Thirteen

MORNING ACTIVITIES IN CHIPPING CLEGHORN (CONTINUED)Miss Marple came out of the Vicarage gate and walked down the little lanethat led into the main street.

She walked fairly briskly with the aid of the Rev. Julian Harmon’s stoutashplant stick.

She passed the Red Cow and the butcher’s and stopped for a brief mo-ment to look into the window of Mr. Elliot’s antique shop. This was cun-ningly situated next door to the Bluebird Tearooms and Café so that richmotorists, after stopping for a nice cup of tea and somewhat euphemistic-ally named “Home Made Cakes” of a bright saffron colour, could be temp-ted by Mr. Elliot’s judiciously planned shop window.

In this antique bow frame, Mr. Elliot catered for all tastes. Two pieces ofWaterford glass reposed on an impeccable wine cooler. A walnut bureau,made up of various bits and pieces, proclaimed itself a Genuine Bargainand on a table, in the window itself, were a nice assortment of cheapdoorknockers and quaint pixies, a few chipped bits of Dresden, a couple ofsad-looking bead necklaces, a mug with “A Present from Tunbridge Wells”

on it, and some tit-bits of Victorian silver.

Miss Marple gave the window her rapt attention, and Mr. Elliot, an eld-erly obese spider, peeped out of his web to appraise the possibilities of thisnew fly.

But just as he decided that the charms of the Present from TunbridgeWells were about to be too much for the lady who was staying at theVicarage (for of course Mr. Elliot, like everybody else, knew exactly whoshe was), Miss Marple saw out of the corner of her eye Miss Dora Bunnerentering the Bluebird Café, and immediately decided that what sheneeded to counteract the cold wind was a nice cup of morning coffee.

Four or five ladies were already engaged in sweetening their morningshopping by a pause for refreshment. Miss Marple, blinking a little in thegloom of the interior of the Bluebird, and hovering artistically, wasgreeted by the voice of Dora Bunner at her elbow.

“Oh, good morning, Miss Marple. Do sit down here. I’m all alone.”

“Thank you.”

Miss Marple subsided gratefully on to the rather angular little blue-painted armchair which the Bluebird affected.

“Such a sharp wind,” she complained. “And I can’t walk very fast be-cause of my rheumatic leg.”

“Oh, I know. I had sciatica one year—and really most of the time I wasin agony.”

The two ladies talked rheumatism, sciatica and neuritis for some mo-ments with avidity. A sulky-looking girl in a pink overall with a flight ofbluebirds down the front of it took their order for coffee and cakes with ayawn and an air of weary patience.

“The cakes,” Miss Bunner said in a conspiratorial whisper, “are reallyquite good here.”

“I was so interested in that very pretty girl I met as we were comingaway from Miss Blacklock’s the other day,” said Miss Marple. “I think shesaid she does gardening. Or is she on the land? Hynes — was that hername?”

“Oh, yes, Phillipa Haymes. Our ‘Lodger,’ as we call her.” Miss Bunnerlaughed at her own humour. “Such a nice quiet girl. A lady, if you knowwhat I mean.”

“I wonder now. I knew a Colonel Haymes—in the Indian cavalry. Herfather perhaps?”

“She’s Mrs. Haymes. A widow. Her husband was killed in Sicily or Italy.

Of course, it might be his father.”

“I wondered, perhaps, if there might be a little romance on the way?”

Miss Marple suggested roguishly. “With that tall young man?”

“With Patrick, do you mean? Oh, I don’t—”

“No, I meant a young man with spectacles. I’ve seen him about.”

“Oh, of course, Edmund Swettenham. Sh! That’s his mother, Mrs.

Swettenham, over in the corner. I don’t know, I’m sure. You think he ad-mires her? He’s such an odd young man—says the most disturbing thingssometimes. He’s supposed to be clever, you know,” said Miss Bunner withfrank disapproval.

“Cleverness isn’t everything,” said Miss Marple, shaking her head. “Ah,here is our coffee.”

The sulky girl deposited it with a clatter. Miss Marple and Miss Bunnerpressed cakes on each other.

“I was so interested to hear you were at school with Miss Blacklock.

Yours is indeed an old friendship.”

“Yes, indeed.” Miss Bunner sighed. “Very few people would be as loyalto their old friends as dear Miss Blacklock is. Oh, dear, those days seem along time ago. Such a pretty girl and enjoyed life so much. It all seemed sosad.”

Miss Marple, though with no idea of what had seemed so sad, sighedand shook her head.

“Life is indeed hard,” she murmured.

