The Body in the Library

by Agatha Christie

  Sir Henry said grimly:

  “I don’t object. I’ve been sent for, urgently, to get at the truth. I mean to do my utmost.”

  He added:

  “How do you want Miss Marple to help you?”

  “With some girls. Some of those Girl Guides. We’ve rounded up half a dozen or so, the ones who were most friendly with Pamela Reeves. It’s possible that they may know something. You see, I’ve been thinking. It seems to me that if that girl was really going to Woolworth’s she would have tried to persuade one of the other girls to go with her. Girls usually like to shop with someone.”

  “Yes, I think that’s true.”

  “So I think it’s possible that Woolworth’s 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 Marple’s the person to get it out of these girls. I’d say she knows a thing or two about girls—more than I do. And, anyway, they’d be scared of the police.”

  “It sounds to me the kind of village domestic problem that is right up Miss Marple’s street. She’s very sharp, you know.”

  The Superintendent smiled. He said:

  “I’ll say you’re right. Nothing much gets past her.” Miss Marple looked up at their approach and welcomed them eagerly. She listened to the Superintendent’s request and at once acquiesced.

  “I 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 near—I’m on the committee, you know, and often run in to have a little talk with Matron—and then servants—I usually have very young maids. Oh, yes, I’ve quite a lot of experience in when a girl is speaking the truth and when she is holding something back.”

  “In fact, you’re an expert,” said Sir Henry.

  Miss Marple flashed him a reproachful glance and said:

  “Oh, please don’t laugh at me, Sir Henry.”

  “I shouldn’t dream of laughing at you. You’ve had the laugh of me too many times.”

  “One does see so much evil in a village,” murmured Miss Marple in an explanatory voice.

  “By the way,” said Sir Henry, “I’ve cleared up one point you asked me about. The Superintendent tells me that there were nail clippings in Ruby’s wastepaper basket.”

  Miss Marple said thoughtfully:

  “There were? Then that’s that….”

  “Why did you want to know, Miss Marple?” asked the Superintendent.

  Miss Marple said:

  “It was one of the things that—well, that seemed wrong when I looked at the body. The hands were wrong, somehow, and I couldn’t 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 nails—it’s 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 hadn’t cured herself. And then the little boy—Peter, you know—he 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 he’d find out.”

  Sir Henry remarked:

  “You said just now, ‘one of the things that seemed wrong when you looked at the body.’ Was there something else?”

  Miss Marple nodded vigorously.

  “Oh yes!” she said. “There was the dress. The dress was all wrong.”

  Both men looked at her curiously.

  “Now why?” said Sir Henry.

  “Well, 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 that’s all wrong.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  Miss Marple got a little pink.

  “Well, the idea is, isn’t it, that Ruby Keene changed her dress and went off to meet someone on whom she presumably had what my young nephews call a ‘crush’?”

  The Superintendent’s eyes twinkled a little.

  “That’s the theory. She’d got a date with someone—a boy friend, as the saying goes.”

  “Then why,” demanded Miss Marple, “was she wearing an old dress?”

  The Superintendent scratched his head thoughtfully. He said:

  “I see your point. You think she’d wear a new one?”

  “I think she’d wear her best dress. Girls do.”

  Sir Henry interposed.

  “Yes, 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 she’d not want to risk messing a new frock and she’d put on an old one.”

  “That would be the sensible thing to do,” agreed the Superintendent.

  Miss Marple turned on him. She spoke with animation.

  “The sensible thing to do would be to change into trousers and a pullover, or into tweeds. That, of course (I don’t want to be snobbish, but I’m afraid it’s unavoidable), that’s what a girl of—of our class would do.

  “A well-bred girl,” continued Miss Marple, warming to her subject, “is 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.”

  “And the correct wear to meet a lover?” demanded Sir Henry.

  “If she were meeting him inside the hotel or somewhere where evening dress was worn, she’d wear her best evening frock, of course—but outside she’d feel she’d look ridiculous in evening dress and she’d wear her most attractive sportswear.”

