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THE CASE OF THE CARETAKER
“Well,” demanded Doctor Haydock of his patient. “And how goes it today?”
“I suppose, really, that I’m better,” she admitted, “but I feel so terribly
died. After all, I’m an old woman. Nobody wants me or cares about me.”
Doctor Haydock interrupted with his usual brusqueness. “Yes, yes, typ-
ical after-reaction of this type of flu. What you need is something to take
Miss Marple sighed and shook her head.
“And what’s more,” continued Doctor Haydock, “I’ve brought my medi-
cine with me!”
He tossed a long envelope on to the bed.
“Just the thing for you. The kind of puzzle that is right up your street.”
“A puzzle?” Miss Marple looked interested.
“Literary effort of mine,” said the doctor, blushing a little. “Tried to
make a regular story of it. ‘He said,’ ‘she said,’ ‘the girl thought,’ etc. Facts
of the story are true.”
“But why a puzzle?” asked Miss Marple.
Doctor Haydock grinned. “Because the interpretation4 is up to you. I
want to see if you’re as clever as you always make out.”
With that Parthian shot he departed.
Miss Marple picked up the manuscript and began to read.
There was a general indulgent feeling that Harry—wicked
young scapegrace—had had all the luck. Everyone had al-
ways felt indulgent towards Harry. Even the owners of
windows that had suffered from his indiscriminate use of a
catapult had found their indignation dissipated by young
daughter—been disentangled and sent off to Africa—and
the village as represented by various ageing spinsters had
murmured indulgently. “Ah, well! Wild oats! He’ll settle
down!”
affliction, but in triumph. Harry Laxton had “made good”
as the saying goes. He had pulled himself together, worked
hard, and had finally met and successfully wooed a young
Anglo-French girl who was the possessor of a considerable
fortune.
Harry might have lived in London, or purchased an estate
in some fashionable hunting county, but he preferred to
come back to the part of the world that was home to him.
And there, in the most romantic way, he purchased the
derelict estate in the dower house of which he had passed
his childhood.
Kingsdean House had been unoccupied for nearly seventy
years. It had gradually fallen into decay and abandon. An
elderly caretaker and his wife lived in the one habitable
sion, the gardens overgrown with rank vegetation and the
The dower house was a pleasant, unpretentious house and
had been let for a long term of years to Major Laxton,
Harry’s father. As a boy, Harry had roamed over the
woods, and the old house itself had always fascinated him.
Major Laxton had died some years ago, so it might have
been thought that Harry would have had no ties to bring
him back—nevertheless it was to the home of his boyhood
that Harry brought his bride. The ruined old Kingsdean
House was pulled down. An army of builders and contract-
lously short space of time—so marvellously does wealth tell
—the new house rose white and gleaming among the trees.
Next came a posse of gardeners and after them a proces-
sion of furniture vans.
door.
The village rushed to call, and Mrs. Price, who owned the
largest house, and who considered herself to lead society in
the place, sent out cards of invitation for a party “to meet
the bride.”
It was a great event. Several ladies had new frocks for the
occasion. Everyone was excited, curious, anxious to see
story!
her question as she squeezed her way through the crowded
drawing room door. Little Miss Brent, a thin, acidulated
spinster, fluttered out information.
“Oh, my dear, quite charming. Such pretty manners. And
quite young. Really, you know, it makes one feel quite envi-
ous to see someone who has everything like that. Good
looks and money and breeding—most distinguished23, noth-
ing in the least common about her—and dear Harry so de-
voted!”
“Ah,” said Miss Harmon, “it’s early days yet!”
Miss Brent’s thin nose quivered appreciatively. “Oh, my
dear, do you really think—”
“We all know what Harry is,” said Miss Harmon.
“We know what he was! But I expect now—”
“Ah,” said Miss Harmon, “men are always the same. Once
a gay deceiver, always a gay deceiver. I know them.”
