The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  “Not necessarily,” I objected. “The whole village of St. Mary Mead probably knows exactly where you keep your toothbrush and what kind of tooth powder you use.”

  “But why should it interest them?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but it does. If you change your shaving cream it will be a topic of conversation.”

  “They must be very hard up for news.”

  “They are. Nothing exciting ever happens here.”

  “Well, it has now—with a vengeance.”

  I agreed.

  “And who tells them all these things anyway? Shaving cream and things like that?”

  “Probably old Mrs. Archer.”

  “That old crone? She’s practically a half-wit, as far as I can make out.”

  “That’s merely the camouflage of the poor,” I explained. “They take refuge behind a mask of stupidity. You’ll 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. What’s made her so positive all of a sudden?”

  “I haven’t the least idea.”

  “Do you think she’s right?”

  “There again I haven’t the least idea. I don’t go round taking an inventory of my possessions every day.”

  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.

  “It’s a bit of a job finding things sometimes,” he said, observing my glance. “On the other hand, everything is handy—not tucked away.”

  “Nothing is tucked away, certainly,” I agreed. “It might perhaps have been better if the pistol had been.”

  “Do 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.”

  “By the way,” I asked, “was it loaded?”

  Lawrence shook his head.

  “I’m not quite so careless as that. It was unloaded, but there was a box of cartridges beside it.”

  “It was apparently loaded in all six chambers and one shot had been fired.”

  Lawrence nodded.

  “And whose hand fired it? It’s all very well, sir, but unless the real murderer is discovered I shall be suspected of the crime to the day of my death.”

  “Don’t say that, my boy.”

  “But I do say it.”

  He became silent, frowning to himself. He roused himself at last and said:

  “But let me tell you how I got on last night. You know, old Miss Marple knows a thing or two.”

  “She is, I believe, rather unpopular on that account.”

  Lawrence proceeded to recount his story.

  He had, following Miss Marple’s advice, gone up to Old Hall. There, with Anne’s assistance, he had had an interview with the parlourmaid. Anne had said simply:

  “Mr. Redding wants to ask you a few questions, Rose.”

  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.

  “It’s—it’s about Colonel Protheroe’s death.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m very anxious, you see, to get at the truth.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I feel that there may be—that someone might—that—that there might be some incident—”

  At this point Lawrence felt that he was not covering himself with glory, and heartily cursed Miss Marple and her suggestions.

  “I wondered if you could help me?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Rose’s demeanour was still that of the perfect servant, polite, anxious to assist, and completely uninterested.

  “Dash it all,” said Lawrence, “haven’t you talked the thing over in the servants’ hall?”

  This method of attack flustered Rose slightly. Her perfect poise was shaken.

  “In the servants’ hall, sir?”

  “Or the housekeeper’s room, or the bootboy’s dugout, or wherever you do talk? There must be some place.”

  Rose displayed a very faint disposition to giggle, and Lawrence felt encouraged.

  “Look here, Rose, you’re an awfully nice girl. I’m sure you must understand what I’m feeling like. I don’t want to be hanged. I didn’t murder your master, but a lot of people think I did. Can’t you help me in any way?”

  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.

  “Oh, sir! I’m sure—if any of us could help in any way. None of us think you did it, sir. Indeed we don’t.”

  “I know, my dear girl, but that’s not going to help me with the police.”

  “The police!” Rose tossed her head. “I can tell you, sir, we don’t think much of that Inspector. Slack, he calls himself. The police indeed.”

  “All the same, the police are very powerful. Now, Rose, you say you’ll do your best to help me. I can’t help feeling that there’s a lot we haven’t got yet. The lady, for instance, who called to see Colonel Protheroe the night before he died.”

  “Mrs. Lestrange?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Lestrange. I can’t help feeling there’s something rather odd about that visit of hers.”

  “Yes, indeed, sir, that’s what we all said.”

  “You did?”

  “Coming the way she did. And asking for the Colonel. And of course there’s been a lot of talk—nobody knowing anything about her down here. And Mrs. Simmons, she’s the housekeeper, sir, she gave it as her opinion that she was a regular bad lot. But after hearing what Gladdie said, well, I didn’t know what to think.”

  “What did Gladdie say?”

  “Oh, nothing, sir! It was just—we were talking, you know.”