  “Granted, Fashion Queen, but the girl Ruby—”

  Miss Marple said:

  “Ruby, of course, wasn’t—well, to put it bluntly—Ruby wasn’t 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. You’d 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, hiking’s different again. That’s practically a uniform—and girls don’t seem to realize that shorts are very unbecoming unless they are very slender.”

  The Superintendent said slowly:

  “And you think that Ruby Keene—?”

  “I think that she’d have kept on the frock she was wearing—her best pink one. She’d only have changed it if she’d had something newer still.”

  Superintendent Harper said:

  “And what’s your explanation, Miss Marple?”

  Miss Marple said:

  “I haven’t got one—yet. But I can’t help feeling that it’s important….”

  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: “That’s over.”

  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:

  “She’ll never be able to play, you know.”

  “All this must be very boring for you,” said Miss Marple.

  Raymond said simply:

  “It is, sometimes. Especially at the end of the summ
er. For a time the thought of the pay buoys you up, but even that fails to stimulate imagination in the end!”

  Superintendent Harper got up. He said abruptly:

  “I’ll call for you in half an hour’s time, Miss Marple, if that will be all right?”

  “Perfectly, thank you. I shall be ready.”

  Harper went off. Raymond stood looking after him. Then he said: “Mind if I sit here for a bit?”

  “Do,” said Sir Henry. “Have a cigarette?” 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 wasn’t the tennis—it 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! Ramon—Raymond—which was his name? Abruptly, he asked the question.

  The other seemed amused.

  “Ramon was my original professional name. Ramon and Josie—Spanish effect, you know. Then there was rather a prejudice against foreigners—so I became Raymond—very British—”

  Miss Marple said:

  “And is your real name something quite different?”

  He smiled at her.

  “Actually my real name is Ramon. I had an Argentine grandmother, you see—” (And that accounts for that swing from the hips, thought Sir Henry parenthetically.) “But my first name is Thomas. Painfully prosaic.”

  He turned to Sir Henry.

  “You come from Devonshire, don’t you, sir? From Stane? My people lived down that way. At Alsmonston.”

  Sir Henry’s face lit up.

  “Are you one of the Alsmonston Starrs? I didn’t realize that.”

  “No—I don’t suppose you would.”

  There was a slight bitterness in his voice.

  Sir Henry said awkwardly:

  “Bad luck—er—all that.”

  “The 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. We’ve outlived our usefulness. My elder brother went to New York. He’s in publishing—doing well. The rest of us are scattered up and down the earth. I’ll say it’s hard to get a job nowadays when you’ve nothing to say for yourself except that you’ve had a public-school education! Sometimes, if you’re 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 them—I got fired.

  “The 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:

  “‘Where’s 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? It’s the gigolo I want.’”

  Raymond went on:

  “Silly to mind—but 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, it’s life, I suppose. Excuse today’s hard-luck story!”

  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:

  “I’m glad to have a chat with you. I’ve been wanting to talk with you.”

  “About Ruby Keene? I can’t help you, you know. I don’t know who killed her. I knew very little about her. She didn’t confide in me.”

  Miss Marple said: “Did you like her?”

  “Not particularly. I didn’t dislike her.”

  His voice was careless, uninterested.

  Sir Henry said:

  “So you’ve no suggestions to offer?”

  “I’m afraid not … I’d have told Harper if I had. It just seems to me one of those things! Petty, sordid little crime—no clues, no motive.”

  “Two people had a motive,” said Miss Marple.

  Sir Henry looked at her sharply.

  “Really?” Raymond looked surprised.

  Miss Marple looked insistently at Sir Henry and he said rather unwillingly:

  “Her death probably benefits Mrs. Jefferson and Mr. Gaskell to the amount of fifty thousand pounds.”

  “What?” Raymond looked really startled—more than startled—upset. “Oh, but that’s absurd—absolutely absurd—Mrs. Jefferson—neither of them—could have had anything to do with it. It would be incredible to think of such a thing.”

  Miss Marple coughed. She said gently:

  “I’m afraid, you know, you’re rather an idealist.”

  “I?” he laughed. “Not me! I’m a hard-boiled cynic.”

