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“I’ve thought of something,” said Jane Helier.
Her beautiful face was lit up with the confident smile of a child expect-
ing approbation2. It was a smile such as moved audiences nightly in Lon-
don, and which had made the fortunes of photographers.
“It happened,” she went on carefully, “to a friend of mine.”
Everyone made encouraging but slightly hypocritical noises. Colonel
Bantry, Mrs. Bantry, Sir Henry Clithering, Dr. Lloyd and old Miss Marple
were one and all convinced that Jane’s “friend” was Jane herself. She
anything affecting anyone else.
“My friend,” went on Jane, “(I won’t mention her name) was an actress
—a very well-known actress.”
No one expressed surprise. Sir Henry Clithering thought to himself:
“Now I wonder how many sentences it will be before she forgets to keep
up the fiction, and says ‘I’ instead of ‘She?’”
“My friend was on tour in the provinces—this was a year or two ago. I
suppose I’d better not give the name of the place. It was a riverside town
not very far from London. I’ll call it—”
simple name appeared to be too much for her. Sir Henry came to the res-
cue.
“Shall we call it Riverbury?” he suggested gravely.
“Oh, yes, that would do splendidly. Riverbury, I’ll remember that. Well,
as I say, this—my friend—was at Riverbury with her company, and a very
curious thing happened.”
“It’s very difficult,” she said plaintively6, “to say just what you want. One
gets things mixed up and tells the wrong things first.”
“You’re doing it beautifully,” said Dr. Lloyd encouragingly. “Go on.”
“Well, this curious thing happened. My friend was sent for to the police
station. And she went. It seemed there had been a burglary at a riverside
bungalow and they’d arrested a young man, and he told a very odd story.
And so they sent for her.
“She’d never been to a police station before, but they were very nice to
her—very nice indeed.”
“They would be, I’m sure,” said Sir Henry.
spector—gave her a chair and explained things, and of course I saw at
once that it was some mistake—”
“Aha,” thought Sir Henry. “I. Here we are. I thought as much.”
trayal. “She explained she had been rehearsing with her understudy at the
hotel and that she’d never even heard of this Mr. Faulkener. And the ser-
geant said, ‘Miss Hel—’”
She stopped and flushed.
“Miss Helman,” suggested Sir Henry with a twinkle.
“Yes—yes, that would do. Thank you. He said, ‘Well, Miss Helman, I felt
it must be some mistake, knowing that you were stopping at the Bridge
Hotel,’ and he said would I have any objection to confronting—or was it
being confronted? I can’t remember.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Sir Henry reassuringly9.
“Anyway, with the young man. So I said, ‘Of course not.’ And they
brought him and said, ‘This is Miss Helier,’ and—Oh!” Jane broke off open-
mouthed.
“Never mind, my dear,” said Miss Marple consolingly. “We were bound
to guess, you know. And you haven’t given us the name of the place or
anything that really matters.”
“Well,” said Jane. “I did mean to tell it as though it happened to someone
else. But it is difficult, isn’t it! I mean one forgets so.”
“He was a nice-looking man—quite a nice-looking man. Young, with red-
dish hair. His mouth just opened when he saw me. And the sergeant said,
And I smiled at him and said it didn’t matter.”
“I can picture the scene,” said Sir Henry.
Jane Helier frowned.
“Let me see—how had I better go on?”
“Supposing you tell us what it was all about, dear,” said Miss Marple, so
man’s mistake was, and about the burglary.”
“Oh, yes,” said Jane. “Well, you see, this young man—Leslie Faulkener,
his name was—had written a play. He’d written several plays, as a matter
of fact, though none of them had ever been taken. And he had sent this
particular play to me to read. I didn’t know about it, because of course I
have hundreds of plays sent to me and I read very few of them myself—
only the ones I know something about. Anyway, there it was, and it seems
that Mr. Faulkener got a letter from me—only it turned out not to be really
from me—you understand—”
She paused anxiously, and they assured her that they understood.
