Complete Short Stories of Miss Marple (33 page)

From their respective windows Louise and Mrs. Cresswell poured a flood of excited information down on him. The constable produced a notebook and pencil. 'You ladies ran upstairs and locked yourselves in? Can I have your names, please?'

'Somebody locked us in. Come and let us out.'

The constable said reprovingly, 'All in good time,' and disappeared through the French window below.

Once again time seemed infinite. Louise heard the sound of a car arriving, and after what seemed an hour, but was actually only three minutes, first Mrs. Cresswell and then Louise were released by a police sergeant more alert than the original constable.

'Miss Greenshaw?' Louise's voice faltered. 'What – what's happened?' The sergeant cleared his throat.

'I'm sorry to have to tell you, madam,' he said, 'what I've already told Mrs. Cresswell here. Miss Greenshaw is dead.'

'Murdered,' said Mrs. Cresswell. 'That's what it is – murder?

The sergeant said dubiously, 'Could have been an accident – some country lads shooting arrows.'

Again there was the sound of a car arriving.

The sergeant said, 'That'll be the M.O.,' and he started downstairs.

But it was not the M.O. As Louise and Mrs. Cresswell came down the stairs, a young man stepped hesitatingly through the front door and paused, looking around him with a somewhat bewildered air. Then, speaking in a pleasant voice that in some way seemed familiar to Louise – perhaps it reminded her of Miss Greenshaw's – he asked, 'Excuse me, does – er – does Miss Greenshaw live here?'

'May I have your name if you please?' said the sergeant, advancing upon him.

'Fletcher,' said the young man. 'Nat Fletcher. I'm Miss Greenshaw's nephew, as a matter of fact.'

'Indeed, sir, well – I'm sorry  –'

'Has anything happened?' asked Nat Fletcher.

'There's been an – accident. Your aunt was shot with an arrow – penetrated the jugular vein  –'

Mrs. Cresswell spoke hysterically and without her usual refinement: 'Your h'aunt's been murdered, that's what's happened. Your h'aunt's been murdered.'

Inspector Welch drew his chair a little nearer to the table and let his gaze wander from one to the other of the four people in the room. It was evening of the same day. He had called at the Wests' house to take Louise Oxley once more over her statement.

'You are sure of the exact words? Shot – he shot me – with an arrow – get help?' Louise nodded.

'And the time?'

'I looked at my watch a minute or two later – it was then twelve twenty-five  –'

'Your watch keeps good time?'

'I looked at the clock as well.' Louise left no doubt of her accuracy.

The inspector turned to Raymond West.

'It appears, sir, that about a week ago you and a Mr. Horace Bindler were witnesses to Miss Greenshaw's will?'

Briefly Raymond recounted the events of the afternoon visit he and Horace Bindler had paid to Greenshaw's Folly.

'This testimony of yours may be important,' said Welch. 'Miss Greenshaw distinctly told you, did she, that her will was being made in favour of Mrs. Cresswell, the housekeeper, and that she was not paying Mrs. Cresswell any wages in view of the expectations Mrs. Cresswell had of profiting by her death?'

'That is what she told me – yes.'

'Would you say that Mrs. Cresswell was definitely aware of these facts?'

'I should say undoubtedly. Miss Greenshaw made a reference in my presence to beneficiaries not being able to witness a will, and Mrs. Cresswell clearly understood what she meant by it. Moreover, Miss Greenshaw herself told me that she had come to this arrangement with Mrs. Cresswell.'

'So Mrs. Cresswell had reason to believe she was an interested party. Motive clear enough in her case, and I daresay she'd be our chief suspect now if it wasn't for the fact that she was securely locked in her room like Mrs. Oxley here, and also that Miss Greenshaw definitely said a man shot her  –'

'She definitely was locked in her room?'

'Oh yes. Sergeant Cayley let her out. It's a big old-fashioned lock with a big old-fashioned key. The key was in the lock and there's not a chance that it could have been turned from inside or any hanky-panky of that kind. No, you can take it definitely that Mrs. Cresswell was locked inside that room and couldn't get out. And there were no bows and arrows in the room and Miss Greenshaw couldn't in any case have been shot from her window – the angle forbids it. No, Mrs. Cresswell's out.' He paused, then went on: 'Would you say that Miss Greenshaw, in your opinion, was a practical joker?'

Miss Marple looked up sharply from her corner. 'So the will wasn't in Mrs. Cresswell's favour after all?' she said.

