“No,” said Miss Marple, “there’s no need to do that. There are other things you ought to be doing.”
“What things?” He looked at her. “Have you got ideas or knowledge?”
“I think I have knowledge, but I’ll have to verify it. There are certain things that I can’t do myself. I think you will help to do them because you’re in touch with what I refer to as the authorities.”
“Meaning Scotland Yard, Chief Constables and the Governors of Her Majesty’s Prisons?”
“Yes. One or other or all of them. You might have the Home Secretary in your pocket, too.”
“You certainly do have ideas! Well, what do you want me to do?”
“First of all I want to give you this address.”
She took out a notebook and tore out one page and handed it to him.
“What’s this? Oh yes, well-known charity, isn’t it?”
“One of the better ones, I believe. They do a lot of good. You send them clothes,” said Miss Marple, “children’s clothes and women’s clothes. Coats. Pullovers, all those sort of things.”
“Well, do you want me to contribute to this?”
“No, it’s an appeal for charity, it’s a bit of what belongs to what we’re doing. What you and I are doing.”
“In what way?”
“I want you to make enquiries there about a parcel which was sent from here two days ago, posted from this post office.”
“Who posted it—did you?”
“No,” said Miss Marple. “No. But I assumed responsibility for it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” said Miss Marple, smiling slightly, “that I went into the post office here and I explained rather scattily and—well, like the old pussy I am—that I had very foolishly asked someone to take a parcel for me and post it, and I had put the wrong address on it. I was very upset by this. The postmistress very kindly said she remembered the parcel, but the address on it was not the one I was mentioning. It was this one, the one I have just given to you. I explained that I had been very foolish and written the wrong address on it, confusing it with another one I sometimes send things to. She told me it was too late to do anything about it now because the parcel, naturally, had gone off. I said it was quite all right, that I would send a letter to the particular charity to which the parcel had been sent, and explain that it had been addressed to them by mistake. Would they very kindly forward it on to the charity that I had meant to receive it.”
“It seems rather a roundabout way.”
“Well,” said Miss Marple, “one has to say something. I’m not going to do that at all. You are going to deal with the matter. We’ve got to know what’s inside that parcel! I have no doubt you can get means.”
“Will there be anything inside the parcel to say who actually sent it?”
“I rather think not. It may have a slip of paper saying ‘from friends’ or it may have a fictitious name and address—something like Mrs. Pippin, 14 Westbourne Grove—and if anyone made enquiries there, there’d be no person of such a name living there.”
“Oh. Any other alternatives?”
“It might possibly, most unlikely but possible, have a slip saying ‘From Miss Anthea Bradbury-Scott’—”
“Did she—?”
“She took it to the post,” said Miss Marple.
“And you had asked her to take it there?”
“Oh no,” said Miss Marple. “I hadn’t asked anyone to post anything. The first I saw of the parcel was when Anthea passed the garden of the Golden Boar where you and I were sitting talking, carrying it.”
“But you went to the post office and represented that the parcel was yours.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple, “which was quite untrue. But post offices are careful. And, you see, I wanted to find out where it had been sent.”
“You wanted to find out if such a parcel had been sent, and if it had been sent by one of the Bradbury-Scotts—or especially Miss Anthea?”
“I knew it would be Anthea,” said Miss Marple, “because we’d seen her.”
“Well?” He took the paper from her hand. “Yes, I can set this in motion. You think this parcel will be interesting?”
“I think the contents of it might be quite important.”
“You like keeping your secrets, don’t you?” said Professor Wanstead.
“Not exactly secrets,” said Miss Marple, “they are only probabilities that I am exploring. One does not like to make definite assertions unless one has a little more definite knowledge.”
“Anything else?”
“I think—I think that whoever’s in charge of these things, ought to be warned that there might be a second body to be found.”
“Do you mean a second body connected with the particular crime that we have been considering? A crime that took place ten years ago?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I’m quite sure of it, as a matter of fact.”
“Another body. Whose body?”
“Well,” said Miss Marple, “it’s only my idea so far.”
“Any idea where this body is?”
“Oh! Yes,” said Miss Marple, “I’m quite sure I know where it is, but I have to have a little more time before I can tell you that.”
“What kind of a body? Man’s? Woman’s? Child’s? Girl’s?”
“There’s another girl who is missing,” said Miss Marple. “A girl called Nora Broad. She disappeared from here and she’s never been heard anymore of. I think her body might be in a particular place.”
Professor Wanstead looked at her.
“You know, the more you say, the less I like leaving you here,” he said. “Having all these ideas—and possibly doing something foolish—either—” He stopped.
“Either it’s all nonsense?—” said Miss Marple.
“No, no, I didn’t mean that. But either you know too much—which might be dangerous … I think I am going to stay here to keep an eye on you.”
“No, you’re not,” said Miss Marple. “You’ve got to go to London and set certain things moving.”
“You spoke as though you knew a good deal now, Miss Marple.”
“I think I do know a good deal now. But I have got to be sure.”
“Yes, but if you make sure, that may be the last thing you do make sure of! We don’t want a third body. Yours.”
