The Thirteen Problems

  ‘So it was only to the interest of a son who wasn’t there and the girl who died herself to make away with him,’ said Sir Henry thoughtfully. ‘That doesn’t seem very promising.’

  ‘Didn’t the other woman get anything?’ asked Jane. ‘The one Mrs Bantry calls the Pussy woman.’

  ‘She wasn’t mentioned in the will,’ said Mrs Bantry.

  ‘Miss Marple, you’re not listening,’ said Sir Henry. ‘You’re somewhere far away.’

  ‘I was thinking of old Mr Badger, the chemist,’ said Miss Marple. ‘He had a very young housekeeper—young enough to be not only his daughter, but his grand-daughter. Not a word to anyone, and his family, a lot of nephews and nieces, full of expectations. And when he died, would you believe it, he’d been secretly married to her for two years? Of course Mr Badger was a chemist, and a very rude, common old man as well, and Sir Ambrose Bercy was a very courtly gentleman, so Mrs Bantry says, but for all that human nature is much the same everywhere.’

  There was a pause. Sir Henry looked very hard at Miss Marple who looked back at him with gently quizzical blue eyes. Jane Helier broke the silence.

  ‘Was this Mrs Carpenter good-looking?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, in a very quiet way. Nothing startling.’

  ‘She had a very sympathetic voice,’ said Colonel Bantry.

  ‘Purring—that’s what I call it,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘Purring!’

  ‘You’ll be called a cat yourself one of these days, Dolly.’

  ‘I like being a cat in my home circle,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘I don’t much like women anyway, and you know it. I like men and flowers.’

  ‘Excellent taste,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Especially in putting men first.’

  ‘That was tact,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘Well, now, what about my little problem? I’ve been quite fair, I think. Arthur, don’t you think I’ve been fair?’

  ‘Yes, my dear. I don’t think there’ll be any inquiry into the running by the stewards of the Jockey Club.’

  ‘First boy,’ said Mrs Bantry, pointing a finger at Sir Henry.

  ‘I’m going to be long-winded. Because, you see, I haven’t really got any feeling of certainty about the matter. First, Sir Ambrose. Well, he wouldn’t take such an original method of committing suicide—and on the other hand he certainly had nothing to gain by the death of his ward. Exit Sir Ambrose. Mr Curle. No motive for death of girl. If Sir Ambrose was intended victim, he might possibly have purloined a rare manuscript or two that no one else would miss. Very thin and most unlikely. So I think, that in spite of Mrs Bantry’s suspicions as to his underclothing, Mr Curle is cleared. Miss Wye. Motive for death of Sir Ambrose—none. Motive for death of Sylvia pretty strong. She wanted Sylvia’s young man, and wanted him rather badly—from Mrs Bantry’s account. She was with Sylvia that morning in the garden, so had opportunity to pick leaves. No, we can’t dismiss Miss Wye so easily. Young Lorimer. He’s got a motive in either case. If he gets rid of his sweetheart, he can marry the other girl. Still it seems a bit drastic to kill her—what’s a broken engagement these days? If Sir Ambrose dies, he will marry a rich girl instead of a poor one. That might be important or not—depends on his financial position. If I find that his estate was heavily mortgaged and that Mrs Bantry has deliberately withheld that fact from us, I shall claim a foul. Now Mrs Carpenter. You know, I have suspicions of Mrs Carpenter. Those white hands, for one thing, and her excellent alibi at the time the herbs were picked—I always distrust alibis. And I’ve got another reason for suspecting her which I will keep to myself. Still, on the whole, if I’ve got to plump, I shall plump for Miss Maude Wye, because there’s more evidence against her than anyone else.’

  ‘Next boy,’ said Mrs Bantry, and pointed at Dr Lloyd.

  ‘I think you’re wrong, Clithering, in sticking to the theory that the girl’s death was meant. I am convinced that the murderer intended to do away with Sir Ambrose. I don’t think that young Lorimer had the necessary knowledge. I am inclined to believe that Mrs Carpenter was the guilty party. She had been a long time with the family, knew all about the state of Sir Ambrose’s health, and could easily arrange for this girl Sylvia (who, you said yourself, was rather stupid) to pick the right leaves. Motive, I confess, I don’t see; but I hazard the guess that Sir Ambrose had at one time made a will in which she was mentioned. That’s the best I can do.’

