Miss Marple and Mystery (46 page)

‘I will say for Mabel that she always had a kindly heart.

‘Well, there the thing was. I thought it over in every aspect, and at last I decided that there was only one thing to be done. In view of the rumours that were going about, permission must be applied for to exhume the body, and a proper post-mortem must be made and lying tongues quietened once and for all. Mabel, of course, made a fuss, mostly on sentimental grounds – disturbing the dead man in his peaceful grave, etc., etc. – but I was firm.

‘I won’t make a long story of this part of it. We got the order and they did the autopsy, or whatever they call it, but the result was not so satisfactory as it might have been. There was no trace of arsenic – that was all to the good – but the actual words of the report were
that there was nothing to show by what means deceased had come to his death
.

‘So, you see, that didn’t lead us out of trouble altogether. People went on talking – about rare poisons impossible to detect, and rubbish of that sort. I had seen the pathologist who had done the post-mortem, and I had asked him several questions, though he tried his best to get out of answering most of them; but I got out of him that he considered it highly unlikely that the poisoned mushrooms were the cause of death. An idea was simmering in my mind, and I asked him what poison, if any, could have been employed to obtain that result. He made a long explanation to me, most of which, I must admit, I did not follow, but it amounted to this: That death might have been due to some strong vegetable alkaloid.

‘The idea I had was this: Supposing the taint of insanity was in Geoffrey Denman’s blood also, might he not have made away with himself? He had, at one period of his life, studied medicine, and he would have a good knowledge of poisons and their effects.

‘I didn’t think it sounded very likely, but it was the only thing I could think of. And I was nearly at my wits’ end, I can tell you. Now, I dare say you modern young people will laugh, but when I am in really bad trouble I always say a little prayer to myself – anywhere, when I am walking along the street, or at a bazaar. And I always get an answer. It may be some trifling thing, apparently quite unconnected with the subject, but there it is. I had that text pinned over my bed when I was a little girl:
Ask and you shall receive
. On the morning that I am telling you about, I was walking along the High Street, and I was praying hard. I shut my eyes, and when I opened them, what do you think was the first thing that I saw?’

Five faces with varying degrees of interest were turned to Miss Marple. It may be safely assumed, however, that no one would have guessed the answer to the question right.

‘I saw,’ said Miss Marple impressively, ‘
the window of the fishmonger’s shop
. There was only one thing in it,
a fresh haddock
.’

She looked round triumphantly.

‘Oh, my God!’ said Raymond West. ‘An answer to prayer – a fresh haddock!’

‘Yes, Raymond,’ said Miss Marple severely, ‘and there is no need to be profane about it. The hand of God is everywhere. The first thing I saw were the black spots – the marks of St Peter’s thumb. That is the legend, you know. St Peter’s thumb. And that brought things home to me. I needed faith, the ever true faith of St Peter. I connected the two things together, faith – and fish.’

Sir Henry blew his nose rather hurriedly. Joyce bit her lip.

‘Now what did that bring to my mind? Of course, both the cook and house-parlourmaid mentioned fish as being one of the things spoken of by the dying man. I was convinced, absolutely convinced, that there was some solution of the mystery to be found in these words. I went home determined to get to the bottom of the matter.’

She paused.

‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ the old lady went on, ‘how much we go by what is called, I believe, the context? There is a place on Dartmoor called Grey Wethers. If you were talking to a farmer there and mentioned Grey Wethers, he would probably conclude that you were speaking of these stone circles, yet it is possible that you might be speaking of the atmosphere; and in the same way, if you were meaning the stone circles, an outsider, hearing a fragment of the conversation, might think you meant the weather. So when we repeat a conversation, we don’t, as a rule, repeat the actual words; we put in some other words that seem to us to mean exactly the same thing.

‘I saw both the cook and Dorothy separately. I asked the cook if she was quite sure that her master had really mentioned a heap of fish. She said she was quite sure.

‘“Were these his exact words,” I asked, “or did he mention some particular kind of fish?”

‘“That’s it,” said the cook; “it was some particular kind of fish, but I can’t remember what now. A heap of – now what was it? Not any of the fish you send to table. Would it be a perch now – or pike? No. It didn’t begin with a P.”

‘Dorothy also recalled that her master had mentioned some special kind of fish. “Some outlandish kind of fish it was,” she said.

‘“A pile of – now what was it?”

‘“Did he say heap or pile?” I asked.

‘“I think he said pile. But there, I really can’t be sure – it’s so hard to remember the actual words, isn’t it, Miss, especially when they don’t seem to make sense. But now I come to think of it, I am pretty sure that it was a pile, and the fish began with C; but it wasn’t a cod or a crayfish.”

