“No, he didn’t—or he said he didn’t. But I haven’t told you the most curious part yet. The police went to the bungalow of course, and they found everything as described—drawers pulled out and jewels gone, but the whole place was empty. It wasn’t till some hours later that Mary Kerr came back, and when she did she said she’d never rung them up at all and this was the first she’d heard of it. It seemed that she had had a wire that morning from a manager offering her a most important part and making an appointment, so she had naturally rushed up to town to keep it. When she got there, she found that the whole thing was a hoax. No telegram had ever been sent.”
“A common enough ruse to get her out of the way,” commented Sir Henry. “What about the servants?”
“The same sort of thing happened there. There was only one, and she was rung up on the telephone—apparently by Mary Kerr, who said she had left a most important thing behind. She directed the maid to bring up a certain handbag which was in the drawer of her bedroom. She was to catch the first train. The maid did so, of course locking up the house; but when she arrived at Miss Kerr’s club, where she had been told to meet her mistress, she waited there in vain.”
“H’m,” said Sir Henry. “I begin to see. The house was left empty, and to make an entry by one of the windows would present few difficulties, I should imagine. But I don’t quite see where Mr. Faulkener comes in. Who did ring up the police, if it wasn’t Miss Kerr?”
“That’s what nobody knew or ever found out.”
“Curious,” said Sir Henry. “Did the young man turn out to be genuinely the person he said he was?”
“Oh, yes, that part of it was all right. He’d even got the letter which was supposed to be written by me. It wasn’t the least bit like my handwriting—but then, of course, he couldn’t be supposed to know that.”
“Well, let’s state the position clearly,” said Sir Henry. “Correct me if I go wrong. The lady and the maid are decoyed from the house. This young man is decoyed down there by means of a bogus letter—colour being lent to this last by the fact that you actually are performing at Riverbury that week. The young man is doped, and the police are rung up and have their suspicions directed against him. A burglary actually has taken place. I presume the jewels were taken?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Were they ever recovered?”
“No, never. I think, as a matter of fact, Sir Herman tried to hush things up all he knew how. But he couldn’t manage it, and I rather fancy his wife started divorce proceedings in consequence. Still, I don’t really know about that.”
“What happened to Mr. Leslie Faulkener?”
“He was released in the end. The police said they hadn’t really got enough against him. Don’t you think the whole thing was rather odd?”
“Distinctly odd. The first question is whose story to believe? In telling it, Miss Helier, I noticed that you incline towards believing Mr. Faulkener. Have you any reason for doing so beyond your own instinct in the matter?”
“No-no,” said Jane unwillingly. “I suppose I haven’t. But he was so very nice, and so apologetic for having mistaken anyone else for me, that I feel sure he must have been telling the truth.”
“I see,” said Sir Henry smiling. “But you must admit that he could have invented the story quite easily. He could write the letter purporting to be from you himself. He could also dope himself after successfully committing the burglary. But I confess I don’t see where the point of all that would be. Easier to enter the house, help himself, and disappear quietly—unless just possibly he was observed by someone in the neighbourhood and knew himself to have been observed. Then he might hastily concoct this plan for diverting suspicion from himself and accounting for his presence in the neighbourhood.”
“Was he well-off?” asked Miss Marple.
“I don’t think so,” said Jane. “No, I believe he was rather hard up.”
“The whole thing seems curious,” said Dr. Lloyd. “I must confess that if we accept the young man’s story as true, it seems to make the case very much more difficult. Why should the unknown woman who pretended to be Miss Helier drag this unknown man into the affair? Why should she stage such an elaborate comedy?”
“Tell me, Jane,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Did young Faulkener ever come face to face with Mary Kerr at any stage of the proceedings?”
“I don’t quite know,” said Jane slowly, as she puzzled her brows in remembrance.
