The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  “I don’t agree,” said Percy. “Caution and economy. Those are our watchwords.”

  “Not mine,” said Lance.

  “You’re only the junior partner, remember,” said Percival.

  “All right, all right. But I’ve got a little say-so all the same.”

  Percival walked up and down the room agitatedly.

  “It’s no good, Lance. I’m fond of you and all that—”

  “Are you?” Lance interpolated. Percival did not appear to hear him.

  “. . . but I really don’t think we’re going to pull together at all. Our outlooks are totally different.”

  “That may be an advantage,” said Lance.

  “The only sensible thing,” said Percival, “is to dissolve the partnership.”

  “You’re going to buy me out—is that the idea?”

  “My dear boy, it’s the only sensible thing to do, with our ideas so different.”

  “If you find it hard to pay Elaine out her legacy, how are you going to manage to pay me my share?”

  “Well, I didn’t mean in cash,” said Percival. “We could—er—divide up the holdings.”

  “With you keeping the gilt-edged and me taking the worst of the speculative off you, I suppose?”

  “They seem to be what you prefer,” said Percival.

  Lance grinned suddenly.

  “You’re right in a way, Percy, old boy. But I can’t indulge my own taste entirely. I’ve got Pat here to think of.”

  Both men looked towards her. Pat opened her mouth, then shut it again. Whatever game Lance was playing, it was best that she should not interfere. That Lance was driving at something special, she was quite sure, but she was still a little uncertain as to what his actual object was.

  “Line ’em up, Percy,” said Lance, laughing. “Bogus Diamond Mines, Inaccessible Rubies, the Oil Concessions where no oil is. Do you think I’m quite as big a fool as I look?”

  Percival said:

  “Of course, some of these holdings are highly speculative, but remember, they may turn out immensely valuable.”

  “Changed your tune, haven’t you?” said Lance, grinning. “Going to offer me father’s latest wildcat acquisition as well as the old Blackbird Mine and things of that kind. By the way, has the inspector been asking you about this Blackbird Mine?”

  Percival frowned.

  “Yes, he did. I can’t imagine what he wanted to know about it. I couldn’t tell him much. You and I were children at the time. I just remember vaguely that Father went out there and came back saying the whole thing was no good.”

  “What was it—a gold mine?”

  “I believe so. Father came back pretty certain that there was no gold there. And, mind you, he wasn’t the sort of man to be mistaken.”

  “Who got him into it? A man called MacKenzie, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. MacKenzie died out there.”

  “MacKenzie died out there,” said Lance thoughtfully. “Wasn’t there a terrific scene? I seem to remember . . . Mrs. MacKenzie, wasn’t it? Came here. Ranted and stormed at Father. Hurled down curses on his head. She accused him, if I remember rightly, of murdering her husband.”

  “Really,” said Percival repressively. “I can’t recollect anything of the kind.”

  “I remember it, though,” said Lance. “I was a good bit younger than you, of course. Perhaps that’s why it appealed to me. As a child it struck me as full of drama. Where was Blackbird? West Africa wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “I must look up the concession sometime,” said Lance, “when I’m at the office.”

  “You can be quite sure,” said Percival, “that Father made no mistake. If he came back saying there was no gold, there was no gold.”

  “You’re probably right there,” said Lance. “Poor Mrs. MacKenzie. I wonder what happened to her and to those two kids she brought along. Funny—they must be grown-up by now.”

  Chapter Twenty

  At the Pinewood Private Sanatorium, Inspector Neele, sitting in the visitors’ parlour, was facing a grey-haired, elderly lady. Helen MacKenzie was sixty-three, though she looked younger. She had pale blue, rather vacant-looking eyes, and a weak, indeterminate chin. She had a long upper lip which occasionally twitched. She held a large book in her lap and was looking down at it as Inspector Neele talked to her. In Inspector Neele’s mind was the conversation he had just had with Dr. Crosbie, the head of the establishment.

  “She’s a voluntary patient, of course,” said Dr. Crosbie, “not certified.”

