The Thirteen Problems

  ‘Your daughter distinctly told you that Mr Sandford was responsible for her condition?’ asked Melchett crisply.

  ‘She did. In this very room she did.’

  ‘And what did you say to her?’ asked Sir Henry.

  ‘Say to her?’ The man seemed momentarily taken aback.

  ‘Yes. You didn’t, for example, threaten to turn her out of the house.’

  ‘I was a bit upset—that’s only natural. I’m sure you’ll agree that’s only natural. But, of course, I didn’t turn her out of the house. I wouldn’t do such a thing.’ He assumed virtuous indignation. ‘No. What’s the law for—that’s what I say. What’s the law for? He’d got to do the right by her. And if he didn’t, by God, he’d got to pay.’

  He brought down his fist on the table.

  ‘What time did you last see your daughter?’ asked Melchett.

  ‘Yesterday—tea time.’

  ‘What was her manner then?’

  ‘Well, much as usual. I didn’t notice anything. If I’d known—’

  ‘But you didn’t know,’ said the Inspector drily.

  They took their leave.

  ‘Emmott hardly creates a favourable impression,’ said Sir Henry thoughtfully.

  ‘Bit of a blackguard,’ said Melchett. ‘He’d have bled Sandford all right if he’d had the chance.’

  Their next call was on the architect. Rex Sandford was very unlike the picture Sir Henry had unconsciously formed of him. He was a tall young man, very fair and very thin. His eyes were blue and dreamy, his hair was untidy and rather too long. His speech was a little too ladylike.

  Colonel Melchett introduced himself and his companions. Then passing straight to the object of his visit, he invited the architect to make a statement as to his movements on the previous evening.

  ‘You understand,’ he said warningly. ‘I have no power to compel a statement from you and any statement you make may be used in evidence against you. I want the position to be quite clear to you.’

  ‘I—I don’t understand,’ said Sandford.

  ‘You understand that the girl Rose Emmott was drowned last night?’

  ‘I know. Oh! it’s too, too distressing. Really, I haven’t slept a wink. I’ve been incapable of any work today. I feel responsible—terribly responsible.’

  He ran his hands through his hair, making it untidier still.

  ‘I never meant any harm,’ he said piteously. ‘I never thought. I never dreamt she’d take it that way.’

  He sat down at a table and buried his face in his hands.

  ‘Do I understand you to say, Mr Sandford, that you refuse to make a statement as to where you were last night at eight-thirty?’

  ‘No, no—certainly not. I was out. I went for a walk.’

  ‘You went to meet Miss Emmott?’

  ‘No. I went by myself. Through the woods. A long way.’

  ‘Then how do you account for this note, sir, which was found in the dead girl’s pocket?’

  And Inspector Drewitt read it unemotionally aloud.

  ‘Now, sir,’ he finished. ‘Do you deny that you wrote that?’

  ‘No—no. You’re right. I did write it. Rose asked me to meet her. She insisted. I didn’t know what to do. So I wrote that note.’

  ‘Ah, that’s better,’ said the Inspector.

  ‘But I didn’t go!’ Sandford’s voice rose high and excited. ‘I didn’t go! I felt it would be much better not. I was returning to town tomorrow. I felt it would be better not—not to meet. I intended to write from London and—and make—some arrangement.’

  ‘You are aware, sir, that this girl was going to have a child, and that she had named you as its father?’

  Sandford groaned, but did not answer.

  ‘Was that statement true, sir?’

  Sandford buried his face deeper.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said in a muffled voice.

  ‘Ah!’ Inspector Drewitt could not disguise the satisfaction. ‘Now about this “walk” of yours. Is there anyone who saw you last night?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. As far as I can remember, I didn’t meet anybody.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sandford stared wildly at him. ‘What does it matter whether I was out for a walk or not? What difference does that make to Rose drowning herself?’

  ‘Ah!’ said the Inspector. ‘But you see, she didn’t. She was thrown in deliberately, Mr Sandford.’

  ‘She was—’ It took him a minute or two to take in all the horror of it. ‘My God! Then—’

  He dropped into a chair.

  Colonel Melchett made a move to depart.

