“Not anywhere,” said Miss Marple. “I don’t think you’ve followed the thing to its logical conclusion, my dear Miss Eyelesbarrow.”
“Do call me Lucy. Why not anywhere?”
“Because, if so, he might much more easily have killed the girl in some lonely spot and driven the body away from there. You haven’t appreciated—”
Lucy interrupted.
“Are you saying—do you mean—that this was a premeditated crime?”
“I didn’t think so at first,” said Miss Marple. “One wouldn’t—naturally. It seemed like a quarrel and a man losing control and strangling the girl and then being faced with the problem which he had to solve within a few minutes. But it really is too much of a coincidence that he should kill the girl in a fit of passion, and then look out of the window and find the train was going round a curve exactly at a spot where he could tip the body out, and where he could be sure of finding his way later and removing it! If he’d just thrown her out there by chance, he’d have done no more about it, and the body would, long before now, have been found.”
She paused. Lucy stared at her.
“You know,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully, “it’s really quite a clever way to have planned a crime—and I think it was very carefully planned. There’s something so anonymous about a train. If he’d killed her in the place where she lived, or was staying, somebody might have noticed him come or go. Or if he’d driven her out in the country somewhere, someone might have noticed the car and its number and make. But a train is full of strangers coming and going. In a non-corridor carriage, alone with her, it was quite easy—especially if you realize that he knew exactly what he was going to do next. He knew—he must have known—all about Rutherford Hall—its geographical position, I mean, its queer isolation—an island bounded by railway lines.”
“It is exactly like that,” said Lucy. “It’s an anachronism out of the past. Bustling urban life goes on all around it, but doesn’t touch it. The tradespeople deliver in the mornings and that’s all.”
“So we assume, as you said, that the murderer comes to Rutherford Hall that night. It is already dark when the body falls and no one is likely to discover it before the next day.”
“No, indeed.”
“The murderer would come—how? In a car? Which way?”
Lucy considered.
“There’s a rough lane, alongside a factory wall. He’d probably come that way, turn in under the railway arch and along the back drive. Then he could climb the fence, go along at the foot of the embankment, find the body, and carry it back to the car.”
“And then,” continued Miss Marple, “he took it to some place he had already chosen beforehand. This was all thought out, you know. And I don’t think, as I say, that he would take it away from Rutherford Hall, or if so, not very far. The obvious thing, I suppose, would be to bury it somewhere?” She looked inquiringly at Lucy.
“I suppose so,” said Lucy considering. “But it wouldn’t be quite as easy as it sounds.”
Miss Marple agreed.
“He couldn’t bury it in the park. Too hard work and very noticeable. Somewhere where the earth was turned already?”
“The kitchen garden, perhaps, but that’s very close to the gardener’s cottage. He’s old and deaf—but still it might be risky.”
“Is there a dog?”
“No.”
“Then in a shed, perhaps, or an outhouse?”
“That would be simpler and quicker… There are a lot of unused old buildings; broken down pigsties, harness rooms, workshops that nobody ever goes near. Or he might perhaps thrust it into a clump of rhododendrons or shrubs somewhere.”
Miss Marple nodded.
“Yes, I think that’s much more probable.”
There was a knock on the door and the grim Florence came in with a tray.
“Nice for you to have a visitor,” she said to Miss Marple, “I’ve made you my special scones you used to like.”
“Florence always made the most delicious tea cakes,” said Miss Marple.
Florence, gratified, creased her features into a totally unexpected smile and left the room.
“I think, my dear,” said Miss Marple, “we won’t talk anymore about murder during tea. Such an unpleasant subject!”
II
After tea, Lucy rose.
“I’ll be getting back,” she said. “As I’ve already told you, there’s no one actually living at Rutherford Hall who could be the man we’re looking for. There’s only an old man and a middle-aged woman, and an old deaf gardener.”
“I didn’t say he was actually living there,” said Miss Marple. “All I mean is, that he’s someone who knows Rutherford Hall very well. But we can go into that after you’ve found the body.”
“You seem to assume quite confidently that I shall find it,” said Lucy. “I don’t feel nearly so optimistic.”
“I’m sure you will succeed, my dear Lucy. You are such an efficient person.”
“In some ways, but I haven’t had any experience in looking for bodies.”
“I’m sure all it needs is a little common sense,” said Miss Marple encouragingly.
Lucy looked at her, then laughed. Miss Marple smiled back at her.
Lucy set to work systematically the next afternoon.
