“Yes I did.”
Craddock told her what he had learned.
“Margot Bence,” said Miss Marple softly. “I had a feeling, you know, that it had something to do with children….”
“I can’t believe that after all these years—”
“I know, I know. One never can. But do you really, my dear Dermot, know very much about children? Think back to your own childhood. Can’t you remember some incident, some happening that caused you grief, or a passion quite incommensurate with its real importance? Some sorrow or passionate resentment that has really never been equalled since? There was such a book, you know, written by that brilliant writer. Mr. Richard Hughes. I forget the name of it but it was about some children who had been through a hurricane. Oh yes—the hurricane in Jamaica. What made a vivid impression on them was their cat rushing madly through the house. It was the only thing they remembered. But the whole of the horror and excitement and fear that they had experienced was bound up in that one incident.”
“It’s odd you should say that,” said Craddock thoughtfully.
“Why, has it made you remember something?”
“I was thinking of when my mother died. I was five I think. Five or six. I was having dinner in the nursery, jam roll pudding. I was very fond of jam roll pudding. One of the servants came in and said to my nursery governess, ‘Isn’t it awful? There’s been an accident and Mrs. Craddock has been killed.’… Whenever I think of my mother’s death, d’you know what I see?”
“What?”
“A plate with jam roll pudding on it, and I’m staring at it. Staring at it and I can see as well now as then, how the jam oozed out of it at one side. I didn’t cry or say anything. I remember just sitting there as though I’d been frozen stiff, staring at the pudding. And d’you know, even now if I see in a shop or a restaurant or in anyone’s house a portion of jam roll pudding, a whole wave of horror and misery and despair comes over me. Sometimes for a moment I don’t remember why. Does that seem very crazy to you?”
“No,” said Miss Marple, “it seems entirely natural. It’s very interesting, that. It’s given me a sort of idea….”
II
The door opened and Miss Knight appeared bearing the tea tray.
“Dear, dear,” she exclaimed, “and so we’ve got a visitor, have we? How very nice. How do you do, Inspector Craddock. I’ll just fetch another cup.”
“Don’t bother,” Dermot called after her. “I’ve had a drink instead.”
Miss Knight popped her head back round the door.
“I wonder—could you just come here a minute, Mr. Craddock?”
Dermot joined her in the hall. She went to the dining room and shut the door.
“You will be careful, won’t you?” she said.
“Careful? In what way, Miss Knight?”
“Our old dear in there. You know, she’s so interested in everything but it’s not very good for her to get excited over murders and nasty things like that. We don’t want her to brood and have bad dreams. She’s very old and frail, and she really must lead a very sheltered life. She always has, you know. I’m sure all this talk of murders and gangsters and things like that is very, very bad for her.”
Dermot looked at her with faint amusement.
“I don’t think,” he said gently, “that anything that you or I could say about murders is likely unduly to excite or shock Miss Marple. I can assure you, my dear Miss Knight, that Miss Marple can contemplate murder and sudden death and indeed crime of all kinds with the utmost equanimity.”
He went back to the drawing room, and Miss Knight, clucking a little in an indignant manner, followed him. She talked briskly during tea with an emphasis on political news in the paper and the most cheerful subjects she could think of. When she finally removed the tea tray and shut the door behind her, Miss Marple drew a deep breath.
“At last we’ve got some peace,” she said. “I hope I shan’t murder that woman some day. Now listen, Dermot, there are some things I want to know.”
“Yes? What are they?”
“I want to go over very carefully what happened on the day of the fête. Mrs. Bantry has arrived, and the vicar shortly after her. Then come Mr. and Mrs. Badcock, and on the stairs at that time were the mayor and his wife, this man Ardwyck Fenn, Lola Brewster, a reporter from the Herald & Argus of Much Benham, and this photographer girl, Margot Bence. Margot Bence, you said, had her camera at an angle on the stairs, and was taking photographs of the proceedings. Have you seen any of those photographs?”
“Actually I brought one to show you.”
