They stepped back along the corridor towards the stairs. Ella Zielinksy came rapidly along and passed them. She tried a bedroom door and said quickly, “Oh, damn. Of course they’ve locked them all.”
“Is anything the matter?” asked Mrs. Bantry.
“Someone’s taken ill,” said Miss Zielinsky shortly.
“Oh dear, I’m sorry. Can I do anything?”
“I suppose there’s a doctor here somewhere?”
“I haven’t seen any of our local doctors,” said Mrs. Bantry, “but there’s almost sure to be one here.”
“Jason’s telephoning,” said Ella Zielinsky, “but she seems pretty bad.”
“Who is it?” asked Mrs. Bantry.
“A Mrs. Badcock, I think.”
“Heather Badcock? But she looked so well just now.”
Ella Zielinksy said impatiently, “She’s had a seizure, or a fit, or something. Do you know if there’s anything wrong with her heart or anything like that?”
“I don’t really know anything about her,” said Mrs. Bantry. “She’s new since my day. She comes from the Development.”
“The Development? Oh, you mean that housing estate. I don’t even know where her husband is or what he looks like.”
“Middle-aged, fair, unobtrusive,” said Mrs. Bantry. “He came with her so he must be about somewhere.”
Ella Zielinsky went into a bathroom. “I don’t know really what to give her,” she said. “Sal volatile, do you think, something like that?”
“Is she faint?” said Mrs. Bantry.
“It’s more than that,” said Ella Zielinsky.
“I’ll see if there’s anything I can do,” said Mrs. Bantry. She turned away and walked rapidly back towards the head of the stairs. Turning a corner she cannoned into Jason Rudd.
“Have you seen Ella?” he said. “Ella Zielinsky?”
“She went along there into one of the bathrooms. She was looking for something. Sal volatile—something like that.”
“She needn’t bother,” said Jason Rudd.
Something in his tone struck Mrs. Bantry. She looked up sharply. “Is it bad?” she said, “really bad?”
“You could call it that,” said Jason Rudd. “The poor woman’s dead.”
“Dead!” Mrs. Bantry was really shocked. She said, as she had said before, “But she looked so well just now.”
“I know. I know,” said Jason. He stood there, scowling. “What a thing to happen!”
Six
I
“Here we are,” said Miss Knight, settling a breakfast tray on the bed table beside Miss Marple. “And how are we this morning? I see we’ve got our curtains pulled back,” she added with a slight note of disapproval in her voice.
“I wake early,” said Miss Marple. “You probably will, when you’re my age,” she added.
“Mrs. Bantry rang up,” said Miss Knight, “about half an hour ago. She wanted to talk to you but I said she’d better ring up again after you’d had your breakfast. I wasn’t going to disturb you at that hour, before you’d even had a cup of tea or anything to eat.”
“When my friends ring up,” said Miss Marple, “I prefer to be told.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sure,” said Miss Knight, “but it seemed to me very inconsiderate. When you’ve had your nice tea and your boiled egg and your toast and butter, we’ll see.”
“Half an hour ago,” said Miss Marple, thoughtfully, “that would have been—let me see—eight o’clock.”
“Much too early,” reiterated Miss Knight.
“I don’t believe Mrs. Bantry would have rung me up then unless it was for some particular reason,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “She doesn’t usually ring up in the early morning.”
“Oh well, dear, don’t fuss your head about it,” said Miss Knight soothingly. “I expect she’ll be ringing up again very shortly. Or would you like me to get her for you?”
“No, thank you,” said Miss Marple. “I prefer to eat my breakfast while it’s hot.”
“Hope I haven’t forgotten anything,” said Miss Knight, cheerfully.
But nothing had been forgotten. The tea had been properly made with boiling water, the egg had been boiled exactly three and three-quarter minutes, the toast was evenly browned, the butter was arranged in a nice little pat and the small jar of honey stood beside it. In many ways undeniably Miss Knight was a treasure. Miss Marple ate her breakfast and enjoyed it. Presently the whirr of a vacuum cleaner began below. Cherry had arrived.
Competing with the whirr of the vacuum cleaner was a fresh tuneful voice singing one of the latest popular tunes of the day. Miss Knight, coming in for the breakfast tray, shook her head.
“I really wish that young woman wouldn’t go singing all over the house,” she said. “It’s not what I call respectful.”
Miss Marple smiled a little. “It would never enter Cherry’s head that she would have to be respectful,” she remarked. “Why should she?”
Miss Knight sniffed and said, “Very different to what things used to be.”
“Naturally,” said Miss Marple. “Times change. That is a thing which has to be accepted.” She added, “Perhaps you’ll ring up Mrs. Bantry now and find out what it was she wanted.”
Miss Knight bustled away. A minute or two later there was a rap on the door and Cherry entered. She was looking bright and excited and extremely pretty. A plastic overall rakishly patterned with sailors and naval emblems was tied round her dark blue dress.
“Your hair looks nice,” said Miss Marple.
“Went for a perm yesterday,” said Cherry. “A bit stiff still, but it’s going to be all right. I came up to see if you’d heard the news.”
“What news?” said Miss Marple.
“About what happened at Gossington Hall yesterday. You know there was a big do there for the St. John Ambulance?”
Miss Marple nodded. “What happened?” she asked.
“Somebody died in the middle of it. A Mrs. Badcock. Lives round the corner from us. I don’t suppose you’d know her.”
“Mrs. Badcock?” Miss Marple sounded alert. “But I do know her. I think—yes, that was the name—she came out and picked me up when I fell down the other day. She was very kind.”
“Oh, Heather Badcock’s kind all right,” said Cherry. “Overkind, some people say. They call it interfering. Well, anyway, she up and died. Just like that.”
“Died! But what of?”
“Search me,” said Cherry. “She’d been taken into the house because of her being the secretary of the St. John Ambulance, I suppose. She and the mayor and a lot of others. As far as I heard, she had a glass of something and about five minutes later she was took bad and died before you could snap your fingers.”
“What a shocking occurrence,” said Miss Marple. “Did she suffer from heart trouble?”
“Sound as a bell, so they say,” Cherry said. “Of course, you never know, do you? I suppose you can have something wrong with your heart and nobody knowing about it. Anyway, I can tell you this. They’ve not sent her home.”
Miss Marple looked puzzled. “What do you mean, not sent her home?”
“The body,” said Cherry, her cheerfulness unimpaired. “The doctor said there’d have to be an autopsy. Postmortem—whatever you call it. He said he hadn’t attended her for anything and there was nothing to show the cause of death. Looks funny to me,” she added.
“Now what do you mean by funny?” said Miss Marple.
“Well.” Cherry considered. “Funny. As though there was something behind it.”
“Is her husband terribly upset?”
“Looks as white as a sheet. Never saw a man as badly hit, to look at—that is to say.”
Miss Marple’s ears, long attuned to delicate nuances, led her to cock her head slightly on one side like an inquisitive bird.
“Was he so very devoted to her?”
“He did what she told him and gave her her own way,” said Cherry, “but that doesn’t always mean you’re
devoted, does it? It may mean you haven’t got the courage to stick up for yourself.”
“You didn’t like her?” asked Miss Marple.
“I hardly know her really,” said Cherry. “Knew her, I mean. I don’t—didn’t—dislike her. But she’s just not my type. Too interfering.”
“You mean inquisitive, nosy?”
“No, I don’t,” said Cherry. “I don’t mean that at all. She was a very kind woman and she was always doing things for people. And she was always quite sure she knew the best thing to do. What they thought about it wouldn’t have mattered. I had an aunt like that. Very fond of seed cake herself and she used to bake seed cakes for people and take them to them, and she never troubled to find out whether they liked seed cake or not. There are people can’t bear it, just can’t stand the flavour of caraway. Well, Heather Badcock was a bit like that.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully, “yes, she would have been. I knew someone a little like that. Such people,” she added, “live dangerously—though they don’t know it themselves.”
Cherry stared at her. “That’s a funny thing to say. I don’t quite get what you mean.”
Miss Knight bustled in. “Mrs. Bantry seems to have gone out,” she said. “She didn’t say where she was going.”
“I can guess where she’s going,” said Miss Marple. “She’s coming here. I shall get up now,” she added.
II
Miss Marple had just ensconced herself in her favourite chair by the window when Mrs. Bantry arrived. She was slightly out of breath.
“I’ve got plenty to tell you, Jane,” she said.
“About the fête?” asked Miss Knight. “You went to the fête yesterday, didn’t you? I was there myself for a short time early in the afternoon. The tea tent was very crowded. An astonishing lot of people seemed to be there. I didn’t catch a glimpse of Marina Gregg, though, which was rather disappointing.”
She flicked a little dust off a table and said brightly, “Now I’m sure you two want to have a nice little chat together,” and went out of the room.
“She doesn’t seem to know anything about it,” said Mrs. Bantry. She fixed her friend with a keen glance. “Jane, I believe you do know.”
“You mean about the death yesterday?”
“You always know everything,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I cannot think how.”
“Well, really dear,” said Miss Marple, “in the same way one always has known everything. My daily helper, Cherry Baker, brought the news. I expect the butcher will be telling Miss Knight presently.”
“And what do you think of it?” said Mrs. Bantry.
“What do I think of what?” said Miss Marple.
“Now don’t be aggravating, Jane, you know perfectly what I mean. There’s this woman—whatever her name is—”
“Heather Badcock,” said Miss Marple.
“She arrives full of life and spirit. I was there when she came. And about a quarter of an hour later she sits down in a chair, says she doesn’t feel well, gasps a bit and dies. What do you think of that?”
“One mustn’t jump to conclusions,” said Miss Marple. “The point is, of course, what did a medical man think of it?”
Mrs. Bantry nodded. “There’s to be an inquest and a postmortem,” she said. “That shows what they think of it, doesn’t it?”
“Not necessarily,” said Miss Marple. “Anyone may be taken ill and die suddenly and they have to have a postmortem to find out the cause.”
“It’s more than that,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“How do you know?” said Miss Marple.
“Dr. Sandford went home and rang up the police.”
“Who told you that?” said Miss Marple, with great interest.
“Old Briggs,” said Mrs. Bantry. “At least, he didn’t tell me. You know he goes down after hours in the evening to see to Dr. Sandford’s garden, and he was clipping something quite close to the study and he heard the doctor ringing up the police station in Much Benham. Briggs told his daughter and his daughter mentioned it to the postwoman and she told me,” said Mrs. Bantry.
Miss Marple smiled. “I see,” she said, “that St. Mary Mead has not changed very much from what it used to be.”
“The grapevine is much the same,” agreed Mrs. Bantry. “Well, now, Jane, tell me what you think.”
“One thinks, of course, of the husband,” said Miss Marple reflectively. “Was he there?”
“Yes, he was there. You don’t think it would be suicide,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Certainly not suicide,” said Miss Marple decisively. “She wasn’t the type.”
“How did you come across her, Jane?”
“It was the day I went for a walk to the Development, and fell down near her house. She was kindness itself. She was a very kind woman.”
“Did you see the husband? Did he look as though he’d like to poison her?
“You know what I mean,” Mrs. Bantry went on as Miss Marple showed some slight signs of protesting. “Did he remind you of Major Smith or Bertie Jones or someone you’ve known years ago who did poison a wife, or tried to?”
“No,” said Miss Marple, “he didn’t remind me of anyone I know.” She added, “But she did.”
“Who—Mrs. Badcock?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple, “she reminded me of someone called Alison Wilde.”
“And what was Alison Wilde like?”
