The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  “Was it a man or a woman they saw?” asked Miss Marple.

  “Unfortunately, Joanna Crawford could not say. Whoever it was, was wearing jeans or trousers, and had on a lurid polo-neck pullover in red and black checks. The figure turned and moved out of sight almost immediately. She is inclined to think it was a man but cannot be certain.”

  “And she thinks, or you think, that it was a deliberate attempt on Miss Temple’s life?”

  “The more she mulls it over, the more she thinks that that was exactly what it was. The boy agrees.”

  “You have no idea who it might have been?”

  “No idea whatever. No more have they. It might be one of our fellow travellers, someone who went for a stroll that afternoon. It might be someone completely unknown who knew that the coach was making a halt here and chose this place to make an attack on one of the passengers. Some youthful lover of violence for violence’s sake. Or it might have been an enemy.”

  “It seems very melodramatic if one says ‘a secret enemy,’” said Miss Marple.

  “Yes, it does. Who would want to kill a retired and respected Headmistress? That is a question we want answered. It is possible, faintly possible that Miss Temple herself might be able to tell us. She might have recognized the figure above her or she might more likely have known of someone who bore her ill will for some special reason.”

  “It still seems unlikely.”

  “I agree with you,” said Professor Wanstead. “She seems a totally unlikely person to be a fit victim of attack, but yet when one reflects, a Headmistress knows a great many people. A great many people, shall we put it this way, have passed through her hands.”

  “A lot of girls you mean have passed through her hands.”

  “Yes. Yes, that is what I meant. Girls and their families. A Headmistress must have knowledge of many things. Romances, for instance, that girls might indulge in, unknown to their parents. It happens, you know. It happens very often. Especially in the last ten or twenty years. Girls are said to mature earlier. That is physically true, through in a deeper sense of the word, they mature late. They remain childish longer. Childish in the clothes they like to wear, childish with their floating hair. Even their mini skirts represent a worship of childishness. Their Baby Doll nightdresses, their gymslips and shorts—all children’s fashions. They wish not to become adult—not to have to accept our kind of responsibility. And yet like all children, they want to be thought grown up, and free to do what they think are grown up things. And that leads sometimes to tragedy and sometimes to the aftermath of tragedy.”

  “Are you thinking of some particular case?”

  “No. No, not really. I’m only thinking—well, shall we say letting possibilities pass through my mind. I cannot believe that Elizabeth Temple had a personal enemy. An enemy ruthless enough to wish to take an opportunity of killing her. What I do think—” he looked at Miss Marple, “—would you like to make a suggestion?”

  “Of a possibility? Well, I think I know or guess what you are suggesting. You are suggesting that Miss Temple knew something, knew some fact or had some knowledge that would be inconvenient or even dangerous to somebody if it was known.”

  “Yes, I do feel exactly that.”

  “In that case,” said Miss Marple, “it seems indicated that there is someone on our coach tour who recognized Miss Temple or knew who she was, but who perhaps after the passage of some years was not remembered or might even not have been recognized by Miss Temple. It seems to throw it back on our passengers, does it not?” She paused. “That pullover you mentioned—red and black checks, you said?”

  “Oh yes? The pullover—” He looked at her curiously. “What was it that struck you about that?”

  “It was very noticeable,” said Miss Marple. “That is what your words led me to infer. It was very mentionable. So much so that the girl Joanna mentioned it specifically.”

  “Yes. And what does that suggest to you?”

  “The trailing of flags,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “Something that will be seen, remembered, observed, recognized.”

  “Yes.” Professor Wanstead looked at her with encouragement.

