“How exactly did he murder her, do you think?”
Miss Marple stared ahead of her for some minutes with dreamy blue eyes.
“It was very well-timed—with the baker’s van as witness. They could see the old woman and, of course, they’d put down the horse’s fright to that. But I should imagine, myself, that an air gun, or perhaps a catapult. Yes, just as the horse came through the gates. The horse bolted, of course, and Mrs. Laxton was thrown.”
She paused, frowning.
“The fall might have killed her. But he couldn’t be sure of that. And he seems the sort of man who would lay his plans carefully and leave nothing to chance. After all, Mrs. Edge could get him something suitable without her husband knowing. Otherwise, why would Harry bother with her? Yes, I think he had some powerful drug handy, that could be administered before you arrived. After all, if a woman is thrown from her horse and has serious injuries and dies without recovering consciousness, well—a doctor wouldn’t normally be suspicious, would he? He’d put it down to shock or something.”
Doctor Haydock nodded.
“Why did you suspect?” asked Miss Marple.
“It wasn’t any particular cleverness on my part,” said Doctor Haydock. “It was just the trite, well-known fact that a murderer is so pleased with his cleverness that he doesn’t take proper precautions. I was just saying a few consolatory words to the bereaved husband—and feeling damned sorry for the fellow, too—when he flung himself down on the settee to do a bit of playacting and a hypodermic syringe fell out of his pocket.
“He snatched it up and looked so scared that I began to think. Harry Laxton didn’t drug; he was in perfect health; what was he doing with a hypodermic syringe? I did the autopsy with a view to certain possibilities. I found strophanthin. The rest was easy. There was strophanthin in Laxton’s possession, and Bella Edge, questioned by the police, broke down and admitted to having got it for him. And finally old Mrs. Murgatroyd confessed that it was Harry Laxton who had put her up to the cursing stunt.”
“And your niece got over it?”
“Yes, she was attracted by the fellow, but it hadn’t gone far.”
The doctor picked up his manuscript.
“Full marks to you, Miss Marple—and full marks to me for my prescription. You’re looking almost yourself again.”
Eighteen
TAPE-MEASURE MURDER
Miss Politt took hold of the knocker and rapped politely on the cottage door. After a discreet interval she knocked again. The parcel under her left arm shifted a little as she did so, and she readjusted it. Inside the parcel was Mrs. Spenlow’s new green winter dress, ready for fitting. From Miss Politt’s left hand dangled a bag of black silk, containing a tape measure, a pincushion, and a large, practical pair of scissors.
Miss Politt was tall and gaunt, with a sharp nose, pursed lips, and meagre iron-grey hair. She hesitated before using the knocker for the third time. Glancing down the street, she saw a figure rapidly approaching. Miss Hartnell, jolly, weather-beaten, fifty-five, shouted out in her usual loud bass voice, “Good afternoon, Miss Politt!”
The dressmaker answered, “Good afternoon, Miss Hartnell.” Her voice was excessively thin and genteel in its accents. She had started life as a lady’s maid. “Excuse me,” she went on, “but do you happen to know if by any chance Mrs. Spenlow isn’t at home?”
“Not the least idea,” said Miss Hartnell.
“It’s rather awkward, you see. I was to fit on Mrs. Spenlow’s new dress this afternoon. Three thirty, she said.”
Miss Hartnell consulted her wrist watch. “It’s a little past the half hour now.”
“Yes. I have knocked three times, but there doesn’t seem to be any answer, so I was wondering if perhaps Mrs. Spenlow might have gone out and forgotten. She doesn’t forget appointments as a rule, and she wants the dress to wear the day after tomorrow.”
Miss Hartnell entered the gate and walked up the path to join Miss Politt outside the door of Laburnum Cottage.
“Why doesn’t Gladys answer the door?” she demanded. “Oh, no, of course, it’s Thursday—Gladys’s day out. I expect Mrs. Spenlow has fallen asleep. I don’t expect you’ve made enough noise with this thing.”