  Mrs Bantry’s pointing finger went on to Jane Helier.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Jane, ‘except this: Why shouldn’t the girl herself have done it? She took the leaves into the kitchen after all. And you say Sir Ambrose had been sticking out against her marriage. If he died, she’d get the money and be able to marry at once. She’d know just as much about Sir Ambrose’s health as Mrs Carpenter would.’

  Mrs Bantry’s finger came slowly round to Miss Marple.

  ‘Now then, School Marm,’ she said.

  ‘Sir Henry has put it all very clearly—very clearly indeed,’ said Miss Marple. ‘And Dr Lloyd was so right in what he said. Between them they seem to have made things so very clear. Only I don’t think Dr Lloyd quite realized one aspect of what he said. You see, not being Sir Ambrose’s medical adviser, he couldn’t know just what kind of heart trouble Sir Ambrose had, could he?’

  ‘I don’t quite see what you mean, Miss Marple,’ said Dr Lloyd.

  ‘You’re assuming—aren’t you?—that Sir Ambrose had the kind of heart that digitalin would affect adversely? But there’s nothing to prove that that’s so. It might be just the other way about.’

  ‘The other way about?’

  ‘Yes, you did say that it was often prescribed for heart trouble?’

  ‘Even then, Miss Marple, I don’t see what that leads to?’

  ‘Well, it would mean that he would have digitalin in his possession quite naturally—without having to account for it. What I am trying to say (I always express myself so badly) is this: Supposing you wanted to poison anyone with a fatal dose of digitalin. Wouldn’t the simplest and easiest way be to arrange for everyone to be poisoned—actually by digitalin leaves? It wouldn’t be fatal in anyone else’s case, of course, but no one would be surprised at one victim because, as Dr Lloyd said, these things are so uncertain. No one would be likely to ask whether the girl had actually had a fatal dose of infusion of digitalis or something of that kind. He might have put it in a cocktail, or in her coffee or even made her drink it quite simply as a tonic.’

  ‘You mean Sir Ambrose poisoned his ward, the charming girl whom he loved?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Like Mr Badger and his young housekeeper. Don’t tell me it’s absurd for a man of sixty to fall in love with a girl of twenty. It happens every day—and I dare say with an old autocrat like Sir Ambrose, it might take him queerly. These things become a madness sometimes. He couldn’t bear the thought of her getting married—did his best to oppose it—and failed. His mad jealousy became so great that he preferred killing her to letting her go to young Lorimer. He must have thought of it some time beforehand, because that foxglove seed would have to be sown among the sage. He’d pick it himself when the time came, and send her into the kitchen with it. It’s horrible to think of, but I suppose we must take as merciful a view of it as we can. Gentlemen of that age are sometimes very peculiar indeed where young girls are concerned. Our last organist—but there, I mustn’t talk scandal.’

  ‘Mrs Bantry,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Is this so?’

  Mrs Bantry nodded.

  ‘Yes. I’d no idea of it—never dreamed of the thing being anything but an accident. Then, after Sir Ambrose’s death, I got a letter. He had left directions to send it to me. He told me the truth in it. I don’t know why—but he and I always got on very well together.’

  In the momentary silence, she seemed to feel an unspoken criticism and went on hastily:

  ‘You think I’m betraying a confidence—but that isn’t so. I’ve changed all the names. He wasn’t really called Sir Ambrose Bercy. Didn’t you se
e how Arthur stared stupidly when I said that name to him? He didn’t understand at first. I’ve changed everything. It’s like they say in magazines and in the beginning of books: “All the characters in this story are purely fictitious.” You never know who they really are.’

  Chapter 12

  The Affair at the Bungalow

  ‘I’ve thought of something,’ said Jane Helier.

  Her beautiful face was lit up with the confident smile of a child expecting approbation. It was a smile such as moved audiences nightly in London, and which had made the fortunes of photographers.

  ‘It happened,’ she went on carefully, ‘to a friend of mine.’

