“But, my dear,” said Mrs. Bantry, “couldn’t Conway have advised him?”
“He didn’t want to be advised. The one thing he wanted was to do well on his own. That’s why we never let Mr. Jefferson know. When Frank died there was very little left—only a tiny income for me. And I—I didn’t let his father know either. You see—”
She turned abruptly.
“It would have felt like betraying Frank to him. Frank would have hated it so. Mr. Jefferson was ill for a long time. When he got well he assumed that I was a very-well-off widow. I’ve never undeceived him. It’s been a point of honour. He knows I’m very careful about money—but he approves of that, thinks I’m a thrifty sort of woman. And, of course, Peter and I have lived with him practically ever since, and he’s paid for all our living expenses. So I’ve never had to worry.”
She said slowly:
“We’ve been like a family all these years—only—only—you see (or don’t you see?) I’ve never been Frank’s widow to him—I’ve been Frank’s wife.”
Mrs. Bantry grasped the implication.
“You mean he’s never accepted their deaths?”
“No. He’s been wonderful. But he’s conquered his own terrible tragedy by refusing to recognize death. Mark is Rosamund’s husband and I’m Frank’s wife—and though Frank and Rosamund aren’t exactly here with us—they are still existent.”
Mrs. Bantry said softly:
“It’s a wonderful triumph of faith.”
“I know. We’ve gone on, year after year. But suddenly—this summer—something went wrong in me. I felt—I felt rebellious. It’s an awful thing to say, but I didn’t want to think of Frank anymore! All that was over—my love and companionship with him, and my grief when he died. It was something that had been and wasn’t any longer.
“It’s awfully hard to describe. It’s like wanting to wipe the slate clean and start again. I wanted to be me—Addie, still reasonably young and strong and able to play games and swim and dance—just a person. Even Hugo—(you know Hugo McLean?) he’s a dear and wants to marry me, but, of course, I’ve never really thought of it—but this summer I did begin to think of it—not seriously—only vaguely….”
She stopped and shook her head.
“And so I suppose it’s true. I neglected Jeff. I don’t mean really neglected him, but my mind and thoughts weren’t with him. When Ruby, as I saw, amused him, I was rather glad. It left me freer to go and do my own things. I never dreamed—of course I never dreamed—that he would be so—so—infatuated by her!”
Mrs. Bantry asked:
“And when you did find out?”
“I was dumbfounded—absolutely dumbfounded! And, I’m afraid, angry too.”
“I’d have been angry,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“There was Peter, you see. Peter’s whole future depends on Jeff. Jeff practically looked on him as a grandson, or so I thought, but, of course, he wasn’t a grandson. He was no relation at all. And to think that he was going to be—disinherited!” Her firm, well-shaped hands shook a little where they lay in her lap. “For that’s what it felt like—and for a vulgar, gold-digging little simpleton—Oh! I could have killed her!”
She stopped, stricken. Her beautiful hazel eyes met Mrs. Bantry’s in a pleading horror. She said:
“What an awful thing to say!”
Hugo McLean, coming quietly up behind them, asked:
“What’s an awful thing to say?”
“Sit down, Hugo. You know Mrs. Bantry, don’t you?”
McLean had already greeted the older lady. He said now in a low, persevering way:
“What was an awful thing to say?”
Addie Jefferson said:
“That I’d like to have killed Ruby Keene.”
Hugo McLean reflected a minute or two. Then he said:
“No, I wouldn’t say that if I were you. Might be misunderstood.”
His eyes—steady, reflective, grey eyes—looked at her meaningly.
He said:
“You’ve got to watch your step, Addie.”
There was a warning in his voice.
III
When Miss Marple came out of the hotel and joined Mrs. Bantry a few minutes later, Hugo McLean and Adelaide Jefferson were walking down the path to the sea together.
Seating herself, Miss Marple remarked:
“He seems very devoted.”
“He’s been devoted for years! One of those men.”