  Lawrence looked at her. He had the feeling of something kept back.

  “I wonder very much what her interview with Colonel Protheroe was about.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I believe you know, Rose?”

  “Me? Oh, no, sir! Indeed I don’t. How could I?”

  “Look here, Rose. You said you’d help me. If you overheard anything, anything at all—it mightn’t seem important, but anything … I’d be so awfully grateful to you. After all, anyone might—might chance—just chance to overhear something.”

  “But I didn’t, sir, really, I didn’t.”

  “Then somebody else did,” said Lawrence acutely.

  “Well, sir—”

  “Do tell me, Rose.”

  “I don’t know what Gladdie would say, I’m sure.”

  “She’d want you to tell me. Who is Gladdie, by the way?”

  “She’s the kitchenmaid, sir. And you see, she’d just stepped out to speak to a friend, and she was passing the window—the study window—and the master was there with the lady. And of course he did speak very loud, the master did, always. And naturally, feeling a little curious—I mean—”

  “Awfully natural,” said Lawrence, “I mean one would simply have to listen.”

  “But of course she didn’t tell anyone—except me. And we both thought it very odd. But Gladdie couldn’t say anything, you see, because if it was known she’d gone out to meet—a—a friend—well, it would have meant a lot of unpleasantness with Mrs. Pratt, that’s the cook, sir. But I’m sure she’d tell you anything, sir, willing.”

  “Well, can I go to the kitchen and speak to her?”

  Rose was horrified by the suggestion.

  “Oh, no, sir, that would never do! And Gladdie’s a very nervous girl anyway.”

  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 hum
an. Ten minutes were spent in trying to put the girl at her ease, the shivering Gladys explaining that she couldn’t ever—that she didn’t ought, that she didn’t think Rose would have given her away, that anyway she hadn’t meant no harm, indeed she hadn’t, and that she’d catch it badly if Mrs. Pratt ever came to hear of it.

  Lawrence reassured, cajoled, persuaded—at last Gladys consented to speak. “If you’ll be sure it’ll go no further, sir.”

  “Of course it won’t.”

  “And it won’t be brought up against me in a court of law?”

  “Never.”

  “And you won’t tell the mistress?”

  “Not on any account.”

  “If it were to get to Mrs. Pratt’s ears—”

  “It won’t. Now tell me, Gladys.”

  “If you’re sure it’s all right?”

  “Of course it is. You’ll be glad some day you’ve saved me from being hanged.”

  Gladys gave a little shriek.

  “Oh! Indeed, I wouldn’t like that, sir. Well, it’s very little I heard—and that entirely by accident as you might say—”

  “I quite understand.”

  “But the master, he was evidently very angry. ‘After all these years’—that’s what he was saying—‘you dare to come here—’ ‘It’s an outrage—’ I couldn’t hear what the lady said—but after a bit he said, ‘I utterly refuse—utterly—’ I can’t remember everything—seemed as though they were at it hammer and tongs, she wanting him to do something and he refusing. ‘It’s a disgrace that you should have come down here,’ that’s one thing he said. And ‘You shall not see her—I forbid it—’ 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, ‘Well, now, fancy the master. Him so particular. And maybe no beauty himself when all’s said and done. Fancy!’ I said. And ‘Men are all alike,’ I said to my friend later. Not that he’d agree. Argued, he did. But he did admit he was surprised at Colonel Protheroe—him being a churchwarden and handing round the plate and reading the lessons on Sundays. ‘But there,’ I said, ‘that’s very often the worst.’ For that’s what I’ve heard my mother say, many a time.”

  Gladdie paused out of breath, and Lawrence tried tactfully to get back to where the conversation had started.

  “Did you hear anything else?”

  “Well, it’s difficult to remember exactly, sir. It was all much the same. He said once or twice, ‘I don’t believe it.’ Just like that. ‘Whatever Haydock says, I don’t believe it.’”

  “He said that, did he? ‘Whatever Haydock says?’”

  “Yes. And he said it was all a plot.”

  “You didn’t hear the lady speak at all?”

  “Only 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. I’ll never forget it. ‘By this time tomorrow night, you may be dead,’ she said. Wicked the way she said it. As soon as I heard the news, ‘There,’ I said to Rose. ‘There!’”

