The Body in the Library (Miss Marple 3)

“No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

“People who use that phrase are always the last to live up to it. It’s no good, dear. There’s a long way to go yet. A great many things that are quite obscure. You remember when I was so against letting Mrs. Partridge collect for the Red Cross, and I couldn’t say why. The reason was that her nose had twitched in just the same way that that maid of mine, Alice, twitched her nose when I sent her out to pay the books. Always paid them a shilling or so short, and said ‘it could go on to the next week’s account,’ which, of course, was exactly what Mrs. Partridge did, only on a much larger scale. Seventy-five pounds it was she embezzled.”

“Never mind Mrs. Partridge,” said Mrs. Bantry.

“But I had to explain to you. And if you care I’ll give you a hint. The trouble in this case is that everybody has been much too credulous and believing. You simply cannot afford to believe everything that people tell you. When there’s anything fishy about, I never believe anyone at all! You see, I know human nature so well.”

Mrs. Bantry was silent for a minute or two. Then she said in a different tone of voice:

“I told you, didn’t I, that I didn’t see why I shouldn’t enjoy myself over this case. A real murder in my own house! The sort of thing that will never happen again.”

“I hope not,” said Miss Marple.

“Well, so do I, really. Once is enough. But it’s my murder, Jane; I want to enjoy myself over it.”

Miss Marple shot a glance at her.

Mrs. Bantry said belligerently:

“Don’t you believe that?”

Miss Marple said sweetly:

“Of course, Dolly, if you tell me so.”

“Yes, but you never believe what people tell you, do you? You’ve just said so. Well, you’re quite right.” Mrs. Bantry’s voice took on a sudden bitter note. She said: “I’m not altogether a fool. You may think, Jane, that I don’t know what they’re saying all over St. Mary Mead—all over the county! They’re saying, one and all, that there’s no smoke without fire, that if the girl was found in Arthur’s library, then Arthur must know something about it. They’re saying that the girl was Arthur’s mistress—that she was his illegitimate daughter—that she was blackmailing him. They’re saying anything that comes into their damned heads! And it will go on like that! Arthur won’t realize it at first—he won’t know what’s wrong. He’s such a dear old stupid that he’d never believe people would think things like that about him. He’ll be cold-shouldered and looked at askance (whatever that means!) and it will dawn on him little by little and suddenly he’ll be horrified and cut to the soul, and he’ll fasten up like a clam and just endure, day after day, in misery.

“It’s because of all that’s going to happen to him that I’ve come here to ferret out every single thing about it that I can! This murder’s got to be solved! If it isn’t, then Arthur’s whole life will be wrecked—and I won’t have that happen. I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!”

She paused for a minute and said:

“I won’t have the dear old boy go through hell for something he didn’t do. That’s the only reason I came to Danemouth and left him alone at home—to find out the truth.”

“I know, dear,” said Miss Marple. “That’s why I’m here too.”

Fourteen

I

In a quiet hotel room Edwards was listening deferentially to Sir Henry Clithering.

“There are certain questions I would like to ask you, Edwards, but I want you first to understand quite clearly my position here. I was at one time Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard. I am now retired into private life. Your master sent for me when this tragedy occurred. He begged me to use my skill and experience in order to find out the truth.”

Sir Henry paused.

Edwards, his pale intelligent eyes on the other’s face, inclined his head. He said: “Quite so, Sir Henry.”

Clithering went on slowly and deliberately:

“In all police cases there is necessarily a lot of information that is held back. It is held back for various reasons—because it touches on a family skeleton, because it is considered to have no bearing on the case, because it would entail awkwardness and embarrassment to the parties concerned.”

Again Edwards said:

“Quite so, Sir Henry.”

“I expect, Edwards, that by now you appreciate quite clearly the main points of this business. The dead girl was on the point of becoming Mr. Jefferson’s adopted daughter. Two people had a motive in seeing that this should not happen. Those two people are Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson.”

The valet’s eyes displayed a momentary gleam. He said: “May I ask if they are under suspicion, sir?”

