Murder Is Announced (Miss Marple 5)

“So he had a police record all right,” said Rydesdale. “H’m—very much as one thought.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jewellery … h’m, yes … falsified entries … yes … cheque … Definitely a dishonest fellow.”

“Yes, sir—in a small way.”

“Quite so. And small things lead to large things.”

“I wonder, sir.”

The Chief Constable looked up.

“Worried, Craddock?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why? It’s a straightforward story. Or isn’t it? Let’s see what all these people you’ve been talking to have to say.”

He drew the report towards him and read it through rapidly.

“The usual thing—plenty of inconsistencies and contradictions. Different people’s accounts of a few moments of stress never agree. But the main picture seems clear enough.”

“I know, sir—but it’s an unsatisfactory picture. If you know what I mean—it’s the wrong picture.”

“Well, let’s take the facts. Rudi Scherz took the 5:20 bus from Medenham to Chipping Cleghorn arriving there at six o’clock. Evidence of conductor and two passengers. From the bus stop he walked away in the direction of Little Paddocks. He got into the house with no particular difficulty—probably through the front door. He held up the company with a revolver, he fired two shots, one of which slightly wounded Miss Blacklock, then he killed himself with a third shot, whether accidentally or deliberately there is not sufficient evidence to show. The reasons why he did all this are profoundly unsatisfactory, I agree. But why isn’t really a question we are called upon to answer. A Coroner’s jury may bring it in suicide—or accidental death. Whichever verdict it is, it’s the same as far as we’re concerned. We can write finis.”

“You mean we can always fall back upon Colonel Easterbrook’s psychology,” said Craddock gloomily.

Rydesdale smiled.

“After all, the Colonel’s probably had a good deal of experience,” he said. “I’m pretty sick of the psychological jargon that’s used so glibly about everything nowadays—but we can’t really rule it out.”

“I still feel the picture’s all wrong, sir.”

“Any reason to believe that somebody in the setup at Chipping Cleghorn is lying to you?”

Craddock hesitated.

“I think the foreign girl knows more than she lets on. But that may be just prejudice on my part.”

“You think she might possibly have been in it with this fellow? Let him into the house? Put him up to it?”

“Something of the kind. I wouldn’t put it past her. But that surely indicates that there really was something valuable, money or jewellery, in the house, and that doesn’t seem to have been the case. Miss Blacklock negatived it quite decidedly. So did the others. That leaves us with the proposition that there was something valuable in the house that nobody knew about—”

“Quite a best-seller plot.”

“I agree it’s ridiculous, sir. The only other point is Miss Bunner’s certainty that it was a definite attempt by Scherz to murder Miss Blacklock.”

“Well, from what you say—and from her statement, this Miss Bunner—”

“Oh, I agree, sir,” Craddock put in quickly, “she’s an utterly unreliable witness. Highly suggestible. Anyone could put a thing into her head—but the interesting thing is that this is quite her own theory—no one has suggested it to her. Everybody else negatives it. For once she’s not swimming with the tide. It definitely is her own impression.”

“And why should Rudi Scherz want to kill Miss Blacklock?”

“There you are, sir. I don’t know. Miss Blacklock doesn’t know—unless she’s a much better liar than I think she is. Nobody knows. So presumably it isn’t true.”

He sighed.

“Cheer up, Craddock,” said the Chief Constable. “I’m taking you off to lunch with Sir Henry and myself. The best that the Royal Spa Hotel in Medenham Wells can provide.”

“Thank you, sir.” Craddock looked slightly surprised.

“You see, we received a letter—” He broke off as Sir Henry Clithering entered the room. “Ah, there you are, Henry.”

Sir Henry, informal this time, said, “Morning, Dermot.”

“I’ve got something for you, Henry,” said the Chief Constable.

“What’s that?”

“Authentic letter from an old Pussy. Staying at the Royal Spa Hotel. Something she thinks we might like to know in connection with this Chipping Cleghorn business.”

“The old Pussies,” said Sir Henry triumphantly. “What did I tell you? They hear everything. They see everything. And, unlike the famous adage, they speak all evil. What’s this particular one got hold of?”

Rydesdale consulted the letter.

“Writes just like my old grandmother,” he complained. “Spiky. Like a spider in the ink bottle, and all underlined. A good deal about how she hopes it won’t be taking up our valuable time, but might possibly be of some slight assistance, etc., etc. What’s her name? Jane—something—Murple—no, Marple, Jane Marple.”

“Ye Gods and Little Fishes,” said Sir Henry, “can it be? George, it’s my own particular, one and only, four-starred Pussy. The super Pussy of all old Pussies. And she has managed somehow to be at Medenham Wells, instead of peacefully at home in St. Mary Mead, just at the right time to be mixed up in a murder. Once more a murder is announced—for the benefit and enjoyment of Miss Marple.”

“Well, Henry,” said Rydesdale sardonically, “I’ll be glad to see your paragon. Come on! We’ll lunch at the Royal Spa and we’ll interview the lady. Craddock, here, is looking highly sceptical.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Craddock politely.

He thought to himself that sometimes his godfather carried things a bit far.

II

Miss Jane Marple was very nearly, if not quite, as Craddock had pictured her. She was far more benignant than he had imagined and a good deal older. She seemed indeed very old. She had snow-white hair and a pink crinkled face and very soft innocent blue eyes, and she was heavily enmeshed in fleecy wool. Wool round her shoulders in the form of a lacy cape and wool that she was knitting and which turned out to be a baby’s shawl.

She was all incoherent delight and pleasure at seeing Sir Henry, and became quite flustered when introduced to the Chief Constable and Detective-Inspector Craddock.

“But really, Sir Henry, how fortunate … how very fortunate. So long since I have seen you … Yes, my rheumatism. Very bad of late. Of course I couldn’t have afforded this hotel (really fantastic what they charge nowadays) but Raymond—my nephew, Raymond West, you may remember him—”

“Everyone knows his name.”

“Yes, the dear boy has been so successful with his clever books—he prides himself upon never writing about anything pleasant. The dear boy insisted on paying all my expenses. And his dear wife is making a name for herself too, as an artist. Mostly jugs of dying flowers and broken combs on windowsills. I never dare tell her, but I still admire Blair Leighton and Alma Tadema. Oh, but I’m chattering. And the Chief Constable himself—indeed I never expected—so afraid I shall be taking up his time—”

“Completely ga-ga,” thought the disgusted Detective-Inspector Craddock.

“Come into the Manager’s private room,” said Rydesdale. “We can talk better there.”

When Miss Marple had been disentangled from her wool, and her spare knitting pins collected, she accompanied them, fluttering and protesting, to Mr. Rowlandson’s comfortable sitting-room.

“Now, Miss Marple, let’s hear what you have to tell us,” said the Chief Constable.

Miss Marple came to the point with unexpected brevity.

“It was a cheque,” she said. “He altered it.”

“He?”