Yours ever,
David"
Miss Marple smiled a little, then considered the information thus presented to her. Mrs. McGillicuddy had said definitely that the carriage had not been a corridor one. Therefore – not the Swansea express.
The 4:33 was indicated.
Also some more travelling seemed unavoidable. Miss Marple sighed, but made her plans.
She went up to London as before on the 12:15, but this time returned not by the 4:50, but by the 4:33 as far as Brackhampton.
The journey was uneventful, but she registered certain details. The train was not crowded – 4:33 was before the evening rush hour. Of the first-class carriages only one had an occupant – a very old gentleman reading the New Statesman. Miss Marple travelled in an empty compartment and at the two stops, Haling Broadway and Barwell Heath, leaned out of the window to observe passengers entering and leaving the train.
A small number of third-class passengers got in at Haling Broadway. At Barwell Heath several third-class passengers got out. Nobody entered or left a first-class carriage except the old gentleman carrying his New Statesman.
As the train neared Brackhampton, sweeping around a curve of line. Miss Marple rose to her feet and stood experimentally with her back to the window over which she had drawn down the blind.
Yes, she decided, the impetus of the sudden curving of the line and the slackening of speed did throw one off one's balance back against the window and the blind might, in consequence, very easily fly up. She peered out into the night.
It was lighter than it had been when Mrs. McGillicuddy had made the same journey – only just dark, but there was little to see. For observation she must make a daylight journey.
On the next day she went up by the early morning train, purchased four linen pillow-cases (tut-tutting at the price!) so as to combine investigation with the provision of household necessities, and returned by a train leaving Paddington at twelve-fifteen. Again she was alone in a first-class carriage. "This taxation," thought Miss Marple, "that's what it is. No one can afford to travel first class except business men in the rush hours. I suppose because they can charge it to expenses."
About a quarter of an hour before the train was due at Brackhampton, Miss Marple got out the map with which Leonard had supplied her and began to observe the countryside. She had studied the map very carefully beforehand, and after noting the name of a station they passed through, she was soon able to identify where she was just as the train began to slacken for a curve. It was a very considerable curve indeed. Miss Marple, her nose glued to the window, studied the ground beneath her (the train was running on a fairly high embankment) with close attention. She divided her attention between the country outside and her map until the train finally ran into Brackhampton.
That night she wrote and posted a letter addressed to Miss Florence Hill, 4 Madison Road , Brackhampton…
On the following morning, going to the County library, she studied a Brackhampton directory and gazetteer, and a County history.
Nothing so far had contradicted the very faint and sketchy idea that had come to her. What she had imagined was possible. She would go no further than that.
But the next step involved action – a good deal of action – the kind of action for which she, herself, was physically unfit.
If her theory were to be definitely proved or disproved, she must at this point have help from some other person. The question was – who? Miss Marple reviewed various names and possibilities rejecting them all with a vexed shake of the head.
The intelligent people on whose intelligence she could rely were all far too busy. Not only had they all got jobs of varying importance, their leisure hours were usually apportioned long beforehand. The unintelligent who had time on their hands were simply, Miss Marple decided, no good.
She pondered in growing vexation and perplexity.
Then suddenly her forehead cleared. She ejaculated aloud a name.
"Of course!" said Miss Marple. "Lucy Eyelesbarrow!"
Chapter 4
The name of Lucy Eyelesbarrow had already made itself felt in certain circles.
Lucy Eyelesbarrow was thirty-two. She had taken a First in Mathematics at Oxford , was acknowledged to have a brilliant mind and was confidently expected to take up a distinguished academic career.
But Lucy Eyelesbarrow, in addition to scholarly brilliance, had a core of good sound common sense. She could not fail to observe that a life of academic distinction was singularly ill rewarded. She had no desire whatever to teach and she took pleasure in contacts with minds much less brilliant than her own. In short, she had a taste for people, all sorts of people – and not the same people the whole time. She also, quite frankly, liked money. To gain money one must exploit shortage.