“I know. Like Major Bury. He hung round an Anglo-Indian widow for quite ten years. A joke among her friends! In the end she gave in—but unfortunately ten days before they were to have been married she ran away with the chauffeur! Such a nice woman, too, and usually so well balanced.”
“People do do very odd things,” agreed Mrs. Bantry. “I wish you’d been here just now, Jane. Addie Jefferson was telling me all about herself—how her husband went through all his money but they never let Mr. Jefferson know. And then, this summer, things felt different to her—”
Miss Marple nodded.
“Yes. She rebelled, I suppose, against being made to live in the past? After all, there’s a time for everything. You can’t sit in the house with the blinds down forever. I suppose Mrs. Jefferson just pulled them up and took off her widow’s weeds, and her father-in-law, of course, didn’t like it. Felt left out in the cold, though I don’t suppose for a minute he realized who put her up to it. Still, he certainly wouldn’t like it. And so, of course, like old Mr. Badger when his wife took up Spiritualism, he was just ripe for what happened. Any fairly nice-looking young girl who listened prettily would have done.”
“Do you think,” said Mrs. Bantry, “that that cousin, Josie, got her down here deliberately—that it was a family plot?”
Miss Marple shook her head.
“No, I don’t think so at all. I don’t think Josie has the kind of mind that could foresee people’s reactions. She’s rather dense in that way. She’s got one of those shrewd, limited, practical minds that never do foresee the future and are usually astonished by it.”
“It seems to have taken everyone by surprise,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Addie—and Mark Gaskell too, apparently.”
Miss Marple smiled.
“I dare say he had his own fish to fry. A bold fellow with a roving eye! Not the man to go on being a sorrowing widower for years, no matter how fond he may have been of his wife. I should think they were both restless under old Mr. Jefferson’s yoke of perpetual remembrance.
“Only,” added Miss Marple cynically, “it’s easier for gentlemen, of course.”
IV
At that very moment Mark was confirming this judgment on himself in a talk with Sir Henry Clithering.
With characteristic candour Mark had gone straight to the heart of things.
“It’s just dawned on me,” he said, “that I’m Favourite Suspect No. I to the police! They’ve been delving into my financial troubles. I’m broke, you know, or very nearly. If dear old Jeff dies according to schedule in a month or two, and Addie and I divide the dibs also according to schedule, all will be well. Matter of fact, I owe rather a lot … If the crash comes it will be a big one! If I can stave it off, it will be the other way round—I shall come out on top and be a very rich man.”
Sir Henry Clithering said:
“You’re a gambler, Mark.”
“Always have been. Risk everything—that’s my motto! Yes, it’s a lucky thing for me that somebody strangled that poor kid. I didn’t do it. I’m not a strangler. I don’t really think I could ever murder anybody. I’m too easygoing. But I don’t suppose I can ask the police to believe that! I must look to them like the answer to the criminal investigator’s prayer! I had a motive, was on the spot, I am not burdened with high moral scruples! I can’t imagine why I’m not in the jug already! That Superintendent’s got a very nasty eye.”
“You’ve got that useful thing, an alibi.”
“An alibi is the fishiest thing on God’s earth! No innocent person ever
has an alibi! Besides, it all depends on the time of death, or something like that, and you may be sure if three doctors say the girl was killed at midnight, at least six will be found who will swear positively that she was killed at five in the morning—and where’s my alibi then?”
“At any rate, you are able to joke about it.”
“Damned bad taste, isn’t it?” said Mark cheerfully. “Actually, I’m rather scared. One is—with murder! And don’t think I’m not sorry for old Jeff. I am. But it’s better this way—bad as the shock was—than if he’d found her out.”
“What do you mean, found her out?”
Mark winked.
“Where did she go off to last night? I’ll lay you any odds you like she went to meet a man. Jeff wouldn’t have liked that. He wouldn’t have liked it at all. If he’d found she was deceiving him—that she wasn’t the prattling little innocent she seemed—well—my father-in-law is an odd man. He’s a man of great self-control, but that self-control can snap. And then—look out!”
Sir Henry glanced at him curiously.
“Are you fond of him or not?”
