The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  “If he does think that,” said Miss Marple aloud, “he’s gaga. I mean, he was gaga before he died.”

  But she didn’t think Mr. Rafiel would have been gaga.

  “I shall receive instructions,” said Miss Marple. “But what instructions and when?”

  It was only then that it occurred to her suddenly that without noticing it she had definitely accepted the mandate. She spoke aloud again, addressing the atmosphere.

  “I believe in eternal life,” said Miss Marple. “I don’t know exactly where you are, Mr. Rafiel, but I have no doubt that you are somewhere—I will do my best to fulfil your wishes.”

  II

  It was three days later when Miss Marple wrote to Mr. Broadribb. It was a very short letter, keeping strictly to the point.

  “Dear Mr. Broadribb,

  I have considered the suggestion you made to me and I am letting you know that I have decided to accept the proposal made to me by the late Mr. Rafiel. I shall do my best to comply with his wishes, though I am not at all assured of success. Indeed, I hardly see how it is possible for me to be successful. I have been given no direct instructions in his letter and have not been—I think the term is briefed—in any way. If you have any further communication you are holding for me which sets out definite instructions, I should be glad if you will send it to me, but I imagine that as you have not done so, that is not the case.

  I presume that Mr. Rafiel was of sound mind and disposition when he died? I think I am justified in asking if there has been recently in his life any criminal affair in which he might possibly have been interested, either in the course of his business or in his personal relations. Has he ever expressed to you any anger or dissatisfaction with some notable miscarriage of justice about which he felt strongly? If so, I think I should be justified in asking you to let me know about it. Has any relation or connection of his suffered some hardship, lately been the victim of some unjust dealing, or what might be considered as such?

  I am sure you will understand my reasons for asking these things. Indeed, Mr. Rafiel himself may have expected me to do so.”

  III

  Mr. Broadribb showed this to Mr. Schuster, who leaned back in his chair and whistled.

  “She’s going to take it on, is she? Sporting old bean,” he said. Then he added, “I suppose she knows something of what it’s all about, does she?”

  “Apparently not,” said Mr. Broadribb.

  “I wish we did,” said Mr. Schuster. “He was an odd cuss.”

  “A difficult man,” said Mr. Broadribb.

  “I haven’t got the least idea,” said Mr. Schuster, “have you?”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Mr. Broadribb. He added, “He didn’t want me to have, I suppose.”

  “Well, he’s made things a lot more difficult by doing that. I don’t see the least chance that some old pussy from the country can interpret a dead man’s brain and know what fantasy was plaguing him. You don’t think he was leading her up the garden path? Having her on? Sort of joke, you know. Perhaps he thinks that she thinks she’s the cat’s whiskers at solving village problems, but he’s going to teach her a sharp lesson—”

  “No,” said Mr. Broadribb, “I don’t quite think that. Rafiel wasn’t that type of man.”

  “He was a mischievous devil sometimes,” said Mr. Schuster.

  “Yes, but not—I think he was serious over this. Something was worrying him. In fact I’m quite sure something was worrying him.”

  “And he didn’t tell you what it was or give you the least idea?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Then how the devil can he expect—” Schuster broke off.

  “He can’t really have expected anything to come of this,” said Mr. Broadribb. “I mean, how is she going to set about it?”

  “A practical joke, if you ask me.”

  “Twenty thousand pounds is a lot of money.”

  “Yes, but if he knows she can’t do it?”

  “No,” said Mr. Broadribb. “He wouldn’t have been as unsporting as all that. He must think she’s got a chance of doing or finding out whatever it is.”

  “And what do we do?”

  “Wait,” said Mr. Broadribb. “Wait and see what happens next. After all, there has to be some development.”

  “Got some sealed orders somewhere, have you?”

  “My dear Schuster,” said Mr. Broadribb, “Mr. Rafiel had implicit trust in my discretion and in my ethical conduct as a lawyer. Those sealed instructions are to be opened only under certain circumstances, none of which has yet arisen.”

