The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  I hadn’t the slightest idea and said so. It was curious that one could never gauge what Megan would think or feel.

  Joanna nodded and said:

  “No, one never does know with changelings.”

  After a minute or two she said:

  “Do you think—would you like—I wonder if she’d like to come and stay with us for a day or two? It’s rather a shock for a girl that age.”

  “We might go along and suggest it,” I agreed.

  “The children are all right,” said Joanna. “They’ve got that governess woman. But I expect she’s just the sort of creature that would drive someone like Megan mad.”

  I thought that was very possible. I could imagine Elsie Holland uttering platitude after platitude and suggesting innumerable cups of tea. A kindly creature, but not, I thought, the person for a sensitive girl.

  I had thought myself of bringing Megan away, and I was glad that Joanna had thought of it spontaneously without prompting from me.

  We went down to the Symmingtons’ house after breakfast.

  We were a little nervous, both of us. Our arrival might look like sheer ghoulish curiosity. Luckily we met Owen Griffith just coming out through the gate. He looked worried and preoccupied.

  He greeted me, however, with some warmth.

  “Oh, hallo, Burton. I’m glad to see you. What I was afraid would happen sooner or later has happened. A damnable business!”

  “Good morning, Dr. Griffith,” said Joanna, using the voice she keeps for one of our deafer aunts.

  Griffith started and flushed.

  “Oh—oh, good morning, Miss Burton.”

  “I thought perhaps,” said Joanna, “that you didn’t see me.”

  Owen Griffith got redder still. His shyness enveloped him like a mantle.

  “I’m— I’m so sorry—preoccupied—I didn’t.”

  Joanna went on mercilessly: “After all, I am life size.”

  “Merely kit-kat,” I said in a stern aside to her. Then I went on:

  “My sister and I, Griffith, wondered whether it would be a good thing if the girl came and stopped with us for a day or two? What do you think? I don’t want to butt in—but it must be rather grim for the poor child. What would Symmington feel about it, do you think?”

  Griffith turned the idea over in his mind for a moment or two.

  “I think it would be an excellent thing,” he said at last. “She’s a queer nervy sort of girl, and it would be good for her to get away from the whole thing. Miss Holland is doing wonders—she’s an excellent head on her shoulders, but she really has quite enough to do with the two children and Symmington himself. He’s quite broken up—bewildered.”

  “It was—” I hesitated—“suicide?”

  Griffith nodded.

  “Oh yes. No question of accident. She wrote, ‘I can’t go on’ on a scrap of paper. The letter must have come by yesterday afternoon’s post. The envelope was down on the floor by her chair and the letter itself was screwed up into a ball and thrown into the fireplace.”

  “What did—”

  I stopped, rather horrified at myself.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said.

  Griffith gave a quick unhappy smile.

  “You needn’t mind asking. That letter will have to be read at the inquest. No getting out of it, more’s the pity. It was the usual kind of thing—couched in the same foul style. The specific accusation was that the second boy, Colin, was not Symmington’s child.”

  “Do you think that was true?” I exclaimed incredulously.

  Griffith shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’ve no means of forming a judgment. I’ve only been here five years. As far as I’ve ever seen, the Symmingtons were a placid, happy couple devoted to each other and their children. It’s true that the boy doesn’t particularly resemble his parents—he’s got bright red hair, for one thing—but a child often throws back in appearance to a grandfather or grandmother.”

  “That lack of resemblance might have been what prompted the particular accusation. A foul and quite uncalled for bow at a venture.”

  “Very likely. In fact, probably. There’s not been much accurate knowledge behind these poison pen letters, just unbridled spite and malice.”

  “But it happened to hit the bull’s eye,” said Joanna. “After all, she wouldn’t have killed herself otherwise, would she?”

