The Body in the Library (Miss Marple 3)

Melchett pretended to glance through his notes.

“Ah, yes, I see it was a Mr. Jefferson who went to the police. One of the guests staying at the hotel?”

Josephine Turner said shortly:

“Yes.”

Colonel Melchett asked:

“What made this Mr. Jefferson do that?”

Josie was stroking the cuff of her jacket. There was a constraint in her manner. Again Colonel Melchett had a feeling that something was being withheld. She said rather sullenly:

“He’s an invalid. He—he gets all het up rather easily. Being an invalid, I mean.”

Melchett passed on from that. He asked:

“Who was the young man with whom you last saw your cousin dancing?”

“His name’s Bartlett. He’d been there about ten days.”

“Were they on very friendly terms?”

“Not specially, I should say. Not that I knew, anyway.”

Again a curious note of anger in her voice.

“What does he have to say?”

“Said that after their dance Ruby went upstairs to powder her nose.”

“That was when she changed her dress?”

“I suppose so.”

“And that is the last thing you know? After that she just—”

“Vanished,” said Josie. “That’s right.”

“Did Miss Keene know anybody in St. Mary Mead? Or in this neighbourhood?”

“I don’t know. She may have done. You see, quite a lot of young men come into Danemouth to the Majestic from all round about. I wouldn’t know where they lived unless they happened to mention it.”

“Did you ever hear your cousin mention Gossington?”

“Gossington?” Josie looked patently puzzled.

“Gossington Hall.”

She shook her head.

“Never heard of it.” Her tone carried conviction. There was curiosity in it too.

“Gossington Hall,” explained Colonel Melchett, “is where her body was found.”

“Gossington Hall?” She stared. “How extraordinary!”

Melchett thought to himself: “Extraordinary’s the word!” Aloud he said:

“Do you know a Colonel or Mrs. Bantry?”

Again Josie shook her head.

“Or a Mr. Basil Blake?”

She frowned slightly.

“I think I’ve heard that name. Yes, I’m sure I have—but I don’t remember anything about him.”

The diligent Inspector Slack slid across to his superior officer a page torn from his notebook. On it was pencilled:

“Col. Bantry dined at Majestic last week.”

Melchett looked up and met the Inspector’s eye. The Chief Constable flushed. Slack was an industrious and zealous officer and Melchett disliked him a good deal. But he could not disregard the challenge. The Inspector was tacitly accusing him of favouring his own class—of shielding an “old school tie.”

He turned to Josie.

“Miss Turner, I should like you, if you do not mind, to accompany me to Gossington Hall.”

Coldly, defiantly, almost ignoring Josie’s murmur of assent, Melchett’s eyes met Slack’s.

Four

I

St. Mary Mead was having the most exciting morning it had known for a long time.

Miss Wetherby, a long-nosed, acidulated spinster, was the first to spread the intoxicating information. She dropped in upon her friend and neighbour Miss Hartnell.

“Forgive me coming so early, dear, but I thought, perhaps, you mightn’t have heard the news.”

“What news?” demanded Miss Hartnell. She had a deep bass voice and visited the poor indefatigably, however hard they tried to avoid her ministrations.

“About the body in Colonel Bantry’s library—a woman’s body—”

“In Colonel Bantry’s library?”

“Yes. Isn’t it terrible?”

“His poor wife.” Miss Hartnell tried to disguise her deep and ardent pleasure.

“Yes, indeed. I don’t suppose she had any idea.”

Miss Hartnell observed censoriously:

“She thought too much about her garden and not enough about her husband. You’ve got to keep an eye on a man—all the time—all the time,” repeated Miss Hartnell fiercely.

“I know. I know. It’s really too dreadful.”

“I wonder what Jane Marple will say. Do you think she knew anything about it? She’s so sharp about these things.”

“Jane Marple has gone up to Gossington.”

“What? This morning?”

“Very early. Before breakfast.”

“But really! I do think! Well, I mean, I think that is carrying things too far. We all know Jane likes to poke her nose into things—but I call this indecent!”

“Oh, but Mrs. Bantry sent for her.”

“Mrs. Bantry sent for her?”

“Well, the car came—with Muswell driving it.”

“Dear me! How very peculiar….”

They were silent a minute or two digesting the news.

“Whose body?” demanded Miss Hartnell.

“You know that dreadful woman who comes down with Basil Blake?”

“That terrible peroxide blonde?” Miss Hartnell was slightly behind the times. She had not yet advanced from peroxide to platinum. “The one who lies about in the garden with practically nothing on?”

“Yes, my dear. There she was—on the hearthrug—strangled!”

“But what do you mean—at Gossington?”

Miss Wetherby nodded with infinite meaning.

“Then—Colonel Bantry too—?”

Again Miss Wetherby nodded.

“Oh!”

There was a pause as the ladies savoured this new addition to village scandal.

“What a wicked woman!” trumpeted Miss Hartnell with righteous wrath.

“Quite, quite abandoned, I’m afraid!”

“And Colonel Bantry—such a nice quiet man—”

Miss Wetherby said zestfully:

“Those quiet ones are often the worst. Jane Marple always says so.”

II

Mrs. Price Ridley was among the last to hear the news.

A rich and dictatorial widow, she lived in a large house next door to the vicarage. Her informant was her little maid Clara.

“A woman, you say, Clara? Found dead on Colonel Bantry’s hearthrug?”

“Yes, mum. And they say, mum, as she hadn’t anything on at all, mum, not a stitch!”

“That will do, Clara. It is not necessary to go into details.”

“No, mum, and they say, mum, that at first they thought it was Mr. Blake’s young lady—what comes down for the weekends with ’im to Mr. Booker’s new ’ouse. But now they say it’s quite a different young lady. And the fishmonger’s young man, he says he’d never have believed it of Colonel Bantry—not with him handing round the plate on Sundays and all.”

“There is a lot of wickedness in the world, Clara,” said Mrs. Price Ridley. “Let this be a warning to you.”

“Yes, mum. Mother, she never will let me take a place where there’s a gentleman in the ’ouse.”

“That will do, Clara,” said Mrs. Price Ridley.

III

It was only a step from Mrs. Price Ridley’s house to the vicarage.

Mrs. Price Ridley was fortunate enough to find the vicar in his study.

The vicar, a gentle, middle-aged man, was always the last to hear anything.

“Such a terrible thing,” said Mrs. Price Ridley, panting a little, because she had come rather fast. “I felt I must have your advice, your counsel about it, dear vicar.”

Mr. Clement looked mildly alarmed. He said:

“Has anything happened?”

“Has anything happened?” Mrs. Price Ridley repeated the question dramatically. “The most terrible scandal! None of us had any idea of it. An abandoned woman, completely unclothed, strangled on Colonel Bantry’s hearthrug.”