‘The next part is where I am really proud of myself,’ said Miss Marple, ‘because, of course, I don’t know anything about drugs – nasty, dangerous things I call them. I have got an old recipe of my grandmother’s for tansy tea that is worth any amount of your drugs. But I knew that there were several medical volumes in the house, and in one of them there was an index of drugs. You see, my idea was that Geoffrey had taken some particular poison, and was trying to say the name of it.

‘Well, I looked down the list of H’s, beginning He. Nothing there that sounded likely; then I began on the P’s, and almost at once I came to – what do you think?’

She looked round, postponing her moment of triumph.

‘Pilocarpine. Can’t you understand a man who could hardly speak trying to drag that word out? What would that sound like to a cook who had never heard the word? Wouldn’t it convey the impression “pile of carp”?’

‘By Jove!’ said Sir Henry.

‘I should never have hit upon that,’ said Dr Pender. ‘Most interesting,’ said Mr Petherick. ‘Really most interesting.’

‘I turned quickly to the page indicated in the index. I read about pilocarpine and its effect on the eyes and other things that didn’t seem to have any bearing on the case, but at last I came to a most significant phrase:
Has been tried with success as an antidote for atropine poisoning
.

‘I can’t tell you the light that dawned upon me then. I never had thought it likely that Geoffrey Denman would commit suicide. No, this new solution was not only possible, but I was absolutely sure it was the correct one, because all the pieces fitted in logically.’

‘I am not going to try to guess,’ said Raymond. ‘Go on, Aunt Jane, and tell us what was so startlingly clear to you.’

‘I don’t know anything about medicine, of course,’ said Miss Marple, ‘but I did happen to know this, that when my eyesight was failing, the doctor ordered me drops with atropine sulphate in them. I went straight upstairs to old Mr Denman’s room. I didn’t beat about the bush.

‘“Mr Denman,” I said, “I know everything. Why did you poison your son?”

‘He looked at me for a minute or two – rather a handsome old man he was, in his way – and then he burst out laughing. It was one of the most vicious laughs I have ever heard. I can assure you it made my flesh creep. I had only heard anything like it once before, when poor Mrs Jones went off her head.

‘“Yes,” he said, “I got even with Geoffrey. I was too clever for Geoffrey. He was going to put me away, was he? Have me shut up in an asylum? I heard them talking about it. Mabel is a good girl – Mabel stuck up for me, but I knew she wouldn’t be able to stand up against Geoffrey. In the end he would have his own way; he always did. But I settled him – I settled my kind, loving son! Ha, ha! I crept down in the night. It was quite easy. Brewster was away. My dear son was asleep; he had a glass of water by the side of his bed; he always woke up in the middle of the night and drank it off. I poured it away – ha, ha! – and I emptied the bottle of eyedrops into the glass. He would wake up and swill it down before he knew what it was. There was only a tablespoonful of it – quite enough, quite enough. And so he did! They came to me in the morning and broke it to me very gently. They were afraid it would upset me. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

‘Well,’ said Miss Marple, ‘that is the end of the story. Of course, the poor old man was put in an asylum. He wasn’t really responsible for what he had done, and the truth was known, and everyone was sorry for Mabel and could not do enough to make up to her for the unjust suspicions they had had. But if it hadn’t been for Geoffrey realizing what the stuff was he had swallowed and trying to get everybody to get hold of the antidote without delay, it might never have been found out. I believe there are very definite symptoms with atropine – dilated pupils of the eyes, and all that; but, of course, as I have said, Dr Rawlinson was very shortsighted, poor old man. And in the same medical book which I went on reading – and some of it was
most
interesting – it gave the symptoms of ptomaine poisoning and atropine, and they are not unlike. But I can assure you I have never seen a pile of fresh haddock without thinking of the thumb mark of St Peter.’

There was a very long pause.

‘My dear friend,’ said Mr Petherick. ‘My very dear friend, you really are amazing.’

‘I shall recommend Scotland Yard to come to you for advice,’ said Sir Henry.

‘Well, at all events, Aunt Jane,’ said Raymond, ‘there is one thing that you don’t know.’

‘Oh, yes, I do, dear,’ said Miss Marple. ‘It happened just before dinner, didn’t it? When you took Joyce out to admire the sunset. It is a very favourite place, that. There by the jasmine hedge. That is where the milkman asked Annie if he could put up the banns.’

‘Dash it all, Aunt Jane,’ said Raymond, ‘don’t spoil all the romance. Joyce and I aren’t like the milkman and Annie.’