  “When you describe a person you have seen, seen not close at hand but from a distance, the first thing you will describe will be their clothes. Not their faces, not their walk, not their hands, not their feet. A scarlet tam-o’-shanter, a purple cloak, a bizarre leather jacket, a pullover of brilliant reds and blacks. Something very recognizable, very noticeable. The object of it being that when that person removes that garment, gets rid of it, sends it by post in a parcel to some address, say, about a hundred miles away, or thrusts it in a rubbish bin in a city or burns it or tears it up or destroys it, she or he will be the one person modestly and rather drably attired who will not be suspected or looked at or thought of. It must have been meant, that scarlet and black check jersey. Meant so that it will be recognized again though actually it will never again be seen on that particular person.”

  “A very sound idea,” said Professor Wanstead. “As I have told you,” continued the Professor, “Fallowfield is situated not very far from here. Sixteen miles, I think. So this is Elizabeth Temple’s part of the world, a part she knows well with people in it that she also might know well.”

  “Yes. It widens the possibilities,” said Miss Marple. “I agree with you,” she said presently, “that the attacker is more likely to have been a man than a woman. That boulder, if it was done with intent, was sent on its course very accurately. Accuracy is more a male quality than a female one. On the other hand there might easily have been someone on our coach, or possibly in the neighbourhood, who saw Miss Temple in the street, a former pupil of hers in past years. Someone whom she herself might not recognize after a period of time. But the girl or woman would have recognized her, because a Headmaster or Headmistress of over sixty is not unlike the same Headmaster or Headmistress at the age of fifty. She is recognizable. Some woman who recognized her former mistress and also knew that her mistress knew something damaging about her. Someone who might in some way prove a danger to her.” She sighed. “I myself do not know this part of the world at all. Have you any particular knowledge of it?”

  “No,” said Professor Wanstead. “I could not claim a personal knowledge of this part of the country. I know something, however, of various things that have happened in this part of the world entirely because of what you have told me. If it had not been for my acquaintanceship with you and the things you have told me I could have been more at sea than I am.

  “What are you yourself actually doing here? You do not know. Yet you were sent here. It was deliberately arranged by Rafiel that you should come here, that you should take this coach tour, that you and I should meet. There have been other places where we have stopped or through which we have passed, but special arrangements were made so that you should actually stay for a couple of nights here. You were put up with former friends of his who would not have refused any request he made. Was there a reason for that?”

  “So that I could learn certain facts that I had to know,” said Miss Marple.

  “A series of murders that took place a good many years ago?” Professor Wanstead looked doubtful. “There is nothing unusual in that. You can say the same of many places in England and Wales. These things seem always to go in a series. First a girl found assaulted and murdered. Then another girl not very far away. Then something of the same kind perhaps twenty miles away. The same pattern of death.

  “Two girls were reported missing from Jocelyn St. Mary itself, the one that we have been discussing whose body was found six months later, many miles away and who was last seen in the company of Michael Rafiel—”

  “And the other?”

  “A girl called Nora Broad. Not-a ‘quiet girl with no boyfriends.’ Possibly with one boyfriend too many. Her body was never found. It will be—one day. There have been cases when twenty years have passed,” said Wanstead. He slowed down: “We have arrived. This is Carri
stown, and here is the Hospital.”

  Shepherded by Professor Wanstead, Miss Marple entered. The Professor was obviously expected. He was ushered into a small room where a woman rose from a desk.

  “Oh yes,” she said, “Professor Wanstead. And—er—this is—er—” She hesitated slightly.

  “Miss Jane Marple,” said Professor Wanstead. “I talked to Sister Barker on the telephone.”

  “Oh yes. Sister Barker said that she would be accompanying you.”

  “How is Miss Temple?”

  “Much the same, I think. I am afraid there is not much improvement to report.” She rose. “I will take you to Sister Barker.”

  Sister Barker was a tall, thin woman. She had a low, decisive voice and dark grey eyes that had a habit of looking at you and looking away almost immediately, leaving you with the feeling that you had been inspected in a very short space of time, and judgment pronounced upon you.

  “I don’t know what arrangements you have in mind,” said Professor Wanstead.