Lucy Eyelesbarrow hit at once upon a very serious shortage – the shortage of any kind of skilled domestic labour. To the amazement of her friends and fellow-scholars, Lucy Eyelesbarrow entered the field of domestic labour.
Her success was immediate and assured.
By now, after a lapse of some years, she was known all over the British Isles . It was quite customary for wives to say joyfully to husbands, "It will be all right. I can go with you to the States. I've got Lucy Eyelesbarrow!"
The point of Lucy Eyelesbarrow was that once she came into a house, all worry, anxiety and hard work went out of it. Lucy Eyelesbarrow did everything, saw to everything, arranged everything. She was unbelievably competent in every conceivable sphere. She looked after elderly parents, accepted the care of young children, nursed the sickly, cooked divinely, got on well with any old crusted servants there might happen to be (there usually weren't), was tactful with impossible people, soothed habitual drunkards, was wonderful with dogs. Best of all she never minded what she did. She scrubbed the kitchen floor, dug in the garden, cleaned up dog messes, and carried coals!
One of her rules was never to accept an engagement for any long length of time.
A fortnight was her usual period – a month at most under exceptional circumstances.
For that fortnight you had to pay the earth! But, during that fortnight, your life was heaven. You could relax completely, go abroad, stay at home, do as you pleased, secure that all was going well on the home front in Lucy Eyelesbarrow's capable hands.
Naturally the demand for her services was enormous. She could have booked herself up if she chose for about three years ahead. She had been offered enormous sums to go as a permanency. But Lucy had no intention of being a permanency, nor would she book herself for more than six months ahead. And within that period, unknown to her clamouring clients, she always kept certain free periods which enabled her either to take a short luxurious holiday (since she spent nothing otherwise and was handsomely paid and kept) or to accept any position at short notice that happened to take her fancy, either by reason of its character, or because she 'liked the people.' Since she was now at liberty to pick and choose amongst the vociferous claimants for her services, she went very largely by personal liking. Mere riches would not buy you the services of Lucy Eyelesbarrow. She could pick and choose and she did pick and choose. She enjoyed her life very much and found in it a continual source of entertainment.
Lucy Eyelesbarrow read and re-read the letter from Miss Marple. She had made Miss Marple's acquaintance two years ago when her services had been retained by Raymond West, the novelist, to go and look after his old aunt who was recovering from pneumonia. Lucy had accepted the job and had gone down to St. Mary Mead.
She had liked Miss Marple very much. As for Miss Marple, once she had caught a glimpse out of her bedroom window of Lucy Eyelesbarrow really trenching for sweet peas in the proper way, she had leaned back on her pillows with a sigh of relief, eaten the tempting little meals that Lucy Eyelesbarrow brought to her, and listened, agreeably surprised, to the tales told by her elderly irascible maidservant of how "I taught that Miss Eyelesbarrow a crochet pattern what she'd never heard of! Proper grateful, she was." And had surp
rised her doctor by the rapidity of her convalescence.
Miss Marple wrote asking if Miss Eyelesbarrow could undertake a certain task for her – rather an unusual one. Perhaps Miss Eyelesbarrow could arrange a meeting at which they could discuss the matter.
Lucy Eyelesbarrow frowned for a moment or two as she considered. She was in reality fully booked up. But the word unusual and her recollection of Miss Marple's personality, carried the day and she rang up Miss Marple straight away explaining that she could not come down to St. Mary Mead as she was at the moment working, but that she was free from 2 to 4 on the following afternoon and could meet Miss Marple anywhere in London. She suggested her own club, a rather nondescript establishment which had the advantage of having several small dark writing-rooms which were usually empty.
Miss Marple accepted the suggestion and on the following day the meeting took place.
Greetings were exchanged; Lucy Eyelesbarrow led her guest to the gloomiest of the writing-rooms, and said: "I'm afraid I'm rather booked up just at present, but perhaps you'll tell me what it is you want me to undertake?"
