The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  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.”

  “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 Scot
land 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 someone 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: