Книга - The Body in the Library

The Body in the Library
Agatha Christie


Agatha Christie’s world-famous Miss Marple mystery, reissued with a striking cover designed to appeal to the latest generation of Agatha Christie fans and book lovers.It’s seven in the morning. The Bantrys wake to find the body of a young woman in their library. She is wearing evening dress and heavy make-up, which is now smeared across her cheeks.But who is she? How did she get there? And what is the connection with another dead girl, whose charred remains are later discovered in an abandoned quarry?The respectable Bantrys invite Miss Marple to solve the mystery… before tongues start to wag.























Copyright (#u2cce7421-31e6-5e80-8586-e223aa9ca429)


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by Collins, The Crime Club 1942

The Body in the Library™ is a trade mark of Agatha Christie Limited and Agatha Christie


Marple


and the Agatha Christie Signature are registered trade marks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere. Copyright © 1942 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.

www.agathachristie.com (http://www.agathachristie.com)

Cover by juliejenkinsdesign.com (http://juliejenkinsdesign.com) © HarperCollins/Agatha Christie Ltd 2016

Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008196530

Ebook Edition © December 2016 ISBN: 9780007422173

Version: 2017-04-12




Dedication (#u2cce7421-31e6-5e80-8586-e223aa9ca429)


To My Friend Nan


Contents

Cover (#uec174fca-baa6-5974-b6e4-90855a458579)

Title Page (#u5c5f81d6-a9f6-53a4-bb39-8b0ac546b16e)

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Also by Agatha Christie

About the Publisher




CHAPTER 1 (#u2cce7421-31e6-5e80-8586-e223aa9ca429)


Mrs Bantry was dreaming. Her sweet peas had just taken a First at the flower show. The vicar, dressed in cassock and surplice, was giving out the prizes in church. His wife wandered past, dressed in a bathing-suit, but as is the blessed habit of dreams this fact did not arouse the disapproval of the parish in the way it would assuredly have done in real life …

Mrs Bantry was enjoying her dream a good deal. She usually did enjoy those early-morning dreams that were terminated by the arrival of early-morning tea. Somewhere in her inner consciousness was an awareness of the usual early-morning noises of the household. The rattle of the curtain-rings on the stairs as the housemaid drew them, the noises of the second housemaid’s dustpan and brush in the passage outside. In the distance the heavy noise of the front-door bolt being drawn back.

Another day was beginning. In the meantime she must extract as much pleasure as possible from the flower show—for already its dream-like quality was becoming apparent …

Below her was the noise of the big wooden shutters in the drawing-room being opened. She heard it, yet did not hear it. For quite half an hour longer the usual household noises would go on, discreet, subdued, not disturbing because they were so familiar. They would culminate in a swift, controlled sound of footsteps along the passage, the rustle of a print dress, the subdued chink of tea-things as the tray was deposited on the table outside, then the soft knock and the entry of Mary to draw the curtains.

In her sleep Mrs Bantry frowned. Something disturbing was penetrating through to the dream state, something out of its time. Footsteps along the passage, footsteps that were too hurried and too soon. Her ears listened unconsciously for the chink of china, but there was no chink of china.

The knock came at the door. Automatically from the depths of her dreams Mrs Bantry said: ‘Come in.’ The door opened—now there would be the chink of curtain-rings as the curtains were drawn back.

But there was no chink of curtain-rings. Out of the dim green light Mary’s voice came—breathless, hysterical: ‘Oh, ma’am, oh, ma’am, there’s a body in the library.’

And then with a hysterical burst of sobs she rushed out of the room again.

Mrs Bantry sat up in bed.

Either her dream had taken a very odd turn or else—or else Mary had really rushed into the room and had said (incredible! fantastic!) that there was a body in the library.

‘Impossible,’ said Mrs Bantry to herself. ‘I must have been dreaming.’

But even as she said it, she felt more and more certain that she had not been dreaming, that Mary, her superior self-controlled Mary, had actually uttered those fantastic words.

Mrs Bantry reflected a minute and then applied an urgent conjugal elbow to her sleeping spouse.

‘Arthur, Arthur, wake up.’

Colonel Bantry grunted, muttered, and rolled over on his side.

‘Wake up, Arthur. Did you hear what she said?’

‘Very likely,’ said Colonel Bantry indistinctly. ‘I quite agree with you, Dolly,’ and promptly went to sleep again.

Mrs Bantry shook him.

‘You’ve got to listen. Mary came in and said that there was a body in the library.’

‘Eh, what?’

‘A body in the library.’

‘Who said so?’

‘Mary.’

Colonel Bantry collected his scattered faculties and proceeded to deal with the situation. He said:

‘Nonsense, old girl; you’ve been dreaming.’

‘No, I haven’t. I thought so, too, at first. But I haven’t. She really came in and said so.’

‘Mary came in and said there was a body in the library?’

‘Yes.’

‘But there couldn’t be,’ said Colonel Bantry.

‘No—no, I suppose not,’ said Mrs Bantry doubtfully.

Rallying, she went on:

‘But then why did Mary say there was?’

‘She can’t have.’

‘She did.’

‘You must have imagined it.’

‘I didn’t imagine it.’

Colonel Bantry was by now thoroughly awake and prepared to deal with the situation on its merits. He said kindly:

‘You’ve been dreaming, Dolly, that’s what it is. It’s that detective story you were reading—The Clue of the Broken Match. You know—Lord Edgbaston finds a beautiful blonde dead on the library hearthrug. Bodies are always being found in libraries in books. I’ve never known a case in real life.’

‘Perhaps you will now,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘Anyway, Arthur, you’ve got to get up and see.’

‘But really, Dolly, it must have been a dream. Dreams often do seem wonderfully vivid when you first wake up. You feel quite sure they’re true.’

‘I was having quite a different sort of dream—about a flower show and the vicar’s wife in a bathing-dress—something like that.’

With a sudden burst of energy Mrs Bantry jumped out of bed and pulled back the curtains. The light of a fine autumn day flooded the room.

‘I did not dream it,’ said Mrs Bantry firmly. ‘Get up at once, Arthur, and go downstairs and see about it.’

‘You want me to go downstairs and ask if there’s a body in the library? I shall look a damned fool.’

‘You needn’t ask anything,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘If there is a body—and of course it’s just possible that Mary’s gone mad and thinks she sees things that aren’t there—well, somebody will tell you soon enough. You won’t have to say a word.’

Grumbling, Colonel Bantry wrapped himself in his dressing-gown and left the room. He went along the passage and down the staircase. At the foot of it was a little knot of huddled servants; some of them were sobbing. The butler stepped forward impressively.

‘I’m glad you have come, sir. I have directed that nothing should be done until you came. Will it be in order for me to ring up the police, sir?’

‘Ring ’em up about what?’

The butler cast a reproachful glance over his shoulder at the tall young woman who was weeping hysterically on the cook’s shoulder.

‘I understood, sir, that Mary had already informed you. She said she had done so.’

Mary gasped out:

‘I was so upset I don’t know what I said. It all came over me again and my legs gave way and my inside turned over. Finding it like that—oh, oh, oh!’

She subsided again on to Mrs Eccles, who said: ‘There, there, my dear,’ with some relish.

‘Mary is naturally somewhat upset, sir, having been the one to make the gruesome discovery,’ explained the butler. ‘She went into the library as usual, to draw the curtains, and—and almost stumbled over the body.’

‘Do you mean to tell me,’ demanded Colonel Bantry, ‘that there’s a dead body in my library—my library?’

The butler coughed.

‘Perhaps, sir, you would like to see for yourself.’

‘Hallo, ’allo, ’allo. Police station here. Yes, who’s speaking?’

Police-Constable Palk was buttoning up his tunic with one hand while the other held the receiver.