  “And never will,” said Mr. Schuster.

  That ended the subject.

  IV

  Mr. Broadribb and Mr. Schuster were lucky in so much as they had a full professional life to lead. Miss Marple was not so fortunate. She knitted and she reflected and she also went out for walks, occasionally remonstrated with by Cherry for so doing.

  “You know what the doctor said. You weren’t to take too much exercise.”

  “I walk very slowly,” said Miss Marple, “and I am not doing anything. Digging, I mean, or weeding. I just—well, I just put one foot in front of the other and wonder about things.”

  “What things?” asked Cherry, with some interest.

  “I wish I knew,” said Miss Marple, and asked Cherry to bring her an extra scarf as there was a chilly wind.

  “What’s fidgeting her, that’s what I would like to know,” said Cherry to her husband as she set before him a Chinese plate of rice and a concoction of kidneys. “Chinese dinner,” she said.

  Her husband nodded approval

  “You get a better cook every day,” he said.

  “I’m worried about her,” said Cherry. “I’m worried because she’s worried a bit. She had a letter and it stirred her all up.”

  “What she needs is to sit quiet,” said Cherry’s husband. “Sit quiet, take it easy, get herself new books from the library, get a friend or two to come and see her.”

  “She’s thinking out something,” said Cherry. “Sort of plan. Thinking out how to tackle something, that’s how I look at it.”

  She broke off the conversation at this stage and took in the coffee tray and put it down by Miss Marple’s side.

  “Do you know a woman who lives in a new house somewhere here, she’s called Mrs. Hastings?” asked Miss Marple. “And someone called Miss Bartlett, I think it is, who lives with her—”

  “What—do you mean the house that’s been all done up and repainted at the end of the village? The people there haven’t been there very long. I don’t know what their names are. Why do you want to know? They’re not very interesting. At least I shouldn’t say they were.”

  “Are they related?” asked Miss Marple.

  “No. Just friends, I think.”

  “I wonder why—” said Miss Marple, and broke off.

  “You wondered why what?”

  “Nothing,” said Miss Marple. “Clear my little hand desk, will you, and give me my pen and the notepaper. I’m going to write a letter.”

  “Who to?” said Cherry, with the natural curiosity of her kind.

  “To a clergyman’s sister,” said Miss Marple. “His name is Canon Prescott.”

  “That’s the one you met abroad, in the West Indies, isn’t it? You showed me his photo in your album.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not feeling bad, are you? Wanting to write to a clergyman and all that?”

  “I’m feeling extremely well,” said Miss Marple, “and I am anxious to get busy on something. It’s just possible Miss Prescott might help.”

  “Dear Miss Prescott,” wrote Miss Marple, “I hope you have not forgotten me. I met you and your brother in the West Indies, if you remember, at St. Honoré. I hope the dear Canon is well and did not suffer much with his asthma in the cold weather last winter.

  I am writing to ask you if you can possibly let me have the address of Mrs. Walters—Esther Walters—whom you may remember from the Cari
bbean days. She was a secretary to Mr. Rafiel. She did give me her address at the time, but unfortunately I have mislaid it. I was anxious to write to her as I have some horticultural information which she asked me about but which I was not able to tell her at the time. I heard in a roundabout way the other day that she had married again, but I don’t think my informant was very certain of these facts. Perhaps you know more about her than I do.

  I hope this is not troubling you too much. With kind regards to your brother and best wishes to yourself,

  Yours sincerely,

  Jane Marple.”

  Miss Marple felt better when she had despatched this missive.

  “At least,” she said, “I’ve started doing something. Not that I hope much from this, but still it might help.”

  Miss Prescott answered the letter almost by return of post. She was a most efficient woman. She wrote a pleasant letter and enclosed the address in question.

  “I have not heard anything directly about Esther Walters,” she said, “but like you I heard from a friend that they had seen a notice of her remarriage. Her name now is, I believe, Mrs. Alderson or Anderson. Her address is Winslow Lodge, near Alton, Hants. My brother sends his best wishes to you. It is sad that we live so far apart. We in the north of England and you south of London. I hope that we may meet on some occasion in the future.

