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 Craddock 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.”
“She?”
Cherry gave a vigorous nod of her head backwards towards the door behind her.
“Pussy, pussy,” she said. “Your Miss Knight. Don’t you let her get you down.”
“She’s very kind,” said Miss Marple, “really very kind,” she added, in the tone of one who convinces herself.
“Care killed the cat, they say,” said Cherry. “You don’t want kindness rubbed into your skin, so to speak, do you?”
“Oh, well,” said Miss Marple sighing, “I suppose we all have our troubles.”
“I should say we do,” said Cherry. “I oughtn’t to complain but I feel sometimes that if I live next door to Mrs. Hartwell any longer there’s going to be a regrettable incident. Sour-faced old cat, always gossiping and complaining. Jim’s pretty fed up too. He had a first-class row with her last night. Just because we had The Messiah on a bit loud! You can’t object to The Messiah, can you? I mean, it’s religious.”
“Did she object?”
“She created something terrible,” said Cherry. “Banged on the wall and shouted and one thing and another.”
“Do you have to have your music turned on so loud?” asked Miss Marple.
“Jim likes it that way,” said Cherry. “He says you don’t get the tone unless you have full volume.”
“It might,” suggested Miss Marple, “be a little trying for anyone if they weren’t musical.”
“It’s these houses being semi-detached,” said Cherry. “Thin as anything, the walls. I’m not so keen really on all this new building, when you come to think of it. It looks all very prissy and
nice but you can’t express your personality without somebody being down on you like a ton of bricks.”
Miss Marple smiled at her.
“You’ve got a lot of personality to express, Cherry,” she said.
“D’you think so?” Cherry was pleased and she laughed. “I wonder,” she began. Suddenly she looked embarrassed. She put down the tray and came back to the bed.
“I wonder if you’d think it cheek if I asked you something? I mean—you’ve only got to say ‘out of the question’ and that’s that.”
“Something you want me to do?”
“Not quite. It’s those rooms over the kitchen. They’re never used nowadays, are they?”
“No.”
“Used to be a gardener and wife there once, so I heard. But that’s old stuff. What I wondered—what Jim and I wondered—is if we could have them. Come and live here, I mean.”
Miss Marple stared at her in astonishment.
“But your beautiful new house in the Development?”
“We’re both fed up with it. We like gadgets, but you can have gadgets anywhere—get them on HP and there would be a nice lot of room here, especially if Jim could have the room over the stables. He’d fix it up like new, and he could have all his construction models there, and wouldn’t have to clear them away all the time. And if we had our stereogram there too, you’d hardly hear it.”
“Are you really serious about this, Cherry?”
“Yes, I am. Jim and I, we’ve talked about it a lot. Jim could fix things for you anytime—you know, plumbing or a bit of carpentry, and I’d look after you every bit as well as your Miss Knight does. I know you think I’m a bit slap-dash—but I’d try and take trouble with the beds and the washing-up—and I’m getting quite a dab hand at cooking. Did Beef Stroganoff last night, it’s quite easy, really.”
Miss Marple contemplated her.
Cherry was looking like an eager kitten—vitality and joy of life radiated from her. Miss Marple thought once more of faithful Florence. Faithful Florence would, of course, keep the house far better. (Miss Marple put no faith in Cherry’s promise.) But she was at least sixty-five—perhaps more. And would she really want to be uprooted? She might accept that out of very real devotion for Miss Marple. But did Miss Marple really want sacrifices made for her? Wasn’t she already suffering from Miss Knight’s conscientious devotion to duty?
Cherry, however inadequate her housework, wanted to come. And she had qualities that to Miss Marple at this moment seemed of supreme importance.
Warmheartedness, vitality, and a deep interest in everything that was going on.
“I don’t want, of course,” said Cherry, “to go behind Miss Knight’s back in anyway.”
“Never mind about Miss Knight,” said Miss Marple, coming to a decision. “She’ll go off to someone called Lady Conway at a hotel in Llandudno—and enjoy herself thoroughly. We’ll have to settle a lot of details, Cherry, and I shall want to talk to your husband—but if you really think you’d be happy….”
“It’d suit us down to the ground,” said Cherry. “And you really can rely on me doing things properly. I’ll even use the dustpan and brush if you like.”
Miss Marple laughed at this supreme offer.
Cherry picked up the breakfast tray again.
“I must get cracking. I got here late this morning—hearing about poor Arthur Badcock.”
“Arthur Badcock? What happened to him?”
“Haven’t you heard? He’s up at the police station now,” said Cherry. “They asked him if he’d come and ‘assist them with their inquiries’ and you know what that always means.”
“When did this happen?” demanded Miss Marple.
“This morning,” said Cherry. “I suppose,” she added, “that it got out about his once having been married to Marina Gregg.”
“What!” Miss Marple sat up again. “Arthur Badcock was once married to Marina Gregg?”