“And sad affliction bravely borne,” murmured Miss Bunner, her eyes suf-fusing with tears. “I always think of that verse. True patience; true resig-nation. Such courage and patience ought to be rewarded, that is what Isay. What I feel is that nothing is too good for dear Miss Blacklock, andwhatever good things come to her, she truly deserves them.”

“Money,” said Miss Marple, “can do a lot to ease one’s path in life.”

She felt herself safe in this observation since she judged that it must beMiss Blacklock’s prospects of future affluence to which her friend re-ferred.

The remark, however, started Miss Bunner on another train of thought.

“Money!” she exclaimed with bitterness. “I don’t believe, you know, thatuntil one has really experienced it, one can know what money, or ratherthe lack of it, means.”

Miss Marple nodded her white head sympathetically.

Miss Bunner went on rapidly, working herself up, and speaking with aflushed face:

“I’ve heard people say so often ‘I’d rather have flowers on the table thana meal without them.’ But how many meals have those people evermissed? They don’t know what it is — nobody knows who hasn’t beenthrough it—to be really hungry. Bread, you know, and a jar of meat paste,and a scrape of margarine. Day after day, and how one longs for a goodplate of meat and two vegetables. And the shabbiness. Darning one’sclothes and hoping it won’t show. And applying for jobs and always beingtold you’re too old. And then perhaps getting a job and after all one isn’tstrong enough. One faints. And you’re back again. It’s the rent—always therent—that’s got to be paid—otherwise you’re out in the street. And in thesedays it leaves so little over. One’s old age pension doesn’t go far—indeed itdoesn’t.”

“I know,” said Miss Marple gently. She looked with compassion at MissBunner’s twitching face.

“I wrote to Letty. I just happened to see her name in the paper. It was aluncheon in aid of Milchester Hospital. There it was in black and white,Miss Letitia Blacklock. It brought the past back to me. I hadn’t heard of herfor years and years. She’d been secretary, you know, to that very richman, Goedler. She was always a clever girl—the kind that gets on in theworld. Not so much looks—as character. I thought—well, I thought—per-haps she’ll remember me—and she’s one of the people I could ask for alittle help. I mean someone you’ve known as a girl—been at school with—well, they do know about you—they know you’re not just a—begging let-ter-writer—”

Tears came into Dora Bunner’s eyes.

“And then Lotty came and took me away—said she needed someone tohelp her. Of course, I was very surprised—very surprised—but then news-papers do get things wrong. How kind she was—and how sympathetic.

And remembering all the old days so well … I’d do anything for her—Ireally would. And I try very hard, but I’m afraid sometimes I muddlethings—my head’s not what it was. I make mistakes. And I forget and sayfoolish things. She’s very patient. What’s so nice about her is that she al-ways pretends that I am useful to her. That’s real kindness, isn’t it?”

Miss Marple said gently: “Yes, that’s real kindness.”

“I used to worry, you know, even after I came to Little Paddocks—aboutwhat would become of me if—if anything were to happen to Miss Black-lock. After all, there are so many accidents—these motors dashing about—one never knows, does one? But naturally I never said anything—but shemust have guessed. Suddenly, one day she told me that she’d left me asmall annuity in her will—and—what I value far more—all her beautifulfurniture. I was quite overcome … But she said nobody else would value itas I should—and that is quite true—I can’t bear to see some lovely piece ofchina smashed—or wet glasses put down on a table and leaving a mark. Ido really look after her things. Some people—some people especially, areso terribly careless—and sometimes worse than careless!

“I’m not really as stupid as I look,” Miss Bunner continued with simpli-city. “I can see, you know, when Letty’s being imposed upon. Some people—I won’t name names—but they take advantage. Dear Miss Blacklock is,perhaps, just a shade too trusting.”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“That’s a mistake.”

“Yes, it is. You and I, Miss Marple, know the world. Dear Miss Blacklock—” She shook her head.

Miss Marple thought that as the secretary of a big financier Miss Black-lock might be presumed to know the world too. But probably what DoraBunner meant was that Letty Blacklock had always been comfortably off,and that the comfortably off do not know the deeper abysses of humannature.

“That Patrick!” said Miss Bunner with a suddenness and an asperity thatmade Miss Marple jump. “Twice, at least, to my knowledge, he’s got moneyout of her. Pretending he’s hard up. Run into debt. All that sort of thing.

She’s far too generous. All she said to me when I remonstrated with herwas: ‘The boy’s young, Dora. Youth is the time to have your fling.’”

“Well, that’s true enough,” said Miss Marple. “Such a handsome youngman, too.”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” said Dora Bunner. “Much too fond ofpoking fun at people. And a lot of going on with girls, I expect. I’m just afigure of fun to him—that’s all. He doesn’t seem to realize that people havetheir feelings.”

