The Moving Finger (Miss Marple 4)

“The typewriter’s your best bet, isn’t it? That oughtn’t to be difficult in a little place like this.”

Inspector Graves shook his head sadly and said:

“That’s where you’re wrong, sir.”

“The typewriter,” said Superintendent Nash, “is unfortunately too easy. It is an old one from Mr. Symmington’s office, given by him to the Women’s Institute where, I may say, it’s fairly easy of access. The ladies here all often go into the Institute.”

“Can’t you tell something definite from the—er—the touch, don’t you call it?”

Again Graves nodded.

“Yes, that can be done—but these envelopes have all been typed by someone using one finger.”

“Someone, then, unused to the typewriter?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. Someone, say, who can type but doesn’t want us to know the fact.”

“Whoever writes these things has been very cunning,” I said slowly.

“She is, sir, she is,” said Graves. “Up to every trick of the trade.”

“I shouldn’t have thought one of these bucolic women down here would have had the brains,” I said.

Graves coughed.

“I haven’t made myself plain, I’m afraid. Those letters were written by an educated woman.”

“What, by a lady?”

The word slipped out involuntarily. I hadn’t used the term “lady” for years. But now it came automatically to my lips, reechoed from days long ago, and my grandmother’s faint unconsciously arrogant voice saying, “Of course, she isn’t a lady, dear.”

Nash understood at once. The word lady still meant something to him.

“Not necessarily a lady,” he said. “But certainly not a village woman. They’re mostly pretty illiterate down here, can’t spell, and certainly can’t express themselves with fluency.”

I was silent, for I had had a shock. The community was so small. Unconsciously I had visualized the writer of the letters as a Mrs. Cleat or her like, some spiteful, cunning half-wit.

Symmington put my thoughts into words. He said sharply:

“But that narrows it down to about half a dozen to a dozen people in the whole place!”

“That’s right.”

“I can’t believe it.”

Then, with a slight effort, and looking straight in front of him as though the mere sound of his own words were distasteful he said:

“You have heard what I stated at the inquest. In case you may have thought that that statement was actuated by a desire to protect my wife’s memory, I should like to repeat now that I am firmly convinced that the subject matter of the letter my wife received was absolutely false. I know it was false. My wife was a very sensitive woman, and—er—well, you might call it prudish in some respects. Such a letter would have been a great shock to her, and she was in poor health.”

Graves responded instantly.

“That’s quite likely to be right, sir. None of these letters show any signs of intimate knowledge. They’re just blind accusations. There’s been no attempt to blackmail. And there doesn’t seem to be any religious bias—such as we sometimes get. It’s just sex and spite! And that’s going to give us quite a good pointer towards the writer.”

Symmington got up. Dry and unemotional as the man was, his lips were trembling.

“I hope you find the devil who writes these soon. She murdered my wife as surely as if she’d put a knife into her.” He paused. “How does she feel now, I wonder?”

He went out, leaving that question unanswered.

“How does she feel, Griffith?” I asked. It seemed to me the answer was in his province.

“God knows. Remorseful, perhaps. On the other hand, it may be that she’s enjoying her power. Mrs. Symmington’s death may have fed her mania.”

“I hope not,” I said, with a slight shiver. “Because if so, she’ll—”

I hesitated and Nash finished the sentence for me.

“She’ll try it again? That, Mr. Burton, would be the best thing that could happen, for us. The pitcher goes to the well once too often, remember.”

“She’d be mad to go on with it,” I exclaimed.

“She’ll go on,” said Graves. “They always do. It’s a vice, you know, they can’t let it alone.”

I shook my head with a shudder. I asked if they needed me any longer, I wanted to get out into the air. The atmosphere seemed tinged with evil.

“There’s nothing more, Mr. Burton,” said Nash. “Only keep your eyes open, and do as much propaganda as you can—that is to say, urge on everyone that they’ve got to report any letter they receive.” I nodded.

