Complete Short Stories Of Miss Marple mm-16

by Agatha Christie

  'If you did have her fingerprints, would it help?'

  'It might, madam. They may be known at the Yard. This isn't her first job, I'd say!'

  Miss Marple nodded brightly. She opened her bag and extracted a small cardboard box. Inside it, wedged in cotton wool, was a small mirror.

  'From my handbag,' said Miss Marple. 'The maid's prints are on it. I think they should be satisfactory - she touched an extremely sticky substance a moment previously.'

  Inspector Slack stared. 'Did you get her fingerprints on purpose?'

  'Of course.'

  'You suspected her then?'

  'Well, you know it did strike me that she was a little too good to be true. I practically told Miss Lavinia so. But she simply wouldn't take the hint! I'm afraid, you know, Inspector, that I don't believe in paragons. Most of us have our faults - and domestic service shows them up very quickly!'

  'Well,' said Inspector Slack, recovering his balance, 'I'm obliged to you, I'm sure. We'll send these up to the Yard and see what they have to say.'

  He stopped. Miss Marple had put her head a little on one side and was regarding him with a good deal of meaning.

  'You wouldn't consider, I suppose, Inspector, looking a little nearer home?'

  'What do you mean, Miss Marple?'

  'It's very difficult to explain, but when you come across a peculiar thing you notice it. Although, often, peculiar things may be the merest trifles. I've felt that all along, you know; I mean about Gladys and the brooch. She's an honest girl; she didn't take that brooch. Then why did Miss Skinner think she did? Miss Skinner's not a fool, far from it! Why was she so anxious to let a girl go who was a good servant when servants are hard to get? It was peculiar, you know. So I wondered. I wondered a good deal. And I noticed another peculiar thing! Miss Emily's a hypochondriac, but she's the first hypochondriac who hasn't sent for some doctor or other at once. Hypochondriacs love doctors. Miss Emily didn't!'

  'What are you suggesting, Miss Marple?'

  'Well, I'm suggesting, you know, that Miss Lavinia and Miss Emily are peculiar people. Miss Emily spends nearly all her time in a dark room. And if that hair of hers isn't a wig, I - I'll eat my own back switch! And what I say is this - it's perfectly possible for a thin, pale, grey-haired, whining woman to be the same as a black-haired, rosy-cheeked, plump woman. And nobody that I can find ever saw Miss Emily and Mary Higgins at one and the same time. 'Plenty of time to get impressions of all the keys, plenty of time to find out all about the other tenants, and then - get rid of the local girl. Miss Emily takes a brisk walk across country one night and arrives at the station as Mary Higgins next day. And then, at the right moment, Mary Higgins disappears, and off goes the hue and cry after her. I'll tell you where you'll find her, Inspector. On Miss Emily Skinner's sofa! Get her fingerprints if you don't believe me, but you'll find I'm right! A couple of clever thieves, that's what the Skinners are - and no doubt in league with a clever post and rails or fence or whatever you call it. But they won't get away with it this time! I'm not going to have one of our village girl's character for honesty taken away like that! Gladys Holmes is as honest as the day, and everybody's going to know it! Good afternoon'

  Miss Marple had stalked out before Inspector Slack had recovered.

  'Whew!' he muttered. 'I wonder if she's right.'

  He soon found out that Miss Marple was right again. Colonel Melchett congratulated Slack on his efficiency, and Miss Marple had Gladys come to tea with Edna and spoke to her seriously on settling down in a good situation when she got one.

  The Case of the Caretaker

  'Well,' demanded Doctor Haydock of his patient. 'And how goes it today?'

  Miss Marple smiled at him wanly from pillows.

  'I suppose, really, that I'm better,' she admitted, 'but I feel so terribly depressed. I can't help feeling how much better it would have been if I had died. After all, I'm an old woman. Nobody wants me or cares about me.'

  Doctor Haydock interrupted with his usual brusqueness. 'Yes, yes, typical after-reaction of this type of flu. What you need is something to take you out of yourself. A mental tonic.'

  Miss Marple sighed and shook her head.

  'And what's more,' continued Doctor Haydock, 'I've brought my medicine with me!'

  He tossed a long envelope on to the bed.

