The Thirteen Problems (10 page)

‘It wasn’t exactly mysterious, it was just unsatisfactory. There must be many lonely women, proud and reti-cent, in just that position. There were a couple of photographs amongst her belongings in Las Palmas—rather old and faded and they had been cut to fit the frames they were in, so that there was no photographer’s name upon them, and there was an old daguerreotype which might have been her mother or more probably her grandmother.

‘Miss Barton had had two references with her. One she had forgotten, the other name she recollected after an effort. It proved to be that of a lady who was now abroad, having gone to Australia. She was written to.
Her answer, of course, was a long time in coming, and I may say that when it did arrive there was no particular help to be gained from it. She said Miss Durrant had been with her as companion and had been most efficient and that she was a very charming woman, but that she knew nothing of her private affairs or relations.

‘So there it was—as I say, nothing unusual, really. It was just the two things together that aroused my uneasiness. This Amy Durrant of whom no one knew anything, and the Spanish woman’s queer story. Yes, and I’ll add a third thing: When I was first bending over the body and Miss Barton was walking away towards the huts, she looked back. Looked back with an expression on her face that I can only describe as one of poignant anxiety—a kind of anguished uncertainty that imprinted itself on my brain.

‘It didn’t strike me as anything unusual at the time. I put it down to her terrible distress over her friend. But, you see, later I realized that they weren’t on those terms. There was no devoted attachment between them, no terrible grief. Miss Barton was fond of Amy Durrant and shocked by her death—that was all.

‘But, then, why that terrible poignant anxiety? That was the question that kept coming back to me. I had not been mistaken in that look. And almost against my will, an answer began to shape itself in my mind. Supposing
the Spanish woman’s story were true; supposing that Mary Barton wilfully and in cold blood tried to drown Amy Durrant. She succeeds in holding her under water whilst pretending to be saving her. She is rescued by a boat. They are on a lonely beach far from anywhere. And then I appear—the last thing she expects. A doctor! And an English doctor! She knows well enough that people who have been under water far longer than Amy Durrant have been revived by artificial respiration. But she has to play her part—to go off leaving me alone with her victim. And as she turns for one last look, a terrible poignant anxiety shows in her face. Will Amy Durrant come back to life
and tell what she knows
?’

‘Oh!’ said Jane Helier. ‘I’m thrilled now.’

‘Viewed in that aspect the whole business seemed more sinister, and the personality of Amy Durrant became more mysterious. Who was Amy Durrant? Why should she, an insignificant paid companion, be murdered by her employer? What story lay behind that fatal bathing expedition? She had entered Mary Barton’s employment only a few months before. Mary Barton had brought her abroad, and the very day after they landed the tragedy had occurred. And they were both nice, commonplace, refined Englishwomen! The whole thing was fantastic, and I told myself so. I had been letting my imagination run away with me.’

‘You didn’t do anything, then?’ asked Miss Helier.

‘My dear young lady, what could I do? There was no evidence. The majority of the eye-witnesses told the same story as Miss Barton. I had built up my own suspicions out of a fleeting expression which I might possibly have imagined. The only thing I could and did do was to see that the widest inquiries were made for the relations of Amy Durrant. The next time I was in England I even went and saw the landlady of her room, with the results I have told you.’

‘But you felt there was something wrong,’ said Miss Marple.

Dr Lloyd nodded.

‘Half the time I was ashamed of myself for thinking so. Who was I to go suspecting this nice, pleasant-mannered English lady of a foul and cold-blooded crime? I did my best to be as cordial as possible to her during the short time she stayed on the island. I helped her with the Spanish authorities. I did everything I could do as an Englishman to help a compatriot in a foreign country; and yet I am convinced that she knew I suspected and disliked her.’

‘How long did she stay out there?’ asked Miss Marple.

‘I think it was about a fortnight. Miss Durrant was buried there, and it must have been about ten days later when she took a boat back to England. The shock had upset her so much that she felt she couldn’t
spend the winter there as she had planned. That’s what she said.’

‘Did it seem to have upset her?’ asked Miss Marple.

The doctor hesitated.