He took from his pocket an unmounted print. Miss Marple looked at it steadfastly. Marina Gregg with Jason Rudd a little behind her to one side, Arthur Badcock, his hand to his face, looking slightly embarrassed, was standing back, whilst his wife had Marina Gregg’s hand in hers and was looking up at her and talking. Marina was not looking at Mrs. Badcock. She was staring over her head looking, it seemed, full into the camera, or possibly just slightly to the left of it.
“Very interesting,” said Miss Marple. “I’ve had descriptions, you know, of what this look was on her face. A frozen look. Yes, that describes it quite well. A look of doom. I’m not really so sure about that. It’s more a kind of paralysis of feeling rather than apprehension of doom. Don’t you think so? I wouldn’t say it was actually fear, would you, although fear of course might take you that way. It might paralyse you. But I don’t think it was fear. I think rather that it was shock. Dermot, my dear boy, I want you to tell me, if you’ve got notes of it, what exactly Heather Badcock said to Marina Gregg on that occasion. I know roughly the gist of it, of course, but how near can you get to the actual words. I suppose you had accounts of it from different people.”
Dermot nodded.
“Yes. Let me see. Your friend, Mrs. Bantry, then Jason Rudd and I think Arthur Badcock. As you say they varied a little in wording, but the gist of them was the same.”
“I know. It’s the variations that I want. I think it might help us.”
“I don’t see how,” said Dermot, “though perhaps you do. Your friend, Mrs. Bantry, was probably the most definite on the point. As far as I remember—wait—I carry a good many of my jottings around with me.”
He took out a small notebook from his pocket, looked through it to refresh his memory.
“I haven’t got the exact words here,” he said, “but I made a rough note. Apparently Mrs. Badcock was very cheerful, rather arch, and delighted with herself. She said something like ‘I can’t tell you how wonderful this is for me. You won’t remember but years ago in Bermuda—I got up from bed when I had chicken pox and came along to see you and you gave me an autograph and it’s one of the proudest days of my life which I have never forgotten.’”
“I see,” said Miss Marple, “she mentioned the place but not the date, did she?”
“Yes.”
“And what did Rudd say?”
“Jason Rudd? He said that Mrs. Badcock told his wife that she’d got up from bed when she had the flu and had come to meet Marina and she still had her autograph. It was a shorter account than your friend’s but the gist of it was the same.”
“Did he mention the time and place?”
“No. I don’t think he did. I think he said roughly that it was some ten or twelve years ago.”
“I see. And what about Mr. Badcock?”
“Mr. Badcock said that Heather was extremely excited and anxious to meet Marina Gregg, that she was a great fan of Marina Gregg’s and that she’d told him that once when she was ill as a girl she managed to get up and meet Miss Gregg and get her autograph. He didn’t go into any close particulars, as it was evidently in the days before he was married to his wife. He impressed me as not thinking the incident of much importance.”
“I see,” said Miss Marple. “Yes, I see….”
“And what do you see?” asked Craddock.
“Not quite as much as I’d like to yet,” said Miss Marple, honestly, “b
ut I have a sort of feeling if I only knew why she’d ruined her new dress—”
“Who—Mrs. Badcock?”
“Yes. It seems to me such a very odd thing—such an inexplicable one unless—of course—Dear me, I think I must be very stupid!”
Miss Knight opened the door and entered, switching the light on as she did so.
“I think we want a little light in here,” she said brightly.
“Yes,” said Miss Marple, “you are so right, Miss Knight. That is exactly what we did want. A little light. I think, you know, that at last we’ve got it.”
The tête-à-tête seemed ended and Craddock rose to his feet.
“There only remains one thing,” he said, “and that is for you to tell me just what particular memory from your own past is agitating your mind now.”
“Everyone always teases me about that,” said Miss Marple, “but I must say that I was reminded just for a moment of the Lauristons’ parlourmaid.”
“The Lauristons’ parlourmaid?” Craddock looked completely mystified.
