Chapter Twenty-Six
Inspector1 Neele stared at Miss Marple and slowly shook his head.
“Are you saying,” he said incredulously, “that Gladys Martin
deliberately3
murdered Rex Fortescue? I’m sorry, Miss Marple, but I simply don’t be-
lieve it.”
“No, of course she didn’t mean to murder him,” said Miss Marple, “but
she did it all the same! You said yourself that she was nervous and upset
when you questioned her. And that she looked guilty.”
“Yes, but not guilty of murder.”
“Oh, no, I agree. As I say, she didn’t mean to murder anybody, but she
put the taxine in the marmalade. She didn’t think it was poison, of
course.”
“What did she think it was?” Inspector Neele’s voice still sounded in-
“I rather imagine she thought it was a truth drug,” said Miss Marple.
“It’s very interesting, you know, and very instructive—the things these
girls cut out of papers and keep. It’s always been the same, you know, all
through the ages. Recipes for beauty, for attracting the man you love. And
witchcraft4 and charms and marvellous happenings. Nowadays they’re
mostly lumped together under the heading of Science. Nobody believes in
magicians anymore, nobody believes that anyone can come along and
wave a wand and turn you into a frog. But if you read in the paper that by
injecting certain
glands5 scientists can alter your vital tissues and you’ll de-
velop froglike characteristics, well, everybody would believe that. And
having read in the papers about truth drugs, of course Gladys would be-
lieve it absolutely when he told her that that’s what it was.”
“When who told her?” said Inspector Neele.
“Albert Evans,” said Miss Marple. “Not of course that that is really his
name. But anyway he met her last summer at a holiday camp, and he
flattered her up and made love to her, and I should imagine told her some
was that Rex Fortescue had to be made to confess what he had done and
make
restitution8. I don’t know this, of course, Inspector Neele, but I’m
pretty sure about it. He got her to take a post here, and it’s really very easy
nowadays with the shortage of domestic staff, to obtain a post where you
want one. Staffs are changing the whole time. They then arranged a date
together. You remember on that last postcard he said: ‘Remember our
date.’ That was to be the great day they were working for. Gladys would
put the drug that he gave her into the top of the marmalade, so that Mr.
Fortescue would eat it at breakfast and she would also put the rye in his
pocket. I don’t know what story he told her to account for the rye, but as I
told you from the beginning, Inspector Neele, Gladys Martin was a very
credulous girl. In fact, there’s hardly anything she wouldn’t believe if a
personable young man put it to her the right way.”
“Go on,” said Inspector Neele in a dazed voice.
“The idea probably was,” continued Miss Marple, “that Albert was going
to call upon him at the office that day, and that by that time the truth drug
would have worked, and that Mr. Fortescue would have confessed
everything and so on and so on. You can imagine the poor girl’s feelings
when she heard that Mr. Fortescue was dead.”
“But, surely,” Inspector Neele objected, “she would have told?”
Miss Marple asked sharply:
“What was the first thing she said to you when you questioned her?”
“She said: ‘I didn’t do it,’ ” Inspector Neele said.
“Exactly,” said Miss Marple,
triumphantly9. “Don’t you see that’s exactly
what she would say? If she broke an
ornament10, you know, Gladys would
always say: ‘I didn’t do it, Miss Marple. I can’t think how it happened.’ They
can’t help it, poor dears. They’re very upset at what they’ve done and their
great idea is to avoid blame. You don’t think that a nervous young woman
who had murdered someone when she didn’t mean to murder him is go-
ing to admit it, do you? That would have been quite out of character.”
“Yes,” Neele said, “I suppose it would.”
He ran his mind back over his interview with Gladys. Nervous, upset,
guilty, shifty-eyed, all those things. They might have had a small signific-
ance, or a big one. He could not really blame himself for having failed to
come to the right conclusion.
“Her first idea, as I say,” went on Miss Marple, “would be to deny it all.