  “She’s not dangerous, then?”

  “Oh, no. Most of the time she’s as sane to talk to as you or me. It’s one of her good periods now so that you’ll be able to have a perfectly normal conversation with her.”

  Bearing this in mind, Inspector Neele started his first conversational essay.

  “It’s very kind of you to see me, madam,” he said. “My name is Neele. I’ve come to see you about a Mr. Fortescue who has recently died. A Mr. Rex Fortescue. I expect you know the name.”

  Mrs. MacKenzie’s eyes were fixed on her book. She said:

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mr. Fortescue, madam. Mr. Rex Fortescue.”

  “No,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “No. Certainly not.”

  Inspector Neele was slightly taken aback. He wondered whether this was what Dr. Crosbie called being completely normal.

  “I think, Mrs. MacKenzie, you knew him a good many years ago.”

  “Not really,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “It was yesterday.”

  “I see,” said Inspector Neele, falling back upon this formula rather uncertainly. “I believe,” he went on, “that you paid him a visit many years ago at his residence, Yewtree Lodge.”

  “A very ostentatious house,” said Mrs. MacKenzie.

  “Yes. Yes, you might call it that. He had been connected with your husband, I believe, over a certain mine in Africa. The Blackbird Mine, I believe it was called.”

  “I have to read my book,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “There’s not much time and I have to read my book.”

  “Yes, madam. Yes, I quite see that.” There was a pause, then Inspector Neele went on, “Mr. MacKenzie and Mr. Fortescue went out together to Africa to survey the mine.”

  “It was my husband’s mine,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “He found it and staked a claim to it. He wanted money to capitalize it. He went to Rex Fortescue. If I’d been wiser, if I’d known more, I wouldn’t have let him do it.”

  “No, I see that. As it was, they went out together to Africa, and there your husband died of fever.”

  “I must read my book,” said Mrs. MacKenzie.

  “Do you think Mr. Fortescue swindled your husband over the Blackbird Mine, Mrs. MacKenzie?”

  Without raising her eyes from the book, Mrs. MacKenzie said:

  “How stupid you are.”

  “Yes, yes, I dare say . . . But you see it’s all a long time ago and making inquiries about a thing that is over a long time ago is rather difficult.”

  “Who said it was over?”

  “I see. You don’t think it is over?”

  “No question is ever settled until it is settled right. Kipling said that. Nobody reads Kipling nowadays, but he was a great man.”

  “Do you think the question will be settled right one of these days?”

  “Rex Fortescue is dead, isn’t he? You said so.”

  “He was poisoned,” said Inspector Neele.

  Rather disconcertingly, Mrs. MacKenzie laughed.

  “What nonsense,” she said, “he died of fever.”

  “I’m talking about Mr. Rex Fortescue.”

  “So am I.” She looked up suddenly and her pale blue eyes fixed his. “Come now,” she said, “he died in his bed, didn’t he? He died in his bed?”

  “He died in St. Jude’s Hospital,” said Inspector Neele.

  “Nobody knows where my husband died,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “Nobody knows how he
died or where he was buried . . . All anyone knows is what Rex Fortescue said. And Rex Fortescue was a liar!”

  “Do you think there may have been foul play?”

  “Foul play, foul play, fowls lay eggs, don’t they?”

  “You think that Rex Fortescue was responsible for your husband’s death?”

  “I had an egg for breakfast this morning,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “Quite fresh, too. Surprising, isn’t it, when one thinks that it was thirty years ago?”

  Neele drew a deep breath. It seemed unlikely that he was ever going to get anywhere at this rate, but he persevered.

  “Somebody put dead blackbirds on Rex Fortescue’s desk about a month or two before he died.”

  “That’s interesting. That’s very, very interesting.”

  “Have you any idea, madam, who might have done that?”

  “Ideas aren’t any help to one. One has to have action. I brought them up for that, you know, to take action.”

  “You’re talking about your children?”

  She nodded her head rapidly.

