Three
	I
	“I’m glad to be back,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Although, of course, I’ve had a
	wonderful time.”
	Miss Marple nodded appreciatively, and accepted a cup of tea from her
	friend’s hand.
	When her husband, Colonel Bantry, had died some years ago, Mrs.
	Bantry had sold Gossington Hall and the considerable amount of land at-
	tached to it, retaining for herself what had been the East 
Lodge1, a charm-
 
	ing porticoed little building 
replete2 with inconvenience, where even a
 
	gardener had refused to live. Mrs. Bantry had added to it the essentials of
	modern life, a built-on kitchen of the latest type, a new water supply from
	the main, electricity, and a bathroom. This had all cost her a great deal,
	but not nearly so much as an attempt to live at Gossington Hall would
	have done. She had also retained the essentials of privacy, about three
	quarters of an acre of garden nicely ringed with trees, so that, as she ex-
	plained. “Whatever they do with Gossington I shan’t really see it or
	worry.”
	For the last few years she had spent a good deal of the year travelling
	about, visiting children and grandchildren in various parts of the globe,
	and coming back from time to time to enjoy the privacies of her own
	home. Gossington Hall itself had changed hands once or twice. It had been
	run as a guest house, failed, and been bought by four people who had
	shared it as four roughly divided flats and subsequently quarrelled. Fi-
	nally the 
Ministry3 of Health had bought it for some obscure purpose for
 
	which they eventually did not want it. The Ministry had now resold it—
	and it was this sale which the two friends were discussing.
	“I have heard 
rumours4, of course,” said Miss Marple.
 
	“Naturally,” said Mrs. Bantry. “It was even said that Charlie Chaplin and
	all his children were coming to live here. That would have been wonder-
	ful fun; unfortunately there isn’t a word of truth in it. No, it’s definitely
	Marina Gregg.”
	“How very lovely she was,” said Miss Marple with a sigh. “I always re-
	member those early films of hers. Bird of Passage with that handsome Joel
	Roberts. And the Mary, Queen of Scots film. And of course it was very sen-
	timental, but I did enjoy Comin’ thru the Rye. Oh dear, that was a long time
	ago.”
	“Yes,” said Mrs. Bantry. “She must be—what do you think? Forty-five?
	Fifty?”
	Miss Marple thought nearer fifty.
	“Has she been in anything lately? Of course I don’t go very often to the
	cinema nowadays.”
	“Only small parts, I think,” said Mrs. Bantry. “She hasn’t been a star for
	quite a long time. She had that bad nervous 
breakdown5. After one of her
 
	divorces.”
	“Such a lot of husbands they all have,” said Miss Marple. “It must really
	be quite tiring.”
	“It wouldn’t suit me,” said Mrs. Bantry. “After you’ve fallen in love with
	a man and married him and got used to his ways and settled down com-
	fortably—to go and throw it all up and start again! It seems to me mad-
	ness.”
	“I can’t presume to speak,” said Miss Marple with a little spin-sterish
	cough, “never having married. But it seems, you know, a pity.”
	“I suppose they can’t help it really,” said Mrs. Bantry 
vaguely6. “With the
 
	kind of lives they have to live. So public, you know. I met her,” she added.
	“Marina Gregg, I mean, when I was in California.”
	“What was she like?” Miss Marple asked with interest.
	“Charming,” said Mrs. Bantry. “So natural and unspoiled.” She added
	thoughtfully, “It’s like a kind of livery really.”
	“What is?”
	“Being unspoiled and natural. You learn how to do it, and then you have
	to go on being it all the time. Just think of the hell of it—never to be able to
	chuck something, and say, ‘Oh, for the Lord’s sake stop bothering me.’ I
	dare say that in sheer self-defence you have to have drunken parties or or-
	gies.”
	“She’s had five husbands, hasn’t she?” Miss Marple asked.
	“At least. An early one that didn’t count, and then a foreign Prince or
	Count, and then another film star, Robert Truscott, wasn’t it? That was
	built up as a great romance. But it only lasted four years. And then Isidore
	Wright, the 
playwright7. That was rather serious and quiet, and she had a
 
	baby—apparently she’d always longed to have a child—she’s even half-ad-
	opted8 a few strays—anyway this was the real thing. Very much built up.
 
	Motherhood with a capital M. And then, I believe, it was an imbecile, or
	queer or something—and it was after that, that she had this breakdown
	and started to take drugs and all that, and threw up her parts.”
	“You seem to know a lot about her,” said Miss Marple.
	“Well, naturally,” said Mrs. Bantry. “When she bought Gossington I was
	interested. She married the present man about two years ago, and they
	say she’s quite all right again now. He’s a producer—or do I mean a direc-
	tor? I always get mixed. He was in love with her when they were quite
	young, but he didn’t amount to very much in those days. But now, I be-
	lieve, he’s got quite famous. What’s his name now? Jason—Jason some-
	thing—Jason Hudd, no Rudd, that’s it. They’ve bought Gossington because
	it’s handy for”—she hesitated—“Elstree?” she hazarded.
	Miss Marple shook her head.
	“I don’t think so,” she said. “Elstree’s in North London.”
	“It’s the fairly new studios. Hellingforth—that’s it. Sounds so Finnish, I
	always think. About six miles from Market Basing. She’s going to do a film
	on Elizabeth of Austria, I believe.”
	“What a lot you know,” said Miss Marple. “About the private lives of film
	stars. Did you learn it all in California?”
	“Not really,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Actually I get it from the extraordinary
	magazines I read at my hairdresser’s. Most of the stars I don’t even know
	by name, but as I said because Marina Gregg and her husband have
	bought Gossington, I was interested. Really the things those magazines
	say! I don’t suppose half of it is true—probably not a quarter. I don’t be-
	lieve Marina Gregg is a nymphomaniac, I don’t think she drinks, pobably
	she doesn’t even take drugs, and quite likely she just went away to have a
	nice rest and didn’t have a nervous breakdown at all!—but it’s true that
	she is coming here to live.”
	“Next week, I heard,” said Miss Marple.
	“As soon as that? I know she’s lending Gossington for a big fête on the
	twenty-third in aid of the St. John Ambulance 
Corps9. I suppose they’ve
 
