'They can get in anywhere, my dear,' she assured her hostess, 'absolutely anywhere nowadays. So many new American methods. I myself pin my faith to a very old-fashioned device. A cabin hook and eye. They can pick locks and draw back bolts but a brass hook and eye defeats them. Have you ever tried that?'
'I'm afraid we're not very good at bolts and bars,' said Miss Blacklock cheerfully. 'There's really nothing much to burgle.'
'A chain on the front door,' Miss Marple advised. 'Then the maid need only open it a crack and see who is there and they can't force their way in.'
'I expect Mitzi, our Mittel European, would love that.'
'The hold-up you had must have been very, very frightening,' said Miss Marple. 'Bunch has been telling me all about it.'
'I was scared stiff,' said Bunch.
'It was an alarming experience,' admitted Miss Blacklock.
'It really seems like Providence that the man tripped himself up and shot himself. These burglars are so violent nowadays. How did he get in?'
'Well, I'm afraid we don't lock our doors much.'
'Oh, Letty,' exclaimed Miss Bunner. 'I forgot to tell you the Inspector was most peculiar this morning. He insisted on opening the second door—you know—the one that's never been opened—the one over there. He hunted for the key and everything and said the door had been oiled. But I can't see why because—'
Too late she got Miss Blacklock's signal to be quiet, and paused open-mouthed.
'Oh, Lotty, I'm so—sorry—I mean, oh, I do beg your pardon, Letty—oh, dear, how stupid I am.'
'It doesn't matter,' said Miss Blacklock, but she was annoyed. 'Only I don't think Inspector Craddock wants that talked about. I didn't know you had been there when he was experimenting, Dora. You do understand, don't you, Mrs Harmon?'
'Oh, yes,' said Bunch. 'We won't breathe a word, will we, Aunt Jane. But I wonder why he—'
She relapsed into thought. Miss Bunner fidgeted and looked miserable, bursting out at last: 'I always say the wrong thing—Oh, dear, I'm nothing but a trial to you, Letty.'
Miss Blacklock said quickly, 'You're my great comfort, Dora. And anyway in a small place like Chipping Cleghorn there aren't really any secrets.'
'Now that is very true,' said Miss Marple. 'I'm afraid, you know, that things do get round in the most extraordinary way. Servants, of course, and yet it can't only be that, because one has so few servants nowadays. Still, there are the daily women and perhaps they are worse, because they go to everybody in turn and pass the news round.'
'Oh!' said Bunch Harmon suddenly. 'I've got it! Of course, if that door could open too, someone might have gone out of here in the dark and done the hold-up—only of course they didn't—because it was the man from the Royal Spa Hotel. Or wasn't it??No, I don't see after all?' She frowned.
'Did it all happen in this room then?' asked Miss Marple, adding apologetically: 'I'm afraid you must think me sadly curious, Miss Blacklock—but it really is so very exciting—just like something one reads about in the paper—I'm just longing to hear all about it and to picture it all, if you know what I mean—'
Immediately Miss Marple received a confused and voluble account from Bunch and Miss Bunner—with occasional emendations and corrections from Miss Blacklock.
In the middle of it Patrick came in and good-naturedly entered into the spirit of the recital—going so far as to enact himself the part of Rudi Scherz.
'And Aunt Letty was there—in the corner by the archway?Go and stand there, Aunt Letty.'
Miss Blacklock obeyed, and then Miss Marple was shown the actual bullet holes.
'What a marvellous—what a providential escape,' she gasped.
'I was just going to offer my guests cigarettes—' Miss Blacklock indicated the big silver box on the table.
'People are so careless when they smoke,' said Miss Bunner disapprovingly. 'Nobody really respects good furniture as they used to do. Look at the horrid burn somebody made on this beautiful table by putting a cigarette down on it. Disgraceful.'
Miss Blacklock sighed.
'Sometimes, I'm afraid, one thinks too much of one's possessions.'
'But it's such a lovely table, Letty.'
Miss Bunner loved her friend's possessions with as much fervour as though they had been her own. Bunch Harmon had always thought it was a very endearing trait in her. She showed no sign of envy.