‘Yes, yes, Gossington Hall. Yes? Oh, good-morning, sir.’ Police-Constable Palk’s tone underwent a slight modification. It became less impatiently official, recognizing the generous patron of the police sports and the principal magistrate of the district.

‘Yes, sir? What can I do for you?—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t quite catch—a body, did you say?—yes?—yes, if you please, sir—that’s right, sir—young woman not known to you, you say?—quite, sir. Yes, you can leave it all to me.’

Police-Constable Palk replaced the receiver, uttered a long-drawn whistle and proceeded to dial his superior officer’s number.

Mrs Palk looked in from the kitchen whence proceeded an appetizing smell of frying bacon.

‘What is it?’

‘Rummest thing you ever heard of,’ replied her husband. ‘Body of a young woman found up at the Hall. In the Colonel’s library.’

‘Murdered?’

‘Strangled, so he says.’

‘Who was she?’

‘The Colonel says he doesn’t know her from Adam.’

‘Then what was she doing in ’is library?’

Police-Constable Palk silenced her with a reproachful glance and spoke officially into the telephone.

‘Inspector Slack? Police-Constable Palk here. A report has just come in that the body of a young woman was discovered this morning at seven-fifteen—’

Miss Marple’s telephone rang when she was dressing. The sound of it flurried her a little. It was an unusual hour for her telephone to ring. So well ordered was her prim spinster’s life that unforeseen telephone calls were a source of vivid conjecture.

‘Dear me,’ said Miss Marple, surveying the ringing instrument with perplexity. ‘I wonder who that can be?’

Nine o’clock to nine-thirty was the recognized time for the village to make friendly calls to neighbours. Plans for the day, invitations and so on were always issued then. The butcher had been known to ring up just before nine if some crisis in the meat trade had occurred. At intervals during the day spasmodic calls might occur, though it was considered bad form to ring after nine-thirty at night. It was true that Miss Marple’s nephew, a writer, and therefore erratic, had been known to ring up at the most peculiar times, once as late as ten minutes to midnight. But whatever Raymond West’s eccentricities, early rising was not one of them. Neither he nor anyone of Miss Marple’s acquaintance would be likely to ring up before eight in the morning. Actually a quarter to eight.

Too early even for a telegram, since the post office did not open until eight.

‘It must be,’ Miss Marple decided, ‘a wrong number.’

Having decided this, she advanced to the impatient instrument and quelled its clamour by picking up the receiver. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Is that you, Jane?’

Miss Marple was much surprised.

‘Yes, it’s Jane. You’re up very early, Dolly.’

Mrs Bantry’s voice came breathless and agitated over the wires.

‘The most awful thing has happened.’

‘Oh, my dear.’

‘We’ve just found a body in the library.’

For a moment Miss Marple thought her friend had gone mad.

‘You’ve found a what?’

‘I know. One doesn’t believe it, does one? I mean, I thought they only happened in books. I had to argue for hours with Arthur this morning before he’d even go down and see.’

Miss Marple tried to collect herself. She demanded breathlessly: ‘But whose body is it?’

‘It’s a blonde.’

‘A what?’

‘A blonde. A beautiful blonde—like books again. None of us have ever seen her before. She’s just lying there in the library, dead. That’s why you’ve got to come up at once.’

‘You want me to come up?’

‘Yes, I’m sending the car down for you.’

Miss Marple said doubtfully:

‘Of course, dear, if you think I can be of any comfort to you—’

‘Oh, I don’t want comfort. But you’re so good at bodies.’

‘Oh no, indeed. My little successes have been mostly theoretical.’

‘But you’re very good at murders. She’s been murdered, you see, strangled. What I feel is that if one has got to have a murder actually happening in one’s house, one might as well enjoy it, if you know what I mean. That’s why I want you to come and help me find out who did it and unravel the mystery and all that. It really is rather thrilling, isn’t it?’

‘Well, of course, my dear, if I can be of any help to you.’

‘Splendid! Arthur’s being rather difficult. He seems to think I shouldn’t enjoy myself about it at all. Of course, I do know it’s very sad and all that, but then I don’t know the girl—and when you’ve seen her you’ll understand what I mean when I say she doesn’t look real at all.’

A little breathless, Miss Marple alighted from the Bantrys’ car, the door of which was held open for her by the chauffeur.

Colonel Bantry came out on the steps, and looked a little surprised.

‘Miss Marple?—er—very pleased to see you.’

‘Your wife telephoned to me,’ explained Miss Marple.

‘Capital, capital. She ought to have someone with her. She’ll crack up otherwise. She’s putting a good face on things at the moment, but you know what it is—’

At this moment Mrs Bantry appeared, and exclaimed:

‘Do go back into the dining-room and eat your breakfast, Arthur. Your bacon will get cold.’

‘I thought it might be the Inspector arriving,’ explained Colonel Bantry.

‘He’ll be here soon enough,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘That’s why it’s important to get your breakfast first. You need it.’

‘So do you. Much better come and eat something. Dolly—’

‘I’ll come in a minute,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘Go on, Arthur.’

Colonel Bantry was shooed back into the dining-room like a recalcitrant hen.

‘Now!’ said Mrs Bantry with an intonation of triumph. ‘Come on.’

She led the way rapidly along the long corridor to the east of the house. Outside the library door Constable Palk stood on guard. He intercepted Mrs Bantry with a show of authority.

‘I’m afraid nobody is allowed in, madam. Inspector’s orders.’

‘Nonsense, Palk,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘You know Miss Marple perfectly well.’

Constable Palk admitted to knowing Miss Marple.

‘It’s very important that she should see the body,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘Don’t be stupid, Palk. After all, it’s my library, isn’t it?’

Constable Palk gave way. His habit of giving in to the gentry was lifelong. The Inspector, he reflected, need never know about it.

‘Nothing must be touched or handled in any way,’ he warned the ladies.

‘Of course not,’ said Mrs Bantry impatiently. ‘We know that. You can come in and watch, if you like.’

Constable Palk availed himself of this permission. It had been his intention, anyway.

Mrs Bantry bore her friend triumphantly across the library to the big old-fashioned fireplace. She said, with a dramatic sense of climax: ‘There!’

Miss Marple understood then just what her friend had meant when she said the dead girl wasn’t real. The library was a room very typical of its owners. It was large and shabby and untidy. It had big sagging arm-chairs, and pipes and books and estate papers laid out on the big table. There were one or two good old family portraits on the walls, and some bad Victorian water-colours, and some would-be-funny hunting scenes. There was a big vase of Michaelmas daisies in the corner. The whole room was dim and mellow and casual. It spoke of long occupation and familiar use and of links with tradition.

And across the old bearskin hearthrug there was sprawled something new and crude and melodramatic.

The flamboyant figure of a girl. A girl with unnaturally fair hair dressed up off her face in elaborate curls and rings. Her thin body was dressed in a backless evening-dress of white spangled satin. The face was heavily made-up, the powder standing out grotesquely on its blue swollen surface, the mascara of the lashes lying thickly on the distorted cheeks, the scarlet of the lips looking like a gash. The finger-nails were enamelled in a deep blood-red and so were the toenails in their cheap silver sandal shoes. It was a cheap, tawdry, flamboyant figure—most incongruous in the solid old-fashioned comfort of Colonel Bantry’s library.

Mrs Bantry said in a low voice:

‘You see what I mean? It just isn’t true!’

The old lady by her side nodded her head. She looked down long and thoughtfully at the huddled figure.

She said at last in a gentle voice:

‘She’s very young.’

‘Yes—yes—I suppose she is.’ Mrs Bantry seemed almost surprised—like one making a discovery.

Miss Marple bent down. She did not touch the girl. She looked at the fingers that clutched frantically at the front of the girl’s dress, as though she had clawed it in her last frantic struggle for breath.

