A Pocket Full of Rye (Miss Marple 7)
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Percival,” said Inspector Neele, “I think we can get your money back for you.”
III
It was on the following day that Inspector Neele had another interview with Miss Mary Dove.
“I wonder, Miss Dove,” he said, “if you’d give me a cheque for five hundred pounds payable to Mrs. Percival Fortescue.”
He had the pleasure of seeing Mary Dove lose countenance for once.
“The silly fool told you, I suppose,” she said.
“Yes. Blackmail, Miss Dove, is rather a serious charge.”
“It wasn’t exactly blackmail, Inspector. I think you’d find it hard to make out a case of blackmail against me. I was just doing Mrs. Percival a special service to oblige her.”
“Well, if you’ll give me that cheque, Miss Dove, we’ll leave it like that.”
Mary Dove got her cheque book and took out her fountain pen.
“It’s very annoying,” she said with a sigh. “I’m particularly hard up at the moment.”
“You’ll be looking for another job soon, I suppose?”
“Yes. This one hasn’t turned out quite according to plan. It’s all been very unfortunate from my point of view.”
Inspector Neele agreed.
“Yes, it put you in rather a difficult position, didn’t it? I mean, it was quite likely that at any moment we might have to look into your antecedents.”
Mary Dove, cool once more, allowed her eyebrows to rise.
“Really, Inspector, my past is quite blameless, I assure you.”
“Yes, it is,” Inspector Neele agreed, cheerfully. “We’ve nothing against you at all, Miss Dove. It’s a curious coincidence, though, that in the last three places which you have filled so admirably, there have happened to be robberies about three months after you left. The thieves have seemed remarkably well-informed as to where mink coats, jewels, etc., were kept. Curious coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Coincidences do happen, Inspector.”
“Oh, yes,” said Neele. “They happen. But they mustn’t happen too often, Miss Dove. I dare say,” he added, “that we may meet again in the future.”
“I hope”—said Mary Dove—“I don’t mean to be rude, Inspector Neele—but I hope we don’t.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I
Miss Marple smoothed over the top of her suitcase, tucked in an end of woolly shawl and shut the lid down. She looked round her bedroom. No, she had left nothing behind. Crump came in to fetch down her luggage. Miss Marple went into the next room to say goodbye to Miss Ramsbottom.
“I’m afraid,” said Miss Marple, “that I’ve made a very poor return for your hospitality. I hope you will be able to forgive me someday.”
“Hah,” said Miss Ramsbottom.
She was as usual playing patience.
“Black knave, red queen,” she observed, then she darted a shrewd, sideways glance at Miss Marple. “You found out what you wanted to, I suppose,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And I suppose you’ve told that police inspector all about it? Will he be able to prove a case?”
“I’m almost sure he will,” said Miss Marple. “It may take a little time.”
“I’m not asking you any questions,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “You’re a shrewd woman. I knew that as soon as I saw you. I don’t blame you for what you’ve done. Wickedness is wickedness and has got to be punished. There’s a bad streak in this family. It didn’t come from our side, I’m thankful to say. Elvira, my sister, was a fool. Nothing worse.
“Black knave,” repeated Miss Ramsbottom, fingering the card. “Handsome, but a black heart. Yes, I was afraid of it. Ah, well, you can’t always help loving a sinner. The boy always had a way with him. Even got round me . . . Told a lie about the time he left me that day. I didn’t contradict him, but I wondered . . . I’ve wondered ever since. But he was Elvira’s boy—I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. Ah well, you’re a righteous woman, Jane Marple, and right must prevail. I’m sorry for his wife, though.”
“So am I,” said Miss Marple.
In the hall Pat Fortescue was waiting to say good-bye.
“I wish you weren’t going,” she said. “I shall miss you.”
“It’s time for me to go,” said Miss Marple. “I?
?ve finished what I came here to do. It hasn’t been—altogether pleasant. But it’s important, you know, that wickedness shouldn’t triumph.”
Pat looked puzzled.
“I don’t understand.”
“No, my dear. But perhaps you will, someday. If I might venture to advise, if anything ever—goes wrong in your life—I think the happiest thing for you would be to go back to where you were happy as a child. Go back to Ireland, my dear. Horses and dogs. All that.”
Pat nodded.
“Sometimes I wish I’d done just that when Freddy died. But if I had”—her voice changed and softened—“I’d never have met Lance.”
Miss Marple sighed.
“We’re not staying here, you know,” said Pat. “We’re going back to East Africa as soon as everything’s cleared up. I’m so glad.”
“God bless you, dear child,” said Miss Marple. “One needs a great deal of courage to get through life. I think you have it.”
She patted the girl’s hand and, releasing it, went through the front door to the waiting taxi.
II
Miss Marple reached home late that evening.
Kitty—the latest graduate from St. Faith’s Home—let her in and greeted her with a beaming face.
“I’ve got a herring for your supper, miss. I’m so glad to see you home—you’ll find everything very nice in the house. Regular spring cleaning I’ve had.”
“That’s very nice, Kitty—I’m glad to be home.”
Six spider’s webs on the cornice, Miss Marple noted. These girls never raised their heads! She was none the less too kind to say so.
“Your letters is on the hall table, miss. And there’s one as went to Daisymead by mistake. Always doing that, aren’t they? Does look a bit alike, Dane and Daisy, and the writing’s so bad I don’t wonder this time. They’ve been away there and the house shut up, they only got back and sent it round today. Said as how they hoped it wasn’t important.”
Miss Marple picked up her correspondence. The letter to which Kitty had referred was on top of the others. A faint chord of remembrance stirred in Miss Marple’s mind at the sight of the blotted scrawled handwriting. She tore it open.