“I’m very fond of him—and at the same time I resent him. I’ll try and explain. Conway Jefferson is a man who likes to control his surroundings. He’s a benevolent despot, kind, generous, and affectionate—but his is the tune, and the others dance to his piping.”
Mark Gaskell paused.
“I loved my wife. I shall never feel the same for anyone else. Rosamund was sunshine and laughter and flowers, and when she was killed I felt just like a man in the ring who’s had a knock-out blow. But the referee’s been counting a good long time now. I’m a man, after all. I like women. I don’t want to marry again—not in the least. Well, that’s all right. I’ve had to be discreet—but I’ve had my good times all right. Poor Addie hasn’t. Addie’s a really nice woman. She’s the kind of woman men want to marry, not to sleep with. Give her half a chance and she would marry again—and be very happy and make the chap happy too. But old Jeff saw her always as Frank’s wife—and hypnotized her into seeing herself like that. He doesn’t know it, but we’ve been in prison. I broke out, on the quiet, a long time ago. Addie broke out this summer—and it gave him a shock. It split up his world. Result—Ruby Keene.”
Irrepressibly he sang:
“But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
“Come and have a drink, Clithering.”
It was hardly surprising, Sir Henry reflected, that Mark Gaskell should be an object of suspicion to the police.
Thirteen
I
Dr. Metcalf was one of the best-known physicians in Danemouth. He had no aggressive bedside manner, but his presence in the sick room had an invariably cheering effect. He was middle-aged, with a quiet pleasant voice.
He listened carefully to Superintendent Harper and replied to his questions with gentle precision.
Harper said:
“Then I can take it, Doctor Metcalf, that what I was told by Mrs. Jefferson was substantially correct?”
“Yes, Mr. Jefferson’s health is in a precarious state. For several years now the man has been driving himself ruthlessly. In his determination to live like other men, he has lived at a far greater pace than the normal man of his age. He has refused to rest, to take things easy, to go slow—or any of the other phrases with which I and his other medical advisers have tendered our opinion. The result is that the man is an overworked engine. Heart, lungs, blood pressure—they’re all overstrained.”
“You say Mr. Jefferson has absolutely refused to listen?”
“Yes. I don’t know that I blame him. It’s not what I say to my patients, Superintendent, but a man may as well wear out as rust out. A lot of my colleagues do that, and take it from me it’s not a bad way. In a place like Danemouth one sees most of the other thing: invalids clinging to life, terrified of over-exerting themselves, terrified of a breath of draughty air, of a stray germ, of an injudicious meal!”
“I expect that’s true enough,” said Superintendent Harper. “What it amounts to, then, is this: Conway Jefferson is strong enough, physically speaking—or, I suppose I mean, muscularly speaking. Just what can he do in the active line, by the way?”
“He has immense strength in his arms and shoulders. He was a powerful man before his accident. He is extremely dexterous in his handling of his wheeled chair, and with the aid of crutches he can move himself about a room—from his bed to the chair, for instance.”
“Isn’t it possible for a man injured as Mr. Jefferson was to have artificial legs?”
“Not in his case. There was a spine injury.”
“I see. Let me sum up again. Jefferson is strong and fit in the muscular sense. He feels well and all that?”
Metcalf nodded.
“But his heart is in a bad condition. Any overstrain or exertion, or a shock or a sudden fright, and he might pop off. Is that it?”
“More or less. Over-exertion is killing him slowly, because he won’t give in when he feels tired. That aggravates the cardiac condition. It is unlikely that exertion would kill him suddenly. But a sudden shock or fright might easily do so. That is why I expressly warned his family.”
Superintendent Harper said slowly:
“But in actual fact a shock didn’t kill him. I mean, doctor, that there couldn’t have been a much worse shock than this business, and he’s still alive?”
Dr. Metcalf shrugged his shoulders.
