“She?”
Cherry gave a vigorous nod of her head backwards towards the door behind her.
“Pussy, pussy,” she said. “Your Miss Knight. Don’t you let her get you down.”
“She’s very kind,” said Miss Marple, “really very kind,” she added, in the tone of one who convinces herself.
“Care killed the cat, they say,” said Cherry. “You don’t want kindness rubbed into your skin, so to speak, do you?”
“Oh, well,” said Miss Marple sighing, “I suppose we all have our troubles.”
“I should say we do,” said Cherry. “I oughtn’t to complain but I feel sometimes that if I live next door to Mrs. Hartwell any longer there’s going to be a regrettable incident. Sour-faced old cat, always gossiping and complaining. Jim’s pretty fed up too. He had a first-class row with her last night. Just because we had The Messiah on a bit loud! You can’t object to The Messiah, can you? I mean, it’s religious.”
“Did she object?”
“She created something terrible,” said Cherry. “Banged on the wall and shouted and one thing and another.”
“Do you have to have your music turned on so loud?” asked Miss Marple.
“Jim likes it that way,” said Cherry. “He says you don’t get the tone unless you have full volume.”
“It might,” suggested Miss Marple, “be a little trying for anyone if they weren’t musical.”
“It’s these houses being semi-detached,” said Cherry. “Thin as anything, the walls. I’m not so keen really on all this new building, when you come to think of it. It looks all very prissy and nice but you can’t express your personality without somebody being down on you like a ton of bricks.”
Miss Marple smiled at her.
“You’ve got a lot of personality to express, Cherry,” she said.
“D’you think so?” Cherry was pleased and she laughed. “I wonder,” she began. Suddenly she looked embarrassed. She put down the tray and came back to the bed.
“I wonder if you’d think it cheek if I asked you something? I mean—you’ve only got to say ‘out of the question’ and that’s that.”
“Something you want me to do?”
“Not quite. It’s those rooms over the kitchen. They’re never used nowadays, are they?”
“No.”
“Used to be a gardener and wife there once, so I heard. But that’s old stuff. What I wondered—what Jim and I wondered—is if we could have them. Come and live here, I mean.”
Miss Marple stared at her in astonishment.
“But your beautiful new house in the Development?”
“We’re both fed up with it. We like gadgets, but you can have gadgets anywhere—get them on HP and there would be a nice lot of room here, especially if Jim could have the room over the stables. He’d fix it up like new, and he could have all his construction models there, and wouldn’t have to clear them away all the time. And if we had our stereogram there too, you’d hardly hear it.”
“Are you really serious about this, Cherry?”
“Yes, I am. Jim and I, we’ve talked about it a lot. Jim could fix things for you anytime—you know, plumbing or a bit of carpentry, and I’d look after you every bit as well as your Miss Knight does. I know you think I’m a bit slap-dash—but I’d try and take trouble with the beds and the washing-up—and I’m getting quite a dab hand at cooking. Did Beef Stroganoff last night, it’s quite easy, really.”
Miss Marple contemplated her.
Cherry was looking like an eager kitten—vitality and joy of life radiated from her. Miss Marple thought once more of faithful Florence. Faithful Florence would, of course, keep the house far better. (Miss Marple put no faith in Cherry’s promise.) But she was at least sixty-five—perhaps more. And would she really want to be uprooted? She might accept that out of very real devotion for Miss Marple. But did Miss Marple really want sacrifices made for her? Wasn’t she already suffering from Miss Knight’s conscientious devotion to duty?
Cherry, however inadequate her housework, wanted to come. And she had qualities that to Miss Marple at this moment seemed of supreme importance.
Warmheartedness, vitality, and a deep interest in everything that was going on.
“I don’t want, of course,” said Cherry, “to go behind Miss Knight’s back in anyway.”
“Never mind about Miss Knight,” said Miss Marple, coming to a decision. “She’ll go off to someone called Lady Conway at a hotel in Llandudno—and enjoy herself thoroughly. We’ll have to settle a lot of details, Cherry, and I shall want to talk to your husband—but if you really think you’d be happy….”
