There was a moment’s pause, and then Miss Marple resumed.
“And there was Mr. Badger who had the chemist’s shop. Made a lot of fuss over the young lady who worked in his toilet section. Told his wife they must look on her as a daughter and have her to live in the house. Mrs. Badger didn’t see it that way at all.”
Sir Henry said: “If she’d only been a girl in his own rank of life—a friend’s child—”
Miss Marple interrupted him.
“Oh! but that wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfactory from his point of view. It’s like King Cophetua and the beggar maid. If you’re really rather a lonely, tired old man, and if, perhaps, your own family have been neglecting you”—she paused for a second—“well, to befriend someone who will be overwhelmed with your magnificence—(to put it rather melodramatically, but I hope you see what I mean)—well, that’s much more interesting. It makes you feel a much greater person—a beneficent monarch! The recipient is more likely to be dazzled, and that, of course, is a pleasant feeling for you.” She paused and said: “Mr. Badger, you know, bought the girl in his shop some really fantastic presents, a diamond bracelet and a most expensive radio-gramophone. Took out a lot of his savings to do so. However, Mrs. Badger, who was a much more astute woman than poor Miss Harbottle (marriage, of course, helps), took the trouble to find out a few things. And when Mr. Badger discovered that the girl was carrying on with a very undesirable young man connected with the racecourses, and had actually pawned the bracelet to give him the money—well, he was completely disgusted and the affair passed over quite safely. And he gave Mrs. Badger a diamond ring the following Christmas.”
Her pleasant, shrewd eyes met Sir Henry’s. He wondered if what she had been saying was intended as a hint. He said:
“Are you suggesting that if there had been a young man in Ruby Keene’s life, my friend’s attitude towards her might have altered?”
“It probably would, you know. I dare say, in a year or two, he might have liked to arrange for her marriage himself—though more likely he wouldn’t—gentlemen are usually rather selfish. But I certainly think that if Ruby Keene had had a young man she’d have been careful to keep very quiet about it.”
“And the young man might have resented that?”
“I suppose that is the most plausible solution. It struck me, you know, that her cousin, the young woman who was at Gossington this morning, looked definitely angry with the dead girl. What you’ve told me explains why. No doubt she was looking forward to doing very well out of the business.”
“Rather a cold-blooded character, in fact?”
“That’s too harsh a judgment, perhaps. The poor thing has had to earn her living, and you can’t expect her to sentimentalize because a well-to-do man and woman—as you have described Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson—are going to be done out of a further large sum of money to which they have really no particular moral right. I should say Miss Turner was a hard-headed, ambitious young woman, with a good temper and considerable joie de vivre. A little,” added Miss Marple, “like Jessie Golden, the baker’s daughter.”
“What happened to her?” asked Sir Henry.
“She trained as a nursery governess and married the son of the house, who was home on leave from India. Made him a very good wife, I believe.”
Sir Henry pulled himself clear of these fascinating side issues. He said:
“Is there any reason, do you think, why my friend Conway Jefferson should suddenly have developed this ‘Cophetua complex,’ if you like to call it that?”
“There might have been.”
“In what way?”
Miss Marple said, hesitating a little:
“I should think—it’s only a suggestion, of course—that perhaps his son-in-law and daughter-in-law might have wanted to get married again.”
“Surely he couldn’t have objected to that?”
“Oh, no, not objected. But, you see, you must look at it from his point of view. He had a terrible shock and loss—so had they. The three bereaved people live together and the link between them is the loss they have all sustained. But Time, as my dear mother used to say, is a great healer. Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson are young. Without knowing it themselves, they may have begun to feel restless, to resent the bonds that tied them to their past sorrow. And so, feeling like that, old Mr. Jefferson would have become conscious of a sudden lack of sympathy without knowing its cause. It’s usually that. Gentlemen so easily feel neglected. With Mr. Harbottle it was Miss Harbottle going away. And with the Badgers it was Mrs. Badger taking such an interest in Spiritualism and always going out to séances.”