  “Well, I had better tell Miss Marple just what we have arranged. First I must make it clear to you that the patient, Miss Temple, is still in a coma with very rare intervals. She appears to come to occasionally, to recognize her surroundings and to be able to say a few words. But there is nothing one can do to stimulate her. It has to be left to the utmost patience. I expect Professor Wanstead has already told you that in one of her intervals of consciousness she uttered quite distinctly the words ‘Miss Jane Marple.’ And then: ‘I want to speak to her. Miss Jane Marple.’ After that she relapsed into unconsciousness. Doctor thought it advisable to get in touch with the other occupants of the coach. Professor Wanstead came to see us and explained various matters and said he would bring you over. I am afraid that all we can ask you to do is to sit in the private ward where Miss Temple is, and perhaps be ready to make a note of any words she should say, if she does regain consciousness. I am afraid the prognosis is not very helpful. To be quite frank, which is better I think, since you are not a near relative and are unlikely to be disturbed by this information, Doctor thinks that she is sinking fast, that she may die without recovering consciousness. There is nothing one can do to relieve the concussion. It is important that someone should hear what she says and Doctor thinks it advisable that she should not see too many people round her if she regains consciousness. If Miss Marple is not worried at the thought of sitting there alone, there will be a nurse in the room, though not obviously so. That is, she will not be noticed from the bed, and will not move unless she’s asked for. She will sit in a corner of the room shielded by a screen.” She added, “We have a police official there also, ready to take down anything. The Doctor thinks it advisable that he also should not be noticed by Miss Temple. One person alone, and that possibly a person she expects to see, will not alarm her or make her lose knowledge of what she wants to say to you. I hope this will not be too difficult a thing to ask you?”

  “Oh no,” said Miss Marple, “I’m quite prepared to do that. I have a small notebook with me and a Biro pen that will not be in evidence. I can remember things by heart for a very short time, so I need not appear to be obviously taking notes of what she says. You can trust my memory and I am not deaf—not deaf in the real sense of the word. I don’t think my hearing is quite as good as it used to be, but if I am sitting near a bedside, I ought to be able to hear anything she says quite easily even if it is whispered. I am used to sick people. I have had a good deal to do with them in my time.”

  Again the lightning glance of Sister Barker went over Miss Marple. This time a faint inclination of the head showed satisfaction.

  “It is kind of you,” she said, “and I am sure that if there is any help you can give, we can rely on you to give it. If Professor Wanstead likes to sit in the waiting room downstairs, we can call him at any moment if it should be necessary. Now, Miss Marple, perhaps you will accompany me.”

  Miss Marple followed Sister along a passage and into a small well appointed single room. In the bed there, in a dimly-lighted room since the blinds were half drawn, lay Elizabeth Temple. She lay there like a statue, yet she did not give the impression of being asleep. Her breath came uncertainly in slight gasps. Sister Barker bent to examine her patient, motioned Miss Marple into a chair beside the bed. She then crossed the room to the door again. A young man with a notebook in his hand came from behind the screen there.

  “Doctor’s orders, Mr. Reckitt,” said Sister Barker.

  A nurse also appeared. She had been sitting in the opposite corner of the room.

  “Call me if necessary, Nurse Edmonds,” said Sister Barker, “and get Miss Marple anything she may need.”

  Miss Marple loosened her coat. The room was warm. The nurse approached and took it from her. Then she retired to her former position, Miss Marple sat down in the chair. She looked at Elizabeth Temple thinking, as she had thought before when looking at her in the coach, what a fine shaped head she had. Her grey hair drawn back from it, fitted her face in a perfect cap-like effect. A handsome woman, and a woman of personality. Yes, a thousand pities, Miss Marple thought, a thousand pities if the world was going to lose Elizabeth Temple.

  Miss Marple eased the cushion at her back, moved the chair a fraction of an inch and sat quietly to wait. Whether to wait in vain or to some point, she had no idea. Time passed. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour, thirty-five minutes. Then suddenly, quite unexpectedly as it were, a voice came. Low, but distinct, slightly husky. None of the resonance it had once held. “Miss Marple.”

