Nemesis (Miss Marple 12)

“No, he didn’t.”

“Then how the devil can he expect—” Schuster broke off.

“He can’t really have expected anything to come of this,” said Mr. Broadribb. “I mean, how is she going to set about it?”

“A practical joke, if you ask me.”

“Twenty thousand pounds is a lot of money.”

“Yes, but if he knows she can’t do it?”

“No,” said Mr. Broadribb. “He wouldn’t have been as unsporting as all that. He must think she’s got a chance of doing or finding out whatever it is.”

“And what do we do?”

“Wait,” said Mr. Broadribb. “Wait and see what happens next. After all, there has to be some development.”

“Got some sealed orders somewhere, have you?”

“My dear Schuster,” said Mr. Broadribb, “Mr. Rafiel had implicit trust in my discretion and in my ethical conduct as a lawyer. Those sealed instructions are to be opened only under certain circumstances, none of which has yet arisen.”

“And never will,” said Mr. Schuster.

That ended the subject.

IV

Mr. Broadribb and Mr. Schuster were lucky in so much as they had a full professional life to lead. Miss Marple was not so fortunate. She knitted and she reflected and she also went out for walks, occasionally remonstrated with by Cherry for so doing.

“You know what the doctor said. You weren’t to take too much exercise.”

“I walk very slowly,” said Miss Marple, “and I am not doing anything. Digging, I mean, or weeding. I just—well, I just put one foot in front of the other and wonder about things.”

“What things?” asked Cherry, with some interest.

“I wish I knew,” said Miss Marple, and asked Cherry to bring her an extra scarf as there was a chilly wind.

“What’s fidgeting her, that’s what I would like to know,” said Cherry to her husband as she set before him a Chinese plate of rice and a concoction of kidneys. “Chinese dinner,” she said.

Her husband nodded approval

“You get a better cook every day,” he said.

“I’m worried about her,” said Cherry. “I’m worried because she’s worried a bit. She had a letter and it stirred her all up.”

“What she needs is to sit quiet,” said Cherry’s husband. “Sit quiet, take it easy, get herself new books from the library, get a friend or two to come and see her.”

“She’s thinking out something,” said Cherry. “Sort of plan. Thinking out how to tackle something, that’s how I look at it.”

She broke off the conversation at this stage and took in the coffee tray and put it down by Miss Marple’s side.

“Do you know a woman who lives in a new house somewhere here, she’s called Mrs. Hastings?” asked Miss Marple. “And someone called Miss Bartlett, I think it is, who lives with her—”

“What—do you mean the house that’s been all done up and repainted at the end of the village? The people there haven’t been there very long. I don’t know what their names are. Why do you want to know? They’re not very interesting. At least I shouldn’t say they were.”

“Are they related?” asked Miss Marple.

“No. Just friends, I think.”

“I wonder why—” said Miss Marple, and broke off.

“You wondered why what?”

“Nothing,” said Miss Marple. “Clear my little hand desk, will you, and give me my pen and the notepaper. I’m going to write a letter.”

“Who to?” said Cherry, with the natural curiosity of her kind.

“To a clergyman’s sister,” said Miss Marple. “His name is Canon Prescott.”

“That’s the one you met abroad, in the West Indies, isn’t it? You showed me his photo in your album.”

“Yes.”

“Not feeling bad, are you? Wanting to write to a clergyman and all that?”

“I’m feeling extremely well,” said Miss Marple, “and I am anxious to get busy on something. It’s just possible Miss Prescott might help.”

“Dear Miss Prescott,” wrote Miss Marple, “I hope you have not forgotten me. I met you and your brother in the West Indies, if you remember, at St. Honoré. I hope the dear Canon is well and did not suffer much with his asthma in the cold weather last winter.

I am writing to ask you if you can possibly let me have

the address of Mrs. Walters—Esther Walters—whom you may remember from the Caribbean days. She was a secretary to Mr. Rafiel. She did give me her address at the time, but unfortunately I have mislaid it. I was anxious to write to her as I have some horticultural information which she asked me about but which I was not able to tell her at the time. I heard in a roundabout way the other day that she had married again, but I don’t think my informant was very certain of these facts. Perhaps you know more about her than I do.

I hope this is not troubling you too much. With kind regards to your brother and best wishes to yourself,

Yours sincerely,

Jane Marple.”

Miss Marple felt better when she had despatched this missive.

“At least,” she said, “I’ve started doing something. Not that I hope much from this, but still it might help.”

Miss Prescott answered the letter almost by return of post. She was a most efficient woman. She wrote a pleasant letter and enclosed the address in question.

“I have not heard anything directly about Esther Walters,” she said, “but like you I heard from a friend that they had seen a notice of her remarriage. Her name now is, I believe, Mrs. Alderson or Anderson. Her address is Winslow Lodge, near Alton, Hants. My brother sends his best wishes to you. It is sad that we live so far apart. We in the north of England and you south of London. I hope that we may meet on some occasion in the future.

Yours sincerely,

Joan Prescott.”

“Winslow Lodge, Alton,” said Miss Marple, writing it down.

“Not so far away from here, really. No. Not so far away. I could—I don’t know what would be the best method—possibly one of Inch’s taxis. Slightly extravagant, but if anything results from it, it could be charged as expenses quite legitimately. Now do I write to her beforehand or do I leave it to chance? I think it would be better really, to leave it to chance. Poor Esther. She could hardly remember me with any affection or kindliness.”