  'Just the thing for you. The kind of puzzle that is right up your street.'

  'A puzzle?' Miss Marple looked interested.

  'Literary effort of mine,' said the doctor, blushing a little. 'Tried to make a regular story of it. "He said," "she said," "the girl thought," etc. Facts of the story are true.'

  'But why a puzzle?' asked Miss Marple.

  Doctor Haydock grinned. 'Because the interpretation is up to you. I want to see if you're as clever as you always make out.' With that Parthian shot he departed.

  Miss Marple picked up the manuscript and began to read.

  'And where is the bride?' asked Miss Harmon genially.

  The village was all agog to see the rich and beautiful young wife that Harry Laxton had brought back from abroad. There was a general indulgent feeling that Harry - wicked young scapegrace - had had all the luck. Everyone had always felt indulgent towards Harry. Even the owners of windows that had suffered from his indiscriminate use of a catapult had found their indignation dissipated by young Harry's abject expression of regret. He had broken windows, robbed orchards, poached rabbits, and later had run into debt, got entangled with the local tobacconist's daughter - been disentangled and sent off to Africa - and the village as represented by various ageing spinsters had murmured indulgently. 'Ah, well! Wild oats! He'll settle down!'

  And now, sure enough, the prodigal had returned - not in affliction, but in triumph. Harry Laxton had 'made good' as the saying goes. He had pulled himself together, worked hard, and had finally met and successfully wooed a young Anglo-French girl who was the possessor of a considerable fortune.

  Harry might have lived in London, or purchased an estate in some fashionable hunting county, but he preferred to come back to the pan of the world that was home to him. And there, in the most romantic way, he purchased the derelict estate in the dower house of which he had passed his childhood.

  Kingsdean House had been unoccupied for nearly seventy years. It had gradually fallen into decay and abandon. An elderly caretaker and his wife lived in the one habitable corner of it. It was a vast, unprepossessing grandiose mansion, the gardens overgrown with rank vegetation and the trees hemming it in like some gloomy enchanter's den.

  The dower house was a pleasant, unpretentious house and had been let for a long term of years to Major Laxton, Harry's father. As a boy. Harry had roamed over the Kingsdean estate and knew every inch of the tangled woods, and the old house itself had always fascinated him.

  Major Laxton had died some years ago, so it might have been thought that Harry would have had no ties to bring him back - nevertheless it was to the home of his boyhood that Harry brought his bride. The ruined old Kingsdean House was pulled down. An army of builders and contractors swooped down upon the place, and in almost a miraculously short space of time - so marvellously does wealth tell - the new house rose white and gleaming among the trees.

  Next came a posse of gardeners and after them a procession of furniture vans.

  The house was ready. Servants arrived. Lastly, a costly limousine deposited Harry and Mrs Harry at the front door.

  The village rushed to call, and Mrs Price, who owned the largest house, and who considered herself to lead society in the place, sent out cards of invitation for a party 'to meet the bride'.

  It was a great event. Several ladies had new frocks for the occasion. Everyone was excited, curious, anxious to see this fabulous creature. They said it was all so like a fairy story!

  Miss Harmon, weather-beaten, hearty spinster, threw out her question as she squeezed her way through the crowded drawing-room door. Little Miss Brent, a thin, acidulated spinster, fluttered out information.

/>   'Oh, my dear, quite charming. Such pretty manners And quite young. Really, you know, it makes one feel quite envious to see someone who has everything like that. Good looks and money and breeding - most distinguished, nothing in the least common about her - and dear Harry so devoted!'

  'Ah,' said Miss Hannon, 'it's early days yet!'

  Miss Brent's thin nose quivered appreciatively. '0h, my dear, do you really think -'

  'We all know what Harry is,' said Miss Harmon.

  'We know what he was! But I expect now -'

  'Ah,' said Miss Harmon, 'men are always the same. Once a gay deceiver, always a gay deceiver. I know them.'

  'Dear, dear. Poor young thing.' Miss Brent looked much happier. 'Yes, I expect she'll have trouble with him. Someone ought really to warn her. I wonder if she's heard anything of the old story?

  'It seems so very unfair,' said Miss Brent, 'that she should know nothing. So awkward. Especially with only the one chemist's shop in the village.'

