’t given us the name of the place or anything that really matters.”

“Well,” said Jane. “I did mean to tell it as though it happened to someone else. But it is difficult, isn’t it! I mean one forgets so.”

Everyone assured her that it was very difficult, and soothed and reassured, she went on with her slightly involved narrative.

“He was a nice-looking man—quite a nice-looking man. Young, with reddish hair. His mouth just opened when he saw me. And the sergeant said, ‘Is this the lady?’ And he said, ‘No, indeed it isn’t. What an ass I have been.’ And I smiled at him and said it didn’t matter.”

“I can picture the scene,” said Sir Henry.

Jane Helier frowned.

“Let me see—how had I better go on?”

“Supposing you tell us what it was all about, dear,” said Miss Marple, so mildly that no one could suspect her of irony. “I mean what the young man’s mistake was, and about the burglary.”

“Oh, yes,” said Jane. “Well, you see, this young man—Leslie Faulkener, his name was—had written a play. He’d written several plays, as a matter of fact, though none of them had ever been taken. And he had sent this particular play to me to read. I didn’t know about it, because of course I have hundreds of plays sent to me and I read very few of them myself—only the ones I know something about. Anyway, there it was, and it seems that Mr. Faulkener got a letter from me—only it turned out not to be really from me—you understand—”

She paused anxiously, and they assured her that they understood.

“Saying that I’d read the play, and liked it very much and would he come down and talk it over with me. And it gave the address—The Bungalow, Riverbury. So Mr. Faulkener was frightfully pleased and he came down and arrived at this place—The Bungalow. A parlourmaid opened the door, and he asked for Miss Helier, and she said Miss Helier was in and expecting him and showed him into the drawing room, and there a woman came to him. And he accepted her as me as a matter of course—which seems queer because after all he had seen me act and my photographs are very well-known, aren’t they?”

“Over the length and breadth of England,” said Mrs. Bantry promptly. “But there’s often a lot of difference between a photograph and its original, my dear Jane. And there’s a great deal of difference between behind the footlights and off the stage. It’s not every actress who stands the test as well as you do, remember.”

“Well,” said Jane slightly mollified, “that may be so. Anyway, he described this woman as tall and fair with big blue eyes and very good-looking, so I suppose it must have been near enough. He certainly had no suspicions. She sat down and began talking about his play and said she was anxious to do it. Whilst they were talking cocktails were brought in and Mr. Faulkener had one as a matter of course. Well—that’s all he remembers—having this cocktail. When he woke up, or came to himself, or whatever you call it—he was lying out in the road, by the hedge, of course, so that there would be no danger of his being run over. He felt very queer and shaky—so much so that he just got up and staggered along the road not quite knowing where he was going. He said if he’d had his sense about him he’d have gone back to The Bungalow and tried to find out what had happened. But he felt just stupid and mazed and walked along without quite knowing what he was doing. He was just more or less coming to himself when the police arrested him.”

“Why did the police arrest him?” asked Dr. Lloyd.

“Oh! didn’t I tell you?” said Jane opening her eyes very wide. “How very stupid I am. The burglary.”

“You mentioned a burglary—but you didn’t say where or what or why,” said Mrs. Bantry.

“Well, this bungalow—the one he went to, of course—it wasn’t mine at all. It belonged to a man whose name was—”

Again Jane furrowed her brows.

“Do you want me to be godfather again?” asked Sir Henry. “Pseudonyms supplied free of charge. Describe the tenant and I’ll do the naming.”

“It was taken by a rich city man—a knight.”

“Sir Herman Cohen,” suggested Sir Henry.

“That will do beautifully. He took it for a lady—she was the wife of an actor, and she was also an actress herself.”

“We’ll call the actor Claud Leason,” said Sir Henry, “and the lady would be known by her stage name, I suppose, so we’ll call her Miss Mary Kerr.”

“I think you’re awfully clever,” said Jane. “I don’t know how you think of these things so easily. Well, you see this was a sort of weekend cottage for Sir Herman—did you say Herman?—and the lady. And, of course, his wife knew nothing about it.”

“Which is so often the case,” said Sir Henry.

“And he’d given this actress woman a good deal of jewellery including some very fine emeralds.”

“Ah!” said Dr. Lloyd. “Now we’re getting at it.”

“This jewellery was at the bungalow, just locked up in a jewel case. The police said it was very careless—anyone might have taken it.”

“You see, Dolly,” said Colonel Bantry. “What do I always tell you?”

“Well, in my experience,” said Mrs. Bantry, “it’s always the people who are so dreadfully careful who lose things. I don’t lock mine up in a jewel case—I keep it in a drawer loose, under my stockings. I dare say if—what’s her name?—Mary Kerr had done the same, it would never have been stolen.”

“It would,” said Jane, “because all the drawers were burst open, and the contents strewn about.”

“Then they weren’t really looking for jewels,” said Mrs. Bantry. “They were looking for secret papers. That’s what always happens in books.”

“I don’t know about secret papers,” said Jane doubtfully. “I never heard of any.”

“Don’t be distracted, Miss Helier,” said Colonel Bantry. “Dolly’s wild red-herrings are not to be taken seriously.”

“About the burglary,” said Sir Henry.

“Yes. Well, the police were rung up by someone who said she was Miss Mary Kerr. She said the bungalow had been burgled and described a young man with red hair who had called there that morning. Her maid had thought there was something odd about him and had refused him admittance, but later they had seen him getting out through a window. She described the man so accurately that the police arrested him only an hour later and then he told his story and showed them the letter from me. And as I told you, they fetched me and when he saw me he said what I told you—that it hadn’t been me at all!”

“A very curious story,” said Dr. Lloyd. “Did Mr. Faulkener know this Miss Kerr?”

“No, he didn’t—or he said he didn’t. But I haven’t told you the most curious part yet. The police went to the bungalow of course, and they found everything as described—drawers pulled out and jewels gone, but the whole place was empty. It wasn’t till some hours later that Mary Kerr came back, and when she did she said she’d never rung them up at all and this was the first she’d heard of it. It seemed that she had had a wire that morning from a manager offering her a most important part and making an appointment, so she had naturally rushed up to town to keep it. When she got there, she found that the whole thing was a hoax. No telegram had ever been sent.”

“A common enough ruse to get her out of the way,” commented Sir Henry. “What about the servants?”

“The same sort of thing happened there. There was only one, and she was rung up on the telephone—apparently by Mary Kerr, who said she had left a most important thing behind. She directed the maid to bring up a certain handbag which was in the drawer of her bedroom. She was to catch the first train. The maid did so, of course locking up the house; but when she arrived at Miss Kerr’s club, where she had been told to meet her mistress, she waited there in vain.”

“H’m,” said Sir Henry. “I begin to see. The house was left empty, and to make an entry by one of the windows would present few difficulties, I should imagine. But I don’t quite see where Mr. Faulkener comes in. Who did ring up the police, if it wasn’t Miss Kerr?”

“That’s what nobody knew or ever found out.”

“Curious,” said Sir Henry. “Did the young man turn out to be genuinely the person he said he was?”

“Oh, yes, that part of it was all right. He’d even got the letter which was supposed to be written by me. It wasn’t the least bit like my handwriting—but then, of course, he couldn’t be supposed to know that.”

“Well, let’s state the position clearly,” said Sir Henry. “Correct me if I go wrong. The lady and the maid are decoyed from the house. This young man is decoyed down there by means of a bogus letter—colour being lent to this last by the fact that you actually are performing at Riverbury that week. The young man is doped, and the police are rung up and have their suspicions directed against him. A burglary actually has taken place. I presume the jewels were taken?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Were they ever recovered?”

“No, never. I think, as a matter of fact, Sir Herman tried to hush things up all he knew how. But he couldn’t manage it, and I rather fancy his wife started divorce proceedings in consequence. Still, I don’t really know about that.”

“What happened to Mr. Leslie Faulkener?”

“He was released in the end. The police said they hadn’t really got enough against him. Don’t you think the whole thing was rather odd?”

“Distinctly odd. The first question is whose story to believe? In telling it, Miss Helier, I noticed that you incline towards believing Mr. Faulkener. Have you any reason for doing so beyond your own instinct in the matter?”

“No-no,” said Jane unwillingly. “I suppose I haven’t. But he was so very nice, and so apologetic for having mistaken anyone else for me, that I feel sure he must have been telling the truth.”

“I see,” said Sir Henry smiling. “But you must admit that he could have invented the story quite easily. He could write the letter purporting to be from you himself. He could also dope himself after successfully committing the burglary. But I confess I don’t see where the point of all that would be. Easier to enter the house, help himself, and disappear quietly—unless just possibly he was observed by someone in the neighbourhood and knew himself to have been observed. Then he might hastily concoct this plan for diverting suspicion from himself and accounting for his presence in the neighbourhood.”

“Was he well-off?” asked Miss Marple.

“I don’t think so,” said Jane. “No, I believe he was rather hard up.”

“The whole thing seems curious,” said Dr. Lloyd. “I must confess that if we accept the young man’s story as true, it seems to make the case very much more difficult. Why should the unknown woman who pretended to be Miss Helier drag this unknown man into the affair? Why should she stage such an elaborate comedy?”

“Tell me, Jane,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Did young Faulkener ever come face to face with Mary Kerr at any stage of the proceedings?”

“I don’t quite know,” said Jane slowly, as she puzzled her brows in remembrance.

“Because if he didn’t the case is solved!” said Mrs. Bantry. “I’m sure I’m right. What is easier than to pretend you’re called up to town? You telephone to your maid from Paddington or whatever station you arrive at, and as she comes up to town, you go down again. The young man calls by appointment, he’s doped, you set the stage for the burglary, overdoing it as much as possible. You telephone the police, give a description of your scapegoat, and off you go to town again. Then you arrive home by a later train and do the surprised innocent.”

“But why should she steal her own jewels, Dolly?”

“They always do,” said Mrs. Bantry. “And anyway, I can think of hundreds of reasons. She may have wanted money at once—old Sir Herman wouldn’t give her the cash, perhaps, so she pretends the jewels are stolen and then sells them secretly. Or she may have been being blackmailed by someone who threatened to tell her husband or Sir Herman’s wife. Or she may have already sold the jewels and Sir Herman was getting ratty and asking to see them, so she had to do something about it. That’s done a good deal in books. Or perhaps she was going to have them reset and she’d got paste replicas. Or—here’s a very good idea—and not so much done in books—she pretends they are stolen, gets in an awful state and he gives her a fresh lot. So she gets two lots instead of one. That kind of woman, I am sure, is most frightfully artful.”

“You are clever, Dolly,” said Jane admiringly. “I never thought of that.”

“You may be clever, but she doesn’t say you’re right,” said Colonel Bantry. “I incline to suspicion of the city gentleman. He’d know the sort of telegram to get the lady out of the way, and he could manage the rest easily enough with the help of a new lady friend. Nobody seems to have thought of asking him for an alibi.”

“What do you think, Miss Marple?” asked Jane, turning towards the old lady who had sat silent, a puzzled frown on her face.

“My dear, I really don’t know what to say. Sir Henry will laugh, but I recall no village parallel to help me this time. Of course there are several questions that suggest themselves. For instance, the servant question. In—ahem—an irregular ménage of the kind you describe, the servant employed would doubtless be perfectly aware of the state of things, and a really nice girl would not take such a place—her mother wouldn’t let her for a minute. So I think we can assume that the maid was not a really trustworthy character. She may have been in league with the thieves. She would leave the house open for them and actually go to London as though sure of the pretence telephone message so as to divert suspicion from herself. I must confess that that seems the most probable solution. Only if ordinary thieves were concerned it seems very odd. It seems to argue more knowledge than a maidservant was likely to have.”

Miss Marple paused and then went on dreamily:

“I can’t help feeling that there was some—well, what I must describe as personal feeling about the whole thing. Supposing somebody had a spite, for instance? A young actress that he hadn’t treated well? Don’t you think that that would explain things better? A deliberate attempt to get him into trouble. That’s what it looks like. And yet—that’s not entirely satisfactory. . . .”

“Why, doctor, you haven’t said anything,” said Jane. “I’d forgotten you.”

“I’m always getting forgotten,” said the grizzled doctor sadly. “I must have a very inconspicuous personality.”

“Oh, no!” said Jane. “Do tell us what you think.”

“I’m rather in the position of agreeing with everyone’s solutions—and yet with none of them. I myself have a far-fetched and probably totally erroneous theory that the wife may have had something to do with it. Sir Herman’s wife, I mean. I’ve no grounds for thinking so—only you would be surprised if you knew the extraordinary—really very extraordinary things that a wronged wife will take it into her head to do.”

“Oh! Dr. Lloyd,” cried Miss Marple excitedly. “How clever of you. And I never thought of poor Mrs. Pebmarsh.”

Jane stared at her.

“Mrs. Pebmarsh? Who is Mrs. Pebmarsh?”

“Well—” Miss Marple hesitated. “I don’t know that she really comes in. She’s a laundress. And she stole an opal pin that was pinned into a blouse and put it in another woman’s house.”

Jane looked more fogged than ever.

“And that makes it all perfectly clear to you, Miss Marple?” said Sir Henry, with his twinkle.

But to his surprise Miss Marple shook her head.

“No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. I must confess myself completely at a loss. What I do realize is that women must stick together—one should, in an emergency, stand by one’s own sex. I think that’s the moral of the story Miss Helier has told us.”

“I must confess that that particular ethical significance of the mystery has escaped me,” said Sir Henry gravely. “Perhaps I shall see the significance of your point more clearly when Miss Helier has revealed the solution.”

“Eh?” said Jane looking rather bewildered.

“I was observing that, in childish language, we ‘give it up.’ You and you alone, Miss Helier, have had the high honour of presenting such an absolutely baffling mystery that even Miss Marple has to confess herself defeated.”

“You all give it up?” asked Jane.

“Yes.” After a minute’s silence during which he waited for the others to speak, Sir Henry constituted himself spokesman once more. “That is to say we stand or fall by the sketchy solutions we have tentatively advanced. One each for the mere men, two for Miss Marple, and a round dozen from Mrs. B.”

“It was not a dozen,” said Mrs. Bantry. “They were variations on a main theme. And how often am I to tell you that I will not be called Mrs. B?”

“So you all give it up,” said Jane thoughtfully. “That’s very interesting.”

She leaned back in her chair and began to polish her nails rather absentmindedly.

“Well,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Come on, Jane. What is the solution?”

“The solution?”

“Yes. What really happened?”

Jane stared at her.

“I haven’t the least idea.”

“What?”

“I’ve always wondered. I thought you were all so clever one of you would be able to tell me.”

Everybody harboured feelings of annoyance. It was all very well for Jane to be so beautiful—but at this moment everyone felt that stupidity could be carried too far. Even the most transcendent loveliness could not excuse it.

“You mean the truth was never discovered?” said Sir Henry.

“No. That’s why, as I say, I did think you would be able to tell me.”

Jane sounded injured. It was plain that she felt she had a grievance.

“Well—I’m—I’m—” said Colonel Bantry, words failing him.

“You are the most aggravating girl, Jane,” said his wife. “Anyway, I’m sure and always will be that I was right. If you just tell us the proper names of the people, I shall be quite sure.”

“I don’t think I could do that,” said Jane slowly.

“No, dear,” said Miss Marple. “Miss Helier couldn’t do that.”

“Of course she could,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Don’t be so high-minded, Jane. We older folk must have a bit of scandal. At any rate tell us who the city magnate was.”

But Jane shook her head, and Miss Marple, in her old-fashioned way, continued to support the girl.

“It must have been a very distressing business,” she said.

“No,” said Jane truthfully. “I think—I think I rather enjoyed it.”

“Well, perhaps you did,” said Miss Marple. “I suppose it was a break in the monotony. What play were you acting in?”

“Smith.”

“Oh, yes. That’s one of Mr. Somerset Maugham’s, isn’t it? All his are very clever, I think. I’ve seen them nearly all.”

“You’re reviving it to go on tour next autumn, aren’t you?” asked Mrs. Bantry.

Jane nodded.

“Well,” said Miss Marple rising. “I must go home. Such late hours! But we’ve had a very entertaining evening. Most unusually so. I think Miss Helier’s story wins the prize. Don’t you agree?”

“I’m sorry you’re angry with me,” said Jane. “About not knowing the end, I mean. I suppose I should have said so sooner.”

Her tone sounded wistful. Dr. Lloyd rose gallantly to the occasion.

“My dear young lady, why should you? You gave us a very pretty problem to sharpen our wits on. I am only sorry we could none of us solve it convincingly.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I did solve it. I’m convinced I am right.”

“Do you know, I really believe you are,” said Jane. “What you said sounded so probable.”

“Which of her seven solutions do you refer to?” asked Sir Henry teasingly.

Dr. Lloyd gallantly assisted Miss Marple to put on her goloshes. “Just in case,” as the old lady explained. The doctor was to be her escort to her old-world cottage. Wrapped in several woollen shawls, Miss Marple wished everyone good night once more. She came to Jane Helier last and leaning forward, she murmured something in the actress’s ear. A startled “Oh!” burst from Jane—so loud as to cause the others to turn their heads.

Smiling and nodding, Miss Marple made her exit, Jane Helier staring after her.

“Are you coming to bed, Jane?” asked Mrs. Bantry. “What’s the matter with you? You’re staring as though you’d seen a ghost.”

With a deep sigh Jane came to herself, shed a beautiful and bewildering smile on the two men and followed her hostess up the staircase. Mrs. Bantry came into the girl’s room with her.

“Your fire’s nearly out,” said Mrs. Bantry, giving it a vicious and ineffectual poke. “They can’t have made it up properly. How stupid housemaids are. Still, I suppose we are rather late tonight. Why, it’s actually past one o’clock!”

“Do you think there are many people like her?” asked Jane Helier.

She was sitting on the side of the bed apparently wrapped in thought.

“Like the housemaid?”

“No. Like that funny old woman—what’s her name—Marple?”

“Oh! I don’t know. I suppose she’s a fairly common type in a small village.”

“Oh dear,” said Jane. “I don’t know what to do.”

She sighed deeply.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m worried.”

“What about?”

“Dolly,” Jane Helier was portentously solemn. “Do you know what that queer old lady whispered to me before she went out of the door tonight?”

“No. What?”

“She said: ‘I shouldn’t do it if I were you, my dear. Never put yourself too much in another woman’s power, even if you do think she’s your friend at the moment.’ You know, Dolly, that’s awfully true.”

“The maxim? Yes, perhaps it is. But I don’t see the application.”

“I suppose you can’t ever really trust a woman. And I should be in her power. I never thought of that.”

“What woman are you talking about?”

“Netta Greene, my understudy.”

“What on earth does Miss Marple know about your understudy?”

“I suppose she guessed—but I can’t see how.”

“Jane, will you kindly tell me at once what you are talking about?”

“The story. The one I told. Oh, Dolly, that woman, you know—the one that took Claud from me?”

Mrs. Bantry nodded, casting her mind back rapidly to the first of Jane’s unfortunate marriages—to Claud Averbury, the actor.

“He married her; and I could have told him how it would be. Claud doesn’t know, but she’s carrying on with Sir Joseph Salmon—weekends with him at the bungalow I told you about. I wanted her shown up—I would like everyone to know the sort of woman she was. And you see, with a burglary, everything would be bound to come out.”

“Jane!” gasped Mrs. Bantry. “Did you engineer this story you’ve been telling us?”

Jane nodded.

“That’s why I chose Smith. I wear parlourmaid’s kit in it, you know. So I should have it handy. And when they sent for me to the police station it’s the easiest thing in the world to say I was rehearsing my part with my understudy at the hotel. Really, of course, we would be at the bungalow. I just have to open the door and bring in the cocktails, and Netta to pretend to be me. He’d never see her again, of course, so there would be no fear of his recognizing her. And I can make myself look quite different as a parlourmaid; and besides, one doesn’t look at parlourmaids as though they were people. We planned to drag him out into the road afterwards, bag the jewel case, telephone the police and get back to the hotel. I shouldn’t like the poor young man to suffer, but Sir Henry didn’t seem to think he would, did he? And she’d be in the papers and everything—and Claud would see what she was really like.”

Mrs. Bantry sat down and groaned.

“Oh! my poor head. And all the time—Jane Helier, you deceitful girl! Telling us that story the way you did!”

“I am a good actress,” said Jane complacently. “I always have been, whatever people choose to say. I didn’t give myself away once, did I?”

“Miss Marple was right,” murmured Mrs. Bantry. “The personal element. Oh, yes, the personal element. Jane, my good child, do you realize that theft is theft, and you might have been sent to prison?”

“Well, none of you guessed,” said Jane. “Except Miss Marple.” The worried expression returned to her face. “Dolly, do you really think there are many like her?”

“Frankly, I don’t,” said Mrs. Bantry.

Jane sighed again.

“Still, one had better not risk it. And of course I should be in Netta’s power—that’s true enough. She might turn against me or blackmail me or anything. She helped me think out the details and she professed to be devoted to me, but one never does know with women. No, I think Miss Marple was right. I had better not risk it.”

“But, my dear, you have risked it.”

“Oh, no.” Jane opened her blue eyes very wide. “Don’t you understand? None of this has happened yet! I was—well, trying it on the dog, so to speak.”

“I don’t profess to understand your theatrical slang,” said Mrs. Bantry with dignity. “Do you mean this is a future project—not a past deed?”

“I was going to do it this autumn—in September. I don’t know what to do now.”

“And Jane Marple guessed—actually guessed the truth and never told us,” said Mrs. Bantry wrathfully.

“I think that was why she said that—about women sticking together. She wouldn’t give me away before the men. That was nice of her. I don’t mind your knowing, Dolly.”

“Well, give the idea up, Jane. I beg of you.”

“I think I shall,” murmured Miss Helier. “There might be other Miss Marples. . . .”

Thirteen

DEATH BY DROWNING

Sir Henry Clithering, Ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard, was staying with his friends the Bantrys at their place near the little village of St. Mary Mead.

On Saturday morning, coming down to breakfast at the pleasant guestly hour of ten-fifteen, he almost collided with his hostess, Mrs. Bantry, in the doorway of the breakfast room. She was rushing from the room, evidently in a condition of some excitement and distress.

Colonel Bantry was sitting at the table, his face rather redder than usual.

“‘Morning, Clithering,” he said. “Nice day. Help yourself.”

Sir Henry obeyed. As he took his seat, a plate of kidneys and bacon in front of him, his host went on:

“Dolly’s a bit upset this morning.”

“Yes—er—I rather thought so,” said Sir Henry mildly.

He wondered a little. His hostess was of a placid disposition, little given to moods or excitement. As far as Sir Henry knew, she felt keenly on one subject only—gardening.

“Yes,” said Colonel Bantry. “Bit of news we got this morning upset her. Girl in the village—Emmott’s daughter—Emmott who keeps the Blue Boar.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“Ye-es,” said Colonel Bantry ruminatively. “Pretty girl. Got herself into trouble. Usual story. I’ve been arguing with Dolly about that. Foolish of me. Women never see sense. Dolly was all up in arms for the girl—you know what women are—men are brutes—all the rest of it, etcetera. But it’s not so simple as all that—not in these days. Girls know what they’re about. Fellow who seduces a girl’s not necessarily a villain. Fifty-fifty as often as not. I rather liked young Sandford myself. A young ass rather than a Don Juan, I should have said.”

“It is this man Sandford who got the girl into trouble?”

“So it seems. Of course I don’t know anything personally,” said the Colonel cautiously. “It’s all gossip and chat. You know what this place is! As I say, I know nothing. And I’m not like Dolly—leaping to conclusions, flinging accusations all over the place. Damn it all, one ought to be careful in what one says. You know—inquest and all that.”

“Inquest?”

Colonel Bantry stared.

“Yes. Didn’t I tell you? Girl drowned herself. That’s what all the pother’s about.”

“That’s a nasty business,” said Sir Henry.

“Of course it is. Don’t like to think of it myself. Poor pretty little devil. Her father’s a hard man by all accounts. I suppose she just felt she couldn’t face the music.”

He paused.

“That’s what’s upset Dolly so.”

“Where did she drown herself?”

“In the river. Just below the mill it runs pretty fast. There’s a footpath and a bridge across. They think she threw herself off that. Well, well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

And with a portentous rustle, Colonel Bantry opened his newspaper and proceeded to distract his mind from painful matters by an absorption in the newest iniquities of the government.

Sir Henry was only mildly interested by the village tragedy. After breakfast, he established himself on a comfortable chair on the lawn, tilted his hat over his eyes and contemplated life from a peaceful angle.

It was about half past eleven when a neat parlourmaid tripped across the lawn.

“If you please, sir, Miss Marple has called, and would like to see you.”

“Miss Marple?”

Sir Henry sat up and straightened his hat. The name surprised him. He remembered Miss Marple very well—her gentle quiet old-maidish ways, her amazing penetration. He remembered a dozen unsolved and hypothetical cases—and how in each case this typical “old maid of the village” had leaped unerringly to the right solution of the mystery. Sir Henry had a very deep respect for Miss Marple. He wondered what had brought her to see him.

Miss Marple was sitting in the drawing room—very upright as always, a gaily coloured marketing basket of foreign extraction beside her. Her cheeks were rather pink and she seemed flustered.

“Sir Henry—I am so glad. So fortunate to find you. I just happened to hear that you were staying down here . . . I do hope you will forgive me. . . .”

“This is a great pleasure,” said Sir Henry, taking her hand. “I’m afraid Mrs. Bantry’s out.”

“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I saw her talking to Footit, the butcher, as I passed. Henry Footit was run over yesterday—that was his dog. One of those smooth-haired fox terriers, rather stout and quarrelsome, that butchers always seem to have.”

“Yes,” said Sir Henry helpfully.

“I was glad to get here when she wasn’t at home,” continued Miss Marple. “Because it was you I wanted to see. About this sad affair.”

“Henry Footit?” asked Sir Henry, slightly bewildered.

Miss Marple threw him a reproachful glance.

“No, no. Rose Emmott, of course. You’ve heard?”

Sir Henry nodded.

“Bantry was telling me. Very sad.”

He was a little puzzled. He could not conceive why Miss Marple should want to see him about Rose Emmott.

Miss Marple sat down again. Sir Henry also sat. When the old lady spoke her manner had changed. It was grave, and had a certain dignity.

