The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  “How can I tell? How can I possibly tell?”

  “I think you might have quite a good idea, Miss Gregg.”

  “I haven’t. I assure you I haven’t.”

  “You’re a very famous person,” said Dermot. “You’ve had great successes. Successes in your profession, and personal successes, too. Men have fallen in love with you, wanted to marry you, have married you. Women have been jealous and envied you. Men have been in love with you and been rebuffed by you. It’s a pretty wild field, I agree, but I should think you must have some idea who could have written these notes.”

  “It could have been anybody.”

  “No, Miss Gregg, it couldn’t have been anybody. It could possibly have been one of quite a lot of people. It could be someone quite humble, a dresser, an electrician, a servant; or it could be someone among the ranks of your friends, or so-called friends. But you must have some idea. Some name, more than one name, perhaps, to suggest.”

  The door opened and Jason Rudd came in. Marina turned to him. She swept out an arm appealingly.

  “Jinks, darling, Mr. Craddock is insisting that I must know who wrote those horrid notes. And I don’t. You know I don’t. Neither of us knows. We haven’t got the least idea.”

  “Very urgent about that,” thought Craddock. “Very urgent. Is Marina Gregg afraid of what her husband might say?”

  Jason Rudd, his eyes dark with fatigue and the scowl on his face deeper than usual, came over to join them. He took Marina’s hand in his.

  “I know it sounds unbelievable to you, Inspector,” he said, “but honestly neither Marina nor I have any idea about this business.”

  “So you’re in the happy position of having no enemies, is that it?” The irony was manifest in Dermot’s voice.

  Jason Rudd flushed a little. “Enemies? That’s a very biblical word, Inspector. In that sense, I can assure you I can think of no enemies. People who dislike one, would like to get the better of one, would do a mean turn to one if they could, in malice and uncharitableness, yes. But it’s a long step from that to putting an overdose of poison in a drink.”

  “Just now, in speaking to your wife, I asked her who could have written or inspired those letters. She said she didn’t know. But when we come to the actual action, it narrows it down. Somebody actually put the poison in that glass. And that’s a fairly limited field, you know.”

  “I saw nothing,” said Jason Rudd.

  “I certainly didn’t,” said Marina. “Well, I mean—if I had seen anyone putting anything in my glass, I wouldn’t have drunk the stuff, would I?”

  “I can’t help believing, you know,” said Dermot Craddock gently, “that you do know a little more than you’re telling me.”

  “It’s not true,” said Marina. “Tell him that that isn’t true, Jason.”

  “I assure you,” said Jason Rudd, “that I am completely and absolutely at a loss. The whole thing’s fantastic. I might believe it was a joke—a joke that had somehow gone wrong—that had proved dangerous, done by a person who never dreamt that it would be dangerous….”

  There was a slight question in his voice, then he shook his head. “No. I see that idea doesn’t appeal to you.”

  “There’s one more thing I should like to ask you,” said Dermot Craddock. “You remember Mr. and Mrs. Badcock’s arrival, of course. They came immediately after the vicar. You greeted them, I understand, Miss Gregg, in the same charming way as you had received all your guests. But I am told by an eyewitness that immediately after greeting them you looked over Mrs. Badcock’s shoulder and that you saw something which seemed to alarm you. Is that true, and if so, what was it?”

  Marina said quickly, “Of course it isn’t true. Alarm me—what should have alarmed me?”

  “That’s what we want to know,” said Dermot Craddock patiently. “My witness is very insistent on the point, you know.”

  “Who was your witness? What did he or she say she saw?”

  “You were looking at the staircase,” said Dermot Craddock. “There were people coming up the staircase. There was a journalist, there was Mr. Grice and his wife, elderly residents in this place, there was Mr. Ardwyck Fenn who had just arrived from the States and there was Miss Lola Brewster. Was it the sight of one of those people that upset you, Miss Gregg?”

  “I tell you I wasn’t upset.” She almost barked the words.

  “And yet your attention wavered from greeting Mrs. Badcock. She had said something to you which you left unanswered because you were staring past her at something else.”

  Marina Gregg took hold on herself. She spoke quickly and convincingly.