“I should think everyone in the place has had one of the foul things by now,” I said.

“I wonder,” said Graves. He put his sad head a little on one side and asked, “You don’t know, definitely, of anyone who hasn’t had a letter?”

“What an extraordinary question! The population at large isn’t likely to take me into their confidence.”

“No, no, Mr. Burton, I didn’t mean that. I just wondered if you knew of anyone person who quite definitely, to your certain knowledge, has not received an anonymous letter.”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” I hesitated, “I do, in a way.”

And I repeated my conversation with Emily Barton and what she had said.

Graves received the information with a wooden face and said: “Well, that may come in useful. I’ll note it down.”

I went out into the afternoon sunshine with Owen Griffith. Once in the street, I swore aloud.

“What kind of place is this for a man to come to lie in the sun and heal his wounds? It’s full of festering poison, this place, and it looks as peaceful and as innocent as the Garden of Eden.”

“Even there,” said Owen dryly, “there was one serpent.”

“Look here, Griffith, do they know anything? Have they got any idea?”

“I don’t know. They’ve got a wonderful technique, the police. They’re seemingly so frank, and they tell you nothing.”

“Yes. Nash is a nice fellow.”

“And a very capable one.”

“If anyone’s batty in this place, you ought to know it.” I said accusingly.

Griffith shook his head. He looked discouraged. But he looked more than that—he looked worried. I wondered if he had an inkling of some kind.

We had been walking along the High Street. I stopped at the door of the house agents.

“I believe my second instalment of rent is due—in advance. I’ve got a good mind to pay it and clear out with Joanna right away. Forfeit the rest of the tenancy.”

“Don’t go,” said Owen.

“Why not?”

He didn’t answer. He said slowly after a minute or two,

“After all—I dare say you’re right. Lymstock isn’t healthy just now. It might—it might harm you or—or your sister.”

“Nothing harms Joanna,” I said. “She’s tou

gh. I’m the weakly one. Somehow this business makes me sick.”

“It makes me sick,” said Owen.

I pushed the door of the house agents half open.

“But I shan’t go,” I said. “Vulgar curiosity is stronger than pusillanimity. I want to know the solution.”

I went in.

A woman who was typing got up and came towards me. She had frizzy hair and simpered, but I found her more intelligent than the spectacled youth who had previously held sway in the outer office.

A minute or two later something familiar about her penetrated through to my consciousness. It was Miss Ginch, lately Symmington’s lady clerk. I commented on the fact.

“You were with Galbraith and Symmington, weren’t you?” I said.

“Yes. Yes, indeed. But I thought it was better to leave. This is quite a good post, though not quite so well paid. But there are things that are more valuable than money, don’t you think so?”

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“Those awful letters,” breathed Miss Ginch in a sibilant whisper. “I got a dreadful one. About me and Mr. Symmington—oh, terrible it was, saying the most awful things! I knew my duty and I took it to the police, though of course it wasn’t exactly pleasant for me, was it?”

“No, no, most unpleasant.”

“But they thanked me and said I had done quite right. But I felt that, after that, if people were talking—and evidently they must have been, or where did the writer get the idea from?—then I must avoid even the appearance of evil, though there has never been anything at all wrong between me and Mr. Symmington.”

I felt rather embarrassed.

“No, no, of course not.”

“But people have such evil minds. Yes, alas, such evil minds!”

Nervously trying to avoid it, I nevertheless met her eye, and I made a most unpleasant discovery.

Miss Ginch was thoroughly enjoying herself.

Already once today I had come across someone who reacted pleasurably to anonymous letters. Inspector Graves’s enthusiasm was professional. Miss Ginch’s enjoyment I found merely suggestive and disgusting.

An idea flashed across my startled mind.

Had Miss Ginch written these letters herself?

Seven

I

When I got home I found Mrs. Dane Calthrop sitting talking to Joanna. She looked, I thought, grey and ill.