  Yours sincerely,

  Joan Prescott.”

  “Winslow Lodge, Alton,” said Miss Marple, writing it down.

  “Not so far away from here, really. No. Not so far away. I could—I don’t know what would be the best method—possibly one of Inch’s taxis. Slightly extravagant, but if anything results from it, it could be charged as expenses quite legitimately. Now do I write to her beforehand or do I leave it to chance? I think it would be better really, to leave it to chance. Poor Esther. She could hardly remember me with any affection or kindliness.”

  Miss Marple lost herself in a train of thought that arose from her thoughts. It was quite possible that her actions in the Caribbean had saved Esther Walters from being murdered in the not far distant future. At any rate, that was Miss Marple’s belief, but probably Esther Walters had not believed any such thing. “A nice woman,” said Miss Marple, uttering the words in a soft tone aloud, “a very nice woman. The kind that would so easily marry a bad lot. In fact, the sort of woman that would marry a murderer if she were ever given half a chance. I still consider,” continued Miss Marple thoughtfully, sinking her voice still lower, “that I probably saved her life. In fact, I am almost sure of it, but I don’t think she would agree with that point of view. She probably dislikes me very much. Which makes it more difficult to use her as a source of information. Still, one can but try. It’s better than sitting here, waiting, waiting, waiting.”

  Was Mr. Rafiel perhaps making fun of her when he had written that letter? He was not always a particularly kindly man—he could be very careless of people’s feelings.

  “Anyway,” said Miss Marple, glancing at the clock and deciding that she would have an early night in bed, “when one thinks of things just before going to sleep, quite often ideas come. It may work out that way.”

  V

  “Sleep well?” asked Cherry, as she put down an early morning tea tray on the table at Miss Marple’s elbow.

  “I had a curious dream,” said Miss Marple.

  “Nightmare?”

  “No, no, nothing of that kind. I was talking to someone, not anyone I knew very well. Just talking. Then when I looked, I saw it wasn’t that person at all I was talking to. It was somebody else. Very odd.”

  “Bit of a mix up,” said Cherry, helpfully.

  “It just reminded me of something,” said Miss Marple, “or rather of someone I once knew. Order Inch for me, will you? To come here about half past eleven.”

  Inch was part of Miss Marple’s past. Originally the proprietor of a cab, Mr. Inch had died, been succeeded by his son “Young Inch,” then aged forty-four, who had turned the family business into a garage and acquired two aged cars. On his decease the garage acquired a new owner. There had been since then Pip’s Cars, James’s Taxis and Arthur’s Car Hire—old inhabitants still spoke of Inch.

  “Not going to London, are you?”

  “No, I’m not going to London. I shall have lunch perhaps in Haslemere.”

  “Now what are you up to now?” said Cherry, looking at her suspiciously.

  “Endeavouring to meet someone by accident and make it seem purely natural,” said Miss Marple. “Not really very easy, but I hope that I can manage it.”

  At half past eleven the taxi waited. Miss Marple instructed Cherry.

  “Ring up this number, will you, Cherry? Ask if Mrs. Anderson is at home. If Mrs. Anderson answers or if she is going to come to the telephone, say a Mr. Broadribb wants to speak to her. You,” said Miss Marple, “are Mr. Broadribb’s secretary. If she’s out, find out what time she will be in.”

  “And if she is in and I get her?”

  “Ask what day she could arrange to meet Mr. Broadribb at his office in London next week. When she tells you, make a note of it and ring off.”

  “The things you think of! Why all this? Why do you want me to do it?”

  “Memory is a curious thing,” said Miss Marple. “Sometimes one remembers a voice even if one hasn’t heard it for over a year.”

  “Well, Mrs. What’s-a-name won’t have heard mine at any time, will she?”

  “No,” said Miss Marple. “That is why you are making the call.”

