Twelve
I
Conway Jefferson stirred in his sleep and stretched. His arms were flung out, long, powerful arms into which all the strength of his body seemed to be concentrated since his accident.
Through the curtains the morning light glowed softly.
Conway Jefferson smiled to himself. Always, after a night of rest, he woke like this, happy, refreshed, his deep vitality renewed. Another day!
So for a minute he lay. Then he pressed the special bell by his hand. And suddenly a wave of remembrance swept over him.
Even as Edwards, deft and quiet-footed, entered the room, a groan was wrung from his master.
Edwards paused with his hand on the curtains. He said: “You’re not in pain, sir?”
Conway Jefferson said harshly:
“No. Go on, pull ’em.”
The clear light flooded the room. Edwards, understanding, did not glance at his master.
His face grim, Conway Jefferson lay remembering and thinking. Before his eyes he saw again the pretty, vapid face of Ruby. Only in his mind he did not use the adjective vapid. Last night he would have said innocent. A naïve, innocent child! And now?
A great weariness came over Conway Jefferson. He closed his eyes. He murmured below his breath:
“Margaret….”
It was the name of his dead wife….
II
“I like your friend,” said Adelaide Jefferson to Mrs. Bantry.
The two women were sitting on the terrace.
“Jane Marple’s a very remarkable woman,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“She’s nice too,” said Addie, smiling.
“People call her a scandalmonger,” said Mrs. Bantry, “but she isn’t really.”
“Just a low opinion of human nature?”
“You could call it that.”
“It’s rather refreshing,” said Adelaide Jefferson, “after having had too much of the other thing.”
Mrs. Bantry looked at her sharply.
Addie explained herself.
“So much high-thinking—idealization of an unworthy object!”
“You mean Ruby Keene?”
Addie nodded.
“I don’t want to be horrid about her. There wasn’t any harm in her. Poor little rat, she had to fight for what she wanted. She wasn’t bad. Common and rather silly and quite good-natured, but a decided little gold-digger. I don’t think she schemed or planned. It was just that she was quick to take advantage of a possibility. And she knew just how to appeal to an elderly man who was—lonely.”
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Bantry thoughtfully, “that Conway was lonely?”
Addie moved restlessly. She said:
“He was—this summer.” She paused and then burst out: “Mark will have it that it was all my fault. Perhaps it was, I don’t know.”
She was silent for a minute, then, impelled by some need to talk, she went on speaking in a difficult, almost reluctant way.
“I—I’ve had such an odd sort of life. Mike Carmody, my first husband, died so soon after we were married—it—it knocked me out. Peter, as you know, was born after his death. Frank Jefferson was Mike’s great friend. So I came to see a lot of him. He was Peter’s godfather—Mike had wanted that. I got very fond of him—and—oh! sorry for him too.”
“Sorry?” queried Mrs. Bantry with interest.
“Yes, just that. It sounds odd. Frank had always had everything he wanted. His father and his mother couldn’t have been nicer to him. And yet—how can I say it?—you see, old Mr. Jefferson’s personality is so strong. If you live with it, you can’t somehow have a personality of your own. Frank felt that.
“When we were married he was very happy—wonderfully so. Mr. Jefferson was very generous. He settled a large sum of money on Frank—said he wanted his children to be independent and not have to wait for his death. It was so nice of him—so generous. But it was much too sudden. He ought really to have accustomed Frank to independence little by little.
“It went to Frank’s head. He wanted to be as good a man as his father, as clever about money and business, as far-seeing and successful. And, of course, he wasn’t. He didn’t exactly speculate with the money, but he invested in the wrong things at the wrong time. It’s frightening, you know, how soon money goes if you’re not clever about it. The more Frank dropped, the more eager he was to get it back by some clever deal. So things went from bad to worse.”
“But, my dear,” said Mrs. Bantry, “couldn’t Conway have advised him?”
“He didn’t want to be advised. The one thing he wanted was to do well on his own. That’s why we never let Mr. Jefferson know. When Frank died there was very little left—only a tiny income for me. And I—I didn’t let his father know either. You see—”
She turned abruptly.