Inspector Welch looked over at her in a rather surprised fashion. 'That's a very clever guess of yours, madam,' he said. 'No, Mrs. Cresswell isn't named as beneficiary.'

'Just like Mr. Naysmith,' said Miss Marple, nodding her head. 'Miss Greenshaw told Mrs. Cresswell she was going to leave her everything and so got out of paying her wages, and then she left her money to somebody else. No doubt she was vastly pleased with herself. No wonder she chortled when she put the will away in Lady Audley's Secret.'

'It was lucky Mrs. Oxley was able to tell us about the will and where it was put,' said the inspector. 'We might have had a long hunt for it otherwise.'

'A Victorian sense of humour,' murmured Raymond West.

'So she left her money to her nephew after all,' said Louise.

The inspector shook his head.

'No,' he said, 'she didn't leave it to Nat Fletcher. The story goes around here – of course, I'm new to the place and I only get the gossip that's second-hand but it seems that in the old days both Miss Greenshaw and her sister were set on the handsome young riding master, and the sister got him. No, she didn't leave the money to her nephew  –' Inspector Welch paused, rubbing his chin. 'She left it to Alfred,' he said.

'Alfred – the gardener?' Joan spoke in a surprised voice. 'Yes, Mrs. West. Alfred Pollock.'

'But why?' cried Louise.

'I daresay,' said Miss Marple, 'that she thought Alfred Pollock might have a pride in the house, might even want to live in it, whereas her nephew would almost certainly have no use for it whatever and would sell it as soon as he could possibly do so. He's an actor, isn't he? What play exactly is he acting in at present?'

Trust an old lady to wander from the point, thought Inspector Welch; but he replied civilly, 'I believe, madam, they are doing a season of Sir James M. Barrie's plays.' 'Barrie,' said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

'What Every Woman Knows,' said Inspector Welch, and then blushed. 'Name of a play,' he said quickly. 'I'm not much of a theatre-goer myself,' he added, 'but the wife went along and saw it last week. Quite well done, she said it was.'

'Barrie, wrote some very charming plays,' said Miss Marple, 'though I must say that when I went with an old friend of mine, General Easterly, to see Barrie's Little Mary' – she shook her head sadly – 'neither of us knew where to look.'

The inspector, unacquainted with the play Little Mary, seemed completely fogged.

Miss Marple explained: 'When I was a girl, Inspector, nobody ever mentioned the word stomach.'

The inspector looked even more at sea. Miss Marple was murmuring titles under her breath. 'The Admirable Crichton. Very clever. Mary Rose – a charming play. I cried, I remember. Quality Street I didn't care for so much. Then there was A Kiss for Cinderella. Oh, of course!'

Inspector Welch had no time to waste on theatrical discussion. He returned to the matter at hand.

'The question is,' he said, 'did Alfred Pollock know the old lady had made a will in his favour? Did she tell him?' He added, 'You see – there's an archery club over at Bore-ham – and Alfred Pollock's a member. He's a very good shot indeed with a bow and arrow.'

'Then isn't your case quite clear?' asked Raymond West. 'It would fit in with the doors being locked on the two women – he'd know just where they were in the house.'

The inspector looked at him. He spoke with deep melancholy. 'He's got an alibi,' said the inspector.

'I always think alibis are definitely suspicious,' Raymond remarked.

'Maybe, sir,' said Inspector Welch. 'You're talking as a writer.'

'I don't write detective stories,' said Raymond West, horrified at the mere idea.

'Easy enough to say that alibis are suspicious,' went on Inspector Welch, 'but unfortunately we've got to deal with facts.' He sighed. 'We've got three good suspects,' he went on. 'Three people who, as it happened, were very close upon the scene at the time. Yet the odd thing is that it looks as though none of the three could have done it. The housekeeper I've already dealt with; the nephew, Nat Fletcher, at the moment Miss Greenshaw was shot, was a couple of miles away, filling up his car at a garage and asking his way; as for Alfred Pollock, six people will swear that he entered the Dog and Duck at twenty past twelve and was there for an hour, having his usual bread and cheese and beer.'

'Deliberately establishing an alibi,' said Raymond West hopefully.

'Maybe,' said Inspector Welch, 'but if so, he did establish it.'

There was a long silence. Then Raymond turned his head to where Miss Marple sat upright and thoughtful. 'It's up to you, Aunt Jane,' he said. 'The inspector's baffled, the sergeant's baffled, Joan's baffled, Louise is baffled. But to you, Art Jane, it is crystal clear. Am I right?'