  “I can explain, I really can. If you knew anything about acting you’d be able to understand quite easily. There comes a moment, even when you know a part well—in fact it usually happens when you do know a part well—when you go on with it mechanically. Smiling, making the proper movements and gestures, saying the words with the usual inflexions. But your mind isn’t on it. And quite suddenly there’s a horrible blank moment when you don’t know where you are, where you’ve got to in the play, what your next lines are! Drying up, that’s what we call it. Well, that’s what happened to me. I’m not terribly strong, as my husband will tell you. I’ve had rather a strenuous time, and a good deal of nervous apprehension about this film. I wanted to make a success of this fête and to be nice and pleasant and welcoming to everybody. But one does say the same things over and over again, mechanically, to the people who are always saying the same things to you. You know, how they’ve always wanted to meet you. How they once saw you outside a theatre in San Francisco—or travelled in a plane with you. Something silly really, but one has to be nice about it and say things. Well, as I’m telling you, one does that automatically. One doesn’t need to think what to say because one’s said it so often before. Suddenly, I think, a wave of tiredness came over me. My brain went blank. Then I realized that Mrs. Badcock had been telling me a long story which I hadn’t really heard at all, and was now looking at me in an eager sort of way and that I hadn’t answered her or said any of the proper things. It was just tiredness.”

  “Just tiredness,” said Dermot Craddock slowly. “You insist on that, Miss Gregg?”

  “Yes, I do. I can’t see why you don’t believe me.”

  Dermot Craddock turned towards Jason Rudd. “Mr. Rudd,” he said, “I think you’re more likely to understand my meaning than your wife is. I am concerned, very much concerned, for your wife’s safety. There has been an attempt on her life, there have been threatening letters. That means, doesn’t it, that there is someone who was here on the day of the fête and possibly is still here, someone in very close touch with this house and what goes on in it. That person, whoever it is, may be slightly insane. It’s not just a question of threats. Threatened men live long, as they say. The same goes for women. But whoever it was didn’t stop at threats. A deliberate attempt was made to poison Miss Gregg. Don’t you see in the whole nature of things, that the attempt is bound to be repeated? There’s only one way to achieve safety. That is to give me all the clues you possibly can. I don’t say that you know who that person is, but I think that you must be able to give a guess or to have a vague idea. Won’t you tell me the truth? Or if, which is possible, you yourself do not know the truth, won’t you urge your wife to do so. It’s in the interests of her own safety that I’m asking you.”

  Jason Rudd turned his head slowly. “You hear what Inspector Craddock says, Marina,” he said. “It’s possible, as he says, that you may know something that I do not. If so, for God’s sake, don’t be foolish about it. If you’ve the least suspicion of anyone, tell it to us now.”

  “But I haven’t.” Her voice rose in a wail. “You must believe me.”

  “Who were you afraid of that day?” asked Dermot.

  “I wasn’t afraid of anyone.”

  “Listen, Miss Gregg, of the people on the stairs or coming up it, there were two friends whom you were surprised to see, whom you had not seen fo
r a long time and whom you did not expect to see that day. Mr. Ardwyck Fenn and Miss Brewster. Had you any special emotions when you suddenly saw them coming up the stairs? You didn’t know they were coming, did you?”

  “No, we’d no idea they were even in England,” said Jason Rudd.

  “I was delighted,” said Marina, “absolutely delighted!”

  “Delighted to see Miss Brewster?”

  “Well—” She shot him a quick, faintly suspicious glance.

  Craddock said, “Lola Brewster was, I believe, originally married to your third husband Robert Truscott?”

  “Yes, that’s so.”

  “He divorced her in order to marry you.”

  “Oh, everyone knows about that,” said Marina Gregg impatiently. “You needn’t think it’s anything you’ve found out. There was a bit of a rumpus at the time, but there wasn’t any bad feeling about it in the end.”

  “Did she make threats against you?”

  “Well—in a way, yes. But, oh dear, I wish I could explain. No one takes those sort of threats seriously. It was at a party, she’d had a lot of drink. She might have taken a pot-shot at me with a pistol if she’d had one. But luckily she didn’t. All that was years ago! None of these things last, these emotions! They don’t, really they don’t. That’s true, isn’t it, Jason?”

