The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  The house was ready. Servants arrived. Lastly, a costly limousine deposited Harry and Mrs. Harry at the front door.

  The village rushed to call, and Mrs. Price, who owned the largest house, and who considered herself to lead society in the place, sent out cards of invitation for a party “to meet the bride.”

  It was a great event. Several ladies had new frocks for the occasion. Everyone was excited, curious, anxious to see this fabulous creature. They said it was all so like a fairy story!

  Miss Harmon, weather-beaten, hearty spinster, threw out her question as she squeezed her way through the crowded drawing room door. Little Miss Brent, a thin, acidulated spinster, fluttered out information.

  “Oh, my dear, quite charming. Such pretty manners. And quite young. Really, you know, it makes one feel quite envious to see someone who has everything like that. Good looks and money and breeding—most distinguished, nothing in the least common about her—and dear Harry so devoted!”

  “Ah,” said Miss Harmon, “it’s early days yet!”

  Miss Brent’s thin nose quivered appreciatively. “Oh, my dear, do you really think—”

  “We all know what Harry is,” said Miss Harmon.

  “We know what he was! But I expect now—”

  “Ah,” said Miss Harmon, “men are always the same. Once a gay deceiver, always a gay deceiver. I know them.”

  “Dear, dear. Poor young thing.” Miss Brent looked much happier. “Yes, I expect she’ll have trouble with him. Someone ought really to warn her. I wonder if she’s heard anything of the old story?”

  “It seems so very unfair,” said Miss Brent, “that she should know nothing. So awkward. Especially with only the one chemist’s shop in the village.”

  For the erstwhile tobacconist’s daughter was now married to Mr. Edge, the chemist.

  “It would be so much nicer,” said Miss Brent, “if Mrs. Laxton were to deal with Boots in Much Benham.”

  “I dare say,” said Miss Harmon, “that Harry Laxton will suggest that himself.”

  And again a significant look passed between them.

  “But I certainly think,” said Miss Harmon, “that she ought to know.”

  “Beasts!” said Clarice Vane indignantly to her uncle, Doctor Haydock. “Absolute beasts some people are.”

  He looked at her curiously.

  She was a tall, dark girl, handsome, warmhearted and impulsive. Her big brown eyes were alight now with indignation as she said, “All these cats—saying things—hinting things.”

  “About Harry Laxton?”

  “Yes, about his affair with the tobacconist’s daughter.”

  “Oh, that!” The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “A great many young men have affairs of that kind.”

  “Of course they do. And it’s all over. So why harp on it? And bring it up years after? It’s like ghouls feasting on dead bodies.”

  “I dare say, my dear, it does seem like that to you. But you see, they have very little to talk about down here, and so I’m afraid they do tend to dwell upon past scandals. But I’m curious to know why it upsets you so much?”

  Clarice Vane bit her lip and flushed. She said, in a curiously muffled voice. “They—they look so happy. The Laxtons, I mean. They’re young and in love, and it’s all so lovely for them. I hate to think of it being spoiled by whispers and hints and innuendoes and general beastliness.”

  “H’m. I see.”

  Clarice went on. “He was talking to me just now. He’s so happy and eager and excited and—yes, thrilled—at having got his heart’s desire and rebuilt Kingsdean. He’s like a child about it all. And she—well, I don’t suppose anything has ever gone wrong in her whole life. She’s always had everything. You’ve seen her. What did you think of her?”

  The doctor did not answer at once. For other people, Louise Laxton might be an object of envy. A spoiled darling of fortune. To him she had brought only the refrain of a popular song heard many years ago, Poor little rich girl—

  A small, delicate figure, with flaxen hair curled rather stiffly round her face and big, wistful blue eyes.

  Louise was drooping a little. The long stream of congratulations had tired her. She was hoping it might soon be time to go. Perhaps, even now, Harry might say so. She looked at him sideways. So tall and broadshouldered with his eager pleasure in this horrible, dull party.

  Poor little rich girl—

  “Ooph!” It was a sigh of relief.

  Harry turned to look at his wife amusedly. They were driving away from the party.

  She said, “Darling, what a frightful party!”