There was the sound of a car scrunching on the gravel outside. Constable Palk said with urgency:

‘That’ll be the Inspector …’

True to his ingrained belief that the gentry didn’t let you down, Mrs Bantry immediately moved to the door. Miss Marple followed her. Mrs Bantry said:

‘That’ll be all right, Palk.’

Constable Palk was immensely relieved.

Hastily downing the last fragments of toast and marmalade with a drink of coffee, Colonel Bantry hurried out into the hall and was relieved to see Colonel Melchett, the Chief Constable of the county, descending from a car with Inspector Slack in attendance. Melchett was a friend of the Colonel’s. Slack he had never much taken to—an energetic man who belied his name and who accompanied his bustling manner with a good deal of disregard for the feelings of anyone he did not consider important.

‘Morning, Bantry,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Thought I’d better come along myself. This seems an extraordinary business.’

‘It’s—it’s—’ Colonel Bantry struggled to express himself. ‘It’s incredible—fantastic!’

‘No idea who the woman is?’

‘Not the slightest. Never set eyes on her in my life.’

‘Butler know anything?’ asked Inspector Slack.

‘Lorrimer is just as taken aback as I am.’

‘Ah,’ said Inspector Slack. ‘I wonder.’

Colonel Bantry said:

‘There’s breakfast in the dining-room, Melchett, if you’d like anything?’

‘No, no—better get on with the job. Haydock ought to be here any minute now—ah, here he is.’

Another car drew up and big, broad-shouldered Doctor Haydock, who was also the police surgeon, got out. A second police car had disgorged two plain-clothes men, one with a camera.

‘All set—eh?’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Right. We’ll go along. In the library, Slack tells me.’

Colonel Bantry groaned.

‘It’s incredible! You know, when my wife insisted this morning that the housemaid had come in and said there was a body in the library, I just wouldn’t believe her.’

‘No, no, I can quite understand that. Hope your missus isn’t too badly upset by it all?’

‘She’s been wonderful—really wonderful. She’s got old Miss Marple up here with her—from the village, you know.’

‘Miss Marple?’ The Chief Constable stiffened. ‘Why did she send for her?’

‘Oh, a woman wants another woman—don’t you think so?’

Colonel Melchett said with a slight chuckle:

‘If you ask me, your wife’s going to try her hand at a little amateur detecting. Miss Marple’s quite the local sleuth. Put it over us properly once, didn’t she, Slack?’

Inspector Slack said: ‘That was different.’

‘Different from what?’

‘That was a local case, that was, sir. The old lady knows everything that goes on in the village, that’s true enough. But she’ll be out of her depth here.’

Melchett said dryly: ‘You don’t know very much about it yourself yet, Slack.’

‘Ah, you wait, sir. It won’t take me long to get down to it.’

In the dining-room Mrs Bantry and Miss Marple, in their turn, were partaking of breakfast.

After waiting on her guest, Mrs Bantry said urgently:

‘Well, Jane?’

Miss Marple looked up at her, slightly bewildered.

Mrs Bantry said hopefully:

‘Doesn’t it remind you of anything?’

For Miss Marple had attained fame by her ability to link up trivial village happenings with graver problems in such a way as to throw light upon the latter.

‘No,’ said Miss Marple thoughtfully, ‘I can’t say that it does—not at the moment. I was reminded a little of Mrs Chetty’s youngest—Edie, you know—but I think that was just because this poor girl bit her nails and her front teeth stuck out a little. Nothing more than that. And, of course,’ went on Miss Marple, pursuing the parallel further, ‘Edie was fond of what I call cheap finery, too.’

‘You mean her dress?’ said Mrs Bantry.

‘Yes, a very tawdry satin—poor quality.’

Mrs Bantry said:

‘I know. One of those nasty little shops where everything is a guinea.’ She went on hopefully:

‘Let me see, what happened to Mrs Chetty’s Edie?’

‘She’s just gone into her second place—and doing very well, I believe.’

Mrs Bantry felt slightly disappointed. The village parallel didn’t seem to be exactly hopeful.

‘What I can’t make out,’ said Mrs Bantry, ‘is what she could possibly be doing in Arthur’s study. The window was forced, Palk tells me. She might have come down here with a burglar and then they quarrelled—but that seems such nonsense, doesn’t it?’

‘She was hardly dressed for burglary,’ said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

‘No, she was dressed for dancing—or a party of some kind. But there’s nothing of that kind down here—or anywhere near.’

‘N-n-o,’ said Miss Marple doubtfully.

Mrs Bantry pounced.

‘Something’s in your mind, Jane.’

‘Well, I was just wondering—’

‘Yes?’

‘Basil Blake.’

Mrs Bantry cried impulsively: ‘Oh, no!’ and added as though in explanation, ‘I know his mother.’

The two women looked at each other.

Miss Marple sighed and shook her head.

‘I quite understand how you feel about it.’

‘Selina Blake is the nicest woman imaginable. Her herbaceous borders are simply marvellous—they make me green with envy. And she’s frightfully generous with cuttings.’

Miss Marple, passing over these claims to consideration on the part of Mrs Blake, said:

‘All the same, you know, there has been a lot of talk.’

‘Oh, I know—I know. And of course Arthur goes simply livid when he hears Basil Blake mentioned. He was really very rude to Arthur, and since then Arthur won’t hear a good word for him. He’s got that silly slighting way of talking that these boys have nowadays—sneering at people sticking up for their school or the Empire or that sort of thing. And then, of course, the clothes he wears!

‘People say,’ continued Mrs Bantry, ‘that it doesn’t matter what you wear in the country. I never heard such nonsense. It’s just in the country that everyone notices.’ She paused, and added wistfully: ‘He was an adorable baby in his bath.’

‘There was a lovely picture of the Cheviot murderer as a baby in the paper last Sunday,’ said Miss Marple.

‘Oh, but Jane, you don’t think he—’

‘No, no, dear. I didn’t mean that at all. That would indeed be jumping to conclusions. I was just trying to account for the young woman’s presence down here. St Mary Mead is such an unlikely place. And then it seemed to me that the only possible explanation was Basil Blake. He does have parties. People came down from London and from the studios—you remember last July? Shouting and singing—the most terrible noise—everyone very drunk, I’m afraid—and the mess and the broken glass next morning simply unbelievable—so old Mrs Berry told me—and a young woman asleep in the bath with practically nothing on!’

Mrs Bantry said indulgently:

‘I suppose they were film people.’

‘Very likely. And then—what I expect you’ve heard—several weekends lately he’s brought down a young woman with him—a platinum blonde.’

Mrs Bantry exclaimed:

‘You don’t think it’s this one?’

‘Well—I wondered. Of course, I’ve never seen her close to—only just getting in and out of the car—and once in the cottage garden when she was sunbathing with just some shorts and a brassière. I never really saw her face. And all these girls with their make-up and their hair and their nails look so alike.’

‘Yes. Still, it might be. It’s an idea, Jane.’




CHAPTER 2 (#u2cce7421-31e6-5e80-8586-e223aa9ca429)


It was an idea that was being at that moment discussed by Colonel Melchett and Colonel Bantry.

The Chief Constable, after viewing the body and seeing his subordinates set to work on their routine tasks, had adjourned with the master of the house to the study in the other wing of the house.

Colonel Melchett was an irascible-looking man with a habit of tugging at his short red moustache. He did so now, shooting a perplexed sideways glance at the other man. Finally, he rapped out:

‘Look here, Bantry, got to get this off my chest. Is it a fact that you don’t know from Adam who this girl is?’

The other’s answer was explosive, but the Chief Constable interrupted him.

