The Body in the Library

by Agatha Christie

  “No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

  “People who use that phrase are always the last to live up to it. It’s no good, dear. There’s 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 couldn’t 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 ‘it could go on to the next week’s account,’ which, of course, was exactly what Mrs. Partridge did, only on a much larger scale. Seventy-five pounds it was she embezzled.”

  “Never mind Mrs. Partridge,” said Mrs. Bantry.

  “But I had to explain to you. And if you care I’ll 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 there’s anything fishy about, I never believe anyone at all! You see, I know human nature so well.”

  Mrs. Bantry was silent for a minute or two. Then she said in a different tone of voice:

  “I told you, didn’t I, that I didn’t see why I shouldn’t enjoy myself over this case. A real murder in my own house! The sort of thing that will never happen again.”

  “I hope not,” said Miss Marple.

  “Well, so do I, really. Once is enough. But it’s my murder, Jane; I want to enjoy myself over it.”

  Miss Marple shot a glance at her.

  Mrs. Bantry said belligerently:

  “Don’t you believe that?”

  Miss Marple said sweetly:

  “Of course, Dolly, if you tell me so.”

  “Yes, but you never believe what people tell you, do you? You’ve just said so. Well, you’re quite right.” Mrs. Bantry’s voice took on a sudden bitter note. She said: “I’m not altogether a fool. You may think, Jane, that I don’t know what they’re saying all over St. Mary Mead—all over the county! They’re saying, one and all, that there’s no smoke without fire, that if the girl was found in Arthur’s library, then Arthur must know something about it. They’re saying that the girl was Arthur’s mistress—that she was his illegitimate daughter—that she was blackmailing him. They’re saying anything that comes into their damned heads! And it will go on like that! Arthur won’t realize it at first—he won’t know what’s wrong. He’s such a dear old stupid that he’d never believe people would think things like that about him. He’ll be cold-shouldered and looked at askance (whatever that means!) and it will dawn on him little by little and suddenly he’ll be horrified and cut to the soul, and he’ll fasten up like a clam and just endure, day after day, in misery.

  “It’s because of all that’s going to happen to him that I’ve come here to ferret out every single thing about it that I can! This murder’s got to be solved! If it isn’t, then Arthur’s whole life will be wrecked—and I won’t have that happen. I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!”

  She paused for a minute and said:

  “I won’t have the dear old boy go through hell for something he didn’t do. That’s the only reason I came to Danemouth and left him alone at home—to find out the truth.”

  “I know, dear,” said Miss Marple. “That’s why I’m here too.”

  Fourteen

  I

  In a quiet hotel room Edwards was listening deferentially to Sir Henry Clithering.

  “There 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.”

  Sir Henry paused.

  Edwards, his pale intelligent eyes on the other’s face, inclined his head. He said: “Quite so, Sir Henry.”

  Clithering went on slowly and deliberately:

  “In all police cases there is necessarily a lot of information that is held back. It is held back for various reasons—because 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.”

  Again Edwards said:

  “Quite so, Sir Henry.”

  “I 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. Jefferson’s adopted daughter. Two people had a motive in seeing that this should not happen. Those two people are Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson.”

  The valet’s eyes displayed a momentary gleam. He said: “May I ask if they are under suspicion, sir?”

  “They 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.”

  “An unpleasant position for them, sir.”

  “Very 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 information—the kind of inside information that only you are likely to have. You know your master’s 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. Jefferson’s. 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.”

  He paused. Edwards said quietly:

  “I understand you, sir. You want me to speak quite frankly—to say things that in the ordinary course of events I should not say—and that, excuse me, sir, you wouldn’t dream of listening to.”

  Sir Henry said:

  “You’re a very intelligent fellow, Edwards. That’s exactly what I do mean.”

  Edwards was silent for a minute or two, then he began to speak.

  “Of course I know Mr. Jefferson fairly well by now. I’ve been with him quite a number of years. And I see him in his ‘off ’ moments, not only in his ‘on’ ones. Sometimes, sir, I’ve questioned in my own mind whether it’s good for anyone to fight fate in the way Mr. Jefferson has fought. It’s taken a terrible toll of him, sir. If, sometimes, he could have given way, been an unhappy, lonely, broken old man—well, it might have been better for him in the end. But he’s too proud for that! He’ll go down fighting—that’s his motto.