“It’d suit us down to the ground,” said Cherry. “And you really can rely on me doing things properly. I’ll even use the dustpan and brush if you like.”
Miss Marple laughed at this supreme offer.
Cherry picked up the breakfast tray again.
“I must get cracking. I got here late this morning—hearing about poor Arthur Badcock.”
“Arthur Badcock? What happened to him?”
“Haven’t you heard? He’s up at the police station now,” said Cherry. “They asked him if he’d come and ‘assist them with their inquiries’ and you know what that always means.”
“When did this happen?” demanded Miss Marple.
“This morning,” said Cherry. “I suppose,” she added, “that it got out about his once having been married to Marina Gregg.”
“What!” Miss Marple sat up again. “Arthur Badcock was once married to Marina Gregg?”
“That’s the story,” said Cherry. “Nobody had any idea of it. It was Mr. Upshaw put it about. He’s been to the States once or twice on business for his firm and so he knows a lot of gossip from over there. It was a long time ago, you know. Really before she’d begun her career. They were only married a year or two and then she won a film award and of course he wasn’t good enough for her then, so they had one of these easy American divorces and he just faded out, as you might say. He’s the fading out kind, Arthur Badcock. He wouldn’t make a fuss. He changed his name and came back to England. It’s all ever so long ago. You wouldn’t think anything like that mattered nowadays, would you? Still, there it is. It’s enough for the police to go on, I suppose.”
“Oh, no,” said Miss Marple. “Oh no. This mustn’t happen. If I could only think what to do—Now, let me see.” She made a gesture to Cherry. “Take the tray away, Cherry, and send Miss Knight up to me. I’m going to get up.”
Cherry obeyed. Miss Marple dressed herself with fingers that fumbled slightly. It irritated her when she found excitement of any kind affecting her. She was just hooking up her dress when Miss Knight entered.
“Did you want me? Cherry said—”
Miss Marple broke in incisively.
“Get Inch,” she said.
“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Knight, startled.
“Inch,” said Miss Marple, “get Inch. Telephone for him to come at once.”
“Oh, oh I see. You mean the taxi people. But his name’s Roberts, isn’t it?”
“To me,” said Miss Marple, “he is Inch and always will be. But anyway get him. He’s to come here at once.”
“You want to go for a little drive?”
“Just get him, can you?” said Miss Marple. “And hurry, please.”
Miss Knight looked at her doubtfully and proceeded to do as she was told.
“We are feeling all right, dear, aren’t we?” she said anxiously.
“We are both feeling very well,” said Miss Marple, “and I am feeling particularly well. Inertia does not suit me, and never has. A practical course of action, that is what I have been wanting for a long time.”
“Has that Mrs. Baker been saying something that has upset you?”
“Nothing has upset me,” said Miss Marple. “I feel particularly well. I am annoyed with myself for being stupid. But really, until I got a hint from Dr. Haydock this morning—now I wonder if I remember rightly. Where is that med
ical book of mine?” She gestured Miss Knight aside and walked firmly down the stairs. She found the book she wanted on a shelf in the drawing room. Taking it out she looked up the index, murmured, “Page 210,” turned to the page in question, read for a few moments then nodded her head, satisfied.
“Most remarkable,” she said, “most curious. I don’t suppose anybody would ever have thought of it. I didn’t myself, until the two things came together, so to speak.”
Then she shook her head, and a little line appeared between her eyes. If only there was someone….
She went over in her mind the various accounts she had been given of that particular scene….
Her eyes widened in thought. There was someone—but would he, she wondered, be any good? One never knew with the vicar. He was quite unpredictable.
Nevertheless she went to the telephone and dialled.
“Good morning, Vicar, this is Miss Marple.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Marple—anything I can do for you?”