Seizing the knocker, she executed a deafening rat-a-tat-tat, and in addition thumped upon the panels of the door. She also called out in a stentorian voice, “What ho, within there!”
There was no response.
Miss Politt murmured, “Oh, I think Mrs. Spenlow must have forgotten and gone out, I’ll call round some other time.” She began edging away down the path.
“Nonsense,” said Miss Hartnell firmly. “She can’t have gone out. I’d have met her. I’ll just take a look through the windows and see if I can find any signs of life.”
She laughed in her usual hearty manner, to indicate that it was a joke, and applied a perfunctory glance to the nearest windowpane—perfunctory because she knew quite well that the front room was seldom used, Mr. and Mrs. Spenlow preferring the small back sitting room.
Perfunctory as it was, though, it succeeded in its object. Miss Hartnell, it is true, saw no signs of life. On the contrary, she saw, through the window, Mrs. Spenlow lying on the hearthrug—dead.
“Of course,” said Miss Hartnell, telling the story afterwards, “I managed to keep my head. That Politt creature wouldn’t have had the least idea of what to do. ‘Got to keep our heads,’ I said to her. ‘You stay here, and I’ll go for Constable Palk.’ She said something about not wanting to be left, but I paid no attention at all. One has to be firm with that sort of person. I’ve always found they enjoy making a fuss. So I was just going off when, at that very moment, Mr. Spenlow came round the corner of the house.”
Here Miss Hartnell made a significant pause. It enabled her audience to ask breathlessly, “Tell me, how did he look?”
Miss Hartnell would then go on, “Frankly, I suspected something at once! He was far too calm. He didn’t seem surprised in the least. And you may say what you like, it isn’t natural for a man to hear that his wife is dead and display no emotion whatever.”
Everybody agreed with this statement.
The police agreed with it, too. So suspicious did they consider Mr. Spenlow’s detachment, that they lost no time in ascertaining how that gentleman was situated as a result of his wife’s death. When they discovered that Mrs. Spenlow had been the monied partner, and that her money went to her husband under a will made soon after their marriage, they were more suspicious than ever.
Miss Marple, that sweet-faced—and, some said, vinegar-tongued—elderly spinster who lived in the house next to the rectory, was interviewed very early—within half an hour of the discovery of the crime. She was approached by Police Constable Palk, importantly thumbing a notebook. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ve a few questions to ask you.”
Miss Marple said, “In connection with the murder of Mrs. Spenlow?”
Palk was startled. “May I ask, madam, how you got to know of it?”
“The fish,” said Miss Marple.
The reply was perfectly intelligible to Constable Palk. He assumed correctly that the fishmonger’s boy had brought it, together with Miss Marple’s evening meal.
Miss Marple continued gently. “Lying on the floor in the sitting room, strangled—possibly by a very narrow belt. But whatever it was, it was taken away.”
Palk’s face was wrathful. “How that young Fred gets to know everything—”
Miss Marple cut him short adroitly. She said, “There’s a pin in your tunic.”
Constable Palk looked down, startled. He said, “They do say, ‘See a pin and pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck.’”
“I hope that will come true. Now what is it you want me to tell you?”
Constable Palk cleared his throat, looked important, and consulted his notebook. “Statement was made to me by Mr. Arthur Spenlow, husband of the deceased. Mr. Spenlow says that at two thirty, as far as he can say, he was rung up by Mi
ss Marple, and asked if he would come over at a quarter past three as she was anxious to consult him about something. Now, ma’am, is that true?”
“Certainly not,” said Miss Marple.
“You did not ring up Mr. Spenlow at two thirty?”
“Neither at two thirty nor any other time.”
“Ah,” said Constable Palk, and sucked his moustache with a good deal of satisfaction.
“What else did Mr. Spenlow say?”
“Mr. Spenlow’s statement was that he came over here as requested, leaving his own house at ten minutes past three; that on arrival here he was informed by the maidservant that Miss Marple was ‘not at ’ome.’”
“That part of it is true,” said Miss Marple. “He did come here, but I was at a meeting at the Women’s Institute.”