“She had, of course, to take messages on the telephone,” said Miss Marple, “and she wasn’t very good at it. She used to get the general sense right, if you know what I mean, but the way she wrote it down used to make quite nonsense of it sometimes. I suppose really, because her grammar was so bad. The result was that some very unfortunate incidents occurred. I remember one in particular. A Mr. Burroughs, I think it was, rang up and said he had been to see Mr. Elvaston about the fence being broken down but he said that the fence wasn’t his business at all to repair. It was on the other side of the property and he said he would like to know if that was really the case before proceeding further as it would depend on whether he was liable or not and it was important for him to know the proper lie of the land before instructing solicitors. A very obscure message, as you see. It confused rather than enlightened.”
“If you’re talking about parlourmaids,” said Miss Knight with a little laugh, “that must have been a very long time ago. I’ve never heard of a parlourmaid for many years now.”
“It was a good many years ago,” said Miss Marple, “but nevertheless human nature was very much the same then as it is now. Mistakes were made for very much the same reasons. Oh dear,” she added, “I am thankful that that girl is safely in Bournemouth.”
“The girl? What girl?” asked Dermot.
“That girl who did dressmaking and went up to see Giuseppe that day. What was her name— Gladys something.”
“Gladys Dixon?”
“Yes, that’s the name.”
“She’s in Bournemouth, do you say? How on earth do you know that?”
“I know,” said Miss Marple, “because I sent her there.”
“What?” Dermot stared at her. “You? Why?”
“I went out to see her,” said Miss Marple, “and I gave her some money and told her to take a holiday and not to write home.”
“Why on earth did you do that?”
“Because I didn’t want her to be killed, of course,” said Miss Marple, and blinked at him placidly.
Twenty-two
“Such a sweet letter from Lady Conway,” Miss Knight said two days later as she deposited Miss Marple’s breakfast tray. “You remember my telling you about her? Just a little, you know—” she tapped her forehead—“wanders sometimes. And her memory’s bad. Can’t recognize her relations always and tells them to go away.”
“That might be shrewdness really,” said Miss Marple, “rather than a loss of memory.”
“Now, now,” said Miss Knight, “aren’t we being naughty to make suggestions like that? She’s spending the winter at the Belgrave Hotel at Llandudno. Such a nice residential hotel. Splendid grounds and a very nice glassed-in terrace. She’s most anxious for me to come and join her there.” She sighed.
Miss Marple sat herself upright in bed.
“But please,” she said, “if you are wanted—if you are needed there and would like to go—”
“No, no, I couldn’t hear of it,” cried Miss Knight. “Oh, no, I never meant anything like that. Why, what would Mr. Raymond West say? He explained to me that being here might turn out to be a permanency. I should never dream of not fulfilling my obligations. I was only just mentioning the fact in passing, so don’t worry, dear,” she added, patting Miss Marple on the shoulder. “We’re not going to be deserted! No, no, indeed we’re not! We’re going to be looked after and cosseted and made very happy and comfortable always.”
She went out of the room. Miss Marple sat with an air of determination, staring at her tray and failing to eat anything. Finally she picked up the receiver of the telephone and dialled with vigour.
“Dr. Haydock?”
“Yes?”
“Jane Marple here.”
“And what’s the matter with you? In need of my professional services?”
“No,” said Miss Marple. “But I want to see you as soon as possible.”
When Dr. Haydock came, he found Miss Marple still in bed waiting for him.
“You look the picture of health,” he complained.
“That is why I wanted to see you,” said Miss Marple. “To tell you that I am perfectly well.”
“An unusual reason for sending for the doctor.”
“I’m quite strong, I’m quite fit, and it’s absurd to have anybody living in the house. So long as someone comes every day and does the cleaning and all that I don’t see any need at all for having someone living here permanently.”
“I dare say you don’t, but I do,” said Dr. Haydock.
“It seems to me you’re turning into a regular old fussbudget,” said Miss Marple unkindly.