“You may remember, Sir Henry, that on one or two occasions we played what was really a pleasant kind of game. Propounding mysteries and giving solutions. You were kind enough to say that I—that I did not do too badly.”

“You beat us all,” said Sir Henry warmly. “You displayed an absolute genius for getting to the truth. And you always instanced, I remember, some village parallel which had supplied you with the clue.”

He smiled as he spoke, but Miss Marple did not smile. She remained very grave.

“What you said has emboldened me to come to you now. I feel that if I say something to you—at least you will not laugh at me.”

He realized suddenly that she was in deadly earnest.

“Certainly, I will not laugh,” he said gently.

“Sir Henry—this girl—Rose Emmott. She did not drown herself—she was murdered . . . And I know who murdered her.”

Sir Henry was silent with sheer astonishment for quite three seconds. Miss Marple’s voice had been perfectly quiet and unexcited. She might have been making the most ordinary statement in the world for all the emotion she showed.

“This is a very serious statement to make, Miss Marple,” said Sir Henry when he had recovered his breath.

She nodded her head gently several times.

“I know—I know—that is why I have come to you.”

“But, my dear lady, I am not the person to come to. I am merely a private individual nowadays. If you have knowledge of the kind you claim, you must go to the police.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” said Miss Marple.

“But why not?”

“Because, you see, I haven’t got any—what you call knowledge.”

“You mean it’s only a guess on your part?”

“You can call it that, if you like, but it’s not really that at all. I know. I’m in a position to know; but if I gave my reasons for knowing to Inspector Drewitt—well, he’d simply laugh. And really, I don’t know that I’d blame him. It’s very difficult to understand what you might call specialized knowledge.”

“Such as?” suggested Sir Henry.

Miss Marple smiled a little.

“If I were to tell you that I know because of a man called Pease-good leaving turnips instead of carrots when he came round with a cart and sold vegetables to my niece several years ago—”

She stopped eloquently.

“A very appropriate name for the trade,” murmured Sir Henry. “You mean that you are simply judging from the facts in a parallel case.”

“I know human nature,” said Miss Marple. “It’s impossible not to know human nature living in a village all these years. The question is, do you believe me, or don’t you?”

She looked at him very straight. The pink flush had heightened on her cheeks. Her eyes met his steadily without wavering.

Sir Henry was a man with a very vast experience of life. He made his decisions quickly without beating about the bush. Unlikely and fantastic as Miss Marple’s statement might seem, he was instantly aware that he accepted it.

“I do believe you, Miss Marple. But I do not see what you want me to do in the matter, or why you have come to me.”

“I have thought and thought about it,” said Miss Marple. “As I said, it would be useless going to the police without any facts. I have no facts. What I would ask you to do is to interest yourself in the matter—Inspector Drewitt would be most flattered, I am sure. And, of course, if the matter went farther, Colonel Melchett, the Chief Constable, I am sure, would be wax in your hands.”

She looked at him appealingly.

“And what data are you going to give me to work upon?”

“I thought,” said Miss Marple, “of writing a name—the name—on a piece of paper and giving it to you. Then if, on investigation, you decided that the—the person—is not involved in any way—well, I shall have been quite wrong.”

She paused and then added with a slight shiver. “It would be so dreadful—so very dreadful—if an innocent person were to be hanged.”

“What on earth—” cried Sir Henry, startled.

She turned a distressed face upon him.

“I may be wrong about that—though I don’t think so. Inspector Drewitt, you see, is really an intelligent man. But a mediocre amount of intelligence is sometimes most dangerous. It does not take one far enough.”

Sir Henry looked at her curiously.

Fumbling a little, Miss Marple opened a small reticule, took out a little notebook, tore out a leaf, carefully wrote a name on it and folding it in two, handed it to Sir Henry.

He opened it and read the name. It conveyed nothing to him, but his eyebrows lifted a little. He looked across at Miss Marple and tucked the piece of paper in his pocket.

“Well, well,” he said. “Rather an extraordinary business, this. I’ve never done anything like it before. But I’m going to back my judgment—of you, Miss Marple.”

Sir Henry was sitting in a room with Colonel Melchett, the Chief Constable of the county, and Inspector Drewitt.

The Chief Constable was a little man of aggressively military demeanour. The Inspector was big and broad and eminently sensible.

“I really do feel I’m butting in,” said Sir Henry with his pleasant smile. “I can’t really tell you why I’m doing it.” (Strict truth this!)

“My dear fellow, we’re charmed. It’s a great compliment.”

“Honoured, Sir Henry,” said the Inspector.

The Chief Constable was thinking: “Bored to death, poor fellow, at the Bantrys. The old man abusing the government and the old woman babbling on about bulbs.”

The Inspector was thinking: “Pity we’re not up against a real teaser. One of the best brains in England, I’ve heard it said. Pity it’s all such plain sailing.”

Aloud, the Chief Constable said:

“I’m afraid it’s all very sordid and straightforward. First idea was that the girl had pitched herself in. She was in the family way, you understand. However, our doctor, Haydock, is a careful fellow. He noticed the bruises on each arm—upper arm. Caused before death. Just where a fellow would have taken her by the arms and flung her in.”

“Would that require much strength?”

“I think not. There would be no struggle—the girl would be taken unawares. It’s a footbridge of slippery wood. Easiest thing in the world to pitch her over—there’s no handrail that side.”

“You know for a fact that the tragedy occurred there?”

“Yes. We’ve got a boy—Jimmy Brown—aged twelve. He was in the woods on the other side. He heard a kind of scream from the bridge and a splash. It was dusk you know—difficult to see anything. Presently he saw something white floating down in the water and he ran and got help. They got her out, but it was too late to revive her.”

Sir Henry nodded.

“The boy saw no one on the bridge?”

“No. But, as I tell you, it was dusk, and there’s mist always hanging about there. I’m going to question him as to whether he saw anyone about just afterwards or just before. You see he naturally assumed that the girl had thrown herself over. Everybody did to start with.”

“Still, we’ve got the note,” said Inspector Drewitt. He turned to Sir Henry.

“Note in the dead girl’s pocket, sir. Written with a kind of artist’s pencil it was, and all of a sop though the paper was we managed to read it.”

“And what did it say?”

“It was from young Sandford. ‘All right,’ that’s how it ran. ‘I’ll meet you at the bridge at eight thirty.—R.S.’ Well, it was near as might be to eight thirty—a few minutes after—when Jimmy Brown heard the cry and the splash.”

“I don’t know whether you’ve met Sandford at all?” went on Colonel Melchett. “He’s been down here about a month. One of these modern day young architects who build peculiar houses. He’s doing a house for Allington. God knows what it’s going to be like—full of new-fangled stuff, I suppose. Glass dinner table and surgical chairs made of steel and webbing. Well, that’s neither here nor there, but it shows the kind of chap Sandford is. Bolshie, you know—no morals.”

“Seduction,” said Sir Henry mildly, “is quite an old-established crime though it does not, of course, date back so far as murder.”

Colonel Melchett stared.

“Oh! yes,” he said. “Quite. Quite.”

“Well, Sir Henry,” said Drewitt, “there it is—an ugly business, but plain. This young Sandford gets the girl into trouble. Then he’s all for clearing off back to London. He’s got a girl there—nice young lady—he’s engaged to be married to her. Well, naturally this business, if she gets to hear of it, may cook his goose good and proper. He meets Rose at the bridge—it’s a misty evening, no one about—he catches her by the shoulders and pitches her in. A proper young swine—and deserves what’s coming to him. That’s my opinion.”

Sir Henry was silent for a minute or two. He perceived a strong undercurrent of local prejudice. A new-fangled architect was not likely to be popular in the conservative village of St. Mary Mead.

“There is no doubt, I suppose, that this man, Sandford, was actually the father of the coming child?” he asked.

“He’s the father all right,” said Drewitt. “Rose Emmott let out as much to her father. She thought he’d marry her. Marry her! Not he!”

“Dear me,” thought Sir Henry. “I seem to be back in mid-Victorian melodrama. Unsuspecting girl, the villain from London, the stern father, the betrayal—we only need the faithful village lover. Yes, I think it’s time I asked about him.”

And aloud he said:

“Hadn’t the girl a young man of her own down here?”

“You mean Joe Ellis?” said the Inspector. “Good fellow Joe. Carpentering’s his trade. Ah! If she’d stuck to Joe—”

Colonel Melchett nodded approval.

“Stick to your own class,” he snapped.

“How did Joe Ellis take this affair?” asked Sir Henry.

“Nobody knew how he was taking it,” said the Inspector. “He’s a quiet fellow, is Joe. Close. Anything Rose did was right in his eyes. She had him on a string all right. Just hoped she’d come back to him someday—that was his attitude, I reckon.”

“I’d like to see him,” said Sir Henry.

“Oh! We’re going to look him up,” said Colonel Melchett. “We’re not neglecting any line. I thought myself we’d see Emmott first, then Sandford, and then we can go on and see Ellis. That suits you, Clithering?”

Sir Henry said it would suit him admirably.

They found Tom Emmott at the Blue Boar. He was a big burly man of middle-age with a shifty eye and a truculent jaw.

“Glad to see you, gentlemen—good morning, Colonel. Come in here and we can be private. Can I offer you anything, gentlemen? No? It’s as you please. You’ve come about this business of my poor girl. Ah! She was a good girl, Rose was. Always was a good girl—till this bloody swine—beg pardon, but that’s what he is—till he came along. Promised her marriage, he did. But I’ll have the law on him. Drove her to it, he did. Murdering swine. Bringing disgrace on all of us. My poor girl.”

“Your daughter distinctly told you that Mr. Sandford was responsible for her condition?” asked Melchett crisply.

“She did. In this very room she did.”

“And what did you say to her?” asked Sir Henry.

“Say to her?” The man seemed momentarily taken aback.

“Yes. You didn’t, for example, threaten to turn her out of the house.”

“I was a bit upset—that’s only natural. I’m sure you’ll agree that’s only natural. But, of course, I didn’t turn her out of the house. I wouldn’t do such a thing.” He assumed virtuous indignation. “No. What’s the law for—that’s what I say. What’s the law for? He’d got to do the right by her. And if he didn’t, by God, he’d got to pay.”

He brought down his fist on the table.

“What time did you last see your daughter?” asked Melchett.

“Yesterday—teatime.”

“What was her manner then?”

“Well, much as usual. I didn’t notice anything. If I’d known—”

“But you didn’t know,” said the Inspector drily.

They took their leave.

“Emmott hardly creates a favourable impression,” said Sir Henry thoughtfully.

“Bit of a blackguard,” said Melchett. “He’d have bled Sandford all right if he’d had the chance.”

Their next call was on the architect. Rex Sandford was very unlike the picture Sir Henry had unconsciously formed of him. He was a tall young man, very fair and very thin. His eyes were blue and dreamy, his hair was untidy and rather too long. His speech was a little too ladylike.

Colonel Melchett introduced himself and his companions. Then passing straight to the object of his visit, he invited the architect to make a statement as to his movements on the previous evening.

“You understand,” he said warningly. “I have no power to compel a statement from you and any statement you make may be used in evidence against you. I want the position to be quite clear to you.”

“I—I don’t understand,” said Sandford.

“You understand that the girl Rose Emmott was drowned last night?”

“I know. Oh! it’s too, too distressing. Really, I haven’t slept a wink. I’ve been incapable of any work today. I feel responsible—terribly responsible.”

He ran his hands through his hair, making it untidier still.

“I never meant any harm,” he said piteously. “I never thought. I never dreamt she’d take it that way.”

He sat down at a table and buried his face in his hands.

“Do I understand you to say, Mr. Sandford, that you refuse to make a statement as to where you were last night at eight thirty?”

“No, no—certainly not. I was out. I went for a walk.”

“You went to meet Miss Emmott?”

“No. I went by myself. Through the woods. A long way.”

“Then how do you account for this note, sir, which was found in the dead girl’s pocket?”

And Inspector Drewitt read it unemotionally aloud.

“Now, sir,” he finished. “Do you deny that you wrote that?”

“No—no. You’re right. I did write it. Rose asked me to meet her. She insisted. I didn’t know what to do. So I wrote that note.”

“Ah, that’s better,” said the Inspector.

“But I didn’t go!” Sandford’s voice rose high and excited. “I didn’t go! I felt it would be much better not. I was returning to town tomorrow. I felt it would be better not—not to meet. I intended to write from London and—and make—some arrangement.”

“You are aware, sir, that this girl was going to have a child, and that she had named you as its father?”

Sandford groaned, but did not answer.

“Was that statement true, sir?”

Sandford buried his face deeper.

“I suppose so,” he said in a muffled voice.

“Ah!” Inspector Drewitt could not disguise the satisfaction. “Now about this ‘walk’ of yours. Is there anyone who saw you last night?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. As far as I can remember, I didn’t meet anybody.”

“That’s a pity.”

“What do you mean?” Sandford stared wildly at him. “What does it matter whether I was out for a walk or not? What difference does that make to Rose drowning herself?”

“Ah!” said the Inspector. “But you see, she didn’t. She was thrown in deliberately, Mr. Sandford.”

“She was—” It took him a minute or two to take in all the horror of it. “My God! Then—”

He dropped into a chair.

Colonel Melchett made a move to depart.

“You understand, Sandford,” he said. “You are on no account to leave this house.”

The three men left together. The Inspector and the Chief Constable exchanged glances.

“That’s enough, I think, sir,” said the Inspector.

“Yes. Get a warrant made out and arrest him.”

“Excuse me,” said Sir Henry, “I’ve forgotten my gloves.”

He reentered the house rapidly. Sandford was sitting just as they had left him, staring dazedly in front of him.

“I have come back,” said Sir Henry, “to tell you that I personally, am anxious to do all I can to assist you. The motive of my interest in you I am not at liberty to reveal. But I am going to ask you, if you will, to tell me as briefly as possible exactly what passed between you and this girl Rose.”

“She was very pretty,” said Sandford. “Very pretty and very alluring. And—and she made a dead seat at me. Before God, that’s true. She wouldn’t let me alone. And it was lonely down here, and nobody liked me much, and—and, as I say she was amazingly pretty and she seemed to know her way about and all that—” His voice died away. He looked up. “And then this happened. She wanted me to marry her. I didn’t know what to do. I’m engaged to a girl in London. If she ever gets to hear of this—and she will, of course—well, it’s all up. She won’t understand. How could she? And I’m a rotter, of course. As I say, I didn’t know what to do. I avoided seeing Rose again. I thought I’d get back to town—see my lawyer—make arrangements about money and so forth, for her. God, what a fool I’ve been! And it’s all so clear—the case against me. But they’ve made a mistake. She must have done it herself.”

“Did she ever threaten to take her life?”

Sandford shook his head.

“Never. I shouldn’t have said she was that sort.”

“What about a man called Joe Ellis?”

“The carpenter fellow? Good old village stock. Dull fellow—but crazy about Rose.”

“He might have been jealous?” suggested Sir Henry.

“I suppose he was a bit—but he’s the bovine kind. He’d suffer in silence.”

“Well,” said Sir Henry. “I must be going.”

He rejoined the others.

“You know, Melchett,” he said, “I feel we ought to have a look at this other fellow—Ellis—before we do anything drastic. Pity if you made an arrest that turned out to be a mistake. After all, jealousy is a pretty good motive for murder—and a pretty common one, too.”

“That’s true enough,” said the Inspector. “But Joe Ellis isn’t that kind. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Why, nobody’s ever seen him out of temper. Still, I agree we’d better just ask him where he was last night. He’ll be at home now. He lodges with Mrs. Bartlett—very decent soul—a widow, she takes in a bit of washing.”

The little cottage to which they bent their footsteps was spotlessly clean and neat. A big stout woman of middle-age opened the door to them. She had a pleasant face and blue eyes.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bartlett,” said the Inspector. “Is Joe Ellis here?”

“Came back not ten minutes ago,” said Mrs. Bartlett. “Step inside, will you, please, sirs.”

Wiping her hands on her apron she led them into a tiny front parlour with stuffed birds, china dogs, a sofa and several useless pieces of furniture.

She hurriedly arranged seats for them, picked up a whatnot bodily to make further room and went out calling:

“Joe, there’s three gentlemen want to see you.”

A voice from the back kitchen replied:

“I’ll be there when I’ve cleaned myself.”

Mrs. Bartlett smiled.

“Come in, Mrs. Bartlett,” said Colonel Melchett. “Sit down.”

“Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t think of it.”

Mrs. Bartlett was shocked at the idea.

“You find Joe Ellis a good lodger?” inquired Melchett in a seemingly careless tone.

“Couldn’t have a better, sir. A real steady young fellow. Never touches a drop of drink. Takes a pride in his work. And always kind and helpful about the house. He put up those shelves for me, and he’s fixed a new dresser in the kitchen. And any little thing that wants doing in the house—why, Joe does it as a matter of course, and won’t hardly take thanks for it. Ah! there aren’t many young fellows like Joe, sir.”

“Some girl will be lucky someday,” said Melchett carelessly. “He was rather sweet on that poor girl, Rose Emmott, wasn’t he?”

Mrs. Bartlett sighed.

“It made me tired, it did. Him worshipping the ground she trod on and her not caring a snap of the fingers for him.”

“Where does Joe spend his evenings, Mrs. Bartlett?”

“Here, sir, usually. He does some odd piece of work in the evenings, sometimes, and he’s trying to learn bookkeeping by correspondence.”

“Ah! really. Was he in yesterday evening?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re sure, Mrs. Bartlett?” said Sir Henry sharply.

She turned to him.

“Quite sure, sir.”

“He didn’t go out, for instance, somewhere about eight to eight thirty?”

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Barlett laughed. “He was fixing the kitchen dresser for me nearly all the evening, and I was helping him.”

Sir Henry looked at her smiling assured face and felt his first pang of doubt.

A moment later Ellis himself entered the room.

He was a tall broad-shouldered young man, very good-looking in a rustic way. He had shy, blue eyes and a good-tempered smile. Altogether an amiable young giant.

Melchett opened the conversation. Mrs. Bartlett withdrew to the kitchen.

“We are investigating the death of Rose Emmott. You knew her, Ellis.”

“Yes.” He hesitated, then muttered, “Hoped to marry her one day. Poor lass.”

“You have heard of what her condition was?”

“Yes.” A spark of anger showed in his eyes. “Let her down, he did. But ’twere for the best. She wouldn’t have been happy married to him. I reckoned she’d come to me when this happened. I’d have looked after her.”

“In spite of—”

“’Tweren’t her fault. He led her astray with fine promises and all. Oh! she told me about it. She’d no call to drown herself. He weren’t worth it.”

“Where were you, Ellis, last night at eight thirty?”

Was it Sir Henry’s fancy, or was there really a shade of constraint in the ready—almost too ready—reply.

“I was here. Fixing up a contraption in the kitchen for Mrs. B. You ask her. She’ll tell you.”

“He was too quick with that,” thought Sir Henry. “He’s a slow-thinking man. That popped out so pat that I suspect he’d got it ready beforehand.”

Then he told himself that it was imagination. He was imagining things—yes, even imagining an apprehensive glint in those blue eyes.

A few more questions and answers and they left. Sir Henry made an excuse to go to the kitchen. Mrs. Bartlett was busy at the stove. She looked up with a pleasant smile. A new dresser was fixed against the wall. It was not quite finished. Some tools lay about and some pieces of wood.

“That’s what Ellis was at work on last night?” said Sir Henry.

“Yes, sir, it’s a nice bit of work, isn’t it? He’s a very clever carpenter, Joe is.”

No apprehensive gleam in her eye—no embarrassment.

But Ellis—had he imagined it? No, there had been something.

“I must tackle him,” thought Sir Henry.

Turning to leave the kitchen, he collided with a perambulator.

“Not woken the baby up, I hope,” he said.

Mrs. Bartlett’s laugh rang out.

“Oh, no, sir. I’ve no children—more’s the pity. That’s what I take the laundry on, sir.”

“Oh! I see—”

He paused then said on an impulse:

“Mrs. Bartlett. You knew Rose Emmott. Tell me what you really thought of her.”

She looked at him curiously.

“Well, sir, I thought she was flighty. But she’s dead—and I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.”

“But I have a reason—a very good reason for asking.”

He spoke persuasively.

She seemed to consider, studying him attentively. Finally she made up her mind.

“She was a bad lot, sir,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t say so before Joe. She took him in good and proper. That kind can—more’s the pity. You know how it is, sir.”

Yes, Sir Henry knew. The Joe Ellises of the world were peculiarly vulnerable. They trusted blindly. But for that very cause the shock of discovery might be greater.

He left the cottage baffled and perplexed. He was up against a blank wall. Joe Ellis had been working indoors all yesterday evening. Mrs. Bartlett had actually been there watching him. Could one possibly get round that? There was nothing to set against it—except possibly that suspicious readiness in replying on Joe Ellis’s part—that suggestion of having a story pat.

“Well,” said Melchett, “that seems to make the matter quite clear, eh?”

“It does, sir,” agreed the Inspector. “Sandford’s our man. Not a leg to stand upon. The thing’s as plain as daylight. It’s my opinion as the girl and her father were out to—well—practically blackmail him. He’s no money to speak of—he didn’t want the matter to get to his young lady’s ears. He was desperate and he acted accordingly. What do you say, sir?” he added, addressing Sir Henry deferentially.

“It seems so,” admitted Sir Henry. “And yet—I can hardly picture Sandford committing any violent action.”

But he knew as he spoke that that objection was hardly valid. The meekest animal, when cornered, is capable of amazing actions.

“I should like to see the boy, though,” he said suddenly. “The one who heard the cry.”

Jimmy Brown proved to be an intelligent lad, rather small for his age, with a sharp, rather cunning face. He was eager to be questioned and was rather disappointed when checked in his dramatic tale of what he had heard on the fatal night.

“You were on the other side of the bridge, I understand,” said Sir Henry. “Across the river from the village. Did you see anyone on that side as you came over the bridge?”

“There was someone walking up in the woods. Mr. Sandford, I think it was, the architecting gentleman who’s building the queer house.”

The three men exchanged glances.

“That was about ten minutes or so before you heard the cry?”

The boy nodded.

“Did you see anyone else—on the village side of the river?”

“A man came along the path that side. Going slow and whistling he was. Might have been Joe Ellis.”

“You couldn’t possibly have seen who it was,” said the Inspector sharply. “What with the mist and its being dusk.”

“It’s on account of the whistle,” said the boy. “Joe Ellis always whistles the same tune—‘I wanner be happy’—it’s the only tune he knows.”

He spoke with the scorn of the modernist for the old-fashioned.

“Anyone might whistle a tune,” said Melchett. “Was he going towards the bridge?”

“No. Other way—to village.”

“I don’t think we need concern ourselves with this unknown man,” said Melchett. “You heard the cry and the splash and a few minutes later you saw the body floating downstream and you ran for help, going back to the bridge, crossing it, and making straight for the village. You didn’t see anyone near the bridge as you ran for help?”

“I think as there were two men with a wheelbarrow on the river path; but they were some way away and I couldn’t tell if they were going or coming and Mr. Giles’s place was nearest—so I ran there.”

“You did well, my boy,” said Melchett. “You acted very creditably and with presence of mind. You’re a scout, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Very good indeed.”

Sir Henry was silent—thinking. He took a slip of paper from his pocket, looked at it, shook his head. It didn’t seem possible—and yet—

He decided to pay a call on Miss Marple.

She received him in her pretty, slightly overcrowded old-style drawing room.

“I’ve come to report progress,” said Sir Henry. “I’m afraid that from our point of view things aren’t going well. They are going to arrest Sandford. And I must say I think they are justified.”

“You have found nothing in—what shall I say—support of my theory, then?” She looked perplexed—anxious. “Perhaps I have been wrong—quite wrong. You have such wide experience—you would surely detect it if it were so.”

“For one thing,” said Sir Henry, “I can hardly believe it. And for another we are up against an unbreakable alibi. Joe Ellis was fixing shelves in the kitchen all the evening and Mrs. Bartlett was watching him do it.”

Miss Marple leaned forward, taking in a quick breath.

“But that can’t be so,” she said. “It was Friday night.”

“Friday night?”

“Yes—Friday night. On Friday evenings Mrs. Bartlett takes the laundry she has done round to the different people.”

Sir Henry leaned back in his chair. He remembered the boy Jimmy’s story of the whistling man and—yes—it would all fit in.

He rose, taking Miss Marple warmly by the hand.

“I think I see my way,” he said. “At least I can try. . . .”

Five minutes later he was back at Mrs. Bartlett’s cottage and facing Joe Ellis in the little parlour among the china dogs.

“You lied to us, Ellis, about last night,” he said crisply. “You were not in the kitchen here fixing the dresser between eight and eight thirty. You were seen walking along the path by the river towards the bridge a few minutes before Rose Emmott was murdered.”

The man gasped.

“She weren’t murdered—she weren’t. I had naught to do with it. She threw herself in, she did. She was desperate like. I wouldn’t have harmed a hair on her head, I wouldn’t.”

“Then why did you lie as to where you were?” asked Sir Henry keenly.

The man’s eyes shifted and lowered uncomfortably.

“I was scared. Mrs. B. saw me around there and when we heard just afterwards what had happened—well, she thought it might look bad for me. I fixed I’d say I was working here, and she agreed to back me up. She’s a rare one, she is. She’s always been good to me.”

Without a word Sir Henry left the room and walked into the kitchen. Mrs. Bartlett was washing up at the sink.

“Mrs. Bartlett,” he said, “I know everything. I think you’d better confess—that is, unless you want Joe Ellis hanged for something he didn’t do . . . No. I see you don’t want that. I’ll tell you what happened. You were out taking the laundry home. You came across Rose Emmott. You thought she’d given Joe the chuck and was taking up with this stranger. Now she was in trouble—Joe was prepared to come to the rescue—marry her if need be, and if she’d have him. He’s lived in your house for four years. You’ve fallen in love with him. You want him for yourself. You hated this girl—you couldn’t bear that this worthless little slut should take your man from you. You’re a strong woman, Mrs. Bartlett. You caught the girl by the shoulders and shoved her over into the stream. A few minutes later you met Joe Ellis. The boy Jimmy saw you together in the distance—but in the darkness and the mist he assumed the perambulator was a wheelbarrow and two men wheeling it. You persuaded Joe that he might be suspected and you concocted what was supposed to be an alibi for him, but which was really an alibi for you. Now then, I’m right, am I not?”