“Because if he didn’t the case is solved!” said Mrs. Bantry. “I’m sure I’m right. What is easier than to pretend you’re called up to town? You telephone to your maid from Paddington or whatever station you arrive at, and as she comes up to town, you go down again. The young man calls by appointment, he’s doped, you set the stage for the burglary, overdoing it as much as possible. You telephone the police, give a description of your scapegoat, and off you go to town again. Then you arrive home by a later train and do the surprised innocent.”
“But why should she steal her own jewels, Dolly?”
“They always do,” said Mrs. Bantry. “And anyway, I can think of hundreds of reasons. She may have wanted money at once—old Sir Herman wouldn’t give her the cash, perhaps, so she pretends the jewels are stolen and then sells them secretly. Or she may have been being blackmailed by someone who threatened to tell her husband or Sir Herman’s wife. Or she may have already sold the jewels and Sir Herman was getting ratty and asking to see them, so she had to do something about it. That’s done a good deal in books. Or perhaps she was going to have them reset and she’d got paste replicas. Or—here’s a very good idea—and not so much done in books—she pretends they are stolen, gets in an awful state and he gives her a fresh lot. So she gets two lots instead of one. That kind of woman, I am sure, is most frightfully artful.”
“You are clever, Dolly,” said Jane admiringly. “I never thought of that.”
“You may be clever, but she doesn’t say you’re right,” said Colonel Bantry. “I incline to suspicion of the city gentleman. He’d know the sort of telegram to get the lady out of the way, and he could manage the rest easily enough with the help of a new lady friend. Nobody seems to have thought of asking him for an alibi.”
“What do you think, Miss Marple?” asked Jane, turning towards the old lady who had sat silent, a puzzled frown on her face.
“My dear, I really don’t know what to say. Sir Henry will laugh, but I recall no village parallel to help me this time. Of course there are several questions that suggest themselves. For instance, the servant question. In—ahem—an irregular ménage of the kind you describe, the servant employed would doubtless be perfectly aware of the state of things, and a really nice girl would not take such a place—her mother wouldn’t let her for a minute. So I think we can assume that the maid was not a really trustworthy character. She may have been in league with the thieves. She would leave the house open for them and actually go to London as though sure of the pretence telephone message so as to divert suspicion from herself. I must confess that that seems the most probable solution. Only if ordinary thieves were concerned it seems very odd. It seems to argue more knowledge than a maidservant was likely to have.”
Miss Marple paused and then went on dreamily:
“I can’t help feeling that there was some—well, what I must describe as personal feeling about the whole thing. Supposing somebody had a spite, for instance? A young actress that he hadn’t treated well? Don’t you think that that would explain things better? A deliberate attempt to get him into trouble. That’s what it looks like. And yet—that’s not entirely satisfactory. . . .”
“Why, doctor, you haven’t said anything,” said Jane. “I’d forgotten you.”
“I’m always getting forgotten,” said the grizzled doctor sadly. “I must have a very inconspicuous personality.”
“Oh, no!” said Jane. “Do tell us what you think.”
“I’m rather in the position of agreeing with everyone’s solutions—and yet with none of t
hem. I myself have a far-fetched and probably totally erroneous theory that the wife may have had something to do with it. Sir Herman’s wife, I mean. I’ve no grounds for thinking so—only you would be surprised if you knew the extraordinary—really very extraordinary things that a wronged wife will take it into her head to do.”
“Oh! Dr. Lloyd,” cried Miss Marple excitedly. “How clever of you. And I never thought of poor Mrs. Pebmarsh.”
Jane stared at her.
“Mrs. Pebmarsh? Who is Mrs. Pebmarsh?”
“Well—” Miss Marple hesitated. “I don’t know that she really comes in. She’s a laundress. And she stole an opal pin that was pinned into a blouse and put it in another woman’s house.”
Jane looked more fogged than ever.
“And that makes it all perfectly clear to you, Miss Marple?” said Sir Henry, with his twinkle.
But to his surprise Miss Marple shook her head.
“No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. I must confess myself completely at a loss. What I do realize is that women must stick together—one should, in an emergency, stand by one’s own sex. I think that’s the moral of the story Miss Helier has told us.”