  Griffith said doubtfully:

  “I’m not quite sure. She’s been ailing in health for some time, neurotic, hysterical. I’ve been treating her for a nervous condition. It’s possible, I think, that the shock of receiving such a letter, couched in those terms, may have induced such a state of panic and despondency that she may have decided to take her life. She may have worked herself up to feel that her husband might not believe her if she denied the story, and the general shame and disgust might have worked upon her so powerfully as to temporarily unbalance her judgment.”

  “Suicide whilst of unsound mind,” said Joanna.

  “Exactly. I shall be quite justified, I think, in putting forward that point of view at the inquest.”

  “I see,” said Joanna.

  There was something in her voice which made Owen say:

  “Perfectly justified!” in an angry voice. He added, “You don’t agree, Miss Burton?”

  “Oh yes, I do,” said Joanna. “I’d do exactly the same in your place.”

  Owen looked at her doubtfully, then moved slowly away down the street. Joanna and I went on into the house.

  The front door was open and it seemed easier than ringing the bell, especially as we heard Elsie Holland’s voice inside.

  She was talking to Mr. Symmington who, huddled in a chair, was looking completely dazed.

  “No, but really, Mr. Symmington, you must take something. You haven’t had any breakfast, not what I call a proper breakfast, and nothing to eat last night, and what with the shock and all, you’ll be getting ill yourself, and you’ll need all your strength. The doctor said so before he left.”

  Symmington said in a toneless voice:

  “You’re very kind, Miss Holland, but—”

  “A nice cup of hot tea,” said Elsie Holland, thrusting the beverage on him firmly.

  Personally I should have given the poor devil a stiff whisky and soda. He looked as though he needed it. However, he accepted the tea, and looking up at Elsie Holland:

  “I can’t thank you for all you’ve done and are doing, Miss Holland. You’ve been perfectly splendid.”

  The girl flushed and looked pleased.

  “It’s nice of you to say that, Mr. Symmington. You must let me do all I can to help. Don’t worry about the children—I’ll see to them, and I’ve got the servants calmed down, and if there’s anything I can do, letterwriting or telephoning, don’t hesitate to ask me.”

  “You’re very kind,” Symmington said again.

  Elsie Holland, turning, caught sight of us and came hurrying out into the hall.

  “Isn’t it terrible?” she said in a hushed whisper.

  I thought, as I looked at her, that she was really a very nice girl. Kind, competent, practical in an emergency. Her magnificent blue eyes were just faintly rimmed with pink, showing that she had been softhearted enough to shed tears for her employer’s death.

  “Can we speak to you a minute,” asked Joanna. “We don’t want to disturb Mr. Symmington.”

  Elsie Holland nodded comprehendingly and led the way into the dining room on the other side of the hall.

  “It’s been awful for him,” she said. “Such a shock. Who ever would have thought a thing like this could happen? But of course, I do realize now that she had been queer for some time. Awfully nervy and weepy. I thought it was her health, though Dr. Griffith always said there was nothing really wrong with her. But she was snappy and irritable and some days you wouldn’t know just how to take her.”

  “What we really came for,” said Joanna, “was to know whether we could have Megan for a few days—that,
is if she’d like to come.”

  Elsie Holland looked rather surprised.

  “Megan?” she said doubtfully. “I don’t know, I’m sure. I mean, it’s ever so kind of you, but she’s such a queer girl. One never knows what she’s going to say or feel about things.”

  Joanna said rather vaguely:

  “We thought it might be a help, perhaps.”

  “Oh well, as far as that goes, it would. I mean, I’ve got the boys to look after (they’re with Cook just now) and poor Mr. Symmington—he really needs looking after as much as anyone, and such a lot to do and see to. I really haven’t had time to see much to Megan. I think she’s upstairs in the old nursery at the top of the house. She seems to want to get away from everyone. I don’t know if—”

  Joanna gave me the faintest of looks. I slipped quickly out of the room and upstairs. The old nursery was at the top of the house. I opened the door and went in. The room downstairs had given on to the garden behind and the blinds had not been down there. But in this room which faced the road they were decorously drawn down.