“She didn’t know at all,” said Miss Marple slowly, “what the world was like. She didn’t know what people were like. She’d never thought about them. And so, you see, she couldn’t guard against things happening to her.”
“I don’t really think I understand a word of what you’re saying,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“It’s very difficult to explain exactly,” said Miss Marple, apologetically. “It comes really from being self-centred, and I don’t mean selfish by that,” she added. “You can be kind and unselfish and even thoughtful. But if you’re like Alison Wilde, you never really know what you may be doing. And so you never know what may happen to you.”
“Can’t you make that a little clearer?” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Well, I suppose I could give you a sort of figurative example. This isn’t anything that actually happened, it’s just something I’m inventing.”
“Go on,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Well, supposing you went into a shop, say, and you knew the proprietress had a son who was the spivvy young juvenile delinquent type. He was there listening while you told his mother about some money you had in the house, or some silver or a piece of jewellery. It was something you were excited and pleased about and you wanted to talk about it. And you also perhaps mention an evening that you were going out. You even say that you never lock the house. You’re interested in what you’re saying, what you’re telling her, because it’s so very much in your mind. And then, say, on that particular evening you come home because you’ve forgotten something and there’s this bad lot of a boy in the house, caught in the act, and he turns round and coshes you.”
“That might happen to almost anybody nowadays,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Not quite,” said Miss Marple, “most people have a sense of protection. They realise when it’s unwise to say or do something because of the person or persons who are taking in what you say, and because of the kind of character that those people have. But as I say, Alison Wilde never thought of anybody else but herself— She was the sort of person who tells you what they’ve done and what they’ve seen and what they’ve felt and what they’ve heard. They never mention what any other people said or did. Life is a kind of one-way track—just their own progress through it. Other people seem to them just like—like wallpaper in a room.” She paused and then said, “I think Heather Badcock was that kind of person.”
Mrs. Bantry said, “You think she was the sort of person who might have butted into something without knowing what she was doing?”
“And without realising that it was a dangerous thing to do,” sai
d Miss Marple. She added, “It’s the only reason I can possibly think of why she should have been killed. If of course,” added Miss Marple, “we are right in assuming that murder has been committed.”
“You don’t think she was blackmailing someone?” Mrs. Bantry suggested.
“Oh, no,” Miss Marple assured her. “She was a kind, good woman. She’d never have done anything of that kind.” She added vexedly, “The whole thing seems to me very unlikely. I suppose it can’t have been—”
“Well?” Mrs. Bantry urged her.
“I just wondered if it might have been the wrong murder,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.
The door opened and Dr. Haydock breezed in, Miss Knight twittering behind him.
“Ah, at it already, I see,” said Dr. Haydock, looking at the two ladies. “I came in to see how your health was,” he said to Miss Marple, “but I needn’t ask. I see you’ve begun to adopt the treatment that I suggested.”
“Treatment, Doctor?”
Dr. Haydock pointed a finger at the knitting that lay on the table beside her. “Unravelling,” he said. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
Miss Marple twinkled very slightly in a discreet, old-fashioned kind of way.
“You will have your joke, Doctor Haydock,” she said.
“You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, my dear lady. I’ve known you too many years. Sudden death at Gossington Hall and all the tongues of St. Mary Mead are wagging. Isn’t that so? Murder suggested long before anybody even knows the result of the inquest.”
“When is the inquest to be held?” asked Miss Marple.
“The day after tomorrow,” said Dr. Haydock, “and by that time,” he said, “you ladies will have reviewed the whole story, decided on the verdict and decided on a good many other points too, I expect. Well,” he added, “I shan’t waste my time here. It’s no good wasting time on a patient that doesn’t need my ministrations. Your cheeks are pink, your eyes are bright, you’ve begun to enjoy yourself. Nothing like having an interest in life. I’ll be on my way.” He stomped out again.
“I’d rather have him than Sandford any day,” said Mrs. Bantry.
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 145