“Young people are rather careless that way,” said Miss Marple.

Miss Bunner leaned forward suddenly with a mysterious air.

“You won’t breathe a word, will you, my dear?” she demanded. “But Ican’t help feeling that he was mixed up in this dreadful business. I thinkhe knew that young man—else Julia did. I daren’t hint at such a thing todear Miss Blacklock—at least I did, and she just snapped my head off. And,of course, it’s awkward—because he’s her nephew—or at any rate hercousin—and if the Swiss young man shot himself Patrick might be heldmorally responsible, mightn’t he? If he’d put him up to it, I mean. I’mreally terribly confused about the whole thing. Everyone making such afuss about that other door into the drawing room. That’s another thingthat worries me—the detective saying it had been oiled. Because you see, Isaw—”

She came to an abrupt stop.

Miss Marple paused to select a phrase.

“Most difficult for you,” she said sympathetically. “Naturally youwouldn’t want anything to get round to the police.”

“That’s just it,” Dora Bunner cried. “I lie awake at nights and worry—be-cause, you see, I came upon Patrick in the shrubbery the other day. I waslooking for eggs—one hen lays out—and there he was holding a featherand a cup—an oily cup. And he jumped most guiltily when he saw me andhe said: ‘I was just wondering what this was doing here.’ Well, of course,he’s a quick thinker. I should say he thought that up quickly when Istartled him. And how did he come to find a thing like that in the shrub-bery unless he was looking for it, knowing perfectly well it was there? Ofcourse, I didn’t say anything.”

“No, no, of course not.”

“But I gave him a look, if you know what I mean.”

Dora Bunner stretched out her hand and bit abstractedly into a lurid sal-mon-coloured cake.

“And then another day I happened to overhear him having a very curi-ous conversation with Julia. They seemed to be having a kind of quarrel.

He was saying: ‘If I thought you had anything to do with a thing like that!’

and Julia (she’s always so calm, you know) said: ‘Well, little brother, whatwould you do about it?’ And then, most unfortunately, I trod on that boardthat always squeaks, and they saw me. So I said, quite gaily: ‘You two hav-ing a quarrel?’ and Patrick said, ‘I’m warning Julia not to go in for theseblack-market deals.’ Oh, it was all very slick, but I don’t believe they weretalking about anything of the sort! And if you ask me, I believe Patrick hadtampered with that lamp in the drawing room—to make the lights go out,because I remember distinctly that it was the shepherdess—not the shep-herd. And the next day—”

She stopped and her face grew pink. Miss Marple turned her head to seeMiss Blacklock standing behind them—she must just have come in.

“Coffee and gossip, Bunny?” said Miss Blacklock, with quite a shade ofreproach in her voice. “Good morning, Miss Marple. Cold, isn’t it?”

The doors flew open with a clang and Bunch Harmon came into theBluebird with a rush.

“Hallo,” she said, “am I too late for coffee?”

“No, dear,” said Miss Marple. “Sit down and have a cup.”

“We must get home,” said Miss Blacklock. “Done your shopping,Bunny?”

Her tone was indulgent once more, but her eyes still held a slight re-proach.

“Yes—yes, thank you, Letty. I must just pop into the chemists in passingand get some aspirin and some cornplasters.”

As the doors of the Bluebird swung to behind them, Bunch asked:

“What were you talking about?”

Miss Marple did not reply at once. She waited whilst Bunch gave the or-der, then she said:

“Family solidarity is a very strong thing. Very strong. Do you remembersome famous case—I really can’t remember what it was. They said thehusband poisoned his wife. In a glass of wine. Then, at the trial, thedaughter said she’d drunk half her mother’s glass—so that knocked thecase against her father to pieces. They do say—but that may be just ru-mour—that she never spoke to her father or lived with him again. Ofcourse, a father is one thing—and a nephew or a distant cousin is another.

But still there it is—no one wants a member of their own family hanged,do they?”

“No,” said Bunch, considering. “I shouldn’t think they would.”

Miss Marple leaned back in her chair. She murmured under her breath,“People are really very alike, everywhere.”

“Who am I like?”

“Well, really, dear, you are very much like yourself. I don’t know thatyou remind me of anyone in particular. Except perhaps—”

“Here it comes,” said Bunch.

“I was just thinking of a parlourmaid of mine, dear.”

“A parlourmaid? I should make a terrible parlourmaid.”

“Yes, dear, so did she. She was no good at all at waiting at table. Puteverything on the table crooked, mixed up the kitchen knives with the din-ing room ones, and her cap (this was a long time ago, dear) her cap wasnever straight.”

