Nemesis (Miss Marple 12)

“I hope you didn’t feel the stairs too much,” said Mr. Schuster. “Seventy if she is a day—nearer eighty perhaps,” he was thinking in his own mind.

“I always get a little breathless going upstairs.”

“An old-fashioned building this,” said Mr. Broadribb apologetically. “No lift. Ah well, we are a very long established firm and we don’t go in for as many of the modern gadgets as perhaps our clients expect of us.”

“This room has very pleasant proportions,” said Miss Marple, politely.

She accepted the chair that Mr. Broadribb drew forward for her. Mr. Schuster, in an unobtrusive sort of way, left the room.

“I hope that chair is comfortable,” said Mr. Broadribb. “I’ll pull that curtain slightly, shall I? You may feel the sun a little too much in your eyes.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Marple, gratefully.

She sat there, upright as was her habit. She wore a light tweed suit, a string of pearls and a small velvet toque. To himself Mr. Broadribb was saying, “The Provincial Lady. A good type. Fluffy old girl. May be scatty—may not. Quite a shrewd eye. I wonder where Rafiel came across her. Somebody’s aunt, perhaps, up from the country?” While these thoughts passed through his head, he was making the kind of introductory small talk relating to the weather, the unfortunate effects of late frosts early in the year and such other remarks as he considered suitable.

Miss Marple made the necessary responses and sat placidly awaiting the opening of preliminaries to the meeting.

“You will be wondering what all this is about,” said Mr. Broadribb, shifting a few papers in front of him and giving her a suitable smile. “You’ve heard, no doubt, of Mr. Rafiel’s death, or perhaps you saw it in the paper.”

“I saw it in the paper,” said Miss Marple.

“He was, I understand, a friend of yours.”

“I met him first just over a year ago,” said Miss Marple. “In the West Indies,” she added.

“Ah. I remember. He went out there, I believe, for his health. It did him some good, perhaps, but he was already a very ill man, badly crippled, as you know.”

“Yes,” said Miss Marple.

“You knew him well?”

“No,” said Miss Marple, “I would not say that. We were fellow visitors in a hotel. We had occasional conversations. I never saw him again after my return to England. I live very quietly in the country, you see, and I gather that he was completely absorbed in business.”

“He continued transacting business right up—well, I could almost say right up to the day of his death,” said Mr. Broadribb. “A very fine financial brain.”

“I am sure that was so,” said Miss Marple. “I realized quite soon that he was a—well, a very remarkable character altogether.”

“I don’t know if you have any idea—whether you’ve been given any idea at some time by Mr. Rafiel—as to what this proposition is that I have been instructed to put up to you?”

“I cannot imagine,” said Miss Marple, “what possible kind of proposition Mr. Rafiel might have wanted to put up to me. It seems most unlikely.”

“He had a very high opinion of you.”

“That is kind of him, but hardly justified,” said Miss Marple. “I am a very simple person.”

“As you no doubt realize, he died a very rich man. The provisions of his Will are on the whole fairly simple. He had already made dispositions of his fortune some time before his death. Trusts and other beneficiary arrangements.”

“That is, I believe, very usual procedure nowadays,” said Miss Marple, “though I am not at all cognizant of financial matters myself.”

“The purpose of this appointment,” said Mr. Broadribb, “is that I am instructed to tell you that a sum of money has been laid aside to become yours absolutely at the end of one year, but conditional on your accepting a certain proposition, with which I am to make you acquainted.”

He took from the table in front of him a long envelope. It was sealed. He passed it across the table to her.

“It would be better, I think, that you should read for yourself of what this consists. There is no hurry. Take your time.”

Miss Marple took her time. She availed herself of a small paper knife which Mr. Broadribb handed to her, slit up the envelope, took out the enclosure, one sheet of typewriting, and read it. She folded it up again, then reread it and looked at Mr. Broadribb.

“This is hardly very definite. Is there no more definite elucidation of any kind?”

“Not so far as I am concerned. I was to hand you this, and tell you the amount of the legacy. The sum in question is twenty thousand pounds free of legacy duty.”

Miss Marple sat looking at him. Surprise had rendered her speechless. Mr. Broadribb said no more for the moment. He was watching her closely. There was no doubt of her surprise. It was obviously the last thing Miss Marple had expected to hear. Mr. Broadribb wondered what her first words would be. She looked at him with the directness, the severity that one of his own aunts might have done. When she spoke it was almost accusingly.

“That is a very large sum of money,” said Miss Marple.

“Not quite so large as it used to be,” said Mr. Broadribb (and just restrained himself from saying, “Mere chicken feed nowadays”).

“I must admit,” said Miss Marple, “that I am amazed. Frankly, quite amazed.”

She picked up the document and read it carefully through again.

“I gather you know the terms of this?” she said.

“Yes. It was dictated to me personally by Mr. Rafiel.”

“Did he not give you any explanation of it?”

“No, he did not.”

“You suggested, I suppose, that it might be better if he did,” said Miss Marple. There was a slight acidity in her voice now.

Mr. Broadribb smiled faintly.

“You are quite right. That is what I did. I said that you might find it difficult to—oh, to understand exactly what he was driving at.”

“Very remarkable,” said Miss Marple.

“There is no need, of course,” said Mr. Broadribb, “for you to

give me an answer now.”

“No,” said Miss Marple, “I should have to reflect upon this.”

“It is, as you have pointed out, quite a substantial sum of money.”

“I am old,” said Miss Marple. “Elderly, we say, but old is a better word. Definitely old. It is both possible and indeed probable that I might not live as long as a year to earn this money, in the rather doubtful case that I was able to earn it.”

“Money is not to be despised at any age,” said Mr. Broadribb.

“I could benefit certain charities in which I have an interest,” said Miss Marple, “and there are always people. People whom one wishes one could do a little something for but one’s own funds do not admit of it. And then I will not pretend that there are not pleasures and desires—things that one has not been able to indulge in or to afford—I think Mr. Rafiel knew quite well that to be able to do so, quite unexpectedly, would give an elderly person a great deal of pleasure.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Broadribb. “A cruise abroad, perhaps? One of these excellent tours as arranged nowadays. Theatres, concerts—the ability to replenish one’s cellars.”

“My tastes would be a little more moderate than that,” said Miss Marple. “Partridges,” she said thoughtfully, “it is very difficult to get partridges nowadays, and they’re very expensive. I should enjoy a partridge—a whole partridge—to myself, very much. A box of marrons glacés is an expensive taste which I cannot often gratify. Possibly a visit to the opera. It means a car to take one to Covent Garden and back, and the expense of a night in a hotel. But I must not indulge in idle chat,” she said. “I will take this back with me and reflect upon it. Really, what on earth made Mr. Rafiel—you have no idea why he should have suggested this particular proposition, and why he should think that I could be of service to him in any way? He must have known that it was over a year, nearly two years since he had seen me and that I might have got much more feeble than I have, and much more unable to exercise such small talents as I might have. He was taking a risk. There are other people surely much better qualified to undertake an investigation of this nature?”