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II
Miss Marple had just ensconced herself in her favourite chair by the win-
dow when Mrs. Bantry arrived. She was slightly out of breath.
“I’ve got plenty to tell you, Jane,” she said.
didn’t you? I was there myself for a short time early in the afternoon. The
tea tent was very crowded. An astonishing lot of people seemed to be
there. I didn’t catch a glimpse of Marina Gregg, though, which was rather
disappointing.”
two want to have a nice little chat together,” and went out of the room.
“She doesn’t seem to know anything about it,” said Mrs. Bantry. She
“You mean about the death yesterday?”
“You always know everything,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I cannot think how.”
“Well, really dear,” said Miss Marple, “in the same way one always has
pect the butcher will be telling Miss Knight presently.”
“And what do you think of it?” said Mrs. Bantry.
“What do I think of what?” said Miss Marple.
There’s this woman—whatever her name is—”
“Heather Badcock,” said Miss Marple.
“She arrives full of life and spirit. I was there when she came. And about
a quarter of an hour later she sits down in a chair, says she doesn’t feel
“One mustn’t jump to conclusions,” said Miss Marple. “The point is, of
course, what did a medical man think of it?”
Mrs. Bantry nodded. “There’s to be an inquest and a postmortem,” she
said. “That shows what they think of it, doesn’t it?”
“Not necessarily,” said Miss Marple. “Anyone may be taken ill and die
suddenly and they have to have a postmortem to find out the cause.”
“It’s more than that,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“How do you know?” said Miss Marple.
“Dr. Sandford went home and rang up the police.”
“Who told you that?” said Miss Marple, with great interest.
“Old Briggs,” said Mrs. Bantry. “At least, he didn’t tell me. You know he
goes down after hours in the evening to see to Dr. Sandford’s garden, and
he was clipping something quite close to the study and he heard the doctor
ringing up the police station in Much Benham. Briggs told his daughter
and his daughter mentioned it to the postwoman and she told me,” said
Mrs. Bantry.
changed very much from what it used to be.”
“The grapevine is much the same,” agreed Mrs. Bantry. “Well, now,
Jane, tell me what you think.”
“One thinks, of course, of the husband,” said Miss Marple reflectively.
“Was he there?”
“Yes, he was there. You don’t think it would be suicide,” said Mrs.
Bantry.
“Certainly not suicide,” said Miss Marple decisively. “She wasn’t the
type.”
“How did you come across her, Jane?”
“It was the day I went for a walk to the Development, and fell down near
her house. She was kindness itself. She was a very kind woman.”
“Did you see the husband? Did he look as though he’d like to poison her?
“You know what I mean,” Mrs. Bantry went on as Miss Marple showed
some slight signs of protesting. “Did he remind you of Major Smith or Ber-
tie Jones or someone you’ve known years ago who did poison a wife, or
tried to?”
“No,” said Miss Marple, “he didn’t remind me of anyone I know.” She ad-
ded, “But she did.”
“Who—Mrs. Badcock?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple, “she reminded me of someone called Alison
Wilde.”
“And what was Alison Wilde like?”
“She didn’t know at all,” said Miss Marple slowly, “what the world was
like. She didn’t know what people were like. She’d never thought about
them. And so, you see, she couldn’t guard against things happening to
her.”
“I don’t really think I understand a word of what you’re saying,” said
Mrs. Bantry.
“It’s very difficult to explain exactly,” said Miss Marple, apologetically.
“It comes really from being self-centred, and I don’t mean selfish by that,”
she added. “You can be kind and unselfish and even thoughtful. But if
you’re like Alison Wilde, you never really know what you may be doing.
And so you never know what may happen to you.”
“Can’t you make that a little clearer?” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Well, I suppose I could give you a sort of figurative example. This isn’t
anything that actually happened, it’s just something I’m inventing.”