“I must say,” said Sir Henry ruefully, “that I dislike the way you reduce us all to a General Common Denominator.”
Miss Marple shook her head sadly.
“Human nature is very much the same anywhere, Sir Henry.”
Sir Henry said distastefully:
“Mr. Harbottle! Mr. Badger! And poor Conway! I hate to intrude the personal note, but have you any parallel for my humble self in your village?”
“Well, of course, there is Briggs.”
“Who’s Briggs?”
“He was the head gardener up at Old Hall. Quite the best man they ever had. Knew exactly when the under-gardeners were slacking off—quite uncanny it was! He managed with only three men and a boy and the place was kept better than it had been with six. And took several firsts with his sweet peas. He’s retired now.”
“Like me,” said Sir Henry.
“But he still does a little jobbing—if he likes the people.”
“Ah,” said Sir Henry. “Again like me. That’s what I’m doing now—jobbing—to help an old friend.”
“Two old friends.”
“Two?” Sir Henry looked a little puzzled.
Miss Marple said:
“I suppose you meant Mr. Jefferson. But I wasn’t thinking of him. I was thinking of Colonel and Mrs. Bantry.”
“Yes—yes—I see—” He asked sharply: “Was that why you alluded to Dolly Bantry as ‘poor dear’ at the beginning of our conversation?”
“Yes. She hasn’t begun to realize things yet. I know because I’ve had more experience. You see, Sir Henry, it seems to me that there’s a great possibility of this crime being the kind of crime that never does get solved. Like the Brighton trunk murders. But if that happens it will be absolutely disastrous for the Bantrys. Colonel Bantry, like nearly all retired military men, is really abnormally sensitive. He reacts very quickly to public opinion. He won’t notice it for some time, and then it will begin to go home to him. A slight here, and a snub there, and invitations that are refused, and excuses that are made—and then, little by little, it will dawn upon him and he’ll retire into his shell and get terribly morbid and miserable.”
“Let me be sure I understand you rightly, Miss Marple. You mean that, because the body was found in his house, people will think that he had something to do with it?”
“Of course they will! I’ve no doubt they’re saying so already. They’ll say so more and more. And people will cold shoulder the Bantrys and avoid them. That’s why the truth has got to be found out and why I was willing to come here with Mrs. Bantry. An open accusation is one thing—and quite easy for a soldier to meet. He’s indignant and he has a chance of fighting. But this other whispering business will break him—will break them both. So you see, Sir Henry, we’ve got to find out the truth.”
Sir Henry said:
“Any ideas as to why the body should have been found in his house? There must be an explanation of that. Some connection.”
“Oh, of course.”
“The girl was last seen here about twenty minutes to eleven. By midnight, according to the medical evidence, she was dead. Gossington’s about eighteen miles from here. Good road for sixteen of those miles until one turns off the main road. A powerful car could do it in well under half an hour. Practically any car could average thirty-five. But why anyone should either kill her here and take he
r body out to Gossington or should take her out to Gossington and strangle her there, I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t, because it didn’t happen.”
“Do you mean that she was strangled by some fellow who took her out in a car and he then decided to push her into the first likely house in the neighbourhood?”
“I don’t think anything of the kind. I think there was a very careful plan made. What happened was that the plan went wrong.”
Sir Henry stared at her.
“Why did the plan go wrong?”
Miss Marple said rather apologetically:
“Such curious things happen, don’t they? If I were to say that this particular plan went wrong because human beings are so much more vulnerable and sensitive than anyone thinks, it wouldn’t sound sensible, would it? But that’s what I believe—and—”
She broke off. “Here’s Mrs. Bantry now.”
Nine
Mrs. Bantry was with Adelaide Jefferson. The former came up to Sir Henry and exclaimed: “You?”
“I, myself.” He took both her hands and pressed them warmly. “I can’t tell you how distressed I am at all this, Mrs. B.”
Mrs. Bantry said mechanically:
“Don’t call me Mrs. B.!” and went on: “Arthur isn’t here. He’s taking it all rather seriously. Miss Marple and I have come here to sleuth. Do you know Mrs. Jefferson?”