‘Yes, yes, old man, but look at it like this. Might be deuced awkward for you. Married man—fond of your missus and all that. But just between ourselves—if you were tied up with this girl in any way, better say so now. Quite natural to want to suppress the fact—should feel the same myself. But it won’t do. Murder case. Facts bound to come out. Dash it all, I’m not suggesting you strangled the girl—not the sort of thing you’d do—I know that. But, after all, she came here—to this house. Put it she broke in and was waiting to see you, and some bloke or other followed her down and did her in. Possible, you know. See what I mean?’

‘Damn it all, Melchett, I tell you I’ve never set eyes on that girl in my life! I’m not that sort of man.’

‘That’s all right, then. Shouldn’t blame you, you know. Man of the world. Still, if you say so—Question is, what was she doing down here? She doesn’t come from these parts—that’s quite certain.’

‘The whole thing’s a nightmare,’ fumed the angry master of the house.

‘The point is, old man, what was she doing in your library?’

‘How should I know? I didn’t ask her here.’

‘No, no. But she came here, all the same. Looks as though she wanted to see you. You haven’t had any odd letters or anything?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

Colonel Melchett inquired delicately:

‘What were you doing yourself last night?’

‘I went to the meeting of the Conservative Association. Nine o’clock, at Much Benham.’

‘And you got home when?’

‘I left Much Benham just after ten—had a bit of trouble on the way home, had to change a wheel. I got back at a quarter to twelve.’

‘You didn’t go into the library?’

‘No.’

‘Pity.’

‘I was tired. I went straight up to bed.’

‘Anyone waiting up for you?’

‘No. I always take the latchkey. Lorrimer goes to bed at eleven unless I give orders to the contrary.’

‘Who shuts up the library?’

‘Lorrimer. Usually about seven-thirty this time of year.’

‘Would he go in there again during the evening?’

‘Not with my being out. He left the tray with whisky and glasses in the hall.’

‘I see. What about your wife?’

‘I don’t know. She was in bed when I got home and fast asleep. She may have sat in the library yesterday evening or in the drawing-room. I forgot to ask her.’

‘Oh well, we shall soon know all the details. Of course, it’s possible one of the servants may be concerned, eh?’

Colonel Bantry shook his head.

‘I don’t believe it. They’re all a most respectable lot. We’ve had ’em for years.’

Melchett agreed.

‘Yes, it doesn’t seem likely that they’re mixed up in it. Looks more as though the girl came down from town—perhaps with some young fellow. Though why they wanted to break into this house—’

Bantry interrupted.

‘London. That’s more like it. We don’t have goings on down here—at least—’

‘Well, what is it?’

‘Upon my word!’ exploded Colonel Bantry. ‘Basil Blake!’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Young fellow connected with the film industry. Poisonous young brute. My wife sticks up for him because she was at school with his mother, but of all the decadent useless young jackanapes! Wants his behind kicked! He’s taken that cottage on the Lansham Road—you know—ghastly modern bit of building. He has parties there, shrieking, noisy crowds, and he has girls down for the weekend.’

‘Girls?’

‘Yes, there was one last week—one of these platinum blondes—’

The Colonel’s jaw dropped.

‘A platinum blonde, eh?’ said Melchett reflectively.

‘Yes. I say, Melchett, you don’t think—’

The Chief Constable said briskly:

‘It’s a possibility. It accounts for a girl of this type being in St Mary Mead. I think I’ll run along and have a word with this young fellow—Braid—Blake—what did you say his name was?’

‘Blake. Basil Blake.’

‘Will he be at home, do you know?’

‘Let me see. What’s today—Saturday? Usually gets here sometime Saturday morning.’

Melchett said grimly:

‘We’ll see if we can find him.’

Basil Blake’s cottage, which consisted of all modern conveniences enclosed in a hideous shell of half timbering and sham Tudor, was known to the postal authorities, and to William Booker, builder, as ‘Chatsworth’; to Basil and his friends as ‘The Period Piece’, and to the village of St Mary Mead at large as ‘Mr Booker’s new house’.

It was little more than a quarter of a mile from the village proper, being situated on a new building estate that had been bought by the enterprising Mr Booker just beyond the Blue Boar, with frontage on what had been a particularly unspoilt country lane. Gossington Hall was about a mile farther on along the same road.

Lively interest had been aroused in St Mary Mead when news went round that ‘Mr Booker’s new house’ had been bought by a film star. Eager watch was kept for the first appearance of the legendary creature in the village, and it may be said that as far as appearances went Basil Blake was all that could be asked for. Little by little, however, the real facts leaked out. Basil Blake was not a film star—not even a film actor. He was a very junior person, rejoicing in the title of about fifteenth in the list of those responsible for Set Decorations at Lemville Studios, headquarters of British New Era Films. The village maidens lost interest, and the ruling class of censorious spinsters took exception to Basil Blake’s way of life. Only the landlord of the Blue Boar continued to be enthusiastic about Basil and Basil’s friends. The revenues of the Blue Boar had increased since the young man’s arrival in the place.

The police car stopped outside the distorted rustic gate of Mr Booker’s fancy, and Colonel Melchett, with a glance of distaste at the excessive half timbering of Chatsworth, strode up to the front door and attacked it briskly with the knocker.

It was opened much more promptly than he had expected. A young man with straight, somewhat long, black hair, wearing orange corduroy trousers and a royal-blue shirt, snapped out: ‘Well, what do you want?’

‘Are you Mr Basil Blake?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘I should be glad to have a few words with you, if I may, Mr Blake?’

‘Who are you?’

‘I am Colonel Melchett, the Chief Constable of the County.’

Mr Blake said insolently:

‘You don’t say so; how amusing!’

And Colonel Melchett, following the other in, understood what Colonel Bantry’s reactions had been. The toe of his own boot itched.

Containing himself, however, he said with an attempt to speak pleasantly:

‘You’re an early riser, Mr Blake.’

‘Not at all. I haven’t been to bed yet.’

‘Indeed.’

‘But I don’t suppose you’ve come here to inquire into my hours of bedgoing—or if you have it’s rather a waste of the county’s time and money. What is it you want to speak to me about?’

Colonel Melchett cleared his throat.

‘I understand, Mr Blake, that last week-end you had a visitor—a—er—fair-haired young lady.’

Basil Blake stared, threw back his head and roared with laughter.

‘Have the old cats been on to you from the village? About my morals? Damn it all, morals aren’t a police matter. You know that.’

‘As you say,’ said Melchett dryly, ‘your morals are no concern of mine. I have come to you because the body of a fair-haired young woman of slightly—er—exotic appearance has been found—murdered.’

‘Strewth!’ Blake stared at him. ‘Where?’

‘In the library at Gossington Hall.’

‘At Gossington? At old Bantry’s? I say, that’s pretty rich. Old Bantry! The dirty old man!’

Colonel Melchett went very red in the face. He said sharply through the renewed mirth of the young man opposite him: ‘Kindly control your tongue, sir. I came to ask you if you can throw any light on this business.’

‘You’ve come round to ask me if I’ve missed a blonde? Is that it? Why should—hallo, ’allo, ’allo, what’s this?’

A car had drawn up outside with a scream of brakes. Out of it tumbled a young woman dressed in flapping black-and-white pyjamas. She had scarlet lips, blackened eyelashes, and a platinum-blonde head. She strode up to the door, flung it open, and exclaimed angrily:

‘Why did you run out on me, you brute?’

Basil Blake had risen.

‘So there you are! Why shouldn’t I leave you? I told you to clear out and you wouldn’t.’

‘Why the hell should I because you told me to? I was enjoying myself.’

‘Yes—with that filthy brute Rosenberg. You know what he’s like.’

‘You were jealous, that’s all.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I hate to see a girl I like who can’t hold her drink and lets a disgusting Central European paw her about.’

‘That’s a damned lie. You were drinking pretty hard yourself—and going on with the black-haired Spanish bitch.’

‘If I take you to a party I expect you to be able to behave yourself.’

