“None whatever.”

“Any member of her own family at this do?”

“Her husband.”

“Her husband,” said Dermot thoughtfully.

“Yes, one always thinks that way,” agreed his superior officer, “but the local man—Cornish, I think his name is—doesn’t seem to think there’s anything in that, although he does report that Badcock seemed ill at ease and nervous, but he agrees that respectable people often are like that when interviewed by the police. They appear to have been quite a devoted couple.”

“In other words, the police there don’t think it’s their pigeon. Well, it ought to be interesting. I take it I’m going down there, sir?”

“Yes. Better get there as soon as possible, Dermot. Who do you want with you?”

Dermot considered for a moment or two.

“Tiddler, I think,” he said thoughtfully. “He’s a good man and, what’s more, he’s a film star. That might come in useful.”

The assistant commissioner nodded. “Good luck to you,” he said.

II

“Well!” exclaimed Miss Marple, going pink with pleasure and surprise. “This is a surprise. How are you, my dear boy—though you’re hardly a boy now. What are you—a Chief-Inspector or this new thing they call a Commander?”

Dermot explained his present rank.

“I suppose I need hardly ask what you are doing down here,” said Miss Marple. “Our local murder is considered worthy of the attention of Scotland Yard.”

“They handed it over to us,” said Dermot, “and so, naturally, as soon as I got down here I came to headquarters.”

“Do you mean—” Miss Marple fluttered a little.

“Yes, Aunty,” said Dermot disrespectfully. “I mean you.”

“I’m afraid,” said Miss Marple regretfully, “I’m very much out of things nowadays. I don’t get out much.”

“You get out enough to fall down and be picked up by a woman who’s going to be murdered ten days later,” said Dermot Craddock.

Miss Marple made the kind of noise that would once have been written down as “tut-tut.”

“I don’t know where you hear these things,” she said.

“You should know,” said Dermot Craddock. “You told me yourself that in a village everybody knows everything.

“And just off the record,” he added, “did you think she was going to be murdered as soon as you looked at her?”

“Of course not, of course not,” exclaimed Miss Marple. “What an idea!”

“You didn’t see that look in her husband’s eye that reminded you of Harry Simpson or David Jones or somebody you’ve known years ago, and subsequently pushed his wife off a precipice.”

“No, I did not!” said Miss Marple. “I’m sure Mr. Badcock would never do a wicked thing of that kind. At least,” she added thoughtfully, “I’m nearly sure.”

“But human nature being what it is—” murmured Craddock, wickedly.

“Exactly,” said Miss Marple. She added, “I daresay, after the first natural grief, he won’t miss her very much….”

“Why? Did she bully him?”

“Oh no,” said Miss Marple, “but I don’t think that she—well, she wasn’t a considerate woman. Kind, yes. Considerate—no. She would be fond of him and look after him when he was ill and see to his meals and be a good housekeeper, but I don’t think she would ever—well, that she would ever even know what he might be feeling or thinking. That makes rather a lonely life for a man.”

“Ah,” said Dermot, “and is his life less likely to be lonely in future?”

“I expect he’ll marry again,” said Miss Marple. “Perhaps quite soon. And probably, which is such a pity, a woman of much the same type. I mean he’ll marry someone with a stronger personality than his own.”

“Anyone in view?” asked Dermot.

“Not that I know of,” said Miss Marple. She added regretfully, “But I know so little.”

“Well, what do you think?” urged Dermot Craddock. “You’ve never been backward in thinking things.”

“I think,” said Miss Marple, unexpectedly, “that you ought to go and see Mrs. Bantry.”

“Mrs. Bantry? Who is she? One of the film lot?”

“No,” said Miss Marple, “she lives in the East Lodge at Gossington. She was at the party that day. She used to own Gossington at one time. She and her husband, Colonel Bantry.”

“She was at the party. And she saw something?”

“I think she must tell you herself what it was she saw. You mayn’t think it has any bearing on the matter, but I think it might be—just might be—suggestive. Tell her I sent you to her and—ah yes, perhaps you’d better just mention the Lady of Shalott.”

Dermot Craddock looked at her with his head just slightly on one side.

“The Lady of Shalott,” he said. “Those are the code words, are they?”

“I don’t know that I should put it that way,” said Miss Marple, “but it will remind her of what I mean.”

Dermot Craddock got up. “I shall be back,” he warned her.

“That is very nice of you,” said Miss Marple. “Perhaps if you have time, you would come and have tea with me one day. If you still drink tea,” she added rather wistfully. “I know that so many young people nowadays only go out to drinks and things. They think that afternoon tea is a very outmoded affair.”

“I’m not as young as all that,” said Dermot Craddock. “Yes, I’ll come and have tea with you one day. We’ll have tea and gossip and talk about the village. Do you know any of the film stars, by the way, or any of the studio lot?”

“Not a thing,” said Miss Marple, “except what I hear,” she added.

“Well, you usually hear a good deal,” said Dermot Craddock. “Goodbye. It’s been very nice to see you.”

III

“Oh, how do you do?” said Mrs. Bantry, looking slightly taken aback when Dermot Craddock had introduced himself and explained who he was. “How very exciting to see you. Don’t you always have sergeants with you?”

“I’ve got a sergeant down here, yes,” said Craddock. “But he’s busy.”

“On routine inquiries?” asked Mrs. Bantry, hopefully.

“Something of the kind,” said Dermot gravely.

“And Jane Marple sent you to me,” said Mrs. Bantry, as she ushered him into her small sitting room. “I was just arranging some flowers,” she explained. “It’s one of those days when

flowers won’t do anything you want them to. They fall out, or stick up where they shouldn’t stick up or won’t lie down where you want them to lie down. So I’m thankful to have a distraction, and especially such an exciting one. So it really was murder, was it?”

“Did you think it was murder?”

“Well, it could have been an accident, I suppose,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Nobody’s said anything definite, officially, that is. Just that rather silly piece about no evidence to show by whom or in what way the poison was administered. But, of course, we all talk about it as murder.”

“And about who did it?”

“That’s the odd part of it,” said Mrs. Bantry. “We don’t. Because I really don’t see who can have done it.”

“You mean as a matter of definite physical fact you don’t see who could have done it?”

“Well, no, not that. I suppose it would have been difficult but not impossible. No, I mean, I don’t see who could have wanted to do it.”

“Nobody, you think, could have wanted to kill Heather Badcock?”

“Well, frankly,” said Mrs. Bantry, “I can’t imagine anybody wanting to kill Heather Badcock. I’ve seen her quite a few times, on local things, you know. Girl guides and the St. John Ambulance, and various parish things. I found her a rather trying sort of woman. Very enthusiastic about everything and a bit given to over-statement, and just a little bit of a gusher. But you don’t want to murder people for that. She was the kind of woman who in the old days if you’d seen her approaching the front door, you’d have hurried out to say to your parlourmaid—which was an institution we had in those days, and very useful too—and told her to say ‘not at home’ or ‘not at home to visitors,’ if she had conscientious scruples about the truth.”

“You mean that one might take pains to avoid Mrs. Badcock, but one would have no urge to remove her permanently.”

“Very well put,” said Mrs. Bantry, nodding approval.

“She had no money to speak of,” mused Dermot, “so nobody stood to gain by her death. Nobody seems to have disliked her to the point of hatred. I don’t suppose she was blackmailing anybody?”

“She wouldn’t have dreamed of doing such a thing, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Bantry. “She was the conscientious and high-principled kind.”

Tags: Agatha Christie Miss Marple Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net