“Saying that I’d read the play, and liked it very much and would he
come down and talk it over with me. And it gave the address—The Bunga-
low, Riverbury. So Mr. Faulkener was frightfully pleased and he came
down and arrived at this place—The Bungalow. A parlourmaid opened the
door, and he asked for Miss Helier, and she said Miss Helier was in and ex-
pecting him and showed him into the drawing room, and there a woman
came to him. And he accepted her as me as a matter of course—which
seems queer because after all he had seen me act and my photographs are
very well-known, aren’t they?”
“But there’s often a lot of difference between a photograph and its ori-
ginal, my dear Jane. And there’s a great deal of difference between behind
the footlights and off the stage. It’s not every actress who stands the test as
well as you do, remember.”
“Well,” said Jane slightly mollified, “that may be so. Anyway, he de-
scribed this woman as tall and fair with big blue eyes and very good-look-
ing, so I suppose it must have been near enough. He certainly had no sus-
picions. She sat down and began talking about his play and said she was
Mr. Faulkener had one as a matter of course. Well—that’s all he remem-
whatever you call it—he was lying out in the road, by the hedge, of course,
so that there would be no danger of his being run over. He felt very queer
and shaky—so much so that he just got up and staggered along the road
not quite knowing where he was going. He said if he’d had his sense about
him he’d have gone back to The Bungalow and tried to find out what had
quite knowing what he was doing. He was just more or less coming to
himself when the police arrested him.”
“Why did the police arrest him?” asked Dr. Lloyd.
“Oh! didn’t I tell you?” said Jane opening her eyes very wide. “How very
stupid I am. The burglary.”
“You mentioned a burglary—but you didn’t say where or what or why,”
said Mrs. Bantry.
“Well, this bungalow—the one he went to, of course—it wasn’t mine at
all. It belonged to a man whose name was—”
“Do you want me to be godfather again?” asked Sir Henry. “Pseudonyms
“Sir Herman Cohen,” suggested Sir Henry.
“That will do beautifully. He took it for a lady—she was the wife of an
actor, and she was also an actress herself.”
“We’ll call the actor Claud Leason,” said Sir Henry, “and the lady would
be known by her stage name, I suppose, so we’ll call her Miss Mary Kerr.”
of these things so easily. Well, you see this was a sort of weekend cottage
for Sir Herman—did you say Herman?—and the lady. And, of course, his
wife knew nothing about it.”
“Which is so often the case,” said Sir Henry.
“And he’d given this actress woman a good deal of jewellery including
some very fine emeralds.”
“Ah!” said Dr. Lloyd. “Now we’re getting at it.”
“This jewellery was at the bungalow, just locked up in a jewel case. The
police said it was very careless—anyone might have taken it.”
“You see, Dolly,” said Colonel Bantry. “What do I always tell you?”
“Well, in my experience,” said Mrs. Bantry, “it’s always the people who
are so dreadfully careful who lose things. I don’t lock mine up in a jewel
case—I keep it in a drawer loose, under my stockings. I dare say if—what’s
her name? — Mary Kerr had done the same, it would never have been
stolen.”
“It would,” said Jane, “because all the drawers were burst open, and the
contents strewn about.”
“Then they weren’t really looking for jewels,” said Mrs. Bantry. “They
were looking for secret papers. That’s what always happens in books.”
“I don’t know about secret papers,” said Jane doubtfully. “I never heard
of any.”
“Don’t be distracted, Miss Helier,” said Colonel Bantry. “Dolly’s wild red-
herrings are not to be taken seriously.”
“About the burglary,” said Sir Henry.
“Yes. Well, the police were rung up by someone who said she was Miss
Mary Kerr. She said the bungalow had been burgled and described a
young man with red hair who had called there that morning. Her maid
had thought there was something odd about him and had refused him ad-
mittance, but later they had seen him getting out through a window. She
described the man so accurately22 that the police arrested him only an hour
later and then he told his story and showed them the letter from me. And
as I told you, they fetched me and when he saw me he said what I told you
—that it hadn’t been me at all!”
