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THE COMPANION
“Now, Dr. Lloyd,” said Miss Helier. “Don’t you know any creepy stories?”
She smiled at him—the smile that nightly bewitched the theatre-going
public. Jane Helier was sometimes called the most beautiful woman in
England, and jealous members of her own profession were in the habit of
saying to each other: “Of course Jane’s not an artist. She can’t act—if you
know what I mean. It’s those eyes!”
elderly bachelor doctor who, for the last five years, had ministered to the
With an unconscious gesture, the doctor pulled down his waistcoat (in-
clined of late to be uncomfortably tight) and racked his brains hastily, so
as not to disappoint the lovely creature who addressed him so confidently.
“I feel,” said Jane dreamily, “that I would like to wallow in crime this
evening.”
“Splendid,” said Colonel Bantry, her host. “Splendid, splendid.” And he
His wife, hastily recalled to the exigencies5 of social life (she had been
planning her spring border) agreed enthusiastically.
so.”
“Did you, my dear?” said old Miss Marple, and her eyes twinkled a little.
“We don’t get much in the creepy line—and still less in the criminal line
—in St. Mary Mead, you know, Miss Helier,” said Dr. Lloyd.
“You surprise me,” said Sir Henry Clithering. The ex-Commissioner of
Scotland Yard turned to Miss Marple. “I always understood from our
“Oh, Sir Henry!” protested Miss Marple, a spot of colour coming into her
cheeks. “I’m sure I never said anything of the kind. The only thing I ever
said was that human nature is much the same in a village as anywhere
else, only one has opportunities and leisure for seeing it at closer quar-
ters.”
“But you haven’t always lived here,” said Jane Helier, still addressing the
doctor. “You’ve been in all sorts of queer places all over the world—places
where things happen!”
“That is so, of course,” said Dr. Lloyd, still thinking desperately10. “Yes, of
course . . . Yes. . . Ah! I have it!”
He sank back with a sigh of relief.
“It is some years ago now—I had almost forgotten. But the facts were
really very strange—very strange indeed. And the final coincidence which
put the clue into my hand was strange also.”
and waited expectantly. The others also turned interested faces towards
him.
“I don’t know whether any of you know the Canary Islands,” began the
doctor.
“They must be wonderful,” said Jane Helier. “They’re in the South Seas,
aren’t they? Or is it the Mediterranean13?”
“I’ve called in there on my way to South Africa,” said the Colonel. “The
Peak of Tenerife is a fine sight with the setting sun on it.”
“The incident I am describing happened in the island of Grand Canary,
health and was forced to give up my practice in England and go abroad. I
practised in Las Palmas, which is the principal town of Grand Canary. In
many ways I enjoyed the life out there very much. The climate was mild
and sunny, there was excellent surf bathing (and I am an enthusiastic
bather) and the sea life of the port attracted me. Ships from all over the
far more interested than any member of the fair sex could be in a street of
hat shops.
“As I say, ships from all over the world put in at Las Palmas. Sometimes
they stay a few hours, sometimes a day or two. In the principal hotel
there, the Metropole, you will see people of all races and nationalities—
birds of passage. Even the people going to Tenerife usually come here and
stay a few days before crossing to the other island.
“My story begins there, in the Metropole Hotel, one Thursday evening in
January. There was a dance going on and I and a friend had been sitting at
a small table watching the scene. There were a fair sprinkling of English
and other nationalities, but the majority of the dancers were Spanish; and
when the orchestra struck up a tango, only half a dozen couples of the lat-
ter nationality took the floor. They all danced well and we looked on and
admired. One woman in particular excited our lively admiration17. Tall,
ess. There was something dangerous about her. I said as much to my
friend and he agreed.
“‘Women like that,’ he said, ‘are bound to have a history. Life will not
pass them by.’
“‘Beauty is perhaps a dangerous possession,’ I said.
