Nemesis

  Only one more passenger remained for her to appraise, and this was a young man, possibly of about nineteen or twenty. He wore the appropriate clothes for his age and sex; tight black jeans, a polo-necked purple sweater and his head was an outsize rich mop of non-disciplined black hair. He was looking with an air of interest at the bossy woman’s niece, and the bossy woman’s niece also, Miss Marple thought, was looking with some interest at him. In spite of the preponderance of elderly pussies and middle-aged females there were, at any rate, two young people among the passengers.

  They stopped for lunch at a pleasant riverside hotel, and the afternoon sightseeing was given over to Blenheim. Miss Marple had already visited Blenheim twice before, so she saved her feet by limiting the amount of sightseeing indoors and coming fairly soon to the enjoyment of the gardens and the beautiful view.

  By the time they arrived at the hotel where they were to stay the night, the passengers were getting to know each other. The efficient Mrs. Sandbourne, still brisk and unwearied by her duties in directing the sightseeing, did her part very well; creating little groups by adding anyone who looked as if they were left out to one or other of them, murmuring, “You must make Colonel Walker describe his garden to you. Such a wonderful collection of fuchsias he has.” With such little sentences she drew people together.

  Miss Marple was now able to attach names to all the passengers. Bushy eyebrows turned out to be Professor Wanstead, as she had thought, and the foreigner was Mr. Caspar. The bossy woman was Mrs. Riseley-Porter and her niece was called Joanna Crawford. The young man with the hair was Emlyn Price and he and Joanna Crawford appeared to be finding out that certain things in life, such as decided opinions, they had in common, on economics, art, general dislikes, politics and such topics.

  The two eldest pussies graduated naturally to Miss Marple as a kindred elderly pussy. They discussed happily arthritis, rheumatism, diets, new doctors, remedies both professional, patent, and reminiscences of old wives’ treatments which had had success where all else failed. They discussed the many tours they had been on to foreign places in Europe; hotels, travel agencies and finally the County of Somerset where Miss Lumley and Miss Bentham lived, and where the difficulties of getting suitable gardeners could hardly be believed.

  The two middle-aged ladies travelling together turned out to be Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow. Miss Marple still felt that one of these two, the fair one, Miss Cooke, was faintly familiar to her, but she still could not remember where she had seen her before. Probably it was only her fancy. It might also be just fancy but she could not help feeling that Miss Barrow and Miss Cooke appeared to be avoiding her. They seemed rather anxious to move away if she approached. That, of course, might be entirely her imagination.

  Fifteen people, one of whom at least must matter in some way. In casual conversation that evening she introduced the name of Mr. Rafiel, so as to note if anyone reacted in any way. Nobody did.

  The handsome woman was identified as Miss Elizabeth Temple, who was the retired Headmistress of a famous girls’ school. Nobody appeared to Miss Marple likely to be a murderer except possibly Mr. Caspar, and that was probably foreign prejudice. The thin young man was Richard Jameson, an architect.

  “Perhaps I shall do better tomorrow,” said Miss Marple to herself.

  III

  Miss Marple went to bed definitely tired out. Sightseeing was pleasant but exhausting, and trying to study fifteen or sixteen people at once and wondering as you did so which of them could possibly be connected with a murder, was even more exhausting. It had a touch of such unreality about it that one could not, Miss Marple felt, take it seriously. These seemed to be all perfectly nice people, the sort of people who go on cruises and on tours and all the rest of it. However, she took another quick and cursory glance at the passenger list, making a few little entries in her notebook.

  Mrs. Riseley-Porter? Not connected with crime. Too social and self-centred.

  Niece, Joanna Crawford? The same? But very efficient.

  Mrs. Riseley-Porter, however, might have information of some kind which Miss Marple might find had a bearing on matters. She must keep on agreeable terms with Mrs. Riseley-Porter.