'It is a lovely table,' said Miss Marple politely. 'And what a very pretty china lamp on it.'
Again it was Miss Bunner who accepted the compliment as though she and not Miss Blacklock was the owner of the lamp.
'Isn't it delightful? Dresden. There is a pair of them. The other's in the spare room, I think.'
'You know where everything in this house is, Dora—or you think you do,' said Miss Blacklock, good-humouredly. 'You care far more about my things than I do.'
Miss Bunner flushed.
'I do like nice things,' she said. Her voice was half defiant—half wistful.
'I must confess,' said Miss Marple, 'that my own few possessions are very dear to me, too—so many memories, you know. It's the same with photographs. People nowadays have so few photographs about. Now I like to keep all the pictures of my nephews and nieces as babies—and then as children—and so on.'
'You've got a horrible one of me, aged three,' said Bunch. 'Holding a fox terrier and squinting.'
'I expect your aunt has many photographs of you,' said Miss Marple, turning to Patrick.
'Oh, we're only distant cousins,' said Patrick.
'I believe Elinor did send me one of you as a baby, Pat,' said Miss Blacklock. 'But I'm afraid I didn't keep it. I'd really forgotten how many children she'd had or what their names were until she wrote me about you two being over here.'
'Another sign of the times,' said Miss Marple. 'Nowadays one so often doesn't know one's younger relations at all. In the old days, with all the big family reunions, that would have been impossible.'
'I last saw Pat and Julia's mother at a wedding thirty years ago,' said Miss Blacklock. 'She was a very pretty girl.'
'That's why she has such handsome children,' said Patrick with a grin.
'You've got a marvellous old album,' said Julia. 'Do you remember, Aunt Letty, we looked through it the other day. The hats!'
'And how smart we thought ourselves,' said Miss Blacklock with a sigh.
'Never mind, Aunt Letty,' said Patrick, 'Julia will come across a snapshot of herself in about thirty years' time—and won't she think she looks a guy!'
***
'Did you do that on purpose?' said Bunch, as she and Miss Marple were walking home. 'Talk about photographs, I mean?'
'Well, my dear, it is interesting to know that Miss Blacklock didn't know either of her two young relatives by sight?Yes—I think Inspector Craddock will be interested to hear that.'
Chapter 12. Morning Activities in Chipping Cleghorn
Edmund Swettenham sat down rather precariously on a garden roller.
'Good morning, Phillipa,' he said.
'Hallo.'
'Are you very busy?'
'Moderately.'
'What are you doing?'
'Can't you see?'
'No. I'm not a gardener. You seem to be playing with earth in some fashion.'
'I'm pricking out winter lettuce.'
'Pricking out? What a curious term! Like pinking. Do you know what pinking is? I only learnt the other day. I always thought it was a term for professional duelling.'
'Do you want anything particular?' asked Phillipa coldly.
'Yes. I want to see you.'
Phillipa gave him a quick glance.
'I wish you wouldn't come here like this. Mrs Lucas won't like it.'
'Doesn't she allow you to have followers?'
'Don't be absurd.'
'Followers. That's another nice word. It describes my attitude perfectly. Respectful—at a distance—but firmly pursuing.'
'Please go away, Edmund. You've no business to come her
e.'
'You're wrong,' said Edmund triumphantly. 'I have business here. Mrs Lucas rang up my mamma this morning and said she had a good many vegetable marrows.'
'Masses of them.'
'And would we like to exchange a pot of honey for a vegetable marrow or so.'
'That's not a fair exchange at all! Vegetable marrows are quite unsaleable at the moment—everybody has such a lot.'
'Naturally. That's why Mrs Lucas rang up. Last time, if I remember rightly, the exchange suggested was some skim milk—skim milk, mark you—in exchange for some lettuces. It was then very early in the season for lettuces. They were about a shilling each.'
Phillipa did not speak.
Edmund tugged at his pocket and extracted a pot of honey.
'So here,' he said, 'is my alibi. Used in a loose and quite indefensible meaning of the term. If Mrs Lucas pops her bust round the door of the potting shed, I'm here in quest of vegetable marrows. There is absolutely no question of dalliance.'
'I see.'