“Yes, of course.”
He shook hands. Adelaide Jefferson said:
“Have you seen my father-in-law?”
“Yes, I have.”
“I’m glad. We’re anxious about him. It was a terrible shock.”
Mrs. Bantry said:
“Let’s come out on the terrace and have drinks and talk about it all.”
The four of them went out and joined Mark Gaskell, who was sitting at the extreme end of the terrace by himself.
After a few desultory remarks and the arrival of the drinks Mrs. Bantry plunged straight into the subject with her usual zest for direct action.
“We can talk about it, can’t we?” she said. “I mean, we’re all old friends—except Miss Marple, and she knows all about crime. And she wants to help.”
Mark Gaskell looked at Miss Marple in a somewhat puzzled fashion. He said doubtfully:
“Do you—er—write detective stories?”
The most unlikely people, he knew, wrote detective stories. And Miss Marple, in her old-fashioned spinster’s clothes, looked a singularly unlikely person.
“Oh no, I’m not clever enough for that.”
“She’s wonderful,” said Mrs. Bantry impatiently. “I can’t explain now, but she is. Now, Addie, I want to know all about things. What was she really like, this girl?”
“Well—” Adelaide Jefferson paused, glanced across at Mark, and half laughed. She said: “You’re so direct.”
“Did you like her?”
“No, of course I didn’t.”
“What was she really like?” Mrs. Bantry shifted her inquiry to Mark Gaskell. Mark said deliberately:
“Common or garden gold-digger. And she knew her stuff. She’d got her hooks into Jeff all right.”
Both of them called their father-in-law Jeff.
Sir Henry thought, looking disapprovingly at Mark:
“Indiscreet fellow. Shouldn’t be so outspoken.”
He had always disapproved a little of Mark Gaskell. The man had charm but he was unreliable—talked too much, was occasionally boastful—not quite to be trusted, Sir Henry thought. He had sometimes wondered if Conway Jefferson thought so too.
“But couldn’t you do something about it?” demanded Mrs. Bantry.
Mark said dryly:
“We might have—if we’d realized it in time.”
He shot a glance at Adelaide and she coloured faintly. There had been reproach in that glance.
She said:
“Mark thinks I ought to have seen what was coming.”
“You left the old boy alone too much, Addie. Tennis lessons and all the rest of it.”
“Well, I had to have some exercise.” She spoke apologetically. “Anyway, I never dreamed—”
“No,” said Mark, “neither of us ever dreamed. Jeff has always been such a sensible, levelheaded old boy.”
Miss Marple made a contribution to the conversation.
“Gentlemen,” she said with her old-maid’s way of referring to the opposite sex as though it were a species of wild animal, “are frequently not as levelheaded as they seem.”
“I’ll say you’re right,” said Mark. “Unfortunately, Miss Marple, we didn’t realize that. We wondered what the old boy saw in that rather insipid and meretricious little bag of tricks. But we were pleased for him to be kept happy and amused. We thought there was no harm in her. No harm in her! I wish I’d wrung her neck!”
“Mark,” said Addie, “you really must be careful what you say.”
He grinned at her engagingly.
“I suppose I must. Otherwise people will think I actually did wring her neck. Oh well, I suppose I’m under suspicion, anyway. If anyone had an interest in seeing that girl dead it was Addie and myself.”
“Mark,” cried Mrs. Jefferson, half laughing and half angry, “you really mustn’t!”
“All right, all right,” said Mark Gaskell pacifically. “But I do like speaking my mind. Fifty thousand pounds our esteemed father-in-law was proposing to settle upon that half-baked nitwitted little slypuss.”
“Mark, you mustn’t—she’s dead.”
“Yes, she’s dead, poor little devil. And after all, why shouldn’t she use the weapons that Nature gave her? Who am I to judge? Done plenty of rotten things myself in my life. No, let’s say Ruby was entitled to plot and scheme and we were mugs not to have tumbled to her game sooner.”