‘Well, I don’t know that it affected her appearance at all,’ he said cautiously.

‘She didn’t, for instance, grow fatter?’ asked Miss Marple.

‘Do you know—it’s a curious thing your saying that. Now I come to think back, I believe you’re right. She—yes, she did seem, if anything, to be putting on weight.’

‘How horrible,’ said Jane Helier with a shudder. ‘It’s like—it’s like fattening on your victim’s blood.’

‘And yet, in another way, I may be doing her an injustice,’ went on Dr Lloyd. ‘She certainly said something before she left, which pointed in an entirely different direction. There may be, I think there are, consciences which work very slowly—which take some time to awaken to the enormity of the deed committed.

‘It was the evening before her departure from the Canaries. She had asked me to go and see her, and had thanked me very warmly for all I had done to help her. I, of course, made light of the matter, said I had only done what was natural under the circumstances, and so on. There was a pause after that, and then she suddenly asked me a question.

‘ “Do you think,” she asked, “that one is ever justified in taking the law into one’s own hands?”

‘I replied that that was rather a difficult question, but that on the whole, I thought not. The law was the law, and we had to abide by it.

‘ “Even when it is powerless?”

‘ “I don’t quite understand.”

‘ “It’s difficult to explain; but one might do something that is considered definitely wrong—that is considered a crime, even, for a good and sufficient reason.”

‘I replied drily that possibly several criminals had thought that in their time, and she shrank back.

‘ “But that’s horrible,” she murmured. “Horrible.”

‘And then with a change of tone she asked me to give her something to make her sleep. She had not been able to sleep properly since—she hesitated—since that terrible shock.

‘ “You’re sure it is that? There is nothing worrying you? Nothing on your mind?”

‘ “On my mind? What should be on my mind?”

‘She spoke fiercely and suspiciously.

‘ “Worry is a cause of sleeplessness sometimes,” I said lightly.

‘She seemed to brood for a moment.

‘ “Do you mean worrying over the future, or worrying over the past, which can’t be altered?”

‘ “Either.”

‘ “Only it wouldn’t be any good worrying over the past. You couldn’t bring back—Oh! what’s the use! One mustn’t think. One must not think.”

‘I prescribed her a mild sleeping draught and made my adieu. As I went away I wondered not a little over the words she had spoken. “You couldn’t bring back—” What? Or
who
?

‘I think that last interview prepared me in a way for what was to come. I didn’t expect it, of course, but when it happened, I wasn’t surprised. Because, you see, Mary Barton struck me all along as a conscientious woman—not a weak sinner, but a woman with convictions, who would act up to them, and who would not relent as long as she still believed in them. I fancied that in the last conversation we had she was beginning to doubt her own convictions. I know her words suggested to me that she was feeling the first faint beginnings of that terrible soul-searcher—remorse.

‘The thing happened in Cornwall, in a small watering-place, rather deserted at that season of the year. It must have been—let me see—late March. I read about it in the papers. A lady had been staying at a small hotel there—a Miss Barton. She had been very odd and peculiar in her manner. That had been noticed by all. At night she would walk up and down her room, muttering to herself, and not allowing
the people on either side of her to sleep. She had called on the vicar one day and had told him that she had a communication of the gravest importance to make to him. She had, she said, committed a crime. Then, instead of proceeding, she had stood up abruptly and said she would call another day. The vicar put her down as being slightly mental, and did not take her self-accusation seriously.

‘The very next morning she was found to be missing from her room. A note was left addressed to the coroner. It ran as follows:

‘Her clothes were found lying on the beach in a secluded cove nearby, and it seemed clear that she had undressed there and swum resolutely out to sea where the current was known to be dangerous, sweeping one down the coast.

‘The body was not recovered, but after a time leave
was given to presume death. She was a rich woman, her estate being proved at a hundred thousand pounds. Since she died intestate it all went to her next of kin—a family of cousins in Australia. The papers made discreet references to the tragedy in the Canary Islands, putting forward the theory that the death of Miss Durrant had unhinged her friend’s brain. At the inquest the usual verdict of
Suicide whilst temporarily insane
was returned.