  “Yes. Donald and Ruby. They were nine and seven and left without a father. I told them. I told them every day. I made them swear it every night.”

  Inspector Neele leant forward.

  “What did you make them swear?”

  “That they’d kill him, of course.”

  “I see.”

  Inspector Neele spoke as though it was the most reasonable remark in the world.

  “Did they?”

  “Donald went to Dunkirk. He never came back. They sent me a wire saying he was dead: ‘Deeply regret killed in action.’ Action, you see, the wrong kind of action.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, madam. What about your daughter?”

  “I haven’t got a daughter,” said Mrs. MacKenzie.

  “You spoke of her just now,” said Neele. “Your daughter, Ruby.”

  “Ruby. Yes, Ruby.” She leaned forward. “Do you know what I’ve done to Ruby?”

  “No, madam. What have you done to her?”

  She whispered suddenly:

  “Look here at the Book.”

  He saw then that what she was holding in her lap was a Bible. It was a very old Bible and as she opened it, on the front page, Inspector Neele saw that various names had been written. It was obviously a family Bible in which the old-fashioned custom had been continued of entering each new birth. Mrs. MacKenzie’s thin forefinger pointed to the two last names. “Donald MacKenzie” with the date of his birth, and “Ruby MacKenzie” with the date of hers. But a thick line was drawn through Ruby MacKenzie’s name.

  “You see?” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “I struck her out of the Book. I cut her off forever! The Recording Angel won’t find her name there.”

  “You cut her name out of the book? Now, why, madam?”

  Mrs. MacKenzie looked at him cunningly.

  “You know why,” she said.

  “But I don’t. Really, madam, I don’t.”

  “She didn’t keep faith. You know she didn’t keep faith.”

  “Where is your daughter now, madam?”

  “I’ve told you. I have no daughter. There isn’t such a person as Ruby MacKenzie any longer.”

  “You mean she’s dead?”

  “Dead?” The woman laughed suddenly. “It would be better for her if she were dead. Much better. Much, much better.” She sighed and turned restlessly in her seat. Then her manner reverting to a kind of formal courtesy, she said: “I’m so sorry, but really I’m afraid I can’t talk to you any longer. You see, the time is getting very short, and I must read my book.”

  To Inspector Neele’s further remarks Mrs. MacKenzie returned no reply. She merely made a faint gesture of annoyance and continued to read her Bible with her finger following the line of the verse she was reading.

  Neele got up and left. He had another brief interview with the superintendent.

  “Do any of her relations come to see her?” he asked. “A daughter, for instance?”

  “I believe a daughter did come to see her in my predecessor’s time, but her visit agitated the patient so much that he advised her not to come again. Since then everything is arranged through solicitors.”

  “And you’ve no idea where this Ruby MacKenzie is now?”

  The superintendent shook his head.

  “No idea whatsoever.”

  “You’ve no idea whether she’s married, for instance?”

  “I don’t know, all I can do is to give you the address of the solicitors who deal with us.”

  Inspector Neele had already tracked down those solicitors. They were unable, or said they were unable, to tell him anything. A trust fund had been established for Mrs. MacKenzie which they managed. These arrangements had been made some years previously and they had not seen Miss MacKenzie since.

  Inspector Neele tried to get a description of Ruby MacKenzie but the results were not encouraging. So many relations came to visit patients that after a lapse of years they were bound to be remembered dimly, with the appearance of one mixed-up with the appearance of another. The matron who had been there for many years seemed to remember that Miss MacKenzie was small and dark. The only other nurse who had been there for any length of time recalled that she was heavily built and fair.

  “So there we are, sir,” said Inspector Neele as he reported to the assistant commissioner. “There’s a whole crazy setup and it fits together. It must mean something.”

  The AC nodded thoughtfully.

  “The blackbirds in the pie tying up with the Blackbird Mine, rye in the dead man’s pocket, bread and honey with Adele Fortescue’s tea—(not that that is conclusive. After all, anyone might have had bread and honey for tea!) The third murder, that girl strangled with a stocking and a clothes-peg nipped onto her nose. Yes, crazy as the setup is, it certainly can’t be ignored.”

