She swept round on Miss Marple. “You’re a witness to what I’ve said, remember. I killed Gorman.”
“Or perhaps you are saying so because you’re in love with Malinowski,” suggested Davy.
“I’m not.” Her retort came sharply. “I’m his good friend, that’s all. Oh yes, we’ve been lovers in a casual kind of way, but I’m not in love with him. In all my life, I’ve only loved one person—John Sedgwick.” her voice changed and softened as she pronounced the name.
“But Ladislaus is my friend. I don’t want him railroaded for something he didn’t do. I killed Michael Gorman. I’ve said so, and Miss Marple has heard me…And now, dear Chief-Inspector Davy—” her voice rose excitedly, and her laughter rang out—“catch me if you can.”
With a sweep of her arm, she smashed the window with the heavy telephone set, and before Father could get to his feet, she was out of the window and edging her way rapidly along the narrow parapet. With surprising quickness in spite of his bulk, Davy had moved to the other window and flung up the sash. At the same time he blew the whistle he had taken from his pocket.
Miss Marple, getting to her feet with rather more difficulty a moment or two later, joined him. Together they stared out along the façade of Bertram’s Hotel.
“She’ll fall. She’s climbing up a drainpipe,” Miss Marple exclaimed. “But why up?”
“Going to the roof. It’s her only chance and she knows it. Good God, look at her. Climbs like a cat. She looks like a fly on the side of the wall. The risks she’s taking!”
Miss Marple murmured, her eyes half closing, “She’ll fall. She can’t do it….”
The woman they were watching disappeared from sight. Father drew back a little into the room.
Miss Marple asked:
“Don’t you want to go and—”
Father shook his head. “What good am I with my bulk? I’ve got my men posted ready for something like this. They know what to do. In a few minutes we shall know…I wouldn’t put it past her to beat the lot of them! She’s a woman in a thousand, you know.” He sighed. “One of the wild ones. Oh, we’ve some of them in every generation. You can’t tame them, you can’t bring them into the community and make them live in law and order. They go their own way. If they’re saints they go and tend lepers or something, or get themselves martyred in jungles. If they’re bad lots they commit the atrocities that you don’t like hearing about: and sometimes—they’re just wild! They’d have been all right, I suppose, born in another age when it was everyone’s hand for himself, everyone fighting to keep life in their veins. Hazards at every turn, danger all round them, and they themselves perforce dangerous to others. That world would have suited them; they’d have been at home in it. This one doesn’t.”
“Did you know what she was going to do?”
“Not really. That’s one of her gifts. The unexpected. She must have thought this out, you know. She knew what was coming. So she sat looking at us—keeping the ball rolling—and thinking. Thinking and planning hard. I expect—ah—” He broke off as there came the sudden roar of a car’s exhaust, the screaming of wheels, and the sound of a big racing engine. He leaned out. “She’s made it, she’s got to her car.”
There was more screaming as the car came round the corner on two wheels, a great roar, and the beautiful white monster came tearing up the street.
“She’ll kill someone,” said Father, “she’ll kill a lot of people…even if she doesn’t kill herself.”
“I wonder,” said Miss Marple.
“She’s a good driver, of course. A damn good driver. Whoof, that was a near one!”
They heard the roar of the car racing away with the horn blaring, heard it grow fainter. Heard cries, shouts, the sound of brakes, cars hooting and pulling up and finally a great scream of tyres and a roaring exhaust and—
“She’s crashed,” said Father.
He stood there very quietly waiting with the patience that was characteristic of his whole big patient form. Miss Marple stood silent beside him. Then, like a relay race, word came down along the street. A man on the pavement opposite looked up at Chief-Inspector Davy and made rapid signs with his hands.
“She’s had it,” said Father heavily. “Dead! Went about ninety miles an hour into the park railings. No other casualties bar a few slight collisions. Magnificent driving. Yes, she’s dead.” He turned back into the room and said heavily, “Well, she told her story first. You heard her.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I heard her.” There was a pause. “It wasn’t true, of course,” said Miss Marple quietly.
Father looked at her. “You didn’t believe her, eh?”
“Did you?”
“No,” said Father. “No, it wasn’t the right story. She thought it out so that it would meet the case exactly, but it wasn’t true. She didn’t shoot Michael Gorman. D’you happen to know who did?”
“Of course I know,” said Miss Marple. “The girl.”
“Ah! When did you begin to think that?”
“I always wondered,” said Miss Marple.
“So did I,” said Father. “She was full of fear that night. And the lies she told were poor lies. But I couldn’t see a motive at first.”
“That puzzled me,” said Miss Marple. “She had found out her mother’s marriage was bigamous, but would a girl do murder for that? Not nowadays! I suppose there was a money side to it?”
“Yes, it was money,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “Her father left her a colossal fortune. When she found out that her mother was married to Michael Gorman she realized that the marriage to Coniston hadn’t been legal. She thought that meant that the money wouldn’t come to her because, though she was his daughter, she wasn’t legitimate. She was wrong, you know. We had a case something like that before. Depends on the terms of a will. Coniston left it quite clearly to her, naming her by name. She’d get it all right, but she didn’t know that. And she wasn’t going to let go of the cash.”
