The Body in the Library (Miss Marple 3)
“No, I’m not. You spoke of Melchett just now. The last time I saw Melchett there was a village tragedy. Girl supposed to have drowned herself. Police quite rightly suspected that it wasn’t suicide, but murder. They thought they knew who did it. Along to me comes old Miss Marple, fluttering and dithering. She’s afraid, she says, they’ll hang the wrong person. She’s got no evidence, but she knows who did do it. Hands me a piece of paper with a name written on it. And, by God, Jefferson, she was right!”
Conway Jefferson’s brows came down lower than ever. He grunted disbelievingly:
“Woman’s intuition, I suppose,” he said sceptically.
“No, she doesn’t call it that. Specialized knowledge is her claim.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Well, you know, Jefferson, we use it in police work. We get a burglary and we usually know pretty well who did it—of the regular crowd, that is. We know the sort of burglar who acts in a particular sort of way. Miss Marple has an interesting, though occasionally trivial, series of parallels from village life.”
Jefferson said sceptically:
“What is she likely to know about a girl who’s been brought up in a theatrical milieu and probably never been in a village in her life?”
“I think,” said Sir Henry Clithering firmly, “that she might have ideas.”
II
Miss Marple flushed with pleasure as Sir Henry bore down upon her.
“Oh, Sir Henry, this is indeed a great piece of luck meeting you here.”
Sir Henry was gallant. He said:
“To me it is a great pleasure.”
Miss Marple murmured, flushing: “So kind of you.”
“Are you staying here?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, we are.”
“We?”
“Mrs. Bantry’s here too.” She looked at him sharply. “Have you heard yet? Yes, I can see you have. It is terrible, is it not?”
“What’s Dolly Bantry doing here? Is her husband here too?”
“No. Naturally, they both reacted quite differently. Colonel Bantry, poor man, just shuts himself up in his study, or goes down to one of the farms, when anything like this happens. Like tortoises, you know, they draw their heads in and hope nobody will notice them. Dolly, of course, is quite different.”
“Dolly, in fact,” said Sir Henry, who knew his old friend fairly well, “is almost enjoying herself, eh?”
“Well—er—yes. Poor dear.”
“And she’s brought you along to produce the rabbits out of the hat for her?”
Miss Marple said composedly:
“Dolly thought that a change of scene would be a good thing and she didn’t want to come alone.” She met his eye and her own gently twinkled. “But, of course, your way of describing it is quite true. It’s rather embarrassing for me, because, of course, I am no use at all.”
“No ideas? No village parallels?”
“I don’t know very much about it all yet.”
“I can remedy that, I think. I’m going to call you into consultation, Miss Marple.”
He gave a brief recital of the course of events. Miss Marple listened with keen interest.
“Poor Mr. Jefferson,” she said. “What a very sad story. These terrible accidents. To leave him alive, crippled, seems more cruel than if he had been killed too.”
“Yes, indeed. That’s why all his friends admire him so much for the resolute way he’s gone on, conquering pain and grief and physical disabilities.”
“Yes, it is splendid.”
“The only thing I can’t understand is this sudden outpouring of affection for this girl. She may, of course, have had some remarkable qualities.”
“Probably not,” said Miss Marple placidly.
“You don’t think so?”
“I don’t think her qualities entered into it.”
Sir Henry said:
“He isn’t just a nasty old man, you know.”
“Oh, no, no!” Miss Marple got quite pink. “I wasn’t implying that for a minute. What I was trying to say was—very badly, I know—that he was just looking for a nice bright girl to take his dead daughter’s place—and then this girl saw her opportunity and played it for all she was worth! That sounds rather uncharitable, I know, but I have seen so many cases of the kind. The young maid-servant at Mr. Harbottle’s, for instance. A very ordinary girl, but quiet with nice manners. His sister was called away to nurse a dying relative and when she got back she found the girl completely above herself, sitting down in the drawing room laughing and talking and not wearing her cap or apron. Miss Harbottle spoke to her very sharply and the girl was impertinent, and then old Mr. Harbottle left her quite dumbfounded by saying that he thought she had kept house for him long enough and that he was making other arrangements.