“Ah,” said Constable Palk again.
Miss Marple exclaimed, “Do tell me, Constable, do you suspect Mr. Spenlow?”
“It’s not for me to say at this stage, but it looks to me as though somebody, naming no names, has been trying to be artful.”
Miss Marple said thoughtfully, “Mr. Spenlow?”
She liked Mr. Spenlow. He was a small, spare man, stiff and conventional in speech, the acme of respectability. It seemed odd that he should have come to live in the country, he had so clearly lived in towns all his life. To Miss Marple he confided the reason. He said, “I have always intended, ever since I was a small boy, to live in the country someday and have a garden of my own. I have always been very much attached to flowers. My wife, you know, kept a flower shop. That’s where I saw her first.”
A dry statement, but it opened up a vista of romance. A younger, prettier Mrs. Spenlow, seen against a background of flowers.
Mr. Spenlow, however, really knew nothing about flowers. He had no idea of seeds, of cuttings, of bedding out, of annuals or perennials. He had only a vision—a vision of a small cottage garden thickly planted with sweet-smelling, brightly coloured blossoms. He had asked, almost pathetically, for instruction, and had noted down Miss Marple’s replies to questions in a little book.
He was a man of quiet method. It was, perhaps, because of this trait, that the police were interested in him when his wife was found murdered. With patience and perseverance they learned a good deal about the late Mrs. Spenlow—and soon all St. Mary Mead knew it, too.
The late Mrs. Spenlow had begun life as a between-maid in a large house. She had left that position to marry the second gardener, and with him had started a flower shop in London. The shop had prospered. Not so the gardener, who before long had sickened and died.
His widow carried on the shop and enlarged it in an ambitious way. She had continued to prosper. Then she had sold the business at a handsome price and embarked upon matrimony for the second time—with Mr. Spenlow, a middle-aged jeweller who had inherited a small and struggling business. Not long afterwards, they had sold the business and came down to St. Mary Mead.
Mrs. Spenlow was a well-to-do woman. The profits from her florist’s establishment she had invested—“under spirit guidance,” as she explained to all and sundry. The spirits had advised her with unexpected acumen.
All her investments had prospered, some in quite a sensational fashion. Instead, however, of this increasing her belief in spiritualism, Mrs. Spenlow basely deserted mediums and sittings, and made a brief but wholehearted plunge into an obscure religion with Indian affinities which was based on various forms of deep breathing. When, however, she arrived at St. Mary Mead, she had relapsed into a period of orthodox Church-of-England beliefs. She was a good deal at the vicarage, and attended church services with assiduity. She patronized the village shops, took an interest in the local happenings, and played village bridge.
A humdrum, everyday life. And—suddenly—murder.
Colonel Melchett, the chief constable, had summoned Inspector Slack.
Slack was a positive type of man. When he had made up his mind, he was sure. He was quite sure now. “Husband did it, sir,” he said.
“You think so?”
“Quite sure of it. You’ve only got to look at him. Guilty as hell. Never showed a sign of grief or emotion. He came back to the house knowing she was dead.”
“Wouldn’t he at least have tried to act the part of the distracted husband?”
“Not him, sir. Too pleased with himself. Some gentlemen can’t act. Too stiff.”
“Any other woman in his life?” Colonel Melchett asked.
“Haven’t been able to find any trace of one. Of course, he’s the artful kind. He’d cover his tracks. As I see it, he was just fed up with his wife. She’d got the money, and I should say was a trying woman to live with—always taking up with some ‘ism’ or other. He cold-bloodedly decided to do away with her and live comfortably on his own.”
“Yes, that could be the case, I suppose.”
“Depend upon it, that was it. Made his plans careful. Pretended to get a phone call—”
Melchett interrupted him. “No call been traced?”
“No, sir. That means either that he lied, or that the call was put through from a public telephone booth. The only two public phones in the village are at the station and the post office. Post office it certainly wasn’t. Mrs. Blade sees everyone who comes in. Station it might be. Train arrives at two twenty-seven and there’s a bit of a bustle then. But the main thing is he says it was Miss Marple who called him up, and that certainly isn’t true. The call didn’t come from her house, and she herself was away at the Institute.”