  Cherry fulfilled her instruction. Mrs. Anderson was out shopping, she learned, but would be in for lunch and all the afternoon.

  “Well, that makes things easier,” said Miss Marple. “Is Inch here? Ah yes. Good morning, Edward,” she said, to the present driver of Arthur’s taxis whose actual name was George. “Now this is where I want you to go. It ought not to take, I think, more than an hour and a half.”

  The expedition set off.

  Four

  ESTHER WALTERS

  Esther Anderson came out of the Supermarket and went towards where she had parked her car. Parking grew more difficult every day, she thought. She collided with somebody, an elderly woman limping a little who was walking towards her. She apologized, and the other woman made an exclamation.

  “Why, indeed, it’s—surely—it’s Mrs. Walters, isn’t it? Esther Walters? You don’t remember me, I expect. Jane Marple. We met in the hotel in St. Honoré, oh—quite a long time ago. A year and a half.”

  “Miss Marple? So it is, of course. Fancy seeing you!”

  “How very nice to see you. I am lunching with some friends near here but I have to pass back through Alton later. Will you be at home this afternoon? I should so like to have a nice chat with you. It’s so nice to see an old friend.”

  “Yes, of course. Anytime after 3 o’clock.”

  The arrangement was ratified.

  “Old Jane Marple,” said Esther Anderson, smiling to herself. “Fancy her turning up. I thought she’d died a long time ago.”

  Miss Marple rang the bell of Winslow Lodge at 3:30 precisely. Esther opened the door to her and brought her in.

  Miss Marple sat down in the chair indicated to her, fluttering a little in the restless manner that she adopted when slightly flustered. Or at any rate, when she was seeming to be slightly flustered. In this case it was misleading, since things had happened exactly as she had hoped they would happen.

  “It’s so nice to see you,” she said to Esther. “So very nice to see you again. You know, I do think things are so very odd in this world. You hope you’ll meet people again and you’re quite sure you will. And then time passes and suddenly it’s all such a surprise.”

  “And then,” said Esther, “one says it’s a small world, doesn’t one?”

  “Yes, indeed, and I think there is something in that. I mean it does seem a very large world and the West Indies are such a very long way away from England. Well, I mean, of course I might have met you anywhere. In L
ondon or at Harrods. On a railway station or in a bus. There are so many possibilities.”

  “Yes, there are a lot of possibilities,” said Esther. “I certainly shouldn’t have expected to meet you just here because this isn’t really quite your part of the world, is it?”

  “No. No, it isn’t. Not that you’re really so very far from St. Mary Mead where I live. Actually, I think it’s only about twenty-five miles. But twenty-five miles in the country, when one hasn’t got a car—and of course I couldn’t afford a car, and anyway, I mean, I can’t drive a car—so it wouldn’t be much to the point, so one really only does see one’s neighbours on the bus route, or else go by a taxi from the village.”

  “You’re looking wonderfully well,” said Esther.

  “I was just going to say you were looking wonderfully well, my dear. I had no idea you lived in this part of the world.”

  “I have only done so for a short time. Since my marriage, actually.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know. How interesting. I suppose I must have missed it. I always do look down the marriages.”

  “I’ve been married four or five months,” said Esther. “My name is Anderson now.”

  “Mrs. Anderson,” said Miss Marple. “Yes. I must try and remember that. And your husband?”

  It would be unnatural, she thought, if she did not ask about the husband. Old maids were notoriously inquisitive.

  “He is an engineer,” said Esther. “He runs the Time and Motion Branch. He is,” she hesitated—“a little younger than I am.”

  “Much better,” said Miss Marple immediately. “Oh, much better, my dear. In these days men age so much quicker than women. I know it used not to be said so, but actually it’s true. I mean, they get more things the matter with them. I think, perhaps, they worry and work too much. And then they get high blood pressure or low blood pressure or sometimes a little heart trouble. They’re rather prone to gastric ulcers, too. I don’t think we worry so much, you know. I think we’re a tougher sex.”