“It would have felt like betraying Frank to him. Frank would have hated it so. Mr. Jefferson was ill for a long time. When he got well he assumed that I was a very-well-off widow. I’ve never undeceived him. It’s been a point of honour. He knows I’m very careful about money—but he approves of that, thinks I’m a thrifty sort of woman. And, of course, Peter and I have lived with him practically ever since, and he’s paid for all our living expenses. So I’ve never had to worry.”
She said slowly:
“We’ve been like a family all these years—only—only—you see (or don’t you see?) I’ve never been Frank’s widow to him—I’ve been Frank’s wife.”
Mrs. Bantry grasped the implication.
“You mean he’s never accepted their deaths?”
“No. He’s been wonderful. But he’s conquered his own terrible tragedy by refusing to recognize death. Mark is Rosamund’s husband and I’m Frank’s wife—and though Frank and Rosamund aren’t exactly here with us—they are still existent.”
Mrs. Bantry said softly:
“It’s a wonderful triumph of faith.”
“I know. We’ve gone on, year after year. But suddenly—this summer—something went wrong in me. I felt—I felt rebellious. It’s an awful thing to say, but I didn’t want to think of Frank anymore! All that was over—my love and companionship with him, and my grief when he died. It was something that had been and wasn’t any longer.
“It’s awfully hard to describe. It’s like wanting to wipe the slate clean and start again. I wanted to be me—Addie, still reasonably young and strong and able to play games and swim and dance—just a person. Even Hugo—(you know Hugo McLean?) he’s a dear and wants to marry me, but, of course, I’ve never really thought of it—but this summer I did begin to think of it—not seriously—only vaguely….”
She stopped and shook her head.
“And so I suppose it’s true. I neglected Jeff. I don’t mean really neglected him, but my mind and thoughts weren’t with him. When Ruby, as I saw, amused him, I was rather glad. It left me freer to go and do my own things. I never dreamed—of course I never dreamed—that he would be so—so—infatuated by her!”
Mrs. Bantry asked:
“And when you did find out?”
“I was dumbfounded—absolutely dumbfounded! And, I’m afraid, angry too.”
“I’d have been angry,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“There was Peter, you see. Peter’s whole future depends on Jeff. Jeff practically looked on him as a grandson, or so I thought, but, of course, he wasn’t a grandson. He was no relation at all. And to think that he was going to be—disinherited!” Her firm, well-shaped hands shook a little where they lay in her lap. “For that’s what it felt like—and for a vulgar, gold-digging little simpleton—Oh! I could have killed her!”
She stopped, stricken. Her beautiful hazel eyes met Mrs. Bantry’s in a pleading horror. She said:
“What an awful thing to say!”
Hugo McLean, coming quietly up behind them, asked:
“What’s an awful thing to say?”
“Sit down, Hugo. You know Mrs. Bantry, don’t you?”
McLean had already greeted the olde
r lady. He said now in a low, persevering way:
“What was an awful thing to say?”
Addie Jefferson said:
“That I’d like to have killed Ruby Keene.”
Hugo McLean reflected a minute or two. Then he said:
“No, I wouldn’t say that if I were you. Might be misunderstood.”
His eyes—steady, reflective, grey eyes—looked at her meaningly.
He said:
“You’ve got to watch your step, Addie.”
There was a warning in his voice.
III
When Miss Marple came out of the hotel and joined Mrs. Bantry a few minutes later, Hugo McLean and Adelaide Jefferson were walking down the path to the sea together.
Seating herself, Miss Marple remarked:
“He seems very devoted.”
“He’s been devoted for years! One of those men.”
“I know. Like Major Bury. He hung round an Anglo-Indian widow for quite ten years. A joke among her friends! In the end she gave in—but unfortunately ten days before they were to have been married she ran away with the chauffeur! Such a nice woman, too, and usually so well balanced.”