‘And so the curtain falls on the tragedy of Amy Durrant and Mary Barton.’

There was a long pause and then Jane Helier gave a great gasp.

‘Oh, but you mustn’t stop there—just at the most interesting part. Go on.’

‘But you see, Miss Helier, this isn’t a serial story. This is real life; and real life stops just where it chooses.’

‘But I don’t want it to,’ said Jane. ‘I want to know.’

‘This is where we use our brains, Miss Helier,’ explained Sir Henry. ‘Why did Mary Barton kill her companion? That’s the problem Dr Lloyd has set us.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Miss Helier, ‘she might have killed her for lots of reasons. I mean—oh, I don’t know. She might have got on her nerves, or else she got jealous, although Dr Lloyd doesn’t mention any men, but still on the boat out—well, you know what everyone says about boats and sea voyages.’

Miss Helier paused, slightly out of breath, and it was borne in upon her audience that the outside of Jane’s charming head was distinctly superior to the inside.

‘I would like to have a lot of guesses,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘But I suppose I must confine myself to one. Well, I think that Miss Barton’s father made all his money out of ruining Amy Durrant’s father, so Amy determined to have her revenge. Oh, no, that’s the wrong way round. How tiresome! Why does the rich employer kill the humble companion? I’ve got it. Miss Barton had a young brother who shot himself for love of Amy Durrant. Miss Barton waits her time. Amy comes down in the world. Miss B. engages her as companion and takes her to the Canaries and accomplishes her revenge. How’s that?’

‘Excellent,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Only we don’t know that Miss Barton ever had a young brother.’

‘We deduce that,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘Unless she had a young brother there’s no motive. So she must have had a young brother. Do you see, Watson?’

‘That’s all very fine, Dolly,’ said her husband. ‘But it’s only a guess.’

‘Of course it is,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘That’s all we can do—guess. We haven’t got any clues. Go on, dear, have a guess yourself.’

‘Upon my word, I don’t know what to say. But I think there’s something in Miss Helier’s suggestion that they
fell out about a man. Look here, Dolly, it was probably some high church parson. They both embroidered him a cope or something, and he wore the Durrant woman’s first. Depend upon it, it was something like that. Look how she went off to a parson at the end. These women all lose their heads over a good-looking clergyman. You hear of it over and over again.’

‘I think I must try to make my explanation a little more subtle,’ said Sir Henry, ‘though I admit it’s only a guess. I suggest that Miss Barton was always mentally unhinged. There are more cases like that than you would imagine. Her mania grew stronger and she began to believe it her duty to rid the world of certain persons—possibly what is termed unfortunate females. Nothing much is known about Miss Durrant’s past. So very possibly she
had
a past—an “unfortunate” one. Miss Barton learns of this and decides on extermination. Later, the righteousness of her act begins to trouble her and she is overcome by remorse. Her end shows her to be completely unhinged. Now, do say you agree with me, Miss Marple.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t, Sir Henry,’ said Miss Marple, smiling apologetically. ‘I think her end shows her to have been a very clever and resourceful woman.’

Jane Helier interrupted with a little scream.

‘Oh! I’ve been so stupid. May I guess again? Of
course it must have been that. Blackmail! The companion woman was blackmailing her. Only I don’t see why Miss Marple says it was clever of her to kill herself. I can’t see that at all.’

‘Ah!’ said Sir Henry. ‘You see, Miss Marple knew a case just like it in St Mary Mead.’

‘You always laugh at me, Sir Henry,’ said Miss Marple reproachfully. ‘I must confess it does remind me, just a little, of old Mrs Trout. She drew the old age pension, you know, for three old women who were dead, in different parishes.’

‘It sounds a most complicated and resourceful crime,’ said Sir Henry. ‘But it doesn’t seem to me to throw any light upon our present problem.’

‘Of course not,’ said Miss Marple. ‘It wouldn’t—to you. But some of the families were very poor, and the old age pension was a great boon to the children. I know it’s difficult for anyone outside to understand. But what I really meant was that the whole thing hinged upon one old woman being so like any other old woman.’