It was very pleasant in the Vicarage garden. One of those sudden spells of autumn warmth had descended upon England. Inspector Craddock could never remember if it was St. Martin’s or St. Luke’s Summer, but he knew that it was very pleasant—and also very enervating. He sat in a deck chair provided for him by an energetic Bunch, just on her way to a Mothers’ Meeting, and, well protected with shawls and a large rug round her knees, Miss Marple sat knitting beside him. The sunshine, the peace, the steady click of Miss Marple’s knitting needles, all combined to produce a soporific feeling in the Inspector. And yet, at the same time, there was a nightmarish feeling at the back of his mind. It was like a familiar dream where an undertone of menace grows and finally turns Ease into Terror….
He said abruptly, “You oughtn’t to be here.”
Miss Marple’s needles stopped clicking for a moment. Her placid china-blue eyes regarded him thoughtfully.
She said, “I know what you mean. You’re a very conscientious boy. But it’s perfectly all right. Bunch’s father (he was vicar of our parish, a very fine scholar) and her mother (who is a most remarkable woman—real spiritual power) are very old friends of mine. It’s the most natural thing in the world that when I’m at Medenham I should come on here to stay with Bunch for a little.”
“Oh, perhaps,” said Craddock. “But—but don’t snoop around … I’ve a feeling—I have really—that it isn’t safe.”
Miss Marple smiled a little.
“But I’m afraid,” she said, “that we old women always do snoop. It would be very odd and much more noticeable if I didn’t. Questions about mutual friends in different parts of the world and whether they remember so and so, and do they remember who it was that Lady Somebody’s daughter married? All that helps, doesn’t it?”
“Helps?” said the Inspector, rather stupidly.
“Helps to find out if people are who they say they are,” said Miss Marple.
She went on:
“Because that’s what’s worrying you, isn’t it? And that’s really the particular way the world has changed since the war. Take this place, Chipping Cleghorn, for instance. It’s very much like St. Mary Mead where I live. Fifteen years ago one knew who everybody was. The Bantrys in the big house—and the Hartnells and the Price Ridleys and the Weatherbys … They were people whose fathers and mothers and grandfathers and grandmothers, or whose aunts and uncles, had lived there before them. If somebody new came to live there, they brought letters of introduction, or they’d been in the same regiment or served in the same ship as someone there already. If anybody new—really new—really a stranger—came, well, they stuck out—everybody wondered about them and didn’t rest till they found out.”
She nodded her head gently.
“But it’s not like that any more. Every village and small country place is full of people who’ve just come and settled there without any ties to bring them. The big houses have been sold, and the cottages have been converted and changed. And people just come—and all you know about them is what they say of themselves. They’ve come, you see, from all over the world. People from India and Hong Kong and China, and people who used to live in France and Italy in little cheap places and odd islands. And people who’ve made a little money and can afford to retire. But nobody knows any more who anyone is. You can have Benares brassware in your house and talk about tiffin and chota Hazri—and you can have pictures of Taormina and talk about the English church and the library—like Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd. You can come from the South of France, or have spent your life in the East. People take you at your own valuation. They don’t wait to call until they’ve had a letter from a friend saying that the So-and-So’s are delightful people and she’s known them all their lives.”
And that, thought Craddock, was exactly what was oppressing him. He didn’t know. There were just faces and personalities and they were backed up by ration books and identity cards—nice neat identity cards with numbers on them, without photographs or fingerprints. Anybody who took the trouble could have a suitable identity card—and partly because of that, the subtler links that had held together English social rural life had fallen apart. In a town nobody expected to know his neighbour. In the country now nobody knew his neighbour either, though possibly he still thought he did….
Because of the oiled door, Craddock knew that there had been somebody in Letitia Blacklock’s drawing room who was not the pleasant friendly country neighbour he or she pretended to be….
And because of that he was afraid for Miss Marple who was frail and old and who noticed things….
He said: “We can, to a certain extent, check up on these people …” But he knew that that wasn’t so easy. India and China and Hong Kong and the South of France … It wasn’t as easy as it would have been fifteen years ago. There were people, as he knew only too well, who were going about the country with borrowed identities—borrowed from people who had met sudden death by “incidents’ in the cities. There were organizations who bought up identities, who faked identity and ration cards—there were a hundred small rackets springing into being. You could check up—but it would take time—and time was what he hadn’t got, because Randall Goedler’s widow was very near death.
It was then that, worried and tired, lulled by the sunshine, he told Miss Marple about Randall Goedler and about Pip and Emma.
“Just a couple of names,” he said. “Nicknames at that! They mayn’t exist. They may be respectable citizens living in Europe somewhere. On the other hand one, or both, of them may be here in Chipping Cleghorn.”
Twenty-five years old approximately—Who filled that description? He said, thinking aloud:
“That nephew and niece of hers—or cousins or whatever they are … I wonder when she saw them last—”
Miss Marple said gently: “I’ll find out for you, shall I?”
“Now, please, Miss Marple, don’t—”
“It will be quite simple, Inspector, you really need not worry. And it won’t be noticeable if I do it, because, you see, it won’t be official. If there is anything wrong you don’t want to put them on their guard.”
Pip and Emma, thought Craddock, Pip and Emma? He was getting obsessed by Pip and Emma. That attractive dare-devil young man, the good-looking girl with the cool stare….
He said: “I may find out more about them in the next forty-eight hours. I’m going up to Scotland. Mrs. Goedler, if she’s able to talk, may know a good deal more about them.”
“I think that’s a very wise move.” Miss Marple hesitated. “I hope,” she murmured, “that you have warned Miss Blacklock to be careful?”
“I’ve warned her, yes. And I shall leave a man here to keep an unobtrusive eye on things.”
He avoided Miss Marple’s eye which said plainly enough that a policeman keeping an eye on things would be little good if the danger was in the family circle….
“And remember,” said Craddock, looking squarely at her, “I’ve warned you.”
“I assure you, Inspector,” said Miss Marple, “that I can take care of myself.”
Eleven
MISS MARPLE COMES TO TEA
I
If Letitia Blacklock seemed slightly absentminded when Mrs. Harmon came to tea and brought a guest who was staying with her, Miss Marple, the guest in question, was hardly likely to notice the fact since it was the first time she had met her.
The old lady was very charming in her gentle gossipy fashion. She revealed herself almost at once to be one of those old ladies who have a constant preoccupation with burglars.
“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.”
“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 openmouthed.
“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!”
II
“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.”
Twelve
MORNING ACTIVITIES IN CHIPPING CLEGHORN
I
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 here.”
�
�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.”
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