Eight

ISir Henry Clithering, as he passed through the lounge of the Majestic,hardly glanced at its occupants. His mind was preoccupied. Nevertheless,as is the way of life, something registered in his subconscious. It waited itstime patiently.

Sir Henry was wondering as he went upstairs just what had induced thesudden urgency of his friend’s message. Conway Jefferson was not thetype of man who sent urgent summonses to anyone. Something quite outof the usual must have occurred, decided Sir Henry.

Jefferson wasted no time in beating about the bush. He said:

“Glad you’ve come. Edwards, get Sir Henry a drink. Sit down, man.

You’ve not heard anything, I suppose? Nothing in the papers yet?”

Sir Henry shook his head, his curiosity aroused.

“What’s the matter?”

“Murder’s the matter. I’m concerned in it and so are your friends theBantrys.”

“Arthur and Dolly Bantry?” Clithering sounded incredulous.

“Yes, you see, the body was found in their house.”

Clearly and succinctly, Conway Jefferson ran through the facts. SirHenry listened without interrupting. Both men were accustomed to grasp-ing the gist of a matter. Sir Henry, during his term as Commissioner of theMetropolitan Police, had been renowned for his quick grip on essentials.

“It’s an extraordinary business,” he commented when the other had fin-ished. “How do the Bantrys come into it, do you think?”

“That’s what worries me. You see, Henry, it looks to me as though pos-sibly the fact that I know them might have a bearing on the case. That’sthe only connection I can find. Neither of them, I gather, ever saw the girlbefore. That’s what they say, and there’s no reason to disbelieve them. It’smost unlikely they should know her. Then isn’t it possible that she was de-coyed away and her body deliberately left in the house of friends ofmine?”

Clithering said:

“I think that’s far-fetched.”

“It’s possible, though,” persisted the other.

“Yes, but unlikely. What do you want me to do?”

Conway Jefferson said bitterly:

“I’m an invalid. I disguise the fact—refuse to face it—but now it comeshome to me. I can’t go about as I’d like to, asking questions, looking intothings. I’ve got to stay here meekly grateful for such scraps of informationas the police are kind enough to dole out to me. Do you happen to knowMelchett, by the way, the Chief Constable of Radfordshire?”

“Yes, I’ve met him.”

Something stirred in Sir Henry’s brain. A face and figure noted unsee-ingly as he passed through the lounge. A straight-backed old lady whoseface was familiar. It linked up with the last time he had seen Melchett.

He said:

“Do you mean you want me to be a kind of amateur sleuth? That’s notmy line.”

Jefferson said:

“You’re not an amateur, that’s just it.”

“I’m not a professional anymore. I’m on the retired list now.”

Jefferson said: “That simplifies matters.”

“You mean that if I were still at Scotland Yard I couldn’t butt in? That’sperfectly true.”

“As it is,” said Jefferson, “your experience qualifies you to take an in-terest in the case, and any cooperation you offer will be welcomed.”

Clithering said slowly:

“Etiquette permits, I agree. But what do you really want, Conway? Tofind out who killed this girl?”

“Just that.”

“You’ve no idea yourself?”

“None whatever.”

Sir Henry said slowly:

“You probably won’t believe me, but you’ve got an expert at solvingmysteries sitting downstairs in the lounge at this minute. Someone who’sbetter than I am at it, and who in all probability may have some localdope.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Downstairs in the lounge, by the third pillar from the left, there sits anold lady with a sweet, placid spinsterish face, and a mind that hasplumbed the depths of human iniquity and taken it as all in the day’swork. Her name’s Miss Marple. She comes from the village of St. MaryMead, which is a mile and a half from Gossington, she’s a friend of theBantrys—and where crime is concerned she’s the goods, Conway.”

Jefferson stared at him with thick, puckered brows. He said heavily:

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. You spoke of Melchett just now. The last time I sawMelchett there was a village tragedy. Girl supposed to have drowned her-self. Police quite rightly suspected that it wasn’t suicide, but murder. Theythought they knew who did it. Along to me comes old Miss Marple, flutter-ing and dithering. She’s afraid, she says, they’ll hang the wrong person.

She’s got no evidence, but she knows who did do it. Hands me a piece ofpaper with a name written on it. And, by God, Jefferson, she was right!”

Conway Jefferson’s brows came down lower than ever. He grunted dis-believingly:

“Woman’s intuition, I suppose,” he said sceptically.

“No, she doesn’t call it that. Specialized knowledge is her claim.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Well, you know, Jefferson, we use it in police work. We get a burglaryand we usually know pretty well who did it—of the regular crowd, that is.

We know the sort of burglar who acts in a particular sort of way. MissMarple has an interesting, though occasionally trivial, series of parallelsfrom village life.”

Jefferson said sceptically:

“What is she likely to know about a girl who’s been brought up in a the-atrical milieu and probably never been in a village in her life?”

“I think,” said Sir Henry Clithering firmly, “that she might have ideas.”