“A very curious story,” said Dr. Lloyd. “Did Mr. Faulkener know this
Miss Kerr?”
“No, he didn’t—or he said he didn’t. But I haven’t told you the most curi-
ous part yet. The police went to the bungalow of course, and they found
everything as described — drawers pulled out and jewels gone, but the
whole place was empty. It wasn’t till some hours later that Mary Kerr
came back, and when she did she said she’d never rung them up at all and
this was the first she’d heard of it. It seemed that she had had a wire that
morning from a manager offering her a most important part and making
an appointment, so she had naturally rushed up to town to keep it. When
ever been sent.”
Henry. “What about the servants?”
“The same sort of thing happened there. There was only one, and she
was rung up on the telephone—apparently25 by Mary Kerr, who said she
had left a most important thing behind. She directed the maid to bring up
a certain handbag which was in the drawer of her bedroom. She was to
catch the first train. The maid did so, of course locking up the house; but
when she arrived at Miss Kerr’s club, where she had been told to meet her
mistress, she waited there in vain.”
“H’m,” said Sir Henry. “I begin to see. The house was left empty, and to
make an entry by one of the windows would present few difficulties, I
should imagine. But I don’t quite see where Mr. Faulkener comes in. Who
did ring up the police, if it wasn’t Miss Kerr?”
“That’s what nobody knew or ever found out.”
“Curious,” said Sir Henry. “Did the young man turn out to be genuinely
the person he said he was?”
“Oh, yes, that part of it was all right. He’d even got the letter which was
supposed to be written by me. It wasn’t the least bit like my handwriting—
but then, of course, he couldn’t be supposed to know that.”
“Well, let’s state the position clearly,” said Sir Henry. “Correct me if I go
wrong. The lady and the maid are decoyed from the house. This young
man is decoyed down there by means of a bogus letter—colour being lent
to this last by the fact that you actually are performing at Riverbury that
week. The young man is doped, and the police are rung up and have their
suspicions directed against him. A burglary actually has taken place. I pre-
sume the jewels were taken?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Were they ever recovered?”
up all he knew how. But he couldn’t manage it, and I rather fancy his wife
started divorce proceedings27 in consequence. Still, I don’t really know
about that.”
“What happened to Mr. Leslie Faulkener?”
“He was released in the end. The police said they hadn’t really got
enough against him. Don’t you think the whole thing was rather odd?”
“Distinctly odd. The first question is whose story to believe? In telling it,
Miss Helier, I noticed that you incline towards believing Mr. Faulkener.
Have you any reason for doing so beyond your own instinct in the mat-
ter?”
“No-no,” said Jane unwillingly28. “I suppose I haven’t. But he was so very
nice, and so apologetic for having mistaken anyone else for me, that I feel
sure he must have been telling the truth.”
“I see,” said Sir Henry smiling. “But you must admit that he could have
invented the story quite easily. He could write the letter purporting29 to be
from you himself. He could also dope himself after successfully commit-
ting the burglary. But I confess I don’t see where the point of all that would
be. Easier to enter the house, help himself, and disappear quietly—unless
just possibly he was observed by someone in the neighbourhood and
plan for diverting suspicion from himself and accounting31 for his presence
in the neighbourhood.”
“Was he well-off?” asked Miss Marple.
“I don’t think so,” said Jane. “No, I believe he was rather hard up.”
“The whole thing seems curious,” said Dr. Lloyd. “I must confess that if
we accept the young man’s story as true, it seems to make the case very
much more difficult. Why should the unknown woman who pretended to
be Miss Helier drag this unknown man into the affair? Why should she
stage such an elaborate comedy?”
“Tell me, Jane,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Did young Faulkener ever come face
to face with Mary Kerr at any stage of the proceedings?”
“I don’t quite know,” said Jane slowly, as she puzzled her brows in re-
membrance.