“They are in no danger of arrest, if that is what you mean. But the police are bound to be suspicious of them and will continue to be so until the matter is cleared up.”

“An unpleasant position for them, sir.”

“Very unpleasant. Now to get at the truth one must have all the facts of the case. A lot depends, must depend, on the reactions, the words and gestures, of Mr. Jefferson and his family. How did they feel, what did they show, what things were said? I am asking you, Edwards, for inside information—the kind of inside information that only you are likely to have. You know your master’s moods. From observation of them you probably know what caused them. I am asking this, not as a policeman, but as a friend of Mr. Jefferson’s. That is to say, if anything you tell me is not, in my opinion, relevant to the case, I shall not pass it on to the police.”

He paused. Edwards said quietly:

“I understand you, sir. You want me to speak quite frankly—to say things that in the ordinary course of events I should not say—and that, excuse me, sir, you wouldn’t dream of listening to.”

Sir Henry said:

“You’re a very intelligent fellow, Edwards. That’s exactly what I do mean.”

Edwards was silent for a minute or two, then he began to speak.

“Of course I know Mr. Jefferson fairly well by now. I’ve been with him quite a number of years. And I see him in his ‘off ’ moments, not only in his ‘on’ ones. Sometimes, sir, I’ve questioned in my own mind whether it’s good for anyone to fight fate in the way Mr. Jefferson has fought. It’s taken a terrible toll of him, sir. If, sometimes, he could have given way, been an unhappy, lonely, broken old man—well, it might have been better for him in the end. But he’s too proud for that! He’ll go down fighting—that’s his motto.

“But that sort of thing leads, Sir Henry, to a lot of nervous reaction. He looks a good-tempered gentleman. I’ve seen him in violent rages when he could hardly speak for passion. And the one thing that roused him, sir, was deceit….”

“Are you saying that for any particular reason, Edwards?”

“Yes, sir, I am. You asked me, sir, to speak quite frankly?”

“That is the idea.”

“Well, then, Sir Henry, in my opinion the young woman that Mr. Jefferson was so taken up with wasn’t worth it. She was, to put it bluntly, a common little piece. And she didn’t care tuppence for Mr. Jefferson. All that play of affection and gratitude was so much poppycock. I don’t say there was any harm in her—but she wasn’t, by a long way, what Mr. Jefferson thought her. It was funny, that, sir, for Mr. Jefferson was a shrewd gentleman; he wasn’t often deceived over people. But there, a gentleman isn’t himself in his judgment when it comes to a young woman being in question. Young Mrs. Jefferson, you see, whom he’d always depended upon a lot for sympathy, had changed a good deal this summer. He noticed it and he felt it badly. He was fond of her, you see. Mr. Mark he never liked much.”

Sir Henry interjected:

“And yet he had him with him constantly?”

“Yes, but that was for Miss Rosamund’s sake. Mrs. Gaskell that was. She was the apple of his eye. He adored her. Mr. Mark was Miss Rosamund’s husband. He always thought of him like that.”

“Supposing Mr. Mark had married s

omeone else?”

“Mr. Jefferson, sir, would have been furious.”

Sir Henry raised his eyebrows. “As much as that?”

“He wouldn’t have shown it, but that’s what it would have been.”

“And if Mrs. Jefferson had married again?”

“Mr. Jefferson wouldn’t have liked that either, sir.”

“Please go on, Edwards.”

“I was saying, sir, that Mr. Jefferson fell for this young woman. I’ve often seen it happen with the gentlemen I’ve been with. Comes over them like a kind of disease. They want to protect the girl, and shield her, and shower benefits upon her—and nine times out of ten the girl is very well able to look after herself and has a good eye to the main chance.”

“So you think Ruby Keene was a schemer?”

“Well, Sir Henry, she was quite inexperienced, being so young, but she had the makings of a very fine schemer indeed when she’d once got well into her swing, so to speak! In another five years she’d have been an expert at the game!”

Sir Henry said:

“I’m glad to have your opinion of her. It’s valuable. Now do you recall any incident in which this matter was discussed between Mr. Jefferson and his family?”