  ‘You understand, Sandford,’ he said. ‘You are on no account to leave this house.’

  The three men left together. The Inspector and the Chief Constable exchanged glances.

  ‘That’s enough, I think, sir,’ said the Inspector.

  ‘Yes. Get a warrant made out and arrest him.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Sir Henry, ‘I’ve forgotten my gloves.’

  He re-entered the house rapidly. Sandford was sitting just as they had left him, staring dazedly in front of him.

  ‘I have come back,’ said Sir Henry, ‘to tell you that I personally, am anxious to do all I can to assist you. The motive of my interest in you I am not at liberty to reveal. But I am going to ask you, if you will, to tell me as briefly as possible exactly what passed between you and this girl Rose.’

  ‘She was very pretty,’ said Sandford. ‘Very pretty and very alluring. And—and she made a dead seat at me. Before God, that’s true. She wouldn’t let me alone. And it was lonely down here, and nobody liked me much, and—and, as I say she was amazingly pretty and she seemed to know her way about and all that—’ His voice died away. He looked up. ‘And then this happened. She wanted me to marry her. I didn’t know what to do. I’m engaged to a girl in London. If she ever gets to hear of this—and she will, of course—well, it’s all up. She won’t understand. How could she? And I’m a rotter, of course. As I say, I didn’t know what to do. I avoided seeing Rose again. I thought I’d get back to town—see my lawyer—make arrangements about money and so forth, for her. God, what a fool I’ve been! And it’s all so clear—the case against me. But they’ve made a mistake. She must have done it herself.’

  ‘Did she ever threaten to take her life?’

  Sandford shook his head.

  ‘Never. I shouldn’t have said she was that sort.’

  ‘What about a man called Joe Ellis?’

  ‘The carpenter fellow? Good old village stock. Dull fellow—but crazy about Rose.’

  ‘He might have been jealous?’ suggested Sir Henry.

  ‘I suppose he was a bit—but he’s the bovine kind. He’d suffer in silence.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sir Henry. ‘I must be going.’

  He rejoined the others.

  ‘You know, Melchett,’ he said, ‘I feel we ought to have a look at this other fellow—Ellis—before we do anything drastic. Pity if you made an arrest that turned out to be a mistake. After all, jealousy is a pretty good motive for murder—and a pretty common one, too.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ said the Inspector. ‘But Joe Ellis isn’t that kind. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Why, nobody’s ever seen him out of temper. Still, I agree we’d better just ask him where he was last night. He’ll be at home now. He lodges with Mrs Bartlett—very decent soul—a widow, she takes in a bit of washing.’

  The little cottage to which they bent their footsteps was spotlessly clean and neat. A big stout woman of middle age opened the door to them. She had a pleasant face and blue eyes.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Bartlett,’ said the Inspector. ‘Is Joe Ellis here?’

  ‘Came back not ten minutes ago,’ said Mrs Bartlett. ‘Step inside, will you, please, sirs.’

  Wiping her hands on her apron she led them into a tiny front parlour with stuffed birds, china dogs, a sofa and several useless pieces of furniture.
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  She hurriedly arranged seats for them, picked up a whatnot bodily to make further room and went out calling:

  ‘Joe, there’s three gentlemen want to see you.’

  A voice from the back kitchen replied:

  ‘I’ll be there when I’ve cleaned myself.’

  Mrs Bartlett smiled.

  ‘Come in, Mrs Bartlett,’ said Colonel Melchett. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t think of it.’

  Mrs Bartlett was shocked at the idea.

  ‘You find Joe Ellis a good lodger?’ inquired Melchett in a seemingly careless tone.

  ‘Couldn’t have a better, sir. A real steady young fellow. Never touches a drop of drink. Takes a pride in his work. And always kind and helpful about the house. He put up those shelves for me, and he’s fixed a new dresser in the kitchen. And any little thing that wants doing in the house—why, Joe does it as a matter of course, and won’t hardly take thanks for it. Ah! there aren’t many young fellows like Joe, sir.’

  ‘Some girl will be lucky some day,’ said Melchett carelessly. ‘He was rather sweet on that poor girl, Rose Emmott, wasn’t he?’