"It's very simple, really," said Miss Marple. "Unusual, but simple. I want you to find a body."
For a moment the suspicion crossed Lucy's mind that Miss Marple was mentally unhinged, but she rejected the idea.
Miss Marple was eminently sane. She meant exactly what she had said.
"What kind of a body?" asked Lucy Eyelesbarrow with admirable composure.
"A woman's body," said Miss Marple. "The body of a woman who was murdered – strangled actually – in a train."
Lucy's eyebrows rose slightly.
"Well, that's certainly unusual. Tell me about it."
Miss Marple told her. Lucy Eyelesbarrow listened attentively, without interrupting.
At the end she said:
"It all depends on what your friend saw – or thought she saw?"
She left the sentence unfinished with a question in it.
"Elspeth McGillicuddy doesn't imagine things," said Miss Marple. "That's why I'm relying on what she said. If it had been Dorothy Cartwright, now – it would have been quite a different matter. Dorothy always has a good story, and quite often believes it herself, and there is usually a kind of basis of truth but certainly no more. But Elspeth is the kind of woman who finds it very hard to make herself believe that anything at all extraordinary or out of the way could happen. She's most unsuggestible, rather like granite."
"I see," said Lucy thoughtfully. "Well, let's accept it all. Where do I come in?"
"I was very much impressed by you," said Miss Marple, "and you see, I haven't got the physical strength nowadays to get about and do things."
"You want me to make inquiries? That sort of thing? But won't the police have done all that? Or do you think they have been just slack?"
"Oh, no," said Miss Marple. "They haven't been slack. It's just that I've got a theory about the woman's body. It's got to be somewhere. If it wasn't found in the train, then it must have been pushed or thrown out of the train – but it hasn't been discovered anywhere on the line. So I travelled down the same way to see if there was anywhere where the body could have been thrown off the train and yet wouldn't have been found on the line – and there was. The railway line makes a big curve before getting into Brackhampton, on the edge of a high embankment. If a body were thrown out there, when the train was leaning at an angle, I think it would pitch right down the embankment."
"But surely it would still be found – even there?"
"Oh, yes. It would have to be taken away… But we'll come to that presently. Here's the place – on this map."
Lucy bent to study where Miss Marple's finger pointed.
"It is right in the outskirts of Brackhampton now," said Miss Marple, "but originally it was a country house with extensive park and grounds and it's still there, untouched – ringed round now with building estates and small suburban houses. It's called Rutherford Hall. It was built by a man called Crackenthorpe, a very rich manufacturer in 1884. The original Crackenthorpe's son, an elderly man, is living there still with, I understand, a daughter. The railway encircles quite half of the property."
"And you want me to do – what?"
Miss Marple replied promptly.
"I want you to get a post there. Everyone is crying out for efficient domestic help – I should not imagine it would be difficult."
"No, I don't suppose it would be difficult."
"I understand that Mr. Crackenthorpe is said locally to be somewhat of a miser. If you accept a low salary, I will make it up to the proper figure which should, I think, be rather more that the current rate."
"Because of the difficulty?"
"Not the difficulty so much as the danger. It might, you know, be dangerous. It's only right to warn you of that."
"I don't know," said Lucy pensively, "that the idea of danger would deter me."
"I didn't think it would," said Miss Marple. "You're not that kind of person."
"I dare say you thought it might even attract me? I've encountered very little danger in my life. But do you really believe it might be dangerous?"
"Somebody," Miss Marple pointed out, "has committed a very successful crime. There has been no hue-and-cry, no real suspicion. Two elderly ladies have told a rather improbable story, the police have investigated it and found nothing in it. So everything is nice and quiet. I don't think that this somebody, whoever he may be, will care about the matter being raked up – especially if you are successful."
"What do I look for exactly?"
"Any signs along the embankment, a scrap of clothing, broken bushes – that kind of thing."
Lucy nodded.