'Do you ever read Tennyson?' inquired Edmund conversationally.
'Not very often.'
'You should. Tennyson is shortly to make a comeback in a big way. When you turn on your wireless in the evening it will be the Idylls of the King you will hear and not interminable Trollope. I always thought the Trollope pose was the most unbearable affectation. Perhaps a little of Trollope, but not to drown in him. But speaking of Tennyson, have you read Maud?'
'Once, long ago.'
'It's got some points about it.' He quoted softly:
'"Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null." That's you, Phillipa.'
'Hardly a compliment!'
'No, it wasn't meant to be. I gather Maud got under the poor fellow's skin just like you've got under mine.'
'Don't be absurd, Edmund.'
'Oh, hell, Phillipa, why are you like you are? What goes on behind your splendidly regular features? What do you think? What do you feel? Are you happy, or miserable, or frightened, or what? There must be something.'
Phillipa said quietly:
'What I feel is my own business.'
'It's mine, too. I want to make you talk. I want to know what goes on in that quiet head of yours. I've aright to know. I have really. I didn't want to fall in love with you. I wanted to sit quietly and write my book. Such a nice book, all about how miserable the world is. It's frightfully easy to be clever about how miserable everybody is. And it's all a habit, really. Yes, I've suddenly become convinced of that. After reading a life of Burne Jones.'
Phillipa had stopped pricking out. She was staring at him with a puzzled frown.
'What has Burne Jones got to do with it?'
'Everything. When you've read all about the Pre-Raphaelites you realize just what fashion is. They were all terrifically hearty and slangy and jolly, and laughed and joked, and everything was fine and wonderful. That was fashion, too. They weren't any happier or heartier than we are. And we're not any more miserable than they were. It's all fashion, I tell you. After the last war, we went in for sex. Now it's all frustration. None of it matters. Why are we talking about all this? I started out to talk about us. Only I got cold feet and shied off. Because you won't help me.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'Talk! Tell me things. Is it your husband? Do you adore him and he's dead and so you've shut up like a clam? Is that it? All right, you adored him, and he's dead. Well, other girls' husbands are dead—lots of them—and some of the girls loved their husbands. They tell you so in bars, and cry a bit when they're drunk enough, and then want to go to bed with you so that they'll feel better. It's one way of getting over it, I suppose. You've got to get over it, Phillipa. You're young—and you're extremely lovely—and I love you like hell. Talk about your damned husband, tell me about him.'
'There's nothing to tell. We met and got married.'
'You must have been very young.'
'Too young.'
'Then you weren't happy with him? Goon, Phillipa.'
'There's nothing to go on about. We were married. We were as happy as most people are, I suppose. Harry was born. Ronald went overseas. He—he was killed in Italy.'
'And now there's Harry?'
'And now there's Harry.'
'I like Harry. He's a really nice kid. He likes me. We get on. What about it, Phillipa? Shall we get married? You can go on gardening and I can go on writing my book and in the holidays we'll leave off working and enjoy ourselves. We can manage, with tact, not to have to live with Mother. She can fork out a bit to support her devoted son. I sponge, I write tripey books, I have defective eyesight and I talk too much. That's the worst. Will you try it?'
Phillipa looked at him. She saw a tall rather solemn young man with an anxious face and large spectacles. His sandy head was rumpled and he was regarding her with a reassuring friendliness.
'No,' said Phillipa.
'Definitely—no?'
'Definitely no.'
'Why?'
'You don't know anything about me.'
'Is that all?'
'No, you don't know anything about anything.'
Edmund considered.
'Perhaps not,' he admitted. 'But who does? Phillipa, my adored one—' He broke off.
A shrill and prolonged yapping was rapidly approaching.
'Pekes in the high hall garden, (said Edmund)
When twilight was falling (only it's eleven a.m.)
Phil, Phil, Phil, Phil,
They were crying and calling
'Your name doesn't lend itself to the rhythm, does it? Sounds like an Ode to a Fountain Pen. Have you got another name?'
'Joan. Please go away. That's Mrs Lucas.'
'Joan, Joan, Joan, Joan. Better, but still not good. When greasy Joan the pot doth keel —that's not a nice picture of married life, either.'