“Because if he didn’t the case is solved!” said Mrs. Bantry. “I’m sure I’m
right. What is easier than to pretend you’re called up to town? You tele-
phone to your maid from Paddington or whatever station you arrive at,
and as she comes up to town, you go down again. The young man calls by
much as possible. You telephone the police, give a description of your
train and do the surprised innocent.”
“But why should she steal her own jewels, Dolly?”
“They always do,” said Mrs. Bantry. “And anyway, I can think of hun-
dreds of reasons. She may have wanted money at once—old Sir Herman
wouldn’t give her the cash, perhaps, so she pretends the jewels are stolen
and then sells them secretly. Or she may have been being blackmailed35 by
someone who threatened to tell her husband or Sir Herman’s wife. Or she
may have already sold the jewels and Sir Herman was getting ratty and
asking to see them, so she had to do something about it. That’s done a good
books—she pretends they are stolen, gets in an awful state and he gives
her a fresh lot. So she gets two lots instead of one. That kind of woman, I
am sure, is most frightfully artful.”
“You are clever, Dolly,” said Jane admiringly. “I never thought of that.”
“You may be clever, but she doesn’t say you’re right,” said Colonel
Bantry. “I incline to suspicion of the city gentleman. He’d know the sort of
telegram to get the lady out of the way, and he could manage the rest eas-
ily enough with the help of a new lady friend. Nobody seems to have
“What do you think, Miss Marple?” asked Jane, turning towards the old
lady who had sat silent, a puzzled frown on her face.
“My dear, I really don’t know what to say. Sir Henry will laugh, but I re-
call no village parallel to help me this time. Of course there are several
questions that suggest themselves. For instance, the servant question. In—
ahem — an irregular ménage of the kind you describe, the servant em-
really nice girl would not take such a place—her mother wouldn’t let her
for a minute. So I think we can assume that the maid was not a really
trustworthy character. She may have been in league with the thieves. She
would leave the house open for them and actually go to London as though
self. I must confess that that seems the most probable solution. Only if or-
dinary thieves were concerned it seems very odd. It seems to argue more
knowledge than a maidservant was likely to have.”
Miss Marple paused and then went on dreamily:
“I can’t help feeling that there was some—well, what I must describe as
personal feeling about the whole thing. Supposing somebody had a spite,
for instance? A young actress that he hadn’t treated well? Don’t you think
that that would explain things better? A deliberate attempt to get him into
ory. . . .”
“Why, doctor, you haven’t said anything,” said Jane. “I’d forgotten you.”
“I’m always getting forgotten,” said the grizzled doctor sadly. “I must
have a very inconspicuous personality.”
“Oh, no!” said Jane. “Do tell us what you think.”
“I’m rather in the position of agreeing with everyone’s solutions—and
yet with none of them. I myself have a far-fetched and probably totally er-
roneous theory that the wife may have had something to do with it. Sir
Herman’s wife, I mean. I’ve no grounds for thinking so—only you would
be surprised if you knew the extraordinary — really very extraordinary
things that a wronged wife will take it into her head to do.”
“Oh! Dr. Lloyd,” cried Miss Marple excitedly. “How clever of you. And I
never thought of poor Mrs. Pebmarsh.”
Jane stared at her.
“Mrs. Pebmarsh? Who is Mrs. Pebmarsh?”
“Well—” Miss Marple hesitated. “I don’t know that she really comes in.
She’s a laundress. And she stole an opal pin that was pinned into a blouse
and put it in another woman’s house.”
Jane looked more fogged than ever.
“And that makes it all perfectly clear to you, Miss Marple?” said Sir
Henry, with his twinkle.
But to his surprise Miss Marple shook her head.
“No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. I must confess myself completely at a loss.
What I do realize is that women must stick together—one should, in an
emergency, stand by one’s own sex. I think that’s the moral of the story
Miss Helier has told us.”
has escaped me,” said Sir Henry gravely. “Perhaps I shall see the signific-
ance of your point more clearly when Miss Helier has revealed the solu-
tion.”