“Such a scandal as it created in the village, but poor Miss Harbottle had to go and live most uncomfortably in rooms in Eastbourne. People said things, of course, but I believe there was no familiarity of any kind—it was simply that the old man found it much pleasanter to have a young, cheerful girl telling him how clever and amusing he was than to have his sister continually pointing out his faults to him, even if she was a good economical manager.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Miss Marple resumed.
“And there was Mr. Badger who had the chemist’s shop. Made a lot of fuss over the young lady who worked in his toilet section. Told his wife they must look on her as a daughter and have her to live in the house. Mrs. Badger didn’t see it that way at all.”
Sir Henry said: “If she’d only been a girl in his own rank of life—a friend’s child—”
Miss Marple interrupted him.
“Oh! but that wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfactory from his point of view. It’s like King Cophetua and the beggar maid. If you’re really rather a lonely, tired old man, and if, perhaps, your own family have been neglecting you”—she paused for a second—“well, to befriend someone who will be overwhelmed with your magnificence—(to put it rather melodramatically, but I hope you see what I mean)—well, that’s much more interesting. It makes you feel a much greater person—a beneficent monarch! The recipient is more likely to be dazzled, and that, of course, is a pleasant feeling for you.” She paused and said: “Mr. Badger, you know, bought the girl in his shop some really fantastic presents, a diamond bracelet and a most expensive radio-gramophone. Took out a lot of his savings to do so. However, Mrs. Badger, who was a much more astute woman than poor Miss Harbottle (marriage, of course, helps), took the trouble to find out a few things. And when Mr. Badger discovered that the girl was carrying on with a very undesirable young man connected with the racecourses, and had actually pawned the bracelet to give him the money—well, he was completely disgusted and the affair passed over quite safely. And he gave Mrs. Badger a diamond ring the following Christmas.”
Her pleasant, shrewd eyes met Sir Henry’s. He wondered if what she had been saying was intended as a hint. He said:
“Are you suggesting that if there had been a young man in Ruby Keene’s life, my friend’s attitude towards her might have altered?”
“It probably would, you know. I dare say, in a year or two, he might have liked to arrange for her marriage himself—though more likely he wouldn’t—gen
tlemen are usually rather selfish. But I certainly think that if Ruby Keene had had a young man she’d have been careful to keep very quiet about it.”
“And the young man might have resented that?”
“I suppose that is the most plausible solution. It struck me, you know, that her cousin, the young woman who was at Gossington this morning, looked definitely angry with the dead girl. What you’ve told me explains why. No doubt she was looking forward to doing very well out of the business.”
“Rather a cold-blooded character, in fact?”
“That’s too harsh a judgment, perhaps. The poor thing has had to earn her living, and you can’t expect her to sentimentalize because a well-to-do man and woman—as you have described Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson—are going to be done out of a further large sum of money to which they have really no particular moral right. I should say Miss Turner was a hard-headed, ambitious young woman, with a good temper and considerable joie de vivre. A little,” added Miss Marple, “like Jessie Golden, the baker’s daughter.”
“What happened to her?” asked Sir Henry.
“She trained as a nursery governess and married the son of the house, who was home on leave from India. Made him a very good wife, I believe.”
Sir Henry pulled himself clear of these fascinating side issues. He said:
“Is there any reason, do you think, why my friend Conway Jefferson should suddenly have developed this ‘Cophetua complex,’ if you like to call it that?”
“There might have been.”
“In what way?”
Miss Marple said, hesitating a little:
“I should think—it’s only a suggestion, of course—that perhaps his son-in-law and daughter-in-law might have wanted to get married again.”
“Surely he couldn’t have objected to that?”
“Oh, no, not objected. But, you see, you must look at it from his point of view. He had a terrible shock and loss—so had they. The three bereaved people live together and the link between them is the loss they have all sustained. But Time, as my dear mother used to say, is a great healer. Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson are young. Without knowing it themselves, they may have begun to feel restless, to resent the bonds that tied them to their past sorrow. And so, feeling like that, old Mr. Jefferson would have become conscious of a sudden lack of sympathy without knowing its cause. It’s usually that. Gentlemen so easily feel neglected. With Mr. Harbottle it was Miss Harbottle going away. And with the Badgers it was Mrs. Badger taking such an interest in Spiritualism and always going out to séances.”