  “But that sort of thing leads, Sir Henry, to a lot of nervous reaction. He looks a good-tempered gentleman. I’ve seen him in violent rages when he could hardly speak for passion. And the one thing that roused him, sir, was deceit….”

  “Are you saying that for any particular reason, Edwards?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. You asked me, sir, to speak quite frankly?”

  “That is the idea.”

  “Well, then, Sir Henry, in my opinion the young woman that Mr. Jefferson was so taken up with wasn’t worth it. She was, to put it bluntly, a common little piece. And she didn’t care tuppence for Mr. Jefferson. All that play of affection and gratitude was so much poppycock. I don’t say there was any harm in her—but she wasn’t, by a long way, what Mr. Jefferson thought her. It was funny, that, sir, for Mr. Jefferson was a shrewd gentleman; he wasn’t often deceived over people. But there, a gentleman isn’t himself in his judgment when it comes to a young woman being in question. Young Mrs. Jefferson, you see, whom he’d 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.”

  Sir Henry interjected:

  “And yet he had him with him constantly?”

  “Yes, but that was for Miss Rosamund’s sake. Mrs. Gaskell that was. She was the apple of his eye. He adored her. Mr. Mark was Miss Rosamund’s husband. He always thought of him like that.”

  “Supposing Mr. Mark had married s
omeone else?”

  “Mr. Jefferson, sir, would have been furious.”

  Sir Henry raised his eyebrows. “As much as that?”

  “He wouldn’t have shown it, but that’s what it would have been.”

  “And if Mrs. Jefferson had married again?”

  “Mr. Jefferson wouldn’t have liked that either, sir.”

  “Please go on, Edwards.”

  “I was saying, sir, that Mr. Jefferson fell for this young woman. I’ve often seen it happen with the gentlemen I’ve been with. Comes over them like a kind of disease. They want to protect the girl, and shield her, and shower benefits upon her—and nine times out of ten the girl is very well able to look after herself and has a good eye to the main chance.”

  “So you think Ruby Keene was a schemer?”

  “Well, Sir Henry, she was quite inexperienced, being so young, but she had the makings of a very fine schemer indeed when she’d once got well into her swing, so to speak! In another five years she’d have been an expert at the game!”

  Sir Henry said:

  “I’m glad to have your opinion of her. It’s valuable. Now do you recall any incident in which this matter was discussed between Mr. Jefferson and his family?”

  “There 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 didn’t say much—she’s a quiet lady—only urged him not to do anything in a great hurry.”

  Sir Henry nodded.

  “Anything else? What was the girl’s attitude?”

  With marked distaste the valet said:

  “I should describe it, sir, as jubilant.”

  “Ah—jubilant, you say? You had no reason to believe, Edwards, that”—he sought about for a phrase suitable to Edwards—“that—er—her affections were engaged elsewhere?”

  “Mr. Jefferson was not proposing marriage, sir. He was going to adopt her.”

  “Cut out the ‘elsewhere’ and let the question stand.”

  The valet said slowly: “There was one incident, sir. I happened to be a witness of it.”

  “That is gratifying. Tell me.”

  “There 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: ‘Hallo, Kitten, who’s this, eh?’

  “It was a snapshot, sir, of a young man, a dark young man with rather untidy hair and his tie very badly arranged.

  “Miss Keene pretended that she didn’t know anything about it. She said: ‘I’ve no idea, Jeffie. No idea at all. I don’t know how it could have got into my bag. I didn’t put it there!’

  “Now, Mr. Jefferson, sir, wasn’t quite a fool. That story wasn’t good enough. He looked angry, his brows came down heavy, and his voice was gruff when he said:

  “‘Now then, Kitten, now then. You know who it is right enough.’

