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
noted1. 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 Daisy-
mead2 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
writing. She tore it open.
Dear Madam,
I hope as you’ll forgive me writing this but I really don’t
know what to do indeed I don’t and I never meant no
harm. Dear madam, you’ll have seen the newspapers it
was murder they say but it wasn’t me that did it, not
really, because I would never do anything wicked like that
and I know as how he wouldn’t either. Albert, I mean. I’m
telling this badly, but you see we met last summer and was
going to be married only Bert hadn’t got his rights, he’d
been done out of them, swindled by this Mr. Fortescue
who’s dead. And Mr. Fortescue he just denied everything
and of course everybody believed him and not Bert because
he was rich and Bert was poor. But Bert had a friend who
works in a place where they make these new drugs and
there’s what they call a truth drug you’ve read about it
perhaps in the paper and it makes people speak the truth
whether they want to or not. Bert was going to see Mr. For-
tescue in his office on Nov. 5th and taking a lawyer with
him and I was to be sure to give him the drug at breakfast
that morning and then it would work just right for when
they came and he’d admit as all what Bert said was quite
true. Well, madam, I put it in the marmalade but now he’s
dead and I think as how it must have been too strong but it
wasn’t Bert’s fault because Bert would never do a thing
like that but I can’t tell the police because maybe they’d
think Bert did it on purpose which I know he didn’t. Oh,
madam, I don’t know what to do or what to say and the
police are here in the house and it’s awful and they ask you
questions and look at you so stern and I don’t know what
to do and I haven’t heard from Bert. Oh, madam, I don’t
like to ask it of you but if you could only come here and
help me they’d listen to you and you were always so kind to
me, and I didn’t mean anything wrong and Bert didn’t
either. If you could only help us. Yours respectfully,
Gladys Martin.
P. S.—I’m enclosing a snap of Bert and me. One of the boys
took it at the camp and give it me. Bert doesn’t know I’ve
got it—he hates being snapped. But you can see, madam,
what a nice boy he is.
Miss Marple, her lips pursed together, stared down at the photograph.
The pair pictured there were looking at each other. Miss Marple’s eyes
went from Gladys’s pathetic adoring face, the mouth slightly open, to the
other face—the dark handsome smiling face of Lance Fortescue.
The last words of the pathetic letter echoed in her mind:
You can see what a nice boy he is.
The tear rose in Miss Marple’s eyes. Succeeding pity, there came anger—
And then, displacing both these emotions, there came a surge of tri-
umph—the triumph some specialist might feel who has successfully recon-
structed an extinct animal from a fragment of jawbone and a couple of
teeth.
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