Ten
I
Miss Marple, sitting
erect1 against a background of china dogs and presents
from Margate, smiled approvingly at
Inspector2 Dermot Craddock.
“I’m so glad,” she said, “that you have been assigned to the case. I hoped
you would be.”
“When I got your letter,” said Craddock, “I took it straight to the A.C. As
it happened he had just heard from the Brackhampton people calling us
in. They seemed to think it wasn’t a local crime. The A.C. was very interes-
ted3 in what I had to tell him about you. He’d heard about you, I gather,
from my godfather.”
“Dear Sir Henry,” murmured Miss Marple affectionately.
“He got me to tell him all about the Little Paddocks business. Do you
want to hear what he said next?”
“Please tell me if it is not a
breach4 of confidence.”
“He said, ‘Well, as this seems a completely cockeyed business, all
thought up by a couple of old ladies who’ve turned out, against all probab-
ility, to be right, and since you already know one of these old ladies, I’m
sending you down on the case.’ So here I am! And now, my dear Miss
Marple, where do we go from here? This is not, as you probably appreci-
ate, an official visit. I haven’t got my henchmen with me. I thought you
and I might take down our back hair together first.”
Miss Marple smiled at him.
“I’m sure,” she said, “that no one who only knows you officially would
ever guess that you could be so human, and better-looking than ever—
don’t blush… Now, what, exactly, have you been told so far?”
“I’ve got everything, I think. Your friend, Mrs. McGillicuddy’s original
the ticket collector, and also the note to the stationmaster at Brackhamp-
ton. I may say that all the proper
inquiries7 were made by the people con-
cerned—the railway people and the police. But there’s no doubt that you
outsmarted them all by a most fantastic process of guesswork.”
“Not guesswork,” said Miss Marple. “And I had a great advantage. I knew
Elspeth McGillicuddy. Nobody else did. There was no obvious confirma-
tion of her story, and if there was no question of any woman being repor-
ted missing, then quite naturally they would think it was just an elderly
lady imagining things—as elderly ladies often do—but not Elspeth McGil-
licuddy.”
“Not Elspeth McGillicuddy,” agreed the inspector. “I’m looking forward
to meeting her, you know. I wish she hadn’t gone to Ceylon. We’re arran-
ging for her to be interviewed there, by the way.”
“My own process of reasoning was not really original,” said Miss
Marple. “It’s all in Mark Twain. The boy who found the horse. He just ima-
gined where he would go if he were a horse and he went there and there
was the horse.”
“You imagined what you’d do if you were a cruel and cold-blooded mur-
derer?” said Craddock looking thoughtfully at Miss Marple’s pink and
white elderly fragility. “Really, your mind—”
“Like a sink, my nephew Raymond used to say,” Miss Marple agreed,
nodding her head briskly. “But as I always told him, sinks are necessary
domestic equipment and actually very hygienic.”
“Can you go a little further still, put yourself in the murderer’s place,
and tell me just where he is now?”
Miss Marple sighed.
“I wish I could. I’ve no idea—no idea at all. But he must be someone who
has lived in, or knows all about, Rutherford Hall.”
“I agree. But that opens up a very wide field. Quite a succession of daily
women have worked there. There’s the Women’s Institute—and the A.R.P.
Wardens9 before them. They all know the Long Barn and the sarcophagus
and where the key was kept. The whole setup there is widely known loc-
ally. Anybody living round about might hit on it as a good spot for his pur-
pose.”
“Yes, indeed. I quite understand your difficulties.”
Craddock said: “We’ll never get anywhere until we identify the body.”
“And that, too, may be difficult?”
“Oh, we’ll get there—in the end. We’re checking up on all the reported
outstanding who fits the bill. The M.O. puts her down as about thirty-five,
healthy, probably a married woman, has had at least one child. Her fur
coat is a cheap one purchased at a London store. Hundreds of such coats
were sold in the last three months, about sixty per cent of them to blonde
women. No sales girl can recognize the photograph of the dead woman, or
is likely to if the purchase were made just before Christmas. Her other
clothes seem mainly of foreign manufacture mostly purchased in Paris.
There are no English laundry marks. We’ve communicated with Paris and
they are checking up there for us. Sooner or later, of course, someone will
come forward with a missing relative or
lodger11. It’s just a matter of time.”
“The compact wasn’t any help?”
“Unfortunately, no. It’s a type sold by the hundred in the
Rue8 de Rivoli,
quite cheap. By the way, you ought to have turned that over to the police
at once, you know—or rather Miss Eyelesbarrow should have done so.”
Miss Marple shook her head.
“But at that moment there wasn’t any question of a crime having been
committed,” she
pointed12 out. “If a young lady, practising golf shots, picks
up an old compact of no particular value in the long grass, surely she
doesn’t rush straight off to the police with it?” Miss Marple paused, and
then added firmly: “I thought it much wiser to find the body first.”
“You don’t seem ever to have had any doubts but that it would be
found?”
“I was sure it would. Lucy Eyelesbarrow is a most efficient and intelli-
gent person.”
“I’ll say she is! She scares the life out of me, she’s so
devastatingly14 effi-
cient! No man will ever dare marry that girl.”
“Now you know, I wouldn’t say that… It would have to be a special type
of man, of course.” Miss Marple brooded on this thought a moment. “How
is she getting on at Rutherford Hall?”
“They’re completely dependent on her as far as I can see. Eating out of
her hand —
literally15 as you might say. By the way, they know nothing
about her connection with you. We’ve kept that dark.”
“She has no connection now with me. She has done what I asked her to
do.”
“So she could hand in her notice and go if she wanted to?”
“Yes.”
“But she stops on. Why?”
“She has not mentioned her reasons to me. She is a very intelligent girl. I
suspect that she has become interested.”
“In the problem? Or in the family?”
“It may be,” said Miss Marple, “that it is rather difficult to separate the
two.”
Craddock looked hard at her.
“Oh, no—oh, dear me, no.”
“Have you got anything particular in mind?”
“I think you have.”
Miss Marple shook her head.
Dermot Craddock sighed. “So all I can do is to ‘prosecute my inquiries’—
to put it in
jargon16. A policeman’s life is a dull one!”
“You’ll get results, I’m sure.”
“Any ideas for me? More inspired guesswork?”
“I was thinking of things like
theatrical17 companies,” said Miss Marple
rather
vaguely18. “Touring from place to place and perhaps not many home
ties. One of those young women would be much less likely to be missed.”
“Yes. Perhaps you’ve got something there. We’ll pay special attention to
that angle.” He added, “What are you smiling about?”
“I was just thinking,” said Miss Marple, “of Elspeth McGillicuddy’s face
when she hears we’ve found the body!”
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