Then in a confused way she would try to sort it all out in her mind. Per-
haps11 Albert hadn’t known how strong the stuff was, or he’d made a mis-
take and given her too much of it. She’d think of excuses for him and ex-
planations. She’d hope he’d get in touch with her, which, of course, he did.
By telephone.”
“Do you know that?” asked Neele sharply.
Miss Marple shook her head.
“No. I admit I’m assuming it. But there were unexplained calls that day.
That is to say, people rang up and, when Crump or Mrs. Crump answered,
the phone was hung up. That’s what he’d do, you know. Ring up and wait
until Gladys answered the phone, and then he’d make an appointment
with her to meet him.”
“I see,” said Neele. “You mean she had an appointment to meet him on
the day she died.”
Miss Marple nodded vigorously.
“Yes, that was indicated. Mrs. Crump was right about one thing. The girl
had on her best nylon stockings and her good shoes. She was going to
meet someone. Only she wasn’t going out to meet him. He was coming to
and late with tea. Then, as she brought the second tray into the hall, I
think she looked along the passage to the side door, and saw him there,
beckoning14 to her. She put the tray down and went out to meet him.”
“And then he strangled her,” said Neele.
Miss Marple pursed her lips together. “It would only take a minute,” she
said, “but he couldn’t risk her talking. She had to die, poor, silly, credulous
girl. And then—he put a clothes-peg on her nose!” Stern anger vibrated the
old lady’s voice. ‘To make it fit in with the rhyme. The rye, the blackbirds,
the countinghouse, the bread and honey, and the clothes-peg—the nearest
he could get to a little dickey bird that nipped off her nose—”
“And I suppose at the end of it all he’ll go to Broadmoor and we shan’t
be able to hang him because he’s crazy!” said Neele slowly.
“I think you’ll hang him all right,” said Miss Marple. “And he’s not crazy,
Inspector, not for a moment!”
Inspector Neele looked hard at her.
“Now see here, Miss Marple, you’ve outlined a theory to me. Yes—yes—
although you say you know, it’s only a theory. You’re saying that a man is
responsible for these crimes, who called himself Albert Evans, who picked
up the girl Gladys at a holiday camp and used her for his own purposes.
This Albert Evans was someone who wanted revenge for the old Blackbird
Mine business. You’re suggesting, aren’t you, that Mrs. MacKenzie’s son,
Don MacKenzie, didn’t die at Dunkirk. That he’s still alive, that he’s behind
all this?”
But to Inspector Neele’s surprise, Miss Marple was shaking her head vi-
olently.
“Oh no!” she said, “oh no! I’m not suggesting that at all. Don’t you see, In-
spector Neele, all this blackbird business is really a complete fake. It was
used, that was all, used by somebody who heard about the blackbirds—the
ones in the library and in the pie. The blackbirds were genuine enough.
They were put there by someone who knew about the old business, who
wanted revenge for it. But only the revenge of trying to frighten Mr. For-
tescue or to make him uncomfortable. I don’t believe, you know, Inspector
Neele, that children can really be brought up and taught to wait and brood
and carry out revenge. Children, after all, have got a lot of sense. But any-
one whose father had been swindled and perhaps left to die might be will-
ing to play a
malicious15 trick on the person who was supposed to have
done it. That’s what happened, I think. And the
killer16 used it.”
“The killer,” said Inspector Neele. “Come now, Miss Marple, let’s have
your ideas about the killer. Who was he?”
“You won’t be surprised,” said Miss Marple. “Not really. Because you’ll
see, as soon as I tell you who he is, or rather who I think he is, for one
must be accurate must one not?—you’ll see that he’s just the type of per-
son who would commit these murders. He’s
sane17, brilliant and quite un-
scrupulous18. And he did it, of course, for money, probably for a good deal
of money.”
knew as he spoke that he was wrong. The picture of the man that Miss
Marple had built up for him had no resemblance to Percival Fortescue.
“Oh, no,” said Miss Marple. “Not Percival. Lance.”
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