“Oh, I’m not expecting anything like that,” said Miss Marple.
“There might be danger, you know, if any of your ideas are right. Have you suspicions of any one particular person?”
“I think I have certain knowledge as to one person. I have got to find out—I have got to stay here. You asked me once if I felt an atmosphere of evil. Well, that atmosphere is here all right, an atmosphere of evil, of danger if you like—of great unhappiness, of fear … I’ve got to do something about that. The best I can do. But an old woman like me can’t do very much.”
Professor Wanstead counted under his breath. “One—two—three—four—”
“What are you counting?” asked Miss Marple.
“The people who left in the coach. Presumably you’re not interested in them, since you’ve let them go off and you’re staying here.”
“Why should I be interested in them?”
“Because you said Mr. Rafiel had sent you in the coach for a particular reason and sent you on this tour for a particular reason and sent you to The Old Manor House for a particular reason. Very well then. The death of Elizabeth Temple ties up with someone in the coach. Your remaining here ties up with The Old Manor House.”
“You’re not quite right,” said Miss Marple. “There are connections between the two. I want someone to tell me things.”
“Do you think you can make anyone tell you things?”
“I think I might. You’ll miss your train if you don’t go soon.”
“Take care of yourself,” said Professor Wanstead.
“I mean to take care of myself.”
The door into
the lounge opened and two people came out. Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow.
“Hullo,” said Professor Wanstead, “I thought you’d gone off with the coach.”
“Well, we changed our minds at the last moment,” said Miss Cooke cheerfully. “You know we’ve just discovered that there are some very agreeable walks near here and there are one or two places I’m very anxious to see. A church with a very unusual Saxon font. Only four or five miles away and quite easily reached by the local bus, I think. You see, it’s not only houses and gardens. I’m very interested in church architecture.”
“So am I,” said Miss Barrow. “There’s also Finley Park which is a very fine piece of horticultural planting not far from here. We really thought that it would be much pleasanter to stay here for a day or two.”
“You’re staying here at the Golden Boar?”
“Yes. We were fortunate enough to be able to get a very nice double room. Really a better one than the one we have had for the last two days.”
“You will miss your train,” said Miss Marple again.
“I wish,” said Professor Wanstead, “that you—”
“I shall be quite all right,” said Miss Marple urgently. “Such a kind man,” she said, as he disappeared round the side of the house, “who really takes so much care of me—I might be a great-aunt of his or something like that.”
“It’s all been a great shock, hasn’t it,” said Miss Cooke. “Perhaps you may like to come with us when we go to visit St. Martins in the Grove.”
“You’re very kind,” said Miss Marple, “but I don’t think today I feel quite strong enough for expeditions. Perhaps tomorrow if there is anything interesting to see.”
“Well, we must leave you then.”
Miss Marple smiled at them both and went into the hotel.
Twenty
MISS MARPLE HAS IDEAS
Having had lunch in the dining room, Miss Marple went out on the terrace to drink her coffee. She was just sipping her second cup when a tall, thin figure came striding up the steps, and approached her, speaking rather breathlessly. She saw that it was Anthea Bradbury-Scott.
“Oh, Miss Marple, we’ve only just heard, you know, that you didn’t go with the coach, after all. We thought you were going on with the tour. We had no idea you were staying on here. Both Clotilde and Lavinia sent me here to say we do so hope you will come back to The Old Manor House and stay with us. I’m sure it will be nicer for you to be there. There are so many people coming and going here always, especially over a weekend and things like that. So we’d be very, very glad—we really would—if you would come back to us.”
“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” said Miss Marple. “Really very kind, but I’m sure—I mean, you know it was just a two-day visit. I meant originally to go off with the coach. I mean, after the two days. If it hadn’t been for this very, very tragic accident but—well, I really felt I couldn’t go on any longer. I thought I must have at least, well at least one night’s rest.”
“But I mean it would be so much better if you came to us. We’d try and make you comfortable.”
“Oh, there’s no question of that,” said Miss Marple. “I was extremely comfortable staying with you. Oh yes, I did enjoy it very much. Such a beautiful house. And all your things are so nice. You know, your china and glass and furniture. It’s such a pleasure to be in a home and not a hotel.”
“Then you must come with me now. Yes, you really must. I could go and pack your things for you.”
“Oh—well, that’s very kind of you. I can do that myself.”
“Well, shall I come and help you?”
“That would be very kind,” said Miss Marple.
They repaired to her bedroom where Anthea, in a somewhat slapdash manner, packed Miss Marple’s belongings together. Miss Marple, who had her own ways of folding things, had to bite her lip to keep an air of complacency on her face. Really, she thought, she can’t fold anything properly.
Anthea got hold of a porter from the hotel and he carried the suitcase round the corner and down the street to The Old Manor House. Miss Marple tipped him adequately and, still uttering fussy little speeches of thanks and pleasure, rejoined the sisters.