“‘It’s not only beauty,’ he insisted. ‘There is something else. Look at her
again. Things are bound to happen to that woman, or because of her. As I
said, life will not pass her by. Strange and exciting events will surround
her. You’ve only got to look at her to know it.’
“He paused and then added with a smile:
“‘Just as you’ve only got to look at those two women over there, and
know that nothing out of the way could ever happen to either of them!
They are made for a safe and uneventful existence.’
“I followed his eyes. The two women he referred to were travellers who
had just arrived—a Holland Lloyd boat had put into port that evening, and
the passengers were just beginning to arrive.
“As I looked at them I saw at once what my friend meant. They were
two English ladies—the thoroughly19 nice travelling English that you do find
abroad. Their ages, I should say, were round about forty. One was fair and
a little—just a little—too plump; the other was dark and a little—again just
a little—inclined to scragginess. They were what is called well-preserved,
quietly and inconspicuously dressed in well-cut tweeds, and innocent of
birthright of well- bred Englishwomen. There was nothing remarkable21
about either of them. They were like thousands of their sisters. They
would doubtless see what they wished to see, assisted by Baedeker, and be
blind to everything else. They would use the English library and attend the
English Church in any place they happened to be, and it was quite likely
exciting or remarkable would ever happen to either of them, though they
might quite likely travel half over the world. I looked from them back to
our sinuous Spanish woman with her half-closed smouldering eyes and I
smiled.”
“Poor things,” said Jane Helier with a sigh. “But I do think it’s so silly of
people not to make the most of themselves. That woman in Bond Street—
Valentine—is really wonderful. Audrey Denman goes to her; and have you
seen her in ‘The Downward Step’? As the schoolgirl in the first act she’s
really marvellous. And yet Audrey is fifty if she’s a day. As a matter of fact
I happen to know she’s really nearer sixty.”
“Go on,” said Mrs. Bantry to Dr. Lloyd. “I love stories about sinuous
Spanish dancers. It makes me forget how old and fat I am.”
“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Lloyd apologetically. “But you see, as a matter of
fact, this story isn’t about the Spanish woman.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. As it happens my friend and I were wrong. Nothing in the least ex-
office, and by the time I left the island she had had five children and was
getting very fat.”
“Just like that girl of Israel Peters,” commented Miss Marple. “The one
who went on the stage and had such good legs that they made her prin-
cipal boy in the pantomime. Everyone said she’d come to no good, but she
married a commercial traveller and settled down splendidly.”
“The village parallel,” murmured Sir Henry softly.
“No,” went on the doctor. “My story is about the two English ladies.”
“Something happened to them?” breathed Miss Helier.
“Something happened to them—and the very next day, too.”
“Yes?” said Mrs. Bantry encouragingly.
“Just for curiosity, as I went out that evening I glanced at the hotel re-
gister. I found the names easily enough. Miss Mary Barton and Miss Amy
how soon I was to encounter the owners of those names again—and under
“The following day I had arranged to go for a picnic with some friends.
We were to motor across the island, taking our lunch, to a place called (as
far as I remember—it is so long ago) Las Nieves, a well-sheltered bay
where we could bathe if we felt inclined. This programme we duly carried
out, except that we were somewhat late in starting, so that we stopped on
the way and picnicked, going on to Las Nieves afterwards for a bathe be-
“As we approached the beach, we were at once aware of a tremendous
gathered on the shore. As soon as they saw us they rushed towards the car
and began explaining excitedly. Our Spanish not being very good, it took
me a few minutes to understand, but at last I got it.
“Two of the mad English ladies had gone in to bathe, and one had swum
out too far and got into difficulties. The other had gone after her and had
tried to bring her in, but her strength in turn had failed and she too would
have drowned had not a man rowed out in a boat and brought in rescuer
and rescued—the latter beyond help.
“As soon as I got the hang of things I pushed the crowd aside and hur-
ried down the beach. I did not at first recognize the two women. The
plump figure in the black stockinet costume and the tight green rubber
bathing cap awoke no chord of recognition as she looked up anxiously.