“And don’t call me names!” said Dr. Haydock. “You’re a very healthy woman for your age; you were pulled down a bit by bronchitis which isn’t good for the elderly. But to stay alone in a house at your age is a risk. Supposing you fall down the stairs one evening or fall out of bed or slip in the bath. There you’d lie and nobody’d know about it.”
“One can imagine anything,” said Miss Marple. “Miss Knight might fall down the stairs and I’d fall over her rushing out to see what had happened.”
“It’s no good your bullying me,” said Dr. Haydock. “You’re an old lady and you’ve got to be looked after in a proper manner. If you don’t like this woman you’ve got, change her and get somebody else.”
“That’s not always so easy,” said Miss Marple.
“Find some old servant of yours, someone that you like, and who’s lived with you before. I can see this old hen irritates you. She’d irritate me. There must be some old servant somewhere. That nephew of yours is one of the best-selling authors of the day. He’d make it worth her while if you found the right person.”
“Of course dear Raymond would do anything of that kind. He is most generous,” said Miss Marple. “But it’s not so easy to find the right person. Young people have their own lives to live, and so many of my faithful old servants, I am sorry to say, are dead.”
“Well, you’re not dead,” said Dr. Haydock, “and you’ll live a good deal longer if you take proper care of yourself.”
He rose to his feet.
“Well,” he said. “No good my stopping here. You look as fit as a fiddle. I shan’t waste time taking your blood pressure or feeling your pulse or asking you questions. You’re thriving on all this local excitement, even if you can’t get about to poke your nose in as much as you’d like to do. Goodbye, I’ve got to go now and do some real doctoring. Eight to ten cases of German measles, half a dozen whooping coughs, and a suspected scarlet fever as well as my regulars!”
Dr. Haydock went out breezily—but Miss Marple was frowning… Something that he had said…what was it? Patients to see…the usual village ailments…village ailments? Miss Marple pushed her breakfast tray farther away with a purposeful gesture. Then she rang up Mrs. Bantry.
“Dolly? Jane here. I want to ask you something. Now pay attention. Is it true that you told Inspector Crad
dock that Heather Badcock told Marina Gregg a long pointless story about how she had chicken pox and got up in spite of it to go and meet Marina and get her autograph?”
“That was it more or less.”
“Chicken pox?”
“Well, something like that. Mrs. Allcock was talking to me about vodka at the time, so I wasn’t really listening closely.”
“You’re sure,” Miss Marple took a breath, “that she didn’t say whooping cough?”
“Whooping cough?” Mrs. Bantry sounded astounded. “Of course not. She wouldn’t have had to powder her face and do it up for whooping cough.”
“I see—that’s what you went by—her special mention of makeup?”
“Well, she laid stress on it—she wasn’t the makingup kind. But I think you’re right, it wasn’t chicken pox… Nettlerash, perhaps.”
“You only say that,” said Miss Marple coldly, “because you once had nettlerash yourself and couldn’t go to a wedding. You’re hopeless, Dolly, quite hopeless.”
She put the receiver down with a bang, cutting off Mrs. Bantry’s astonished protest of “Really, Jane.”
Miss Marple made a ladylike noise of vexation like a cat sneezing to indicate profound disgust. Her mind reverted to the problem of her own domestic comfort. Faithful Florence? Could faithful Florence, that grenadier of a former parlourmaid be persuaded to leave her comfortable small house and come back to St. Mary Mead to look after her erstwhile mistress? Faithful Florence had always been very devoted to her. But faithful Florence was very attached to her own little house. Miss Marple shook her head vexedly. A gay rat-tat-tat sounded at the door. On Miss Marple’s calling “Come in” Cherry entered.
“Come for your tray,” she said. “Has anything happened? You’re looking rather upset, aren’t you?”
“I feel so helpless,” said Miss Marple. “Old and helpless.”
“Don’t worry,” said Cherry, picking up the tray. “You’re very far from helpless. You don’t know the things I hear about you in this place! Why practically everybody in the Development knows about you now. All sorts of extraordinary things you’ve done. They don’t think of you as the old and helpless kind. It’s she puts it into your head.”
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 160