Ten

I
The next week, I think, was one of the queerest times I have ever passedthrough. It had an odd dream quality. Nothing seemed real.

The inquest on Agnes Woddell was held and the curious of Lymstock at-tended en masse. No new facts came to light and the only possible verdictwas returned, “Murder by person or persons unknown.”

So poor little Agnes Woddell, having had her hour of limelight, was dulyburied in the quiet old churchyard and life in Lymstock went on as before.

No, that last statement is untrue. Not as before….

There was a half- scared, half- avid gleam in almost everybody’s eye.

Neighbour looked at neighbour. One thing had been brought out clearly atthe inquest—it was most unlikely that any stranger had killed Agnes Wod-dell. No tramps nor unknown men had been noticed or reported in thedistrict. Somewhere, then, in Lymstock, walking down the High Street,shopping, passing the time of day, was a person who had cracked a de-fenceless girl’s skull and driven a sharp skewer home to her brain.

And no one knew who that person was.

As I say, the days went by in a kind of dream. I looked at everyone I metin a new light, the light of a possible murderer. It was not an agreeablesensation!

And in the evenings, with the curtain drawn, Joanna and I sat talking,talking, arguing, going over in turn all the various possibilities that stillseemed so fantastic and incredible.

Joanna held firm to her theory of Mr. Pye. I, after wavering a little, hadgone back to my original suspect, Miss Ginch. But we went over the pos-sible names again and again.

Mr. Pye?

Miss Ginch?

Mrs. Dane Calthrop?

Aimée Griffith?

Emily Barton?

Partridge?

And all the time, nervously, apprehensively, we waited for something tohappen.

But nothing did happen. Nobody, so far as we knew, received anymoreletters. Nash made periodic appearances in the town but what he was do-ing and what traps the police were setting, I had no idea. Graves had goneagain.

Emily Barton came to tea. Megan came to lunch. Owen Griffith wentabout his practice. We went and drank sherry with Mr. Pye. And we wentto tea at the vicarage.

I was glad to find Mrs. Dane Calthrop displayed none of the militant fe-rocity she had shown on the occasion of our last meeting. I think she hadforgotten all about it.

She seemed now principally concerned with the destruction of whitebutterflies so as to preserve cauliflower and cabbage plants.

Our afternoon at the vicarage was really one of the most peaceful wehad spent. It was an attractive old house and had a big shabby comfort-able drawing room with faded rose cretonne. The Dane Calthrops had aguest staying with them, an amiable elderly lady who was knitting some-thing with white fleecy wool. We had very good hot scones for tea, thevicar came in, and beamed placidly on us whilst he pursued his gentleerudite conversation. It was very pleasant.

I don’t mean that we got away from the topic of the murder, because wedidn’t.

Miss Marple, the guest, was naturally thrilled by the subject. As she saidapologetically: “We have so little to talk about in the country!” She hadmade-up her mind that the dead girl must have been just like her Edith.

“Such a nice little maid, and so willing, but sometimes just a little slow totake in things.”

Miss Marple also had a cousin whose niece’s sister-in-law had had agreat deal of annoyance and trouble over some anonymous letters, so theletters, also, were very interesting to the charming old lady.

“But tell me, dear,” she said to Mrs. Dane Calthrop, “what do the villagepeople—I mean the townspeople—say? What do they think?”

“Mrs. Cleat still, I suppose,” said Joanna.

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. “Not now.”

Miss Marple asked who Mrs. Cleat was.

Joanna said she was the village witch.

“That’s right, isn’t it, Mrs. Dane Calthrop?”

The vicar murmured a long Latin quotation about, I think, the evilpower of witches, to which we all listened in respectful and uncompre-hending silence.

“She’s a very silly woman,” said his wife. “Likes to show off. Goes out togather herbs and things at the full of the moon and takes care that every-body in the place knows about it.”

“And silly girls go and consult her, I suppose?” said Miss Marple.

I saw the vicar getting ready to unload more Latin on us and I askedhastily: “But why shouldn’t people suspect her of the murder now? Theythought the letters were her doing.”

Miss Marple said: “Oh! But the girl was killed with a skewer, so I hear—(very unpleasant!). Well, naturally, that takes all suspicion away from thisMrs. Cleat. Because, you see, she could ill-wish her, so that the girl wouldwaste away and die from natural causes.”

“Strange how the old beliefs linger,” said the vicar. “In early Christiantimes, local superstitions were wisely incorporated with Christian doc-trines and their more unpleasant attributes gradually eliminated.”

“It isn’t superstition we’ve got to deal with here,” said Mrs. Dane Cal-throp, “but facts.”