“I must confess that that particular ethical significance of the mystery has escaped me,” said Sir Henry gravely. “Perhaps I shall see the significance of your point more clearly when Miss Helier has revealed the solution.”
“Eh?” said Jane looking rather bewildered.
“I was observing that, in childish language, we ‘give it up.’ You and you alone, Miss Helier, have had the high honour of presenting such an absolutely baffling mystery that even Miss Marple has to confess herself defeated.”
“You all give it up?” asked Jane.
“Yes.” After a minute’s silence during which he waited for the others to speak, Sir Henry constituted himself spokesman once more. “That is to say we stand or fall by the sketchy solutions we have tentatively advanced. One each for the mere men, two for Miss Marple, and a round dozen from Mrs. B.”
“It was not a dozen,” said Mrs. Bantry. “They were variations on a main theme. And how often am I to tell you that I will not be called Mrs. B?”
“So you all give it up,” said Jane thoughtfully. “That’s very interesting.”
She leaned back in her chair and began to polish her nails rather absentmindedly.
“Well,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Come on, Jane. What is the solution?”
“The solution?”
“Yes. What really happened?”
Jane stared at her.
“I haven’t the least idea.”
“What?”
“I’ve always wondered. I thought you were all so clever one of you would be able to tell me.”
Everybody harboured feelings of annoyance. It was all very well for Jane to be so beautiful—but at this moment everyone felt that stupidity could be carried too far. Even the most transcendent loveliness could not excuse it.
“You mean the truth was never discovered?” said Sir Henry.
“No. That’s why, as I say, I did think you would be able to tell me.”
Jane sounded injured. It was plain that she felt she had a grievance.
“Well—I’m—I’m—” said Colonel Bantry, words failing him.
“You are the most aggravating girl, Jane,” said his wife. “Anyway, I’m sure and always will be that I was right. If you just tell us the proper names of the people, I shall be quite sure.”
“I don’t think I could do that,” said Jane slowly.
“No, dear,” said Miss Marple. “Miss Helier couldn’t do that.”
“Of course she could,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Don’t be so high-minded, Jane. We older folk must have a bit of scandal. At any rate tell us who the city magnate was.”
But Jane shook her head, and Miss Marple, in her old-fashioned way, continued to support the girl.
“It must have been a very distressing business,” she said.
“No,” said Jane truthfully. “I think—I think I rather enjoyed it.”
“Well, perhaps you did,” said Miss Marple. “I suppose it was a break in the monotony. What play were you acting in?”
“Smith.”
“Oh, yes. That’s one of Mr. Somerset Maugham’s, isn’t it? All his are very clever, I think. I’ve seen them nearly all.”
“You’re reviving it to go on tour next autumn, aren’t you?” asked Mrs. Bantry.
Jane nodded.
“Well,” said Miss Marple rising. “I must go home. Such late hours! But we’ve had a very entertaining evening. Most unusually so. I think Miss Helier’s story wins the prize. Don’t you agree?”
“I’m sorry you’re angry with me,” said Jane. “About not knowing the end, I mean. I suppose I should have said so sooner.”
Her tone sounded wistful. Dr. Lloyd rose gallantly to the occasion.
“My dear young lady, why should you? You gave us a very pretty problem to sharpen our wits on. I am only sorry we could none of us solve it convincingly.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I did solve it. I’m convinced I am right.”
“Do you know, I really believe you are,” said Jane. “What you said sounded so probable.”
“Which of her seven solutions do you refer to?” asked Sir Henry teasingly.
Dr. Lloyd gallantly assisted Miss Marple to put on her goloshes. “Just in case,” as the old lady explained. The doctor was to be her escort to her old-world cottage. Wrapped in several woollen shawls, Miss Marple wished everyone good night once more. She came to Jane Helier last and leaning forward, she murmured something in the actress’s ear. A startled “Oh!” burst from Jane—so loud as to cause the others to turn their heads.
Smiling and nodding, Miss Marple made her exit, Jane Helier staring after her.