“Go on,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Well, supposing you went into a shop, say, and you knew the propriet-
there listening while you told his mother about some money you had in
the house, or some silver or a piece of jewellery. It was something you
were excited and pleased about and you wanted to talk about it. And you
also perhaps mention an evening that you were going out. You even say
that you never lock the house. You’re interested in what you’re saying,
what you’re telling her, because it’s so very much in your mind. And then,
say, on that particular evening you come home because you’ve forgotten
something and there’s this bad lot of a boy in the house, caught in the act,
and he turns round and coshes you.”
“That might happen to almost anybody nowadays,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Not quite,” said Miss Marple, “most people have a sense of protection.
They realise when it’s unwise to say or do something because of the per-
son or persons who are taking in what you say, and because of the kind of
character that those people have. But as I say, Alison Wilde never thought
of anybody else but herself— She was the sort of person who tells you
what they’ve done and what they’ve seen and what they’ve felt and what
they’ve heard. They never mention what any other people said or did. Life
is a kind of one- way track — just their own progress through it. Other
people seem to them just like—like wallpaper in a room.” She paused and
then said, “I think Heather Badcock was that kind of person.”
Mrs. Bantry said, “You think she was the sort of person who might have
“And without realising that it was a dangerous thing to do,” said Miss
Marple. She added, “It’s the only reason I can possibly think of why she
should have been killed. If of course,” added Miss Marple, “we are right in
assuming that murder has been committed.”
“You don’t think she was blackmailing13 someone?” Mrs. Bantry sugges-
“Oh, no,” Miss Marple assured her. “She was a kind, good woman. She’d
never have done anything of that kind.” She added vexedly, “The whole
thing seems to me very unlikely. I suppose it can’t have been—”
“Well?” Mrs. Bantry urged her.
“I just wondered if it might have been the wrong murder,” said Miss
Marple thoughtfully.
The door opened and Dr. Haydock breezed in, Miss Knight twittering be-
“Ah, at it already, I see,” said Dr. Haydock, looking at the two ladies. “I
came in to see how your health was,” he said to Miss Marple, “but I
needn’t ask. I see you’ve begun to adopt the treatment that I suggested.”
“Treatment, Doctor?”
her. “Unravelling,” he said. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
way.
“You will have your joke, Doctor Haydock,” she said.
“You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, my dear lady. I’ve known you too
many years. Sudden death at Gossington Hall and all the tongues of St.
Mary Mead are wagging. Isn’t that so? Murder suggested long before any-
body even knows the result of the inquest.”
“When is the inquest to be held?” asked Miss Marple.
“The day after tomorrow,” said Dr. Haydock, “and by that time,” he said,
decided on a good many other points too, I expect. Well,” he added, “I
shan’t waste my time here. It’s no good wasting time on a patient that
doesn’t need my ministrations. Your cheeks are pink, your eyes are bright,
you’ve begun to enjoy yourself. Nothing like having an interest in life. I’ll
“I’d rather have him than Sandford any day,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“So would I,” said Miss Marple. “He’s a good friend, too,” she added
thoughtfully. “He came, I think, to give me the go-ahead sign.”
“Then it was murder,” said Mrs. Bantry. They looked at each other. “At
any rate, the doctors think so.”
Miss Knight brought in cups of coffee. For once in their lives, both ladies
were too impatient to welcome this interruption. When Miss Knight had
gone Miss Marple started immediately.
“Now then, Dolly, you were there—”
“I practically saw it happen,” said Mrs. Bantry, with modest pride.
“Splendid,” said Miss Marple. “I mean—well, you know what I mean. So
you can tell me just exactly what happened from the moment she ar-
rived.”
“I’d been taken into the house,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Snob status.”
“Who took you in?”
“Oh, a willowy-looking young man. I think he’s Marina Gregg’s secretary
or something like that. He took me in, up the staircase. They were having
a kind of reunion reception committee at the top of the stairs.”
“On the landing?” said Miss Marple, surprised.
It’s very attractive looking.”
“I see. And who was there?”
“Marina Gregg, being natural and charming, looking lovely in a sort of
willowy grey-green dress. And the husband, of course, and that woman
Ella Zielinsky I told you about. She’s their social secretary. And there were
about—oh, eight or ten people I should think. Some of them I knew, some
of them I didn’t. Some I think were from the studios—the ones I didn’t
know. There was the vicar and Doctor Sandford’s wife. He wasn’t there
himself until later, and Colonel and Mrs. Clittering and the High Sheriff.