“And very unpleasant facts,” I said.

“As you say, Mr. Burton,” said Miss Marple. “Now you—excuse me if Iam being too personal—are a stranger here, and have a knowledge of theworld and of various aspects of life. It seems to me that you ought to beable to find a solution to this distasteful problem.”

I smiled. “The best solution I have had was a dream. In my dream it allfitted in and panned out beautifully. Unfortunately when I woke up thewhole thing was nonsense!”

“How interesting, though. Do tell me how the nonsense went!”

“Oh, it all started with the silly phrase ‘No smoke without fire.’ Peoplehave been saying that ad nauseam. And then I got it mixed up with warterms. Smoke screens, scrap of paper, telephone messages— No, that wasanother dream.”

“And what was that dream?”

The old lady was so eager about it, that I felt sure she was a secretreader of Napoleon’s Book of Dreams, which had been the great standbyof my old nurse.

“Oh! only Elsie Holland — the Symmingtons’ nursery governess, youknow, was getting married to Dr. Griffith and the vicar here was readingthe service in Latin—(‘Very appropriate, dear,’ murmured Mrs. Dane Cal-throp to her spouse) and then Mrs. Dane Calthrop got up and forbade thebanns and said it had got to be stopped!

“But that part,” I added with a smile, “was true. I woke up and foundyou standing over me saying it.”

“And I was quite right,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop—but quite mildly, I wasglad to note.

“But where did a telephone message come in?” asked Miss Marple,crinkling her brows.

“I’m afraid I’m being rather stupid. That wasn’t in the dream. It was justbefore it. I came through the hall and noticed Joanna had written down amessage to be given to someone if they rang up….”

Miss Marple leaned forward. There was a pink spot in each cheek. “Willyou think me very inquisitive and very rude if I ask just what that messagewas?” She cast a glance at Joanna. “I do apologize, my dear.”

Joanna, however, was highly entertained.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she assured the old lady. “I can’t remember anythingabout it myself, but perhaps Jerry can. It must have been something quitetrivial.”

Solemnly I repeated the message as best I could remember it, enorm-ously tickled at the old lady’s rapt attention.

I was afraid the actual words were going to disappoint her, but perhapsshe had some sentimental idea of a romance, for she nodded her head andsmiled and seemed pleased.

“I see,” she said. “I thought it might be something like that.”

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said sharply: “Like what, Jane?”

“Something quite ordinary,” said Miss Marple.

She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment or two, then she said unex-pectedly:

“I can see you are a very clever young man—but not quite enough con-fidence in yourself. You ought to have!”

Joanna gave a loud hoot.

“For goodness’ sake don’t encourage him to feel like that. He thinksquite enough of himself as it is.”

“Be quiet, Joanna,” I said. “Miss Marple understands me.”

Miss Marple had resumed her fleecy knitting. “You know,” she observedpensively. “To commit a successful murder must be very much like bring-ing off a conjuring trick.”

“The quickness of the hand deceives the eye?”

“Not only that. You’ve got to make people look at the wrong thing and inthe wrong place—Misdirection, they call it, I believe.”

“Well,” I remarked. “So far everybody seems to have looked in thewrong place for our lunatic at large.”

“I should be inclined, myself,” said Miss Marple, “to look for somebodyvery sane.”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “That’s what Nash said. I remember hestressed respectability too.”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Marple. “That’s very important.”

Well, we all seemed agreed.

I addressed Mrs. Calthrop. “Nash thinks,” I said, “that there will be moreanonymous letters. What do you think?”

She said slowly: “There may be, I suppose.”

“If the police think that, there will have to be, no doubt,” said MissMarple.

I went on doggedly to Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

“Are you still sorry for the writer?”

She flushed. “Why not?”

“I don’t think I agree with you, dear,” said Miss Marple. “Not in thiscase.”

I said hotly: “They’ve driven one woman to suicide, and caused untoldmisery and heartburnings!”

“Have you had one, Miss Burton?” asked Miss Marple of Joanna.

Joanna gurgled, “Oh yes! It said the most frightful things.”

“I’m afraid,” said Miss Marple, “that the people who are young andpretty are apt to be singled out by the writer.”

“That’s why I certainly think it’s odd that Elsie Holland hasn’t had any,”

I said.

“Let me see,” said Miss Marple. “Is that the Symmingtons’ nursery gov-erness—the one you dreamt about, Mr. Burton?”

“Yes.”

“She’s probably had one and won’t say so,” said Joanna.

“No,” I said, “I believe her. So does Nash.”

“Dear me,” said Miss Marple. “Now that’s very interesting. That’s themost interesting thing I’ve heard yet.”