  Mrs Bartlett sighed.

  ‘It made me tired, it did. Him worshipping the ground she trod on and her not caring a snap of the fingers for him.’

  ‘Where does Joe spend his evenings, Mrs Bartlett?’

  ‘Here, sir, usually. He does some odd piece of work in the evenings, sometimes, and he’s trying to learn book-keeping by correspondence.’

  ‘Ah! really. Was he in yesterday evening?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’re sure, Mrs Bartlett?’ said Sir Henry sharply.

  She turned to him.

  ‘Quite sure, sir.’

  ‘He didn’t go out, for instance, somewhere about eight to eight-thirty?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Mrs Barlett laughed. ‘He was fixing the kitchen dresser for me nearly all the evening, and I was helping him.’

  Sir Henry looked at her smiling assured face and felt his first pang of doubt.

  A moment later Ellis himself entered the room.

  He was a tall broad-shouldered young man, very good-looking in a rustic way. He had shy, blue eyes and a good-tempered smile. Altogether an amiable young giant.

  Melchett opened the conversation. Mrs Bartlett withdrew to the kitchen.

  ‘We are investigating the death of Rose Emmott. You knew her, Ellis.’

  ‘Yes.’ He hesitated, then muttered, ‘Hoped to marry her one day. Poor lass.’

  ‘You have heard of what her condition was?’

  ‘Yes.’ A spark of anger showed in his eyes. ‘Let her down, he did. But ’twere for the best. She wouldn’t have been happy married to him. I reckoned she’d come to me when this happened. I’d have looked after her.’

  ‘In spite of—’

  ‘ ’Tweren’t her fault. He led her astray with fine promises and all. Oh! she told me about it. She’d no call to drown herself. He weren’t worth it.’

  ‘Where were you, Ellis, last night at eight-thirty?’

  Was it Sir Henry’s fancy, or was there really a shade of constraint in the ready—almost too ready—reply.

  ‘I was here. Fixing up a contraption in the kitchen for Mrs B. You ask her. She’ll tell you.’

  ‘He was too quick with that,’ thought Sir Henry. ‘He’s a slow-thinking man. That popped out so pat that I suspect he’d got it ready beforehand.’

  Then he told himself that it was imagination. He was imagining things—yes, even imagining an apprehensive glint in those blue eyes.

  A few more questions and answers and they left. Sir Henry made an excuse to go to the kitchen. Mrs Bartlett was busy at the stove. She looked up with a pleasant smile. A new dresser was fixed against the wall. It was not quite finished. Some tools lay about and some pieces of wood.

  ‘That’s what Ellis was at work on last night?’ said Sir Henry.

  ‘Yes, sir, it’s a nice bit of work, isn’t it? He’s a very clever carpenter, Joe is.’

  No apprehensive gleam in her eye—no embarrassment.

  But Ellis—had he imagined it? No, there had been something.

  ‘I must tackle him,’ thought Sir Henry.

  Turning to leave the kitchen, he collided with a perambulator.

  ‘Not woken the baby up, I hope,’ he said.

  Mrs Bartlett’s laugh rang out.

  ‘Oh, no, sir. I’ve no children—more’s the pity. That’s what I take the laundry on, sir.’

  ‘Oh! I see—’

  He paused then said on an impulse:

  ‘Mrs Bartlett. You knew Rose Emmott. Tell me what you really thought of her.’

  She looked at him curiously.

  ‘Well, sir, I thought she was flighty. But she’s dead—and I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘But I have a reason—a very good reason for asking.’

  He spoke persuasively.

  She seemed to consider, studying him attentively. Finally she made up her mind.

  ‘She was a bad lot, sir,’ she said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t say so before Joe. She took him in good and proper. That kind can—more’s the pity. You know how it is, sir.’

  Yes, Sir Henry knew. The Joe Ellises of the world were peculiarly vulnerable. They trusted blindly. But for that very cause the shock of discovery might be greater.

