The Body in the Library (Miss Marple 3)

“Very promising, Harper, very promising.”

“Not so good as it sounds, sir. Basil Blake was at a party at the studios that night. You know the sort of thing. Starts at eight with cocktails and goes on and on until the air’s too thick to see through and everyone passes out. According to Inspector Slack, who’s questioned him, he left the show round about midnight. At midnight Ruby Keene was dead.”

“Anyone bear out his statement?”

“Most of them, I gather, sir, were rather—er—far gone. The—er—young woman now at the bungalow—Miss Dinah Lee—says his statement is correct.”

“Doesn’t mean a thing!”

“No, sir, probably not. Statements taken from other members of the party bear Mr. Blake’s statement out on the whole, though ideas as to time are somewhat vague.”

“Where are these studios?”

“Lemville, sir, thirty miles southwest of London.”

“H’m—about the same distance from here?”

“Yes, sir.”

Colonel Melchett rubbed his nose. He said in a rather dissatisfied tone:

“Well, it looks as though we could wash him out.”

“I think so, sir. There is no evidence that he was seriously attracted by Ruby Keene. In fact”—Superintendent Harper coughed primly—“he seems fully occupied with his own young lady.”

Melchett said:

“Well, we are left with ‘X,’ an unknown murderer—so unknown Slack can’t find a trace of him! Or Jefferson’s son-in-law, who might have wanted to kill the girl—but didn’t have a chance to do so. Daughter-in-law ditto. Or George Bartlett, who has no alibi—but unfortunately no motive either. Or with young Blake, who has an alibi and no motive. And that’s the lot! No, stop, I suppose we ought to consider the dancing fellow—Raymond Starr. After all, he saw a lot of the girl.”

Harper said slowly:

“Can’t believe he took much interest in her—or else he’s a thundering good actor. And, for all practical purposes, he’s got an alibi too. He was more or less in view from twenty minutes to eleven until midnight, dancing with various partners. I don’t see that we can make a case against him.”

“In fact,” said Colonel Melchett, “we can’t make a case against anybody.”

“George Bartlett’s our best hope. If we could only hit on a motive.”

“You’ve had him looked up?”

“Yes, sir. Only child. Coddled by his mother. Came into a good deal of money on her death a year ago. Getting through it fast. Weak rather than vicious.”

“May be mental,” said Melchett hopefully.

Superintendent Harper nodded. He said:

“Has it struck you, sir—that that may be the explanation of the whole case?”

“Criminal lunatic, you mean?”

“Yes, sir. One of those fellows who go about strangling young girls. Doctors have a long name for it.”

“That would solve all our difficulties,” said Melchett.

“There’s only one thing I don’t like about it,” said Superintendent Harper.

“What?”

“It’s too easy.”

“H’m—yes—perhaps. So, as I said at the beginning where are we?”

“Nowhere, sir,” said Superintendent Harper.

Twelve

I

Conway Jefferson stirred in his sleep and stretched. His arms were flung out, long, powerful arms into which all the strength of his body seemed to be concentrated since his accident.

Through the curtains the morning light glowed softly.

Conway Jefferson smiled to himself. Always, after a night of rest, he woke like this, happy, refreshed, his deep vitality renewed. Another day!

So for a minute he lay. Then he pressed the special bell by his hand. And suddenly a wave of remembrance swept over him.

Even as Edwards, deft and quiet-footed, entered the room, a groan was wrung from his master.

Edwards paused with his hand on the curtains. He said: “You’re not in pain, sir?”

Conway Jefferson said harshly:

“No. Go on, pull ’em.”

The clear light flooded the room. Edwards, understanding, did not glance at his master.

His face grim, Conway Jefferson lay remembering and thinking. Before his eyes he saw again the pretty, vapid face of Ruby. Only in his mind he did not use the adjective vapid. Last night he would have said innocent. A naïve, innocent child! And now?

A great weariness came over Conway Jefferson. He closed his eyes. He murmured below his breath:

“Margaret….”

It was the name of his dead wife….

II

“I like your friend,” said Adelaide Jefferson to Mrs. Bantry.

The two women were sitting on the terrace.

“Jane Marple’s a very remarkable woman,” said Mrs. Bantry.

“She’s nice too,” said Addie, smiling.

“People call her a scandalmonger,” said Mrs. Bantry, “but she isn’t really.”

“Just a low opinion of human nature?”

“You could call it that.”

“It’s rather refreshing,” said Adelaide Jefferson, “after having had too much of the other thing.”

Mrs. Bantry looked at her sharply.

Addie explained herself.

“So much high-thinking—idealization of an unworthy object!”

“You mean Ruby Keene?”

Addie nodded.

“I don’t want to be horrid about her. There wasn’t any harm in her. Poor little rat, she had to

fight for what she wanted. She wasn’t bad. Common and rather silly and quite good-natured, but a decided little gold-digger. I don’t think she schemed or planned. It was just that she was quick to take advantage of a possibility. And she knew just how to appeal to an elderly man who was—lonely.”

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Bantry thoughtfully, “that Conway was lonely?”

Addie moved restlessly. She said:

“He was—this summer.” She paused and then burst out: “Mark will have it that it was all my fault. Perhaps it was, I don’t know.”

She was silent for a minute, then, impelled by some need to talk, she went on speaking in a difficult, almost reluctant way.

“I—I’ve had such an odd sort of life. Mike Carmody, my first husband, died so soon after we were married—it—it knocked me out. Peter, as you know, was born after his death. Frank Jefferson was Mike’s great friend. So I came to see a lot of him. He was Peter’s godfather—Mike had wanted that. I got very fond of him—and—oh! sorry for him too.”

“Sorry?” queried Mrs. Bantry with interest.

“Yes, just that. It sounds odd. Frank had always had everything he wanted. His father and his mother couldn’t have been nicer to him. And yet—how can I say it?—you see, old Mr. Jefferson’s personality is so strong. If you live with it, you can’t somehow have a personality of your own. Frank felt that.

“When we were married he was very happy—wonderfully so. Mr. Jefferson was very generous. He settled a large sum of money on Frank—said he wanted his children to be independent and not have to wait for his death. It was so nice of him—so generous. But it was much too sudden. He ought really to have accustomed Frank to independence little by little.

“It went to Frank’s head. He wanted to be as good a man as his father, as clever about money and business, as far-seeing and successful. And, of course, he wasn’t. He didn’t exactly speculate with the money, but he invested in the wrong things at the wrong time. It’s frightening, you know, how soon money goes if you’re not clever about it. The more Frank dropped, the more eager he was to get it back by some clever deal. So things went from bad to worse.”