  Everyone made encouraging but slightly hypocritical noises. Colonel Bantry, Mrs Bantry, Sir Henry Clithering, Dr Lloyd and old Miss Marple were one and all convinced that Jane’s ‘friend’ was Jane herself. She would have been quite incapable of remembering or taking an interest in anything affecting anyone else.

  ‘My friend,’ went on Jane, ‘(I won’t mention her name) was an actress—a very well-known actress.’

  No one expressed surprise. Sir Henry Clithering thought to himself: ‘Now I wonder how many sentences it will be before she forgets to keep up the fiction, and says “I” instead of “She”?’

  ‘My friend was on tour in the provinces—this was a year or two ago. I suppose I’d better not give the name of the place. It was a riverside town not very far from London. I’ll call it—’

  She paused, her brows perplexed in thought. The invention of even a simple name appeared to be too much for her. Sir Henry came to the rescue.

  ‘Shall we call it Riverbury?’ he suggested gravely.

  ‘Oh, yes, that would do splendidly. Riverbury, I’ll remember that. Well, as I say, this—my friend—was at Riverbury with her company, and a very curious thing happened.’

  She puckered her brows again.

  ‘It’s very difficult,’ she said plaintively, ‘to say just what you want. One gets things mixed up and tells the wrong things first.’

  ‘You’re doing it beautifully,’ said Dr Lloyd encouragingly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, this curious thing happened. My friend was sent for to the police station. And she went. It seemed there had been a burglary at a riverside bungalow and they’d arrested a young man, and he told a very odd story. And so they sent for her.

  ‘She’d never been to a police station before, but they were very nice to her—very nice indeed.’

  ‘They would be, I’m sure,’ said Sir Henry.

  ‘The sergeant—I think it was a sergeant—or it may have been an inspector—gave her a chair and explained things, and of course I saw at once that it was some mistake—’

  ‘Aha,’ thought Sir Henry. ‘I. Here we are. I thought as much.’

  ‘My friend said so,’ continued Jane, serenely unconscious of her self-betrayal. ‘She explained she had been rehearsing with her understudy at the hotel and that she’d never even heard of this Mr Faulkener. And the sergeant said, “Miss Hel—” ’

  She stopped and flushed.

  ‘Miss Helman,’ suggested Sir Henry with a twinkle.

  ‘Yes—yes, that would do. Thank you. He said, “Well, Miss Helman, I felt it must be some mistake, knowing that you were stopping at the Bridge Hotel,” and he said would I have any objection to confronting—or was it being confronted? I can’t remember.’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter,’ said Sir Henry reassuringly.

  ‘Anyway, with the young man. So I said, “Of course not.” And they brought him and said, “This is Miss Helier,” and—Oh!’ Jane broke off open-mouthed.

  ‘Never mind, my dear,’ said Miss Marple consolingly. ‘We were bound to guess, you know. And you haven’t given us the name of the place or anything that really matters.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jane. ‘I did mean to tell it as though it happened to someone else. But it is difficult, isn’t it! I mean one forgets so.’

  Everyone assured her that it was very difficult, and soothed and reassured, she went on with her slightly involved narrative.

  ‘He was a nice-looking man—quite a nice-looking man. Young, with reddish hair. His mouth just opened when he saw me. And the sergeant said, “Is this the lady?” And he said, “No, indeed it isn’t. What an ass I have been.” And I smiled at him and said it didn’t matter.’

  ‘I can picture the scene,’ said Sir Henry.

  Jane Helier frowned.

  ‘Let me see—how had I better go on?’

  ‘Supposing you tell us what it was all about, dear,’ said Miss Marple, so mildly that no one could suspect her of irony. ‘I mean what the young man’s mistake was, and about the burglary.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Jane. ‘Well, you see, this young man—Leslie Faulkener, his name was—had written a play. He’d written several plays, as a matter of fact, though none of them had ever been taken. And he had sent this particular play to me to read. I didn’t know about it, because of course I have hundreds of plays sent to me and I read very few of them myself—only the ones I know something about. Anyway, there it was, and it seems that Mr Faulkener got a letter from me—only it turned out not to be really from me—you understand—’

  She paused anxiously, and they assured her that they understood.