  Miss Elizabeth Temple? A personality. Interesting. She did not remind Miss Marple of any murderer she’d ever known. “In fact,” said Miss Marple to herself, “she really radiates integrity. If she had committed a murder, it would be a very popular murder. Perhaps for some noble reason or for some reason that she thought noble?” But that wasn’t satisfactory either. Miss Temple, she thought, would always know what she was doing and why she was doing it and would not have any silly ideas about nobility when merely evil existed. “All the same,” said Miss Marple, “she’s someone and she might—she just might be a person Mr. Rafiel wanted me to meet for some reason.” She jotted down these thoughts on the right-hand side of her notebook.

  She shifted her point of view. She had been considering a possible murderer—what about a prospective victim? Who was a possible victim? No one very likely. Perhaps Mrs. Riseley-Porter might qualify—rich—rather disagreeable. The efficient niece might inherit. She and the anarchistic Emlyn Price might combine in the cause of anticapitalism. Not a very credible idea, but no other feasible murder seemed on offer.

  Professor Wanstead? An interesting man, she was sure. Kindly, too. Was he a scientist or was he medical? She was not as yet sure, but she put him down on the side of science. She herself knew nothing of science, but it seemed not at all unlikely.

  Mr. and Mrs. Butler? She wrote them off. Nice Americans. No connections with anyone in the West Indies or anyone she had known. No, she didn’t think that the Butlers could be relevant.

  Richard Jameson? That was the thin architect. Miss Marple didn’t see how architecture could come into it, though it might, she supposed. A priest’s hole, perhaps? One of the houses they were going to visit might have a priest’s hole which would contain a skeleton. And Mr. Jameson, being an architect, would know just where the priest’s hole was. He might aid her to discover it, or she might aid him to discover it and then they would find a body. “Oh really,” said Miss Marple. “What nonsense I am talking and thinking.”

  Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow? A perfectly ordinary pair. And yet she’d certainly seen one of them before. At least she’d seen Miss Cooke before. Oh well, it would come to her, she supposed.

  Colonel and Mrs. Walker? Nice people. Retired Army folk. Served abroad mostly. Nice to talk to, but she didn’t think there’d be anything for her there.

  Miss Bentham and Miss Lumley? The elderly pussies. Unlikely to be criminals, but, being elderly pussies, they might know plenty of gossip, or have some information, or might make some illuminating remark even if it happened to come about in connection with rheumatism, arthritis or patent medicine.

  Mr. Caspar? Possibly a dangerous character. Very excitable. She would keep him on the list for the present.

  Emlyn Price? A student presumably. Students were very violent. Would Mr. Rafiel have sent her on the track of a student? Well, it would depend perhaps on what the student had done or wished to do or was going to do. A dedicated anarchist, perhaps.

  “Oh dear,” said Miss Marple, suddenly exhausted, “I must go to bed.”

  Her feet ached, her back ached and her mental reactions were not, she thought, at their best. She slept at once. Her sleep was enlivened by several dreams.

  One where Professor Wanstead’s bushy eyebrows fell off because they were not his own eyebrows, but false ones. As she woke again, her first impression was that which so often follows dreams, a belief that the dream in question had solved everything. “Of course,” she thought, “of course!” His eyebrows were false and that solved the whole thing. He was the criminal.

  Sadly, it came to her that nothing was solved. Professor Wanstead’s eyebrows coming off was of no help at all.

  Unfortunately now, she was no longer sleepy. She sat up in bed with some determination.

  She sighed and slipped
on her dressing gown, moved from her bed to an upright chair, took a slightly larger notebook from her suitcase and started work.