  Harry laughed. “Yes, pretty terrible. Never mind, my sweet. It had to be done, you know. All these old pussies knew me when I lived here as a boy. They’d have been terribly disappointed not to have got a look at you close up.”

  Louise made a grimace. She said, “Shall we have to see a lot of them?”

  “What? Oh, no. They’ll come and make ceremonious calls with card cases, and you’ll return the calls and then you needn’t bother anymore. You can have your own friends down or whatever you like.”

  Louise said, after a minute or two, “Isn’t there anyone amusing living down here?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s the County, you know. Though you may find them a bit dull, too. Mostly interested in bulbs and dogs and horses. You’ll ride, of course. You’ll enjoy that. There’s a horse over at Eglinton I’d like you to see. A beautiful animal, perfectly trained, no vice in him but plenty of spirit.”

  The car slowed down to take the turn into the gates of Kingsdean. Harry wrenched the wheel and swore as a grotesque figure sprang up in the middle of the road and he only just managed to avoid it. It stood there, shaking a fist and shouting after them.

  Louise clutched his arm. “Who’s that—that horrible old woman?”

  Harry’s brow was black. “That’s old Murgatroyd. She and her husband were caretakers in the old house. They were there for nearly thirty years.”

  “Why does she shake her fist at you?”

  Harry’s face got red. “She—well, she resented the house being pulled down. And she got the sack, of course. Her husband’s been dead two years. They say she got a bit queer after he died.”

  “Is she—she isn’t—starving?”

  Louise’s ideas were vague and somewhat melodramatic. Riches prevented you coming into contact with reality.

  Harry was outraged. “Good Lord, Louise, what an idea! I pensioned her off, of course—and handsomely, too! Found her a new cottage and everything.”

  Louise asked, bewildered, “Then why does she mind?”

  Harry was frowning, his brows drawn together. “Oh, how should I know? Craziness! She loved the house.”

  “But it was a ruin, wasn’t it?”

  “Of course it was—crumbling to pieces—roof leaking—more or less unsafe. All the same I suppose it meant something to her. She’d been there a long time. Oh, I don’t know! The old devil’s cracked, I think.”

  Louise said uneasily, “She—I think she cursed us. Oh, Harry, I wish she hadn’t.”

  It seemed to Louise that her new home was tainted and poisoned by the malevolent figure of one crazy old woman. When she went out in the car, when she rode, when she walked out with the dogs, there was always the same figure waiting. Crouched down on herself, a battered hat over wisps of iron-grey hair, and the slow muttering of imprecations.

  Louise came to believe that Harry was right—the old woman was mad. Nevertheless that did not make things easier. Mrs. Murgatroyd never actually came to the house, nor did she use definite threats, nor offer violence. Her squatting figure remained always just outside the gates. To appeal to the police would have been useless and, in any case, Harry Laxton was averse to that course of action. It would, he said, arouse local sympathy for the old brute. He took the matter more easily than Louise did.

  “Don’t worry about it, darling. She’ll get tired of this silly cursing business. Probably she’s only trying it on.”
>
  “She isn’t, Harry. She—she hates us! I can feel it. She—she’s illwishing us.”

  “She’s not a witch, darling, although she may look like one! Don’t be morbid about it all.”

  Louise was silent. Now that the first excitement of settling in was over, she felt curiously lonely and at a loose end. She had been used to life in London and the Riviera. She had no knowledge of or taste for English country life. She was ignorant of gardening, except for the final act of “doing the flowers.” She did not really care for dogs. She was bored by such neighbours as she met. She enjoyed riding best, sometimes with Harry, sometimes, when he was busy about the estate, by herself. She hacked through the woods and lanes, enjoying the easy paces of the beautiful horse that Harry had bought for her. Yet even Prince Hal, most sensitive of chestnut steeds, was wont to shy and snort as he carried his mistress past the huddled figure of a malevolent old woman.

  One day Louise took her courage in both hands. She was out walking. She had passed Mrs. Murgatroyd, pretending not to notice her, but suddenly she swerved back and went right up to her. She said, a little breathlessly, “What is it? What’s the matter? What do you want?”