‘That is where you make a mistake, dear,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Everybody is very much alike, really. But fortunately, perhaps, they don’t realize it.’

‘A Fruitful Sunday’ was first published in the Daily Mail, 11 August 1928.

‘Well, really, I call this too delightful,’ said Miss Dorothy Pratt for the fourth time. ‘How I wish the old cat could see me now. She and her Janes!’

The ‘old cat’ thus scathingly alluded to was Miss Pratt’s highly estimable employer, Mrs Mackenzie Jones, who had strong views upon the Christian names suitable for parlourmaids and had repudiated Dorothy in favour of Miss Pratt’s despised second name of Jane.

Miss Pratt’s companion did not reply at once – for the best of reasons. When you have just purchased a Baby Austin, fourth hand, for the sum of twenty pounds, and are taking it out for the second time only, your whole attention is necessarily focused on the difficult task of using both hands and feet as the emergencies of the moment dictate.

‘Er – ah!’ said Mr Edward Palgrove and negotiated a crisis with a horrible grinding sound that would have set a true motorist’s teeth on edge.

‘Well, you don’t talk to a girl much,’ complained Dorothy.

Mr Palgrove was saved from having to respond as at that moment he was roundly and soundly cursed by the driver of a motor omnibus.

‘Well, of all the impudence,’ said Miss Pratt, tossing her head.

‘I only wish
he
had this foot-brake,’ said her swain bitterly. ‘Is there anything wrong with it?’

‘You can put your foot on it till kingdom comes,’ said Mr Palgrove. ‘But nothing happens.’

‘Oh, well, Ted, you can’t expect everything for twenty pounds. After all, here we are, in a real car, on Sunday afternoon going out of town the same as everybody else.’

More grinding and crashing sounds.

‘Ah,’ said Ted, flushed with triumph. ‘That was a better change.’

‘You do drive something beautiful,’ said Dorothy admiringly.

Emboldened by feminine appreciation, Mr Palgrove attempted a dash across Hammersmith Broadway, and was severely spoken to by a policeman.

‘Well, I never,’ said Dorothy, as they proceeded towards Hammersmith Bridge in a chastened fashion. ‘I don’t know what the police are coming to. You’d think they’d be a bit more civil spoken seeing the way they’ve been shown up lately.’

‘Anyway, I didn’t want to go along this road,’ said Edward sadly. ‘I wanted to go down the Great West Road and do a bust.’

‘And be caught in a trap as likely as not,’ said Dorothy. ‘That’s what happened to the master the other day. Five pounds and costs.’

‘The police aren’t so dusty after all,’ said Edward generously. ‘They pitch into the rich all right. No favour. It makes me mad to think of these swells who can walk into a place and buy a couple of Rolls-Royces without turning a hair. There’s no sense in it. I’m as good as they are.’

‘And the jewellery,’ said Dorothy, sighing. ‘Those shops in Bond Street. Diamonds and pearls and I don’t know what! And me with a string of Woolworth pearls.’

She brooded sadly upon the subject. Edward was able once more to give his full attention to his driving. They managed to get through Richmond without mishap. The altercation with the policeman had shaken Edward’s nerve. He now took the line of least resistance, following blindly behind any car in front whenever a choice of thoroughfares presented itself.

In this way he presently found himself following a shady country lane which many an experienced motorist would have given his soul to find.

‘Rather clever turning off the way I did,’ said Edward, taking all the credit to himself.

‘Sweetly pretty, I call it,’ said Miss Pratt. ‘And I do declare, there’s a man with fruit to sell.’

Sure enough, at a convenient corner, was a small wicker table with baskets of fruit on it, and the legend eat more fruit displayed on a banner.

‘How much?’ said Edward apprehensively when frenzied pulling of the hand-brake had produced the desired result.

‘Lovely strawberries,’ said the man in charge.

He was an unprepossessing-looking individual with a leer. ‘Just the thing for the lady. Ripe fruit, fresh picked. Cherries too. Genuine English. Have a basket of cherries, lady?’

‘They do look nice ones,’ said Dorothy.

‘Lovely, that’s what they are,’ said the man hoarsely. ‘Bring you luck, lady, that basket will.’ He at last condescended to reply to Edward. ‘Two shillings, sir, and dirt cheap. You’d say so if you knew what was inside the basket.’

‘They look awfully nice,’ said Dorothy.