“That’s the story,” said Cherry. “Nobody had any idea of it. It was Mr. Upshaw put it about. He’s been to the States once or twice on business for his firm and so he knows a lot of gossip from over there. It was a long time ago, you know. Really before she’d begun her career. They were only married a year or two and then she won a film award and of course he wasn’t good enough for her then, so they had one of these easy American divorces and he just faded out, as you might say. He’s the fading out kind, Arthur Badcock. He wouldn’t make a fuss. He changed his name and came back to England. It’s all ever so long ago. You wouldn’t think anything like that mattered nowadays, would you? Still, there it is. It’s enough for the police to go on, I suppose.”
“Oh, no,” said Miss Marple. “Oh no. This mustn’t happen. If I could only think what to do—Now, let me see.” She made a gesture to Cherry. “Take the tray away, Cherry, and send Miss Knight up to me. I’m going to get up.”
Cherry obeyed. Miss Marple dressed herself with fingers that fumbled slightly. It irritated her when she found excitement of any kind affecting her. She was just hooking up her dress when Miss Knight entered.
“Did you want me? Cherry said—”
Miss Marple broke in incisively.
“Get Inch,” she said.
“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Knight, startled.
“Inch,” said Miss Marple, “get Inch. Telephone for him to come at once.”
“Oh, oh I see. You mean the taxi people. But his name’s Roberts, isn’t it?”
“To me,” said Miss Marple, “he is Inch and always will be. But anyway get him. He’s to come here at once.”
“You want to go for a little drive?”
“Just get him, can you?” said Miss Marple. “And hurry, please.”
Miss Knight looked at her doubtfully and proceeded to do as she was told.
“We are feeling all right, dear, aren’t we?” she said anxiously.
“We are both feeling very well,” said Miss Marple, “and I am feeling particularly well. Inertia does not suit me, and never has. A practical course of action, that is what I have been wanting for a long time.”
“Has that Mrs. Baker been saying something that has upset you?”
“Nothing has upset me,” said Miss Marple. “I feel particularly well. I am annoyed with myself for being stupid. But really, until I got a hint from Dr. Haydock this morning—now I wonder if I remember rightly. Where is that medical book of mine?” She gestured Miss Knight aside and walked firmly down the stairs. She found the book she wanted on a shelf in the drawing room. Taking it out she looked up the index, murmured, “Page 210,” turned to the page in question, read for a few moments then nodded her head, satisfied.
“Most remarkable,” she said, “most curious. I don’t suppose anybody would ever have thought of it. I didn’t myself, until the two things came together, so to speak.”
Then she shook her head, and a little line appeared between her eyes. If only there was someone….
She went over in her mind the various accounts she had been given of that particular scene….
Her eyes widened in thought. There was someone—but would he, she wondered, be any good? One never knew with the vicar. He was quite unpredictable.
Nevertheless she went to the telephone and dialled.
“Good morning, Vicar, this is Miss Marple.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Marple—anything I can do for you?”
“I wonder if you could help me on a small point. It concerns the day of the fête when poor Mrs. Badcock died. I believe you were standing quite near Miss Gregg when Mr. and Mrs. Badcock arrived.”
“Yes—yes— I was just before them, I think. Such a tragic day.”
“Yes, indeed. And I believe that Mrs. Badcock was recalling to Miss Gregg that they had met before in Bermuda. She had been ill in bed and had got up specially.”
“Yes, yes, I do remember.”
“And do you remember if Mrs. Badcock mentioned the illness she was suffering from?”
“I think now—let me see—
yes, it was measles—at least not real measles—German measles—a much less serious disease. Some people hardly feel ill at all with it. I remember my cousin Caroline….”
Miss Marple cut off reminiscences of Cousin Caroline by saying firmly: “Thank you so much, Vicar,” and replacing the receiver.
There was an awed expression on her face. One of the great mysteries of St. Mary Mead was what made the vicar remember certain things—only outstripped by the greater mystery of what the vicar could manage to forget!
“The taxi’s here, dear,” said Miss Knight, bustling in. “It’s a very old one, and not too clean I should say. I don’t really like you driving in a thing like that. You might pick up some germ or other.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Marple. Setting her hat firmly on her head and buttoning up her summer coat, she went out to the waiting taxi.
“Good morning, Roberts,” she said.
“Good morning, Miss Marple. You’re early this morning. Where do you want to go?”
“Gossington Hall, please,” said Miss Marple.
“I’d better come with you, hadn’t I, dear?” said Miss Knight. “It won’t take a minute just to slip on outdoor shoes.”
“No, thank you,” said Miss Marple, firmly. “I’m going by myself. Drive on, Inch. I mean Roberts.”
Mr. Roberts drove on, merely remarking:
“Ah, Gossington Hall. Great changes there and everywhere nowadays. All that development. Never thought anything like that’d come to St. Mary Mead.”
Upon arrival at Gossington Hall Miss Marple rang the bell and asked to see Mr. Jason Rudd.
Giuseppe’s successor, a rather shaky-looking elderly man, conveyed doubt.
“Mr. Rudd,” he said, “does not see anybody without an appointment, madam. And today especially—”
“I have no appointment,” said Miss Marple, “but I will wait,” she added.
She stepped briskly past him into the hall and sat down on a hall chair.
“I’m afraid it will be quite impossible this morning, madam.”
“In that case,” said Miss Marple, “I shall wait until this afternoon.”
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