  Lawrence wondered. Principally he wondered how much of Gladys’s 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. Lestrange’s 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 Marple’s 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 crime—would he still try and shield her?

  She was a curious woman—a woman of very strong magnetic charm. I myself hated the thought of connecting her with the crime in any way.

  Something in me said, “It can’t be her!” Why?

  And an imp in my brain replied: “Because she’s a very beautiful and attractive woman. That’s why.”

  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. “She’s going.”

  “Who’s going?”

  “Mary. She’s given notice.”

  I really could not take the announcement in a tragic spirit.

  “Well,” I said, “we’ll have to get another servant.”

  It seemed to me a perfectly reasonable thing to say. When one servant goes, you get another. I was at a loss to understand Griselda’s look of reproach.

  “Len—you are absolutely heartless. You don’t care.”

  I didn’t. In fact, I felt almost lighthearted at the prospect of no more burnt puddings and undercooked vegetables.

  “I’ll have to look for a girl, and find one, and train her,” continued Griselda in a voice of acute self-pity.

  “Is Mary trained?” I said.

  “Of course she is.”

  “I suppose,” I said, “that someone has heard her address us as sir or ma’am and has immediately wrested her from us as a paragon. All I can say is, they’ll be disappointed.”

  “It isn’t that,” said Griselda. “Nobody else wants her. I don’t see how they could. It’s her feelings. They’re upset because Lettice Protheroe said she didn’t dust properly.”

  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.

  “I don’t see,” I said, “what our dust has to do with Lettice Protheroe.”

  “Nothing at all,” said my wife. “That’s why it’s so unreasonable. I wish you’d go and talk to Mary yourself. She’s in the kitchen.”

  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.

  “Er—good afternoon,” I said nervously.

  Mary looked up and snorted, but made no other response.

  “Mrs. Clement tells me that you wish to leave us,” I said.

  Mary condescended to reply to this.

  “There’s some things,” she said darkly, “as no girl can be asked to put up with.”

  “Will you tell me exactly what it is that has upset you?”

  “Tell you that in two words, I can.” (Here, I may say, she vastly underestimated.) “People coming snooping round here when my back’s turned. Poking round. And what business of hers is it, how often the study is dusted or turned out? If you and the missus don’t complain, it’s nobody else’s business. If I give satisfaction to you that’s all that matters, I say.”

  Mary has never given satisfaction to me. I confess that I have a hankering after a room thoroughly dusted and tidied every morning. Mary’s 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.

  “Had to go to that inquest, didn’t I? Standing up before twelve men, a respectable girl like me! And who knows what questions you may be asked. I’ll tell you this. I’ve never before been in a place where they had a murde
r in the house, and I never want to be again.”

  “I hope you won’t,” I said. “On the law of averages, I should say it was very unlikely.”

  “I don’t hold with the law. He was a magistrate. Many a poor fellow sent to jail for potting at a rabbit—and him with his pheasants and what not. And then, before he’s so much as decently buried, that daughter of his comes round and says I don’t do my work properly.”

  “Do you mean that Miss Protheroe has been here?”

  “Found her here when I come back from the Blue Boar. In the study she was. And ‘Oh!’ she says. ‘I’m looking for my little yellow berry—a little yellow hat. I left it here the other day.’ ‘Well,’ I says, ‘I haven’t seen no hat. It wasn’t here when I done the room on Thursday morning,’ I says. And ‘Oh!’ she says, ‘but I dare say you wouldn’t see it. You don’t spend much time doing a room, do you?’ 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. ‘If the Vicar and his lady are satisfied that’s all that matters, I think, miss,’ I said. And she laughs and goes out of the windows and says, ‘Oh! but are you sure they are?’”

  “I see,” I said.

  “And there it is! A girl has her feelings! I’m sure I’d work my fingers to the bone for you and the missus. And if she wants a new-fangled dish tried, I’m always ready to try it.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I said soothingly.

  “But she must have heard something or she wouldn’t have said what she did. And if I don’t give satisfaction I’d rather go. Not that I take any notice of what Miss Protheroe says. She’s not loved up at the Hall, I can tell you. Never a please or a thank you, and everything scattered right and left. I wouldn’t set any store by Miss Lettice Protheroe myself for all that Mr. Dennis is so set upon her. But she’s the kind that can always twist a young gentleman round her little finger.”