‘And I refuse to be dictated to, and that’s that. You said we’d go to the party and come on down here afterwards. I’m not going to leave a party before I’m ready to leave it.’

‘No—and that’s why I left you flat. I was ready to come down here and I came. I don’t hang round waiting for any fool of a woman.’

‘Sweet, polite person you are!’

‘You seem to have followed me down all right!’

‘I wanted to tell you what I thought of you!’

‘If you think you can boss me, my girl, you’re wrong!’

‘And if you think you can order me about, you can think again!’

They glared at each other.

It was at this moment that Colonel Melchett seized his opportunity, and cleared his throat loudly.

Basil Blake swung round on him.

‘Hallo, I forgot you were here. About time you took yourself off, isn’t it? Let me introduce you—Dinah Lee—Colonel Blimp of the County Police. And now, Colonel, that you’ve seen my blonde is alive and in good condition, perhaps you’ll get on with the good work concerning old Bantry’s little bit of fluff. Good-morning!’

Colonel Melchett said:

‘I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head, young man, or you’ll let yourself in for trouble,’ and stumped out, his face red and wrathful.




CHAPTER 3 (#u2cce7421-31e6-5e80-8586-e223aa9ca429)


In his office at Much Benham, Colonel Melchett received and scrutinized the reports of his subordinates:

‘… so it all seems clear enough, sir,’ Inspector Slack was concluding: ‘Mrs Bantry sat in the library after dinner and went to bed just before ten. She turned out the lights when she left the room and, presumably, no one entered the room afterwards. The servants went to bed at half-past ten and Lorrimer, after putting the drinks in the hall, went to bed at a quarter to eleven. Nobody heard anything out of the usual except the third housemaid, and she heard too much! Groans and a blood-curdling yell and sinister footsteps and I don’t know what. The second housemaid who shares a room with her says the other girl slept all night through without a sound. It’s those ones that make up things that cause us all the trouble.’

‘What about the forced window?’

‘Amateur job, Simmons says; done with a common chisel—ordinary pattern—wouldn’t have made much noise. Ought to be a chisel about the house but nobody can find it. Still, that’s common enough where tools are concerned.’

‘Think any of the servants know anything?’

Rather unwillingly Inspector Slack replied:

‘No, sir, I don’t think they do. They all seemed very shocked and upset. I had my suspicions of Lorrimer—reticent, he was, if you know what I mean—but I don’t think there’s anything in it.’

Melchett nodded. He attached no importance to Lorrimer’s reticence. The energetic Inspector Slack often produced that effect on people he interrogated.

The door opened and Dr Haydock came in.

‘Thought I’d look in and give you the rough gist of things.’

‘Yes, yes, glad to see you. Well?’

‘Nothing much. Just what you’d think. Death was due to strangulation. Satin waistband of her own dress, which was passed round the neck and crossed at the back. Quite easy and simple to do. Wouldn’t have needed great strength—that is, if the girl were taken by surprise. There are no signs of a struggle.’

‘What about time of death?’

‘Say, between ten o’clock and midnight.’

‘You can’t get nearer than that?’

Haydock shook his head with a slight grin.

‘I won’t risk my professional reputation. Not earlier than ten and not later than midnight.’

‘And your own fancy inclines to which time?’

‘Depends. There was a fire in the grate—the room was warm—all that would delay rigor and cadaveric stiffening.’

‘Anything more you can say about her?’

‘Nothing much. She was young—about seventeen or eighteen, I should say. Rather immature in some ways but well developed muscularly. Quite a healthy specimen. She was virgo intacta, by the way.’

And with a nod of his head the doctor left the room.

Melchett said to the Inspector:

‘You’re quite sure she’d never been seen before at Gossington?’

‘The servants are positive of that. Quite indignant about it. They’d have remembered if they’d ever seen her about in the neighbourhood, they say.’

‘I expect they would,’ said Melchett. ‘Anyone of that type sticks out a mile round here. Look at that young woman of Blake’s.’

‘Pity it wasn’t her,’ said Slack; ‘then we should be able to get on a bit.’

‘It seems to me this girl must have come down from London,’ said the Chief Constable thoughtfully. ‘Don’t believe there will be any local leads. In that case, I suppose, we should do well to call in the Yard. It’s a case for them, not for us.’

‘Something must have brought her down here, though,’ said Slack. He added tentatively: ‘Seems to me, Colonel and Mrs Bantry must know something—of course, I know they’re friends of yours, sir—’

Colonel Melchett treated him to a cold stare. He said stiffly:

‘You may rest assured that I’m taking every possibility into account. Every possibility.’ He went on: ‘You’ve looked through the list of persons reported missing, I suppose?’

Slack nodded. He produced a typed sheet.

‘Got ’em here. Mrs Saunders, reported missing a week ago, dark-haired, blue-eyed, thirty-six. ’Tisn’t her—and, anyway, everyone knows except her husband that she’s gone off with a fellow from Leeds—commercial. Mrs Barnard—she’s sixty-five. Pamela Reeves, sixteen, missing from her home last night, had attended Girl Guide rally, dark-brown hair in pigtail, five feet five—’

Melchett said irritably:

‘Don’t go on reading idiotic details, Slack. This wasn’t a schoolgirl. In my opinion—’

He broke off as the telephone rang. ‘Hallo—yes—yes, Much Benham Police Headquarters—what? Just a minute—’

He listened, and wrote rapidly. Then he spoke again, a new tone in his voice:

‘Ruby Keene, eighteen, occupation professional dancer, five feet four inches, slender, platinum-blonde hair, blue eyes, retroussé nose, believed to be wearing white diamanté evening-dress, silver sandal shoes. Is that right? What? Yes, not a doubt of it, I should say. I’ll send Slack over at once.’

He rang off and looked at his subordinate with rising excitement. ‘We’ve got it, I think. That was the Glenshire Police.’ (Glenshire was the adjoining county). ‘Girl reported missing from the Majestic Hotel, Danemouth.’

‘Danemouth,’ said Inspector Slack. ‘That’s more like it.’

Danemouth was a large and fashionable watering-place on the coast not far away.

‘It’s only a matter of eighteen miles or so from here,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘The girl was a dance hostess or something at the Majestic. Didn’t come on to do her turn last night and the management were very fed up about it. When she was still missing this morning one of the other girls got the wind up about her, or someone else did. It sounds a bit obscure. You’d better go over to Danemouth at once, Slack. Report there to Superintendent Harper, and co-operate with him.’

Activity was always to Inspector Slack’s taste. To rush off in a car, to silence rudely those people who were anxious to tell him things, to cut short conversations on the plea of urgent necessity. All this was the breath of life to Slack.

In an incredibly short time, therefore, he had arrived at Danemouth, reported at police headquarters, had a brief interview with a distracted and apprehensive hotel manager, and, leaving the latter with the doubtful comfort of—‘got to make sure it is the girl, first, before we start raising the wind’—was driving back to Much Benham in company with Ruby Keene’s nearest relative.

He had put through a short call to Much Benham before leaving Danemouth, so the Chief Constable was prepared for his arrival, though not perhaps for the brief introduction of: ‘This is Josie, sir.’

Colonel Melchett stared at his subordinate coldly. His feeling was that Slack had taken leave of his senses.

The young woman who had just got out of the car came to the rescue.

‘That’s what I’m known as professionally,’ she explained with a momentary flash of large, handsome white teeth. ‘Raymond and Josie, my partner and I call ourselves, and, of course, all the hotel know me as Josie. Josephine Turner’s my real name.’

Colonel Melchett adjusted himself to the situation and invited Miss Turner to sit down, meanwhile casting a swift, professional glance over her.