She was kneeling beside the body of her friend, making somewhat ama-
teurish attempts at artificial respiration29. When I told her that I was a doc-
tor she gave a sigh of relief, and I ordered her off at once to one of the cot-
tages for a rub down and dry clothing. One of the ladies in my party went
with her. I myself worked unavailingly on the body of the drowned wo-
man in vain. Life was only too clearly extinct, and in the end I had reluct-
antly to give in.
“I rejoined the others in the small fisherman’s cottage and there I had to
I immediately recognized her as one of the two arrivals of the night be-
fore. She received the sad news fairly calmly, and it was evidently the hor-
ror of the whole thing that struck her more than any great personal feel-
ing.
“‘Poor Amy,’ she said. ‘Poor, poor Amy. She had been looking forward to
the bathing here so much. And she was a good swimmer too. I can’t under-
stand it. What do you think it can have been, doctor?’
“‘We had both been swimming about for some time—twenty minutes, I
should say. Then I thought I would go in, but Amy said she was going to
swim out once more. She did so, and suddenly I heard her call and real-
ized she was crying for help. I swam out as fast as I could. She was still
afloat when I got to her, but she clutched at me wildly and we both went
under. If it hadn’t been for that man coming out with his boat I should
have been drowned too.’
“‘That has happened fairly often,’ I said. ‘To save anyone from drowning
is not an easy affair.’
“‘It seems so awful,’ continued Miss Barton. ‘We only arrived yesterday,
and were so delighting in the sunshine and our little holiday. And now
this—this terrible tragedy occurs.’
“I asked her then for particulars about the dead woman, explaining that
I would do everything I could for her, but that the Spanish authorities
would require full information. This she gave me readily enough.
“The dead woman, Miss Amy Durrant, was her companion and had
come to her about five months previously33. They had got on very well to-
gether, but Miss Durrant had spoken very little about her people. She had
and had earned her own living since she was twenty-one.
“And so that was that,” went on the doctor. He paused and said again,
but this time with a certain finality in his voice, “And so that was that.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jane Helier. “Is that all? I mean, it’s very tra-
gic, I suppose, but it isn’t—well, it isn’t what I call creepy.”
“I think there’s more to follow,” said Sir Henry.
“Yes,” said Dr. Lloyd, “there’s more to follow. You see, right at the time
there was one queer thing. Of course I asked questions of the fishermen,
etc., as to what they’d seen. They were eyewitnesses36. And one woman had
rather a funny story. I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time, but it came
back to me afterwards. She insisted, you see, that Miss Durrant wasn’t in
difficulties when she called out. The other swam out to her and, according
to this woman, deliberately37 held Miss Durrant’s head under water. I
didn’t, as I say, pay much attention. It was such a fantastic story, and these
things look so differently from the shore. Miss Barton might have tried to
make her friend lose consciousness, realizing that the latter’s panic-
stricken clutching would drown them both. You see, according to the
Spanish woman’s story, it looked as though—well, as though Miss Barton
was deliberately trying to drown her companion.
“As I say, I paid very little attention to this story at the time. It came
back to me later. Our great difficulty was to find out anything about this
woman, Amy Durrant. She didn’t seem to have any relations. Miss Barton
and I went through her things together. We found one address and wrote
there, but it proved to be simply a room she had taken in which to keep
the room. Miss Durrant had remarked at the time that she always liked to
have one place she could call her own to which she could return at any
moment. There were one or two nice pieces of old furniture and some
bound numbers of Academy pictures, and a trunk full of pieces of material
bought at sales, but no personal belongings39. She had mentioned to the
landlady that her father and mother had died in India when she was a
child and that she had been brought up by an uncle who was a clergyman,
but she did not say if he was her father’s or her mother’s brother, so the
name was no guide.