“Eh?” said Jane looking rather bewildered.
“I was observing that, in childish language, we ‘give it up.’ You and you
alone, Miss Helier, have had the high honour of presenting such an abso-
lutely baffling mystery that even Miss Marple has to confess herself de-
feated.”
“You all give it up?” asked Jane.
“Yes.” After a minute’s silence during which he waited for the others to
speak, Sir Henry constituted himself spokesman once more. “That is to say
Mrs. B.”
“It was not a dozen,” said Mrs. Bantry. “They were variations on a main
theme. And how often am I to tell you that I will not be called Mrs. B?”
“So you all give it up,” said Jane thoughtfully. “That’s very interesting.”
She leaned back in her chair and began to polish her nails rather ab-
sentmindedly.
“Well,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Come on, Jane. What is the solution?”
“The solution?”
“Yes. What really happened?”
Jane stared at her.
“I haven’t the least idea.”
“What?”
“I’ve always wondered. I thought you were all so clever one of you
would be able to tell me.”
Jane to be so beautiful—but at this moment everyone felt that stupidity
could be carried too far. Even the most transcendent loveliness could not
excuse it.
“You mean the truth was never discovered?” said Sir Henry.
“No. That’s why, as I say, I did think you would be able to tell me.”
“Well—I’m—I’m—” said Colonel Bantry, words failing him.
“You are the most aggravating48 girl, Jane,” said his wife. “Anyway, I’m
sure and always will be that I was right. If you just tell us the proper
names of the people, I shall be quite sure.”
“I don’t think I could do that,” said Jane slowly.
“No, dear,” said Miss Marple. “Miss Helier couldn’t do that.”
“Of course she could,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Don’t be so high-minded, Jane.
We older folk must have a bit of scandal. At any rate tell us who the city
magnate was.”
But Jane shook her head, and Miss Marple, in her old-fashioned way,
continued to support the girl.
“It must have been a very distressing49 business,” she said.
“No,” said Jane truthfully. “I think—I think I rather enjoyed it.”
“Well, perhaps you did,” said Miss Marple. “I suppose it was a break in
“Smith.”
“Oh, yes. That’s one of Mr. Somerset Maugham’s, isn’t it? All his are very
clever, I think. I’ve seen them nearly all.”
“You’re reviving it to go on tour next autumn, aren’t you?” asked Mrs.
Bantry.
Jane nodded.
“Well,” said Miss Marple rising. “I must go home. Such late hours! But
we’ve had a very entertaining evening. Most unusually so. I think Miss
Helier’s story wins the prize. Don’t you agree?”
“I’m sorry you’re angry with me,” said Jane. “About not knowing the
end, I mean. I suppose I should have said so sooner.”
“My dear young lady, why should you? You gave us a very pretty prob-
lem to sharpen our wits on. I am only sorry we could none of us solve it
convincingly.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I did solve it. I’m convinced I am
right.”
“Do you know, I really believe you are,” said Jane. “What you said soun-
ded so probable.”
“Which of her seven solutions do you refer to?” asked Sir Henry teas-
ingly.
Dr. Lloyd gallantly assisted Miss Marple to put on her goloshes. “Just in
case,” as the old lady explained. The doctor was to be her escort to her old-
world cottage. Wrapped in several woollen shawls, Miss Marple wished
everyone good night once more. She came to Jane Helier last and leaning
forward, she murmured something in the actress’s ear. A startled “Oh!”
burst from Jane—so loud as to cause the others to turn their heads.
Smiling and nodding, Miss Marple made her exit, Jane Helier staring
after her.
“Are you coming to bed, Jane?” asked Mrs. Bantry. “What’s the matter
with you? You’re staring as though you’d seen a ghost.”
With a deep sigh Jane came to herself, shed a beautiful and bewildering
smile on the two men and followed her hostess up the staircase. Mrs.
Bantry came into the girl’s room with her.
“Your fire’s nearly out,” said Mrs. Bantry, giving it a vicious and ineffec-
are. Still, I suppose we are rather late tonight. Why, it’s actually past one
o’clock!”