She was a good-looking young woman of perhaps nearer thirty than twenty, her looks depending more on skilful grooming than actual features. She looked competent and good-tempered, with plenty of common sense. She was not the type that would ever be described as glamorous, but she had nevertheless plenty of attraction. She was discreetly made-up and wore a dark tailor-made suit. Though she looked anxious and upset she was not, the Colonel decided, particularly grief-stricken.

As she sat down she said: ‘It seems too awful to be true. Do you really think it’s Ruby?’

‘That, I’m afraid, is what we’ve got to ask you to tell us. I’m afraid it may be rather unpleasant for you.’

Miss Turner said apprehensively:

‘Does she—does she—look very terrible?’

‘Well—I’m afraid it may be rather a shock to you.’ He handed her his cigarette-case and she accepted one gratefully.

‘Do—do you want me to look at her right away?’

‘It would be best, I think, Miss Turner. You see, it’s not much good asking you questions until we’re sure. Best get it over, don’t you think?’

‘All right.’

They drove down to the mortuary.

When Josie came out after a brief visit, she looked rather sick.

‘It’s Ruby all right,’ she said shakily. ‘Poor kid! Goodness, I do feel queer. There isn’t’—she looked round wistfully—‘any gin?’

Gin was not available, but brandy was, and after gulping a little down Miss Turner regained her composure. She said frankly:

‘It gives you a turn, doesn’t it, seeing anything like that? Poor little Rube! What swine men are, aren’t they?’

‘You believe it was a man?’

Josie looked slightly taken aback.

‘Wasn’t it? Well, I mean—I naturally thought—’

‘Any special man you were thinking of?’

She shook her head vigorously.

‘No—not me. I haven’t the least idea. Naturally Ruby wouldn’t have let on to me if—’

‘If what?’

Josie hesitated.

‘Well—if she’d been—going about with anyone.’

Melchett shot her a keen glance. He said no more until they were back at his office. Then he began:

‘Now, Miss Turner, I want all the information you can give me.’

‘Yes, of course. Where shall I begin?’

‘I’d like the girl’s full name and address, her relationship to you and all you know about her.’

Josephine Turner nodded. Melchett was confirmed in his opinion that she felt no particular grief. She was shocked and distressed but no more. She spoke readily enough.

‘Her name was Ruby Keene—her professional name, that is. Her real name was Rosy Legge. Her mother was my mother’s cousin. I’ve known her all my life, but not particularly well, if you know what I mean. I’ve got a lot of cousins—some in business, some on the stage. Ruby was more or less training for a dancer. She had some good engagements last year in panto and that sort of thing. Not really classy, but good provincial companies. Since then she’s been engaged as one of the dancing partners at the Palais de Danse in Brixwell—South London. It’s a nice respectable place and they look after the girls well, but there isn’t much money in it.’ She paused.

Colonel Melchett nodded.

‘Now this is where I come in. I’ve been dance and bridge hostess at the Majestic in Danemouth for three years. It’s a good job, well paid and pleasant to do. You look after people when they arrive—size them up, of course—some like to be left alone and others are lonely and want to get into the swing of things. You try to get the right people together for bridge and all that, and get the young people dancing with each other. It needs a bit of tact and experience.’

Again Melchett nodded. He thought that this girl would be good at her job; she had a pleasant, friendly way with her and was, he thought, shrewd without being in the least intellectual.

‘Besides that,’ continued Josie, ‘I do a couple of exhibition dances every evening with Raymond. Raymond Starr—he’s the tennis and dancing pro. Well, as it happens, this summer I slipped on the rocks bathing one day and gave my ankle a nasty turn.’

Melchett had noticed that she walked with a slight limp.

‘Naturally that put the stop to dancing for a bit and it was rather awkward. I didn’t want the hotel to get someone else in my place. That’s always a danger’—for a minute her good-natured blue eyes were hard and sharp; she was the female fighting for existence—‘that they may queer your pitch, you see. So I thought of Ruby and suggested to the manager that I should get her down. I’d carry on with the hostess business and the bridge and all that. Ruby would just take on the dancing. Keep it in the family, if you see what I mean?’

Melchett said he saw.

‘Well, they agreed, and I wired to Ruby and she came down. Rather a chance for her. Much better class than anything she’d ever done before. That was about a month ago.’

Colonel Melchett said:

‘I understand. And she was a success?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Josie said carelessly, ‘she went down quite well. She doesn’t dance as well as I do, but Raymond’s clever and carried her through, and she was quite nice-looking, you know—slim and fair and baby-looking. Overdid the make-up a bit—I was always on at her about that. But you know what girls are. She was only eighteen, and at that age they always go and overdo it. It doesn’t do for a good-class place like the Majestic. I was always ticking her off about it and getting her to tone it down.’

Melchett asked: ‘People liked her?’

‘Oh, yes. Mind you, Ruby hadn’t got much come-back. She was a bit dumb. She went down better with the older men than with the young ones.’

‘Had she got any special friend?’

The girl’s eyes met his with complete understanding.

‘Not in the way you mean. Or, at any rate, not that I knew about. But then, you see, she wouldn’t tell me.’

Just for a moment Melchett wondered why not—Josie did not give the impression of being a strict disciplinarian. But he only said: ‘Will you describe to me now when you last saw your cousin.’

‘Last night. She and Raymond do two exhibition dances—one at 10.30 and the other at midnight. They finished the first one. After it, I noticed Ruby dancing with one of the young men staying in the hotel. I was playing bridge with some people in the lounge. There’s a glass panel between the lounge and the ballroom. That’s the last time I saw her. Just after midnight Raymond came up in a terrible taking, said where was Ruby, she hadn’t turned up, and it was time to begin. I was vexed, I can tell you! That’s the sort of silly thing girls do and get the management’s backs up and then they get the sack! I went up with him to her room, but she wasn’t there. I noticed that she’d changed. The dress she’d been dancing in—a sort of pink, foamy thing with full skirts—was lying over a chair. Usually she kept the same dress on unless it was the special dance night—Wednesdays, that is.

‘I’d no idea where she’d got to. We got the band to play one more foxtrot—still no Ruby, so I said to Raymond I’d do the exhibition dance with him. We chose one that was easy on my ankle and made it short—but it played up my ankle pretty badly all the same. It’s all swollen this morning. Still Ruby didn’t show up. We sat about waiting up for her until two o’clock. Furious with her, I was.’

Her voice vibrated slightly. Melchett caught the note of real anger in it. Just for a moment he wondered. The reaction seemed a little more intense than was justified by the facts. He had a feeling of something deliberately left unsaid. He said:

‘And this morning, when Ruby Keene had not returned and her bed had not been slept in, you went to the police?’

He knew from Slack’s brief telephone message from Danemouth that that was not the case. But he wanted to hear what Josephine Turner would say.

She did not hesitate. She said: ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Why not, Miss Turner?’

Her eyes met his frankly. She said:

‘You wouldn’t—in my place!’

‘You think not?’

Josie said:

‘I’ve got my job to think about. The one thing a hotel doesn’t want is scandal—especially anything that brings in the police. I didn’t think anything had happened to Ruby. Not for a minute! I thought she’d just made a fool of herself about some young man. I thought she’d turn up all right—and I was going to give her a good dressing down when she did! Girls of eighteen are such fools.’

Melchett pretended to glance through his notes.

‘Ah, yes, I see it was a Mr Jefferson who went to the police. One of the guests staying at the hotel?’

Josephine Turner said shortly:

‘Yes.’

Colonel Melchett asked:

‘What made this Mr Jefferson do that?’

Josie was stroking the cuff of her jacket. There was a constraint in her manner. Again Colonel Melchett had a feeling that something was being withheld. She said rather sullenly:

‘He’s an invalid. He—he gets all het up rather easily. Being an invalid, I mean.’

Melchett passed on from that. He asked:

‘Who was the young man with whom you last saw your cousin dancing?’

