Miss Marple's Final Cases (4 page)

‘Now isn’t that a coincidence?’ exclaimed Miss
Marple. ‘Uncle Henry had a desk just like this, only his was burr walnut and this is mahogany.’

‘At any rate,’ said Charmian, ‘there’s nothing there, as you can see.’

‘I expect,’ said Miss Marple, ‘your cabinetmaker was a young man. He didn’t know everything. People were very artful when they made hiding-places in those days. There’s such a thing as a secret inside a secret.’

She extracted a hairpin from her neat bun of grey hair. Straightening it out, she stuck the point into what appeared to be a tiny wormhole in one side of the secret recess. With a little difficulty she pulled out a small drawer. In it was a bundle of faded letters and a folded paper.

Edward and Charmian pounced on the find together. With trembling fingers Edward unfolded the paper. He dropped it with an exclamation of disgust.

‘A damned cookery recipe. Baked ham!’

Charmian was untying a ribbon that held the letters together. She drew one out and glanced at it. ‘Love letters!’

Miss Marple reacted with Victorian gusto. ‘How interesting! Perhaps the reason your uncle never married.’

Charmian read aloud:

Charmain broke off. ‘Where is it from? Oh! Hawaii!’ She went on:

Edward whistled. ‘A female missionary! So that was Uncle Mathew’s romance. I wonder why they never married?’

‘She seems to have gone all over the world,’ said Charmian, looking through the letters. ‘Mauritius—all sorts of places. Probably died of yellow fever or something.’

A gentle chuckle made them start. Miss Marple was apparently much amused. ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘Fancy that, now!’

She was reading the recipe for baked ham. Seeing their enquiring glances, she read out: ‘ “Baked ham with spinach. Take a nice piece of gammon, stuff with cloves, and cover with brown sugar. Bake in a slow oven. Serve with a border of pureed spinach.” What do you think of that, now?’

‘I think it sounds filthy,’ said Edward.

‘No, no, actually it would be very good—but what do you think of
the whole thing
?’

A sudden ray of light illuminated Edward’s face. ‘Do you think it’s a code—cryptogram of some kind?’ He seized it. ‘Look here, Charmian, it might be, you know! No reason to put a cooking-recipe in a secret drawer otherwise.’

‘Exactly,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Very, very significant.’

Charmian said, ‘I know what it might be—invisible ink! Let’s heat it. Turn on the electric fire.’

Edward did so, but no signs of writing appeared under the treatment.

Miss Marple coughed. ‘I really think, you know, that
you’re making it rather
too
difficult. The recipe is only an indication, so to speak. It is, I think, the letters that are significant.’

‘The letters?’

‘Especially,’ said Miss Marple, ‘the signature.’

But Edward hardly heard her. He called excitedly, ‘Charmian! Come here! She’s right. See—the envelopes are old, right enough, but the letters themselves were written much later.’

‘Exactly,’ said Miss Marple.

‘They’re only fake old. I bet anything old Uncle Mat faked them himself—’

‘Precisely,’ said Miss Marple.

‘The whole thing’s a sell. There never was a female missionary. It must be a code.’

‘My dear, dear children—there’s really no need to make it all so difficult. Your uncle was really a very simple man. He had to have his little joke, that was all.’

For the first time they gave her their full attention.

‘Just exactly what do you mean, Miss Marple?’ asked Charmian.

‘I mean, dear, that you’re actually holding the money in your hand this minute.’

Charmian stared down.

‘The signature, dear. That gives the whole thing away. The recipe is just an indication. Shorn of all
the cloves and brown sugar and the rest of it, what is it
actually?
Why, gammon and spinach to be sure!
Gammon and spinach!
Meaning—nonsense! So it’s clear that it’s the letters that are important. And then, if you take into consideration what your uncle did just before he died. He tapped his eye, you said. Well, there you are—that gives you the clue, you see.’

Charmian said, ‘Are we mad, or are you?’

‘Surely, my dear, you must have heard the expression meaning that something is not a true picture, or has it quite died out nowadays? “All my eye and Betty Martin.” ’

Edward gasped, his eyes falling to the letter in his hand. ‘Betty Martin—’

‘Of course, Mr Rossiter. As you have just said, there isn’t—there wasn’t any such person. The letters were written by your uncle, and I dare say he got a lot of fun out of writing them! As you say, the writing on the envelopes is much older—in fact, the envelope couldn’t belong to the letters, anyway, because the postmark of one you are holding is eighteen fifty-one.’

She paused. She made it very emphatic. ‘Eighteen fifty-one. And that explains everything, doesn’t it?’

‘Not to me,’ said Edward.