“It wasn’t exactly mysterious, it was just unsatisfactory. There must be
a couple of photographs amongst her belongings in Las Palmas—rather
old and faded and they had been cut to fit the frames they were in, so that
there was no photographer’s name upon them, and there was an old
daguerreotype41 which might have been her mother or more probably her
grandmother.
“Miss Barton had had two references with her. One she had forgotten,
the other name she recollected42 after an effort. It proved to be that of a
lady who was now abroad, having gone to Australia. She was written to.
Her answer, of course, was a long time in coming, and I may say that
when it did arrive there was no particular help to be gained from it. She
said Miss Durrant had been with her as companion and had been most ef-
ficient and that she was a very charming woman, but that she knew noth-
ing of her private affairs or relations.
“So there it was—as I say, nothing unusual, really. It was just the two
things together that aroused my uneasiness. This Amy Durrant of whom
no one knew anything, and the Spanish woman’s queer story. Yes, and I’ll
add a third thing: When I was first bending over the body and Miss Barton
was walking away towards the huts, she looked back. Looked back with
“It didn’t strike me as anything unusual at the time. I put it down to her
no terrible grief. Miss Barton was fond of Amy Durrant and shocked by
her death—that was all.
“But, then, why that terrible poignant anxiety? That was the question
that kept coming back to me. I had not been mistaken in that look. And al-
most against my will, an answer began to shape itself in my mind. Suppos-
ing the Spanish woman’s story were true; supposing that Mary Barton wil-
ing her under water whilst pretending to be saving her. She is rescued by
a boat. They are on a lonely beach far from anywhere. And then I appear
—the last thing she expects. A doctor! And an English doctor! She knows
well enough that people who have been under water far longer than Amy
Durrant have been revived by artificial respiration. But she has to play
her part—to go off leaving me alone with her victim. And as she turns for
one last look, a terrible poignant anxiety shows in her face. Will Amy Dur-
“Oh!” said Jane Helier. “I’m thrilled now.”
personality of Amy Durrant became more mysterious. Who was Amy Dur-
rant? Why should she, an insignificant52 paid companion, be murdered by
her employer? What story lay behind that fatal bathing expedition? She
had entered Mary Barton’s employment only a few months before. Mary
Barton had brought her abroad, and the very day after they landed the
tragedy had occurred. And they were both nice, commonplace, refined
Englishwomen! The whole thing was fantastic, and I told myself so. I had
been letting my imagination run away with me.”
“You didn’t do anything, then?” asked Miss Helier.
“My dear young lady, what could I do? There was no evidence. The ma-
jority of the eyewitnesses told the same story as Miss Barton. I had built
have imagined. The only thing I could and did do was to see that the
time I was in England I even went and saw the landlady of her room, with
the results I have told you.”
“But you felt there was something wrong,” said Miss Marple.
Dr. Lloyd nodded.
“Half the time I was ashamed of myself for thinking so. Who was I to go
blooded crime? I did my best to be as cordial as possible to her during the
short time she stayed on the island. I helped her with the Spanish authorit-
ies. I did everything I could do as an Englishman to help a compatriot in a
foreign country; and yet I am convinced that she knew I suspected and dis-
liked her.”
“How long did she stay out there?” asked Miss Marple.
“I think it was about a fortnight. Miss Durrant was buried there, and it
must have been about ten days later when she took a boat back to Eng-
land. The shock had upset her so much that she felt she couldn’t spend the
winter there as she had planned. That’s what she said.”
“Did it seem to have upset her?” asked Miss Marple.
The doctor hesitated.
tiously.
“She didn’t, for instance, grow fatter?” asked Miss Marple.
“Do you know—it’s a curious thing your saying that. Now I come to
think back, I believe you’re right. She—yes, she did seem, if anything, to be
putting on weight.”
tening on your victim’s blood.”
“And yet, in another way, I may be doing her an injustice,” went on Dr.
ity of the deed committed.