  “I’d say it was true enough,” said Jason Rudd, “and I can assure you, Mr. Craddock, that Lola Brewster had no opportunity on the day of the fête of poisoning my wife’s drink. I was close beside her most of the time. The idea that Lola would suddenly, after a long period of friendliness, come to England, and arrive at our house all prepared to poison my wife’s drink—why the whole idea’s absurd.”

  “I appreciate your point of view,” said Craddock.

  “It’s not only that, it’s a matter of fact as well. She was nowhere near Marina’s glass.”

  “And your other visitor— Ardwyck Fenn?”

  There was, he thought, a very slight pause before Jason Rudd spoke.

  “He’s a very old friend of ours,” he said. “We haven’t seen him for a good many years now, though we occasionally correspond. He’s quite a big figure in American television.”

  “Was he an old friend of yours too?” Dermot Craddock asked Marina.

  Her breath came rather quickly as she replied. “Yes, oh yes. He—he was quite a friend of mine always, but I’ve rather lost sight of him of late years.” Then with a sudden quick rush of words, she went on, “If you think that I looked up and saw Ardwyck and was frightened of him, it’s nonsense. It’s absolute nonsense. Why should I be frightened of him, what reason would I have to be frightened of him? We were great friends. I was just very, very pleased when I suddenly saw him. It was a delightful surprise, as I told you. Yes, a delightful surprise.” She raised her head, looking at him, her face vivid and defiant.

  “Thank you, Miss Gregg,” said Craddock quietly. “If you should feel inclined at any moment to take me a little further into your confidence I should strongly advise you to do so.”

  Fourteen

  I

  Mrs. Bantry was on her knees. A good day for hoeing. Nice dry soil. But hoeing wouldn’t do everything. Thistles now, and dandelions. She dealt vigorously with these pests.

  She rose to her feet, breathless but triumphant, and looked out over the hedge on to the road. She was faintly surprised to see the dark-haired secretary whose name she couldn’t remember coming out of the public call box that was situated near the bus stop on the other side of the road.

  What was her name now. It began with a B—or was it an R? No, Zielinsky, that was it. Mrs. Bantry remembered just in time, as Ella crossed the road into the drive past the Lodge.

  “Good morning, Miss Zielinsky,” she called in a friendly tone.

  Ella Zielinsky jumped. It was not so much a jump, as a shy—the shy of a frightened horse. It surprised Mrs. Bantry.

  “Good morning,” said Ella, and added quickly: “I came down to telephone. There’s something wrong with our line today.”

  Mrs. Bantry felt more surprise. She wondered why Ella Zielinsky bothered to explain her action. She responded civilly. “How annoying for you. Do come in and telephone anytime you want to.”

  “Oh—thank you very much…” Ella was interrupted by a fit of sneezing.

  “You’ve got hay fever,” said Mrs. Bantry with immediate diagnosis. “Try weak bicarbonate of soda and water.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I have some very good patent stuff in an atomizer. Thank you all the same.”

  She sneezed again as she moved away, walking briskly up the drive.

  Mrs. Bantry looked after her. Then her eyes returned to her garden. She looked at it in a dissatisfied fashion. Not a weed to be seen anywhere.

  “Othello’s occupation’s gone,” Mrs. Bantry murmured to herself confusedly. “I dare say I’m a nosy old woman but I would like to know if—”

  A moment of irresolution and then Mrs. Bantry yielded to temptation. She was going to be a nosy old woman and the hell with it! She strode indoors to the telephone, lifted the receiver and dialled it. A brisk transatlantic voice spoke.

  “Gossington Hall.”

  “This is Mrs. Bantry, at the East Lodge.”

  “Oh, good morning, Mrs. Bantry. This is Hailey Preston. I met you on the day of the fête. What can I do for you?”

  “I thought perhaps I could do something for you. If your telephone’s out of order—”

  His astonished voice interrupted her.

  “Our telephone out of order? There’s been nothing wrong with it. Why did you think so?”

  “I must have made a mistake,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I don’t always hear very well,” she explained unblushingly.