'Mrs Lucas is—'
'Oh, hell!' said Edmund. 'Get me a blasted vegetable marrow.'
***
Sergeant Fletcher had the house at Little Paddocks to himself.
It was Mitzi's day off. She always went by the eleven o'clock bus into Medenham Wells. By arrangement with Miss Blacklock, Sergeant Fletcher had the run of the house. She and Dora Bunner had gone down to the village.
Fletcher worked fast. Someone in the house had oiled and prepared that door, and whoever had done it, had done it in order to be able to leave the drawing-room unnoticed as soon as the lights went out. That ruled out Mitzi who wouldn't have needed to use the door.
Who was left? The neighbours, Fletcher thought, might also be ruled out. He didn't see how they could have found an opportunity to oil and prepare the door. That left Patrick and Julia Simmons, Phillipa Haymes, and possibly Dora Bunner. The young Simmonses were in Milchester. Phillipa Haymes was at work. Sergeant Fletcher was free to search out any secrets he could. But the house was disappointingly innocent. Fletcher, who was an expert on electricity, could find nothing suggestive in the wiring or appurtenances of the electric fixtures to show how the lights had been fused. Making a rapid survey of the household bedrooms he found an irritating normality. In Phillipa Haymes' room were photographs of a small boy with serious eyes, an earlier photo of the same child, a pile of schoolboy letters, a theatre programme or two. In Julia's room there was a drawer full of snapshots of the South of France. Bathing photos, a villa set amidst mimosa. Patrick's held some souvenirs of Naval days. Dora Bunner's held few personal possessions and they seemed innocent enough.
And yet, thought Fletcher, someone in the house must have oiled that door.
His thoughts broke off at a sound below stairs. He went quickly to the top of the staircase and looked down.
Mrs Swettenham was crossing the hall. She had a basket on her arm. She looked into the drawing-room, crossed the hall and went into the dining-room. She came out again without the basket.
Some faint sound that Fletcher made, a board that creaked unexpectedly under his feet, made her turn her head. She called up:
'I
s that you, Miss Blacklock?'
'No, Mrs Swettenham, it's me,' said Fletcher.
Mrs Swettenham gave a faint scream.
'Oh! how you startled me. I thought it might be another burglar.'
Fletcher came down the stairs.
'This house doesn't seem very well protected against burglars,' he said. 'Can anybody always walk in and out just as they like?'
'I just brought up some of my quinces,' explained Mrs Swettenham. 'Miss Blacklock wants to make quince jelly and she hasn't got a quince tree here. I left them in the dining-room.'
Then she smiled.
'Oh, I see, you mean how did I get in? Well, I just came in through the side door. We all walk in and out of each other's houses, Sergeant. Nobody dreams of locking a door until it's dark. I mean it would be so awkward, wouldn't it, if you brought things and couldn't get in to leave them? It's not like the old days when you rang a bell and a servant always came to answer it.' Mrs Swettenham sighed. 'In India, I remember,' she said mournfully, 'we had eighteen servants—eighteen. Not counting the ayah. Just as a matter of course. And at home, when I was a girl, we always had three—though Mother always felt it was terribly poverty-stricken not to be able to afford a kitchen-maid. I must say that I find life very odd nowadays, Sergeant, though I know one mustn't complain. So much worse for the miners always getting psitticosis (or is that parrot disease?) and having to come out of the mines and try to be gardeners though they don't know weeds from spinach.'
She added, as she tripped towards the door, 'I mustn't keep you. I expect you're very busy. Nothing else is going to happen, is it?'
'Why should it, Mrs Swettenham?'
'I just wondered, seeing you here. I thought it might be a gang. You'll tell Miss Blacklock about the quinces, won't you?'
Mrs Swettenham departed. Fletcher felt like a man who has received an unexpected jolt. He had been assuming—erroneously, he now perceived—that it must have been someone in the house who had done the oiling of the door. He saw now that he was wrong. An outsider had only to wait until Mitzi had departed by bus and Letitia Blacklock and Dora Bunner were both out of the house. Such an opportunity must have been simplicity itself. That meant that he couldn't rule out anybody who had been in the drawing-room that night.
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