  “She changed her tactics quick, sir. Looked frightened. She said: ‘I do recognize him now. He comes here sometimes and I’ve danced with him. I don’t know his name. The silly idiot must have stuffed his photo into my bag one day. These boys are too silly for anything!’ She tossed her head and giggled and passed it off. But it wasn’t a likely story, was it? And I don’t think Mr. Jefferson quite believed it. He looked at her once or twice after that in a sharp way, and sometimes, if she’d been out, he asked her where she’d been.”

  Sir Henry said: “Have you ever seen the original of the photo about the hotel?”

  “Not to my knowledge, sir. Of course, I am not much downstairs in the public departments.”

  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 “county” to farmers’ and shopkeepers’ daughters. One and all they told the same story—Pamela Reeves had been just the same as usual, she had said nothing to any of them except that she was going to Woolworth’s and would go home by a later bus.

  In the corner of Superintendent Harper’s 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.

  “I’d like to speak to Florence Small.”

  The Superintendent’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded and touched a bell. A constable appeared.

  Harper said: “Florence Small.”

  The girl reappeared, ushered in by the constable. She was the daughter of a well-to-do farmer—a 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:

  “This lady will ask you some questions.”

  He went out, closing the door behind him.

  Florence shot an uneasy glance at Miss Marple. Her eyes looked rather like one of her father’s calves.

  Miss Marple said: “Sit down, Florence.”

  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:

  “You understand, Florence, that it’s of the utmost importance that everything about poor Pamela’s doings on the day of her death should be known?”

  Florence murmured that she quite understood.

  “And I’m sure you want to do your best to help?”

  Florence’s eyes were wary as she said, of course she did.

  “To keep back any piece of information is a very serious offence,” said Miss Marple.

  The girl’s fingers twisted nervously in her lap. She swallowed once or twice.

  “I can make allowances,” went on Miss Marple, “for 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 you’ve 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 indeed—very serious—practically perjury, and for that, as you know, you can be sent to prison.”

  “I—I don’t—”

  Miss Marple said sharply:

  “Now don’t prevaricate, Florence! Tell me all about it at once! Pamela wasn’t going to Woolworth’s, was she?”

  Florence licked her lips with a dry tongue and gazed imploringly at Miss Marple like a beast about to be slaughtered.

  “Something to do with the films, wasn’t it?” asked Miss Marple.

  A look of intense relief mingled with awe passed over Florence’s face. Her inhibitions left her. She gasped:

  “Oh, yes!”

  “I thought so,” said Miss Marple. “Now I want all the details, please.”

  Words poured from Florence in a gush.

  “Oh! I’ve been ever so worried. I promised Pam, you see, I’d never say a word to a soul. And then when she was found all burnt up in that car—oh! it was horrible and I thought I should die—I felt it was all my fault. I ought to have stopped her. Only I never thought, not for a minute, that it wasn’t all right. And then I was asked if she’d been quite as usual that day and I said ‘Yes’ before I’d had time to think. And not having said anything then I didn’t see how I could say anything l
ater. And, after all, I didn’t know anything—not really—only what Pam told me.”

  “What did Pam tell you?”

  “It was as we were walking up the lane to the bus—on the way to the rally. She asked me if I could keep a secret, and I said ‘Yes,’ and she made me swear not to tell. She was going into Danemouth for a film test after the rally! She’d met a film producer—just 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 couldn’t 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. Pam’s acted in plays at school and she’s awfully good. He said he could see she could act, but she’d have to have some intensive training. It wouldn’t be all beer and skittles, he told her, it would be damned hard work. Did she think she could stick it?”

  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 strangers—but the glamour of the films would obliterate all that.

  “He was absolutely businesslike about it all,” continued Florence. “Said if the test was successful she’d 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 wasn’t to pass on that he’d said that. He asked her if she’d have trouble with her parents, and Pam said she probably would, and he said: ‘Well, of course, that’s 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 wouldn’t happen once in a million times, they’d see reason.’ But, anyway, he said, it wasn’t any good going into that until they knew the result of the test. She mustn’t be disappointed if it failed. He told her about Hollywood and about Vivien Leigh—how she’d suddenly taken London by storm—and 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.”