Chapter Twenty-Eight
I
Miss Marple smoothed over the top of her suitcase, tucked in an end of
woolly shawl and shut the lid down. She looked round her bedroom. No,
she had left nothing behind. Crump came in to fetch down her luggage.
Miss Marple went into the next room to say goodbye to Miss Ramsbottom.
“I’m afraid,” said Miss Marple, “that I’ve made a very poor return for
your hospitality. I hope you will be able to forgive me someday.”
“Hah,” said Miss Ramsbottom.
She was as usual playing patience.
“Black
knave1, red queen,” she observed, then she
darted2 a shrewd, side-
ways glance at Miss Marple. “You found out what you wanted to, I sup-
pose,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And I suppose you’ve told that police
inspector3 all about it? Will he be
able to prove a case?”
“I’m almost sure he will,” said Miss Marple. “It may take a little time.”
“I’m not asking you any questions,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “You’re a
shrewd woman. I knew that as soon as I saw you. I don’t blame you for
what you’ve done. Wickedness is wickedness and has got to be punished.
There’s a bad
streak4 in this family. It didn’t come from our side, I’m thank-
ful to say. Elvira, my sister, was a fool. Nothing worse.
“Black knave,” repeated Miss Ramsbottom, fingering the card. “Hand-
some, but a black heart. Yes, I was afraid of it. Ah, well, you can’t always
help loving a sinner. The boy always had a way with him. Even got round
me … Told a lie about the time he left me that day. I didn’t contradict him,
but I wondered … I’ve wondered ever since. But he was Elvira’s boy—I
couldn’t bring myself to say anything. Ah well, you’re a righteous woman,
Jane Marple, and right must prevail. I’m sorry for his wife, though.”
“So am I,” said Miss Marple.
In the hall Pat Fortescue was waiting to say good-bye.
“I wish you weren’t going,” she said. “I shall miss you.”
“It’s time for me to go,” said Miss Marple. “I’ve finished what I came
here to do. It hasn’t been—altogether pleasant. But it’s important, you
know, that wickedness shouldn’t triumph.”
Pat looked puzzled.
“I don’t understand.”
“No, my dear. But perhaps you will, someday. If I might venture to ad-
vise, if anything ever—goes wrong in your life—I think the happiest thing
for you would be to go back to where you were happy as a child. Go back
to Ireland, my dear. Horses and dogs. All that.”
Pat nodded.
“Sometimes I wish I’d done just that when Freddy died. But if I had”—
her voice changed and softened—“I’d never have met Lance.”
Miss Marple sighed.
“We’re not staying here, you know,” said Pat. “We’re going back to East
Africa as soon as everything’s cleared up. I’m so glad.”
“God bless you, dear child,” said Miss Marple. “One needs a great deal of
courage to get through life. I think you have it.”
She patted the girl’s hand and, releasing it, went through the front door
to the waiting taxi.
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