Nemesis

  She gave a faint, rather whinnying old lady’s laugh.

  “Oh surely!”

  “No, I suppose I ought not to say such things. But you know, really crimes are very interesting. Sometimes the most extraordinary things have happened.”

  “Have you any definite feeling yourself, Miss Marple? I should be interested to hear,” said Clotilde.

  “Well, one does think of possibilities.”

  “Mr. Caspar,” said Miss Cooke. “You know, I didn’t like the look of that man from the first. He looked to me—well, I thought he might have something to do with espionage or something. You know, perhaps come to this country to look for atomic secrets or something.”

  “I don’t think we’ve got any atomic secrets round here,” said Mrs. Glynne.

  “Of course we haven’t,” said Anthea. “Perhaps it was someone who was following her. Perhaps it was someone who was tracking her because she was a criminal of some kind.”

  “Nonsense,” said Clotilde. “She was the Headmistress, retired, of a very well-known school, she was a very fine scholar. Why should anyone be trying to track her down?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. She might have gone peculiar or something.”

  “I’m sure,” said Mrs. Glynne, “that Miss Marple has some ideas.”

  “Well, I have some ideas,” said Miss Marple. “It seems to me that—well, the only people that could be … Oh dear, this is so difficult to say. But I mean there are two people who just spring into one’s mind as possibilities logically. I mean, I don’t think that it’s really so at all because I’m sure they’re both very nice people, but I mean there’s nobody else really logically who could be suspected, should I say.”

  “Who do you mean? This is very interesting.”

  “Well, I don’t think I ought to say such things. It’s only a—sort of wild conjecture.”

  “Who do you think might have rolled the boulder down? Who do you think could have been the person that Joanna and Emlyn Price saw?”

  “Well, what I did think was that—that perhaps they hadn’t seen anybody.”

  “I don’t quite understand,” said Anthea, “they hadn’t seen anybody?”

  “Well, perhaps they might have made it all up.”

  “What—about seeing someone?”

  “Well, it’s possible, isn’t it.”

  “Do you mean as a sort of joke or a sort of unkind idea? What do you mean?”

  “Well, I suppose—one does hear of young people doing very extraordinary things nowadays,” said Miss Marple. “You know, putting things in horses’ eyes, smashing Legation windows and attacking people. Throwing stones, at people, and it’s usually being done by somebody young, isn’t it? And they were the only young people, weren’t they?”

  “You mean Emlyn Price and Joanna might have rolled over that boulder?”

  “Well, they’re the only sort of obvious people, aren’t they?” said Miss Marple.

  “Fancy!” said Clotilde. “Oh, I should never have thought of that. But I see—yes, I just see that there could be something in what you say. Of course, I don’t know what those two were like. I haven’t been travelling with them.”

  “Oh, they were very nice,” said Miss Marple. “Joanna seemed to me a particularly—you know, capable girl.”

  “Capable of doing anything?” asked Anthea.

  “Anthea,” said Clotilde, “do be quiet.”

  “Yes. Quite capable,” said Miss Marple. “After all, if you’re going to do what may result in murder, you’d have to be rather capable so as to manage not to be seen or anything.”

  “They must have been in it together, though,” suggested Miss Barrow.

  “Oh yes,” said Miss Marple. “They were in it together and they told roughly the same story. They are the—well, they are the obvious suspects, that’s all I can say. They were out of sight of the others. All the other people were on the lower path. They could have gone up to the top of the hill, they could have rocked the boulder. Perhaps they didn’t mean to kill Miss Temple specially. They may have meant it just as a—well, just as a piece of anarchy or smashing something or someone—anyone in fact. They rolled it over. And then of course they told the story of seeing someone there. Some rather peculiar costume or other which also sounds very unlikely and—well, I oughtn’t to say these things but I have been thinking about it.”

  “It seems to me a very interesting thought,” said Mrs. Glynne. “What do you think, Clotilde?”

  “I think it’s a possibility. I shouldn’t have thought of it myself.”