“Are you coming to bed, Jane?” asked Mrs. Bantry. “What’s the matter with you? You’re staring as though you’d seen a ghost.”
With a deep sigh Jane came to herself, shed a beautiful and bewildering smile on the two men and followed her hostess up the staircase. Mrs. Bantry came into the girl’s room with her.
“Your fire’s nearly out,” said Mrs. Bantry, giving it a vicious and ineffectual poke. “They can’t have made it up properly. How stupid housemaids are. Still, I suppose we are rather late tonight. Why, it’s actually past one o’clock!”
“Do you think there are many people like her?” asked Jane Helier.
She was sitting on the side of the bed apparently wrapped in thought.
“Like the housemaid?”
“No. Like that funny old woman—what’s her name—Marple?”
“Oh! I don’t know. I suppose she’s a fairly common type in a small village.”
“Oh dear,” said Jane. “I don’t know what to do.”
She sighed deeply.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m worried.”
“What about?”
“Dolly,” Jane Helier was portentously solemn. “Do you know what that queer old lady whispered to me before she went out of the door tonight?”
“No. What?”
“She said: ‘I shouldn’t do it if I were you, my dear. Never put yourself too much in another woman’s power, even if you do think she’s your friend at the moment.’ You know, Dolly, that’s awfully true.”
“The maxim? Yes, perhaps it is. But I don’t see the application.”
“I suppose you can’t ever really trust a woman. And I should be in her power. I never thought of that.”
“What woman are you talking about?”
“Netta Greene, my understudy.”
“What on earth does Miss Marple know about your understudy?”
“I suppose she guessed—but I can’t see how.”
“Jane, will you kindly tell me at once what you are talking about?”
“The story. The one I told. Oh, Dolly, that woman, you know—the one that took Claud from me?”
Mrs. Bantry nodded, castin
g her mind back rapidly to the first of Jane’s unfortunate marriages—to Claud Averbury, the actor.
“He married her; and I could have told him how it would be. Claud doesn’t know, but she’s carrying on with Sir Joseph Salmon—weekends with him at the bungalow I told you about. I wanted her shown up—I would like everyone to know the sort of woman she was. And you see, with a burglary, everything would be bound to come out.”
“Jane!” gasped Mrs. Bantry. “Did you engineer this story you’ve been telling us?”
Jane nodded.
“That’s why I chose Smith. I wear parlourmaid’s kit in it, you know. So I should have it handy. And when they sent for me to the police station it’s the easiest thing in the world to say I was rehearsing my part with my understudy at the hotel. Really, of course, we would be at the bungalow. I just have to open the door and bring in the cocktails, and Netta to pretend to be me. He’d never see her again, of course, so there would be no fear of his recognizing her. And I can make myself look quite different as a parlourmaid; and besides, one doesn’t look at parlourmaids as though they were people. We planned to drag him out into the road afterwards, bag the jewel case, telephone the police and get back to the hotel. I shouldn’t like the poor young man to suffer, but Sir Henry didn’t seem to think he would, did he? And she’d be in the papers and everything—and Claud would see what she was really like.”
Mrs. Bantry sat down and groaned.
“Oh! my poor head. And all the time—Jane Helier, you deceitful girl! Telling us that story the way you did!”
“I am a good actress,” said Jane complacently. “I always have been, whatever people choose to say. I didn’t give myself away once, did I?”
“Miss Marple was right,” murmured Mrs. Bantry. “The personal element. Oh, yes, the personal element. Jane, my good child, do you realize that theft is theft, and you might have been sent to prison?”
“Well, none of you guessed,” said Jane. “Except Miss Marple.” The worried expression returned to her face. “Dolly, do you really think there are many like her?”
“Frankly, I don’t,” said Mrs. Bantry.
Jane sighed again.
“Still, one had better not risk it. And of course I should be in Netta’s power—that’s true enough. She might turn against me or blackmail me or anything. She helped me think out the details and she professed to be devoted to me, but one never does know with women. No, I think Miss Marple was right. I had better not risk it.”
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 260