“You’re not overlooking the possibility that the husband was deliberately got out of the way—by someone who wanted to murder Mrs. Spenlow?”
“You’re thinking of young Ted Gerard, aren’t you, sir? I’ve been working on him—what we’re up against there is lack of motive. He doesn’t stand to gain anything.”
“He’s an undesirable character, though. Quite a pretty little spot of embezzlement to his credit.”
“I’m not saying he isn’t a wrong ’un. Still, he did go to his boss and own up to that embezzlement. And his employers weren’t wise to it.”
“An Oxford Grouper,” said Melchett.
“Yes, sir. Became a convert and went off to do the straight thing and own up to having pinched money. I’m not saying, mind you, that it mayn’t have been astuteness. He may have thought he was suspected and decided to gamble on honest repentance.”
“You have a sceptical mind, Slack,” said Colonel Melchett. “By the way, have you talked to Miss Marple at all?”
“What’s she got to do with it, sir?”
“Oh, nothing. But she hears things, you know. Why don’t you go and have a chat with her? She’s a very sharp old lady.”
Slack changed the subject. “One thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, sir. That domestic-service job where the deceased started her career—Sir Robert Abercrombie’s place. That’s where that jewel robbery was—emeralds—worth a packet. Never got them. I’ve been looking it up—must have happened when the Spenlow woman was there, though she’d have been quite a girl at the time. Don’t think she was mixed up in it, do you, sir? Spenlow, you know, was one of those little tuppenny-ha’penny jewellers—just the chap for a fence.”
Melchett shook his head. “Don’t think there’s anything in that. She didn’t even know Spenlow at the time. I remember the case. Opinion in police circles was that a son of the house was mixed up in it—Jim Abercrombie—awful young waster. Had a pile of debts, and just after the robbery they were all paid off—some rich woman, so they said, but I don’t know—Old Abercrombie hedged a bit about the case—tried to call the police off.”
“It was just an idea, sir,” said Slack.
Miss Marple received Inspector Slack with gratification, especially when she heard that he had been sent by Colonel Melchett.
“Now, really, that is very kind of Colonel Melchett. I didn’t know he remembered me.”
“He remembers you, all right. Told me that what you didn’t know of what goes on
in St. Mary Mead isn’t worth knowing.”
“Too kind of him, but really I don’t know anything at all. About this murder, I mean.”
“You know what the talk about it is.”
“Oh, of course—but it wouldn’t do, would it, to repeat just idle talk?”
Slack said, with an attempt at geniality, “This isn’t an official conversation, you know. It’s in confidence, so to speak.”
“You mean you really want to know what people are saying? Whether there’s any truth in it or not?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Well, of course, there’s been a great deal of talk and speculation. And there are really two distinct camps, if you understand me. To begin with, there are the people who think that the husband did it. A husband or a wife is, in a way, the natural person to suspect, don’t you think so?”
“Maybe,” said the inspector cautiously.
“Such close quarters, you know. Then, so often, the money angle. I hear that it was Mrs. Spenlow who had the money, and therefore Mr. Spenlow does benefit by her death. In this wicked world I’m afraid the most uncharitable assumptions are often justified.”
“He comes into a tidy sum, all right.”
“Just so. It would seem quite plausible, wouldn’t it, for him to strangle her, leave the house by the back, come across the fields to my house, ask for me and pretend he’d had a telephone call from me, then go back and find his wife murdered in his absence—hoping, of course, that the crime would be put down to some tramp or burglar.”
The inspector nodded. “What with the money angle—and if they’d been on bad terms lately—”
But Miss Marple interrupted him. “Oh, but they hadn’t.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Everyone would have known if they’d quarrelled! The maid, Gladys Brent—she’d have soon spread it round the village.”
The inspector said feebly, “She mightn’t have known—” and received a pitying smile in reply.
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