Sir Henry said:
“What did you say when Conway told you he proposed to adopt the girl?”
Mark thrust out his hands.
“What could we say? Addie, always the little lady, retained her self-control admirably. Put a brave face upon it. I endeavoured to follow her example.”
“I should have made a fuss!” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Well, frankly speaking, we weren’t entitled to make a fuss. It was Jeff ’s money. We weren’t his flesh and blood. He’d always been damned good to us. There was nothing for it but to bite on the bullet.” He added reflectively: “But we didn’t love little Ruby.”
Adelaide Jefferson said:
“If only it had been some other kind of girl. Jeff had two godchildren, you know. If it had been one of them—well, one would have understood it.” She added, with a shade of resentment: “And Jeff ’s always seemed so fond of Peter.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I always have known Peter was your first husband’s child—but I’d quite forgotten it. I’ve always thought of him as Mr. Jefferson’s grandson.”
“So have I,” said Adelaide. Her voice held a note that made Miss Marple turn in her chair and look at her.
“It was Josie’s fault,” said Mark. “Josie brought her here.”
Adelaide said:
“Oh, but surely you don’t think it was deliberate, do you? Why, you’ve always liked Josie so much.”
“Yes, I did like her. I thought she was a good sport.”
“It was sheer accident her bringing the girl down.”
“Josie’s got a good head on her shoulders, my girl.”
“Yes, but she couldn’t foresee—”
Mark said:
“No, she couldn’t. I admit it. I’m not really accusing her of planning the whole thing. But I’ve no doubt she saw which way the wind was blowing long before we did and kept very quiet about it.”
Adelaide said with a sigh:
“I suppose one can’t blame her for that.”
Mark said:
“Oh, we can’t blame anyone for anything!”
Mrs. Bantry asked:
“Was Ruby Keene very pretty?”
Mark stare
d at her. “I thought you’d seen—”
Mrs. Bantry said hastily:
“Oh yes, I saw her—her body. But she’d been strangled, you know, and one couldn’t tell—” She shivered.
Mark said, thoughtfully:
“I don’t think she was really pretty at all. She certainly wouldn’t have been without any makeup. A thin ferrety little face, not much chin, teeth running down her throat, nondescript sort of nose—”
“It sounds revolting,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Oh no, she wasn’t. As I say, with makeup she managed to give quite an effect of good looks, don’t you think so, Addie?”
“Yes, rather chocolate-box, pink and white business. She had nice blue eyes.”
“Yes, innocent baby stare, and the heavily-blacked lashes brought out the blueness. Her hair was bleached, of course. It’s true, when I come to think of it, that in colouring—artificial colouring, anyway—she had a kind of spurious resemblance to Rosamund—my wife, you know. I dare say that’s what attracted the old man’s attention to her.”
He sighed.
“Well, it’s a bad business. The awful thing is that Addie and I can’t help being glad, really, that she’s dead—”
He quelled a protest from his sister-in-law.
“It’s no good, Addie; I know what you feel. I feel the same. And I’m not going to pretend! But, at the same time, if you know what I mean, I really am most awfully concerned for Jeff about the whole business. It’s hit him very hard. I—”
He stopped, and stared towards the doors leading out of the lounge on to the terrace.
“Well, well—see who’s here. What an unscrupulous woman you are, Addie.”
Mrs. Jefferson looked over her shoulder, uttered an exclamation and got up, a slight colour rising in her face. She walked quickly along the terrace and went up to a tall middle-aged man with a thin brown face, who was looking uncertainly about him.
Mrs. Bantry said: “Isn’t that Hugo McLean?”
Mark Gaskell said:
“Hugo McLean it is. Alias William Dobbin.”
Mrs. Bantry murmured:
“He’s very faithful, isn’t he?”
“Dog-like devotion,” said Mark. “Addie’s only got to whistle and Hugo comes trotting from any odd corner of the globe. Always hopes that some day she’ll marry him. I dare say she will.”
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 32