  Through a dim grey gloom I saw Megan. She was crouching on a divan set against the far wall, and I was reminded at once of some terrified animal, hiding. She looked petrified with fear.

  “Megan,” I said.

  I came forward, and unconsciously I adopted the tone one does adopt when you want to reassure a frightened animal. I’m really surprised I didn’t hold out a carrot or a piece of sugar. I felt like that.

  She stared at me, but she did not move, and her expression did not alter.

  “Megan,” I said again. “Joanna and I have come to ask you if you would like to come and stay with us for a little.”

  Her voice came hollowly out of the dim twilight.

  “Stay with you? In your house?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean, you’ll take me away from here?”

  “Yes, my dear.”

  Suddenly she began to shake all over. It was frightening and very moving.

  “Oh, do take me away! Please do. It’s so awful, being here, and feeling so wicked.”

  I came over to her and her hands fastened on my coat sleeve.

  “I’m an awful coward. I didn’t know what a coward I was.”

  “It’s all right, funny face,” I said. “These things are a bit shattering. Come along.”

  “Can we go at once? Without waiting a minute?”

  “Well, you’ll have to put a few things together, I suppose.”

  “What sort of things? Why?”

  “My dear girl,” I said. “We can provide you with a bed and a bath and the rest of it, but I’m damned if I lend you my toothbrush.”

  She gave a very faint weak little laugh.

  “I see. I think I’m stupid today. You mustn’t mind. I’ll go and pack some things. You—you won’t go away? You’ll wait for me?”

  “I’ll be on the mat.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much. I’m sorry I’m so stupid. But you see it’s rather dreadful when your mother dies.”

  “I know,” I said.

  I gave her a friendly pat on the back and she flashed me a grateful look and disappeared into a bedroom. I went on downstairs.

  “I found Megan,” I said. “She’s coming.”

  “Oh now, that is a good thing,” exclaimed Elsie Holland. “It will take her out of herself. She’s rather a nervy girl, you know. Difficult. It will be a great relief to feel I haven’t got her on my mind as well as everything else. It’s very kind of you, Miss Burton. I hope she won’t be a nuisance. Oh dear, there’s the telephone. I must go and answer it. Mr. Symmington isn’t fit.”

  She hurried out of the room. Joanna said:

  “Quite the ministering angel!”

  “You said that rather nastily,” I observed. “She’s a nice kind girl, and obviously most capable.”

  “Most. And she knows it.”

  “This is unworthy of you, Joanna,” I said.

  “Meaning why shouldn’t the girl do her stuff?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I never can stand seeing people pleased with themselves,” said Joanna. “It arouses all my worst instincts. How did you find Megan?”

  “Crouching in a darkened room looking rather like a stricken gazelle.”

  “Poor kid. She was quite willing to come?”

  “She leapt at it.”

  A series of thuds out in the hall announced the descent of Megan and her suitcase. I went out and took it from her. Joanna, behind me, said urgently:

  “Come on. I’ve already refused some nice hot tea twice.”

  We went out to the car. It annoyed me that Joanna had to sling the suitcase in. I could get along with one stick now, but I couldn’t do any athletic feats.

  “Get in,” I said to Megan.

  She got in. I followed her. Joanna started the car and we drove off.

  We got to Little Furze and went into the drawing room.

  Megan dropped into a chair and burst into tears. She cried with the hearty fervour of a child—bawled, I think, is the right word. I left the room in search of a remedy. Joanna stood by feeling rather helpless, I think.

  Presently I heard Megan say in a thick choked voice:

  “I’m sorry for doing this. It seems idiotic.”

  Joanna said kindly, “Not at all. Have another handkerchief.”

  I gather she supplied the necessary article. I reentered the room and handed Megan a brimming glass.

  “What is it?”

  “A cocktail,” I said.

  “Is it? Is it really?” Megan’s tears were instantly dried. “I’ve never drunk a cocktail.”

  “Everything has to have a beginning,” I said.

  Megan sipped her drink gingerly, then a beaming smile spread over her face, she tilted her head back and gulped it down at a draught.