	done a lot to the house?”
	“Practically everything,” said Miss Marple. “Really it would have been
	much simpler, and probably cheaper, to have pulled it down and built a
	new house.”
	“Bathrooms, I suppose?”
	“Six new ones, I hear. And a palm court. And a pool. And what I believe
	they call picture windows, and they’ve knocked your husband’s study and
	the library into one to make a music room.”
	“Arthur will turn in his grave. You know how he hated music. Tone
	deaf, poor dear. His face, when some kind friend took us to the opera!
	He’ll probably come back and haunt them.” She stopped and then said ab-
	ruptly, “Does anyone ever hint that Gossington might be haunted?”
	Miss Marple shook her head.
	“It isn’t,” she said with certainty.
	“That wouldn’t prevent people saying it was,” Mrs. Bantry 
pointed10 out.
 
	“Nobody ever has said so.” Miss Marple paused and then said, “People
	aren’t really foolish, you know. Not in villages.”
	Mrs. Bantry shot her a quick look. “You’ve always stuck to that, Jane.
	And I won’t say that you’re not right.”
	She suddenly smiled.
	“Marina Gregg asked me, very sweetly and delicately, if I wouldn’t find
	it very painful to see my old home occupied by strangers. I assured her
	that it wouldn’t hurt me at all. I don’t think she quite believed me. But
	after all, as you know, Jane, Gossington wasn’t our home. We weren’t
	brought up there as children — that’s what really counts. It was just a
	house with a nice bit of shooting and fishing attached, that we bought
	when Arthur 
retired11. We thought of it, I remember, as a house that would
 
	be nice and easy to run! How we can ever have thought that, I can’t ima-
	gine! All those staircases and passages. Only four servants! Only! Those
	were the days, ha ha!” She added suddenly: “What’s all this about your
	falling down? That 
Knight12 woman ought not to let you go out by yourself.”
 
	“It wasn’t poor Miss Knight’s fault. I gave her a lot of shopping to do and
	then I—”
	“Deliberately gave her the slip? I see. Well, you shouldn’t do it, Jane. Not
	at your age.”
	“How did you hear about it?”
	Mrs. Bantry grinned.
	“You can’t keep any secrets in St. Mary 
Mead13. You’ve often told me so.
 
	Mrs. Meavy told me.”
	“Mrs. Meavy?” Miss Marple looked at sea.
	“She comes in daily. She’s from the Development.”
	“Oh, the Development.” The usual pause happened.
	“What were you doing in the Development?” asked Mrs. Bantry, curi-
	ously.
	“I just wanted to see it. To see what the people were like.”
	“And what did you think they were like?”
	“Just the same as everyone else. I don’t quite know if that was disap-
	“Disappointing, I should think.”
	“No. I think it’s reassuring. It makes you—well—recognize certain types
	—so that when anything occurs—one will understand quite well why and
	for what reason.”
	“Murder, do you mean?”
	Miss Marple looked shocked.
	“I don’t know why you should assume that I think of murder all the
	time.”
	“Nonsense, Jane. Why don’t you come out boldly and call yourself a
	criminologist and have done with it?”
	“Because I am nothing of the sort,” said Miss Marple with spirit. “It is
	simply that I have a certain knowledge of human nature—that is only nat-
	ural after having lived in a small village all my life.”
	“You probably have something there,” said Mrs. Bantry thoughtfully,
	“though most people wouldn’t agree, of course. Your nephew Raymond al-
	ways used to say this place was a complete backwater.”
	“Dear Raymond,” said Miss Marple indulgently. She added: “He’s always
	been so kind. He’s paying for Miss Knight, you know.”
	The thought of Miss Knight induced a new train of thought and she
	arose and said: “I’d better be going back now, I suppose.”
	“You didn’t walk all the way here, did you?”
	“Of course not. I came in Inch.”
	This somewhat enigmatic pronouncement was received with complete
	understanding. In days very long past, Mr. Inch had been the 
proprietor15 of
 
	two cabs, which met trains at the local station and which were also hired
	by the local ladies to take them “calling,” out to tea parties, and occasion-
	ally, with their daughters, to such 
frivolous16 entertainments as dances. In
 
	the fulness of time Inch, a cheery red- faced man of seventy odd, gave
	place to his son—known as “young Inch” (he was then 
aged17 forty-five)
 
	though old Inch still continued to drive such elderly ladies as considered
	his son too young and irresponsible. To keep up with the times, young
	Inch abandoned horse vehicles for motor cars. He was not very good with
	machinery18 and in due course a certain Mr. Bardwell took over from him.
 
	The name Inch persisted. Mr. Bardwell in due course sold out to Mr.
	Roberts, but in the telephone book Inch’s Taxi Service was still the official
	name, and the older ladies of the community continued to refer to their
	journeys as going somewhere “in Inch,” as though they were Jonah and
	Inch was a whale.
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