He held his breath. He had staked all on this throw.

She stood before him rubbing her hands on her apron, slowly making up her mind.

“It’s just as you say, sir,” she said at last, in her quiet subdued voice (a dangerous voice, Sir Henry suddenly felt it to be). “I don’t know what came over me. Shameless—that’s what she was. It just came over me—she shan’t take Joe from me. I haven’t had a happy life, sir. My husband, he was a poor lot—an invalid and cross-grained. I nursed and looked after him true. And then Joe came here to lodge. I’m not such an old woman, sir, in spite of my grey hair. I’m just forty, sir. Joe’s one in a thousand. I’d have done anything for him—anything at all. He was like a little child, sir, so gentle and believing. He was mine, sir, to look after and see to. And this—this—” She swallowed—checked her emotion. Even at this moment she was a strong woman. She stood up straight and looked at Sir Henry curiously. “I’m ready to come, sir. I never thought anyone would find out. I don’t know how you knew, sir—I don’t, I’m sure.”

Sir Henry shook his head gently.

“It was not I who knew,” he said—and he thought of the piece of paper still reposing in his pocket with the words on it written in neat old-fashioned handwriting.

“Mrs. Bartlett, with whom Joe Ellis lodges at 2 Mill Cottages.”

Miss Marple had been right again.

Fourteen

MISS MARPLE TELLS A STORY

I don’t think I’ve ever told you, my dears—you, Raymond, and you, Joan, about the rather curious little business that happened some years ago now. I don’t want to seem vain in any way—of course I know that in comparison with you young people I’m not clever at all—Raymond writes those very modern books all about rather unpleasant young men and women—and Joan paints those very remarkable pictures of square people with curious bulges on them—very clever of you, my dear, but as Raymond always says (only quite kindly, because he is the kindest of nephews) I am hopelessly Victorian. I admire Mr. Alma-Tadema and Mr. Frederic Leighton and I suppose to you they seem hopelessly vieux jeu. Now let me see, what was I saying? Oh, yes—that I didn’t want to appear vain—but I couldn’t help being just a teeny weeny bit pleased with myself, because, just by applying a little common sense, I believe I really did solve a problem that had baffled cleverer heads than mine. Though really I should have thought the whole thing was obvious from the beginning. . . .

Well, I’ll tell you my little story, and if you think I’m inclined to be conceited about it, you must remember that I did at least help a fellow creature who was in very grave distress.

The first I knew of this business was one evening about nine o’clock when Gwen—(you remember Gwen? My little maid with red hair) well—Gwen came in and told me that Mr. Petherick and a gentleman had called to see me. Gwen had shown them into the drawing room—quite rightly. I was sitting in the dining room because in early spring I think it is so wasteful to have two fires going.

I directed Gwen to bring in the cherry brandy and some glasses and I hurried into the drawing room. I don’t know whether you remember Mr. Petherick? He died two years ago, but he had been a friend of mine for many years as well as attending to all my legal business. A very shrewd man and a really clever solicitor. His son does my business for me now—a very nice lad and very up to date—but somehow I don’t feel quite the confidence I had with Mr. Petherick.

I explained to Mr. Petherick about the fires and he said at once that he and his friend would come into the dining room—and then he introduced his friend—a Mr. Rhodes. He was a youngish man—not much over forty—and I saw at once there was something very wrong. His manner was most peculiar. One might have called it rude if one hadn’t realized that the poor fellow was suffering from strain.

When we were settled in the dining room and Gwen had brought the cherry brandy, Mr. Petherick explained the reason for his visit.

“Miss Marple,” he said, “you must forgive an old friend for taking a liberty. What I have come here for is a consultation.”

I couldn’t understand at all what he meant, and he went on:

“In a case of illness one likes two points of view—that of the specialist and that of the family physician. It is the fashion to regard the former as of more value, but I am not sure that I agree. The specialist has experience only in his own subject—the family doctor has, perhaps, less knowledge—but a wider experience.”

I knew just what he meant, because a young niece of mine not long before had hurried her child off to a very well-known specialist in skin diseases without consulting her own doctor whom she considered an old dodderer, and the specialist had ordered some very expensive treatment, and later found that all the child was suffering from was a rather unusual form of measles.

I just mention this—though I have a horror of digressing—to show that I appreciate Mr. Petherick’s point—but I still hadn’t any idea what he was driving at.

“If Mr. Rhodes is ill—” I said, and stopped—because the poor man gave a most dreadful laugh.

He said: “I expect to die of a broken neck in a few months’ time.”

And then it all came out. There had been a case of murder lately in Barnchester—a town about twenty miles away. I’m afraid I hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time, because we had been having a lot of excitement in the village about our district nurse, and outside occurrences like an earthquake in India and a murder in Barnchester, although of course far more important really—had given way to our own little local excitements. I’m afraid villages are like that. Still, I did remember having read about a woman having been stabbed in a hotel, though I hadn’t remembered her name. But now it seemed that this woman had been Mr. Rhodes’s wife—and as if that wasn’t bad enough—he was actually under suspicion of having murdered her himself.

All this Mr. Petherick explained to me very clearly, saying that, although the Coronor’s jury had brought in a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown, Mr. Rhodes had reason to believe that he would probably be arrested within a day or two, and that he had come to Mr. Petherick and placed himself in his hands. Mr. Petherick went on to say that they had that afternoon consulted Sir Malcolm Olde, K.C., and that in the event of the case coming to trial Sir Malcolm had been briefed to defend Mr. Rhodes.

Sir Malcolm was a young man, Mr. Petherick said, very up to date in his methods, and he had indicated a certain line of defence. But with that line of defence Mr. Petherick was not entirely satisfied.

“You see, my dear lady,” he said, “it is tainted with what I call the specialist’s point of view. Give Sir Malcolm a case and he sees only one point—the most likely line of defence. But even the best line of defence may ignore completely what is, to my mind, the vital point. It takes no account of what actually happened.”

Then he went on to say some very kind and flattering things about my acumen and judgement and my knowledge of human nature, and asked permission to tell me the story of the case in the hopes that I might be able to suggest some explanation.

I could see that Mr. Rhodes was highly sceptical of my being of any use and he was annoyed at being brought here. But Mr. Petherick took no notice and proceeded to give me the facts of what occurred on the night of March 8th.

Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes had been staying at the Crown Hotel in Barnchester. Mrs. Rhodes who (so I gathered from Mr. Petherick’s careful language) was perhaps just a shade of a hypochondriac, had retired to bed immediately after dinner. She and her husband occupied adjoining rooms with a connecting door. Mr. Rhodes, who is writing a book on prehistoric flints, settled down to work in the adjoining room. At eleven o’clock he tidied up his papers and prepared to go to bed. Before doing so, he just glanced into his wife’s room to make sure that there was nothing she wanted. He discovered the electric light on and his wife lying in bed stabbed through the heart. She had been dead at least an hour—probably longer. The following were the points made. There was another door in Mrs. Rhodes’s room leading into the corridor. This door was locked and bolted on the inside. The only window in the room was closed and latched. According to Mr. Rhodes nobody had passed through the room in which he was sitting except a chambermaid bringing hot-water bottles. The weapon found in the wound was a stiletto dagger which had been lying on Mrs. Rhodes’s dressing table. She was in the habit of using it as a paper knife. There were no fingerprints on it.

The situation boiled down to this—no one but Mr. Rhodes and the chambermaid had entered the victim’s room.

I enquired about the chambermaid.

“That was our first line of enquiry,” said Mr. Petherick. “Mary Hill is a local woman. She had been chambermaid at the Crown for ten years. There seems absolutely no reason why she should commit a sudden assault on a guest. She is, in any case, extraordinarily stupid, almost half-witted. Her story has never varied. She brought Mrs. Rhodes her hot-water bottle and says the lady was drowsy—just dropping off to sleep. Frankly, I cannot believe, and I am sure no jury would believe, that she committed the crime.”

Mr. Petherick went on to mention a few additional details. At the head of the staircase in the Crown Hotel is a kind of miniature lounge where people sometimes sit and have coffee. A passage goes off to the right and the last door in it is the door into the room occupied by Mr. Rhodes. The passage then turns sharply to the right again and the first door round the corner is the door into Mrs. Rhodes’s room. As it happened, both these doors could be seen by witnesses. The first door—that into Mr. Rhodes’s room, which I will call A, could be seen by four people, two commercial travellers and an elderly married couple who were having coffee. According to them nobody went in or out of door A except Mr. Rhodes and the chambermaid. As to the other door in the passage B, there was an electrician at work there and he also swears that nobody entered or left door B except the chambermaid.

It was certainly a very curious and interesting case. On the face of it, it looked as though Mr. Rhodes must have murdered his wife. But I could see that Mr. Petherick was quite convinced of his client’s innocence and Mr. Petherick was a very shrewd man.

At the inquest Mr. Rhodes had told a hesitating and rambling story about some woman who had written threatening letters to his wife. His story, I gathered, had been unconvincing in the extreme. Appealed to by Mr. Petherick, he explained himself.

“Frankly,” he said, “I never believed it. I thought Amy had made most of it up.”

Mrs. Rhodes, I gathered, was one of those romantic liars who go through life embroidering everything that happens to them. The amount of adventures that, according to her own account, happened to her in a year was simply incredible. If she slipped on a bit of banana peel it was a case of near escape from death. If a lampshade caught fire she was rescued from a burning building at the hazard of her life. Her husband got into the habit of discounting her statements. Her tale as to some woman whose child she had injured in a motor accident and who had vowed vengeance on her—well—Mr. Rhodes had simply not taken any notice of it. The incident had happened before he married his wife and although she had read him letters couched in crazy language, he had suspected her of composing them herself. She had actually done such a thing once or twice before. She was a woman of hysterical tendencies who craved ceaselessly for excitement.

Now, all that seemed to me very natural—indeed, we have a young woman in the village who does much the same thing. The danger with such people is that when anything at all extraordinary really does happen to them, nobody believes they are speaking the truth. It seemed to me that that was what had happened in this case. The police, I gathered, merely believed that Mr. Rhodes was making up this unconvincing tale in order to avert suspicion from himself.

I asked if there had been any women staying by themselves in the hotel. It seemed there were two—a Mrs. Granby, an Anglo-Indian widow, and a Miss Carruthers, rather a horsey spinster who dropped her g’s. Mr. Petherick added that the most minute enquiries had failed to elicit anyone who had seen either of them near the scene of the crime and there was nothing to connect either of them with it in any way. I asked him to describe their personal appearance. He said that Mrs. Granby had reddish hair rather untidily done, was sallow-faced and about fifty years of age. Her clothes were rather picturesque, being made mostly of native silk, etc. Miss Carruthers was about forty, wore pince-nez, had close-cropped hair like a man and wore mannish coats and skirts.

“Dear me,” I said, “that makes it very difficult.”

Mr. Petherick looked enquiringly at me, but I didn’t want to say anymore just then, so I asked what Sir Malcolm Olde had said.

Sir Malcolm was confident of being able to call conflicting medical testimony and to suggest some way of getting over the fingerprint difficulty. I asked Mr. Rhodes what he thought and he said all doctors were fools but he himself couldn’t really believe that his wife had killed herself. “She wasn’t that kind of woman,” he said simply—and I believed him. Hysterical people don’t usually commit suicide.

I thought a minute and then I asked if the door from Mrs. Rhodes’s room led straight into the corridor. Mr. Rhodes said no—there was a little hallway with a bathroom and lavatory. It was the door from the bedroom to the hallway that was locked and bolted on the inside.

“In that case,” I said, “the whole thing seems remarkably simple.”

And really, you know, it did . . . the simplest thing in the world. And yet no one seemed to have seen it that way.

Both Mr. Petherick and Mr. Rhodes were staring at me so that I felt quite embarrassed.

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Rhodes, “Miss Marple hasn’t quite appreciated the difficulties.”

“Yes,” I said, “I think I have. There are four possibilities. Either Mrs. Rhodes was killed by her husband, or by the chambermaid, or she committed suicide, or she was killed by an outsider whom nobody saw enter or leave.”

“And that’s impossible,” Mr. Rhodes broke in. “Nobody could come in or go out through my room without my seeing them, and even if anyone did manage to come in through my wife’s room without the electrician seeing them, how the devil could they get out again leaving the door locked and bolted on the inside?”

Mr. Petherick looked at me and said: “Well, Miss Marple?” in an encouraging manner.

“I should like,” I said, “to ask a question. Mr. Rhodes, what did the chambermaid look like?”

He said he wasn’t sure—she was tallish, he thought—he didn’t remember if she was fair or dark. I turned to Mr. Petherick and asked the same question.

He said she was of medium height, had fairish hair and blue eyes and rather a high colour.

Mr. Rhodes said: “You are a better observer than I am, Petherick.”

I ventured to disagree. I then asked Mr. Rhodes if he could describe the maid in my house. Neither he nor Mr. Petherick could do so.

“Don’t you see what that means?” I said. “You both came here full of your own affairs and the person who let you in was only a parlourmaid. The same applies to Mr. Rhodes at the hotel. He saw her uniform and her apron. He was engrossed by his work. But Mr. Petherick has interviewed the same woman in a different capacity. He has looked at her as a person.

“That’s what the woman who did the murder counted upon.”

As they still didn’t see, I had to explain.

“I think,” I said, “that this is how it went. The chambermaid came in by door A, passed through Mr. Rhodes’s room into Mrs. Rhodes’s room with the hot-water bottle and went out through the hallway into passage B. X—as I will call our murderess—came in by door B into the little hallway, concealed herself in—well, in a certain apartment, ahem—and waited until the chambermaid had passed out. Then she entered Mrs. Rhodes’s room, took the stiletto from the dressing table (she had doubtless explored the room earlier in the day), went up to the bed, stabbed the dozing woman, wiped the handle of the stiletto, locked and bolted the door by which she had entered, and then passed out through the room where Mr. Rhodes was working.”

Mr. Rhodes cried out: “But I should have seen her. The electrician would have seen her go in.”

“No,” I said. “That’s where you’re wrong. You wouldn’t see her—not if she were dressed as a chambermaid.” I let it sink in, then I went on, “You were engrossed in your work—out of the tail of your eye you saw a chambermaid come in, go into your wife’s room, come back and go out. It was the same dress—but not the same woman. That’s what the people having coffee saw—a chambermaid go in and a chambermaid come out. The electrician did the same. I dare say if a chambermaid were very pretty a gentleman might notice her face—human nature being what it is—but if she were just an ordinary middle-aged woman—well—it would be the chambermaid’s dress you would see—not the woman herself.”

Mr. Rhodes cried: “Who was she?”

“Well,” I said, “that is going to be a little difficult. It must be either Mrs. Granby or Miss Carruthers. Mrs. Granby sounds as though she might wear a wig normally—so she could wear her own hair as a chambermaid. On the other hand, Miss Carruthers with her close-cropped mannish head might easily put on a wig to play her part. I dare say you will find out easily enough which of them it is. Personally, I incline myself to think it will be Miss Carruthers.”

And really, my dears, that is the end of the story. Carruthers was a false name, but she was the woman all right. There was insanity in her family. Mrs. Rhodes, who was a most reckless and dangerous driver, had run over her little girl, and it had driven the poor woman off her head. She concealed her madness very cunningly except for writing distinctly insane latters to her intended victim. She had been following her about for some time, and she laid her plans very cleverly. The false hair and maid’s dress she posted in a parcel first thing the next morning. When taxed with the truth she broke down and confessed at once. The poor thing is in Broadmoor now. Completely unbalanced of course, but a very cleverly planned crime.

Mr. Petherick came to me afterwards and brought me a very nice letter from Mr. Rhodes—really, it made me blush. Then my old friend said to me: “Just one thing—why did you think it was more likely to be Carruthers than Granby? You’d never seen either of them.”

“Well,” I said. “It was the g’s. You said she dropped her g’s. Now, that’s done by a lot of hunting people in books, but I don’t know many people who do it in reality—and certainly no one under sixty. You said this woman was forty. Those dropped g’s sounded to me like a woman who was playing a part and overdoing it.”

I shan’t tell you what Mr. Petherick said to that—but he was very complimentary—and I really couldn’t help feeling just a teeny weeny bit pleased with myself.

And it’s extraordinary how things turn out for the best in this world. Mr. Rhodes has married again—such a nice, sensible girl—and they’ve got a dear little baby and—what do you think?—they asked me to be godmother. Wasn’t it nice of them?

Now I do hope you don’t think I’ve been running on too long. . . .

Fifteen

STRANGE JEST

“And this,” said Jane Helier, completing her introductions, “is Miss Marple!”

Being an actress, she was able to make her point. It was clearly the climax, the triumphant finale! Her tone was equally compounded of reverent awe and triumph.

The odd part of it was that the object thus proudly proclaimed was merely a gentle, fussy-looking, elderly spinster. In the eyes of the two young people who had just, by Jane’s good offices, made her acquaintance, there showed incredulity and a tinge of dismay. They were nice-looking people; the girl, Charmian Stroud, slim and dark—the man, Edward Rossiter, a fair-haired, amiable young giant.

Charmian said a little breathlessly. “Oh! We’re awfully pleased to meet you.” But there was doubt in her eyes. She flung a quick, questioning glance at Jane Helier.

“Darling,” said Jane, answering the glance, “she’s absolutely marvellous. Leave it all to her. I told you I’d get her here and I have.” She added to Miss Marple, “You’ll fix it for them, I know. It will be easy for you.”

Miss Marple turned her placid, china-blue eyes towards Mr. Rossiter. “Won’t you tell me,” she said, “what all this is about?”

“Jane’s a friend of ours,” Charmian broke in impatiently. “Edward and I are in rather a fix. Jane said if we would come to her party, she’d introduce us to someone who was—who would—who could—”

Edward came to the rescue. “Jane tells us you’re the last word in sleuths, Miss Marple!”

The old lady’s eyes twinkled, but she protested modestly. “Oh, no, no! Nothing of the kind. It’s just that living in a village as I do, one gets to know so much about human nature. But really you have made me quite curious. Do tell me your problem.”

“I’m afraid it’s terribly hackneyed—just buried treasure,” said Edward.

“Indeed? But that sounds most exciting!”

“I know. Like Treasure Island. But our problem lacks the usual romantic touches. No point on a chart indicated by a skull and crossbones, no directions like ‘four paces to the left, west by north.’ It’s horribly prosaic—just where we ought to dig.”

“Have you tried at all?”

“I should say we’d dug about two solid square acres! The whole place is ready to be turned into a market garden. We’re just discussing whether to grow vegetable marrows or potatoes.”

Charmian said rather abruptly, “May we really tell you all about it?”

“But, of course, my dear.”

“Then let’s find a peaceful spot. Come on, Edward.” She led the way out of the overcrowded and smoke-laden room, and they went up the stairs, to a small sitting room on the second floor.

When they were seated, Charmian began abruptly. “Well, here goes! The story starts with Uncle Mathew, uncle—or rather, great-great-uncle—to both of us. He was incredibly ancient. Edward and I were his only relations. He was fond of us and always declared that when he died he would leave his money between us. Well, he died last March and left everything he had to be divided equally between Edward and myself. What I’ve just said sounds rather callous—I don’t mean that it was right that he died—actually we were very fond of him. But he’d been ill for some time.

“The point is that the ‘everything’ he left turned out to be practically nothing at all. And that, frankly, was a bit of a blow to us both, wasn’t it, Edward?”

The amiable Edward agreed. “You see,” he said, “we’d counted on it a bit. I mean, when you know a good bit of money is coming to you, you don’t—well—buckle down and try to make it yourself. I’m in the army—not got anything to speak of outside my pay—and Charmian herself hasn’t got a bean. She works as a stage manager in a repertory theatre—quite interesting, and she enjoys it—but no money in it. We’d counted on getting married, but weren’t worried about the money side of it because we both knew we’d be jolly well-off someday.”

“And now, you see, we’re not!” said Charmian. “What’s more, Ansteys—that’s the family place, and Edward and I both love it—will probably have to be sold. And Edward and I feel we just can’t bear that! But if we don’t find Uncle Mathew’s money, we shall have to sell.”

Edward said, “You know, Charmian, we still haven’t come to the vital point.”

“Well, you talk, then.”

Edward turned to Miss Marple. “It’s like this, you see. As Uncle Mathew grew older, he got more and more suspicious. He didn’t trust anybody.”

“Very wise of him,” said Miss Marple. “The depravity of human nature is unbelievable.”

“Well, you may be right. Anyway, Uncle Mathew thought so. He had a friend who lost his money in a bank, and another friend who was ruined by an absconding solicitor, and he lost some money himself in a fraudulent company. He got so that he used to hold forth at great length that the only safe and sane thing to do was to convert your money into solid bullion and bury it.”

“Ah,” said Miss Marple. “I begin to see.”

“Yes. Friends argued with him, pointed out that he’d get no interest that way, but he held that that didn’t really matter. The bulk of your money, he said, should be ‘kept in a box under the bed or buried in the garden.’ Those were his words.”

Charmian went on. “And when he died, he left hardly anything at all in securities, though he was very rich. So we think that that’s what he must have done.”

Edward explained. “We found that he had sold securities and drawn out large sums of money from time to time, and nobody knows what he did with them. But it seems probable that he lived up to his principles, and that he did buy gold and bury it.”

“He didn’t say anything before he died? Leave any paper? No letter?”

“That’s the maddening part of it. He didn’t. He’d been unconscious for somedays, but he rallied before he died. He looked at us both and chuckled—a faint, weak little chuckle. He said, ‘You’ll be all right, my pretty pair of doves.’ And then he tapped his eye—his right eye—and winked at us. And then—he died. Poor old Uncle Mathew.”

“He tapped his eye,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

Edward said eagerly. “Does that convey anything to you? It made me think of an Arsene Lupin story where there was something hidden in a man’s glass eye. But Uncle Mathew didn’t have a glass eye.”

Miss Marple shook her head. “No—I can’t think of anything at the moment.”

Charmian said disappointedly, “Jane told us you’d say at once where to dig!”

Miss Marple smiled. “I’m not quite a conjurer, you know. I didn’t know your uncle, or what sort of man he was, and I don’t know the house or the grounds.”

Charmian said, “If you did know them?”

“Well, it must be quite simple, really, mustn’t it?” said Miss Marple.

“Simple!” said Charmian. “You come down to Ansteys and see if it’s simple!”

It is possible that she did not mean the invitation to be taken seriously, but Miss Marple said briskly, “Well, really, my dear, that’s very kind of you. I’ve always wanted to have the chance of looking for buried treasure. And,” she added, looking at them with a beaming, late-Victorian smile, “with a love interest, too!”

“You see!” said Charmian, gesturing dramatically.

They had just completed a grand tour of Ansteys. They had been round the kitchen garden—heavily trenched. They had been through the little woods, where every important tree had been dug round, and had gazed sadly on the pitted surface of the once smooth lawn. They had been up to the attic, where old trunks and chests had been rifled of their contents. They had been down to the cellars, where flagstones had been heaved unwillingly from their sockets. They had measured and tapped walls, and Miss Marple had been shown every antique piece of furniture that contained or could be suspected of containing a secret drawer.

On a table in the morning room there was a heap of papers—all the papers that the late Mathew Stroud had left. Not one had been destroyed, and Charmian and Edward were wont to return to them again and again, earnestly perusing bills, invitations, and business correspondence in the hope of spotting a hitherto unnoticed clue.

“Can you think of anywhere we haven’t looked?” demanded Charmian hopefully.

Miss Marple shook her head. “You seem to have been very thorough, my dear. Perhaps, if I may say so, just a little too thorough. I always think, you know, that one should have a plan. It’s like my friend, Mrs. Eldritch, she had such a nice little maid, polished linoleum beautifully, but she was so thorough that she polished the bathroom floor too much, and as Mrs. Eldritch was stepping out of the bath the cork mat slipped from under her, and she had a very nasty fall and actually broke her leg! Most awkward, because the bathroom door was locked, of course, and the gardener had to get a ladder and come in through the window—terribly distressing to Mrs. Eldritch, who had always been a very modest woman.”

Edward moved restlessly.

Miss Marple said quickly, “Please forgive me. So apt, I know, to fly off at a tangent. But one thing does remind one of another. And sometimes that is helpful. All I was trying to say was that perhaps if we tried to sharpen our wits and think of a likely place—”

Edward said crossly, “You think of one, Miss Marple. Charmian’s brains and mine are now only beautiful blanks!”

“Dear, dear. Of course—most tiring for you. If you don’t mind I’ll just look through all this.” She indicated the papers on the table. “That is, if there’s nothing private—I don’t want to appear to pry.”

“Oh, that’s all right. But I’m afraid you won’t find anything.”

She sat down by the table and methodically worked through the sheaf of documents. As she replaced each one, she sorted them automatically into tidy little heaps. When she had finished she sat staring in front of her for some minutes.

Edward asked, not without a touch of malice, “Well, Miss Marple?”

Miss Marple came to herself with a little start. “I beg your pardon. Most helpful.”

“You’ve found something relevant?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that, but I do believe I know what sort of man your Uncle Mathew was. Rather like my own Uncle Henry, I think. Fond of rather obvious jokes. A bachelor, evidently—I wonder why—perhaps an early disappointment? Methodical up to a point, but not very fond of being tied up—so few bachelors are!”

Behind Miss Marple’s back, Charmian made a sign to Edward. It said, She’s gaga.

Miss Marple was continuing happily to talk of her deceased Uncle Henry. “Very fond of puns, he was. And to some people, puns are most annoying. A mere play upon words may be very irritating. He was a suspicious man, too. Always was convinced the servants were robbing him. And sometimes, of course, they were, but not always. It grew upon him, poor man. Towards the end he suspected them of tampering with his food, and finally refused to eat anything but boiled eggs! Said nobody could tamper with the inside of a boiled egg. Dear Uncle Henry, he used to be such a merry soul at one time—very fond of his coffee after dinner. He always used to say, ‘This coffee is very Moorish,’ meaning, you know, that he’d like a little more.”

Edward felt that if he heard anymore about Uncle Henry he’d go mad.