“I wonder if you could help me on a small point. It concerns the day of the fête when poor Mrs. Badcock died. I believe you were standing quite near Miss Gregg when Mr. and Mrs. Badcock arrived.”
“Yes—yes— I was just before them, I think. Such a tragic day.”
“Yes, indeed. And I believe that Mrs. Badcock was recalling to Miss Gregg that they had met before in Bermuda. She had been ill in bed and had got up specially.”
“Yes, yes, I do remember.”
“And do you remember if Mrs. Badcock mentioned the illness she was suffering from?”
“I think now—let me see—yes, it was measles—at least not real measles—German measles—a much less serious disease. Some people hardly feel ill at all with it. I remember my cousin Caroline….”
Miss Marple cut off reminiscences of Cousin Caroline by saying firmly: “Thank you so much, Vicar,” and replacing the receiver.
There was an awed expression on her face. One of the great mysteries of St. Mary Mead was what made the vicar remember certain things—only outstripped by the greater mystery of what the vicar could manage to forget!
“The taxi’s here, dear,” said Miss Knight, bustling in. “It’s a very old one, and not too clean I should say. I don’t really like you driving in a thing like that. You might pick up some germ or other.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Marple. Setting her hat firmly on her head and buttoning up her summer coat, she went out to the waiting taxi.
“Good morning, Roberts,” she said.
“Good morning, Miss Marple. You’re early this morning. Where do you want to go?”
“Gossington Hall, please,” said Miss Marple.
“I’d better come with you, hadn’t I, dear?” said Miss Knight. “It won’t take a minute just to slip on outdoor shoes.”
“No, thank you,” said Miss Marple, firmly. “I’m going by myself. Drive on, Inch. I mean Roberts.”
Mr. Roberts drove on, merely remarking:
“Ah, Gossington Hall. Great changes there and everywhere nowadays. All that development. Never thought anything like that’d come to St. Mary Mead.”
Upon arrival at Gossington Hall Miss Marple rang the bell and asked to see Mr. Jason Rudd.
Giuseppe’s successor, a rather shaky-looking elderly man, conveyed doubt.
“Mr. Rudd,” he said, “does not see anybody without an appointment, madam. And today especially—”
“I have no appointment,” said Miss Marple, “but I will wait,” she added.
She stepped briskly past him into the hall and sat down on a hall chair.
“I’m afraid it will be quite impossible this morning, madam.”
“In that case,” said Miss Marple, “I shall wait until this afternoon.”
Baffled, the new butler retired. Presently a young man came to Miss Marple. He had a pleasant manner and a cheerful, slightly American voice.
“I’ve seen you before,” said Miss Marple. “In the Development. You asked me the way to Blenheim Close.”
Hailey Preston smiled good-naturedly. “I guess you did your best, but you misdirected me badly.”
“Dear me, did I?” said Miss Marple. “So many Closes, aren’t there? Can I see Mr. Rudd?”
“Why, now, that’s too bad,” said Hailey Preston. “Mr. Rudd’s a busy man and he’s—er—fully occupied this morning and really can’t be disturbed.”
“I’m sure he’s very busy,” said Miss Marple. “I came here quite prepared to wait.”
“Why, I’d suggest now,” said Hailey Preston, “that you should tell me what it is you want. I deal with all these things for Mr. Rudd, you see. Everyone has to see me first.”
“I’m afraid,” said Miss Marple, “that I want to see Mr. Rudd himself. And,” she added, “I shall wait here until I do.”
She settled herself more firmly in the large oak chair.
Hailey Preston hesitated, started to speak, finally turned away and went upstairs.
He returned with a large man in tweeds.
“This is Dr. Gilchrist. Miss—er—”
“Miss Marple.”
“So you’re Miss Marple,” said Dr. Gilchrist. He looked at her with a good deal of interest.
Hailey Preston slipped away with celerity.
“I’ve heard about you,” said Dr. Gilchrist. “From Dr. Haydock.”
“Dr. Haydock is a very old friend of mine.”