‘Well, of course,’ said Miss Marple, ‘I dare say it wouldn’t to me if it weren’t for my great-nephew Lionel. Such a dear little boy and a passionate stamp
collector. Knows all about stamps. It was he who told me about the rare and expensive stamps and that a wonderful new find had come up for auction. And I actually remember his mentioning one stamp—an eighteen fifty-one
blue two-cent
. It realized something like twenty-five thousand dollars, I believe. Fancy! I should imagine that the other stamps are something also rare and expensive. No doubt your uncle bought through dealers and was careful to “cover his tracks”, as they say in detective stories.’

Edward groaned. He sat down and buried his face in his hands.

‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Charmian.

‘Nothing. It’s only the awful thought that, but for Miss Marple, we might have burned these letters in a decent, gentlemanly way!’

‘Ah,’ said Miss Marple, ‘that’s just what these old gentlemen who are fond of their jokes never realize. Uncle Henry, I remember, sent a favourite niece a five-pound note for a Christmas present. He put it in a Christmas card, gummed the card together, and wrote on it, “Love and best wishes. Afraid this is all I can manage this year.” ’

‘She, poor girl, was annoyed at what she thought was his meanness and threw it all straight into the fire; then, of course, he had to give her another.’

Edward’s feelings towards Uncle Henry had suffered an abrupt and complete change.

‘Miss Marple,’ he said, ‘I’m going to get a bottle of champagne. We’ll all drink the health of your Uncle Henry.’

Miss Politt took hold of the knocker and rapped politely on the cottage door. After a discreet interval she knocked again. The parcel under her left arm shifted a little as she did so, and she readjusted it. Inside the parcel was Mrs Spenlow’s new green winter dress, ready for fitting. From Miss Politt’s left hand dangled a bag of black silk, containing a tape measure, a pincushion, and a large, practical pair of scissors.

Miss Politt was tall and gaunt, with a sharp nose, pursed lips, and meagre iron-grey hair. She hesitated before using the knocker for the third time. Glancing down the street, she saw a figure rapidly approaching. Miss Hartnell, jolly, weather-beaten, fifty-five, shouted out in her usual loud bass voice, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Politt!’

The dressmaker answered, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hartnell.’ Her voice was excessively thin and genteel in
its accents. She had started life as a lady’s maid. ‘Excuse me,’ she went on, ‘but do you happen to know if by any chance Mrs Spenlow isn’t at home?’

‘Not the least idea,’ said Miss Hartnell.

‘It’s rather awkward, you see. I was to fit on Mrs Spenlow’s new dress this afternoon. Three-thirty, she said.’

Miss Hartnell consulted her wrist watch. ‘It’s a little past the half-hour now.’

‘Yes. I have knocked three times, but there doesn’t seem to be any answer, so I was wondering if perhaps Mrs Spenlow might have gone out and forgotten. She doesn’t forget appointments as a rule, and she wants the dress to wear the day after tomorrow.’

Miss Hartnell entered the gate and walked up the path to join Miss Politt outside the door of Laburnum Cottage.

‘Why doesn’t Gladys answer the door?’ she demanded. ‘Oh, no, of course, it’s Thursday—Gladys’s day out. I expect Mrs Spenlow has fallen asleep. I don’t expect you’ve made enough noise with this thing.’

Seizing the knocker, she executed a deafening
rat-a-tat-tat
, and in addition thumped upon the panels of the door. She also called out in a stentorian voice, ‘What ho, within there!’

There was no response.

Miss Politt murmured, ‘Oh, I think Mrs Spenlow
must have forgotten and gone out, I’ll call round some other time.’ She began edging away down the path.

‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Hartnell firmly. ‘She can’t have gone out. I’d have met her. I’ll just take a look through the windows and see if I can find any signs of life.’

She laughed in her usual hearty manner, to indicate that it was a joke, and applied a perfunctory glance to the nearest window-pane—perfunctory because she knew quite well that the front room was seldom used, Mr and Mrs Spenlow preferring the small back sitting-room.

Perfunctory as it was, though, it succeeded in its object. Miss Hartnell, it is true, saw no signs of life. On the contrary, she saw, through the window, Mrs Spenlow lying on the hearthrug—dead.

‘Of course,’ said Miss Hartnell, telling the story afterwards, ‘I managed to keep my head. That Politt creature wouldn’t have had the least idea of what to do. “Got to keep our heads,” I said to her. “
You
stay here, and I’ll go for Constable Palk.” She said something about not wanting to be left, but I paid no attention at all. One has to be firm with that sort of person. I’ve always found they enjoy making a fuss. So I was just going off when, at that very moment, Mr Spenlow came round the corner of the house.’

Here Miss Hartnell made a significant pause. It
enabled her audience to ask breathlessly, ‘Tell me, how did he
look
?’