“Do you think there are many people like her?” asked Jane Helier.
She was sitting on the side of the bed apparently wrapped in thought.
“Like the housemaid?”
“No. Like that funny old woman—what’s her name—Marple?”
“Oh! I don’t know. I suppose she’s a fairly common type in a small vil-
lage.”
“Oh dear,” said Jane. “I don’t know what to do.”
She sighed deeply.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m worried.”
“What about?”
“Dolly,” Jane Helier was portentously52 solemn. “Do you know what that
queer old lady whispered to me before she went out of the door tonight?”
“No. What?”
“She said: ‘I shouldn’t do it if I were you, my dear. Never put yourself too
much in another woman’s power, even if you do think she’s your friend at the
moment.’ You know, Dolly, that’s awfully true.”
“I suppose you can’t ever really trust a woman. And I should be in her
power. I never thought of that.”
“What woman are you talking about?”
“Netta Greene, my understudy.”
“What on earth does Miss Marple know about your understudy?”
“I suppose she guessed—but I can’t see how.”
“The story. The one I told. Oh, Dolly, that woman, you know—the one
that took Claud from me?”
Mrs. Bantry nodded, casting her mind back rapidly to the first of Jane’s
unfortunate marriages—to Claud Averbury, the actor.
“He married her; and I could have told him how it would be. Claud
doesn’t know, but she’s carrying on with Sir Joseph Salmon—weekends
with him at the bungalow I told you about. I wanted her shown up—I
would like everyone to know the sort of woman she was. And you see,
with a burglary, everything would be bound to come out.”
telling us?”
Jane nodded.
should have it handy. And when they sent for me to the police station it’s
the easiest thing in the world to say I was rehearsing my part with my un-
derstudy at the hotel. Really, of course, we would be at the bungalow. I
just have to open the door and bring in the cocktails, and Netta to pretend
to be me. He’d never see her again, of course, so there would be no fear of
his recognizing her. And I can make myself look quite different as a par-
lourmaid; and besides, one doesn’t look at parlourmaids as though they
were people. We planned to drag him out into the road afterwards, bag
the jewel case, telephone the police and get back to the hotel. I shouldn’t
like the poor young man to suffer, but Sir Henry didn’t seem to think he
would, did he? And she’d be in the papers and everything—and Claud
would see what she was really like.”
“Oh! my poor head. And all the time—Jane Helier, you deceitful girl!
Telling us that story the way you did!”
“I am a good actress,” said Jane complacently58. “I always have been,
whatever people choose to say. I didn’t give myself away once, did I?”
“Miss Marple was right,” murmured Mrs. Bantry. “The personal ele-
ment. Oh, yes, the personal element. Jane, my good child, do you realize
that theft is theft, and you might have been sent to prison?”
“Well, none of you guessed,” said Jane. “Except Miss Marple.” The wor-
ried expression returned to her face. “Dolly, do you really think there are
many like her?”
“Frankly, I don’t,” said Mrs. Bantry.
Jane sighed again.
“Still, one had better not risk it. And of course I should be in Netta’s
voted to me, but one never does know with women. No, I think Miss
Marple was right. I had better not risk it.”
“But, my dear, you have risked it.”
“Oh, no.” Jane opened her blue eyes very wide. “Don’t you understand?
None of this has happened yet! I was — well, trying it on the dog, so to
speak.”
with dignity. “Do you mean this is a future project—not a past deed?”
“I was going to do it this autumn—in September. I don’t know what to
do now.”
“And Jane Marple guessed—actually guessed the truth and never told
us,” said Mrs. Bantry wrathfully.
“I think that was why she said that—about women sticking together. She
wouldn’t give me away before the men. That was nice of her. I don’t mind
your knowing, Dolly.”
“Well, give the idea up, Jane. I beg of you.”
“I think I shall,” murmured Miss Helier. “There might be other Miss
Marples. . . .”
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