Edward sighed and paid over two shillings. His mind was obsessed by calculation. Tea later, petrol – this Sunday motoring business wasn’t what you’d call
cheap
. That was the worst of taking girls out! They always wanted everything they saw.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the unprepossessing-looking one. ‘You’ve got more than your money’s worth in that basket of cherries.’

Edward shoved his foot savagely down and the Baby Austin leaped at the cherry vendor after the manner of an infuriated Alsatian.

‘Sorry,’ said Edward. ‘I forgot she was in gear.’

‘You ought to be careful, dear,’ said Dorothy. ‘You might have hurt him.’

Edward did not reply. Another half-mile brought them to an ideal spot by the banks of a stream. The Austin was left by the side of the road and Edward and Dorothy sat affectionately upon the river bank and munched cherries. A Sunday paper lay unheeded at their feet.

‘What’s the news?’ said Edward at last, stretching himself flat on his back and tilting his hat to shade his eyes.

Dorothy glanced over the headlines. ‘The Woeful Wife. Extraordinary story. Twenty-eight people drowned last week. Reported death of Airman. Startling Jewel Robbery. Ruby Necklace worth fifty thousand pounds missing. Oh, Ted! Fifty thousand pounds. Just fancy!’ She went on reading. ‘The necklace is composed of twenty-one stones set in platinum and was sent by registered post from Paris. On arrival, the packet was found to contain a few pebbles and the jewels were missing.’

‘Pinched in the post,’ said Edward. ‘The posts in France are awful, I believe.’

‘I’d like to see a necklace like that,’ said Dorothy. ‘All glowing like blood – pigeon’s blood, that’s what they call the colour. I wonder what it would feel like to have a thing like that hanging round your neck.’

‘Well,
you’re
never likely to know, my girl,’ said Edward facetiously. Dorothy tossed her head. ‘Why not, I should like to know. It’s amazing the way girls can get on in the world. I might go on the stage.’

‘Girls that behave themselves don’t get anywhere,’ said Edward discouragingly.

Dorothy opened her mouth to reply, checked herself, and murmured, ‘Pass me the cherries.’

‘I’ve been eating more than you have,’ she remarked. ‘I’ll divide up what’s left and – why, whatever’s this at the bottom of the basket?’

She drew it out as she spoke – a long glittering chain of blood-red stones.

They both stared at it in amazement. ‘In the basket, did you say?’ said Edward at last.

Dorothy nodded.

‘Right at the bottom – under the fruit.’

Again they stared at each other.

‘How did it get there, do you think?’

‘I can’t imagine. It’s odd, Ted, just after reading that bit in the paper – about the rubies.’

Edward laughed.

‘You don’t imagine you’re holding fifty thousand pounds in your hand, do you?’

‘I just said it was odd. Rubies set in platinum. Platinum is that sort of dull silvery stuff – like this. Don’t they sparkle and aren’t they a lovely colour? I wonder how many of them there are?’ She counted. ‘I say, Ted, there are twenty-one exactly.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. The same number as the paper said. Oh, Ted, you don’t think –’

‘It could be.’ But he spoke irresolutely. ‘There’s some sort of way you can tell – scratching them on glass.’

‘That’s diamonds. But you know, Ted, that was a very odd-looking man – the man with the fruit – a nasty-looking man. And he was funny about it – said we’d got more than our money’s worth in the basket.’

‘Yes, but look here, Dorothy, what would he want to hand us over fifty thousand pounds for?’

Miss Pratt shook her head, discouraged.

‘It doesn’t seem to make sense,’ she admitted. ‘Unless the police were after him.’

‘The police?’ Edward paled slightly.

‘Yes. It goes on to say in the paper – “the police have a clue.”’

Cold shivers ran down Edward’s spine.

‘I don’t like this, Dorothy. Supposing the police get after
us
.’

Dorothy stared at him with her mouth open.

‘But we haven’t done anything, Ted. We found it in the basket.’

‘And that’ll sound a silly sort of story to tell! It isn’t likely.’

‘It isn’t very,’ admitted Dorothy. ‘Oh, Ted, do you really think it is it? It’s like a fairy story!’

‘I don’t think it sounds like a fairy story,’ said Edward. ‘It sounds to me more like the kind of story where the hero goes to Dartmoor unjustly accused for fourteen years.’

But Dorothy was not listening. She had clasped the necklace round her neck and was judging the effect in a small mirror taken from her handbag.

‘The same as a duchess might wear,’ she murmured ecstatically.

‘I won’t believe it,’ said Edward violently. ‘They’re imitation. They
must
be imitation.’

‘Yes, dear,’ said Dorothy, still intent on her reflection in the mirror. ‘Very likely.’