And I think there was someone from the press there. And a young woman
with a big camera taking photographs.”
Miss Marple nodded.
“Go on.”
“Heather Badcock and her husband arrived just after me. Marina Gregg
said nice things to me, then to somebody else, oh yes,—the vicar—and
then Heather Badcock and her husband came. She’s the secretary, you
know, of the St. John Ambulance. Somebody said something about that
and how hard she worked and how valuable she was. And Marina Gregg
said some pretty things. Then Mrs. Badcock, who struck me, I must say,
tactful about it since she urged exactly how long ago and the year it was
and everything like that. I’m sure that actresses and film stars and people
don’t really like being reminded of the exact age they are. Still, she
wouldn’t think of that I suppose.”
“No,” said Miss Marple, “she wasn’t the kind of woman who would have
thought of that. Well?”
“Well, there was nothing particular in that except for the fact that Mar-
ina Gregg didn’t do her usual stuff.”
“You mean she was annoyed?”
“No, no, I don’t mean that. As a matter of fact I’m not at all sure that she
heard a word of it. She was staring, you know, over Mrs. Badcock’s
shoulder and when Mrs. Badcock had finished her rather silly story of
and meet Marina and get her autograph, there was a sort of odd silence.
Then I saw her face.”
“Whose face? Mrs. Badcock’s?”
“No. Marina Gregg’s. It was as though she hadn’t heard a word the Bad-
cock woman was saying. She was staring over her shoulder right at the
wall opposite. Staring with—I can’t explain it to you—”
“But do try, Dolly,” said Miss Marple, “because I think perhaps that this
might be important.”
“She had a kind of frozen look,” said Mrs. Bantry, struggling with words,
“as though she’d seen something that—oh dear me, how hard it is to de-
scribe things. Do you remember the Lady of Shalott? The mirror crack’d
Well, that’s what she looked like. People laugh at Tennyson nowadays, but
the Lady of Shalott always thrilled me when I was young and it still does.”
“She had a frozen look,” repeated Miss Marple thoughtfully. “And she
was looking over Mrs. Badcock’s shoulder at the wall. What was on the
wall?”
“Oh! A picture of some kind, I think,” said Mrs. Bantry. “You know,
Italian. I think it was a copy of a Bellini Madonna, but I’m not sure. A pic-
Miss Marple frowned. “I can’t see that a picture could give her that ex-
pression.”
“Especially as she must see it every day,” agreed Mrs. Bantry.
“There were people coming up the stairs still, I suppose?”
“Oh yes, there were.”
“Who were they, do you remember?”
“You mean she might have been looking at one of the people coming up
the stairs?”
“Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?” said Miss Marple.
“Yes—of course—now let me see. There was the mayor, all dressed up
too with his chains and all, and his wife, and there was a man with long
hair and one of those funny beards they wear nowadays. Quite a young
man. And there was the girl with the camera. She’d taken her position on
the stairs so as to get photos of people coming up and having their hands
shaken by Marina, and — let me see, two people I didn’t know. Studio
people, I think, and the Grices from Lower Farm. There may have been
others, but that’s all I can remember now.”
“Doesn’t sound very promising,” said Miss Marple. “What happened
next?”
“I think Jason Rudd nudged her or something because all of a sudden
she seemed to pull herself together and she smiled at Mrs. Badcock, and
she began to say all the usual things. You know, sweet, unspoilt, natural,
charming, the usual bag of tricks.”
“And then?”
“And then Jason Rudd gave them drinks.”
“What kind of drinks?”
“Daiquiris, I think. He said they were his wife’s favourites. He gave one
to her and one to the Badcock woman.”
“That’s very interesting,” said Miss Marple. “Very interesting indeed.
And what happened after that?”
“I don’t know, because I took a gaggle of women to look at the bath-
rooms. The next thing I knew was when the secretary woman came rush-
ing along and said someone had been taken ill.”
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