Bunch adjusted her hat automatically.

“Anything else?” she demanded anxiously.

“I kept her because she was so pleasant to have about the house—andbecause she used to make me laugh. I liked the way she said thingsstraight out. Came to me one day, ‘Of course, I don’t know, ma’am,’ shesays, ‘but Florrie, the way she sits down, it’s just like a married woman.’

And sure enough poor Florrie was in trouble—the gentlemanly assistantat the hairdresser’s. Fortunately it was in good time, and I was able tohave a little talk with him, and they had a very nice wedding and settleddown quite happily. She was a good girl, Florrie, but inclined to be takenin by a gentlemanly appearance.”

“She didn’t do a murder, did she?” asked Bunch. “The parlourmaid, Imean.”

“No, indeed,” said Miss Marple. “She married a Baptist Minister and theyhad a family of five.”

“Just like me,” said Bunch. “Though I’ve only got as far as Edward andSusan up to date.”

She added, after a minute or two:

“Who are you thinking about now, Aunt Jane?”

“Quite a lot of people, dear, quite a lot of people,” said Miss Marple,vaguely.

“In St. Mary Mead?”

“Mostly … I was really thinking about Nurse Ellerton—really an excel-lent kindly woman. Took care of an old lady, seemed really fond of her.

Then the old lady died. And another came and she died. Morphia. It allcame out. Done in the kindest way, and the shocking thing was that thewoman herself really couldn’t see that she’d done anything wrong. Theyhadn’t long to live in any case, she said, and one of them had cancer andquite a lot of pain.”

“You mean—it was a mercy killing?”

“No, no. They signed their money away to her. She liked money, youknow….

“And then there was that young man on the liner—Mrs. Pusey at the pa-per shop, her nephew. Brought home stuff he’d stolen and got her to dis-pose of it. Said it was things that he’d bought abroad. She was quite takenin. And then when the police came round and started asking questions, hetried to bash her on the head, so that she shouldn’t be able to give himaway … Not a nice young man—but very good-looking. Had two girls inlove with him. He spent a lot of money on one of them.”

“The nastiest one, I suppose,” said Bunch.

“Yes, dear. And there was Mrs. Cray at the wool shop. Devoted to herson, spoilt him, of course. He got in with a very queer lot. Do you remem-ber Joan Croft, Bunch?”

“N-no, I don’t think so.”

“I thought you might have seen her when you were with me on a visit.

Used to stalk about smoking a cigar or a pipe. We had a Bank hold-uponce, and Joan Croft was in the Bank at the time. She knocked the mandown and took his revolver away from him. She was congratulated on hercourage by the Bench.”

Bunch listened attentively. She seemed to be learning by heart.

“And—?” she prompted.

“That girl at St. Jean des Collines that summer. Such a quiet girl—not somuch quiet as silent. Everybody liked her, but they never got to know hermuch better … We heard afterwards that her husband was a forger. Itmade her feel cut off from people. It made her, in the end, a little queer.

Brooding does, you know.”

“Any Anglo-Indian Colonels in your reminiscences, darling?”

“Naturally, dear. There was Major Vaughan at The Larches and ColonelWright at Simla Lodge. Nothing wrong with either of them. But I do re-member Mr. Hodgson, the Bank Manager, went on a cruise and married awoman young enough to be his daughter. No idea of where she came from—except what she told him of course.”

“And that wasn’t true?”

“No, dear, it definitely wasn’t.”

“Not bad,” said Bunch, nodding, and ticking people off on her fingers.

“We’ve had devoted Dora, and handsome Patrick, and Mrs. Swettenhamand Edmund, and Phillipa Haymes, and Colonel Easterbrook and Mrs.

Easterbrook—and if you ask me, I should say you’re absolutely right abouther. But there wouldn’t be any reason for her murdering Letty Blacklock.”

“Miss Blacklock, of course, might know something about her that shedidn’t want known.”

“Oh, darling, that old Tanqueray stuff? Surely that’s dead as the hills.”

“It might not be. You see, Bunch, you are not the kind that minds muchabout what people think of you.”

“I see what you mean,” said Bunch suddenly. “If you’d been up againstit, and then, rather like a shivering stray cat, you’d found a home andcream and a warm stroking hand and you were called Pretty Pussy andsomebody thought the world of you … You’d do a lot to keep that … Well, Imust say, you’ve presented me with a very complete gallery of people.”

“You didn’t get them all right, you know,” said Miss Marple, mildly.

“Didn’t I? Where did I slip up? Julia? Julia, pretty Julia is peculiar.”