“Fond of young people, too,” went on Miss Marple, “but inclined to tease them a little, if you know what I mean. Used to put bags of sweets where a child just couldn’t reach them.”

Casting politeness aside, Charmian said, “I think he sounds horrible!”

“Oh, no, dear, just an old bachelor, you know, and not used to children. And he wasn’t at all stupid, really. He used to keep a good deal of money in the house, and he had a safe put in. Made a great fuss about it—and how very secure it was. As a result of his talking so much, burglars broke in one night and actually cut a hole in the safe with a chemical device.”

“Served him right,” said Edward.

“Oh, but there was nothing in the safe,” said Miss Marple. “You see, he really kept the money somewhere else—behind some volumes of sermons in the library, as a matter of fact. He said people never took a book of that kind out of the shelf!”

Edward interrupted excitedly. “I say, that’s an idea. What about the library?”

But Charmian shook a scornful head. “Do you think I hadn’t thought of that? I went through all the books Tuesday of last week, when you went off to Portsmouth. Took them all out, shook them. Nothing there.”

Edward sighed. Then, rousing himself, he endeavoured to rid himself tactfully of their disappointing guest. “It’s been awfully good of you to come down as you have and try to help us. Sorry it’s been all a washout. Feel we trespassed a lot on your time. However—I’ll get the car out, and you’ll be able to catch the three thirty—”

“Oh,” said Miss Marple, “but we’ve got to find the money, haven’t we? You mustn’t give up, Mr. Rossiter. ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.’”

“You mean you’re going to—go on trying?”

“Strictly speaking,” said Miss Marple, “I haven’t begun yet. ‘First catch your hare—’ as Mrs. Beaton says in her cookery book—a wonderful book but terribly expensive; most of the recipes begin, ‘Take a quart of cream and a dozen eggs.’ Let me see, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, we have, so to speak, caught our hare—the hare being, of course, your Uncle Mathew, and we’ve only got to decide now where he would have hidden the money. It ought to be quite simple.”

“Simple?” demanded Charmian.

“Oh, yes, dear. I’m sure he would have done the obvious thing. A secret drawer—that’s my solution.”

Edward said dryly, “You couldn’t put bars of gold in a secret drawer.”

“No, no, of course not. But there’s no reason to believe the money is in gold.”

“He always used to say—”

“So did my Uncle Henry about his safe! So I should strongly suspect that that was just a blind. Diamonds—now they could be in a secret drawer quite easily.”

“But we’ve looked in all the secret drawers. We had a cabinetmaker over to examine the furniture.”

“Did you, dear? That was clever of you. I should suggest your uncle’s own desk would be the most likely. Was it the tall escritoire against the wall there?”

“Yes. And I’ll show you.” Charmian went over to it. She took down the flap. Inside were pigeonholes and little drawers. She opened a small door in the centre and touched a spring inside the left-hand drawer. The bottom of the centre recess clicked and slid forward. Charmian drew it out, revealing a shallow well beneath. It was empty.

“Now isn’t that a coincidence?” exclaimed Miss Marple. “Uncle Henry had a desk just like this, only his was burr walnut and this is mahogany.”

“At any rate,” said Charmian, “there’s nothing there, as you can see.”

“I expect,” said Miss Marple, “your cabinetmaker was a young man. He didn’t know everything. People were very artful when they made hiding places in those days. There’s such a thing as a secret inside a secret.”

She extracted a hairpin from her neat bun of grey hair. Straightening it out, she stuck the point into what appeared to be a tiny wormhole in one side of the secret recess. With a little difficulty she pulled out a small drawer. In it was a bundle of faded letters and a folded paper.

Edward and Charmian pounced on the find together. With trembling fingers Edward unfolded the paper. He dropped it with an exclamation of disgust.

“A damned cookery recipe. Baked ham!”

Charmian was untying a ribbon that held the letters together. She drew one out and glanced at it. “Love letters!”

Miss Marple reacted with Victorian gusto. “How interesting! Perhaps the reason your uncle never married.”

Charmian read aloud:

“‘My ever dear Mathew, I must confess that the time seems long indeed since I received your last letter. I try to occupy myself with the various tasks allotted to me, and often say to myself that I am indeed fortunate to see so much of the globe, though little did I think when I went to America that I should voyage off to these far islands!’ “

Charmain broke off. “Where is it from? Oh! Hawaii!” She went on:

“‘Alas, these natives are still far from seeing the light. They are in an unclothed and savage state and spend most of their time swimming and dancing, adorning themselves with garlands of flowers. Mr. Gray has made some converts but it is uphill work, and he and Mrs. Gray get sadly discouraged. I try to do all I can to cheer and encourage him, but I, too, am often sad for a reason you can guess, dear Mathew. Alas, absence is a severe trial for a loving heart. Your renewed vows and protestations of affection cheered me greatly. Now and always you have my faithful and devoted heart, dear Mathew, and I remain—Your true love, Betty Martin.

“‘PS—I address my letter under cover to our mutual friend, Matilda Graves, as usual. I hope heaven will pardon this little subterfuge.’”

Edward whistled. “A female missionary! So that was Uncle Mathew’s romance. I wonder why they never married?”

“She seems to have gone all over the world,” said Charmian, looking through the letters. “Mauritius—all sorts of places. Probably died of yellow fever or something.”

A gentle chuckle made them start. Miss Marple was apparently much amused. “Well, well,” she said. “Fancy that, now!”

She was reading the recipe for baked ham. Seeing their enquiring glances, she read out: “‘Baked ham with spinach. Take a nice piece of gammon, stuff with cloves, and cover with brown sugar. Bake in a slow oven. Serve with a border of pureed spinach.’ What do you think of that, now?”

“I think it sounds filthy,” said Edward.

“No, no, actually it would be very good—but what do you think of the whole thing?”

A sudden ray of light illuminated Edward’s face. “Do you think it’s a code—cryptogram of some kind?” He seized it. “Look here, Charmian, it might be, you know! No reason to put a cooking-recipe in a secret drawer otherwise.”

“Exactly,” said Miss Marple. “Very, very significant.”

Charmian said, “I know what it might be—invisible ink! Let’s heat it. Turn on the electric fire.”

Edward did so, but no signs of writing appeared under the treatment.

Miss Marple coughed. “I really think, you know, that you’re making it rather too difficult. The recipe is only an indication, so to speak. It is, I think, the letters that are significant.”

“The letters?”

“Especially,” said Miss Marple, “the signature.”

But Edward hardly heard her. He called excitedly, “Charmian! Come here! She’s right. See—the envelopes are old, right enough, but the letters themselves were written much later.”

“Exactly,” said Miss Marple.

“They’re only fake old. I bet anything old Uncle Mat faked them himself—”

“Precisely,” said Miss Marple.

“The whole thing’s a sell. There never was a female missionary. It must be a code.”

“My dear, dear children—there’s really no need to make it all so difficult. Your uncle was really a very simple man. He had to have his little joke, that was all.”

For the first time they gave her their full attention.

“Just exactly what do you mean, Miss Marple?” asked Charmian.

“I mean, dear, that you’re actually holding the money in your hand this minute.”

Charmian stared down.

“The signature, dear. That gives the whole thing away. The recipe is just an indication. Shorn of all the cloves and brown sugar and the rest of it, what is it actually? Why, gammon and spinach to be sure! Gammon and spinach! Meaning—nonsense! So it’s clear that it’s the letters that are important. And then, if you take into consideration what your uncle did just before he died. He tapped his eye, you said. Well, there you are—that gives you the clue, you see.”

Charmian said, “Are we mad, or are you?”

“Surely, my dear, you must have heard the expression meaning that something is not a true picture, or has it quite died out nowadays? ‘All my eye and Betty Martin.’”

Edward gasped, his eyes falling to the letter in his hand. “Betty Martin—”

“Of course, Mr. Rossiter. As you have just said, there isn’t—there wasn’t any such person. The letters were written by your uncle, and I dare say he got a lot of fun out of writing them! As you say, the writing on the envelopes is much older—in fact, the envelope couldn’t belong to the letters, anyway, because the postmark of one you are holding is eighteen fifty-one.”

She paused. She made it very emphatic. “Eighteen fifty-one. And that explains everything, doesn’t it?”

“Not to me,” said Edward.

“Well, of course,” said Miss Marple, “I dare say it wouldn’t to me if it weren’t for my great-nephew Lionel. Such a dear little boy and a passionate stamp collector. Knows all about stamps. It was he who told me about the rare and expensive stamps and that a wonderful new find had come up for auction. And I actually remember his mentioning one stamp—an eighteen fifty-one blue two-cent. It realized something like twenty-five thousand dollars, I believe. Fancy! I should imagine that the other stamps are something also rare and expensive. No doubt your uncle bought through dealers and was careful to ‘cover his tracks,’ as they say in detective stories.”

Edward groaned. He sat down and buried his face in his hands.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Charmian.

“Nothing. It’s only the awful thought that, but for Miss Marple, we might have burned these letters in a decent, gentlemanly way!”

“Ah,” said Miss Marple, “that’s just what these old gentlemen who are fond of their jokes never realize. Uncle Henry, I remember, sent a favourite niece a five-pound note for a Christmas present. He put it in a Christmas card, gummed the card together, and wrote on it, ‘Love and best wishes. Afraid this is all I can manage this year.’”

“She, poor girl, was annoyed at what she thought was his meanness and threw it all straight into the fire; then, of course, he had to give her another.”

Edward’s feelings towards Uncle Henry had suffered an abrupt and complete change.

“Miss Marple,” he said, “I’m going to get a bottle of champagne. We’ll all drink the health of your Uncle Henry.”

Sixteen

THE CASE OF THE PERFECT MAID

“Oh, if you please, madam, could I speak to you a moment?”

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

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

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

“Yes, Edna?” said Miss Marple encouragingly.

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

“Dear me,” said Miss Marple, her mind leaping to the worst—and, alas, the most usual conclusion. “Not—not in trouble?”

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

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

“Yes, ma’am, that’s right, ma’am. And Gladdie’s very upset about it—very upset indeed.”

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

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

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

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

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

Edna went on. “You see, ma’am, it’s the way it happened—the way Miss Skinner looked.”

“How,” enquired Miss Marple patiently, “did Miss Skinner look?”

This time Edna got well away with her news bulletin.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’ll get about,” said Edna dismally.

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

“Oh, thank you, madam,” said Edna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Lavinia nodded. “Wednesday week. Broke things, you know. Can’t have that.”

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

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

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

Miss Lavinia shook her head.

“I’ve got my reasons,” she said importantly.

Miss Marple murmured, “You missed a brooch, I understand—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Marple commented on her air of well-being.

“I really feel I owe a great deal to Mary, I am so thankful I had the resolution to get rid of that other girl. Mary is really invaluable. Cooks nicely and waits beautifully and keeps our little flat scrupulously clean—mattresses turned over every day. And she is really wonderful with Emily!”

Miss Marple hastily enquired after Emily.

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

“Dear me,” said Miss Marple. “You are fortunate.”

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

“She sounds to me,” said Miss Marple, “almost too good to be true. I should—well, I should be a little careful if I were you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Marple received the last with some signs of confusion.

“Oh, dear, that must have been Mrs. Clement’s little boy. He was sucking it, I remember, and he took my bag to play with. He must have put it inside. It’s terribly sticky, isn’t it?”

“Shall I take it, madam?”

“Oh, would you? Thank you so much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the beginning of a chapter of catastrophe.

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

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

“And all the time, my dear, just a common thief!”

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

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

Inspector Slack was always a confident man.

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

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

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

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

The flat was put up for subletting.

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

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

“Good afternoon, Miss Marple, what can I do for you?”

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

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

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

“Do you want to talk about smut?” asked Inspector Slack and then blushed.

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

“Mary Higgins,” said Inspector Slack.

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

“No charge against her so far as I know,” said the inspector.

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

“Certainly,” said Inspector Slack. “Have you any ideas on the subject?”

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

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

“If you did have fingerprints, would it help?”

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

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

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

Inspector Slack stared. “Did you get her fingerprints on purpose?”

“Of course.”

“You suspected her then?”

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean, Miss Marple?”

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

“What are you suggesting, Miss Marple?”

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

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

Miss Marple had stalked out before Inspector Slack had recovered.

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

He soon found out that Miss Marple was right again.

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

Seventeen

THE CASE OF THE CARETAKER

“Well,” demanded Doctor Haydock of his patient. “And how goes it today?”

Miss Marple smiled at him wanly from pillows.

“I suppose, really, that I’m better,” she admitted, “but I feel so terribly depressed. I can’t help feeling how much better it would have been if I had died. After all, I’m an old woman. Nobody wants me or cares about me.”

Doctor Haydock interrupted with his usual brusqueness. “Yes, yes, typical after-reaction of this type of flu. What you need is something to take you out of yourself. A mental tonic.”

Miss Marple sighed and shook her head.

“And what’s more,” continued Doctor Haydock, “I’ve brought my medicine with me!”

He tossed a long envelope on to the bed.

“Just the thing for you. The kind of puzzle that is right up your street.”

“A puzzle?” Miss Marple looked interested.

“Literary effort of mine,” said the doctor, blushing a little. “Tried to make a regular story of it. ‘He said,’ ‘she said,’ ‘the girl thought,’ etc. Facts of the story are true.”

“But why a puzzle?” asked Miss Marple.

Doctor Haydock grinned. “Because the interpretation is up to you. I want to see if you’re as clever as you always make out.”

With that Parthian shot he departed.

Miss Marple picked up the manuscript and began to read.

“And where is the bride?” asked Miss Harmon genially.

The village was all agog to see the rich and beautiful young wife that Harry Laxton had brought back from abroad. There was a general indulgent feeling that Harry—wicked young scapegrace—had had all the luck. Everyone had always felt indulgent towards Harry. Even the owners of windows that had suffered from his indiscriminate use of a catapult had found their indignation dissipated by young Harry’s abject expression of regret. He had broken windows, robbed orchards, poached rabbits, and later had run into debt, got entangled with the local tobacconist’s daughter—been disentangled and sent off to Africa—and the village as represented by various ageing spinsters had murmured indulgently. “Ah, well! Wild oats! He’ll settle down!”

And now, sure enough, the prodigal had returned—not in affliction, but in triumph. Harry Laxton had “made good” as the saying goes. He had pulled himself together, worked hard, and had finally met and successfully wooed a young Anglo-French girl who was the possessor of a considerable fortune.

Harry might have lived in London, or purchased an estate in some fashionable hunting county, but he preferred to come back to the part of the world that was home to him. And there, in the most romantic way, he purchased the derelict estate in the dower house of which he had passed his childhood.

Kingsdean House had been unoccupied for nearly seventy years. It had gradually fallen into decay and abandon. An elderly caretaker and his wife lived in the one habitable corner of it. It was a vast, unprepossessing grandiose mansion, the gardens overgrown with rank vegetation and the trees hemming it in like some gloomy enchanter’s den.

The dower house was a pleasant, unpretentious house and had been let for a long term of years to Major Laxton, Harry’s father. As a boy, Harry had roamed over the Kingsdean estate and knew every inch of the tangled woods, and the old house itself had always fascinated him.

Major Laxton had died some years ago, so it might have been thought that Harry would have had no ties to bring him back—nevertheless it was to the home of his boyhood that Harry brought his bride. The ruined old Kingsdean House was pulled down. An army of builders and contractors swooped down upon the place, and in almost a miraculously short space of time—so marvellously does wealth tell—the new house rose white and gleaming among the trees.

Next came a posse of gardeners and after them a procession of furniture vans.

The house was ready. Servants arrived. Lastly, a costly limousine deposited Harry and Mrs. Harry at the front door.

The village rushed to call, and Mrs. Price, who owned the largest house, and who considered herself to lead society in the place, sent out cards of invitation for a party “to meet the bride.”

It was a great event. Several ladies had new frocks for the occasion. Everyone was excited, curious, anxious to see this fabulous creature. They said it was all so like a fairy story!

Miss Harmon, weather-beaten, hearty spinster, threw out her question as she squeezed her way through the crowded drawing room door. Little Miss Brent, a thin, acidulated spinster, fluttered out information.

“Oh, my dear, quite charming. Such pretty manners. And quite young. Really, you know, it makes one feel quite envious to see someone who has everything like that. Good looks and money and breeding—most distinguished, nothing in the least common about her—and dear Harry so devoted!”

“Ah,” said Miss Harmon, “it’s early days yet!”

Miss Brent’s thin nose quivered appreciatively. “Oh, my dear, do you really think—”

“We all know what Harry is,” said Miss Harmon.

“We know what he was! But I expect now—”

“Ah,” said Miss Harmon, “men are always the same. Once a gay deceiver, always a gay deceiver. I know them.”

“Dear, dear. Poor young thing.” Miss Brent looked much happier. “Yes, I expect she’ll have trouble with him. Someone ought really to warn her. I wonder if she’s heard anything of the old story?”

“It seems so very unfair,” said Miss Brent, “that she should know nothing. So awkward. Especially with only the one chemist’s shop in the village.”

For the erstwhile tobacconist’s daughter was now married to Mr. Edge, the chemist.

“It would be so much nicer,” said Miss Brent, “if Mrs. Laxton were to deal with Boots in Much Benham.”

“I dare say,” said Miss Harmon, “that Harry Laxton will suggest that himself.”

And again a significant look passed between them.

“But I certainly think,” said Miss Harmon, “that she ought to know.”

“Beasts!” said Clarice Vane indignantly to her uncle, Doctor Haydock. “Absolute beasts some people are.”

He looked at her curiously.

She was a tall, dark girl, handsome, warmhearted and impulsive. Her big brown eyes were alight now with indignation as she said, “All these cats—saying things—hinting things.”

“About Harry Laxton?”

“Yes, about his affair with the tobacconist’s daughter.”

“Oh, that!” The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “A great many young men have affairs of that kind.”

“Of course they do. And it’s all over. So why harp on it? And bring it up years after? It’s like ghouls feasting on dead bodies.”

“I dare say, my dear, it does seem like that to you. But you see, they have very little to talk about down here, and so I’m afraid they do tend to dwell upon past scandals. But I’m curious to know why it upsets you so much?”

Clarice Vane bit her lip and flushed. She said, in a curiously muffled voice. “They—they look so happy. The Laxtons, I mean. They’re young and in love, and it’s all so lovely for them. I hate to think of it being spoiled by whispers and hints and innuendoes and general beastliness.”

“H’m. I see.”

Clarice went on. “He was talking to me just now. He’s so happy and eager and excited and—yes, thrilled—at having got his heart’s desire and rebuilt Kingsdean. He’s like a child about it all. And she—well, I don’t suppose anything has ever gone wrong in her whole life. She’s always had everything. You’ve seen her. What did you think of her?”

The doctor did not answer at once. For other people, Louise Laxton might be an object of envy. A spoiled darling of fortune. To him she had brought only the refrain of a popular song heard many years ago, Poor little rich girl—

A small, delicate figure, with flaxen hair curled rather stiffly round her face and big, wistful blue eyes.

Louise was drooping a little. The long stream of congratulations had tired her. She was hoping it might soon be time to go. Perhaps, even now, Harry might say so. She looked at him sideways. So tall and broadshouldered with his eager pleasure in this horrible, dull party.

Poor little rich girl—

“Ooph!” It was a sigh of relief.

Harry turned to look at his wife amusedly. They were driving away from the party.

She said, “Darling, what a frightful party!”

Harry laughed. “Yes, pretty terrible. Never mind, my sweet. It had to be done, you know. All these old pussies knew me when I lived here as a boy. They’d have been terribly disappointed not to have got a look at you close up.”

Louise made a grimace. She said, “Shall we have to see a lot of them?”

“What? Oh, no. They’ll come and make ceremonious calls with card cases, and you’ll return the calls and then you needn’t bother anymore. You can have your own friends down or whatever you like.”

Louise said, after a minute or two, “Isn’t there anyone amusing living down here?”

“Oh, yes. There’s the County, you know. Though you may find them a bit dull, too. Mostly interested in bulbs and dogs and horses. You’ll ride, of course. You’ll enjoy that. There’s a horse over at Eglinton I’d like you to see. A beautiful animal, perfectly trained, no vice in him but plenty of spirit.”

The car slowed down to take the turn into the gates of Kingsdean. Harry wrenched the wheel and swore as a grotesque figure sprang up in the middle of the road and he only just managed to avoid it. It stood there, shaking a fist and shouting after them.

Louise clutched his arm. “Who’s that—that horrible old woman?”

Harry’s brow was black. “That’s old Murgatroyd. She and her husband were caretakers in the old house. They were there for nearly thirty years.”

“Why does she shake her fist at you?”

Harry’s face got red. “She—well, she resented the house being pulled down. And she got the sack, of course. Her husband’s been dead two years. They say she got a bit queer after he died.”

“Is she—she isn’t—starving?”

Louise’s ideas were vague and somewhat melodramatic. Riches prevented you coming into contact with reality.

Harry was outraged. “Good Lord, Louise, what an idea! I pensioned her off, of course—and handsomely, too! Found her a new cottage and everything.”

Louise asked, bewildered, “Then why does she mind?”

Harry was frowning, his brows drawn together. “Oh, how should I know? Craziness! She loved the house.”

“But it was a ruin, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was—crumbling to pieces—roof leaking—more or less unsafe. All the same I suppose it meant something to her. She’d been there a long time. Oh, I don’t know! The old devil’s cracked, I think.”

Louise said uneasily, “She—I think she cursed us. Oh, Harry, I wish she hadn’t.”

It seemed to Louise that her new home was tainted and poisoned by the malevolent figure of one crazy old woman. When she went out in the car, when she rode, when she walked out with the dogs, there was always the same figure waiting. Crouched down on herself, a battered hat over wisps of iron-grey hair, and the slow muttering of imprecations.

Louise came to believe that Harry was right—the old woman was mad. Nevertheless that did not make things easier. Mrs. Murgatroyd never actually came to the house, nor did she use definite threats, nor offer violence. Her squatting figure remained always just outside the gates. To appeal to the police would have been useless and, in any case, Harry Laxton was averse to that course of action. It would, he said, arouse local sympathy for the old brute. He took the matter more easily than Louise did.

“Don’t worry about it, darling. She’ll get tired of this silly cursing business. Probably she’s only trying it on.”

“She isn’t, Harry. She—she hates us! I can feel it. She—she’s illwishing us.”

“She’s not a witch, darling, although she may look like one! Don’t be morbid about it all.”

Louise was silent. Now that the first excitement of settling in was over, she felt curiously lonely and at a loose end. She had been used to life in London and the Riviera. She had no knowledge of or taste for English country life. She was ignorant of gardening, except for the final act of “doing the flowers.” She did not really care for dogs. She was bored by such neighbours as she met. She enjoyed riding best, sometimes with Harry, sometimes, when he was busy about the estate, by herself. She hacked through the woods and lanes, enjoying the easy paces of the beautiful horse that Harry had bought for her. Yet even Prince Hal, most sensitive of chestnut steeds, was wont to shy and snort as he carried his mistress past the huddled figure of a malevolent old woman.

One day Louise took her courage in both hands. She was out walking. She had passed Mrs. Murgatroyd, pretending not to notice her, but suddenly she swerved back and went right up to her. She said, a little breathlessly, “What is it? What’s the matter? What do you want?”

The old woman blinked at her. She had a cunning, dark gypsy face, with wisps of iron-grey hair, and bleared, suspicious eyes. Louise wondered if she drank.

She spoke in a whining and yet threatening voice. “What do I want, you ask? What, indeed! That which has been took away from me. Who turned me out of Kingsdean House? I’d lived there, girl and woman, for near on forty years. It was a black deed to turn me out and it’s black bad luck it’ll bring to you and him!”

Louise said, “You’ve got a very nice cottage and—”

She broke off. The old woman’s arms flew up. She screamed, “What’s the good of that to me? It’s my own place I want and my own fire as I sat beside all them years. And as for you and him, I’m telling you there will be no happiness for you in your new fine house. It’s the black sorrow will be upon you! Sorrow and death and my curse. May your fair face rot.”

Louise turned away and broke into a little stumbling run. She thought, I must get away from here! We must sell the house! We must go away.

At the moment, such a solution seemed easy to her. But Harry’s utter incomprehension took her back. He exclaimed, “Leave here? Sell the house? Because of a crazy old woman’s threats? You must be mad.”

“No, I’m not. But she—she frightens me, I know something will happen.”

Harry Laxton said grimly, “Leave Mrs. Murgatroyd to me. I’ll settle her!”

A friendship had sprung up between Clarice Vane and young Mrs. Laxton. The two girls were much of an age, though dissimilar both in character and in tastes. In Clarice’s company, Louise found reassurance. Clarice was so self-reliant, so sure of herself. Louise mentioned the matter of Mrs. Murgatroyd and her threats, but Clarice seemed to regard the matter as more annoying than frightening.

“It’s so stupid, that sort of thing,” she said. “And really very annoying for you.”

“You know, Clarice, I—I feel quite frightened sometimes. My heart gives the most awful jumps.”

“Nonsense, you mustn’t let a silly thing like that get you down. She’ll soon tire of it.”

She was silent for a minute or two. Clarice said, “What’s the matter?”

Louise paused for a minute, then her answer came with a rush. “I hate this place! I hate being here. The woods and this house, and the awful silence at night, and the queer noise owls make. Oh, and the people and everything.”

“The people. What people?”

“The people in the village. Those prying, gossiping old maids.”

Clarice said sharply, “What have they been saying?”

“I don’t know. Nothing particular. But they’ve got nasty minds. When you’ve talked to them you feel you wouldn’t trust anybody—not anybody at all.”

Clarice said harshly, “Forget them. They’ve nothing to do but gossip. And most of the muck they talk they just invent.”

Louise said, “I wish we’d never come here. But Harry adores it so.” Her voice softened.

Clarice thought, How she adores him. She said abruptly, “I must go now.”

“I’ll send you back in the car. Come again soon.”

Clarice nodded. Louise felt comforted by her new friend’s visit. Harry was pleased to find her more cheerful and from then on urged her to have Clarice often to the house.

Then one day he said, “Good news for you, darling.”

“Oh, what?”

“I’ve fixed the Murgatroyd. She’s got a son in America, you know. Well, I’ve arranged for her to go out and join him. I’ll pay her passage.”

“Oh, Harry, how wonderful. I believe I might get to like Kingsdean after all.”