‘Anything else would be too much of a – a coincidence.’

‘Pigeon’s blood,’ murmured Dorothy.

‘It’s absurd. That’s what I say. Absurd. Look here, Dorothy, are you listening to what I say, or are you not?’

Dorothy put away the mirror. She turned to him, one hand on the rubies round her neck.

‘How do I look?’ she asked.

Edward stared at her, his grievance forgotten. He had never seen Dorothy quite like this. There was a triumph about her, a kind of regal beauty that was completely new to him. The belief that she had jewels round her neck worth fifty thousand pounds had made of Dorothy Pratt a new woman. She looked insolently serene, a kind of Cleopatra and Semiramis and Zenobia rolled into one.

‘You look – you look – stunning,’ said Edward humbly.

Dorothy laughed, and her laugh, too, was entirely different.

‘Look here,’ said Edward. ‘We’ve got to do something. We must take them to a police station or something.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Dorothy. ‘You said yourself just now that they wouldn’t believe you. You’ll probably be sent to prison for stealing them.’

‘But – but what else can we do?’

‘Keep them,’ said the new Dorothy Pratt.

Edward stared at her. ‘Keep them? You’re mad.’

‘We found them, didn’t we? Why should we think they’re valuable. We’ll keep them and I shall wear them.’

‘And the police will pinch
you
.’

Dorothy considered this for a minute or two. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘We’ll sell them. And you can buy a Rolls-Royce, or two Rolls-Royces, and I’ll buy a diamond head-thing and some rings.’

Still Edward stared. Dorothy showed impatience.

‘You’ve got your chance now – it’s up to you to take it. We didn’t steal the thing – I wouldn’t hold with that. It’s come to us and it’s probably the only chance we’ll ever have of getting all the things we want. Haven’t you got any spunk at all, Edward Palgrove?’

Edward found his voice.

‘Sell it, you say? That wouldn’t be so jolly easy. Any jeweller would want to know where I got the blooming thing.’

‘You don’t take it to a jeweller. Don’t you ever read detective stories, Ted? You take it to a “fence”, of course.’

‘And how should I know any fences? I’ve been brought up respectable.’

‘Men ought to know everything,’ said Dorothy. ‘That’s what they’re for.’

He looked at her. She was serene and unyielding.

‘I wouldn’t have believed it of you,’ he said weakly. ‘I thought you had more spirit.’

There was a pause. Then Dorothy rose to her feet.

‘Well,’ she said lightly. ‘We’d best be getting home.’

‘Wearing that thing round your neck?’

Dorothy removed the necklace, looked at it reverently and dropped it into her handbag.

‘Look here,’ said Edward. ‘You give that to me.’

‘No.’

‘Yes, you do. I’ve been brought up honest, my girl.’

‘Well, you can go on being honest. You need have nothing to do with it.’

‘Oh, hand it over,’ said Edward recklessly. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll find a fence. As you say, it’s the only chance we shall ever have. We came by it honest – bought it for two shillings. It’s no more than what gentlemen do in antique shops every day of their life and are proud of it.’

‘That’s it!’ said Dorothy.

‘Oh, Edward, you’re splendid!’

She handed over the necklace and he dropped it into his pocket. He felt worked up, exalted, the very devil of a fellow! In this mood he started the Austin. They were both too excited to remember tea. They drove back to London in silence. Once at a cross-roads, a policeman stepped towards the car, and Edward’s heart missed a beat. By a miracle, they reached home without mishap.

Edward’s last words to Dorothy were imbued with the adventurous spirit.

‘We’ll go through with this. Fifty thousand pounds! It’s worth it!’

He dreamt that night of broad arrows and Dartmoor, and rose early, haggard and unrefreshed. He had to set about finding a fence – and how to do it he had not the remotest idea!

His work at the office was slovenly and brought down upon him two sharp rebukes before lunch.

How did one find a ‘fence’? Whitechapel, he fancied, was the correct neighbourhood – or was it Stepney?

On his return to the office a call came through for him on the telephone. Dorothy’s voice spoke – tragic and tearful.

‘Is that you, Ted? I’m using the telephone, but she may come in any minute, and I’ll have to stop. Ted, you haven’t done anything, have you?’

Edward replied in the negative. ‘Well, look here, Ted, you mustn’t. I’ve been lying awake all night. It’s been awful. Thinking of how it says in the Bible you mustn’t steal. I must have been mad yesterday – I really must. You won’t do anything, will you, Ted, dear?’

Did a feeling of relief steal over Mr Palgrove? Possibly it did – but he wasn’t going to admit any such thing.