  “It’s lovely,” she said. “Can I have another?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “In about ten minutes you’ll probably know.”

  “Oh!”

  Megan transferred her attention to Joanna.

  “I really am awfully sorry for having made such a nuisance of myself howling away like that. I can’t think why. It seems awfully silly when I’m so glad to be here.”

  “That’s all right,” said Joanna. “We’re very pleased to have you.”

  “You can’t be, really. It’s just kindness on your part. But I am grateful.”

  “Please don’t be grateful,” said Joanna. “It will embarrass me. I was speaking the truth when I said we should be glad to have you. Jerry and I have used up all our conversation. We can’t think of anymore things to say to each other.”

  “But now,” I said, “we shall be able to have all sorts of interesting discussions—about Goneril and Regan and things like that.”

  Megan’s face lit up.

  “I’ve been thinking about that, and I think I know the answer. It was because that awful old father of theirs always insisted on such a lot of sucking up. When you’ve always got to be saying thank you and how kind and all the rest of it, it would make you go a bit rotten and queer inside, and you’d just long to be able to be beastly for a change—and when you got the chance, you’d probably find it went to your head and you’d go too far. Old Lear was pretty awful, wasn’t he? I mean, he did deserve the snub Cordelia gave him.”

  “I can see,” I said, “that we are going to have many interesting discussions about Shakespeare.”

  “I can see you two are going to be very highbrow,” said Joanna. “I’m afraid I always find Shakespeare terribly dreary. All those long scenes where everybody is drunk and it’s supposed to be funny.”

  “Talking of drink,” I said turning to Megan. “How are you feeling?”

  “Quite all right, thank you.”

  “Not at all giddy? You don’t see two of Joanna or anything like that?”

  “No. I just feel as though I’d like to talk rather a lot.”
<
br />   “Splendid,” I said. “Obviously you are one of our natural drinkers. That is to say, if that really was your first cocktail.”

  “Oh, it was.”

  “A good strong head is an asset to any human being,” I said.

  Joanna took Megan upstairs to unpack.

  Partridge came in, looking sour, and said she had made two cup custards for lunch and what should she do about it?

  Six

  I

  The inquest was held three days later. It was all done as decorously as possible, but there was a large attendance and, as Joanna observed, the beady bonnets were wagging.

  The time of Mrs. Symmington’s death was put at between three and four o’clock. She was alone in the house, Symmington was at his office, the maids were having their day out, Elsie Holland and the children were out walking and Megan had gone for a bicycle ride.

  The letter must have come by the afternoon post. Mrs. Symmington must have taken it out of the box, read it—and then in a state of agitation she had gone to the potting shed, fetched some of the cyanide kept there for taking wasps’ nests, dissolved it in water and drunk it after writing those last agitated words, “I can’t go on….”

  Owen Griffith gave medical evidence and stressed the view he had outlined to us of Mrs. Symmington’s nervous condition and poor stamina. The coroner was suave and discreet. He spoke with bitter condemnation of people who write those despicable things, anonymous letters. Whoever had written that wicked and lying letter was morally guilty of murder, he said. He hoped the police would soon discover the culprit and take action against him or her. Such a dastardly and malicious piece of spite deserved to be punished with the utmost rigour of the law. Directed by him, the jury brought in the inevitable verdict. Suicide whilst temporarily insane.

  The coroner had done his best—Owen Griffith also, but afterwards, jammed in the crowd of eager village women, I heard the same hateful sibilant whisper I had begun to know so well, “No smoke without fire, that’s what I say!” “Must ’a been something in it for certain sure. She wouldn’t never have done it otherwise….”

  Just for a moment I hated Lymstock and its narrow boundaries, and its gossiping whispering women.

  II

  It is difficult to remember things in their exact chronological order. The next landmark of importance, of course, was Superintendent Nash’s visit. But it was before that, I think, that we received calls from various members of the community, each of which was interesting in its way and shed some light on the characters and personalities of the people involved.