“People do do very odd things,” agreed Mrs. Bantry. “I wish you’d been here just now, Jane. Addie Jefferson was telling me all about herself—how her husband went through all his money but they never let Mr. Jefferson know. And then, this summer, things felt different to her—”
Miss Marple nodded.
“Yes. She rebelled, I suppose, against being made to live in the past? After all, there’s a time for everything. You can’t sit in the house with the blinds down forever. I suppose Mrs. Jefferson just pulled them up and took off her widow’s weeds, and her father-in-law, of course, didn’t like it. Felt left out in the cold, though I don’t suppose for a minute he realized who put her up to it. Still, he certainly wouldn’t like it. And so, of course, like old Mr. Badger when his wife took up Spiritualism, he was just ripe for what happened. Any fairly nice-looking young girl who listened prettily would have done.”
“Do you think,” said Mrs. Bantry, “that that cousin, Josie, got her down here deliberately—that it was a family plot?”
Miss Marple shook her head.
“No, I don’t think so at all. I don’t think Josie has the kind of mind that could foresee people’s reactions. She’s rather dense in that way. She’s got one of those shrewd, limited, practical minds that never do foresee the future and are usually astonished by it.”
“It seems to have taken everyone by surprise,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Addie—and Mark Gaskell too, apparently.”
Miss Marple smiled.
“I dare say he had his own fish to fry. A bold fellow with a roving eye! Not the man to go on being a sorrowing widower for years, no matter how fond he may have been of his wife. I should think they were both restless under old Mr. Jefferson’s yoke of perpetual remembrance.
“Only,” added Miss Marple cynically, “it’s easier for gentlemen, of course.”
IV
At that very moment Mark was confirming this judgment on himself in a talk with Sir Henry Clithering.
With characteristic candour Mark had gone straight to the heart of things.
“It’s just dawned on me,” he said, “that I’m Favourite Suspect No. I to the police! They’ve been delving into my financial troubles. I’m broke, you know, or very nearly. If dear old Jeff dies according to schedule in a month or two, and Addie and I divide the dibs also according to schedule, all will be well. Matter of fact, I owe rather a lot … If the crash comes it will be a big one! If I can stave it off, it will be the other way round—I shall come out on top and be a very rich man.”
Sir Henry Clithering said:
“You’re a gambler, Mark.”
“Always have been. Risk everything—that’s my motto! Yes, it’s a lucky thing for me that somebody strangled that poor kid. I didn’t do it. I’m not a strangler. I don’t really think I could ever murder anybody. I’m too easygoing. But I don’t suppose I can ask the police to believe that! I must look to them like the answer to the criminal investigator’s prayer! I had a motive, was on the spot, I am not burdened with high moral scruples! I can’t imagine why I’m not in the jug already! That Superintendent’s got a very nasty eye.”
“You’ve got that useful thing, an alibi.”
“An alibi is the fishiest thing on God’s earth! No innocent person ever has an alibi! Besides, it all depends on the time of death, or something like that, and you may be sure if three doctors say the girl was killed at midnight, at least six will be found who will swear positively that she was killed at five in the morning—and where’s my alibi then?”
“At any rate, you are able to joke about it.”
“Damned bad taste, isn’t it?” said Mark cheerfully. “Actually, I’m rather scared. One is—with murder! And don’t think I’m not sorry for old Jeff. I am. But it’s better this way—bad as the shock was—than if he’d found her out.”
“What do you mean, found her out?”
Mark winked.
“Where did she go off to last night? I’ll lay you any odds you like she went to meet a man. Jeff wouldn’t have liked that. He wouldn’t have liked it at all. If he’d found she was deceiving him—that she wasn’t the prattling little innocent she seemed—well—my father-in-law is an odd man. He’s a man of great self-control, but that self-control can snap. And then—look out!”
Sir Henry glanced at him curiously.
“Are you fond of him or not?”
“I’m very fond of him—and at the same time I resent him. I’ll try and explain. Conway Jefferson is a man who likes to control his surroundings. He’s a benevolent despot, kind, generous, and affectionate—but his is the tune, and the others dance to his piping.”
Mark Gaskell paused.