“Three and sixpence,” said the sulky waitress, materialising out of thegloom.

“And,” she added, her bosom heaving beneath the bluebirds, “I’d like toknow, Mrs. Harmon, why you call me peculiar. I had an Aunt who joinedthe Peculiar People, but I’ve always been good Church of England myself,as the late Rev. Hopkinson can tell you.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Bunch. “I was just quoting a song. I didn’t meanyou at all. I didn’t know your name was Julia.”

“Quite a coincidence,” said the sulky waitress, cheering up. “No offence,I’m sure, but hearing my name, as I thought—well, naturally if you thinksomeone’s talking about you, it’s only human nature to listen. Thank you.”

She departed with her tip.

“Aunt Jane,” said Bunch, “don’t look so upset. What is it?”

“But surely,” murmured Miss Marple. “That couldn’t be so. There’s noreason—”

“Aunt Jane!”

Miss Marple sighed and then smiled brightly.

“It’s nothing, dear,” she said.

“Did you think you knew who did the murder?” asked Bunch. “Who wasit?”

“I don’t know at all,” said Miss Marple. “I got an idea for a moment—butit’s gone. I wish I did know. Time’s so short. So terribly short.”

“What do you mean short?”

“That old lady up in Scotland may die any moment.”

Bunch said, staring:

“Then you really do believe in Pip and Emma. You think it was them—and that they’ll try again?”

“Of course they’ll try again,” said Miss Marple, almost absentmindedly.

“If they tried once, they’ll try again. If you’ve made up your mind tomurder someone, you don’t stop because the first time it didn’t come off.

Especially if you’re fairly sure you’re not suspected.”

“But if it’s Pip and Emma,” said Bunch, “there are only two people itcould be. It must be Patrick and Julia. They’re brother and sister andthey’re the only ones who are the right age.”

“My dear, it isn’t nearly as simple as that. There are all sorts of ramifica-tions and combinations. There’s Pip’s wife if he’s married, or Emma’s hus-band. There’s their mother—she’s an interested party even if she doesn’tinherit direct. If Letty Blacklock hasn’t seen her for thirty years, she’dprobably not recognize her now. One elderly woman is very like another.

You remember Mrs. Wotherspoon drew her own and Mrs. Bartlett’s OldAge Pension although Mrs. Bartlett had been dead for years. Anyway, MissBlacklock’s shortsighted. Haven’t you noticed how she peers at people?

And then there’s the father. Apparently he was a real bad lot.”

“Yes, but he’s a foreigner.”

“By birth. But there’s no reason to believe he speaks broken English andgesticulates with his hands. I dare say he could play the part of—of anAnglo-Indian Colonel as well as anybody else.”

“Is that what you think?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t indeed, dear. I just think that there’s a great deal ofmoney at stake, a great deal of money. And I’m afraid I know only too wellthe really terrible things that people will do to lay their hands on a lot ofmoney.”

“I suppose they will,” said Bunch. “It doesn’t really do them any good,does it? Not in the end?”

“No—but they don’t usually know that.”

“I can understand it.” Bunch smiled suddenly, her sweet rather crookedsmile. “One feels it would be different for oneself … Even I feel that.” Sheconsidered: “You pretend to yourself that you’d do a lot of good with allthat money. Schemes … Homes for Unwanted Children … Tired Mothers …A lovely rest abroad somewhere for elderly women who have worked toohard….”

Her face grew sombre. Her eyes were suddenly dark and tragic.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said to Miss Marple. “You’re thinkingthat I’d be the worst kind. Because I’d kid myself. If you just wanted themoney for selfish reasons you’d at any rate see what you were like. Butonce you began to pretend about doing good with it, you’d be able to per-suade yourself, perhaps, that it wouldn’t very much matter killingsomeone….”

Then her eyes cleared.

“But I shouldn’t,” she said. “I shouldn’t really kill anyone. Not even ifthey were old, or ill, or doing a lot of harm in the world. Not even if theywere blackmailers or—or absolute beasts.” She fished a fly carefully out ofthe dregs of the coffee and arranged it on the table to dry. “Because peoplelike living, don’t they? So do flies. Even if you’re old and in pain and canjust crawl out in the sun. Julian says those people like living even morethan young strong people do. It’s harder, he says, for them to die, thestruggle’s greater. I like living myself—not just being happy and enjoyingmyself and having a good time. I mean living—waking up and feeling, allover me, that I’m there—ticking over.”

She blew on the fly gently; it waved its legs, and flew rather drunkenlyaway.

“Cheer up, darling Aunt Jane,” said Bunch. “I’d never kill anybody.”