“Dear, dear. Poor young thing.” Miss Brent looked much
happier. “Yes, I expect she’ll have trouble with him.
Someone ought really to warn her. I wonder if she’s heard
anything of the old story?”
“It seems so very unfair,” said Miss Brent, “that she should
know nothing. So awkward. Especially with only the one
chemist’s shop in the village.”
For the erstwhile tobacconist’s daughter was now married
to Mr. Edge, the chemist.
“It would be so much nicer,” said Miss Brent, “if Mrs. Lax-
ton were to deal with Boots in Much Benham.”
“I dare say,” said Miss Harmon, “that Harry Laxton will
suggest that himself.”
And again a significant look passed between them.
“But I certainly think,” said Miss Harmon, “that she
ought to know.”
“Beasts!” said Clarice Vane indignantly to her uncle, Doc-
tor Haydock. “Absolute beasts some people are.”
She was a tall, dark girl, handsome, warmhearted and im-
pulsive. Her big brown eyes were alight now with indigna-
tion as she said, “All these cats—saying things—hinting
things.”
“About Harry Laxton?”
“Yes, about his affair with the tobacconist’s daughter.”
many young men have affairs of that kind.”
And bring it up years after? It’s like ghouls feasting on
dead bodies.”
“I dare say, my dear, it does seem like that to you. But you
see, they have very little to talk about down here, and so
I’m afraid they do tend to dwell upon past scandals. But
I’m curious to know why it upsets you so much?”
Clarice Vane bit her lip and flushed. She said, in a curi-
tons, I mean. They’re young and in love, and it’s all so
lovely for them. I hate to think of it being spoiled by whis-
pers and hints and innuendoes28 and general beastliness.”
“H’m. I see.”
Clarice went on. “He was talking to me just now. He’s so
happy and eager and excited and—yes, thrilled—at hav-
ing got his heart’s desire and rebuilt Kingsdean. He’s like
a child about it all. And she—well, I don’t suppose any-
thing has ever gone wrong in her whole life. She’s always
had everything. You’ve seen her. What did you think of
her?”
The doctor did not answer at once. For other people,
Louise Laxton might be an object of envy. A spoiled
darling of fortune. To him she had brought only the re-
frain of a popular song heard many years ago, Poor little
rich girl—
A small, delicate figure, with flaxen hair curled rather
stiffly round her face and big, wistful blue eyes.
lations had tired her. She was hoping it might soon be time
to go. Perhaps, even now, Harry might say so. She looked
at him sideways. So tall and broadshouldered with his
eager pleasure in this horrible, dull party.
Poor little rich girl—
“Ooph!” It was a sigh of relief.
Harry turned to look at his wife amusedly. They were driv-
ing away from the party.
Harry laughed. “Yes, pretty terrible. Never mind, my
knew me when I lived here as a boy. They’d have been ter-
ribly disappointed not to have got a look at you close up.”
lot of them?”
“What? Oh, no. They’ll come and make ceremonious calls
with card cases, and you’ll return the calls and then you
needn’t bother anymore. You can have your own friends
down or whatever you like.”
Louise said, after a minute or two, “Isn’t there anyone
amusing living down here?”
“Oh, yes. There’s the County, you know. Though you may
find them a bit dull, too. Mostly interested in bulbs and
dogs and horses. You’ll ride, of course. You’ll enjoy that.
There’s a horse over at Eglinton I’d like you to see. A beau-
spirit.”
The car slowed down to take the turn into the gates of
he only just managed to avoid it. It stood there, shaking a
fist and shouting after them.
Louise clutched his arm. “Who’s that—that horrible old
woman?”
Harry’s brow was black. “That’s old Murgatroyd. She and
her husband were caretakers in the old house. They were
there for nearly thirty years.”
“Why does she shake her fist at you?”
Harry’s face got red. “She—well, she resented the house
being pulled down. And she got the sack, of course. Her
husband’s been dead two years. They say she got a bit
queer after he died.”