  He left the cottage baffled and perplexed. He was up against a blank wall. Joe Ellis had been working indoors all yesterday evening. Mrs Bartlett had actually been there watching him. Could one possibly get round that? There was nothing to set against it—except possibly that suspicious readiness in replying on Joe Ellis’s part—that suggestion of having a story pat.

  ‘Well,’ said Melchett, ‘that seems to make the matter quite clear, eh?’

  ‘It does, sir,’ agreed the Inspector. ‘Sandford’s our man. Not a leg to stand upon. The thing’s as plain as daylight. It’s my opinion as the girl and her father were out to—well—practically blackmail him. He’s no money to speak of—he didn’t want the matter to get to his young lady’s ears. He was desperate and he acted accordingly. What do you say, sir?’ he added, addressing Sir Henry deferentially.

  ‘It seems so,’ admitted Sir Henry. ‘And yet—I can hardly picture Sandford committing any violent action.’

  But he knew as he spoke that that objection was hardly valid. The meekest animal, when cornered, is capable of amazing actions.

  ‘I should like to see the boy, though,’ he said suddenly. ‘The one who heard the cry.’

  Jimmy Brown proved to be an intelligent lad, rather small for his age, with a sharp, rather cunning face. He was eager to be questioned and was rather disappointed when checked in his dramatic tale of what he had heard on the fatal night.

  ‘You were on the other side of the bridge, I understand,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Across the river from the village. Did you see anyone on that side as you came over the bridge?’

  ‘There was someone walking up in the woods. Mr Sandford, I think it was, the architecting gentleman who’s building the queer house.’

  The three men exchanged glances.

  ‘That was about ten minutes or so before you heard the cry?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Did you see anyone else—on the village side of the river?’

  ‘A man came along the path that side. Going slow and whistling he was. Might have been Joe Ellis.’

  ‘You couldn’t possibly have seen who it was,’ said the Inspector sharply. ‘What with the mist and its being dusk.’

  ‘It’s on account of the whistle,’ said the boy. ‘Joe Ellis always whistles the same tune—“I wanner be happy”—it’s the only tune he knows.’

  He spoke with the scorn of the modernist for the old-fashioned.

  ‘Anyone might whistle a tune,’ said Melchett. ‘Was he going towards the bridge?’

  ‘No. Other way—to village.’

  ‘I don’t think we need concern ourselves with
this unknown man,’ said Melchett. ‘You heard the cry and the splash and a few minutes later you saw the body floating downstream and you ran for help, going back to the bridge, crossing it, and making straight for the village. You didn’t see anyone near the bridge as you ran for help?’

  ‘I think as there were two men with a wheelbarrow on the river path; but they were some way away and I couldn’t tell if they were going or coming and Mr Giles’s place was nearest—so I ran there.’

  ‘You did well, my boy,’ said Melchett. ‘You acted very creditably and with presence of mind. You’re a scout, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Very good indeed.’

  Sir Henry was silent—thinking. He took a slip of paper from his pocket, looked at it, shook his head. It didn’t seem possible—and yet—

  He decided to pay a call on Miss Marple.

  She received him in her pretty, slightly overcrowded old-style drawing-room.

  ‘I’ve come to report progress,’ said Sir Henry. ‘I’m afraid that from our point of view things aren’t going well. They are going to arrest Sandford. And I must say I think they are justified.’

  ‘You have found nothing in—what shall I say—support of my theory, then?’ She looked perplexed—anxious. ‘Perhaps I have been wrong—quite wrong. You have such wide experience—you would surely detect it if it were so.’

  ‘For one thing,’ said Sir Henry, ‘I can hardly believe it. And for another we are up against an unbreakable alibi. Joe Ellis was fixing shelves in the kitchen all the evening and Mrs Bartlett was watching him do it.’

  Miss Marple leaned forward, taking in a quick breath.

  ‘But that can’t be so,’ she said. ‘It was Friday night.’

  ‘Friday night?’

  ‘Yes—Friday night. On Friday evenings Mrs Bartlett takes the laundry she has done round to the different people.’

  Sir Henry leaned back in his chair. He remembered the boy Jimmy’s story of the whistling man and—yes—it would all fit in.

  He rose, taking Miss Marple warmly by the hand.