  ‘Saying that I’d read the play, and liked it very much and would he come down and talk it over with me. And it gave the address—The Bungalow, Riverbury. So Mr Faulkener was frightfully pleased and he came down and arrived at this place—The Bungalow. A parlourmaid opened the door, and he asked for Miss Helier, and she said Miss Helier was in and expecting him and showed him into the drawing-room, and there a woman came to him. And he accepted her as me as a matter of course—which seems queer because after all he had seen me act and my photographs are very well known, aren’t they?’

  ‘Over the length and breadth of England,’ said Mrs Bantry promptly. ‘But there’s often a lot of difference between a photograph and its original, my dear Jane. And there’s a great deal of difference between behind the footlights and off the stage. It’s not every actress who stands the test as well as you do, remember.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jane slightly mollified, ‘that may be so. Anyway, he described this woman as tall and fair with big blue eyes and very good-looking, so I suppose it must have been near enough. He certainly had no suspicions. She sat down and began talking about his play and said she was anxious to do it. Whilst they were talking cocktails were brought in and Mr Faulkener had one as a matter of course. Well—that’s all he remembers—having this cocktail. When he woke up, or came to himself, or whatever you call it—he was lying out in the road, by the hedge, of course, so that there would be no danger of his being run over. He felt very queer and shaky—so much so that he just got up and staggered along the road not quite knowing where he was going. He said if he’d had his sense about him he’d have gone back to The Bungalow and tried to find out what had happened. But he felt just stupid and mazed and walked along without quite knowing what he was doing. He was just more or less coming to himself when the police arrested him.’

  ‘Why did the police arrest him?’ asked Dr Lloyd.

  ‘Oh! didn’t I tell you?’ said Jane opening her eyes very wide. ‘How very stupid I am. The burglary.’

  ‘You mentioned a burglary—but you didn’t say where or what or why,’ said Mrs Bantry.

  ‘Well, this bungalow—the one he went to, of course—it wasn’t mine at all. It belonged to a man whose name was—’

  Again Jane furrowed her brows.

  ‘Do you want me to be godfather again?’ asked Sir Henry. ‘Pseudonyms supplied free of charge. Describe the tenant and I’ll do the naming.’

  ‘It was taken by a rich city man—a knight.’

  ‘Sir Herman Cohen,’ suggested Sir Henry.

  ‘That will do beautifully. He took it for a lady—she was the wife of an actor, and she was also an actress herself.’

  ‘We’ll call the actor Claud Leason,’ said S
ir Henry, ‘and the lady would be known by her stage name, I suppose, so we’ll call her Miss Mary Kerr.’

  ‘I think you’re awfully clever,’ said Jane. ‘I don’t know how you think of these things so easily. Well, you see this was a sort of week-end cottage for Sir Herman—did you say Herman?—and the lady. And, of course, his wife knew nothing about it.’

  ‘Which is so often the case,’ said Sir Henry.

  ‘And he’d given this actress woman a good deal of jewellery including some very fine emeralds.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Dr Lloyd. ‘Now we’re getting at it.’

  ‘This jewellery was at the bungalow, just locked up in a jewel case. The police said it was very careless—anyone might have taken it.’

  ‘You see, Dolly,’ said Colonel Bantry. ‘What do I always tell you?’

  ‘Well, in my experience,’ said Mrs Bantry, ‘it’s always the people who are so dreadfully careful who lose things. I don’t lock mine up in a jewel case—I keep it in a drawer loose, under my stockings. I dare say if—what’s her name?—Mary Kerr had done the same, it would never have been stolen.’

  ‘It would,’ said Jane, ‘because all the drawers were burst open, and the contents strewn about.’

  ‘Then they weren’t really looking for jewels,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘They were looking for secret papers. That’s what always happens in books.’

  ‘I don’t know about secret papers,’ said Jane doubtfully. ‘I never heard of any.’

  ‘Don’t be distracted, Miss Helier,’ said Colonel Bantry. ‘Dolly’s wild red-herrings are not to be taken seriously.’