  “The project I have undertaken,” she wrote, “is connected certainly with crime of some kind. Mr. Rafiel has distinctly stated that in his letter. He said I had a flair for justice and that necessarily included a flair for crime. So crime is involved, and it is presumably not espionage or fraud or robbery, because such things have never come my way and I have no connection with such things, or knowledge of them, or special skills. What Mr. Rafiel knows of me is only what he knew during the period of time when we were both in St. Honoré. We were connected there with a murder. Murders as reported in the press have never claimed my attention. I have never read books on criminology as a subject or really been interested in such a thing. No, it has just happened that I have found myself in the vicinity of murder rather more often than would seem normal. My attention has been directed to murders involving friends or acquaintances. These curious coincidences of connections with special subjects seem to happen to people in life. One of my aunts, I remember, was on five occasions shipwrecked and a friend of mine was what I believe is officially called accident-prone. I know some of her friends refused to ride in a taxi with her. She had been in four taxi accidents and three car accidents and two railway accidents. Things like this seem to happen to certain people for no appreciable reason. I do not like to write it down but it does appear that murders seem to happen, not to me myself, thank goodness, but seem to happen in my vicinity.”

  Miss Marple paused, changed her position, put a cushion in her back, and continued:

  “I must try to make as logical a survey as I can of this project which I have undertaken. My instructions, or my ‘briefing’ as naval friends of mine put it, are so far quite inadequate. Practically nonexistent. So I must ask myself one clear question. What is all this about? Answer! I do not know. Curious and interesting. An odd way for a man like Mr. Rafiel to go about things, especially when he was a successful business and financial operator. He wants me to guess, to employ my instinct, to observe and to obey such directions as are given to me or are hinted to me.

  “So: Point 1. Direction will be given me. Direction from a dead man. Point 2. What is involved in my problem is justice. Either to set right an injustice or to avenge evil by bringing it to justice. This is in accord with the code word Nemesis given to me by Mr. Rafiel.

  “After explanations of the principle involved, I received my first factual directive. It was arranged by Mr. Rafiel before his death that I was to go on Tour No. 37 of Famous Houses and Gardens. Why? That is what I have to ask myself. Is it for some geographical or territorial reason? A connection or a clue? Some particular famous house? Or something involving some particular garden or landscape connected? This seems unlikely. The more likely explanation lies in the people or one of the people on this particular coach party. None of them is known to me personally, but one of them at least must be connected with the riddle I have to solve. Somebody among our group is connected or concerned with a murder. Somebody has information or a special link with the victim of a crime, or someone personally is himself or herself a murderer. A murderer as yet unsuspected.”

  Miss Marple stopped here suddenly. She nodded her head. She was satisfied now with her analysis so far as it went.

  And so to bed.

  Miss Marple added to her notebook.

  “Here endeth the First Day.”

  Six

  LOVE

  The following morning they visited a small Queen Anne Manor House. The drive there had not been very long or tiring. It was a very charming-looking house and had an interesting history as well as a very beautiful and unusually laid out garden.

  Richard Jameson, the architect, was full of admiration for the structural beauty of the house and being the kind of young man who is fond of hearing his own voice, he slowed down in nearly every room that they went through, pointing out every special moulding of fireplace, and giving historical dates and references. Some of the group, appreciative at first, began to get slightly restive, as the somewhat monotonous lecturing went on. Some of them began to edge carefully away and fall behind the party. The local caretaker, who was in charge, was not himself too pleased at having his occupation usurped by one of the sightseers. He made a few efforts to get matters back into his own hands but Mr. Jameson was unyielding. The caretaker made a last try.

  “In this room, ladies and gentlemen, the White Parlour, folks call it, is where they found a body. A young man it was, stabbed with a dagger, lying on the hearthrug. Way back in seventeen hundred and something it was. It was said that the Lady Moffat of that day had a lover. He came through a small side door and up a steep staircase to this room through a loose panel there was to the left of the fireplace. Sir Richard Moffat, her husband, you see, was said to be across the seas in the Low Countries. But he come home, and in he came unexpectedly and caught ’em there together.”

  He paused proudly. He was pleased at the response from his audience, glad of a respite from the architectural details which they had been having forced down their throats.

  “Why, isn’t that just too romantic, Henry?” said Mrs. Butler in her resonant transatlantic tones. “Why, you know, there’s quite an atmosphere in this room. I feel it. I certainly can feel it.”

  “Mamie is very sensitive to atmospheres,” said her husband proudly to those around him. “Why, once when we were in an old house down in Louisiana….”