“He certainly is. Now you want to see Mr. Jason Rudd? Why?”
“It is necessary that I should,” said Miss Marple.
Dr. Gilchrist’s eyes appraised her.
“And you’re camping here until you do?” he asked.
“Exactly.”
“You would, too,” said Dr. Gilchrist. “In that case I will give you a perfectly good reason why you cannot see Mr. Rudd. His wife died last night in her sleep.”
“Dead!” exclaimed Miss Marple. “How?”
“An overdose of sleeping stuff. We don’t want the news to leak out to the Press for a few hours. So I’ll ask you to keep this knowledge to yourself for the moment.”
“Of course. Was it an accident?”
“That is definitely my view,” said Gilchrist.
“But it could be suicide.”
“It could—but most unlikely.”
“Or someone could have given it to her?”
Gilchrist shrugged his shoulders.
“A most remote contingency. And a thing,” he added firmly, “that would be quite impossible to prove.”
“I see,” said Miss Marple. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but it’s more necessary than ever that I should see Mr. Rudd.”
Gilchrist looked at her.
“Wait here,” he said.
Twenty-three
Jason Rudd looked up as Gilchrist entered.
“There’s an old dame downstairs,” said the doctor; “looks about a hundred. Wants to see you. Won’t take no and says she’ll wait. She’ll wait till this afternoon, I gather, or she’ll wait till this evening and she’s quite capable, I should say, of spending the night here. She’s got something she badly wants to say to you. I’d see her if I were you.”
Jason Rudd looked up from his desk. His face was white and strained.
“Is she mad?”
“No. Not in the least.”
“I don’t see why I—Oh, all right—send her up. What does it matter?”
Gilchrist nodded, went out of the room and called to Hailey Preston.
“Mr. Rudd can spare you a few minutes now, Miss Marple,” said Hailey Preston, appearing again by her side.
“Thank you. That’s very kind of him,” said Miss Marple as she rose to her feet. “Have you been with Mr. Rudd long?” she asked.
“Why, I’ve worked with Mr. Rudd for the last two and a half years. My job is public relations generally.”
“I see.” Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully. “You remind me very much,” she said, “of someone I knew called Gerald French.”
“Indeed? What did Gerald French do?”
“Not very much,” said Miss Marple, “but he was a very good talker.” She sighed. “He had had an unfortunate past.”
“You don’t say,” said Hailey Preston, slightly ill at ease. “What kind of a past?”
“I won’t repeat it,” said Miss Marple. “He didn’t like it talked about.”
Jason Rudd rose from his desk and looked with some surprise at the slender elderly lady who was advancing towards him.
“You wanted to see me?” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I am very sorry about your wife’s death,” said Miss Marple. “I can see it has been a great grief to you and I want you to believe that I should not intrude upon you now or offer you sympathy unless it was absolutely necessary. But there are things that need badly to be cleared up unless an innocent man is going to suffer.”
“An innocent man? I don’t understand you.”
“Arthur Badcock,” said Miss Marple. “He is with the police now, being questioned.”
“Questioned in connection with my wife’s death? But that’s absurd, absolutely absurd. He’s never been near the place. He didn’t even know her.”
“I think he knew her,” said Miss Marple. “He was married to her once.”
“Arthur Badcock? But—he was—he was Heather Badcock’s husband. Aren’t you perhaps—” he spoke kindly and apologetically— “Making a little mistake?”
“He was married to both of them,” said Miss Marple. “He was married to your wife when she was very young, before she went into pictures.”
Jason Rudd shook his head.
“My wife was first married to a man called Alfred Beadle. He was in real estate. They were not suited and they parted almost immediately.”
“Then Alfred Beadle changed his name to Badcock,” said Miss Marple. “He’s in a real estate firm here. It’s odd how some people never seem to like to change their job and want to go on doing the same thing. I expect really that’s why Marina Gregg felt that he was no use to her. He couldn’t have kept up with her.”
“What you’ve told me is most surprising.”
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 161