“Get to like it? Why, it’s the most wonderful place in the world!”

Louise gave a little shiver. She could not rid herself of her superstitious fear so easily.

If the ladies of St. Mary Mead had hoped for the pleasure of imparting information about her husband’s past to the bride, this pleasure was denied them by Harry Laxton’s own prompt action.

Miss Harmon and Clarice Vane were both in Mr. Edge’s shop, the one buying mothballs and the other a packet of boracic, when Harry Laxton and his wife came in.

After greeting the two ladies, Harry turned to the counter and was just demanding a toothbrush when he stopped in mid-speech and exclaimed heartily, “Well, well, just see who’s here! Bella, I do declare.”

Mrs. Edge, who had hurried out from the back parlour to attend to the congestion of business, beamed back cheerfully at him, showing her big white teeth. She had been a dark, handsome girl and was still a reasonably handsome woman, though she had put on weight, and the lines of her face had coarsened; but her large brown eyes were full of warmth as she answered, “Bella, it is, Mr. Harry, and pleased to see you after all these years.”

Harry turned to his wife. “Bella’s an old flame of mine, Louise,” he said. “Head-over-heels in love with her, wasn’t I, Bella?”

“That’s what you say,” said Mrs. Edge.

Louise laughed. She said, “My husband’s very happy seeing all his old friends again.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Edge, “we haven’t forgotten you, Mr. Harry. Seems like a fairy tale to think of you married and building up a new house instead of that ruined old Kingsdean House.”

“You look very well and blooming,” said Harry, and Mrs. Edge laughed and said there was nothing wrong with her and what about that toothbrush?

Clarice, watching the baffled look on Miss Harmon’s face, said to herself exultantly, Oh, well-done, Harry. You’ve spiked their guns.

Doctor Haydock said abruptly to his niece, “What’s all this nonsense about old Mrs. Murgatroyd hanging about Kingsdean and shaking her fist and cursing the new regime?”

“It isn’t nonsense. It’s quite true. It’s upset Louise a good deal.”

“Tell her she needn’t worry—when the Murgatroyds were caretakers they never stopped grumbling about the place—they only stayed because Murgatroyd drank and couldn’t get another job.”

“I’ll tell her,” said Clarice doubtfully, “but I don’t think she’ll believe you. The old woman fairly screams with rage.”

“Always used to be fond of Harry as a boy. I can’t understand it.”

Clarice said, “Oh, well—they’ll be rid of her soon. Harry’s paying her passage to America.”

Three days later, Louise was thrown from her horse and killed.

Two men in a baker’s van were witnesses of the accident. They saw Louise ride out of the gates, saw the old woman spring up and stand in the road waving her arms and shouting, saw the horse start, swerve, and then bolt madly down the road, flinging Louise Laxton over his head.

One of them stood over the unconscious figure, not knowing what to do, while the other rushed to the house to get help.

Harry Laxton came running out, his face ghastly. They took off a door of the van and carried her on it to the house. She died without regaining consciousness and before the doctor arrived.

(End of Doctor Haydock’s manuscript.)

When Doctor Haydock arrived the following day, he was pleased to note that there was a pink flush in Miss Marple’s cheek and decidedly more animation in her manner.

“Well,” he said, “what’s the verdict?”

“What’s the problem, Doctor Haydock?” countered Miss Marple.

“Oh, my dear lady, do I have to tell you that?”

“I suppose,” said Miss Marple, “that it’s the curious conduct of the caretaker. Why did she behave in that very odd way? People do mind being turned out of their old homes. But it wasn’t her home. In fact, she used to complain and grumble while she was there. Yes, it certainly looks very fishy. What became of her, by the way?”

“Did a bunk to Liverpool. The accident scared her. Thought she’d wait there for her boat.”

“All very convenient for somebody,” said Miss Marple. “Yes, I think the ‘Problem of the Caretaker’s Conduct’ can be solved easily enough. Bribery, was it not?”

“That’s your solution?”

“Well, if it wasn’t natural for her to behave in that way, she must have been ‘putting on an act’ as people say, and that means that somebody paid her to do what she did.”

“And you know who that somebody was?”

“Oh, I think so. Money again, I’m afraid. And I’ve always noticed that gentlemen always tend to admire the same type.”

“Now I’m out of my depth.”

“No, no, it all hangs together. Harry Laxton admired Bella Edge, a dark, vivacious type. Your niece Clarice was the same. But the poor little wife was quite a different type—fair-haired and clinging—not his type at all. So he must have married her for her money. And murdered her for her money, too!”

“You use the word ‘murder’?”

“Well, he sounds the right type. Attractive to women and quite unscrupulous. I suppose he wanted to keep his wife’s money and marry your niece. He may have been seen talking to Mrs. Edge. But I don’t fancy he was attached to her anymore. Though I dare say he made the poor woman think he was, for ends of his own. He soon had her well under his thumb, I fancy.”

“How exactly did he murder her, do you think?”

Miss Marple stared ahead of her for some minutes with dreamy blue eyes.

“It was very well-timed—with the baker’s van as witness. They could see the old woman and, of course, they’d put down the horse’s fright to that. But I should imagine, myself, that an air gun, or perhaps a catapult. Yes, just as the horse came through the gates. The horse bolted, of course, and Mrs. Laxton was thrown.”

She paused, frowning.

“The fall might have killed her. But he couldn’t be sure of that. And he seems the sort of man who would lay his plans carefully and leave nothing to chance. After all, Mrs. Edge could get him something suitable without her husband knowing. Otherwise, why would Harry bother with her? Yes, I think he had some powerful drug handy, that could be administered before you arrived. After all, if a woman is thrown from her horse and has serious injuries and dies without recovering consciousness, well—a doctor wouldn’t normally be suspicious, would he? He’d put it down to shock or something.”

Doctor Haydock nodded.

“Why did you suspect?” asked Miss Marple.

“It wasn’t any particular cleverness on my part,” said Doctor Haydock. “It was just the trite, well-known fact that a murderer is so pleased with his cleverness that he doesn’t take proper precautions. I was just saying a few consolatory words to the bereaved husband—and feeling damned sorry for the fellow, too—when he flung himself down on the settee to do a bit of playacting and a hypodermic syringe fell out of his pocket.

“He snatched it up and looked so scared that I began to think. Harry Laxton didn’t drug; he was in perfect health; what was he doing with a hypodermic syringe? I did the autopsy with a view to certain possibilities. I found strophanthin. The rest was easy. There was strophanthin in Laxton’s possession, and Bella Edge, questioned by the police, broke down and admitted to having got it for him. And finally old Mrs. Murgatroyd confessed that it was Harry Laxton who had put her up to the cursing stunt.”

“And your niece got over it?”

“Yes, she was attracted by the fellow, but it hadn’t gone far.”

The doctor picked up his manuscript.

“Full marks to you, Miss Marple—and full marks to me for my prescription. You’re looking almost yourself again.”

Eighteen

TAPE-MEASURE MURDER

Miss Politt took hold of the knocker and rapped politely on the cottage door. After a discreet interval she knocked again. The parcel under her left arm shifted a little as she did so, and she readjusted it. Inside the parcel was Mrs. Spenlow’s new green winter dress, ready for fitting. From Miss Politt’s left hand dangled a bag of black silk, containing a tape measure, a pincushion, and a large, practical pair of scissors.

Miss Politt was tall and gaunt, with a sharp nose, pursed lips, and meagre iron-grey hair. She hesitated before using the knocker for the third time. Glancing down the street, she saw a figure rapidly approaching. Miss Hartnell, jolly, weather-beaten, fifty-five, shouted out in her usual loud bass voice, “Good afternoon, Miss Politt!”

The dressmaker answered, “Good afternoon, Miss Hartnell.” Her voice was excessively thin and genteel in its accents. She had started life as a lady’s maid. “Excuse me,” she went on, “but do you happen to know if by any chance Mrs. Spenlow isn’t at home?”

“Not the least idea,” said Miss Hartnell.

“It’s rather awkward, you see. I was to fit on Mrs. Spenlow’s new dress this afternoon. Three thirty, she said.”

Miss Hartnell consulted her wrist watch. “It’s a little past the half hour now.”

“Yes. I have knocked three times, but there doesn’t seem to be any answer, so I was wondering if perhaps Mrs. Spenlow might have gone out and forgotten. She doesn’t forget appointments as a rule, and she wants the dress to wear the day after tomorrow.”

Miss Hartnell entered the gate and walked up the path to join Miss Politt outside the door of Laburnum Cottage.

“Why doesn’t Gladys answer the door?” she demanded. “Oh, no, of course, it’s Thursday—Gladys’s day out. I expect Mrs. Spenlow has fallen asleep. I don’t expect you’ve made enough noise with this thing.”

Seizing the knocker, she executed a deafening rat-a-tat-tat, and in addition thumped upon the panels of the door. She also called out in a stentorian voice, “What ho, within there!”

There was no response.

Miss Politt murmured, “Oh, I think Mrs. Spenlow must have forgotten and gone out, I’ll call round some other time.” She began edging away down the path.

“Nonsense,” said Miss Hartnell firmly. “She can’t have gone out. I’d have met her. I’ll just take a look through the windows and see if I can find any signs of life.”

She laughed in her usual hearty manner, to indicate that it was a joke, and applied a perfunctory glance to the nearest windowpane—perfunctory because she knew quite well that the front room was seldom used, Mr. and Mrs. Spenlow preferring the small back sitting room.

Perfunctory as it was, though, it succeeded in its object. Miss Hartnell, it is true, saw no signs of life. On the contrary, she saw, through the window, Mrs. Spenlow lying on the hearthrug—dead.

“Of course,” said Miss Hartnell, telling the story afterwards, “I managed to keep my head. That Politt creature wouldn’t have had the least idea of what to do. ‘Got to keep our heads,’ I said to her. ‘You stay here, and I’ll go for Constable Palk.’ She said something about not wanting to be left, but I paid no attention at all. One has to be firm with that sort of person. I’ve always found they enjoy making a fuss. So I was just going off when, at that very moment, Mr. Spenlow came round the corner of the house.”

Here Miss Hartnell made a significant pause. It enabled her audience to ask breathlessly, “Tell me, how did he look?”

Miss Hartnell would then go on, “Frankly, I suspected something at once! He was far too calm. He didn’t seem surprised in the least. And you may say what you like, it isn’t natural for a man to hear that his wife is dead and display no emotion whatever.”

Everybody agreed with this statement.

The police agreed with it, too. So suspicious did they consider Mr. Spenlow’s detachment, that they lost no time in ascertaining how that gentleman was situated as a result of his wife’s death. When they discovered that Mrs. Spenlow had been the monied partner, and that her money went to her husband under a will made soon after their marriage, they were more suspicious than ever.

Miss Marple, that sweet-faced—and, some said, vinegar-tongued—elderly spinster who lived in the house next to the rectory, was interviewed very early—within half an hour of the discovery of the crime. She was approached by Police Constable Palk, importantly thumbing a notebook. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ve a few questions to ask you.”

Miss Marple said, “In connection with the murder of Mrs. Spenlow?”

Palk was startled. “May I ask, madam, how you got to know of it?”

“The fish,” said Miss Marple.

The reply was perfectly intelligible to Constable Palk. He assumed correctly that the fishmonger’s boy had brought it, together with Miss Marple’s evening meal.

Miss Marple continued gently. “Lying on the floor in the sitting room, strangled—possibly by a very narrow belt. But whatever it was, it was taken away.”

Palk’s face was wrathful. “How that young Fred gets to know everything—”

Miss Marple cut him short adroitly. She said, “There’s a pin in your tunic.”

Constable Palk looked down, startled. He said, “They do say, ‘See a pin and pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck.’”

“I hope that will come true. Now what is it you want me to tell you?”

Constable Palk cleared his throat, looked important, and consulted his notebook. “Statement was made to me by Mr. Arthur Spenlow, husband of the deceased. Mr. Spenlow says that at two thirty, as far as he can say, he was rung up by Miss Marple, and asked if he would come over at a quarter past three as she was anxious to consult him about something. Now, ma’am, is that true?”

“Certainly not,” said Miss Marple.

“You did not ring up Mr. Spenlow at two thirty?”

“Neither at two thirty nor any other time.”

“Ah,” said Constable Palk, and sucked his moustache with a good deal of satisfaction.

“What else did Mr. Spenlow say?”

“Mr. Spenlow’s statement was that he came over here as requested, leaving his own house at ten minutes past three; that on arrival here he was informed by the maidservant that Miss Marple was ‘not at ’ome.’”

“That part of it is true,” said Miss Marple. “He did come here, but I was at a meeting at the Women’s Institute.”

“Ah,” said Constable Palk again.

Miss Marple exclaimed, “Do tell me, Constable, do you suspect Mr. Spenlow?”

“It’s not for me to say at this stage, but it looks to me as though somebody, naming no names, has been trying to be artful.”

Miss Marple said thoughtfully, “Mr. Spenlow?”

She liked Mr. Spenlow. He was a small, spare man, stiff and conventional in speech, the acme of respectability. It seemed odd that he should have come to live in the country, he had so clearly lived in towns all his life. To Miss Marple he confided the reason. He said, “I have always intended, ever since I was a small boy, to live in the country someday and have a garden of my own. I have always been very much attached to flowers. My wife, you know, kept a flower shop. That’s where I saw her first.”

A dry statement, but it opened up a vista of romance. A younger, prettier Mrs. Spenlow, seen against a background of flowers.

Mr. Spenlow, however, really knew nothing about flowers. He had no idea of seeds, of cuttings, of bedding out, of annuals or perennials. He had only a vision—a vision of a small cottage garden thickly planted with sweet-smelling, brightly coloured blossoms. He had asked, almost pathetically, for instruction, and had noted down Miss Marple’s replies to questions in a little book.

He was a man of quiet method. It was, perhaps, because of this trait, that the police were interested in him when his wife was found murdered. With patience and perseverance they learned a good deal about the late Mrs. Spenlow—and soon all St. Mary Mead knew it, too.

The late Mrs. Spenlow had begun life as a between-maid in a large house. She had left that position to marry the second gardener, and with him had started a flower shop in London. The shop had prospered. Not so the gardener, who before long had sickened and died.

His widow carried on the shop and enlarged it in an ambitious way. She had continued to prosper. Then she had sold the business at a handsome price and embarked upon matrimony for the second time—with Mr. Spenlow, a middle-aged jeweller who had inherited a small and struggling business. Not long afterwards, they had sold the business and came down to St. Mary Mead.

Mrs. Spenlow was a well-to-do woman. The profits from her florist’s establishment she had invested—“under spirit guidance,” as she explained to all and sundry. The spirits had advised her with unexpected acumen.

All her investments had prospered, some in quite a sensational fashion. Instead, however, of this increasing her belief in spiritualism, Mrs. Spenlow basely deserted mediums and sittings, and made a brief but wholehearted plunge into an obscure religion with Indian affinities which was based on various forms of deep breathing. When, however, she arrived at St. Mary Mead, she had relapsed into a period of orthodox Church-of-England beliefs. She was a good deal at the vicarage, and attended church services with assiduity. She patronized the village shops, took an interest in the local happenings, and played village bridge.

A humdrum, everyday life. And—suddenly—murder.

Colonel Melchett, the chief constable, had summoned Inspector Slack.

Slack was a positive type of man. When he had made up his mind, he was sure. He was quite sure now. “Husband did it, sir,” he said.

“You think so?”

“Quite sure of it. You’ve only got to look at him. Guilty as hell. Never showed a sign of grief or emotion. He came back to the house knowing she was dead.”

“Wouldn’t he at least have tried to act the part of the distracted husband?”

“Not him, sir. Too pleased with himself. Some gentlemen can’t act. Too stiff.”

“Any other woman in his life?” Colonel Melchett asked.

“Haven’t been able to find any trace of one. Of course, he’s the artful kind. He’d cover his tracks. As I see it, he was just fed up with his wife. She’d got the money, and I should say was a trying woman to live with—always taking up with some ‘ism’ or other. He cold-bloodedly decided to do away with her and live comfortably on his own.”

“Yes, that could be the case, I suppose.”

“Depend upon it, that was it. Made his plans careful. Pretended to get a phone call—”

Melchett interrupted him. “No call been traced?”

“No, sir. That means either that he lied, or that the call was put through from a public telephone booth. The only two public phones in the village are at the station and the post office. Post office it certainly wasn’t. Mrs. Blade sees everyone who comes in. Station it might be. Train arrives at two twenty-seven and there’s a bit of a bustle then. But the main thing is he says it was Miss Marple who called him up, and that certainly isn’t true. The call didn’t come from her house, and she herself was away at the Institute.”

“You’re not overlooking the possibility that the husband was deliberately got out of the way—by someone who wanted to murder Mrs. Spenlow?”

“You’re thinking of young Ted Gerard, aren’t you, sir? I’ve been working on him—what we’re up against there is lack of motive. He doesn’t stand to gain anything.”

“He’s an undesirable character, though. Quite a pretty little spot of embezzlement to his credit.”

“I’m not saying he isn’t a wrong ’un. Still, he did go to his boss and own up to that embezzlement. And his employers weren’t wise to it.”

“An Oxford Grouper,” said Melchett.

“Yes, sir. Became a convert and went off to do the straight thing and own up to having pinched money. I’m not saying, mind you, that it mayn’t have been astuteness. He may have thought he was suspected and decided to gamble on honest repentance.”

“You have a sceptical mind, Slack,” said Colonel Melchett. “By the way, have you talked to Miss Marple at all?”

“What’s she got to do with it, sir?”

“Oh, nothing. But she hears things, you know. Why don’t you go and have a chat with her? She’s a very sharp old lady.”

Slack changed the subject. “One thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, sir. That domestic-service job where the deceased started her career—Sir Robert Abercrombie’s place. That’s where that jewel robbery was—emeralds—worth a packet. Never got them. I’ve been looking it up—must have happened when the Spenlow woman was there, though she’d have been quite a girl at the time. Don’t think she was mixed up in it, do you, sir? Spenlow, you know, was one of those little tuppenny-ha’penny jewellers—just the chap for a fence.”

Melchett shook his head. “Don’t think there’s anything in that. She didn’t even know Spenlow at the time. I remember the case. Opinion in police circles was that a son of the house was mixed up in it—Jim Abercrombie—awful young waster. Had a pile of debts, and just after the robbery they were all paid off—some rich woman, so they said, but I don’t know—Old Abercrombie hedged a bit about the case—tried to call the police off.”

“It was just an idea, sir,” said Slack.

Miss Marple received Inspector Slack with gratification, especially when she heard that he had been sent by Colonel Melchett.

“Now, really, that is very kind of Colonel Melchett. I didn’t know he remembered me.”

“He remembers you, all right. Told me that what you didn’t know of what goes on in St. Mary Mead isn’t worth knowing.”

“Too kind of him, but really I don’t know anything at all. About this murder, I mean.”

“You know what the talk about it is.”

“Oh, of course—but it wouldn’t do, would it, to repeat just idle talk?”

Slack said, with an attempt at geniality, “This isn’t an official conversation, you know. It’s in confidence, so to speak.”

“You mean you really want to know what people are saying? Whether there’s any truth in it or not?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Well, of course, there’s been a great deal of talk and speculation. And there are really two distinct camps, if you understand me. To begin with, there are the people who think that the husband did it. A husband or a wife is, in a way, the natural person to suspect, don’t you think so?”

“Maybe,” said the inspector cautiously.

“Such close quarters, you know. Then, so often, the money angle. I hear that it was Mrs. Spenlow who had the money, and therefore Mr. Spenlow does benefit by her death. In this wicked world I’m afraid the most uncharitable assumptions are often justified.”

“He comes into a tidy sum, all right.”

“Just so. It would seem quite plausible, wouldn’t it, for him to strangle her, leave the house by the back, come across the fields to my house, ask for me and pretend he’d had a telephone call from me, then go back and find his wife murdered in his absence—hoping, of course, that the crime would be put down to some tramp or burglar.”

The inspector nodded. “What with the money angle—and if they’d been on bad terms lately—”

But Miss Marple interrupted him. “Oh, but they hadn’t.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“Everyone would have known if they’d quarrelled! The maid, Gladys Brent—she’d have soon spread it round the village.”

The inspector said feebly, “She mightn’t have known—” and received a pitying smile in reply.

Miss Marple went on. “And then there’s the other school of thought. Ted Gerard. A good-looking young man. I’m afraid, you know, that good looks are inclined to influence one more than they should. Our last curate but one—quite a magical effect! All the girls came to church—evening service as well as morning. And many older women became unusually active in parish work—and the slippers and scarfs that were made for him! Quite embarrassing for the poor young man.

“But let me see, where was I? Oh, yes, this young man, Ted Gerard. Of course, there has been talk about him. He’s come down to see her so often. Though Mrs. Spenlow told me herself that he was a member of what I think they call the Oxford Group. A religious movement. They are quite sincere and very earnest, I believe, and Mrs. Spenlow was impressed by it all.”

Miss Marple took a breath and went on. “And I’m sure there was no reason to believe that there was anything more in it than that, but you know what people are. Quite a lot of people are convinced that Mrs. Spenlow was infatuated with the young man, and that she’d lent him quite a lot of money. And it’s perfectly true that he was actually seen at the station that day. In the train—the two twenty-seven down train. But of course it would be quite easy, wouldn’t it, to slip out of the other side of the train and go through the cutting and over the fence and round by the hedge and never come out of the station entrance at all. So that he need not have been seen going to the cottage. And, of course, people do think that what Mrs. Spenlow was wearing was rather peculiar.”

“Peculiar?”

“A kimono. Not a dress.” Miss Marple blushed. “That sort of thing, you know, is, perhaps, rather suggestive to some people.”

“You think it was suggestive?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so, I think it was perfectly natural.”

“You think it was natural?”

“Under the circumstances, yes.” Miss Marple’s glance was cool and reflective.

Inspector Slack said, “It might give us another motive for the husband. Jealousy.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Spenlow would never be jealous. He’s not the sort of man who notices things. If his wife had gone away and left a note on the pincushion, it would be the first he’d know of anything of that kind.”

Inspector Slack was puzzled by the intent way she was looking at him. He had an idea that all her conversation was intended to hint at something he didn’t understand. She said now, with some emphasis, “Didn’t you find any clues, Inspector—on the spot?”

“People don’t leave fingerprints and cigarette ash nowadays, Miss Marple.”

“But this, I think,” she suggested, “was an old-fashioned crime—”

Slack said sharply, “Now what do you mean by that?”

Miss Marple remarked slowly, “I think, you know, that Constable Palk could help you. He was the first person on the—on the ‘scene of the crime,’ as they say.”

Mr. Spenlow was sitting in a deck chair. He looked bewildered. He said, in his thin, precise voice, “I may, of course, be imagining what occurred. My hearing is not as good as it was. But I distinctly think I heard a small boy call after me, ‘Yah, who’s a Crippen?’ It—it conveyed the impression to me that he was of the opinion that I had—had killed my dear wife.”

Miss Marple, gently snipping off a dead rose head, said, “That was the impression he meant to convey, no doubt.”

“But what could possibly have put such an idea into a child’s head?”

Miss Marple coughed. “Listening, no doubt, to the opinions of his elders.”

“You—you really mean that other people think that, also?”

“Quite half the people in St. Mary Mead.”

“But—my dear lady—what can possibly have given rise to such an idea? I was sincerely attached to my wife. She did not, alas, take to living in the country as much as I had hoped she would do, but perfect agreement on every subject is an impossible idea. I assure you I feel her loss very keenly.”

“Probably. But if you will excuse my saying so, you don’t sound as though you do.”

Mr. Spenlow drew his meagre frame up to its full height. “My dear lady, many years ago I read of a certain Chinese philosopher who, when his dearly loved wife was taken from him, continued calmly to beat a gong in the street—a customary Chinese pastime, I presume—exactly as usual. The people of the city were much impressed by his fortitude.”

“But,” said Miss Marple, “the people of St. Mary Mead react rather differently. Chinese philosophy does not appeal to them.”

“But you understand?”

Miss Marple nodded. “My Uncle Henry,” she explained, “was a man of unusual self-control. His motto was ‘Never display emotion.’ He, too, was very fond of flowers.”

“I was thinking,” said Mr. Spenlow with something like eagerness, “that I might, perhaps, have a pergola on the west side of the cottage. Pink roses and, perhaps, wisteria. And there is a white starry flower, whose name for the moment escapes me—”

In the tone in which she spoke to her grandnephew, aged three, Miss Marple said, “I have a very nice catalogue here, with pictures. Perhaps you would like to look through it—I have to go up to the village.”

Leaving Mr. Spenlow sitting happily in the garden with his catalogue, Miss Marple went up to her room, hastily rolled up a dress in a piece of brown paper, and, leaving the house, walked briskly up to the post office. Miss Politt, the dressmaker, lived in the rooms over the post office.

But Miss Marple did not at once go through the door and up the stairs. It was just two thirty, and, a minute late, the Much Ben-ham bus drew up outside the post office door. It was one of the events of the day in St. Mary Mead. The postmistress hurried out with parcels, parcels connected with the shop side of her business, for the post office also dealt in sweets, cheap books, and children’s toys.

For some four minutes Miss Marple was alone in the post office.

Not till the postmistress returned to her post did Miss Marple go upstairs and explain to Miss Politt that she wanted her old grey crepe altered and made more fashionable if that were possible. Miss Politt promised to see what she could do.

The chief constable was rather astonished when Miss Marple’s name was brought to him. She came in with many apologies. “So sorry—so very sorry to disturb you. You are so busy, I know, but then you have always been so very kind, Colonel Melchett, and I felt I would rather come to you instead of Inspector Slack. For one thing, you know, I should hate Constable Palk to get into any trouble. Strictly speaking, I suppose he shouldn’t have touched anything at all.”

Colonel Melchett was slightly bewildered. He said, “Palk? That’s the St. Mary Mead constable, isn’t it? What has he been doing?”

“He picked up a pin, you know. It was in his tunic. And it occurred to me at the time that it was quite probable he had actually picked it up in Mrs. Spenlow’s house.”

“Quite, quite. But after all, you know, what’s a pin? Matter of fact he did pick the pin up just by Mrs. Spenlow’s body. Came and told Slack about it yesterday—you put him up to that, I gather? Oughtn’t to have touched anything, of course, but as I said, what’s a pin? It was only a common pin. Sort of thing any woman might use.”