“It was the evening before her departure from the Canaries. She had
asked me to go and see her, and had thanked me very warmly for all I had
done to help her. I, of course, made light of the matter, said I had only
done what was natural under the circumstances, and so on. There was a
pause after that, and then she suddenly asked me a question.
into one’s own hands?’
“I replied that that was rather a difficult question, but that on the whole,
“‘Even when it is powerless?’
“‘I don’t quite understand.’
“‘It’s difficult to explain; but one might do something that is considered
definitely wrong—that is considered a crime, even, for a good and suffi-
cient reason.’
“I replied drily that possibly several criminals had thought that in their
time, and she shrank back.
“‘But that’s horrible,’ she murmured. ‘Horrible.’
“And then with a change of tone she asked me to give her something to
make her sleep. She had not been able to sleep properly since—she hesit-
ated—since that terrible shock.
“‘You’re sure it is that? There is nothing worrying you? Nothing on your
mind?’
“‘On my mind? What should be on my mind?’
“‘Worry is a cause of sleeplessness63 sometimes,’ I said lightly.
“She seemed to brood for a moment.
“‘Do you mean worrying over the future, or worrying over the past,
which can’t be altered?’
“‘Either.’
“‘Only it wouldn’t be any good worrying over the past. You couldn’t
bring back—Oh! what’s the use! One mustn’t think. One must not think.’
away I wondered not a little over the words she had spoken. ‘You couldn’t
bring back—’ What? Or who?
“I think that last interview prepared me in a way for what was to come.
I didn’t expect it, of course, but when it happened, I wasn’t surprised. Be-
cause, you see, Mary Barton struck me all along as a conscientious65 woman
—not a weak sinner, but a woman with convictions, who would act up to
them, and who would not relent as long as she still believed in them. I fan-
cied that in the last conversation we had she was beginning to doubt her
own convictions. I know her words suggested to me that she was feeling
“The thing happened in Cornwall, in a small watering- place, rather
March. I read about it in the papers. A lady had been staying at a small
manner. That had been noticed by all. At night she would walk up and
down her room, muttering to herself, and not allowing the people on
either side of her to sleep. She had called on the vicar one day and had
told him that she had a communication of the gravest importance to make
to him. She had, she said, committed a crime. Then, instead of proceeding69,
put her down as being slightly mental, and did not take her self-accusation
seriously.
“The very next morning she was found to be missing from her room. A
note was left addressed to the coroner. It ran as follows:
“I tried to speak to the vicar yesterday, to confess all, but
only one way—a life for a life; and my life must go the same
way as hers did. I, too, must drown in the deep sea. I be-
lieved I was justified. I see now that that was not so. If I de-
sire Amy’s forgiveness I must go to her. Let no one be
blamed for my death—Mary Barton.
it seemed clear that she had undressed there and swum resolutely74 out to
the coast.
“The body was not recovered, but after a time leave was given to pre-
sume death. She was a rich woman, her estate being proved at a hundred
tragedy in the Canary Islands, putting forward the theory that the death of
Miss Durrant had unhinged her friend’s brain. At the inquest the usual
verdict of Suicide whilst temporarily insane was returned.
“And so the curtain falls on the tragedy of Amy Durrant and Mary Bar-
ton.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t stop there—just at the most interesting part. Go
on.”
real life stops just where it chooses.”
“But I don’t want it to,” said Jane. “I want to know.”
“This is where we use our brains, Miss Helier,” explained Sir Henry.
“Why did Mary Barton kill her companion? That’s the problem Dr. Lloyd
has set us.”
“Oh, well,” said Miss Helier, “she might have killed her for lots of reas-
ons. I mean—oh, I don’t know. She might have got on her nerves, or else
she got jealous, although Dr. Lloyd doesn’t mention any men, but still on
the boat out—well, you know what everyone says about boats and sea
voyages.”
Miss Helier paused, slightly out of breath, and it was borne in upon her
audience that the outside of Jane’s charming head was distinctly superior
to the inside.