  “Money,” said Miss Marple, “is a very powerful motive.”

  “Perhaps,” Raymond said hotly. “But that either of those two would strangle a girl in cold blood—” He shook his head.

  Then he got up.

  “Here’s Mrs. Jefferson now. Come for her lesson. She’s late.” His voice sounded amused. “Ten minutes late!”

  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:

  “Can’t see what Addie wants to have lessons for. Have a game, yes. No one enjoys it better than I do. But why lessons?”

  “Wants to improve her game,” said Sir Henry.

  “She’s not a bad player,” said Hugo. “Good enough, at all events. Dash it all, she isn’t aiming to play at Wimbledon.”

  He was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

  “Who is this Raymond fellow? Where do they come from, these pros? Fellow looks like a dago to me.”

  “He’s one of the Devonshire Starrs,” said Sir Henry.

  “What? Not really?”

  Sir Henry nodded. It was clear that this news was unpleasing to Hugo McLean. He scowled more than ever.

  He said: “Don’t know why Addie sent for me. She seems not to have turned a hair over this business! Never looked better. Why send for me?”

  Sir Henry asked with some curiosity:

  “When did she send for you?”

  “Oh—er—when all this happened.”

  “How did you hear? Telephone or telegram?”

  “Telegram.”

  “As a matter of curiosity, when was it sent off?”

  “Well—I don’t know exactly.”

  “What time did you receive it?”

  “I didn’t exactly receive it. It was telephoned on to me—as a matter of fact.”

  “Why, where were you?”

  “Fact is, I’d left London the afternoon before. I was staying at Danebury Head.”

  “What—quite near here?”

  “Yes, rather funny, wasn’t it? Got the message when I got in from a round of golf and came over here at once.”

  Miss Marple gazed at him thoughtfully. He looked hot and uncomfortable. She said: “I’ve heard it’s very pleasant at Danebury Head, and not very expensive.”

  “No, it’s not expensive. I couldn’t afford it if it was. It’s a nice little place.”

  “We must drive over there one day,” said Miss Marple.

  “Eh? What? Oh—er—yes, I should.” He got up. “Better take some exercise—get an appetite.”

  He walked away stiffly.

  “Women,” said Sir Henry, “treat their devoted admirers very badly.”
/>   Miss Marple smiled but made no answer.

  “Does he strike you as rather a dull dog?” asked Sir Henry. “I’d be interested to know.”

  “A little limited in his ideas, perhaps,” said Miss Marple. “But with possibilities, I think—oh, definitely possibilities.”

  Sir Henry in his turn got up.

  “It’s time for me to go and do my stuff. I see Mrs. Bantry is on her way to keep you company.”

  IV

  Mrs. Bantry arrived breathless and sat down with a gasp.

  She said:

  “I’ve been talking to chambermaids. But it isn’t any good. I haven’t 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?”

  “That’s a very interesting point, dear. I should say, definitely not. Somebody knows, depend upon it, if it’s true! But she must have been very clever about it.”

  Mrs. Bantry’s attention had strayed to the tennis court. She said approvingly:

  “Addie’s tennis is coming on a lot. Attractive young man, that tennis pro. Addie’s looking quite nice-looking. She’s still an attractive woman—I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she married again.”

  “She’ll be a rich woman, too, when Mr. Jefferson dies,” said Miss Marple.

  “Oh, don’t always have such a nasty mind, Jane! Why haven’t you solved this mystery yet? We don’t seem to be getting on at all. I thought you’d know at once.” Mrs. Bantry’s tone held reproach.

  “No, no, dear. I didn’t know at once—not for some time.”

  Mrs. Bantry turned startled and incredulous eyes on her.

  “You mean you know now who killed Ruby Keene?”

  “Oh yes,” said Miss Marple, “I know that!”

  “But Jane, who is it? Tell me at once.”

  Miss Marple shook her head very firmly and pursed up her lips.

  “I’m sorry, Dolly, but that wouldn’t do at all.”

  “Why wouldn’t it do?”

  “Because you’re so indiscreet. You would go round telling everyone—or, if you didn’t tell, you’d hint.”