  For the erstwhile tobacconist's daughter was now married to Mr Edge, the chemist.

  'It would be so much nicer,' said Miss Brent, 'if Mrs Laxton were to deal with Boots in Much Benham.'

  'I dare say,' said Miss Hannon, 'that Harry Laxton will suggest that himself.'

  And again a significant look passed between them.

  'But I certainly think,' said Miss Harmon, 'that she ought to know.'

  'Beasts!' said Clarice Vane indignantly to her uncle, Doctor Haydock. 'Absolute beasts some people are.'

  He looked at her curiously.

  She was a tall, dark girl, handsome, warm-hearted and impulsive. Her big brown eyes were alight now with indignation as she said, 'All these cats - saying things - hinting things.'

  'About Harry Laxton?'

  'Yes, about his affair with the tobacconist's daughter.'

  'Oh, that!' The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 'A great many young men have affairs of that kind.'

  'Of course they do. And it's all over. So why harp on it? And bring it up years after? It's like ghouls feasting on dead bodies.'

  'I dare say, my dear, it does seem like that to you. But you see, they have very little to talk about down here, and so I'm afraid they do tend to dwell upon past scandals. But I'm curious to know why it upsets you so much?'

  Clarice Vane bit her lip and flushed. She said, in a curiously muffled voice. 'They - they look so happy. The Laxtons, I mean. They're young and in love, and it's all so lovely for them. I hate to think of it being spoiled by whispers and hints and innuendoes and general beastliness.'

  'H'm. I see.'

  Clarice went on. 'He was talking lo me just now. He's so happy and eager and excited and - yes, thrilled - at having got his heart's desire and rebuilt Kingsdean. He's like a child about it all. And she - well, I don't suppose anything has ever gone wrong in her whole life. She's always had everything. You've seen her. What did you think of her?'

  The doctor did not answer at once. For other people, Louise Laxton might be an object of envy. A spoiled darling of fortune. To him she had brought only the refrain of a popular song heard many years ago. Poor little rich girl -

  A small, delicate figure, with flaxen hair curled rather stiffly round her face and big, wistful blue eyes.

  Louise was drooping a little. The long stream of congratulations had tired her. She was hoping it might soon be time to go. Perhaps, even now. Harry might say so. She looked at him sideways. So tall and broad shouldered with his eager pleasure in this horrible, dull party.

  Poor little rich girl -

  'Ooph!' It was a sigh of relief.

  Harry turned to look at his wife amusedly. They were driving away from the party.

  She said, 'Darling, what a frightful party!'

  Harry laughed. 'Yes, pretty terrible. Never mind, my sweet. It had to be done, you know. All these old pussies knew me when I lived here as a boy. They'd have been terribly disappointed not to have got a look at you dose up.'

  Louise made a grimace. She said, 'Shall we have to see a lot of them?'

  'What? Oh, no. They'll come and make ceremonious calls with card cases, and you'll return the calls and then you needn't bother any more. You can have your own friends down or whatever you like.'

  Louise said, after a minute or two, 'Isn't there anyone amusing living down here?'

  'Oh, yes. There's the County, you know. Though you may find them a bit dull, too. Mostly interested in bulbs and dogs and horses. You'll ride, of course. You'll enjoy that. There's a horse over at Eglinton I'd like you to see. A beautiful animal, perfectly trained, no vice in him but plenty of spirit.'

  The car slowed down to take the turn into the gates of Kingsdean. Harry wrenched the wheel and swore as a grotesque figure sprang up in the middle of the road and he only Just managed to avoid it. It stood there, shaking a fist and shouting after them.

  Louise clutched his arm. 'Who's that - that horrible old woman?'

  Harry's brow was black. 'That's old Murgatroyd. She and her husband were caretakers in the old house. They were there for nearly thirty years.'

  'Why does she shake her fist at you?'

  Harry's face got red. 'She - well, she resented the house being pulled down. And she got the sack, of course. Her husband's been dead two years. They say she got a bit queer after he died.'

  'Is she - she isn't - starving?'

  Louise's ideas were vague and somewhat melodramatic. Riches prevented you coming into contact with reality.

  Harry was outraged. 'Good Lord, Louise, what an idea! I pensioned her off, of course - and handsomely, too! Found her a new cottage and everything.'