“Is she—she isn’t—starving?”
Louise’s ideas were vague and somewhat melodramatic.
Riches prevented you coming into contact with reality.
pensioned her off, of course—and handsomely, too! Found
her a new cottage and everything.”
Louise asked, bewildered, “Then why does she mind?”
should I know? Craziness! She loved the house.”
“But it was a ruin, wasn’t it?”
“Of course it was—crumbling to pieces—roof leaking—
more or less unsafe. All the same I suppose it meant some-
thing to her. She’d been there a long time. Oh, I don’t
know! The old devil’s cracked, I think.”
Louise said uneasily, “She — I think she cursed us. Oh,
Harry, I wish she hadn’t.”
poisoned by the malevolent40 figure of one crazy old woman.
When she went out in the car, when she rode, when she
walked out with the dogs, there was always the same figure
wisps of iron-grey hair, and the slow muttering of imprec-
ations.
Louise came to believe that Harry was right—the old wo-
man was mad. Nevertheless that did not make things
easier. Mrs. Murgatroyd never actually came to the house,
nor did she use definite threats, nor offer violence. Her
To appeal to the police would have been useless and, in
tion. It would, he said, arouse local sympathy for the old
“Don’t worry about it, darling. She’ll get tired of this silly
cursing business. Probably she’s only trying it on.”
“She isn’t, Harry. She—she hates us! I can feel it. She—
she’s illwishing us.”
“She’s not a witch, darling, although she may look like
Louise was silent. Now that the first excitement of settling
in was over, she felt curiously lonely and at a loose end.
She had been used to life in London and the Riviera. She
had no knowledge of or taste for English country life. She
was ignorant of gardening, except for the final act of “do-
ing the flowers.” She did not really care for dogs. She was
bored by such neighbours as she met. She enjoyed riding
best, sometimes with Harry, sometimes, when he was busy
and lanes, enjoying the easy paces of the beautiful horse
that Harry had bought for her. Yet even Prince Hal, most
malevolent old woman.
One day Louise took her courage in both hands. She was
out walking. She had passed Mrs. Murgatroyd, pretending
right up to her. She said, a little breathlessly, “What is it?
What’s the matter? What do you want?”
The old woman blinked at her. She had a cunning, dark
gypsy face, with wisps of iron-grey hair, and bleared, sus-
picious eyes. Louise wondered if she drank.
do I want, you ask? What, indeed! That which has been
took away from me. Who turned me out of Kingsdean
House? I’d lived there, girl and woman, for near on forty
years. It was a black deed to turn me out and it’s black bad
luck it’ll bring to you and him!”
Louise said, “You’ve got a very nice cottage and—”
She broke off. The old woman’s arms flew up. She
screamed, “What’s the good of that to me? It’s my own
place I want and my own fire as I sat beside all them years.
And as for you and him, I’m telling you there will be no
happiness for you in your new fine house. It’s the black sor-
row will be upon you! Sorrow and death and my curse.
May your fair face rot.”
Louise turned away and broke into a little stumbling run.
She thought, I must get away from here! We must sell
the house! We must go away.
At the moment, such a solution seemed easy to her. But
Harry’s utter incomprehension took her back. He ex-
claimed, “Leave here? Sell the house? Because of a crazy
old woman’s threats? You must be mad.”
“No, I’m not. But she—she frightens me, I know something
will happen.”
Harry Laxton said grimly, “Leave Mrs. Murgatroyd to me.
I’ll settle her!”
A friendship had sprung up between Clarice Vane and
young Mrs. Laxton. The two girls were much of an age,
though dissimilar both in character and in tastes. In
Clarice’s company, Louise found reassurance55. Clarice was
so self- reliant, so sure of herself. Louise mentioned the
matter of Mrs. Murgatroyd and her threats, but Clarice
seemed to regard the matter as more annoying than
frightening.