“Oh, no, Colonel Melchett, that’s where you’re wrong. To a man’s eye, perhaps, it looked like an ordinary pin, but it wasn’t. It was a special pin, a very thin pin, the kind you buy by the box, the kind used mostly by dressmakers.”

Melchett stared at her, a faint light of comprehension breaking in on him. Miss Marple nodded her head several times, eagerly.

“Yes, of course. It seems to me so obvious. She was in her kimono because she was going to try on her new dress, and she went into the front room, and Miss Politt just said something about measurements and put the tape measure round her neck—and then all she’d have to do was to cross it and pull—quite easy, so I’ve heard. And then, of course, she’d go outside and pull the door to and stand there knocking as though she’d just arrived. But the pin shows she’d already been in the house.”

“And it was Miss Politt who telephoned to Spenlow?”

“Yes. From the post office at two thirty—just when the bus comes and the post office would be empty.”

Colonel Melchett said, “But my dear Miss Marple, why? In heaven’s name, why? You can’t have a murder without a motive.”

“Well, I think, you know, Colonel Melchett, from all I’ve heard, that the crime dates from a long time back. It reminds me, you know, of my two cousins, Antony and Gordon. Whatever Antony did always went right for him, and with poor Gordon it was just the other way about. Race horses went lame, and stocks went down, and property depreciated. As I see it, the two women were in it together.”

“In what?”

“The robbery. Long ago. Very valuable emeralds, so I’ve heard. The lady’s maid and the tweeny. Because one thing hasn’t been explained—how, when the tweeny married the gardener, did they have enough money to set up a flower shop?

“The answer is, it was her share of the—the swag, I think is the right expression. Everything she did turned out well. Money made money. But the other one, the lady’s maid, must have been unlucky. She came down to being just a village dressmaker. Then they met again. Quite all right at first, I expect, until Mr. Ted Gerard came on the scene.

“Mrs. Spenlow, you see, was already suffering from conscience, and was inclined to be emotionally religious. This young man no doubt urged her to ‘face up’ and to ‘come clean’ and I dare say she was strung up to do it. But Miss Politt didn’t see it that way. All she saw was that she might go to prison for a robbery she had committed years ago. So she made up her mind to put a stop to it all. I’m afraid, you know, that she was always rather a wicked woman. I don’t believe she’d have turned a hair if that nice, stupid Mr. Spenlow had been hanged.”

Colonel Melchett said slowly, “We can—er—verify your theory—up to a point. The identity of the Politt woman with the lady’s maid at the Abercrombies,’ but—”

Miss Marple reassured him. “It will be all quite easy. She’s the kind of woman who will break down at once when she’s taxed with the truth. And then, you see, I’ve got her tape measure. I—er—abstracted it yesterday when I was trying on. When she misses it and thinks the police have got it—well, she’s quite an ignorant woman and she’ll think it will prove the case against her in some way.”

She smiled at him encouragingly. “You’ll have no trouble, I can assure you.” It was the tone in which his favourite aunt had once assured him that he could not fail to pass his entrance examination into Sandhurst.

And he had passed.

Nineteen

GREENSHAW’S FOLLY

The two men rounded the corner of the shrubbery.

“Well, there you are,” said Raymond West. “That’s it.”

Horace Bindler took a deep, appreciative breath.

“But my dear,” he cried, “how wonderful.” His voice rose in a high screech of ’sthetic delight, then deepened in reverent awe. “It’s unbelievable. Out of this world! A period piece of the best.”

“I thought you’d like it,” said Raymond West, complacently.

“Like it? My dear—” Words failed Horace. He unbuckled the strap of his camera and got busy. “This will be one of the gems of my collection,” he said happily. “I do think, don’t you, that it’s rather amusing to have a collection of monstrosities? The idea came to me one night seven years ago in my bath. My last real gem was in the Campo Santo at Genoa, but I really think this beats it. What’s it called?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” said Raymond.

“I suppose it’s got a name?”

“It must have. But the fact is that it’s never referred to round here as anything but Greenshaw’s Folly.”

“Greenshaw being the man who built it?”

“Yes. In eighteen-sixty or seventy or thereabouts. The local success story of the time. Barefoot boy who had risen to immense prosperity. Local opinion is divided as to why he built this house, whether it was sheer exuberance of wealth or whether it was done to impress his creditors. If the latter, it didn’t impress them. He either went bankrupt or the next thing to it. Hence the name, Greenshaw’s Folly.”

Horace’s camera clicked. “There,” he said in a satisfied voice. “Remind me to show you No. 310 in my collection. A really incredible marble mantelpiece in the Italian manner.” He added, looking at the house, “I can’t conceive of how Mr. Greenshaw thought of it all.”

“Rather obvious in some ways,” said Raymond. “He had visited the châteaux of the Loire, don’t you think? Those turrets. And then, rather unfortunately, he seems to have travelled in the Orient. The influence of the Taj Mahal is unmistakable. I rather like the Moorish wing,” he added, “and the traces of a Venetian palace.”

“One wonders how he ever got hold of an architect to carry out these ideas.”

Raymond shrugged his shoulders.

“No difficulty about that, I expect,” he said. “Probably the architect retired with a good income for life while poor old Greenshaw went bankrupt.”

“Could we look at it from the other side?” asked Horace, “or are we trespassing!”

“We’re trespassing all right,” said Raymond, “but I don’t think it will matter.”

He turned towards the corner of the house and Horace skipped after him.

“But who lives here, my dear? Orphans or holiday visitors? It can’t be a school. No playing fields or brisk efficiency.”

“Oh, a Greenshaw lives here still,” said Raymond over his shoulder. “The house itself didn’t go in the crash. Old Greenshaw’s son inherited it. He was a bit of a miser and lived here in a corner of it. Never spent a penny. Probably never had a penny to spend. His daughter lives here now. Old lady—very eccentric.”

As he spoke Raymond was congratulating himself on having thought of Greenshaw’s Folly as a means of entertaining his guest. These literary critics always professed themselves as longing for a weekend in the country, and were wont to find the country extremely boring when they got there. Tomorrow there would be the Sunday papers, and for today Raymond West congratulated himself on suggesting a visit to Greenshaw’s Folly to enrich Horace Bindler’s well-known collection of monstrosities.

They turned the corner of the house and came out on a neglected lawn. In one corner of it was a large artificial rockery, and bending over it was a figure at sight of which Horace clutched Raymond delightedly by the arm.

“My dear,” he exclaimed, “do you see what she’s got on? A sprigged print dress. Just like a housemaid—when there were housemaids. One of my most cherished memories is staying at a house in the country when I was quite a boy where a real housemaid called you in the morning, all crackling in a print dress and a cap. Yes, my boy, really—a cap. Muslin with streamers. No, perhaps it was the parlourmaid who had the streamers. But anyway she was a real housemaid and she brought in an enormous brass can of hot water. What an exciting day we’re having.”

The figure in the print dress had straightened up and had turned towards them, trowel in hand. She was a sufficiently startling figure. Unkempt locks of iron-grey fell wispily on her shoulders, a straw hat rather like the hats that horses wear in Italy was crammed down on her head. The coloured print dress she wore fell nearly to her ankles. Out of a weather-beaten, not-too-clean face, shrewd eyes surveyed them appraisingly.

“I must apologize for trespassing, Miss Greenshaw,” said Raymond West, as he advanced towards her, “but Mr. Horace Bindler who is staying with me—”

Horace bowed and removed his hat.

“—is most interested in—er—ancient history and—er—fine buildings.”

Raymond West spoke with the ease of a well-known author who knows that he is a celebrity, that he can venture where other people may not.

Miss Greenshaw looked up at the sprawling exuberance behind her.

“It is a fine house,” she said appreciatively. “My grandfather built it—before my time, of course. He is reported as having said that he wished to astonish the natives.”

“I’ll say he did that, ma’am,” said Horace Bindler.

“Mr. Bindler is the well-known literary critic,” said Raymond West.

Miss Greenshaw had clearly no reverence for literary critics. She remained unimpressed.

“I consider it,” said Miss Greenshaw, referring to the house, “as a monument to my grandfather’s genius. Silly fools come here, and ask me why I don’t sell it and go and live in a flat. What would I do in a flat? It’s my home and I live in it,” said Miss Greenshaw. “Always have lived here.” She considered, brooding over the past. “There were three of us. Laura married the curate. Papa wouldn’t give her any money, said clergymen ought to be unworldly. She died, having a baby. Baby died too. Nettie ran away with the riding master. Papa cut her out of his will, of course. Handsome fellow, Harry Fletcher, but no good. Don’t think Nettie was happy with him. Anyway, she didn’t live long. They had a son. He writes to me sometimes, but of course he isn’t a Greenshaw. I’m the last of the Greenshaws.” She drew up her bent shoulders with a certain pride, and readjusted the rakish angle of the straw hat. Then, turning, she said sharply,

“Yes, Mrs. Cresswell, what is it?”

Approaching them from the house was a figure that, seen side by side with Miss Greenshaw, seemed ludicrously dissimilar. Mrs. Cresswell had a marvellously dressed head of well-blued hair towering upwards in meticulously arranged curls and rolls. It was as though she had dressed her head to go as a French marquise to a fancy-dress party. The rest of her middle-aged person was dressed in what ought to have been rustling black silk but was actually one of the shinier varieties of black rayon. Although she was not a large woman, she had a well-developed and sumptuous bust. Her voice when she spoke, was unexpectedly deep. She spoke with exquisite diction, only a slight hesitation over words beginning with “h” and the final pronunciation of them with an exaggerated aspirate gave rise to a suspicion that at some remote period in her youth she might have had trouble over dropping her h’s.

“The fish, madam,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “the slice of cod. It has not arrived. I have asked Alfred to go down for it and he refuses to do so.”

Rather unexpectedly, Miss Greenshaw gave a cackle of laughter.

“Refuses, does he?”

“Alfred, madam, has been most disobliging.”

Miss Greenshaw raised two earth-stained fingers to her lips, suddenly produced an ear-splitting whistle and at the same time yelled:

“Alfred. Alfred, come here.”

Round the corner of the house a young man appeared in answer to the summons, carrying a spade in his hand. He had a bold, handsome face and as he drew near he cast an unmistakably malevolent glance towards Mrs. Cresswell.

“You wanted me, miss?” he said.

“Yes, Alfred. I hear you’ve refused to go down for the fish. What about it, eh?”

Alfred spoke in a surly voice.

“I’ll go down for it if you wants it, miss. You’ve only got to say.”

“I do want it. I want it for my supper.”

“Right you are, miss. I’ll go right away.”

He threw an insolent glance at Mrs. Cresswell, who flushed and murmured below her breath:

“Really! It’s unsupportable.”

“Now that I think of it,” said Miss Greenshaw, “a couple of strange visitors are just what we need aren’t they, Mrs. Cresswell?”

Mrs. Cresswell looked puzzled.

“I’m sorry, madam—”

“For you-know-what,” said Miss Greenshaw, nodding her head. “Beneficiary to a will mustn’t witness it. That’s right, isn’t it?” She appealed to Raymond West.

“Quite correct,” said Raymond.

“I know enough law to know that,” said Miss Greenshaw. “And you two are men of standing.”

She flung down her trowel on her weeding basket.

“Would you mind coming up to the library with me?”

“Delighted,” said Horace eagerly.

She led the way through french windows and through a vast yellow and gold drawing room with faded brocade on the walls and dust covers arranged over the furniture, then through a large dim hall, up a staircase and into a room on the first floor.

“My grandfather’s library,” she announced.

Horace looked round the room with acute pleasure. It was a room, from his point of view, quite full of monstrosities. The heads of sphinxes appeared on the most unlikely pieces of furniture, there was a colossal bronze representing, he thought, Paul and Virginia, and a vast bronze clock with classical motifs of which he longed to take a photograph.

“A fine lot of books,” said Miss Greenshaw.

Raymond was already looking at the books. From what he could see from a cursory glance there was no book here of any real interest or, indeed, any book which appeared to have been read. They were all superbly bound sets of the classics as supplied ninety years ago for furnishing a gentleman’s library. Some novels of a bygone period were included. But they too showed little signs of having been read.

Miss Greenshaw was fumbling in the drawers of a vast desk. Finally she pulled out a parchment document.

“My will,” she explained. “Got to leave your money to someone—or so they say. If I died without a will I suppose that son of a horse-coper would get it. Handsome fellow, Harry Fletcher, but a rogue if there ever was one. Don’t see why his son should inherit this place. No,” she went on, as though answering some unspoken objection, “I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving it to Cresswell.”

“Your housekeeper?”

“Yes. I’ve explained it to her. I make a will leaving her all I’ve got and then I don’t need to pay her any wages. Saves me a lot in current expenses, and it keeps her up to the mark. No giving me notice and walking off at any minute. Very la-di-dah and all that, isn’t she? But her father was a working plumber in a very small way. She’s nothing to give herself airs about.”

She had by now unfolded the parchment. Picking up a pen she dipped it in the inkstand and wrote her signature, Katherine Dorothy Greenshaw.

“That’s right,” she said. “You’ve seen me sign it, and then you two sign it, and that makes it legal.”

She handed the pen to Raymond West. He hesitated a moment, feeling an unexpected repulsion to what he was asked to do. Then he quickly scrawled the well-known signature, for which his morning’s mail usually brought at least six demands a day.

Horace took the pen from him and added his own minute signature.

“That’s done,” said Miss Greenshaw.

She moved across to the bookcase and stood looking at them uncertainly, then she opened a glass door, took out a book and slipped the folded parchment inside.

“I’ve my own places for keeping things,” she said.

“Lady Audley’s Secret,” Raymond West remarked, catching sight of the title as she replaced the book.

Miss Greenshaw gave another cackle of laughter.

“Best seller in its day,” she remarked. “Not like your books, eh?”

She gave Raymond a sudden friendly nudge in the ribs. Raymond was rather surprised that she even knew he wrote books. Although Raymond West was quite a name in literature, he could hardly be described as a best seller. Though softening a little with the advent of middle age, his books dealt bleakly with the sordid side of life.

“I wonder,” Horace demanded breathlessly, “if I might just take a photograph of the clock?”

“By all means,” said Miss Greenshaw. “It came, I believe, from the Paris exhibition.”

“Very probably,” said Horace. He took his picture.

“This room’s not been used much since my grandfather’s time,” said Miss Greenshaw. “This desk’s full of old diaries of his. Interesting, I should think. I haven’t the eyesight to read them myself. I’d like to get them published, but I suppose one would have to work on them a good deal.”

“You could engage someone to do that,” said Raymond West.

“Could I really? It’s an idea, you know. I’ll think about it.”

Raymond West glanced at his watch.

“We mustn’t trespass on your kindness any longer,” he said.

“Pleased to have seen you,” said Miss Greenshaw graciously. “Thought you were the policeman when I heard you coming round the corner of the house.”

“Why a policeman?” demanded Horace, who never minded asking questions.

Miss Greenshaw responded unexpectedly.

“If you want to know the time, ask a policeman,” she carolled, and with this example of Victorian wit, nudged Horace in the ribs and roared with laughter.

“It’s been a wonderful afternoon,” sighed Horace as they walked home. “Really, that place has everything. The only thing the library needs is a body. Those old-fashioned detective stories about murder in the library—that’s just the kind of library I’m sure the authors had in mind.”

“If you want to discuss murder,” said Raymond, “you must talk to my Aunt Jane.”

“Your Aunt Jane? Do you mean Miss Marple?” He felt a little at a loss.

The charming old-world lady to whom he had been introduced the night before seemed the last person to be mentioned in connection with murder.

“Oh, yes,” said Raymond. “Murder is a speciality of hers.”

“But my dear, how intriguing. What do you really mean?”

“I mean just that,” said Raymond. He paraphrased: “Some commit murder, some get mixed-up in murders, others have murder thrust upon them. My Aunt Jane comes into the third category.”

“You are joking.”

“Not in the least. I can refer you to the former Commissioner of Scotland Yard, several Chief Constables and one or two hardworking inspectors of the CID.”

Horace said happily that wonders would never cease. Over the tea table they gave Joan West, Raymond’s wife, Lou Oxley her niece, and old Miss Marple, a résumé of the afternoon’s happenings, recounting in detail everything that Miss Greenshaw had said to them.

“But I do think,” said Horace, “that there is something a little sinister about the whole setup. That duchess-like creature, the housekeeper—arsenic, perhaps, in the teapot, now that she knows her mistress has made the will in her favour?”

“Tell us, Aunt Jane,” said Raymond. “Will there be murder or won’t there? What do you think?”

“I think,” said Miss Marple, winding up her wool with a rather severe air, “that you shouldn’t joke about these things as much as you do, Raymond. Arsenic is, of course, quite a possibility. So easy to obtain. Probably present in the toolshed already in the form of weed killer.”

“Oh, really, darling,” said Joan West, affectionately. “Wouldn’t that be rather too obvious?”

“It’s all very well to make a will,” said Raymond, “I don’t suppose really the poor old thing has anything to leave except that awful white elephant of a house, and who would want that?”

“A film company possibly,” said Horace, “or a hotel or an institution?”

“They’d expect to buy it for a song,” said Raymond, but Miss Marple was shaking her head.

“You know, dear Raymond, I cannot agree with you there. About the money, I mean. The grandfather was evidently one of those lavish spenders who make money easily, but can’t keep it. He may have gone broke, as you say, but hardly bankrupt or else his son would not have had the house. Now the son, as is so often the case, was an entirely different character to his father. A miser. A man who saved every penny. I should say that in the course of his lifetime he probably put by a very good sum. This Miss Greenshaw appears to have taken after him, to dislike spending money, that is. Yes, I should think it quite likely that she had quite a good sum tucked away.”

“In that case,” said Joan West, “I wonder now—what about Lou?”

They looked at Lou as she sat, silent, by the fire.

Lou was Joan West’s niece. Her marriage had recently, as she herself put it, come unstuck, leaving her with two young children and a bare sufficiency of money to keep them on.

“I mean,” said Joan, “if this Miss Greenshaw really wants someone to go through diaries and get a book ready for publication. . . .”

“It’s an idea,” said Raymond.

Lou said in a low voice:

“It’s work I could do—and I’d enjoy it.”

“I’ll write to her,” said Raymond.

“I wonder,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully, “what the old lady meant by that remark about a policeman?”

“Oh, it was just a joke.”

“It reminded me,” said Miss Marple, nodding her head vigorously, “yes, it reminded me very much of Mr. Naysmith.”

“Who was Mr. Naysmith?” asked Raymond, curiously.

“He kept bees,” said Miss Marple, “and was very good at doing the acrostics in the Sunday papers. And he liked giving people false impressions just for fun. But sometimes it led to trouble.”

Everybody was silent for a moment, considering Mr. Naysmith, but as there did not seem to be any points of resemblance between him and Miss Greenshaw, they decided that dear Aunt Jane was perhaps getting a little bit disconnected in her old age.

Horace Bindler went back to London without having collected any more monstrosities and Raymond West wrote a letter to Miss Greenshaw telling her that he knew of a Mrs. Louisa Oxley who would be competent to undertake work on the diaries. After a lapse of somedays, a letter arrived, written in spidery old-fashioned handwriting, in which Miss Greenshaw declared herself anxious to avail herself of the services of Mrs. Oxley, and making an appointment for Mrs. Oxley to come and see her.

Lou duly kept the appointment, generous terms were arranged and she started work on the following day.

“I’m awfully grateful to you,” she said to Raymond. “It will fit in beautifully. I can take the children to school, go on to Greenshaw’s Folly and pick them up on my way back. How fantastic the whole setup is! That old woman has to be seen to be believed.”

On the evening of her first day at work she returned and described her day.

“I’ve hardly seen the housekeeper,” she said. “She came in with coffee and biscuits at half past eleven with her mouth pursed up very prunes and prisms, and would hardly speak to me. I think she disapproves deeply of my having been engaged.” She went on, “It seems there’s quite a feud between her and the gardener, Alfred. He’s a local boy and fairly lazy, I should imagine, and he and the housekeeper won’t speak to each other. Miss Greenshaw said in her rather grand way, ‘There have always been feuds as far as I can remember between the garden and the house staff. It was so in my grandfather’s time. There were three men and a boy in the garden then, and eight maids in the house, but there was always friction.’”

On the following day Lou returned with another piece of news.

“Just fancy,” she said, “I was asked to ring up the nephew this morning.”

“Miss Greenshaw’s nephew?”

“Yes. It seems he’s an actor playing in the company that’s doing a summer season at Boreham on Sea. I rang up the theatre and left a message asking him to lunch tomorrow. Rather fun, really. The old girl didn’t want the housekeeper to know. I think Mrs. Cresswell has done something that’s annoyed her.”

“Tomorrow another instalment of this thrilling serial,” murmured Raymond.

“It’s exactly like a serial, isn’t it? Reconciliation with the nephew, blood is thicker than water—another will to be made and the old will destroyed.”

“Aunt Jane, you’re looking very serious.”

“Was I, my dear? Have you heard anymore about the policeman?”

Lou looked bewildered. “I don’t know anything about a policeman.”

“That remark of hers, my dear,” said Miss Marple, “must have meant something.”

Lou arrived at her work the next day in a cheerful mood. She passed through the open front door—the doors and windows of the house were always open. Miss Greenshaw appeared to have no fear of burglars, and was probably justified, as most things in the house weighed several tons and were of no marketable value.

Lou had passed Alfred in the drive. When she first caught sight of him he had been leaning against a tree smoking a cigarette, but as soon as he had caught sight of her he had seized a broom and begun diligently to sweep leaves. An idle young man, she thought, but good-looking. His features reminded her of someone. As she passed through the hall on her way upstairs to the library she glanced at the large picture of Nathaniel Greenshaw which presided over the mantelpiece, showing him in the acme of Victorian prosperity, leaning back in a large armchair, his hands resting on the gold albert across his capacious stomach. As her glance swept up from the stomach to the face with its heavy jowls, its bushy eyebrows and its flourishing black moustache, the thought occurred to her that Nathaniel Greenshaw must have been handsome as a young man. He had looked, perhaps, a little like Alfred. . . .

She went into the library, shut the door behind her, opened her typewriter and got out the diaries from the drawer at the side of the desk. Through the open window she caught a glimpse of Miss Greenshaw in a puce-coloured sprigged print, bending over the rockery, weeding assiduously. They had had two wet days, of which the weeds had taken full advantage.

Lou, a town-bred girl, decided that if she ever had a garden it would never contain a rockery which needed hand weeding. Then she settled down to her work.

When Mrs. Cresswell entered the library with the coffee tray at half past eleven, she was clearly in a very bad temper. She banged the tray down on the table, and observed to the universe.

“Company for lunch—and nothing in the house! What am I supposed to do, I should like to know? And no sign of Alfred.”

“He was sweeping in the drive when I got here,” Lou offered.

“I dare say. A nice soft job.”

Mrs. Cresswell swept out of the room and banged the door behind her. Lou grinned to herself. She wondered what “the nephew” would be like.

She finished her coffee and settled down to her work again. It was so absorbing that time passed quickly. Nathaniel Greenshaw, when he started to keep a diary, had succumbed to the pleasure of frankness. Trying out a passage relating to the personal charm of a barmaid in the neighbouring town, Lou reflected that a good deal of editing would be necessary.

As she was thinking this, she was startled by a scream from the garden. Jumping up, she ran to the open window. Miss Greenshaw was staggering away from the rockery towards the house. Her hands were clasped to her breast and between them there protruded a feathered shaft that Lou recognized with stupefaction to be the shaft of an arrow.

Miss Greenshaw’s head, in its battered straw hat, fell forward on her breast. She called up to Lou in a failing voice: “. . . shot. . . he shot me . . . with an arrow . . . get help. . . .”

Lou rushed to the door. She turned the handle, but the door would not open. It took her a moment or two of futile endeavour to realize that she was locked in. She rushed back to the window.

“I’m locked in.”

Miss Greenshaw, her back towards Lou, and swaying a little on her feet was calling up to the housekeeper at a window farther along.

“Ring police . . . telephone. . . .”

Then, lurching from side to side like a drunkard she disappeared from Lou’s view through the window below into the drawing room. A moment later Lou heard a crash of broken china, a heavy fall, and then silence. Her imagination reconstructed the scene. Miss Greenshaw must have staggered blindly into a small table with a Sèvres tea set on it.

Desperately Lou pounded on the door, calling and shouting. There was no creeper or drainpipe outside the window that could help her to get out that way.

Tired at last of beating on the door, she returned to the window. From the window of her sitting room farther along, the housekeeper’s head appeared.

“Come and let me out, Mrs. Oxley. I’m locked in.”

“So am I.”

“Oh dear, isn’t it awful? I’ve telephoned the police. There’s an extension in this room, but what I can’t understand, Mrs. Oxley, is our being locked in. I never heard a key turn, did you?”

“No. I didn’t hear anything at all. Oh dear, what shall we do? Perhaps Alfred might hear us.” Lou shouted at the top of her voice, “Alfred, Alfred.”

“Gone to his dinner as likely as not. What time is it?”

Lou glanced at her watch.

“Twenty-five past twelve.”

“He’s not supposed to go until half past, but he sneaks off earlier whenever he can.”

“Do you think—do you think—”

Lou meant to ask “Do you think she’s dead?” but the words stuck in her throat.

There was nothing to do but wait. She sat down on the window-sill. It seemed an eternity before the stolid helmeted figure of a police constable came round the corner of the house. She leant out of the window and he looked up at her, shading his eyes with his hand. When he spoke his voice held reproof.

“What’s going on here?” he asked disapprovingly.

From their respective windows, Lou and Mrs. Cresswell poured a flood of excited information down on him.

The constable produced a notebook and pencil. “You ladies ran upstairs and locked yourselves in? Can I have your names, please?”

“No. Somebody else locked us in. Come and let us out.”

The constable said reprovingly, “All in good time,” and disappeared through the window below.

Once again time seemed infinite. Lou heard the sound of a car arriving, and, after what seemed an hour, but was actually three minutes, first Mrs. Cresswell and then Lou, were released by a police sergeant more alert than the original constable.

“Miss Greenshaw?” Lou’s voice faltered. “What—what’s happened?”