“I loved my wife. I shall never feel the same for anyone else. Rosamund was sunshine and laughter and flowers, and when she was killed I felt just like a man in the ring who’s had a knock-out blow. But the referee’s been counting a good long time now. I’m a man, after all. I like women. I don’t want to marry again—not in the least. Well, that’s all right. I’ve had to be discreet—but I’ve had my good times all right. Poor Addie hasn’t. Addie’s a really nice woman. She’s the kind of woman men want to marry, not to sleep with. Give her half a chance and she would marry again—and be very happy and make the chap happy too. But old Jeff saw her always as Frank’s wife—and hypnotized her into seeing herself like that. He doesn’t know it, but we’ve been in prison. I broke out, on the quiet, a long time ago. Addie broke out this summer—and it gave him a shock. It split up his world. Result—Ruby Keene.”
Irrepressibly he sang:
“But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
“Come and have a drink, Clithering.”
It was hardly surprising, Sir Henry reflected, that Mark Gaskell should be an object of suspicion to the police.
Thirteen
I
Dr. Metcalf was one of the best-known physicians in Danemouth. He had no aggressive bedside manner, but his presence in the sick room had an invariably cheering effect. He was middle-aged, with a quiet pleasant voice.
He listened carefully to Superintendent Harper and replied to his questions with gentle precision.
Harper said:
“Then I can take it, Doctor Metcalf, that what I was told by Mrs. Jefferson was substantially correct?”
“Yes, Mr. Jefferson’s health is in a precarious state. For several years now the man has been driving himself ruthlessly. In his determination to live like other men, he has lived at a far greater pace than the normal man of his age. He has refused to rest, to take things easy, to go slow—or any of the other phrases with which I and his other medical advisers have tendered our opinion. The result is that the man is an overworked engine. Heart, lungs, blood pressure—they’re all overstrained.”
“You say Mr. Jefferson has
absolutely refused to listen?”
“Yes. I don’t know that I blame him. It’s not what I say to my patients, Superintendent, but a man may as well wear out as rust out. A lot of my colleagues do that, and take it from me it’s not a bad way. In a place like Danemouth one sees most of the other thing: invalids clinging to life, terrified of over-exerting themselves, terrified of a breath of draughty air, of a stray germ, of an injudicious meal!”
“I expect that’s true enough,” said Superintendent Harper. “What it amounts to, then, is this: Conway Jefferson is strong enough, physically speaking—or, I suppose I mean, muscularly speaking. Just what can he do in the active line, by the way?”
“He has immense strength in his arms and shoulders. He was a powerful man before his accident. He is extremely dexterous in his handling of his wheeled chair, and with the aid of crutches he can move himself about a room—from his bed to the chair, for instance.”
“Isn’t it possible for a man injured as Mr. Jefferson was to have artificial legs?”
“Not in his case. There was a spine injury.”
“I see. Let me sum up again. Jefferson is strong and fit in the muscular sense. He feels well and all that?”
Metcalf nodded.
“But his heart is in a bad condition. Any overstrain or exertion, or a shock or a sudden fright, and he might pop off. Is that it?”
“More or less. Over-exertion is killing him slowly, because he won’t give in when he feels tired. That aggravates the cardiac condition. It is unlikely that exertion would kill him suddenly. But a sudden shock or fright might easily do so. That is why I expressly warned his family.”
Superintendent Harper said slowly:
“But in actual fact a shock didn’t kill him. I mean, doctor, that there couldn’t have been a much worse shock than this business, and he’s still alive?”
Dr. Metcalf shrugged his shoulders.
“I know. But if you’d had my experience, Superintendent, you’d know that case history shows the impossibility of prognosticating accurately. People who ought to die of shock and exposure don’t die of shock and exposure, etc., etc. The human frame is tougher than one can imagine possible. Moreover, in my experience, a physical shock is more often fatal than a mental shock. In plain language, a door banging suddenly would be more likely to kill Mr. Jefferson than the discovery that a girl he was fond of had died in a particularly horrible manner.”
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 35