“It’s so stupid, that sort of thing,” she said. “And really
very annoying for you.”
“You know, Clarice, I—I feel quite frightened sometimes.
My heart gives the most awful jumps.”
“Nonsense, you mustn’t let a silly thing like that get you
down. She’ll soon tire of it.”
She was silent for a minute or two. Clarice said, “What’s
the matter?”
Louise paused for a minute, then her answer came with a
rush. “I hate this place! I hate being here. The woods and
this house, and the awful silence at night, and the queer
“The people. What people?”
maids.”
Clarice said sharply, “What have they been saying?”
“I don’t know. Nothing particular. But they’ve got nasty
minds. When you’ve talked to them you feel you wouldn’t
trust anybody—not anybody at all.”
Clarice said harshly, “Forget them. They’ve nothing to do
but gossip. And most of the muck they talk they just in-
Louise said, “I wish we’d never come here. But Harry ad-
“I must go now.”
“I’ll send you back in the car. Come again soon.”
Clarice nodded. Louise felt comforted by her new friend’s
visit. Harry was pleased to find her more cheerful and
from then on urged her to have Clarice often to the house.
Then one day he said, “Good news for you, darling.”
“Oh, what?”
know. Well, I’ve arranged for her to go out and join him.
I’ll pay her passage.”
“Oh, Harry, how wonderful. I believe I might get to like
Kingsdean after all.”
“Get to like it? Why, it’s the most wonderful place in the
world!”
Louise gave a little shiver. She could not rid herself of her
superstitious61 fear so easily.
of imparting information about her husband’s past to the
bride, this pleasure was denied them by Harry Laxton’s
own prompt action.
Miss Harmon and Clarice Vane were both in Mr. Edge’s
shop, the one buying mothballs and the other a packet of
boracic, when Harry Laxton and his wife came in.
After greeting the two ladies, Harry turned to the counter
and was just demanding a toothbrush when he stopped in
who’s here! Bella, I do declare.”
Mrs. Edge, who had hurried out from the back parlour to
attend to the congestion64 of business, beamed back cheer-
dark, handsome girl and was still a reasonably handsome
woman, though she had put on weight, and the lines of her
face had coarsened; but her large brown eyes were full of
warmth as she answered, “Bella, it is, Mr. Harry, and
pleased to see you after all these years.”
Harry turned to his wife. “Bella’s an old flame of mine,
Louise,” he said. “Head-over-heels in love with her, wasn’t
I, Bella?”
“That’s what you say,” said Mrs. Edge.
Louise laughed. She said, “My husband’s very happy see-
ing all his old friends again.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Edge, “we haven’t forgotten you, Mr.
Harry. Seems like a fairy tale to think of you married and
building up a new house instead of that ruined old Kings-
dean House.”
“You look very well and blooming,” said Harry, and Mrs.
Edge laughed and said there was nothing wrong with her
and what about that toothbrush?
Clarice, watching the baffled look on Miss Harmon’s face,
said to herself exultantly65, Oh, well-done, Harry. You’ve
Doctor Haydock said abruptly to his niece, “What’s all
this nonsense about old Mrs. Murgatroyd hanging about
Kingsdean and shaking her fist and cursing the new re-
gime?”
“It isn’t nonsense. It’s quite true. It’s upset Louise a good
deal.”
“Tell her she needn’t worry—when the Murgatroyds were
— they only stayed because Murgatroyd drank and
couldn’t get another job.”
“I’ll tell her,” said Clarice doubtfully, “but I don’t think
she’ll believe you. The old woman fairly screams with
rage.”
“Always used to be fond of Harry as a boy. I can’t under-
stand it.”
Clarice said, “Oh, well—they’ll be rid of her soon. Harry’s
paying her passage to America.”
Three days later, Louise was thrown from her horse and
killed.
Two men in a baker’s van were witnesses of the accident.