  She put the receiver back, waited a minute, then dialled once more.

  “Jane? Dolly here.”

  “Yes, Dolly. What is it?”

  “Well, it seems rather odd. The secretary woman was dialling from the public call box in the road. She took the trouble to explain to me quite unnecessarily that she was doing so because the line at Gossington Hall was out of order. But I’ve rung up there, and it isn’t….”

  She paused, and waited for intelligence to pronounce.

  “Indeed,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

  “For what reason, do you think?”

  “Well, clearly, she didn’t want to be overheard—”

  “Exactly.”

  “And there might be quite a number of reasons for that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting,” said Miss Marple again.

  II

  Nobody could have been more ready to talk than Donald McNeil. He was an amiable red-headed young man. He greeted Dermot Craddock with pleasure and curiosity.

  “How are you getting along,” he asked cheerfully, “got any little special titbit for me?”

  “Not as yet. Later perhaps.”

  “Stalling as usual. You’re all the same. Affable oysters! Haven’t you come to the stage yet of inviting someone to come and ‘assist you in your inquiries’?”

  “I’ve come to you,” said Dermot Craddock with a grin.

  “Is there a nasty double entendre in that remark? Are you really suspicious that I murdered Heather Badcock and do you think I did it in mistake for Marina Gregg or that I meant to murder Heather Badcock and do you think I did it in mistake for Marina Gregg or that I meant to murder Heather Badcock all the time?”

  “I haven’t suggested anything,” said Craddock.

  “No, no, you wouldn’t do that, would you? You’d be very correct. All right. Let’s go into it. I was there. I had opportunity but had I any motive? Ah, that’s what you’d like to know. What was my motive?”

  “I haven’t been able to find one so far,” said Craddock.

  “That’s very gratifying. I feel safer.”

  “I’m just interested in what you may have seen that day.”

  “You’ve had that already. The loca
l police had that straight away. It’s humiliating. There I was on the scene of a murder. I practically saw the murder committed, must have done, and yet I’ve no idea who did it. I’m ashamed to confess that the first I knew about it was seeing the poor, dear woman sitting on a chair gasping for breath and then pegging out. Of course it made a very good eyewitness account. It was a good scoop for me—and all that. But I’ll confess to you that I feel humiliated that I don’t know more. I ought to know more. And you can’t kid me that the dose was meant for Heather Badcock. She was a nice woman who talked too much, but nobody gets murdered for that—unless of course they give away secrets. But I don’t think anybody would ever have told Heather Badcock a secret. She wasn’t the kind of woman who’d have been interested in other people’s secrets. My view of her is of a woman who invariably talked about herself.”

  “That seems to be the generally accepted view,” agreed Craddock.

  “So we come to the famous Marina Gregg. I’m sure there are lots of wonderful motives for murdering Marina. Envy and jealousy and love tangles—all the stuff of drama. But who did it? Someone with a screw loose, I presume. There! You’ve had my valuable opinion. Is that what you wanted?”

  “Not that alone. I understand that you arrived and came up the stairs about the same time as the vicar and the mayor.”

  “Quite correct. But that wasn’t the first time I’d arrived. I’d been there earlier.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes. I was on a kind of roving commission, you know, going here and there. I had a photographer with me. I’d gone down to take a few local shots of the mayor arriving and throwing a hoopla and putting in a peg for buried treasure and that kind of thing. Then I went back up again, not so much on the job as to get a drink or two. The drink was good.”

  “I see. Now can you remember who else was on the staircase when you went up?”

  “Margot Bence from London was there with her camera.”

  “You know her well?”

  “Oh I just run against her quite often. She’s a clever girl, who makes a success of her stuff. She takes all the fashionable things— First Nights, Gala Performances—specializes in photographs from unusual angles. Arty! She was in a corner of the half landing very well placed for taking anyone who came up and for taking the greetings going on at the top. Lola Brewster was just ahead of me on the stairs. Didn’t know her at first. She’s got a new rust-red hairdo. The very latest Fiji Islander type. Last time I saw her it was lank waves falling round her face and chin in a nice shade of auburn. There was a big dark man with her, American. I don’t know who he was but he looked important.”