  The old woman blinked at her. She had a cunning, dark gypsy face, with wisps of iron-grey hair, and bleared, suspicious eyes. Louise wondered if she drank.

  She spoke in a whining and yet threatening voice. “What do I want, you ask? What, indeed! That which has been took away from me. Who turned me out of Kingsdean House? I’d lived there, girl and woman, for near on forty years. It was a black deed to turn me out and it’s black bad luck it’ll bring to you and him!”

  Louise said, “You’ve got a very nice cottage and—”

  She broke off. The old woman’s arms flew up. She screamed, “What’s the good of that to me? It’s my own place I want and my own fire as I sat beside all them years. And as for you and him, I’m telling you there will be no happiness for you in your new fine house. It’s the black sorrow will be upon you! Sorrow and death and my curse. May your fair face rot.”

  Louise turned away and broke into a little stumbling run. She thought, I must get away from here! We must sell the house! We must go away.

  At the moment, such a solution seemed easy to her. But Harry’s utter incomprehension took her back. He exclaimed, “Leave here? Sell the house? Because of a crazy old woman’s threats? You must be mad.”

  “No, I’m not. But she—she frightens me, I know something will happen.”

  Harry Laxton said grimly, “Leave Mrs. Murgatroyd to me. I’ll settle her!”

  A friendship had sprung up between Clarice Vane and young Mrs. Laxton. The two girls were much of an age, though dissimilar both in character and in tastes. In Clarice’s company, Louise found reassurance. Clarice was so self-reliant, so sure of herself. Louise mentioned the matter of Mrs. Murgatroyd and her threats, but Clarice seemed to regard the matter as more annoying than frightening.

  “It’s so stupid, that sort of thing,” she said. “And really very annoying for you.”

  “You know, Clarice, I—I feel quite frightened sometimes. My heart gives the most awful jumps.”

  “Nonsense, you mustn’t let a silly thing like that get you down. She’ll soon tire of it.”

  She was silent for a minute or two. Clarice said, “What’s the matter?”

  Louise paused for a minute, then her answer came with a rush. “I hate this place! I hate being here. The woods and this house, and the awful silence at night, and the queer noise owls make. Oh, and the people and everything.”

  “The people. What people?”

  “The people in the village. Those prying, gossiping old maids.”

  Clarice said sharply, “What have they been saying?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing particular. But they’ve got nasty minds. When you’ve talked to them you feel you wouldn’t trust anybody—not anybody at all.”

  Clarice said harshly, “Forget them. They’ve nothing to do but gossip. And most of the muck they talk they just invent.”

  Louise said, “I wish we’d never come here. But Harry adores it so.” Her voice softened.

  Clarice thought, How she adores him. She said abruptly, “I must go now.”

  “I’ll send you back in the car. Come again soon.”

  Clarice nodded. Louise felt comforted by her new friend’s visit. Harry was pleased to find her more cheerful and from then on urged her to have Clarice often to the house.

  Then one day he said, “Good news for you, darling.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “I’ve fixed the Murgatroyd. She’s got a son in America, you know. Well, I’ve arranged for her to go out and join him. I’ll pay her passage.”

  “Oh, Harry, how wonderful. I believe I might get to like Kingsdean after all.”

  “Get to like it? Why, it’s the most wonderful place in the world!”

  Louise gave a little shiver. She could not rid herself of her superstitious fear so easily.

  If the ladies of St. Mary Mead had hoped for the pleasure of imparting information about her husband’s past to the bride, this pleasure was denied them by Harry Laxton’s own prompt action.

  Miss Harmon and Clarice Vane were both in Mr. Edge’s shop, the one buying mothballs and the other a packet of boracic, when Harry Laxton and his wife came in.

  After greeting the two ladies, Harry turned to the counter and was just demanding a toothbrush when he stopped in mid-speech and exclaimed heartily, “Well, well, just see who’s here! Bella, I do declare.”

  Mrs. Edge, who had hurried out from the back parlour to attend to the congestion of business, beamed back cheerfully at him, showing her big white teeth. She had been a dark, handsome girl and was still a reasonably handsome woman, though she had put on weight, and the lines of her face had coarsened; but her large brown eyes were full of warmth as she answered, “Bella, it is, Mr. Harry, and pleased to see you after all these years.”