  “Half a minute, sir,” said Inspector Neele.

  “What is it?”

  Neele was frowning.

  “You know, what you’ve just said. It didn’t ring true. It was wrong somewhere.” He shook his head and sighed. “No. I can’t place it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I

  Lance and Pat wandered round the well-kept grounds surrounding Yewtree Lodge.

  “I hope I’m not hurting your feelings, Lance,” Pat murmured, “if I say this is quite the nastiest garden I’ve ever been in.”

  “It won’t hurt my feelings,” said Lance. “Is it? Really I don’t know. It seems to have three gardeners working on it very industriously.”

  Pat said:

  “Probably that’s what’s wrong with it. No expense spared, no signs of an individual taste. All the right rhododendrons and all the right bedding out done in the proper season, I expect.”

  “Well, what would you put in an English garden, Pat, if you had one?”

  “My garden,” said Pat, “would have hollyhocks, larkspurs and Canterbury bells, no bedding out and none of these horrible yews.”

  She glanced up at the dark yew hedges, disparagingly.

  “Association of ideas,” said Lance easily.

  “There’s something awfully frightening about a poisoner,” said Pat. “I mean it must be a horrid, brooding revengeful mind.”

  “So that’s how you see it? Funny! I just think of it as businesslike and cold-blooded.”

  “I suppose one could look at it that way.” She resumed, with a slight shiver, “All the same, to do three murders . . . Whoever did it must be mad.”

  “Yes,” said Lance, in a low voice. “I’m afraid so.” Then breaking out sharply, he said: “For God’s sake, Pat, do go away from here. Go back to London. Go down to Devonshire or up to the Lakes. Go to Stratford-on-Avon or go and look at the Norfolk Broads. The police wouldn’t mind your going—you had nothing to do with all this. You were in Paris when the old man was killed and in London when the other two died. I tell you it worries me to death to have you here.”

  Pat paused a moment before saying
quietly:

  “You know who it is, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But you think you know . . . That’s why you’re frightened for me . . . I wish you’d tell me.”

  “I can’t tell you. I don’t know anything. But I wish to God you’d go away from here.”

  “Darling,” said Pat. “I’m not going. I’m staying here. For better, for worse. That’s how I feel about it.” She added, with a sudden catch in her voice: “Only with me it’s always for worse.”

  “What on earth do you mean, Pat?”

  “I bring bad luck. That’s what I mean. I bring bad luck to anybody I come in contact with.”

  “My dear adorable nitwit, you haven’t brought bad luck to me. Look how after I married you the old man sent for me to come home and make friends with him.”

  “Yes, and what happened when you did come home? I tell you, I’m unlucky to people.”

  “Look here, my sweet, you’ve got a thing about all this. It’s superstition, pure and simple.”

  “I can’t help it. Some people do bring bad luck. I’m one of them.”

  Lance took her by the shoulders and shook her violently. “You’re my Pat and to be married to you is the greatest luck in the world. So get that into your silly head.” Then, calming down, he said in a more sober voice: “But, seriously, Pat, do be very careful. If there is someone unhinged round here, I don’t want you to be the one who stops the bullet or drinks the henbane.”

  “Or drinks the henbane as you say.”

  “When I’m not around, stick to that old lady. What’s-her-name Marple. Why do you think Aunt Effie asked her to stay here?”

  “Goodness knows why Aunt Effie does anything. Lance, how long are we going to stay here?”

  Lance shrugged his shoulders.

  “Difficult to say.”

  “I don’t think,” said Pat, “that we’re really awfully welcome.” She hesitated as she spoke the words. “The house belongs to your brother now, I suppose? He doesn’t really want us here, does he?”

  Lance chuckled suddenly.

  “Not he, but he’s got to stick us for the present at any rate.”

  “And afterwards? What are we going to do, Lance? Are we going back to East Africa or what?”