  “Well,” said Miss Cooke, rising to her feet, “we must be going back to the Golden Boar now. Are you coming with us, Miss Marple?”

  “Oh no,” said Miss Marple. “I suppose you don’t know. I’ve forgotten to tell you. Miss Bradbury-Scott very kindly asked me to come back and stay another night—or two nights—here.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure that’ll be very nice for you. Much more comfortable. They seem rather a noisy lot that have arrived at the Golden Boar this evening.”

  “Won’t you come round and have some coffee with us after dinner?” suggested Clotilde. “It’s quite a warm evening. We can’t offer you dinner because I’m afraid we haven’t got enough in the house, but if you’ll come in and have some coffee with us….”

  “That would be very nice,” said Miss Cooke. “Yes, we will certainly avail ourselves of your hospitality.”

  Twenty-one

  THE CLOCK STRIKES THREE

  I

  Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow arrived very promptly at 8:45. One wore beige lace and the other one a shade of olive green. During dinner Anthea had asked Miss Marple about these two ladies.

  “It seems very funny of them,” she said, “to want to stay behind.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Miss Marple. “I think it is really quite natural. They have a rather exact plan, I imagine.”

  “What do you mean by a plan?” asked Mrs. Glynne.

  “Well, I should think they are always prepared for various eventualities and have a plan for dealing with them.”

  “Do you mean,” said Anthea, with some interest, “do you mean that they had a plan for dealing with murder?”

  “I wish,” said Mrs. Glynne, “that you wouldn’t talk of poor Miss Temple’s death as murder.”

  “But of course it’s murder,” said Anthea. “All I wonder is who wanted to murder her? I should think probably some pupil of hers at the school who always hated her and had it in for her.”

  “Do you think hate can last as long as that?” asked Miss Marple.

  “Oh, I should think so. I should think you could hate anyone for years.”

  “No,” said Miss Marple, “I think hate would die out. You could try and keep it up artificially, but I think you would fail. It’s not as strong a force as love,” she added.

  “Don’t you think that Miss Cooke or Miss Barrow or both of them might have done the murder?”

  “Why should they?” said Mrs. Glynne. “Really, Anthea! They seemed very nice women to me.”

  “I think there’s something rather mysterious about them,” said Anthea. “Don’t you, Clotilde?”

  “I think perhaps you’re right,” said Clotilde. “They seemed to me to be slightly artificial, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think there’s something very sinister about them,” said Anthea.

  “You’ve got such an imagination always,” said Mrs. Glynne. “Anyway, they were walking along the bottom path, weren’t they? You saw them there, didn’t you?” she said to Miss Marple.

  “I can’t say that I noticed them particularly,” said Miss Marple. “In fact, I had no opportunity of doing so.”

  “You mean—?”

  “She wasn’t there,” said Clotilde. “She was here in our garden.”

  “Oh, of course. I forgot.”

  “A very nice, peaceful day it was,” said Miss Marple. “I enjoyed it very much. Tomorrow morning I would like to go
out and look again at that mass of white flowers coming into bloom at the end of the garden near that raised up mound. It was just beginning to come out the other day. It must be a mass of bloom now. I shall always remember that as part of my visit here, you know.”

  “I hate it,” said Anthea. “I want it taken away. I want to build up a greenhouse again there. Surely if we save enough money we can do that, Clotilde?”

  “We’ll leave that alone,” said Clotilde. “I don’t want that touched. What use is a greenhouse to us now? It would be years before grapes would bear fruit again.”

  “Come,” said Mrs. Glynne, “we can’t go on arguing over that. Let us go into the drawing room. Our guests will be coming shortly for coffee.”

  It was then that the guests had arrived. Clotilde brought in the tray of coffee. She poured out the cups and distributed them. She placed one before each guest and then brought one to Miss Marple. Miss Cooke leaned forward.

  “Oh, do forgive me, Miss Marple, but really, do you know, I shouldn’t drink that if I were you. Coffee, I mean, at this time of night. You won’t sleep properly.”

