Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  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's 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's ill-wishing 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 run 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 aback. 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, 'Bel la, it is, Mr Harry, and pleased to see you aft
er 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 any more. 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 play-acting 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.'

  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.

  Recognising 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 Gl
addie 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 unshakeably 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.'