The sergeant cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you, madam,” he said, “what I’ve already told Mrs. Cresswell here. Miss Greenshaw is dead.”

“Murdered,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “That’s what it is—murder.”

The sergeant said dubiously:

“Could have been an accident—some country lads shooting with bows and arrows.”

Again there was the sound of a car arriving. The sergeant said:

“That’ll be the MO,” and started downstairs.

But it was not the MO. As Lou and Mrs. Cresswell came down the stairs a young man stepped hesitatingly through the front door and paused, looking round him with a somewhat bewildered air.

Then, speaking in a pleasant voice that in some way seemed familiar to Lou—perhaps it had a family resemblance to Miss Greenshaw’s—he asked:

“Excuse me, does—er—does Miss Greenshaw live here?”

“May I have your name if you please,” said the sergeant advancing upon him.

“Fletcher,” said the young man. “Nat Fletcher. I’m Miss Green-shaw’s nephew, as a matter of fact.”

“Indeed, sir, well—I’m sorry—I’m sure—”

“Has anything happened?” asked Nat Fletcher.

“There’s been an—accident—your aunt was shot with an arrow—penetrated the jugular vein—”

Mrs. Cresswell spoke hysterically and without her usual refinement:

“Your h’aunt’s been murdered, that’s what’s ’appened. Your h ’aunt’s been murdered.”

Inspector Welch drew his chair a little nearer to the table and let his gaze wander from one to the other of the four people in the room. It was the evening of the same day. He had called at the Wests’ house to take Lou Oxley once more over her statement.

“You are sure of the exact words? Shot—he shot me—with an arrow—get help?”

Lou nodded.

“And the time?”

“I looked at my watch a minute or two later—it was then twelve twenty-five.”

“Your watch keeps good time?”

“I looked at the clock as well.”

The inspector turned to Raymond West.

“It appears, sir, that about a week ago you and a Mr. Horace Bindler were witnesses to Miss Greenshaw’s will?”

Briefly, Raymond recounted the events of the afternoon visit that he and Horace Bindler had paid to Greenshaw’s Folly.

“This testimony of yours may be important,” said Welch. “Miss Greenshaw distinctly told you, did she, that her will was being made in favour of Mrs. Cresswell, the housekeeper, that she was not paying Mrs. Cresswell any wages in view of the expectations Mrs. Cresswell had of profiting by her death?”

“That is what she told me—yes.”

“Would you say that Mrs. Cresswell was definitely aware of these facts?”

“I should say undoubtedly. Miss Greenshaw made a reference in my presence to beneficiaries not being able to witness a will and Mrs. Cresswell clearly understood what she meant by it. Moreover, Miss Greenshaw herself told me that she had come to this arrangement with Mrs. Cresswell.”

“So Mrs. Cresswell had reason to believe she was an interested party. Motive’s clear enough in her case, and I dare say she’d be our chief suspect now if it wasn’t for the fact that she was securely locked in her room like Mrs. Oxley here, and also that Miss Greenshaw definitely said a man shot her—”

“She definitely was locked in her room?”

“Oh yes. Sergeant Cayley let her out. It’s a big old-fashioned lock with a big old-fashioned key. The key was in the lock and there’s not a chance that it could have been turned from inside or any hanky-panky of that kind. No, you can take it definitely that Mrs. Cresswell was locked inside that room and couldn’t get out. And there were no bows and arrows in the room and Miss Greenshaw couldn’t in any case have been shot from a window—the angle forbids it—no, Mrs. Cresswell’s out of it.”

He paused and went on:

“Would you say that Miss Greenshaw, in your opinion, was a practical joker?”

Miss Marple looked up sharply from her corner.

“So the will wasn’t in Mrs. Cresswell’s favour after all?” she said.

Inspector Welch looked over at her in a rather surprised fashion.

“That’s a very clever guess of yours, madam,” he said. “No. Mrs. Cresswell isn’t named as beneficiary.”

“Just like Mr. Naysmith,” said Miss Marple, nodding her head. “Miss Greenshaw told Mrs. Cresswell she was going to leave her everything and so got out of paying her wages; and then she left her money to somebody else. No doubt she was vastly pleased with herself. No wonder she chortled when she put the will away in Lady Audley’s Secret.”

“It was lucky Mrs. Oxley was able to tell us about the will and where it was put,” said the inspector. “We might have had a long hunt for it otherwise.”

“A Victorian sense of humour,” murmured Raymond West. “So she left her money to her nephew after all,” said Lou.

The inspector shook his head.

“No,” he said, “she didn’t leave it to Nat Fletcher. The story goes around here—of course I’m new to the place and I only get the gossip that’s secondhand—but it seems that in the old days both Miss Greenshaw and her sister were set on the handsome young riding master, and the sister got him. No, she didn’t leave the money to her nephew—” He paused, rubbing his chin, “She left it to Alfred,” he said.

“Alfred—the gardener?” Joan spoke in a surprised voice.

“Yes, Mrs. West. Alfred Pollock.”

“But why?” cried Lou.

Miss Marple coughed and murmured:

“I should imagine, though perhaps I am wrong, that there may have been—what we might call family reasons.”

“You could call them that in a way,” agreed the inspector. “It’s quite well-known in the village, it seems, that Thomas Pollock, Alfred’s grandfather, was one of old Mr. Greenshaw’s by-blows.”

“Of course,” cried Lou, “the resemblance! I saw it this morning.”

She remembered how after passing Alfred she had come into the house and looked up at old Greenshaw’s portrait.

“I dare say,” said Miss Marple, “that she thought Alfred Pollock might have a pride in the house, might even want to live in it, whereas her nephew would almost certainly have no use for it whatever and would sell it as soon as he could possibly do so. He’s an actor, isn’t he? What play exactly is he acting in at present?”

Trust an old lady to wander from the point, thought Inspector Welch, but he replied civilly:

“I believe, madam, they are doing a season of James Barrie’s plays.”

“Barrie,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

“What Every Woman Knows,” said Inspector Welch, and then blushed. “Name of a play,” he said quickly. “I’m not much of a theatregoer myself,” he added, “but the wife went along and saw it last week. Quite well done, she said it was.”

“Barrie wrote some very charming plays,” said Miss Marple, “though I must say that when I went with an old friend of mine, General Easterly, to see Barrie’s Little Mary—” she shook her head sadly, “—neither of us knew where to look.”

The inspector, unacquainted with the play Little Mary looked completely fogged. Miss Marple explained:

“When I was a girl, Inspector, nobody ever mentioned the word stomach.”

The inspector looked even more at sea. Miss Marple was murmuring titles under her breath.

“The Admirable Crichton. Very clever. Mary Rose—a charming play. I cried, I remember. Quality Street I didn’t care for so much. Then there was A Kiss for Cinderella. Oh, of course.”

Inspector Welch had no time to waste on theatrical discussion. He returned to the matter in hand.

“The question is,” he said, “did Alfred Pollock know that the old lady had made a will in his favour? Did she tell him?” He added: “You see—there’s an archery club over at Boreham Lovell and Alfred Pollock’s a member. He’s a very good shot indeed with a bow and arrow.”

“Then isn’t your case quite clear?” asked Raymond West. “It would fit in with the doors being locked on the two women—he’d know just where they were in the house.”

The inspector looked at him. He spoke with deep melancholy.

“He’s got an alibi,” said the inspector.

“I always think alibis are definitely suspicious.”

“Maybe, sir,” said Inspector Welch. “You’re talking as a writer.”

“I don’t write detective stories,” said Raymond West, horrified at the mere idea.

“Easy enough to say that alibis are suspicious,” went on Inspector Welch, “but unfortunately we’ve got to deal with facts.”

He sighed.

“We’ve got three good suspects,” he said. “Three people who, as it happened, were very close upon the scene at the time. Yet the odd thing is that it looks as though none of the three could have done it. The housekeeper I’ve already dealt with—the nephew, Nat Fletcher, at the moment Miss Greenshaw was shot, was a couple of miles away filling up his car at a garage and asking his way—as for Alfred Pollock six people will swear that he entered the Dog and Duck at twenty past twelve and was there for an hour having his usual bread and cheese and beer.”

“Deliberately establishing an alibi,” said Raymond West hopefully.

“Maybe,” said Inspector Welch, “but if so, he did establish it.”

There was a long silence. Then Raymond turned his head to where Miss Marple sat upright and thoughtful.

“It’s up to you, Aunt Jane,” he said. “The inspector’s baffled, the sergeant’s baffled, I’m baffled, Joan’s baffled, Lou is baffled. But to you, Aunt Jane, it is crystal clear. Am I right?”

“I wouldn’t say that, dear,” said Miss Marple, “not crystal clear, and murder, dear Raymond, isn’t a game. I don’t suppose poor Miss Greenshaw wanted to die, and it was a particularly brutal murder. Very well planned and quite cold-blooded. It’s not a thing to make jokes about!”

“I’m sorry,” said Raymond, abashed. “I’m not really as callous as I sound. One treats a thing lightly to take away from the—well, the horror of it.”

“That is, I believe, the modern tendency,” said Miss Marple, “All these wars, and having to joke about funerals. Yes, perhaps I was thoughtless when I said you were callous.”

“It isn’t,” said Joan, “as though we’d known her at all well.”

“That is very true,” said Miss Marple. “You, dear Joan, did not know her at all. I did not know her at all. Raymond gathered an impression of her from one afternoon’s conversation. Lou knew her for two days.”

“Come now, Aunt Jane,” said Raymond, “tell us your views. You don’t mind, Inspector?”

“Not at all,” said the inspector politely.

“Well, my dear, it would seem that we have three people who had, or might have thought they had, a motive to kill the old lady. And three quite simple reasons why none of the three could have done so. The housekeeper could not have done so because she was locked in her room and because Miss Greenshaw definitely stated that a man shot her. The gardener could not have done it because he was inside the Dog and Duck at the time the murder was committed, the nephew could not have done it because he was still some distance away in his car at the time of the murder.”

“Very clearly put, madam,” said the inspector.

“And since it seems most unlikely that any outsider should have done it, where, then, are we?”

“That’s what the inspector wants to know,” said Raymond West.

“One so often looks at a thing the wrong way round,” said Miss Marple apologetically. “If we can’t alter the movements or the position of those three people, then couldn’t we perhaps alter the time of the murder?”

“You mean that both my watch and the clock were wrong?” asked Lou.

“No dear,” said Miss Marple, “I didn’t mean that at all. I mean that the murder didn’t occur when you thought it occurred.”

“But I saw it,” cried Lou.

“Well, what I have been wondering, my dear, was whether you weren’t meant to see it. I’ve been asking myself, you know, whether that wasn’t the real reason why you were engaged for this job.”

“What do you mean, Aunt Jane?”

“Well, dear, it seems odd. Miss Greenshaw did not like spending money, and yet she engaged you and agreed quite willingly to the terms you asked. It seems to me that perhaps you were meant to be there in that library on the first floor, looking out of the window so that you could be the key witness—someone from outside of irreproachable good faith—to fix a definite time and place for the murder.”

“But you can’t mean,” said Lou, incredulously, “that Miss Greenshaw intended to be murdered.”

“What I mean, dear,” said Miss Marple, “is that you didn’t really know Miss Greenshaw. There’s no real reason, is there, why the Miss Greenshaw you saw when you went up to the house should be the same Miss Greenshaw that Raymond saw a few days earlier? Oh, yes, I know,” she went on, to prevent Lou’s reply, “she was wearing the peculiar old-fashioned print dress and the strange straw hat, and had unkempt hair. She corresponded exactly to the description Raymond gave us last weekend. But those two women, you know, were much of an age and height and size. The housekeeper, I mean, and Miss Greenshaw.”

“But the housekeeper is fat!” Lou exclaimed. “She’s got an enormous bosom.”

Miss Marple coughed.

“But my dear, surely, nowadays I have seen—er—them myself in shops most indelicately displayed. It is very easy for anyone to have a—a bust—of any size and dimension.”

“What are you trying to say?” demanded Raymond.

“I was just thinking, dear, that during the two or three days Lou was working there, one woman could have played the two parts. You said yourself, Lou, that you hardly saw the housekeeper, except for the one moment in the morning when she brought you in the tray with coffee. One sees those clever artists on the stage coming in as different characters with only a minute or two to spare, and I am sure the change could have been effected quite easily. That marquise head-dress could be just a wig slipped on and off.”

“Aunt Jane! Do you mean that Miss Greenshaw was dead before I started work there?”

“Not dead. Kept under drugs, I should say. A very easy job for an unscrupulous woman like the housekeeper to do. Then she made the arrangements with you and got you to telephone to the nephew to ask him to lunch at a definite time. The only person who would have known that this Miss Greenshaw was not Miss Greenshaw would have been Alfred. And if you remember, the first two days you were working there it was wet, and Miss Greenshaw stayed in the house. Alfred never came into the house because of his feud with the housekeeper. And on the last morning Alfred was in the drive, while Miss Greenshaw was working on the rockery—I’d like to have a look at that rockery.”

“Do you mean it was Mrs. Cresswell who killed Miss Greenshaw?”

“I think that after bringing you your coffee, the woman locked the door on you as she went out, carried the unconscious Miss Greenshaw down to the drawing room, then assumed her ‘Miss Greenshaw’ disguise and went out to work on the rockery where you could see her from the window. In due course she screamed and came staggering to the house clutching an arrow as though it had penetrated her throat. She called for help and was careful to say ‘he shot me’ so as to remove suspicion from the housekeeper. She also called up to the housekeeper’s window as though she saw her there. Then, once inside the drawing room, she threw over a table with porcelain on it—and ran quickly upstairs, put on her marquise wig and was able a few moments later to lean her head out of the window and tell you that she, too, was locked in.”

“But she was locked in,” said Lou.

“I know. That is where the policeman comes in.”

“What policeman?”

“Exactly—what policeman? I wonder, Inspector, if you would mind telling me how and when you arrived on the scene?”

The inspector looked a little puzzled.

“At twelve twenty-nine we received a telephone call from Mrs. Cresswell, housekeeper to Miss Greenshaw, stating that her mistress had been shot. Sergeant Cayley and myself went out there at once in a car and arrived at the house at twelve thirty-five. We found Miss Greenshaw dead and the two ladies locked in their rooms.”

“So, you see, my dear,” said Miss Marple to Lou. “The police constable you saw wasn’t a real police constable. You never thought of him again—one doesn’t—one just accepts one more uniform as part of the law.”

“But who—why?”

“As to who—well, if they are playing A Kiss for Cinderella, a policeman is the principal character. Nat Fletcher would only have to help himself to the costume he wears on the stage. He’d ask his way at a garage being careful to call attention to the time—twelve twenty-five, then drive on quickly, leave his car round a corner, slip on his police uniform and do his ‘act.’”

“But why?—why?”

“Someone had to lock the housekeeper’s door on the outside, and someone had to drive the arrow through Miss Greenshaw’s throat. You can stab anyone with an arrow just as well as by shooting it—but it needs force.”

“You mean they were both in it?”

“Oh yes, I think so. Mother and son as likely as not.”

“But Miss Greenshaw’s sister died long ago.”

“Yes, but I’ve no doubt Mr. Fletcher married again. He sounds the sort of man who would, and I think it possible that the child died too, and that this so-called nephew was the second wife’s child, and not really a relation at all. The woman got a post as housekeeper and spied out the land. Then he wrote as her nephew and proposed to call upon her—he may have made some joking reference to coming in his policeman’s uniform—or asked her over to see the play. But I think she suspected the truth and refused to see him. He would have been her heir if she had died without making a will—but of course once she had made a will in the housekeeper’s favour (as they thought) then it was clear sailing.”

“But why use an arrow?” objected Joan. “So very far-fetched.”

“Not far-fetched at all, dear. Alfred belonged to an archery club—Alfred was meant to take the blame. The fact that he was in the pub as early as twelve twenty was most unfortunate from their point of view. He always left a little before his proper time and that would have been just right—” she shook her head. “It really seems all wrong—morally, I mean, that Alfred’s laziness should have saved his life.”

The inspector cleared his throat.

“Well, madam, these suggestions of yours are very interesting. I shall have, of course, to investigate—”

Miss Marple and Raymond West stood by the rockery and looked down at that gardening basket full of dying vegetation.

Miss Marple murmured:

“Alyssum, saxifrage, cytisus, thimble campanula . . . Yes, that’s all the proof I need. Whoever was weeding here yesterday morning was no gardener—she pulled up plants as well as weeds. So now I know I’m right. Thank you, dear Raymond, for bringing me here. I wanted to see the place for myself.”

She and Raymond both looked up at the outrageous pile of Greenshaw’s Folly.

A cough made them turn. A handsome young man was also looking at the house.

“Plaguey big place,” he said. “Too big for nowadays—or so they say. I dunno about that. If I won a football pool and made a lot of money, that’s the kind of house I’d like to build.”

He smiled bashfully at them.

“Reckon I can say so now—that there house was built by my great-grandfather,” said Alfred Pollock. “And a fine house it is, for all they call it Greenshaw’s Folly!”

Twenty

SANCTUARY

The vicar’s wife came round the corner of the vicarage with her arms full of chrysanthemums. A good deal of rich garden soil was attached to her strong brogue shoes and a few fragments of earth were adhering to her nose, but of that fact she was perfectly unconscious.

She had a slight struggle in opening the vicarage gate which hung, rustily, half off its hinges. A puff of wind caught at her battered felt hat, causing it to sit even more rakishly than it had done before. “Bother!” said Bunch.

Christened by her optimistic parents Diana, Mrs. Harmon had become Bunch at an early age for somewhat obvious reasons and the name had stuck to her ever since. Clutching the chrysanthemums, she made her way through the gate to the churchyard, and so to the church door.

The November air was mild and damp. Clouds scudded across the sky with patches of blue here and there. Inside, the church was dark and cold; it was unheated except at service times.

“Brrrrrh!” said Bunch expressively. “I’d better get on with this quickly. I don’t want to die of cold.”

With the quickness born of practice she collected the necessary paraphernalia: vases, water, flower-holders. “I wish we had lilies,” thought Bunch to herself. “I get so tired of these scraggy chrysanthemums.” Her nimble fingers arranged the blooms in their holders.

There was nothing particularly original or artistic about the decorations, for Bunch Harmon herself was neither original nor artistic, but it was a homely and pleasant arrangement. Carrying the vases carefully, Bunch stepped up the aisle and made her way towards the altar. As she did so the sun came out.

It shone through the east window of somewhat crude coloured glass, mostly blue and red—the gift of a wealthy Victorian churchgoer. The effect was almost startling in its sudden opulence. “Like jewels,” thought Bunch. Suddenly she stopped, staring ahead of her. On the chancel steps was a huddled dark form.

Putting down the flowers carefully, Bunch went up to it and bent over it. It was a man lying there, huddled over on himself. Bunch knelt down by him and slowly, carefully, she turned him over. Her fingers went to his pulse—a pulse so feeble and fluttering that it told its own story, as did the almost greenish pallor of his face. There was no doubt, Bunch thought, that the man was dying.

He was a man of about forty-five, dressed in a dark, shabby suit. She laid down the limp hand she had picked up and looked at his other hand. This seemed clenched like a fist on his breast. Looking more closely she saw that the fingers were closed over what seemed to be a large wad or handkerchief which he was holding tightly to his chest. All round the clenched hand there were splashes of a dry brown fluid which, Bunch guessed, was dry blood. Bunch sat back on her heels, frowning.

Up till now the man’s eyes had been closed but at this point they suddenly opened and fixed themselves on Bunch’s face. They were neither dazed nor wandering. They seemed fully alive and intelligent. His lips moved, and Bunch bent forward to catch the words, or rather the word. It was only one word that he said:

“Sanctuary.”

There was, she thought, just a very faint smile as he breathed out this word. There was no mistaking it, for after a moment he said it again, “Sanctuary. . . .”

Then, with a faint, long-drawn-out sigh, his eyes closed again. Once more Bunch’s fingers went to his pulse. It was still there, but fainter now and more intermittent. She got up with decision.

“Don’t move,” she said, “or try to move. I’m going for help.”

The man’s eyes opened again but he seemed now to be fixing his attention on the coloured light that came through the east window. He murmured something that Bunch could not quite catch. She thought, startled, that it might have been her husband’s name.

“Julian?” she said. “Did you come here to find Julian?” But there was no answer. The man lay with eyes closed, his breathing coming in slow, shallow fashion.

Bunch turned and left the church rapidly. She glanced at her watch and nodded with some satisfaction. Dr. Griffiths would still be in his surgery. It was only a couple of minutes’ walk from the church. She went in, without waiting to knock or ring, passing through the waiting room and into the doctor’s surgery.

“You must come at once,” said Bunch. “There’s a man dying in the church.”

Some minutes later Dr. Griffiths rose from his knees after a brief examination.

“Can we move him from here into the vicarage? I can attend to him better there—not that it’s any use.”

“Of course,” said Bunch. “I’ll go along and get things ready. I’ll get Harper and Jones, shall I? To help you carry him.”

“Thanks. I can telephone from the vicarage for an ambulance, but I’m afraid—by the time it comes. . . .” He left the remark unfinished.

Bunch said, “Internal bleeding?”

Dr. Griffiths nodded. He said, “How on earth did he come here?”

“I think he must have been here all night,” said Bunch, considering. “Harper unlocks the church in the morning as he goes to work, but he doesn’t usually come in.”

It was about five minutes later when Dr. Griffiths put down the telephone receiver and came back into the morning room where the injured man was lying on quickly arranged blankets on the sofa. Bunch was moving a basin of water and clearing up after the doctor’s examination.

“Well, that’s that,” said Griffiths. “I’ve sent for an ambulance and I’ve notified the police.” He stood, frowning, looking down on the patient who lay with closed eyes. His left hand was plucking in a nervous, spasmodic way at his side.

“He was shot,” said Griffiths. “Shot at fairly close quarters. He rolled his handkerchief up into a ball and plugged the wound with it so as to stop the bleeding.”

“Could he have gone far after that happened?” Bunch asked.

“Oh, yes, it’s quite possible. A mortally wounded man has been known to pick himself up and walk along a street as though nothing had happened, and then suddenly collapse five or ten minutes later. So he needn’t have been shot in the church. Oh no. He may have been shot some distance away. Of course, he may have shot himself and then dropped the revolver and staggered blindly towards the church. I don’t quite know why he made for the church and not for the vicarage.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Bunch. “He said it: ‘Sanctuary.’”

The doctor stared at her. “Sanctuary?”

“Here’s Julian,” said Bunch, turning her head as she heard her husband’s steps in the hall. “Julian! Come here.”

The Reverend Julian Harmon entered the room. His vague, scholarly manner always made him appear much older than he really was. “Dear me!” said Julian Harmon, staring in a mild, puzzled manner at the surgical appliances and the prone figure on the sofa.

Bunch explained with her usual economy of words. “He was in the church, dying. He’d been shot. Do you know him, Julian? I thought he said your name.”

The vicar came up to the sofa and looked down at the dying man. “Poor fellow,” he said, and shook his head. “No, I don’t know him. I’m almost sure I’ve never seen him before.”

At that moment the dying man’s eyes opened once more. They went from the doctor to Julian Harmon and from him to his wife. The eyes stayed there, staring into Bunch’s face. Griffiths stepped forward.

“If you could tell us,” he said urgently.

But with eyes fixed on Bunch, the man said in a weak voice, “Please—please—” And then, with a slight tremor, he died. . . .

Sergeant Hayes licked his pencil and turned the page of his notebook.

“So that’s all you can tell me, Mrs. Harmon?”

“That’s all,” said Bunch. “These are the things out of his coat pockets.”

On a table at Sergeant Hayes’s elbow was a wallet, a rather battered old watch with the initials W.S. and the return half of a ticket to London. Nothing more.

“You’ve found out who he is?” asked Bunch.

“A Mr. and Mrs. Eccles phoned up the station. He’s her brother, it seems. Name of Sandbourne. Been in a low state of health and nerves for some time. He’s been getting worse lately. The day before yesterday he walked out and didn’t come back. He took a revolver with him.”

“And he came out here and shot himself with it?” said Bunch. “Why?”

“Well, you see, he’d been depressed. . . .”

Bunch interrupted him. “I don’t mean that. I mean, why here?”

Since Sergeant Hayes obviously did not know the answer to that one, he replied in an oblique fashion, “Come out here, he did, on the five ten bus.”

“Yes,” said Bunch again. “But why?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Harmon,” said Sergeant Hayes. “There’s no accounting. If the balance of the mind is disturbed—”

Bunch finished for him. “They may do it anywhere. But it still seems to me unnecessary to take a bus out to a small country place like this. He didn’t know anyone here, did he?”

“Not so far as can be ascertained,” said Sergeant Hayes. He coughed in an apologetic manner and said, as he rose to his feet, “It may be as Mr. and Mrs. Eccles will come out and see you, ma’am—if you don’t mind, that is.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” said Bunch. “It’s very natural. I only wish I had something to tell them.”

“I’ll be getting along,” said Sergeant Hayes.

“I’m only so thankful,” said Bunch, going with him to the front door, “that it wasn’t murder.”

A car had driven up at the vicarage gate. Sergeant Hayes, glancing at it, remarked: “Looks as though that’s Mr. and Mrs. Eccles come here now, ma’am, to talk with you.”

Bunch braced herself to endure what, she felt, might be rather a difficult ordeal. “However,” she thought, “I can always call Julian to help me. A clergyman’s a great help when people are bereaved.”

Exactly what she had expected Mr. and Mrs. Eccles to be like, Bunch could not have said, but she was conscious, as she greeted them, of a feeling of surprise. Mr. Eccles was a stout florid man whose natural manner would have been cheerful and facetious. Mrs. Eccles had a vaguely flashy look about her. She had a small, mean, pursed-up mouth. Her voice was thin and reedy.

“It’s been a terrible shock, Mrs. Harmon, as you can imagine,” she said.

“Oh, I know,” said Bunch. “It must have been. Do sit down. Can I offer you—well, perhaps it’s a little early for tea—”

Mr. Eccles waved a pudgy hand. “No, no, nothing for us,” he said. “It’s very kind of you, I’m sure. Just wanted to . . . well . . . what poor William said and all that, you know?”