"And then?"
"I shall be quite close at hand," said Miss Marple. "An old maidservant of mine, my faithful Florence , lives in Brackhampton. She has looked after her old parents for years. They are now both dead, and she takes in lodgers – all most respectable people. She has arranged for me to have rooms with her. She will look after me most devotedly, and I feel I should like to be close at hand. I would suggest that you mention you have an elderly aunt living in the neighbourhood, and that you want a post within easy distance of her, and also that you stipulate for a reasonable amount of spare time so that you can go and see her often."
Again Lucy nodded.
"I was going to Taormina the day after tomorrow," she said, "The holiday can wait. But I can only promise three weeks. After that, I am booked up."
"Three weeks should be ample," said Miss Marple. "If we can't find out anything in three weeks, we might as well give up the whole thing as a mare's nest."
Miss Marple departed, and Lucy, after a moment's reflection, rang up a Registry Office in Brackhampton, the manageress of which she knew very well. She explained her desire for a post in the neighbourhood so as to be near her "aunt". After turning down, with a little difficulty and a good deal of ingenuity, several more desirable places, Rutherford Hall was mentioned.
"That sounds exactly what I want," said Lucy firmly.
The Registry Office rang up Miss Crackenthorpe, Miss Crackenthorpe rang up Lucy.
Two days later Lucy left London en route for Rutherford Hall.
Driving her own small car, Lucy Eyelesbarrow drove through an imposing pair of vast iron gates. Just inside them was what had originally been a small lodge which now seemed completely derelict, whether through war damage, or merely through neglect, it was difficult to be sure. A long winding drive led through large gloomy clumps of rhododendrons up to the house.
Lucy caught her breath in a slight gasp when she saw the house which was a kind of miniature Windsor Castle . The stone steps in front of the door could have done with attention and the gravel sweep was green with neglected weeds.
She pulled an old-fashioned wrought-iron bell, and its clamour sounded echoing away inside. A slatternly woman, wiping her hands on her apron, opened the door and looked at her suspiciously.
"Expected, aren't you?" she said.
"Miss Something-barrow, she told me."
"Quite right," said Lucy.
The house was desperately cold inside.
Her guide led her along a dark hall and opened a door on the right. Rather to Lucy's surprise, it was quite a pleasant sitting-room, with books and chintz-covered chairs.
"I'll tell her," said the woman, and went away shutting the door after having given Lucy a look of profound disfavour.
After a few minutes the door opened again. From the first moment Lucy decided that she liked Emma Crackenthorpe.
She was a middle-aged woman with no very outstanding characteristics, neither good-looking nor plain, sensibly dressed in tweeds and pullover, with dark hair swept back from her forehead, steady hazel eyes and a very pleasant voice.
She said: "Miss Eyelesbarrow?" and held out her hand.
Then she looked doubtful.
"I wonder," she said, "if this post is really what you're looking for? I don't want a housekeeper, you know, to supervise things. I want someone to do the work."
Lucy said that that was what most people needed.
Emma Crackenthorpe said apologetically: "So many people, you know, seem to think that just a little light dusting will answer the case – but I can do all the light dusting myself."
"I quite understand," said Lucy. "You want cooking and washing up, and housework and stoking the boiler. That's all right. That's what I do. I'm not at all afraid of work."
"It's a big house, I'm afraid, and inconvenient. Of course we only live in a portion of it – my father and myself, that is. He is rather an invalid. We live quite quietly, and there is an Aga stove. I have several brothers, but they are not here very often. Two women come in, a Mrs. Kidder in the morning, and Mrs. Hart three days a week to do brasses and things like that. You have your own car?"
"Yes. It can stand out in the open if there's nowhere to put it. It's used to it."
"Oh, there are any amount of old stables. There's no trouble about that."
She frowned a moment, then said, "Eyelesbarrow – rather an unusual name. Some friends of mine were telling me about a Lucy Eyelesbarrow – the Kennedys?"
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