She poked round outhouses, prodded the briars which wreathed the old pigsties, and was peering into the boiler room under the greenhouse when she heard a dry cough and turned to find old Hillman, the gardener, looking at her disapprovingly.
“You be careful you don’t get a nasty fall, miss,” he warned her. “Them steps isn’t safe, and you was up in the loft just now and the floor there ain’t safe neither.”
Lucy was careful to display no embarrassment.
“I expect you think I’m very nosy,” she said cheerfully. “I was just wondering if something couldn’t be made out of this place—growing mushrooms for the market, that sort of thing. Everything seems to have been let go terribly.”
“That’s the master, that is. Won’t spend a penny. Ought to have two men and a boy here, I ought, to keep the place proper, but won’t hear of it, he won’t. Had all I could do to make him get a motor mower. Wanted me to mow all that front grass by hand, he did.”
“But if the place could be made to pay—with some repairs?”
“Won’t get a place like this to pay—too far gone. And he wouldn’t care about that, anyway. Only cares about saving. Knows well enough what’ll happen after he’s gone—the young gentlemen’ll sell up as fast as they can. Only waiting for him to pop off, they are. Going to come into a tidy lot of money when he dies, so I’ve heard.”
“I suppose he’s a very rich man?” said Lucy.
“Crackenthorpe’s Fancies, that’s what they are. The old gentleman started it, Mr. Crackenthorpe’s father. A sharp one he was, by all accounts. Made his fortune, and built this place. Hard as nails, they say, and never forgot an injury. But with all that, he was open-handed. Nothing of the miser about him. Disappointed in both his sons, so the story goes. Give ’em an education and brought ’em up to be gentlemen—Oxford and all. But they were too much of gentlemen to want to go into the business. The younger one married an actress and then smashed himself up in a car accident when he’d been drinking. The elder one, our one here, his father never fancied so much. Abroad a lot, he was, bought a lot of heathen statues and had them sent home. Wasn’t so close with his money when he was young—come on him more in middle age, it did. No, they never did hit it off, him and his father, so I’ve heard.”
Lucy digested this information with an air of polite interest. The old man leant against the wall and prepared to go on with his saga. He much preferred talking to doing any work.
“Died before the war, the old gentleman did. Terrible temper he had. Didn’t do to give him any cause, he wouldn’t stand for it.”
“And after he died, this Mr. Crackenthorpe came and lived here?”
“Him and his family, yes. Nigh
grown up they was by then.”
“But surely… Oh, I see, you mean the 1914 war.”
“No, I don’t. Died in 1928, that’s what I mean.”
Lucy supposed that 1928 qualified as “before the war” though it was not the way she would have described it herself.
She said: “Well, I expect you’ll be wanting to go on with your work. You mustn’t let me keep you.”
“Ar,” said old Hillman without enthusiasm, “not much you can do this time of day. Light’s too bad.”
Lucy went back to the house, pausing to investigate a likely-looking copse of birch and azalea on her way.
She found Emma Crackenthorpe standing in the hall reading a letter. The afternoon post had just been delivered.
“My nephew will be here tomorrow—with a school-friend. Alexander’s room is the one over the porch. The one next to it will do for James Stoddart-West. They’ll use the bathroom just opposite.”
“Yes, Miss Crackenthorpe. I’ll see the rooms are prepared.”
“They’ll arrive in the morning before lunch.” She hesitated. “I expect they’ll be hungry.”
“I bet they will,” said Lucy. “Roast beef, do you think? And perhaps treacle tart?”
“Alexander’s very fond of treacle tart.”
The two boys arrived on the following morning. They both had well-brushed hair, suspiciously angelic faces, and perfect manners. Alexander Eastley had fair hair and blue eyes, Stoddart-West was dark and spectacled.
They discoursed gravely during lunch on events in the sporting world, with occasional references to the latest space fiction. Their manner was that of elderly professors discussing palaeolithic implements. In comparison with them, Lucy felt quite young.
The sirloin of beef vanished in no time and every crumb of treacle tart was consumed.
Mr. Crackenthorpe grumbled: “You two will eat me out of house and home.”
Alexander gave him a blue-eyed reproving glance.
“We’ll have bread and cheese if you can’t afford meat, Grandfather.”
“Afford it? I can afford it. I don’t like waste.”
“We haven’t wasted any, sir,” said Stoddart-West, looking down at his place which bore clear testimony of that fact.
“You boys both eat twice as much as I do.”