  “Oh, do you think so?” said Miss Marple. “I am quite used to coffee in the evening.”

  “Yes, but this is very strong, good coffee. I should advise you not to drink it.”

  Miss Marple looked at Miss Cooke. Miss Cooke’s face was very earnest, her fair, unnatural-looking hair flopped over one eye. The other eye blinked slightly.

  “I see what you mean,” said Miss Marple. “Perhaps you are right. You know something, I gather, about diet.”

  “Oh yes, I make quite a study of it. I had some training in nursing, you know, and one thing and another.”

  “Indeed.” Miss Marple pushed the cup away slightly. “I suppose there is no photograph of this girl?” she asked. “Verity Hunt, or whatever her name was? The Archdeacon was talking about her. He seemed to have been very fond of her.”

  “I think he was. He was fond of all young people,” said Clotilde.

  She got up, went across the room and lifted the lid of a desk. From that she brought a photograph and brought it over for Miss Marple to see.

  “That was Verity,” she said.

  “A beautiful face,” said Miss Marple. “Yes, a very beautiful and unusual face. Poor child.”

  “It’s dreadful nowadays,” said Anthea, “these things seem to be happening the whole time. Girls going out with every kind of young man. Nobody taking any trouble to look after them.”

  “They have to look after themselves nowadays,” said Clotilde, “and they’ve no idea of how to do it, heaven help them!”

  She stretched out a hand to take back the photograph from Miss Marple. As she did so her sleeve caught the coffee cup and knocked it to the floor.

  “Oh dear!” said Miss Marple. “Was that my fault? Did I jog your arm?”

  “No,” said Clotilde, “it was my sleeve. It’s rather a floating sleeve. Perhaps you would like some hot milk, if you are afraid to take coffee?”

  “That would be very kind,” said Miss Marple. “A glass of hot milk when I go to bed would be very soothing indeed, and always gives one a good night.”

  After a little more desultory conversation, Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow took their departure. A rather fussy departure in which first one and then the other came back to collect some article they’d left behind. A scarf, a handbag and a pocket handkerchief.

  “Fuss, fuss, fuss,” said Anthea, when they had departed.

  “Somehow,” said Mrs. Glynne, “I agree with Clotilde that those two don’t seem real, if you know what I mean,” she said to Miss Marple.

  “Yes,” said Miss Marple, “I do rather agree with you. They don’t seem very real. I have wondered about them a good deal. Wondered, I mean, why they came on this tour and if they were really enjoying it. And what was their reason for coming.”

  “And have you discovered the answers to all those things?” asked Clotilde.

  “I think so,” said Miss Marple. She sighed. “I’ve discovered the answers to a lot of things,” she said.

  “Up to now I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself,” said Clotilde.

  “I am glad to have left the tour now,” said Miss Marple. “I don’t think I should have enjoyed much more of it.”

  “No. I can quite understand that.”

  Clotilde fetched a glass of hot milk from the kitchen and accompanied Miss Marple up to her room.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked. “Anything at all?”

  “No, thank you,” said Miss Marple. “I have everything I want. I have my little night bag here, you see, so I need not do anymore unpacking. Thank you,” she said, “it is very kind of you and your sisters to put me up again tonight.”

  “Well, we couldn’t do much less, having had Mr. Rafiel’s letter. He was a very thoughtful man.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Marple, “the kind of man who—well, thinks of everything. A good brain, I should think.”

  “I believe he was a very noted financier.”

  “Financially and otherwise, he thought of a lot of things,” said Miss Marple. “Oh well, I shall be glad to get to bed. Good night, Miss Bradbury-Scott.”

  “Shall I send you breakfast up in the morning, you’d like to have it in bed?”

  “No, no, I wouldn’t put you out for the world. No, no, I would rather come down. A cup of tea, perhaps, would be very nice, but I want to go out in the garden. I particularly want to see that mound all covered with white flowers, so beautiful and so triumphant—”

  “Good night,” said Clotilde, “sleep well.”

