Nemesis (Miss Marple 12)

“Oh no,” said Miss Marple, “I’m quite prepared to do that. I have a small notebook with me and a Biro pen that will not be in evidence. I can remember things by heart for a very short time, so I need not appear to be obviously taking notes of what she says. You can trust my memory and I am not deaf—not deaf in the real sense of the word. I don’t think my hearing is quite as good as it used to be, but if I am sitting near a bedside, I ought to be able to hear anything she says quite easily even if it is whispered. I am used to sick people. I have had a good deal to do with them in my time.”

Again the lightning glance of Sister Barker went over Miss Marple. This time a faint inclination of the head showed satisfaction.

“It is kind of you,” she said, “and I am sure that if there is any help you can give, we can rely on you to give it. If Professor Wanstead likes to sit in the waiting room downstairs, we can call him at any moment if it should be necessary. Now, Miss Marple, perhaps you will accompany me.”

Miss Marple followed Sister along a passage and into a small well appointed single room. In the bed there, in a dimly-lighted room since the blinds were half drawn, lay Elizabeth Temple. She lay there like a statue, yet she did not give the impression of being asleep. Her breath came uncertainly in slight gasps. Sister Barker bent to examine her patient, motioned Miss Marple into a chair beside the bed. She then crossed the room to the door again. A young man with a notebook in his hand came from behind the screen there.

“Doctor’s orders, Mr. Reckitt,” said Sister Barker.

A nurse also appeared. She had been sitting in the opposite corner of the room.

“Call me if necessary, Nurse Edmonds,” said Sister Barker, “and get Miss Marple anything she may need.”

Miss Marple loosened her coat. The room was warm. The nurse approached and took it from her. Then she retired to her former position, Miss Marple sat down in the chair. She looked at Elizabeth Temple thinking, as she had thought before when looking at her in the coach, what a fine shaped head she had. Her grey hair drawn back from it, fitted her face in a perfect cap-like effect. A handsome woman, and a woman of personality. Yes, a thousand pities, Miss Marple thought, a thousand pities if the world was going to lose Elizabeth Temple.

Miss Marple eased the cushion at her back, moved the chair a fraction of an inch and sat quietly to wait. Whether to wait in vain or to some point, she had no idea. Time passed. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour, thirty-five minutes. Then suddenly, quite unexpectedly as it were, a voice came. Low, but distinct, slightly husky. None of the resonance it had once held. “Miss Marple.”

Elizabeth Temple’s eyes were open now. They were looking at Miss Marple. They looked competent, perfectly sensible. She was studying the face of the woman who was sitting by her bed, studying her without any sign of emotion, of surprise. Only, one would say, of scrutiny. Fully conscious scrutiny. And the voice spoke again.

“Miss Marple. You are Jane Marple?”

“That is right. Yes,” said Miss Marple. “Jane Marple.”

“Henry often spoke of you. He said things about you.”

The voice stopped. Miss Marple said with a slight query in her voice,

“Henry?”

“Henry Clithering, an old friend of mine—very old friend.”

“An old friend of mine too,” said Miss Marple. “Henry Clithering.”

Her mind went back to the many years she had known him, Sir Henry Clithering, the things he had said to her, the assistance he had asked from her sometimes, and the assistance that she had asked from him. A very old friend.

“I remembered your name. On the passenger list. I thought it must be you. You could help. That’s what he—Henry, yes—would say if he were here. You might be able to help. To find out. It’s important. Very important although—it’s a long time ago now—a—long—time—ago.”

Her voice faltered a little, her eyes half closed. Nurse got up, came across the room, picked up a small glass and held it to Elizabeth Temple’s lips. Miss Temple took a sip, nodded her head dismissively. Nurse put down the glass and went back to her chair.

“If I can help, I will,” said Miss Marple. She asked no further questions.

Miss Temple said, “Good,” and after a minute or two, again, “Good.”

For two or three minutes she lay with her eyes closed. She might have been asleep or unconscious. Then her eyes opened again suddenly.

“Which,” she said, “which of them? That’s what one has got to know. Do you know what I am talking about?”

“I think so. A girl who died—Nora Broad?” A frown came quickly to Elizabeth Temple’s forehead.

“No, no, no. The other girl. Verity Hunt.”

There was a pause and then, “Jane Marple. You’re old—older than when he talked about you. You’re older, but you can still find out things, can’t you?”

Her voice became slightly higher, more insistent.

“You can, can’t you? Say you can. I’ve not much time. I know that. I know it quite well. One of them, but which? Find out. Henry would have said you can. It may be dangerous for you—but you’ll find out, won’t you?”

“With God’s help, I will,” said Miss Marple. It was a vow.

“Ah.”

The eyes closed, then opened again. Something like a smile seemed to try and twitch the lips.

“The big stone from above. The Stone of Death.”

“Who rolled that stone down?”

“Don’t know. No matter—only—Verity. Find out about Verity. Truth. Another name for truth, Verity.”

Miss Marple saw the faint relaxation of the body on the bed. There was a faintly whispered: “Good-bye. Do your best….”

Her body relaxed, the eyes closed. The nurse came again to the bedside. This time she took up the pulse, felt it, and beckoned to Miss Marple. Miss Marple rose obediently and followed her out of the room.

“That’s been a big effort for her,” said the nurse. “She won’t regain consciousness again for some time. Perhaps not at all. I hope you learnt something?”

“I don’t think I did,” said Miss Marple, “but one never knows, does one.”

“Did you get anything?” asked Professor Wanstead, as they went out to the car.

“A name,” said Miss Marple. “Verity. Was that the girl’s name?”

“Yes. Verity Hunt.”

Elizabeth Temple died an hour and a half later. She died without regaining consciousness.

Fourteen

MR. BROADRIBB WONDERS

“Seen The Times this morning?” said Mr. Broadribb to his partner, Mr. Schuster.

Mr. Schuster said he couldn’t afford The Times, he took the Telegraph.

“Well, it may be in that too,” said Mr. Broadribb. “In the deaths, Miss Elizabeth Temple, D.Sc.”

Mr. Schuster looked faintly puzzled.

“Headmistress of Fallowfield. You’ve heard of Fallowfield, haven’t you?”

“Of course,” said Schuster. “Girls’ school. Been going for fifty years or so. First class, fantastically expensive. So she was the Headmistress of it, was she? I thought the Headmistress had resigned some time ago. Six months at least. I’m sure I read about it in the paper. That is to say there was a bit about the new Headmistress. Married woman. Youngish. Thirty-five to forty. Modern ideas. Give the girls lessons in cosmetics, let ’em wear trouser suits. Something of that kind.”