'I wouldn't Say that,' said Miss Marple, 'not crystal clear. And murder, dear Raymond, isn't a game. I don't suppose poor Miss Greenshaw wanted to die, and it was a particularly brutal murder. Very well-planned and quite cold-blooded. It's not a thing to make jokes about.'

'I'm sorry,' said Raymond. 'I'm not really as callous as I sound. One treats a thing lightly to take away from the – well, the horror of it.'

'That is, I believe, the modern tendency,' said Miss Marple. 'All these are, and having to joke about funerals. Yes, perhaps I was thoughtless when I implied that you were callous.'

'It isn't,' said Joan, 'as though we'd known her at all well.'

'That is very true,' said Miss Marple. 'You, dear Joan, did not know her at all. I did not know her at all. Raymond gathered an impression of her from one afternoon's conversation. Louise knew her for only two days.'

'Come now, Aunt Jane,' said Raymond, 'tell us your views. You don't mind, Inspector?'

'Not at all,' said the inspector politely.

'Well, my dear, it would seem that we have three people who had – or might have thought they had – a motive to kill the old lady. And three quite simple reasons why none of the three could have done so. The housekeeper could not have killed Miss Greenshaw because she was locked in her room and because her mistress definitely stated that a man shot her. The gardener was inside the Dog and Duck at the time, the nephew at the garage.'

'Very clearly put, madam,' said the inspector.

'And since it seems most unlikely that any outsider should have done it, where, then, are we?'

'That's what the inspector wants to know,' said Raymond West.

'One so often looks at a thing the wrong way round,' said Miss Marple apologetically. 'If we can't alter the movements or the positions of those three people, then couldn't we perhaps alter the time of the murder?'

'You mean that both my watch and the clock were wrong?' asked Louise.

'No, dear,' said Miss Marple, 'I didn't mean that at all. I mean that the murder didn't occur when you thought it occurred.'

'But I saw it,' cried Louise.

'Well, what I have been wondering, my dear, was whether you weren't meant to see it. I've been asking myself, you know, whether that wasn't the real reason why you were engaged for this job.'

'What do you mean, Aunt Jane?'

'Well, dear, it seems odd. Miss Greenshaw did not like spending money – yet she engaged you and agreed quite willingly to the terms you asked. It seems to me that perhaps you were meant to be there in that library on the second floor, looking out of the window so that you could be the key witness – someone from outside of irreproachably good character – to fix a definite time and place for the murder.'

'But you can't mean,' said Louise incredulously, 'that Miss Greenshaw intended to be murdered.'

'What I mean, dear,' said Miss Marple, 'is that you didn't really know Miss Greenshaw. There's no real reason, is there, why the Miss Greenshaw you saw when you went up to the house should be the same Miss Greenshaw that Raymond saw a few days earlier? Oh yes, I know,' she went on, to prevent Louise's reply, 'she was wearing the peculiar old-fashioned print dress and the strange straw hat and had unkempt hair. She corresponded exactly to the description Raymond gave us last weekend. But those two women, you know, were much the same age, height, and size. The housekeeper, I mean, and Miss Greenshaw.'

'But the housekeeper is fat!' Louise exclaimed. 'She's got an enormous bosom.'

Miss Marple coughed. 'But, my dear, surely, nowadays I have seen them myself in shops most indelicately displayed. It is very easy for anyone to have a – a bosom – of any size and dimension.' 'What are you trying to say?' demanded Raymond.

'I was just thinking that during the two days Louise was working there, one woman could have played both parts. You said yourself, Louise, that you hardly saw the housekeeper, except for the one minute in the morning when she brought you the tray with coffee. One sees those clever artists on the stage coming in as different characters with only a moment or two to spare, and I am sure the change could have been effected quite easily. That marquise headdress could be just a wig slipped on and off.'

'Aunt Jane! Do you mean that Miss Greenshaw was dead before I started work there?'

'Not dead. Kept under drugs, I should say. A very easy job for an unscrupulous woman like the housekeeper to do. Then she made the arrangements with you and got you to telephone to the nephew to ask him to lunch at a definite time. The only person who would have known that this Miss Greenshaw was not Miss Greenshaw would have been Alfred. And if you remember, the first two days you were working there it was wet, and Miss Greenshaw stayed in the house. Alfred never came into the house because of his feud with the housekeeper. And on the last morning Alfred was in the drive, while Miss Greenshaw was working on the rockery – I'd like to have a look at that rockery.'