“He’s been abroad a long time,” said Mrs. Eccles, “and I think he must have had some very nasty experiences. Very quiet and depressed he’s been, ever since he came home. Said the world wasn’t fit to live in and there was nothing to look forward to. Poor Bill, he was always moody.”

Bunch stared at them both for a moment or two without speaking.

“Pinched my husband’s revolver, he did,” went on Mrs. Eccles. “Without our knowing. Then it seems he come here by bus. I suppose that was nice feeling on his part. He wouldn’t have liked to do it in our house.”

“Poor fellow, poor fellow,” said Mr. Eccles, with a sigh. “It doesn’t do to judge.”

There was another short pause, and Mr. Eccles said, “Did he leave a message? Any last words, nothing like that?”

His bright, rather pig-like eyes watched Bunch closely. Mrs. Eccles, too, leaned forward as though anxious for the reply.

“No,” said Bunch quietly. “He came into the church when he was dying, for sanctuary.”

Mrs. Eccles said in a puzzled voice. “Sanctuary? I don’t think I quite . . . .”

Mr. Eccles interrupted. “Holy place, my dear,” he said impatiently. “That’s what the vicar’s wife means. It’s a sin—suicide, you know. I expect he wanted to make amends.”

“He tried to say something just before he died,” said Bunch. “He began, ‘Please,’ but that’s as far as he got.”

Mrs. Eccles put her handkerchief to her eyes and sniffed. “Oh, dear,” she said. “It’s terribly upsetting, isn’t it?”

“There, there, Pam,” said her husband. “Don’t take on. These things can’t be helped. Poor Willie. Still, he’s at peace now. Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Harmon. I hope we haven’t interrupted you. A vicar’s wife is a busy lady, we know that.”

They shook hands with her. Then Eccles turned back suddenly to say, “Oh yes, there’s just one other thing. I think you’ve got his coat here, haven’t you?”

“His coat?” Bunch frowned.

Mrs. Eccles said, “We’d like all his things, you know. Sentimental-like.”

“He had a watch and a wallet and a railway ticket in the pockets,” said Bunch. “I gave them to Sergeant Hayes.”

“That’s all right, then,” said Mr. Eccles. “He’ll hand them over to us, I expect. His private papers would be in the wallet.”

“There was a pound note in the wallet,” said Bunch. “Nothing else.”

“No letters? Nothing like that?”

Bunch shook her head.

“Well, thank you again, Mrs. Harmon. The coat he was wearing—perhaps the sergeant’s got that too, has he?”

Bunch frowned in an effort of remembrance.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think . . . let me see. The doctor and I took his coat off to examine his wound.” She looked round the room vaguely. “I must have taken it upstairs with the towels and basin.”

“I wonder now, Mrs. Harmon, if you don’t mind . . . We’d like his coat, you know, the last thing he wore. Well, the wife feels rather sentimental about it.”

“Of course,” said Bunch. “Would you like me to have it cleaned first? I’m afraid it’s rather—well—stained.”

“Oh, no, no, no, that doesn’t matter.”

Bunch frowned. “Now I wonder where . . . excuse me a moment.” She went upstairs and it was some few minutes before she returned.

“I’m so sorry,” she said breathlessly, “my daily woman must have put it aside with other clothes that were going to the cleaners. It’s taken me quite a long time to find it. Here it is. I’ll do it up for you in brown paper.”

Disclaiming their protests she did so; then once more effusively bidding her farewell the Eccleses departed.

Bunch went slowly back across the hall and entered the study. The Reverend Julian Harmon looked up and his brow cleared. He was composing a sermon and was fearing that he’d been led astray by the interest of the political relations between Judaea and Persia, in the reign of Cyrus.

“Yes, dear?” he said hopefully.

“Julian,” said Bunch. “What’s Sanctuary exactly?”

Julian Harmon gratefully put aside his sermon paper.

“Well,” he said. “Sanctuary in Roman and Greek temples applied to the cella in which stood the statue of a god. The Latin word for altar ‘ara’ also means protection.” He continued learnedly: “In three hundred and ninety-nine A.D. the right of sanctuary in Christian churches was finally and definitely recognized. The earliest mention of the right of sanctuary in England is in the Code of Laws issued by Ethelbert in A.D. six hundred. . . .”

He continued for some time with his exposition but was, as often, disconcerted by his wife’s reception of his erudite pronouncement.

“Darling,” she said. “You are sweet.”

Bending over, she kissed him on the tip of his nose. Julian felt rather like a dog who has been congratulated on performing a clever trick.

“The Eccleses have been here,” said Bunch.

The vicar frowned. “The Eccleses? I don’t seem to remember. . . .”

“You don’t know them. They’re the sister and her husband of the man in the church.”

“My dear, you ought to have called me.”

“There wasn’t any need,” said Bunch. “They were not in need of consolation. I wonder now. . . .” She frowned. “If I put a casserole in the oven tomorrow, can you manage, Julian? I think I shall go up to London for the sales.”

“The sails?” Her husband looked at her blankly. “Do you mean a yacht or a boat or something?”

Bunch laughed. “No, darling. There’s a special white sale at Burrows and Portman’s. You know, sheets, tablecloths and towels and glass-cloths. I don’t know what we do with our glass-cloths, the way they wear through. Besides,” she added thoughtfully, “I think I ought to go and see Aunt Jane.”

That sweet old lady, Miss Jane Marple, was enjoying the delights of the metropolis for a fortnight, comfortably installed in her nephew’s studio flat.

“So kind of dear Raymond,” she murmured. “He and Joan have gone to America for a fortnight and they insisted I should come up here and enjoy myself. And now, dear Bunch, do tell me what it is that’s worrying you.”

Bunch was Miss Marple’s favourite godchild, and the old lady looked at her with great affection as Bunch, thrusting her best felt hat farther on the back of her head, started her story.

Bunch’s recital was concise and clear. Miss Marple nodded her head as Bunch finished. “I see,” she said. “Yes, I see.”

“That’s why I felt I had to see you,” said Bunch. “You see, not being clever—”

“But you are clever, my dear.”

“No, I’m not. Not clever like Julian.”

“Julian, of course, has a very solid intellect,” said Miss Marple.

“That’s it,” said Bunch. “Julian’s got the intellect, but on the other hand, I’ve got the sense.”

“You have a lot of common sense, Bunch, and you’re very intelligent.”

“You see, I don’t really know what I ought to do. I can’t ask Julian because—well, I mean, Julian’s so full of rectitude. . . .”

This statement appeared to be perfectly understood by Miss Marple, who said, “I know what you mean, dear. We women—well, it’s different.” She went on. “You told me what happened, Bunch, but I’d like to know first exactly what you think.”

“It’s all wrong,” said Bunch. “The man who was there in the church, dying, knew all about Sanctuary. He said it just the way Julian would have said it. I mean, he was a well-read, educated man. And if he’d shot himself, he wouldn’t drag himself to a church afterwards and say ‘sanctuary.’ Sanctuary means that you’re pursued, and when you get into a church you’re safe. Your pursuers can’t touch you. At one time even the law couldn’t get at you.”

She looked questioningly at Miss Marple. The latter nodded. Bunch went on, “Those people, the Eccleses, were quite different. Ignorant and coarse. And there’s another thing. That watch—the dead man’s watch. It had the initials W.S. on the back of it. But inside—I opened it—in very small lettering there was ‘To Walter from his father’ and a date. Walter. But the Eccleses kept talking of him as William or Bill.”

Miss Marple seemed about to speak but Bunch rushed on. “Oh, I know you’re not always called the name you’re baptized by. I mean, I can understand that you might be christened William and called ‘Porgy’ or ‘Carrots’ or something. But your sister wouldn’t call you William or Bill if your name was Walter.”

“You mean that she wasn’t his sister?”

“I’m quite sure she wasn’t his sister. They were horrid—both of them. They came to the vicarage to get his things and to find out if he’d said anything before he died. When I said he hadn’t I saw it in their faces—relief. I think myself,” finished Bunch, “it was Eccles who shot him.”

“Murder?” said Miss Marple.

“Yes,” said Bunch. “Murder. That’s why I came to you, darling.”

Bunch’s remark might have seemed incongruous to an ignorant listener, but in certain spheres Miss Marple had a reputation for dealing with murder.

“He said ‘please’ to me before he died,” said Bunch. “He wanted me to do something for him. The awful thing is I’ve no idea what.”

Miss Marple considered for a moment or two, and then pounced on the point that had already occurred to Bunch. “But why was he there at all?” she asked.

“You mean,” said Bunch, “if you wanted sanctuary you might pop into a church anywhere. There’s no need to take a bus that only goes four times a day and come out to a lonely spot like ours for it.”

“He must have come there for a purpose,” Miss Marple thought. “He must have come to see someone. Chipping Cleghorn’s not a big place, Bunch. Surely you must have some idea of who it was he came to see?”

Bunch reviewed the inhabitants of her village in her mind before rather doubtfully shaking her head. “In a way,” she said, “it could be anybody.”

“He never mentioned a name?”

“He said Julian, or I thought he said Julian. It might have been Julia, I suppose. As far as I know, there isn’t any Julia living in Chipping Cleghorn.”

She screwed up her eyes as she thought back to the scene. The man lying there on the chancel steps, the light coming through the window with its jewels of red and blue light.

“Jewels,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

“I’m coming now,” said Bunch, “to the most important thing of all. The reason why I’ve really come here today. You see, the Eccleses made a great fuss about having his coat. We took it off when the doctor was seeing him. It was an old, shabby sort of coat—there was no reason they should have wanted it. They pretended it was sentimental, but that was nonsense.

“Anyway, I went up to find it, and as I was just going up the stairs I remembered how he’d made a kind of picking gesture with his hand, as though he was fumbling with the coat. So when I got hold of the coat I looked at it very carefully and I saw that in one place the lining had been sewn up again with a different thread. So I unpicked it and I found a little piece of paper inside. I took it out and I sewed it up again properly with thread that matched. I was careful and I don’t really think that the Eccleses would know I’ve done it. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. And I took the coat down to them and made some excuse for the delay.”

“The piece of paper?” asked Miss Marple.

Bunch opened her handbag. “I didn’t show it to Julian,” she said, “because he would have said that I ought to have given it to the Eccleses. But I thought I’d rather bring it to you instead.”

“A cloakroom ticket,” said Miss Marple, looking at it. “Paddington Station.”

“He had a return ticket to Paddington in his pocket,” said Bunch.

The eyes of the two women met.

“This calls for action,” said Miss Marple briskly. “But it would be advisable, I think, to be careful. Would you have noticed at all, Bunch dear, whether you were followed when you came to London today?”

“Followed!” exclaimed Bunch. “You don’t think—”

“Well, I think it’s possible,” said Miss Marple. “When anything is possible, I think we ought to take precautions.” She rose with a brisk movement. “You came up here ostensibly, my dear, to go to the sales. I think the right thing to do, therefore, would be for us to go to the sales. But before we set out, we might put one or two little arrangements in hand. I don’t suppose,” Miss Marple added obscurely, “that I shall need the old speckled tweed with the beaver collar just at present.”

It was about an hour and a half later that the two ladies, rather the worse for wear and battered in appearance, and both clasping parcels of hardly-won household linen, sat down at a small and sequestered hostelry called the Apple Bough to restore their forces with steak and kidney pudding followed by apple tart and custard.

“Really a prewar quality face towel,” gasped Miss Marple, slightly out of breath. “With a J on it, too. So fortunate that Raymond’s wife’s name is Joan. I shall put them aside until I really need them and then they will do for her if I pass on sooner than I expect.”

“I really did need the glass-cloths,” said Bunch. “And they were very cheap, though not as cheap as the ones that woman with the ginger hair managed to snatch from me.”

A smart young woman with a lavish application of rouge and lipstick entered the Apple Bough at that moment. After looking around vaguely for a moment or two, she hurried to their table. She laid down an envelope by Miss Marple’s elbow.

“There you are, miss,” she said briskly.

“Oh, thank you, Gladys,” said Miss Marple. “Thank you very much. So kind of you.”

“Always pleased to oblige, I’m sure,” said Gladys. “Ernie always says to me, ‘Everything what’s good you learned from that Miss Marple of yours that you were in service with,’ and I’m sure I’m always glad to oblige you, miss.”

“Such a dear girl,” said Miss Marple as Gladys departed again. “Always so willing and so kind.”

She looked inside the envelope and then passed it on to Bunch. “Now be very careful, dear,” she said. “By the way, is there still that nice young inspector at Melchester that I remember?”

“I don’t know,” said Bunch. “I expect so.”

“Well, if not,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “I can always ring up the Chief Constable. I think he would remember me.”

“Of course he’d remember you,” said Bunch. “Everybody would remember you. You’re quite unique.” She rose.

Arrived at Paddington, Bunch went to the luggage office and produced the cloakroom ticket. A moment or two later a rather shabby old suitcase was passed across to her, and carrying this she made her way to the platform.

The journey home was uneventful. Bunch rose as the train approached Chipping Cleghorn and picked up the old suitcase. She had just left her carriage when a man, sprinting along the platform, suddenly seized the suitcase from her hand and rushed off with it.

“Stop!” Bunch yelled. “Stop him, stop him. He’s taken my suitcase.”

The ticket collector who, at this rural station, was a man of somewhat slow processes, had just begun to say, “Now, look here, you can’t do that—” when a smart blow on the chest pushed him aside, and the man with the suitcase rushed out from the station. He made his way towards a waiting car. Tossing the suitcase in, he was about to climb after it, but before he could move a hand fell on his shoulder, and the voice of Police Constable Abel said, “Now then, what’s all this?”

Bunch arrived, panting, from the station. “He snatched my suitcase. I just got out of the train with it.”

“Nonsense,” said the man. “I don’t know what this lady means. It’s my suitcase. I just got out of the train with it.”

He looked at Bunch with a bovine and impartial stare. Nobody would have guessed that Police Constable Abel and Mrs. Harmon spent long half hours in Police Constable Abel’s off-time discussing the respective merits of manure and bone meal for rose bushes.

“You say, madam, that this is your suitcase?” said Police Constable Abel.

“Yes,” said Bunch. “Definitely.”

“And you, sir?”

“I say this suitcase is mine.”

The man was tall, dark and well-dressed, with a drawling voice and a superior manner. A feminine voice from inside the car said, “Of course it’s your suitcase, Edwin. I don’t know what this woman means.”

“We’ll have to get this clear,” said Police Constable Abel. “If it’s your suitcase, madam, what do you say is inside it?”

“Clothes,” said Bunch. “A long speckled coat with a beaver collar, two wool jumpers and a pair of shoes.”

“Well, that’s clear enough,” said Police Constable Abel. He turned to the other.

“I am a theatrical costumer,” said the dark man importantly. “This suitcase contains theatrical properties which I brought down here for an amateur performance.”

“Right, sir,” said Police Constable Abel. “Well, we’ll just look inside, shall we, and see? We can go along to the police station, or if you’re in a hurry we’ll take the suitcase back to the station and open it there.”

“It’ll suit me,” said the dark man. “My name is Moss, by the way, Edwin Moss.”

The police constable, holding the suitcase, went back into the station. “Just taking this into the parcels office, George,” he said to the ticket collector.

Police Constable Abel laid the suitcase on the counter of the parcels office and pushed back the clasp. The case was not locked. Bunch and Mr. Edwin Moss stood on either side of him, their eyes regarding each other vengefully.

“Ah!” said Police Constable Abel, as he pushed up the lid.

Inside, neatly folded, was a long rather shabby tweed coat with a beaver fur collar. There were also two wool jumpers and a pair of country shoes.

“Exactly as you say, madam,” said Police Constable Abel, turning to Bunch.

Nobody could have said that Mr. Edwin Moss underdid things. His dismay and compunction were magnificent.

“I do apologize,” he said. “I really do apologize. Please believe me, dear lady, when I tell you how very, very sorry I am. Unpardonable—quite unpardonable—my behaviour has been.” He looked at his watch. “I must rush now. Probably my suitcase has gone on the train.” Raising his hat once more, he said meltingly to Bunch, “Do, do forgive me,” and rushed hurriedly out of the parcels office.

“Are you going to let him get away?” asked Bunch in a conspiratorial whisper to Police Constable Abel.

The latter slowly closed a bovine eye in a wink.

“He won’t get too far, ma’am,” he said. “That’s to say he won’t get far unobserved, if you take my meaning.”

“Oh,” said Bunch, relieved.

“That old lady’s been on the phone,” said Police Constable Abel, “the one as was down here a few years ago. Bright she is, isn’t she? But there’s been a lot cooking up all today. Shouldn’t wonder if the inspector or sergeant was out to see you about it tomorrow morning.”

It was the inspector who came, the Inspector Craddock whom Miss Marple remembered. He greeted Bunch with a smile as an old friend.

“Crime in Chipping Cleghorn again,” he said cheerfully. “You don’t lack for sensation here, do you, Mrs. Harmon?”

“I could do with rather less,” said Bunch. “Have you come to ask me questions or are you going to tell me things for a change?”

“I’ll tell you some things first,” said the inspector. “To begin with, Mr. and Mrs. Eccles have been having an eye kept on them for some time. There’s reason to believe they’ve been connected with several robberies in this part of the world. For another thing, although Mrs. Eccles has a brother called Sandbourne who has recently come back from abroad, the man you found dying in the church yesterday was definitely not Sandbourne.”

“I knew that he wasn’t,” said Bunch. “His name was Walter, to begin with, not William.”

The inspector nodded. “His name was Walter St. John, and he escaped forty-eight hours ago from Charrington Prison.”

“Of course,” said Bunch softly to herself, “he was being hunted down by the law, and he took sanctuary.” Then she asked, “What had he done?”

“I’ll have to go back rather a long way. It’s a complicated story. Several years ago there was a certain dancer doing turns at the music halls. I don’t expect you’ll have ever heard of her, but she specialized in an Arabian Night turn, ‘Aladdin in the Cave of Jewels’ it was called. She wore bits of rhinestone and not much else.

“She wasn’t much of a dancer, I believe, but she was—well—attractive. Anyway, a certain Asiatic royalty fell for her in a big way. Amongst other things he gave her a very magnificent emerald necklace.”

“The historic jewels of a Rajah?” murmured Bunch ecstatically.

Inspector Craddock coughed. “Well, a rather more modern version, Mrs. Harmon. The affair didn’t last very long, broke up when our potentate’s attention was captured by a certain film star whose demands were not quite so modest.

“Zobeida, to give the dancer her stage name, hung onto the necklace, and in due course it was stolen. It disappeared from her dressing room at the theatre, and there was a lingering suspicion in the minds of the authorities that she herself might have engineered its disappearance. Such things have been known as a publicity stunt, or indeed from more dishonest motives.

“The necklace was never recovered, but during the course of the investigation the attention of the police was drawn to this man, Walter St. John. He was a man of education and breeding who had come down in the world, and who was employed as a working jeweller with a rather obscure firm which was suspected of acting as a fence for jewel robberies.

“There was evidence that this necklace had passed through his hands. It was, however, in connection with the theft of some other jewellery that he was finally brought to trial and convicted and sent to prison. He had not very much longer to serve, so his escape was rather a surprise.”

“But why did he come here?” asked Bunch.

“We’d like to know that very much, Mrs. Harmon. Following up his trial, it seems that he went first to London. He didn’t visit any of his old associates but he visited an elderly woman, a Mrs. Jacobs who had formerly been a theatrical dresser. She won’t say a word of what he came for, but according to other lodgers in the house he left carrying a suitcase.”

“I see,” said Bunch. “He left it in the cloakroom at Paddington and then he came down here.”

“By that time,” said Inspector Craddock, “Eccles and the man who calls himself Edwin Moss were on his trail. They wanted that suitcase. They saw him get on the bus. They must have driven out in a car ahead of him and been waiting for him when he left the bus.”

“And he was murdered?” said Bunch.

“Yes,” said Craddock. “He was shot. It was Eccles’s revolver, but I rather fancy it was Moss who did the shooting. Now, Mrs. Harmon, what we want to know is, where is the suitcase that Walter St. John actually deposited at Paddington Station?”

Bunch grinned. “I expect Aunt Jane’s got it by now,” she said. “Miss Marple, I mean. That was her plan. She sent a former maid of hers with a suitcase packed with her things to the cloakroom at Paddington and we exchanged tickets. I collected her suitcase and brought it down by train. She seemed to expect that an attempt would be made to get it from me.”

It was Inspector Craddock’s turn to grin. “So she said when she rang up. I’m driving up to London to see her. Do you want to come, too, Mrs. Harmon?”

“Wel-l,” said Bunch, considering. “Wel-l, as a matter of fact, it’s very fortunate. I had a toothache last night so I really ought to go to London to see the dentist, oughtn’t I?”

“Definitely,” said Inspector Craddock. . . .

Miss Marple looked from Inspector Craddock’s face to the eager face of Bunch Harmon. The suitcase lay on the table. “Of course, I haven’t opened it,” the old lady said. “I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing till somebody official arrived. Besides,” she added, with a demurely mischievous Victorian smile, “it’s locked.”

“Like to make a guess at what’s inside, Miss Marple?” asked the inspector.

“I should imagine, you know,” said Miss Marple, “that it would be Zobeida’s theatrical costumes. Would you like a chisel, Inspector?”

The chisel soon did its work. Both women gave a slight gasp as the lid flew up. The sunlight coming through the window lit up what seemed like an inexhaustible treasure of sparkling jewels, red, blue, green, orange.

“Aladdin’s Cave,” said Miss Marple. “The flashing jewels the girl wore to dance.”

“Ah,” said Inspector Craddock. “Now, what’s so precious about it, do you think, that a man was murdered to get hold of it?”

“She was a shrewd girl, I expect,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “She’s dead, isn’t she, Inspector?”

“Yes, died three years ago.”

“She had this valuable emerald necklace,” said Miss Marple, musingly. “Had the stones taken out of their setting and fastened here and there on her theatrical costume, where everyone would take them for merely coloured rhinestones. Then she had a replica made of the real necklace, and that, of course, was what was stolen. No wonder it never came on the market. The thief soon discovered the stones were false.”

“Here is an envelope,” said Bunch, pulling aside some of the glittering stones.

Inspector Craddock took it from her and extracted two official-looking papers from it. He read aloud, “‘Marriage Certificate between Walter Edmund St. John and Mary Moss.’ That was Zobeida’s real name.”

“So they were married,” said Miss Marple. “I see.”

“What’s the other?” asked Bunch.

“A birth certificate of a daughter, Jewel.”

“Jewel?” cried Bunch. “Why, of course. Jewel! Jill! That’s it. I see now why he came to Chipping Cleghorn. That’s what he was trying to say to me. Jewel. The Mundys, you know. Laburnum Cottage. They look after a little girl for someone. They’re devoted to her. She’s been like their own granddaughter. Yes, I remember now, her name was Jewel, only, of course, they call her Jill.

“Mrs. Mundy had a stroke about a week ago, and the old man’s been very ill with pneumonia. They were both going to go to the infirmary. I’ve been trying hard to find a good home for Jill somewhere. I didn’t want her taken away to an institution.

“I suppose her father heard about it in prison and he managed to break away and get hold of this suitcase from the old dresser he or his wife left it with. I suppose if the jewels really belonged to her mother, they can be used for the child now.”

“I should imagine so, Mrs. Harmon. If they’re here.”

“Oh, they’ll be here all right,” said Miss Marple cheerfully. . . .

“Thank goodness you’re back, dear,” said the Reverend Julian Harmon, greeting his wife with affection and a sigh of content. “Mrs. Burt always tries to do her best when you’re away, but she really gave me some very peculiar fish-cakes for lunch. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so I gave them to Tiglath Pileser, but even he wouldn’t eat them so I had to throw them out of the window.”

“Tiglath Pileser,” said Bunch, stroking the vicarage cat, who was purring against her knee, “is very particular about what fish he eats. I often tell him he’s got a proud stomach!”

“And your tooth, dear? Did you have it seen to?”

“Yes,” said Bunch. “It didn’t hurt much, and I went to see Aunt Jane again, too. . . .”

“Dear old thing,” said Julian. “I hope she’s not failing at all.”

“Not in the least,” said Bunch, with a grin.

The following morning Bunch took a fresh supply of chrysanthemums to the church. The sun was once more pouring through the east window, and Bunch stood in the jewelled light on the chancel steps. She said very softly under her breath, “Your little girl will be all right. I’ll see that she is. I promise.”

Then she tidied up the church, slipped into a pew and knelt for a few moments to say her prayers before returning to the vicarage to attack the piled-up chores of two neglected days.

Credits

Author photograph © Christie Archives Trust

Cover illustration and design by Sara Wood

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 over a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976.

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Copyright

AGATHA CHRISTIE® MARPLE® MISS MARPLE® THE MURDER AT THE VICARAGE™. Copyright © 2011 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved. The Murder at the Vicarage was first published in 1930.

THE MURDER AT THE VICARAGE © 1930. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-0-06-207360-0

EPub Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-174991-9

THE BODY IN THE LIBRARY © 1942. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-0-06-207361-7

EPub Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-173952-1

THE MOVING FINGER. © 1942. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-0-06-207362-4

EPub Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN:978-0-06-174981-0

A MURDER IS ANNOUNCED © 1950. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-0-06-207363-1

EPub Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-175038-0

THEY DO IT WITH MIRRORS © 1952. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-0-06-207364-8

EPub Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-175387-9

A POCKET FULL OF RYE © 1954. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780062113658

ISBN 978-0-06-207365-5

4:50 FROM PADDINGTON © 1957. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-0-06-207366-2

EPub Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 9780061738449

THE MIRROR CRACK’D FROM SIDE TO SIDE. Copyright © 2011 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company).

ISBN 978-0-06-207367-9

EPub Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-174805-9

A CARIBBEAN MYSTERY © 1965. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-0-06-207368-6

EPub Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-174005-3

AT BERTRAM’S HOTEL © 1966. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-0-06-207369-3

EPub Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-176016-7

NEMESIS © 1971. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-0-06-207370-9

EPub Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-175383-1

SLEEPING MURDER © 1976. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-0-06-207370-9

EPub Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 9780061752315

MISS MARPLE: THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES © 2011. Published by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 9780062073716

EPub Edition September 2013 ISBN 9780062330550

The Complete Miss Marple Collection
Copyright © 2013 by Agatha Christie.
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