“Why did she need it so badly?”
Chief-Inspector Davy said grimly, “To buy Ladislaus Malinowski. He would have married her for her money. He wouldn’t have married her without it. She wasn’t a fool, that girl. She knew that. But she wanted him on any terms. She was desperately in love with him.”
“I know,” said Miss Marple. She explained: “I saw her face that day in Battersea Park….”
“She knew that with the money she’d get him, and without the money she’d lose him,” said Father. “And so she planned a cold-blooded murder. She didn’t hide in the area, of course. There was nobody in the area. She just stood by the railings and fired a shot and screamed, and when Michael Gorman came racing down the street from the hotel, she shot him at close quarters. Then she went on screaming. She was a cool hand. She’d no idea of incriminating young Ladislaus. She pinched his pistol because it was the only way she could get hold of one easily; and she never dreamed that he would be suspected of the crime, or that he would be anywhere in the neighbourhood that night. She thought it would be put down to some thug taking advantage of the fog. Yes, she was a cool hand. But she was afraid that night—afterwards! And her mother was afraid for her….”
“And now—what will you do?”
“I know she did it,” said Father, “but I’ve no evidence. Maybe she’ll have beginner’s luck…Even the law seems to go on the principle now of allowing a dog to have one bite—translated into human terms. An experienced counsel could make great play with the sob stuff—so young a girl, unfortunate upbringing—and she’s beautiful, you know.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “The children of Lucifer are often beautiful—And as we know, they flourish like the green bay tree.”
“But as I tell you, it probably won’t even come to that—there’s no evidence—take yourself—you’ll be called as a witness—a witness to what her mother said—to her mother’s confession of the crime.”
“I know,” said Miss Marple. “She impressed it on me, didn’t she? She chose dea
th for herself, at the price of her daughter going free. She forced it on me as a dying request….”
The connecting door to the bedroom opened. Elvira Blake came through. She was wearing a straight shift dress of pale blue. Her fair hair fell down each side of her face. She looked like one of the angels in an early primitive Italian painting. She looked from one to the other of them. She said:
“I heard a car and a crash and people shouting…Has there been an accident?”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Miss Blake,” said Chief-Inspector Davy formally, “that your mother is dead.”
Elvira gave a little gasp. “Oh no,” she said. It was a faint uncertain protest.
“Before she made her escape,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “because it was an escape—she confessed to the murder of Michael Gorman.”
“You mean—she said—that it was she—”
“Yes,” said Father. “That is what she said. Have you anything to add?”
Elvira looked for a long time at him. Very faintly she shook her head.
“No,” she said, “I haven’t anything to add.”
Then she turned and went out of the room.
“Well,” said Miss Marple. “Are you going to let her get away with it?”
There was a pause, then Father brought down his fist with a crash on the table.
“No,” he roared—“No, by God I’m not!”
Miss Marple nodded her head slowly and gravely.
“May God have mercy on her soul,” she said.
Credits
Cover illustration and design by Sara Wood
Agatha Christie
Nemesis
A Miss Marple Mystery
To Dauphne Honeybone
Contents
Dedication
1. Overture
2. Code Word Nemesis
3. Miss Marple Takes Action
4. Esther Walters
5. Instructions from Beyond
6. Love
7. An Invitation
8. The Three Sisters
9. Polygonum Baldschuanicum
10. “Oh! Fond, Oh! Fair, The Days That Were”
11. Accident
12. A Consultation
13. Black and Red Check
14. Mr. Broadribb Wonders
15. Verity
16. The Inquest
17. Miss Marple Makes a Visit
18. Archdeacon Brabazon
19. Good-byes Are Said
20. Miss Marple Has Ideas
21. The Clock Strikes Three
22. Miss Marple Tells Her Story
23. End Pieces
Credits
One
OVERTURE
In the afternoons it was the custom of Miss Jane Marple to unfold her second newspaper. Two newspapers were delivered at her house every morning. The first one Miss Marple read while sipping her early morning tea, that is, if it was delivered in time. The boy who delivered the papers was notably erratic in his management of time. Frequently, too, there was either a new boy or a boy who was acting temporarily as a stand-in for the first one. And each one would have ideas of his own as to the geographical route that he should take in delivering. Perhaps it varied monotony for him. But those customers who were used to reading their paper early so that they could snap up the more saucy items in the day’s news before departing for their bus, train or other means of progress to the day’s work were annoyed if the papers were late, though the middle-aged and elderly ladies who resided peacefully in St. Mary Mead often preferred to read a newspaper propped up on their breakfast table.
Today, Miss Marple had absorbed the front page and a few other items in the daily paper that she had nicknamed “the Daily All-Sorts,” this being a slightly satirical allusion to the fact that her paper, the Daily Newsgiver, owing to a change of proprietor, to her own and to other of her friends’ great annoyance, now provided articles on men’s tailoring, women’s dress, female heartthrobs, competitions for children, and complaining letters from women and had managed pretty well to shove any real news off any part of it but the front page, or to some obscure corner where it was impossible to find it. Miss Marple, being old-fashioned, preferred her newspapers to be newspapers and give you news.