  Louise asked, bewildered, 'Then why does she mind?'

  Harry was frowning, his brows drawn together. 'Oh, how should I know? Craziness! She loved the house.'

  'But it was a ruin, wasn't it?'

  'Of course it was - crumbling to pieces - roof leaking - more or less unsafe. All the same I suppose it meant something to her. She's been there a long time. Oh, I don't know! The old devil's cracked, I think.'

  Louise said uneasily, 'She - I think she cursed us. Oh, Harry, I wish she hadn't.'

  It seemed to Louise that her new home was tainted and poisoned by the malevolent figure of one crazy old woman. When she went out in the car, when she rode, when she walked out with the dogs, there was always the same figure waiting. Crouched down on herself, a battered hat over wisps of iron-grey hair, and the slow muttering of imprecations.

  Louise came to believe that Harry was right - the old woman was mad. Nevertheless that did not make things easier. Mrs Murgatroyd never actually came to the house, nor did she use definite threats, nor offer violence. Her squatting figure remained always just outside the gates. To appeal to the police would have been useless and, in any case, Harry Laxton was averse to that course of action. It would, he said, arouse local sympathy for the old brute. He took the matter more easily than Louise did.

  'Don't worry about it, darling. She'll get tired of this silly cursing business. Probably she's only trying it on.'

  'She isn't. Harry. She - she hates us! I can feel it. She's ill-wishing us.'

  'She's not a witch, darling, although she may look like one! Don't be morbid about it all.'

  Louise was silent. Now that the first excitement of settling in was over, she felt curiously lonely and at a loose end. She had been used to life in London and the Riviera. She had no knowledge of or taste for English country life. She was ignorant of gardening, except for the final act of 'doing the flowers'. She did not really care for dogs. She was bored by such neighbours as she met. She enjoyed riding best, sometimes with Harry, sometimes, when he was busy about the estate, by herself. She hacked through the woods and lanes, enjoying the easy paces of the beautiful horse that Harry had bought for her. Yet even Prince Hal, most sensitive of chestnut steeds, was wont to shy and snort as he carried his mistress past the huddled figure of a malevolent old woman.

  One day Louise took her courage in both hands. She was out walking.
She had passed Mrs Murgatroyd, pretending not to notice her, but suddenly she swerved back and went right up to her. She said, a little breathlessly, 'What is it? What's the matter? What do you want?'

  The old woman blinked at her. She had a cunning, dark gypsy face, with wisps of iron-grey hair, and bleared, suspicious eyes. Louise wondered if she drank.

  She spoke in a whining and yet threatening voice. 'What do I want, you ask? What, indeed! That which has been took away from me. Who turned me out of Kingsdean House? I'd lived there, girl and woman, for near on forty years. It was a black deed to run me out and it's black bad luck it'll bring to you and him!'

  Louise said, 'You've got a very nice cottage and -'

  She broke off. The old woman's arms flew up. She screamed, 'What's the good of that to me? It's my own place I want and my own fire as I sat beside all them years. And as for you and him, I'm telling you there will no happiness for you in your new fine house. It's the black sorrow will be upon you! Sorrow and death and my curse. May your fair face rot.'

  Louise turned away and broke into a little stumbling run. She thought, I must get away from here! We must sell the house! We must go away.

  At the moment, such a solution seemed easy to her. But Harry's utter incomprehension took her aback. He exclaimed, 'Leave here? Sell the house? Because of a crazy old woman's threats? You must be mad.'

  'No, I'm not. But she - she frightens me, I know something will happen.'

  Harry Laxton said grimly, 'Leave Mrs Murgatroyd to me. I'll settle her!'

  A friendship had sprung up between Clarice Vane and young Mrs Laxton. The two girls were much of an age, though dissimilar both in character and in tastes. In Clarice's company, Louise found reassurance. Clarice was so self-reliant, so sure of herself. Louise mentioned the matter of Mrs Murgatroyd and her threats, but Clarice seemed to regard the matter as more annoying than frightening.

  'It's so stupid, that sort of thing,' she said. 'And really very annoying for you.'

  'You know, Clarice, I - I feel quite frightened sometimes. My heart gives the most awful jumps.'