‘His name’s Bartlett. He’d been there about ten days.’

‘Were they on very friendly terms?’

‘Not specially, I should say. Not that I knew, anyway.’

Again a curious note of anger in her voice.

‘What does he have to say?’

‘Said that after their dance Ruby went upstairs to powder her nose.’

‘That was when she changed her dress?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And that is the last thing you know? After that she just—’

‘Vanished,’ said Josie. ‘That’s right.’

‘Did Miss Keene know anybody in St Mary Mead? Or in this neighbourhood?’

‘I don’t know. She may have done. You see, quite a lot of young men come into Danemouth to the Majestic from all round about. I wouldn’t know where they lived unless they happened to mention it.’

‘Did you ever hear your cousin mention Gossington?’

‘Gossington?’ Josie looked patently puzzled.

‘Gossington Hall.’

She shook her head.

‘Never heard of it.’ Her tone carried conviction. There was curiosity in it too.

‘Gossington Hall,’ explained Colonel Melchett, ‘is where her body was found.’

‘Gossington Hall?’ She stared. ‘How extraordinary!’

Melchett thought to himself: ‘Extraordinary’s the word!’ Aloud he said:

‘Do you know a Colonel or Mrs Bantry?’

Again Josie shook her head.

‘Or a Mr Basil Blake?’

She frowned slightly.

‘I think I’ve heard that name. Yes, I’m sure I have—but I don’t remember anything about him.’

The diligent Inspector Slack slid across to his superior officer a page torn from his note-book. On it was pencilled:

‘Col. Bantry dined at Majestic last week.’

Melchett looked up and met the Inspector’s eye. The Chief Constable flushed. Slack was an industrious and zealous officer and Melchett disliked him a good deal. But he could not disregard the challenge. The Inspector was tacitly accusing him of favouring his own class—of shielding an ‘old school tie.’

He turned to Josie.

‘Miss Turner, I should like you, if you do not mind, to accompany me to Gossington Hall.’

Coldly, defiantly, almost ignoring Josie’s murmur of assent, Melchett’s eyes met Slack’s.




CHAPTER 4 (#u2cce7421-31e6-5e80-8586-e223aa9ca429)


St Mary Mead was having the most exciting morning it had known for a long time.

Miss Wetherby, a long-nosed, acidulated spinster, was the first to spread the intoxicating information. She dropped in upon her friend and neighbour Miss Hartnell.

‘Forgive me coming so early, dear, but I thought, perhaps, you mightn’t have heard the news.’

‘What news?’ demanded Miss Hartnell. She had a deep bass voice and visited the poor indefatigably, however hard they tried to avoid her ministrations.

‘About the body in Colonel Bantry’s library—a woman’s body—’

‘In Colonel Bantry’s library?’

‘Yes. Isn’t it terrible?’

‘His poor wife.’ Miss Hartnell tried to disguise her deep and ardent pleasure.

‘Yes, indeed. I don’t suppose she had any idea.’

Miss Hartnell observed censoriously:

‘She thought too much about her garden and not enough about her husband. You’ve got to keep an eye on a man—all the time—all the time,’ repeated Miss Hartnell fiercely.

‘I know. I know. It’s really too dreadful.’

‘I wonder what Jane Marple will say. Do you think she knew anything about it? She’s so sharp about these things.’

‘Jane Marple has gone up to Gossington.’

‘What? This morning?’

‘Very early. Before breakfast.’

‘But really! I do think! Well, I mean, I think that is carrying things too far. We all know Jane likes to poke her nose into things—but I call this indecent!’

‘Oh, but Mrs Bantry sent for her.’

‘Mrs Bantry sent for her?’

‘Well, the car came—with Muswell driving it.’

‘Dear me! How very peculiar …’

They were silent a minute or two digesting the news.

‘Whose body?’ demanded Miss Hartnell.

‘You know that dreadful woman who comes down with Basil Blake?’

‘That terrible peroxide blonde?’ Miss Hartnell was slightly behind the times. She had not yet advanced from peroxide to platinum. ‘The one who lies about in the garden with practically nothing on?’

‘Yes, my dear. There she was—on the hearthrug—strangled!’

‘But what do you mean—at Gossington?’

Miss Wetherby nodded with infinite meaning.

‘Then—Colonel Bantry too—?’

Again Miss Wetherby nodded.

‘Oh!’

There was a pause as the ladies savoured this new addition to village scandal.

‘What a wicked woman!’ trumpeted Miss Hartnell with righteous wrath.

‘Quite, quite abandoned, I’m afraid!’

‘And Colonel Bantry—such a nice quiet man—’

Miss Wetherby said zestfully:

‘Those quiet ones are often the worst. Jane Marple always says so.’

Mrs Price Ridley was among the last to hear the news.

A rich and dictatorial widow, she lived in a large house next door to the vicarage. Her informant was her little maid Clara.

‘A woman, you say, Clara? Found dead on Colonel Bantry’s hearthrug?’

‘Yes, mum. And they say, mum, as she hadn’t anything on at all, mum, not a stitch!’

‘That will do, Clara. It is not necessary to go into details.’

‘No, mum, and they say, mum, that at first they thought it was Mr Blake’s young lady—what comes down for the weekends with ’im to Mr Booker’s new ’ouse. But now they say it’s quite a different young lady. And the fishmonger’s young man, he says he’d never have believed it of Colonel Bantry—not with him handing round the plate on Sundays and all.’

‘There is a lot of wickedness in the world, Clara,’ said Mrs Price Ridley. ‘Let this be a warning to you.’

‘Yes, mum. Mother, she never will let me take a place where there’s a gentleman in the ’ouse.’

‘That will do, Clara,’ said Mrs Price Ridley.

It was only a step from Mrs Price Ridley’s house to the vicarage.

Mrs Price Ridley was fortunate enough to find the vicar in his study.

The vicar, a gentle, middle-aged man, was always the last to hear anything.

‘Such a terrible thing,’ said Mrs Price Ridley, panting a little, because she had come rather fast. ‘I felt I must have your advice, your counsel about it, dear vicar.’

Mr Clement looked mildly alarmed. He said:

‘Has anything happened?’

‘Has anything happened?’ Mrs Price Ridley repeated the question dramatically. ‘The most terrible scandal! None of us had any idea of it. An abandoned woman, completely unclothed, strangled on Colonel Bantry’s hearthrug.’

The vicar stared. He said:

‘You—you are feeling quite well?’

‘No wonder you can’t believe it! I couldn’t at first. The hypocrisy of the man! All these years!’

‘Please tell me exactly what all this is about.’

Mrs Price Ridley plunged into a full-swing narrative. When she had finished Mr Clement said mildly:

‘But there is nothing, is there, to point to Colonel Bantry’s being involved in this?’

‘Oh, dear vicar, you are so unworldly! But I must tell you a little story. Last Thursday—or was it the Thursday before? well, it doesn’t matter—I was going up to London by the cheap day train. Colonel Bantry was in the same carriage. He looked, I thought, very abstracted. And nearly the whole way he buried himself behind The Times. As though, you know, he didn’t want to talk.’

The vicar nodded with complete comprehension and possible sympathy.

‘At Paddington I said good-bye. He had offered to get me a taxi, but I was taking the bus down to Oxford Street—but he got into one, and I distinctly heard him tell the driver to go to—where do you think?’

Mr Clement looked inquiring.

‘An address in St John’s Wood!’

Mrs Price Ridley paused triumphantly.

The vicar remained completely unenlightened.

‘That, I consider, proves it,’ said Mrs Price Ridley.

At Gossington, Mrs Bantry and Miss Marple were sitting in the drawing-room.

‘You know,’ said Mrs Bantry, ‘I can’t help feeling glad they’ve taken the body away. It’s not nice to have a body in one’s house.’