  Harry turned to his wife. “Bella’s an old flame of mine, Louise,” he said. “Head-over-heels in love with her, wasn’t I, Bella?”

  “That’s what you say,” said Mrs. Edge.

  Louise laughed. She said, “My husband’s very happy seeing all his old friends again.”

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Edge, “we haven’t forgotten you, Mr. Harry. Seems like a fairy tale to think of you married and building up a new house instead of that ruined old Kingsdean House.”

  “You look very well and blooming,” said Harry, and Mrs. Edge laughed and said there was nothing wrong with her and what about that toothbrush?

  Clarice, watching the baffled look on Miss Harmon’s face, said to herself exultantly, Oh, well-done, Harry. You’ve spiked their guns.

  Doctor Haydock said abruptly to his niece, “What’s all this nonsense about old Mrs. Murgatroyd hanging about Kingsdean and shaking her fist and cursing the new regime?”

  “It isn’t nonsense. It’s quite true. It’s upset Louise a good deal.”

  “Tell her she needn’t worry—when the Murgatroyds were caretakers they never stopped grumbling about the place—they only stayed because Murgatroyd drank and couldn’t get another job.”

  “I’ll tell her,” said Clarice doubtfully, “but I don’t think she’ll believe you. The old woman fairly screams with rage.”

  “Always used to be fond of Harry as a boy. I can’t understand it.”

  Clarice said, “Oh, well—they’ll be rid of her soon. Harry’s paying her passage to America.”

  Three days later, Louise was thrown from her horse and killed.

  Two men in a baker’s van were witnesses of the accident. They saw Louise ride out of the gates, saw the old woman spring up and stand in the road waving her arms and shouting, saw the horse start, swerve, and then bolt madly down the road, flinging Louise Laxton over his head.

  One of them stood over the unconscious figure, not knowing what to do, while the other rushed to the house to get help.

  Harry Laxton came running out, his face
ghastly. They took off a door of the van and carried her on it to the house. She died without regaining consciousness and before the doctor arrived.

  (End of Doctor Haydock’s manuscript.)

  When Doctor Haydock arrived the following day, he was pleased to note that there was a pink flush in Miss Marple’s cheek and decidedly more animation in her manner.

  “Well,” he said, “what’s the verdict?”

  “What’s the problem, Doctor Haydock?” countered Miss Marple.

  “Oh, my dear lady, do I have to tell you that?”

  “I suppose,” said Miss Marple, “that it’s the curious conduct of the caretaker. Why did she behave in that very odd way? People do mind being turned out of their old homes. But it wasn’t her home. In fact, she used to complain and grumble while she was there. Yes, it certainly looks very fishy. What became of her, by the way?”

  “Did a bunk to Liverpool. The accident scared her. Thought she’d wait there for her boat.”

  “All very convenient for somebody,” said Miss Marple. “Yes, I think the ‘Problem of the Caretaker’s Conduct’ can be solved easily enough. Bribery, was it not?”

  “That’s your solution?”

  “Well, if it wasn’t natural for her to behave in that way, she must have been ‘putting on an act’ as people say, and that means that somebody paid her to do what she did.”

  “And you know who that somebody was?”

  “Oh, I think so. Money again, I’m afraid. And I’ve always noticed that gentlemen always tend to admire the same type.”

  “Now I’m out of my depth.”

  “No, no, it all hangs together. Harry Laxton admired Bella Edge, a dark, vivacious type. Your niece Clarice was the same. But the poor little wife was quite a different type—fair-haired and clinging—not his type at all. So he must have married her for her money. And murdered her for her money, too!”

  “You use the word ‘murder’?”

  “Well, he sounds the right type. Attractive to women and quite unscrupulous. I suppose he wanted to keep his wife’s money and marry your niece. He may have been seen talking to Mrs. Edge. But I don’t fancy he was attached to her anymore. Though I dare say he made the poor woman think he was, for ends of his own. He soon had her well under his thumb, I fancy.”