“I would like to have a lot of guesses,” said Mrs. Bantry. “But I suppose I
must confine myself to one. Well, I think that Miss Barton’s father made
all his money out of ruining Amy Durrant’s father, so Amy determined79 to
Barton had a young brother who shot himself for love of Amy Durrant.
Miss Barton waits her time. Amy comes down in the world. Miss B. en-
gages her as companion and takes her to the Canaries and accomplishes
her revenge. How’s that?”
“Excellent,” said Sir Henry. “Only we don’t know that Miss Barton ever
had a young brother.”
“We deduce that,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Unless she had a young brother
son?”
“That’s all very fine, Dolly,” said her husband. “But it’s only a guess.”
“Of course it is,” said Mrs. Bantry. “That’s all we can do—guess. We
haven’t got any clues. Go on, dear, have a guess yourself.”
“Upon my word, I don’t know what to say. But I think there’s something
in Miss Helier’s suggestion that they fell out about a man. Look here, Dolly,
it was probably some high church parson. They both embroidered83 him a
cope or something, and he wore the Durrant woman’s first. Depend upon
it, it was something like that. Look how she went off to a parson at the
end. These women all lose their heads over a good-looking clergyman. You
hear of it over and over again.”
“I think I must try to make my explanation a little more subtle,” said Sir
Henry, “though I admit it’s only a guess. I suggest that Miss Barton was al-
ways mentally unhinged. There are more cases like that than you would
rid the world of certain persons—possibly what is termed unfortunate fe-
males. Nothing much is known about Miss Durrant’s past. So very possibly
she had a past—an ‘unfortunate’ one. Miss Barton learns of this and de-
cides on extermination85. Later, the righteousness of her act begins to
trouble her and she is overcome by remorse. Her end shows her to be
completely unhinged. Now, do say you agree with me, Miss Marple.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Sir Henry,” said Miss Marple, smiling apologetically.
“I think her end shows her to have been a very clever and resourceful wo-
man.”
Jane Helier interrupted with a little scream.
“Oh! I’ve been so stupid. May I guess again? Of course it must have been
don’t see why Miss Marple says it was clever of her to kill herself. I can’t
see that at all.”
“Ah!” said Sir Henry. “You see, Miss Marple knew a case just like it in St.
Mary Mead.”
“You always laugh at me, Sir Henry,” said Miss Marple reproachfully. “I
the old age pension, you know, for three old women who were dead, in
different parishes.”
“It sounds a most complicated and resourceful crime,” said Sir Henry.
“But it doesn’t seem to me to throw any light upon our present problem.”
“Of course not,” said Miss Marple. “It wouldn’t—to you. But some of the
children. I know it’s difficult for anyone outside to understand. But what I
really meant was that the whole thing hinged upon one old woman being
so like any other old woman.”
“Eh?” said Sir Henry, mystified.
“I always explain things so badly. What I mean is that when Dr. Lloyd
described the two ladies first, he didn’t know which was which, and I
don’t suppose anyone else in the hotel did. They would have, of course,
after a day or so, but the very next day one of the two was drowned, and if
the one who was left said she was Miss Barton, I don’t suppose it would
ever occur to anyone that she mightn’t be.”
“You think—Oh! I see,” said Sir Henry slowly.
“It’s the only natural way of thinking of it. Dear Mrs. Bantry began that
way just now. Why should the rich employer kill the humble companion?
It’s so much more likely to be the other way about. I mean—that’s the way
things happen.”
“Is it?” said Sir Henry. “You shock me.”
“But of course,” went on Miss Marple, “she would have to wear Miss
Barton’s clothes, and they would probably be a little tight on her, so that
her general appearance would look as though she had got a little fatter.
That’s why I asked that question. A gentleman would be sure to think it
was the lady who had got fatter, and not the clothes that had got smaller—
though that isn’t quite the right way of putting it.”
“But if Amy Durrant killed Miss Barton, what did she gain by it?” asked
“She only kept it up for another month or so,” pointed out Miss Marple.