“The Three Sisters!” she was thinking, “here we are again.” She sat down in the drawing room, and closed her eyes for a minute, breathing rather fast. She appeared to be somewhat out of breath. It was only natural, she felt at her age, and after all Anthea and the hotel porter had set a fast pace. But really she was trying to acquire through her closed eyes what the feeling was she had on coming into this house again. Was something in it sinister? No, not so much sinister as unhappy. Deep unhappiness. So much so it was almost frightening.
She opened her eyes again and looked at the two other occupants of the room. Mrs. Glynne had just come in from the kitchen, bearing an afternoon tea tray. She looked as she had looked all along. Comfortable, no particular emotions or feelings. Perhaps almost too devoid of them, Miss Marple thought. Had she accustomed herself, through perhaps a life of some stress and difficulty, to show nothing to the outer world, to keep a reserve and let no one know what her inner feelings were?
She looked from her to Clotilde. She had a Clytemnestra look, as she had thought before. She had certainly not murdered her husband for she had never had a husband to murder and it seemed unlikely that she had murdered the girl to whom she was said to have been extremely attached. That, Miss Marple was quite sure, was true. She had seen before how the tears had welled from Clotilde’s eyes when the death of Verity had been mentioned.
And what about Anthea? Anthea had taken that cardboard box to the post office. Anthea had come to fetch her. Anthea—she was very doubtful about Anthea. Scatty? Too scatty for her age. Eyes that wandered and came back to you. Eyes that seemed to see things that other people might not see, over your shoulder. She’s frightened, thought Miss Marple. Frightened of something. What was she frightened of? Was she perhaps a mental case of some kind? Frightened perhaps of going back to some institution or establishment where she might have spent part of her life? Frightened of those two sisters of hers feeling that it was unwise for her to remain at liberty? Were they uncertain, those two, what their sister Anthea might do or say?
There was some atmosphere here. She wondered, as she sipped the last of her tea, what Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow were doing. Had they gone to visit that church or was that all talk, meaningless talk? It was odd. Odd the way they had come and looked at her at St. Mary Mead so as to know her again on the coach, but not to acknowledge that they had ever seen or met her before.
There were quite a lot of difficult things going on. Presently Mrs. Glynne removed the tea tray, Anthea went out into the garden and Miss Marple was left alone with Clotilde.
“I think,” said Miss Marple, “that you know an Archdeacon Brabazon, do you not?”
“Oh yes,” said Clotilde, “he was in church yesterday at the service. Do you know him?”
“Oh no,” said Miss Marple, “but he did come to the Golden Boar and he came and spoke to me there. I gather he had been to the hospital and was enquiring about poor Miss Temple’s death. He wondered if Miss Temple had sent any message to him. I gather she was thinking of paying him a visit. But of course I told him that although I did go there in case I could do anything there was nothing that could be done except sit by poor Miss Temple’s bed. She was unconscious, you know. I could have done nothing to help her.”
“She didn’t say—say anything—any explanation of what had happened?” asked Clotilde.
She asked without much interest. Miss Marple wondered if she felt more interest than she expressed, but on the whole she thought not. She thought Clotilde was busy with thoughts of something quite different.
“Do you think it was an accident?” Miss Marple asked, “Or do you think there is something in that story that Mrs. Riseley-Porter’s niece told? About seeing someone pushing a boulder.”
“Well, I suppose if those two said so, they must have seen i
t.”
“Yes. They both said so, didn’t they,” said Miss Marple, “though not quite in the same terms. But perhaps that’s quite natural.”
Clotilde looked at her curiously.
“You seem to be intrigued by that.”
“Well, it seems so very unlikely,” said Miss Marple, “an unlikely story, unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Well, I just wondered,” said Miss Marple.
Mrs. Glynne came into the room again.
“You just wondered what?” she asked.
“We’re talking about the accident, or the nonaccident,” said Clotilde.
“But who—”
“It seems a very odd story that they told,” said Miss Marple again.
“There’s something about this place,” said Clotilde suddenly. “Something about this atmosphere. We never got over it here. Never. Never since—since Verity died. It’s years but it doesn’t go away. A shadow’s here.” She looked at Miss Marple. “Don’t you think so too? Don’t you feel a shadow here?”
“Well, I’m a stranger,” said Miss Marple. “It’s different for you and your sisters who’ve lived here and who knew the dead girl. She was, I gather, as Archdeacon Brabazon was saying—a very charming and beautiful girl.”
“She was a lovely girl. A dear child too,” said Clotilde.
“I wish I’d known her better,” said Mrs. Glynne. “Of course I was living abroad at that time. My husband and I came home on leave once, but we were mostly in London. We didn’t come down here often.”
Anthea came in from the garden. She was carrying in her hand a great bunch of lilies.
“Funeral flowers,” she said. “That’s what we ought to have here today, isn’t it? I’ll put them in a great jar. Funeral flowers,” and she laughed suddenly. A queer, hysterical little giggle.
“Anthea,” said Clotilde, “don’t—don’t do that. It’s not—it’s not right.”
“I’ll go and put them in water,” said Anthea, cheerfully. She went out of the room.
“Really,” said Mrs. Glynne, “Anthea! I do think she’s—”
“She’s getting worse,” said Clotilde.
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 219