  The narrative of Mamie’s special sensitivity got into its swing and Miss Marple and one or two others seized their opportunity to edge gently out of the room and down the exquisitely moulded staircase to the ground floor.

  “A friend of mine,” said Miss Marple to Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow who were next to her, “had a most nerve-racking experience only a few years ago. A dead body on their library floor one morning.”

  “One of the family?” asked Miss Barrow. “An epileptic fit?”

  “Oh no, it was a murder. A strange girl in evening dress. A blonde. But her hair was dyed. She was really a brunette; and—oh …” Miss Marple broke off, her eyes fixed on Miss Cooke’s yellow hair where it escaped from her headscarf.

  It had come to her suddenly. She knew why Miss Cooke’s face was familiar and she knew where she had seen her before. But when she had seen her then, Miss Cooke’s hair had been dark—almost black. And now it was bright yellow.

  Mrs. Riseley-Porter, coming down the stairs, spoke decisively as she pushed past them and completed the staircase and turned into the hall.

  “I really cannot go up and down anymore of those stairs,” she declared, “and standing around in these rooms is very tiring. I believe the gardens here, although not extensive, are quite celebrated in horticultural circles. I suggest we go there without loss of time. It looks as though it might cloud over before long. I think we shall get rain before morning is out.”

  The authority with which Mrs. Riseley-Porter could enforce her remarks had its usual result. All those near at hand or within hearing followed her obediently out through french doors in the dining room into the garden. The gardens had indeed all that Mrs. Riseley-Porter had claimed for them. She herself took possession firmly of Colonel Walker and set off briskly. Some of the others followed them, others took paths in the opposite direction.

  Miss Marple herself made a determined beeline for a garden seat which appeared to be of comfortable proportions as well as of artistic merit. She sank down on it with relief, and a sigh matching her own was emitted by Miss Elizabeth Temple as she followed Miss Marple and came to sit beside her on the seat.

  “Going over houses is always tiring,” said Miss Temple. “The most tiring thing in the world. Especially if you have to listen to an exhaustive lecture in each room.”

  “Of course, all that we were told is very interesting,” said Miss Marple, rather doubtfully.

  “Oh, do you think so?” said Miss Temple. Her head turned slightly and her eyes met those of Miss
Marple. Something passed between the two women, a kind of rapport—of understanding tinged with mirth.

  “Don’t you?” asked Miss Marple.

  “No,” said Miss Temple.

  This time the understanding was definitely established between them. They sat there companionably in silence. Presently Elizabeth Temple began to talk about gardens, and this garden in particular. “It was designed by Holman,” she said, “somewhere about 1800 or 1798. He died young. A pity. He had great genius.”

  “It is so sad when anyone dies young,” said Miss Marple.

  “I wonder,” said Elizabeth Temple.

  She said it in a curious, meditative way.

  “But they miss so much,” said Miss Marple. “So many things.”

  “Or escape so much,” said Miss Temple.

  “Being as old as I am now,” said Miss Marple, “I suppose I can’t help feeling that early death means missing things.”

  “And I,” said Elizabeth Temple, “having spent nearly all my life amongst the young, look at life as a period in time complete in itself. What did T. S. Eliot say: The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew tree are of equal duration.”

  Miss Marple said, “I see what you mean … A life of whatever length is a complete experience. But don’t you—” she hesitated, “—ever feel that a life could be incomplete because it has been cut unduly short?”

  “Yes, that is so.”

  Miss Marple said, looking at the flowers near her, “How beautiful peonies are. That long border of them—so proud and yet so beautifully fragile.”

  Elizabeth Temple turned her head towards her.

  “Did you come on this trip to see the houses or to see gardens?” she asked.

  “I suppose really to see the houses,” said Miss Marple. “I shall enjoy the gardens most, though, but the houses—they will be a new experience for me. Their variety and their history, and the beautiful old furniture and the pictures.” She added: “A kind friend gave me this trip as a gift. I am very grateful. I have not seen very many big and famous houses in my life.”