“I know. But if you’d had my experience, Superintendent, you’d know that case history shows the impossibility of prognosticating accurately. People who ought to die of shock and exposure don’t die of shock and exposure, etc., etc. The human frame is tougher than one can imagine possible. Moreover, in my experience, a physical shock is more often fatal than a mental shock. In plain language, a door banging suddenly would be more likely to kill Mr. Jefferson than the discovery that a girl he was fond of had died in a particularly horrible manner.”
“Why is that, I wonder?”
“The breaking of a piece of bad news nearly always sets up a defence reaction. It numbs the recipient. They are unable—at first—to take it in. Full realization takes a little time. But the banged door, someone jumping out of a cupboard, the sudden onslaught of a motor as you cross a road—all those things are immediate in their action. The heart gives a terrified leap—to put it in layman’s language.”
Superintendent Harper said slowly:
“But as far as anyone would know, Mr. Jefferson’s death might easily have been caused by the shock of the girl’s death?”
“Oh, easily.” The doctor looked curiously at the other. “You don’t think—”
“I don’t know what I think,” said Superintendent Harper vexedly.
II
“But you’ll admit, sir, that the two things would fit in very prettily together,” he said a little later to Sir Henry Clithering. “Kill two birds with one stone. First the girl—and the fact of her death takes off Mr. Jefferson too—before he’s had any opportunity of altering his will.”
“Do you think he will alter it?”
“You’d be more likely to know that, sir, than I would. What do you say?”
“I don’t know. Before Ruby Keene came on the scene I happen to know that he had left his money between Mark Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson. I don’t see why he should now change his mind about that. But of course he might do so. Might leave it to a Cats’ Home, or to subsidize young professional dancers.”
Superintendent Harper agreed.
“You never know what bee a man is going to get in his bonnet—especially when he doesn’t feel there’s any moral obligation in the disposal of his fortune. No blood relations in this case.”
Sir Henry said:
“He is fond of the boy—of young Peter.”
“D’you think he regards him as a grandson? You’d know that better than I would, sir.”
Sir Henry said slowly:
“No, I don’t
think so.”
“There’s another thing I’d like to ask you, sir. It’s a thing I can’t judge for myself. But they’re friends of yours and so you’d know. I’d like very much to know just how fond Mr. Jefferson is of Mr. Gaskell and young Mrs. Jefferson.”
Sir Henry frowned.
“I’m not sure if I understand you, Superintendent?”
“Well, it’s this way, sir. How fond is he of them as persons—apart from his relationship to them?”
“Ah, I see what you mean.”
“Yes, sir. Nobody doubts that he was very attached to them both—but he was attached to them, as I see it, because they were, respectively, the husband and the wife of his daughter and his son. But supposing, for instance, one of them had married again?”
Sir Henry reflected. He said:
“It’s an interesting point you raise there. I don’t know. I’m inclined to suspect—this is a mere opinion—that it would have altered his attitude a good deal. He would have wished them well, borne no rancour, but I think, yes, I rather think that he would have taken very little more interest in them.”
“In both cases, sir?”
“I think so, yes. In Mr. Gaskell’s, almost certainly, and I rather think in Mrs. Jefferson’s also, but that’s not nearly so certain. I think he was fond of her for her own sake.”
“Sex would have something to do with that,” said Superintendent Harper sapiently. “Easier for him to look on her as a daughter than to look on Mr. Gaskell as a son. It works both ways. Women accept a son-in-law as one of the family easily enough, but there aren’t many times when a woman looks on her son’s wife as a daughter.”
Superintendent Harper went on:
“Mind if we walk along this path, sir, to the tennis court? I see Miss Marple’s sitting there. I want to ask her to do something for me. As a matter of fact I want to rope you both in.”
“In what way, Superintendent?”
“To get at stuff that I can’t get at myself. I want you to tackle Edwards for me, sir.”
“Edwards? What do you want from him?”
“Everything you can think of! Everything he knows and what he thinks! About the relations between the various members of the family, his angle on the Ruby Keene business. Inside stuff. He knows better than anyone the state of affairs—you bet he does! And he wouldn’t tell me. But he’ll tell you. And something might turn up from it. That is, of course, if you don’t object?”