They saw Louise ride out of the gates, saw the old woman
spring up and stand in the road waving her arms and
down the road, flinging Louise Laxton over his head.
One of them stood over the unconscious figure, not know-
ing what to do, while the other rushed to the house to get
help.
Harry Laxton came running out, his face ghastly. They
took off a door of the van and carried her on it to the house.
doctor arrived.
(End of Doctor Haydock’s manuscript.)
When Doctor Haydock arrived the following day, he was pleased to note
that there was a pink flush in Miss Marple’s cheek and decidedly more an-
imation in her manner.
“Well,” he said, “what’s the verdict?”
“What’s the problem, Doctor Haydock?” countered Miss Marple.
“Oh, my dear lady, do I have to tell you that?”
“I suppose,” said Miss Marple, “that it’s the curious conduct of the care-
taker. Why did she behave in that very odd way? People do mind being
turned out of their old homes. But it wasn’t her home. In fact, she used to
there for her boat.”
“All very convenient for somebody,” said Miss Marple. “Yes, I think the
was it not?”
“That’s your solution?”
“Well, if it wasn’t natural for her to behave in that way, she must have
been ‘putting on an act’ as people say, and that means that somebody paid
her to do what she did.”
“And you know who that somebody was?”
“Oh, I think so. Money again, I’m afraid. And I’ve always noticed that
gentlemen always tend to admire the same type.”
“Now I’m out of my depth.”
“No, no, it all hangs together. Harry Laxton admired Bella Edge, a dark,
was quite a different type—fair-haired and clinging—not his type at all. So
he must have married her for her money. And murdered her for her
money, too!”
“You use the word ‘murder’?”
“Well, he sounds the right type. Attractive to women and quite unscru-
pulous. I suppose he wanted to keep his wife’s money and marry your
niece. He may have been seen talking to Mrs. Edge. But I don’t fancy he
was attached to her anymore. Though I dare say he made the poor woman
think he was, for ends of his own. He soon had her well under his thumb, I
fancy.”
“How exactly did he murder her, do you think?”
Miss Marple stared ahead of her for some minutes with dreamy blue
eyes.
“It was very well-timed—with the baker’s van as witness. They could see
the old woman and, of course, they’d put down the horse’s fright to that.
But I should imagine, myself, that an air gun, or perhaps a catapult. Yes,
just as the horse came through the gates. The horse bolted, of course, and
Mrs. Laxton was thrown.”
She paused, frowning.
“The fall might have killed her. But he couldn’t be sure of that. And he
seems the sort of man who would lay his plans carefully and leave nothing
to chance. After all, Mrs. Edge could get him something suitable without
her husband knowing. Otherwise, why would Harry bother with her? Yes,
I think he had some powerful drug handy, that could be administered be-
serious injuries and dies without recovering consciousness, well—a doctor
wouldn’t normally be suspicious, would he? He’d put it down to shock or
something.”
Doctor Haydock nodded.
“Why did you suspect?” asked Miss Marple.
“It wasn’t any particular cleverness on my part,” said Doctor Haydock.
his cleverness that he doesn’t take proper precautions. I was just saying a
sorry for the fellow, too—when he flung himself down on the settee to do
a bit of playacting and a hypodermic syringe fell out of his pocket.
“He snatched it up and looked so scared that I began to think. Harry
Laxton didn’t drug; he was in perfect health; what was he doing with a hy-
found strophanthin. The rest was easy. There was strophanthin in Lax-
ton’s possession, and Bella Edge, questioned by the police, broke down
and admitted to having got it for him. And finally old Mrs. Murgatroyd
confessed that it was Harry Laxton who had put her up to the cursing
“And your niece got over it?”
“Yes, she was attracted by the fellow, but it hadn’t gone far.”
The doctor picked up his manuscript.
“Full marks to you, Miss Marple—and full marks to me for my prescrip-
tion. You’re looking almost yourself again.”
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