  II

  In the hall of The Old Manor House the grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs struck two o’clock. The clocks in the house did not all strike in unison and some of them, indeed, did not strike at all. To keep a house full of antique clocks in working order was not easy. At three o’clock the clock on the first floor landing struck a soft-chimed three o’clock. A faint chink of light showed through the hinge of the door.

  Miss Marple sat up in bed and put her fingers on the switch of the electric lamp by her bed. The door opened very softly. There was no light outside now but the soft footstep came through the door into the room. Miss Marple switched the light on.

  “Oh,” she said, “it’s you, Miss Bradbury-Scott. Is there anything special?”

  “I just came to see if you wanted anything,” said Miss Bradbury-Scott.

  Miss Marple looked at her. Clotilde had on a long purple robe. What a handsome woman she was, thought Miss Marple. Her hair framing her forehead, a tragic figure, a figure of drama. Again Miss Marple thought of Greek plays. Clytemnestra again.

  “You’re sure there is nothing I can bring you?”

  “No, thank you,” said Miss Marple. “I’m afraid,” she said apologetically, “that I have not drunk my milk.”

  “Oh dear, why not?”

  “I did not think it would be very good for me,” said Miss Marple.

  Clotilde stood there, at the foot of the bed, looking at her.

  “Not wholesome, you know,” said Miss Marple.

  “Just what do you mean by that?” Clotilde’s voice was harsh now.

  “I think you know what I mean,” said Miss Marple. “I think you’ve known all the evening. Perhaps before that.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “No?” There was a faint satirical note to the questioning monosyllable.

  “I am afraid the milk is cold now. I will take it away and get you some hot.”

  Clotilde stretched out a hand and took the glass of milk from the bedside.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” said Miss Marple. “Even if you brought it me, I should not drink it.”

  “I really cannot understand the point of what you’re saying. Really,” said Clotilde, looking at her. “What a very extraordinary person you are. What sort of a woman are you? Why are you talking like this? Who are you?”

  Miss Marple pu
lled down the mass of pink wool that encircled her head, a pink wool scarf of the same kind that she had once worn in the West Indies.

  “One of my names,” she said, “is Nemesis.”

  “Nemesis? And what does that mean?”

  “I think you know,” said Miss Marple. “You are a very well educated woman. Nemesis is long delayed sometimes, but it comes in the end.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “About a very beautiful girl whom you killed,” said Miss Marple.

  “Whom I killed? What do you mean?”

  “I mean the girl Verity.”

  “And why should I kill her?”

  “Because you loved her,” said Miss Marple.

  “Of course I loved her. I was devoted to her. And she loved me.”

  “Somebody said to me not very long ago that love was a very frightening word. It is a frightening word. You loved Verity too much. She meant everything in the world to you. She was devoted to you until something else came into her life. A different kind of love came into her life. She fell in love with a boy, a young man. Not a very suitable one, not a very good specimen, not anyone with a good record, but she loved him and he loved her and she wanted to escape. To escape from the burden of the bondage of love she was living in with you. She wanted a normal woman’s life. To live with the man of her choice, to have children by him. She wanted marriage and the happiness of normality.”

  Clotilde moved. She came to a chair and sat down in it, staring at Miss Marple.

  “So,” she said, “you seem to understand very well.”

  “Yes, I do understand.”

  “What you say is quite true. I shan’t deny it. It doesn’t matter if I do or do not deny it.”

  “No,” said Miss Marple, “you are quite right there. It will not matter.”

  “Do you know at all—can you imagine—how I have suffered?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Marple, “I can imagine it. I’ve always been able to imagine things.”

  “Did you imagine the agony, the agony of thinking, of knowing you are going to lose the thing you love best in the world. And I was losing it to a miserable, depraved delinquent. A man unworthy of my beautiful, splendid girl. I had to stop it. I had to—I had to.”