Miss Marple nodded.

‘I know, dear. I know just how you feel.’

‘You can’t,’ said Mrs Bantry; ‘not until you’ve had one. I know you had one next door once, but that’s not the same thing. I only hope,’ she went on, ‘that Arthur won’t take a dislike to the library. We sit there so much. What are you doing, Jane?’

For Miss Marple, with a glance at her watch, was rising to her feet.

‘Well, I was thinking I’d go home. If there’s nothing more I can do for you?’

‘Don’t go yet,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘The finger-print men and the photographers and most of the police have gone, I know, but I still feel something might happen. You don’t want to miss anything.’

The telephone rang and she went off to answer. She returned with a beaming face.

‘I told you more things would happen. That was Colonel Melchett. He’s bringing the poor girl’s cousin along.’

‘I wonder why,’ said Miss Marple.

‘Oh, I suppose, to see where it happened and all that.’

‘More than that, I expect,’ said Miss Marple.

‘What do you mean, Jane?’

‘Well, I think—perhaps—he might want her to meet Colonel Bantry.’

Mrs Bantry said sharply:

‘To see if she recognizes him? I suppose—oh, yes, I suppose they’re bound to suspect Arthur.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘As though Arthur could have anything to do with it!’

Miss Marple was silent. Mrs Bantry turned on her accusingly.

‘And don’t quote old General Henderson—or some frightful old man who kept his housemaid—at me. Arthur isn’t like that.’

‘No, no, of course not.’

‘No, but he really isn’t. He’s just—sometimes—a little silly about pretty girls who come to tennis. You know—rather fatuous and avuncular. There’s no harm in it. And why shouldn’t he? After all,’ finished Mrs Bantry rather obscurely, ‘I’ve got the garden.’

Miss Marple smiled.

‘You must not worry, Dolly,’ she said.

‘No, I don’t mean to. But all the same I do a little. So does Arthur. It’s upset him. All these policemen prowling about. He’s gone down to the farm. Looking at pigs and things always soothes him if he’s been upset. Hallo, here they are.’

The Chief Constable’s car drew up outside.

Colonel Melchett came in accompanied by a smartly dressed young woman.

‘This is Miss Turner, Mrs Bantry. The cousin of the—er—victim.’

‘How do you do,’ said Mrs Bantry, advancing with outstretched hand. ‘All this must be rather awful for you.’

Josephine Turner said frankly: ‘Oh, it is. None of it seems real, somehow. It’s like a bad dream.’

Mrs Bantry introduced Miss Marple.

Melchett said casually: ‘Your good man about?’

‘He had to go down to one of the farms. He’ll be back soon.’

‘Oh—’ Melchett seemed rather at a loss.

Mrs Bantry said to Josie: ‘Would you like to see where—where it happened? Or would you rather not?’

Josephine said after a moment’s pause:

‘I think I’d like to see.’

Mrs Bantry led her to her library with Miss Marple and Melchett following behind.

‘She was there,’ said Mrs Bantry, pointing dramatically; ‘on the hearthrug.’

‘Oh!’ Josie shuddered. But she also looked perplexed. She said, her brow creased: ‘I just can’t understand it! I can’t!’

‘Well, we certainly can’t,’ said Mrs Bantry.

Josie said slowly:

‘It isn’t the sort of place—’ and broke off.

Miss Marple nodded her head gently in agreement with the unfinished sentiment.

‘That,’ she murmured, ‘is what makes it so very interesting.’

‘Come now, Miss Marple,’ said Colonel Melchett good-humouredly, ‘haven’t you got an explanation?’

‘Oh yes, I’ve got an explanation,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Quite a feasible one. But of course it’s only my own idea. Tommy Bond,’ she continued, ‘and Mrs Martin, our new schoolmistress. She went to wind up the clock and a frog jumped out.’

Josephine Turner looked puzzled. As they all went out of the room she murmured to Mrs Bantry: ‘Is the old lady a bit funny in the head?’

‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Bantry indignantly.

Josie said: ‘Sorry; I thought perhaps she thought she was a frog or something.’

Colonel Bantry was just coming in through the side door. Melchett hailed him, and watched Josephine Turner as he introduced them to each other. But there was no sign of interest or recognition in her face. Melchett breathed a sigh of relief. Curse Slack and his insinuations!

In answer to Mrs Bantry’s questions Josie was pouring out the story of Ruby Keene’s disappearance.

‘Frightfully worrying for you, my dear,’ said Mrs Bantry.

‘I was more angry than worried,’ said Josie. ‘You see, I didn’t know then that anything had happened to her.’

‘And yet,’ said Miss Marple, ‘you went to the police. Wasn’t that—excuse me—rather premature?’

Josie said eagerly:

‘Oh, but I didn’t. That was Mr Jefferson—’

Mrs Bantry said: ‘Jefferson?’

‘Yes, he’s an invalid.’

‘Not Conway Jefferson? But I know him well. He’s an old friend of ours. Arthur, listen—Conway Jefferson. He’s staying at the Majestic, and it was he who went to the police! Isn’t that a coincidence?’

Josephine Turner said:

‘Mr Jefferson was here last summer too.’

‘Fancy! And we never knew. I haven’t seen him for a long time.’ She turned to Josie. ‘How—how is he, nowadays?’

Josie considered.

‘I think he’s wonderful, really—quite wonderful. Considering, I mean. He’s always cheerful—always got a joke.’

‘Are the family there with him?’

‘Mr Gaskell, you mean? And young Mrs Jefferson? And Peter? Oh, yes.’

There was something inhibiting Josephine Turner’s usual attractive frankness of manner. When she spoke of the Jeffersons there was something not quite natural in her voice.

Mrs Bantry said: ‘They’re both very nice, aren’t they? The young ones, I mean.’

Josie said rather uncertainly:

‘Oh yes—yes, they are. I—we—yes, they are, really.’

‘And what,’ demanded Mrs Bantry as she looked through the window at the retreating car of the Chief Constable, ‘did she mean by that? “They are, really.” Don’t you think, Jane, that there’s something—’

Miss Marple fell upon the words eagerly.

‘Oh, I do—indeed I do. It’s quite unmistakable! Her manner changed at once when the Jeffersons were mentioned. She had seemed quite natural up to then.’

‘But what do you think it is, Jane?’

‘Well, my dear, you know them. All I feel is that there is something, as you say, about them which is worrying that young woman. Another thing, did you notice that when you asked her if she wasn’t anxious about the girl being missing, she said that she was angry! And she looked angry—really angry! That strikes me as interesting, you know. I have a feeling—perhaps I’m wrong—that that’s her main reaction to the fact of the girl’s death. She didn’t care for her, I’m sure. She’s not grieving in any way. But I do think, very definitely, that the thought of that girl, Ruby Keene, makes her angry. And the interesting point is—why?’

‘We’ll find out!’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘We’ll go over to Danemouth and stay at the Majestic—yes, Jane, you too. I need a change for my nerves after what has happened here. A few days at the Majestic—that’s what we need. And you’ll meet Conway Jefferson. He’s a dear—a perfect dear. It’s the saddest story imaginable. Had a son and daughter, both of whom he loved dearly. They were both married, but they still spent a lot of time at home. His wife, too, was the sweetest woman, and he was devoted to her. They were flying home one year from France and there was an accident. They were all killed: the pilot, Mrs Jefferson, Rosamund, and Frank. Conway had both legs so badly injured they had to be amputated. And he’s been wonderful—his courage, his pluck! He was a very active man and now he’s a helpless cripple, but he never complains. His daughter-in-law lives with him—she was a widow when Frank Jefferson married her and she had a son by her first marriage—Peter Carmody. They both live with Conway. And Mark Gaskell, Rosamund’s husband, is there too most of the time. The whole thing was the most awful tragedy.’





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