  Elizabeth Temple’s eyes were open now. They were looking at Miss Marple. They looked competent, perfectly sensible. She was studying the face of the woman who was sitting by her bed, studying her without any sign of emotion, of surprise. Only, one would say, of scrutiny. Fully conscious scrutiny. And the voice spoke again.

  “Miss Marple. You are Jane Marple?”

  “That is right. Yes,” said Miss Marple. “Jane Marple.”

  “Henry often spoke of you. He said things about you.”

  The voice stopped. Miss Marple said with a slight query in her voice,

  “Henry?”

  “Henry Clithering, an old friend of mine—very old friend.”

  “An old friend of mine too,” said Miss Marple. “Henry Clithering.”

  Her mind went back to the many years she had known him, Sir Henry Clithering, the things he had said to her, the assistance he had asked from her sometimes, and the assistance that she had asked from him. A very old friend.

  “I remembered your name. On the passenger list. I thought it must be you. You could help. That’s what he—Henry, yes—would say if he were here. You might be able to help. To find out. It’s important. Very important although—it’s a long time ago now—a—long—time—ago.”

  Her voice faltered a little, her eyes half closed. Nurse got up, came across the room, picked up a small glass and held it to Elizabeth Temple’s lips. Miss Temple took a sip, nodded her head dismissively. Nurse put down the glass and went back to her chair.

  “If I can help, I will,” said Miss Marple. She asked no further questions.

  Miss Temple said, “Good,” and after a minute or two, again, “Good.”

  For two or three minutes she lay with her eyes closed. She might have been asleep or unconscious. Then her eyes opened again suddenly.

  “Which,” she said, “which of them? That’s what one has got to know. Do you know what I am talking about?”

  “I think so. A girl who died—Nora Broad?” A frown came quickly to Elizabeth Temple’s forehead.

  “No, no, no. The other girl. Verity Hunt.”

  There was a pause and then, “Jane Marple. You’re old—older than when he talked about you. You’re older, but you can still find out things, can’t you?”

  Her voice became slightly higher, more insistent.

  “You can, can’t you? Say you can. I’ve not much time. I know that. I know it quite well. One of them, but which? Find out. Henry wo
uld have said you can. It may be dangerous for you—but you’ll find out, won’t you?”

  “With God’s help, I will,” said Miss Marple. It was a vow.

  “Ah.”

  The eyes closed, then opened again. Something like a smile seemed to try and twitch the lips.

  “The big stone from above. The Stone of Death.”

  “Who rolled that stone down?”

  “Don’t know. No matter—only—Verity. Find out about Verity. Truth. Another name for truth, Verity.”

  Miss Marple saw the faint relaxation of the body on the bed. There was a faintly whispered: “Good-bye. Do your best….”

  Her body relaxed, the eyes closed. The nurse came again to the bedside. This time she took up the pulse, felt it, and beckoned to Miss Marple. Miss Marple rose obediently and followed her out of the room.

  “That’s been a big effort for her,” said the nurse. “She won’t regain consciousness again for some time. Perhaps not at all. I hope you learnt something?”

  “I don’t think I did,” said Miss Marple, “but one never knows, does one.”

  “Did you get anything?” asked Professor Wanstead, as they went out to the car.

  “A name,” said Miss Marple. “Verity. Was that the girl’s name?”

  “Yes. Verity Hunt.”

  Elizabeth Temple died an hour and a half later. She died without regaining consciousness.

  Fourteen

  MR. BROADRIBB WONDERS

  “Seen The Times this morning?” said Mr. Broadribb to his partner, Mr. Schuster.

  Mr. Schuster said he couldn’t afford The Times, he took the Telegraph.

  “Well, it may be in that too,” said Mr. Broadribb. “In the deaths, Miss Elizabeth Temple, D.Sc.”