“And during that time I expect she travelled, keeping away from anyone
who might know her. That’s what I meant by saying that one lady of a cer-
tain age looks so like another. I don’t suppose the different photograph on
her passport was ever noticed—you know what passports are. And then in
March, she went down to this Cornish place and began to act queerly and
draw attention to herself so that when people found her clothes on the
beach and read her last letter they shouldn’t think of the commonsense91
conclusion.”
“Which was?” asked Sir Henry.
“No body,” said Miss Marple firmly. “That’s the thing that would stare
you in the face, if there weren’t such a lot of red herrings to draw you off
the trail—including the suggestion of foul play and remorse. No body. That
was the real significant fact.”
“Do you mean—” said Mrs. Bantry—“do you mean that there wasn’t any
remorse? That there wasn’t—that she didn’t drown herself?”
“Not she!” said Miss Marple. “It’s just Mrs. Trout over again. Mrs. Trout
was very good at red herrings, but she met her match in me. And I can see
through your remorse- driven Miss Barton. Drown herself? Went off to
Australia, if I’m any good at guessing.”
“You are, Miss Marple,” said Dr. Lloyd. “Undoubtedly you are. Now it
again took me quite by surprise. Why, you could have knocked me down
with a feather that day in Melbourne.”
“Was that what you spoke of as a final coincidence?”
Dr. Lloyd nodded.
“Yes, it was rather rough luck on Miss Barton—or Miss Amy Durrant—
whatever you like to call her. I became a ship’s doctor for a while, and
landing in Melbourne, the first person I saw as I walked down the street
was the lady I thought had been drowned in Cornwall. She saw the game
was up as far as I was concerned, and she did the bold thing—took me into
her confidence. A curious woman, completely lacking, I suppose, in some
They had applied once for help to their rich cousin in England and been
wanted desperately, for the three youngest children were delicate and
wanted expensive medical treatment. Amy Barton then and there seems
land, working her passage over as a children’s nurse. She obtained the
situation of companion to Miss Barton, calling herself Amy Durrant. She
engaged a room and put some furniture into it so as to create more of a
personality for herself. The drowning plan was a sudden inspiration. She
had been waiting for some opportunity to present itself. Then she staged
the final scene of the drama and returned to Australia, and in due time
she and her brothers and sisters inherited Miss Barton’s money as next of
kin.”
“A very bold and perfect crime,” said Sir Henry. “Almost the perfect
crime. If it had been Miss Barton who had died in the Canaries, suspicion
might attach to Amy Durrant and her connection with the Barton family
might have been discovered; but the change of identity and the double
crime, as you may call it, effectually did away with that. Yes, almost the
perfect crime.”
“What happened to her?” asked Mrs. Bantry. “What did you do in the
matter, Dr. Lloyd?”
“I was in a very curious position, Mrs. Bantry. Of evidence as the law
understands it, I still have very little. Also, there were certain signs, plain
to me as a medical man, that though strong and vigorous in appearance,
the lady was not long for this world. I went home with her and saw the
rest of the family—a charming family, devoted to their eldest sister and
without an idea in their heads that she might prove to have committed a
crime. Why bring sorrow on them when I could prove nothing? The lady’s
admission to me was unheard by anyone else. I let Nature take its course.
Miss Amy Barton died six months after my meeting with her. I have often
wondered if she was cheerful and unrepentant up to the last.”
“Surely not,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“I expect so,” said Miss Marple. “Mrs. Trout was.”
Jane Helier gave herself a little shake.
“Well,” she said. “It’s very, very thrilling. I don’t quite understand now
who drowned which. And how does this Mrs. Trout come into it?”
“She doesn’t, my dear,” said Miss Marple. “She was only a person—not a
very nice person—in the village.”
“Oh!” said Jane. “In the village. But nothing ever happens in a village,
does it?” She sighed. “I’m sure I shouldn’t have any brains at all if I lived
in a village.”
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