In the afternoon, having finished her luncheon, treated herself to twenty minutes’ nap in a specially purchased, upright armchair which catered for the demands of her rheumatic back, she had opened The Times, which lent itself still to a more leisurely perusal. Not that The Times was what it used to be. The maddening thing about The Times was that you couldn’t find anything anymore. Instead of going through from the front page and knowing where everything else was so that you passed easily to any special articles on subjects in which you were interested, there were now extraordinary interruptions to this time-honoured programme. Two pages were suddenly devoted to travel in Capri with illustrations. Sport appeared with far more prominence than it had ever had in the old days. Court news and obituaries were a little more faithful to routine. The births, marriages and deaths which had at one time occupied Miss Marple’s attention first of all owing to their prominent position had migrated to a different part of The Times, though of late, Miss Marple noted, they had come almost permanently to rest on the back page.
Miss Marple gave her attention first to the main news on the front page. She did not linger long on that because it was equivalent to what she had already read this morning, though possibly couched in a slightly more dignified manner. She cast her eye down the table of contents. Articles, comments, science, sport; then she pursued her usual plan, turned the paper over and had a quick run down the births, marriages and deaths, after which she proposed to turn to the page given to correspondence, where she nearly always found something to enjoy; from that she passed on to the Court Circular, on which page today’s news from the Sale Rooms could also be found. A short article on Science was often placed there but she did not propose to read that. It seldom made sense for her.
Having turned the paper over as usual to the births, marriages and deaths, Miss Marple thought to herself, as so often before,
“It’s sad really, but nowadays one is only interested in the deaths!”
People had babies, but the people who had babies were not likely to be even known by name to Miss Marple. If there had been a column dealing with babies labelled as grandchildren, there might have been some chance of a pleasurable recognition. She might have thought to herself,
“Really, Mary Prendergast has had a third granddaughter!,” though even that perhaps might have been a bit remote.
She skimmed down Marriages, also with not a very close survey, because most of her old friends’ daughters or sons had married some years ago already. She came to the Deaths column, and gave that her more serious attention. Gave it enough, in fact, so as to be sure she would not miss a name. Alloway, Angopastro, Arden, Barton, Bedshaw, Burgoweisser—(dear me, what a German name, but he seemed to be late of Leeds). Carpenter, Camperdown, Clegg. Clegg? Now was that one of the Cleggs she knew? No, it didn’t seem to be. Janet Clegg. Somewhere in Yorkshire. McDonald, McKenzie, Nicholson. Nicholson? No. Again not a Nicholson she knew. Ogg, Ormerod—that must be one of the aunts, she thought. Yes, probably so. Linda Ormerod. No, she hadn’t known her. Quantril? Dear me, that must be Elizabeth Quantril. Eighty-five. Well, really! She had thought Elizabeth Quantril had died some years ago. Fancy her having lived so long! So delicate she’d always been, too. Nobody had expected her to make old bones. Race, Radley, Rafiel. Rafiel? Something stirred. That name was familiar. Rafiel. Belford Park, Maidstone. Belford Park, Maidstone. No, she couldn’t recall that address. No flowers. Jason Rafiel. Oh well, an unusual name. She supposed she’d just heard it somewhere. Ross-Perkins. Now that might be—no, it wasn’t. Ryland? Emily Ryland. No. No, she’d never known an Emily Ryland. Deeply loved by her husband and children. Well, very nice or very sad. Whichever way you liked to look at it.
Miss Marple laid down her paper, glancing idly throug
h the crossword while she puzzled to remember why the name Rafiel was familiar to her.
“It will come to me,” said Miss Marple, knowing from long experience the way old people’s memories worked.
“It’ll come to me, I have no doubt.”
She glanced out of the window towards the garden, withdrew her gaze and tried to put the garden out of her mind. Her garden had been the source of great pleasure and also a great deal of hard work to Miss Marple for many, many years. And now, owing to the fussiness of doctors, working in the garden was forbidden to her. She’d once tried to fight this ban, but had come to the conclusion that she had, after all, better do as she was told. She had arranged her chair at such an angle as not to be easy to look out in the garden unless she definitely and clearly wished to see something in particular. She sighed, picked up her knitting bag and took out a small child’s woolly jacket in process of coming to a conclusion. The back was done and the front. Now she would have to get on with the sleeves. Sleeves were always boring. Two sleeves, both alike. Yes, very boring. Pretty coloured pink wool, however. Pink wool. Now wait a minute, where did that fit in? Yes—yes—it fitted in with that name she’d just read in the paper. Pink wool. A blue sea. A Caribbean sea. A sandy beach. Sunshine. Herself knitting and—why, of course, Mr. Rafiel. That trip she had made to the Caribbean. The island of St. Honoré. A treat from her nephew Raymond. And she remembered Joan, her niece-in-law, Raymond’s wife, saying:
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