Miss Hartnell would then go on, ‘Frankly,
I
suspected something at once! He was
far
too calm. He didn’t seem surprised in the least. And you may say what you like, it isn’t natural for a man to hear that his wife is dead and display no emotion whatever.’

Everybody agreed with this statement.

The police agreed with it, too. So suspicious did they consider Mr Spenlow’s detachment, that they lost no time in ascertaining how that gentleman was situated as a result of his wife’s death. When they discovered that Mrs Spenlow had been the monied partner, and that her money went to her husband under a will made soon after their marriage, they were more suspicious than ever.

Miss Marple, that sweet-faced—and, some said, vinegar-tongued—elderly spinster who lived in the house next to the rectory, was interviewed very early—within half an hour of the discovery of the crime. She was approached by Police Constable Palk, importantly thumbing a notebook. ‘If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ve a few questions to ask you.’

Miss Marple said, ‘In connection with the murder of Mrs Spenlow?’

Palk was startled. ‘May I ask, madam, how you got to know of it?’

‘The fish,’ said Miss Marple.

The reply was perfectly intelligible to Constable Palk. He assumed correctly that the fishmonger’s boy had brought it, together with Miss Marple’s evening meal.

Miss Marple continued gently. ‘Lying on the floor in the sitting-room, strangled—possibly by a very narrow belt. But whatever it was, it was taken away.’

Palk’s face was wrathful. ‘How that young Fred gets to know everything—’

Miss Marple cut him short adroitly. She said, ‘There’s a pin in your tunic.’

Constable Palk looked down, startled. He said, ‘They do say, “See a pin and pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck.” ’

‘I hope that will come true. Now what is it you want me to tell you?’

Constable Palk cleared his throat, looked important, and consulted his notebook. ‘Statement was made to me by Mr Arthur Spenlow, husband of the deceased. Mr Spenlow says that at two-thirty, as far as he can say, he was rung up by Miss Marple, and asked if he would come over at a quarter past three as she was anxious to consult him about something. Now, ma’am, is that true?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Miss Marple.

‘You did not ring up Mr Spenlow at two-thirty?’

‘Neither at two-thirty nor any other time.’

‘Ah,’ said Constable Palk, and sucked his moustache with a good deal of satisfaction.

‘What else did Mr Spenlow say?’

‘Mr Spenlow’s statement was that he came over here as requested, leaving his own house at ten minutes past three; that on arrival here he was informed by the maid-servant that Miss Marple was “not at ’ome”.’

‘That part of it is true,’ said Miss Marple. ‘He did come here, but I was at a meeting at the Women’s Institute.’

‘Ah,’ said Constable Palk again.

Miss Marple exclaimed, ‘Do tell me, Constable, do you suspect Mr Spenlow?’

‘It’s not for me to say at this stage, but it looks to me as though somebody, naming no names, has been trying to be artful.’

Miss Marple said thoughtfully, ‘Mr Spenlow?’

She liked Mr Spenlow. He was a small, spare man, stiff and conventional in speech, the acme of respectability. It seemed odd that he should have come to live in the country, he had so clearly lived in towns all his life. To Miss Marple he confided the reason. He said, ‘I have always intended, ever since I was a small boy, to live in the country some day and have a garden of my own. I have always been very much
attached to flowers. My wife, you know, kept a flower shop. That’s where I saw her first.’

A dry statement, but it opened up a vista of romance. A younger, prettier Mrs Spenlow, seen against a background of flowers.

Mr Spenlow, however, really knew nothing about flowers. He had no idea of seeds, of cuttings, of bedding out, of annuals or perennials. He had only a vision—a vision of a small cottage garden thickly planted with sweet-smelling, brightly coloured blossoms. He had asked, almost pathetically, for instruction, and had noted down Miss Marple’s replies to questions in a little book.

He was a man of quiet method. It was, perhaps, because of this trait, that the police were interested in him when his wife was found murdered. With patience and perseverance they learned a good deal about the late Mrs Spenlow—and soon all St Mary Mead knew it, too.

The late Mrs Spenlow had begun life as a between-maid in a large house. She had left that position to marry the second gardener, and with him had started a flower shop in London. The shop had prospered. Not so the gardener, who before long had sickened and died.

His widow carried on the shop and enlarged it in an ambitious way. She had continued to prosper. Then
she had sold the business at a handsome price and embarked upon matrimony for the second time—with Mr Spenlow, a middle-aged jeweller who had inherited a small and struggling business. Not long afterwards, they had sold the business and came down to St Mary Mead.

Mrs Spenlow was a well-to-do woman. The profits from her florist’s establishment she had invested—‘under spirit guidance’, as she explained to all and sundry. The spirits had advised her with unexpected acumen.

All her investments had prospered, some in quite a sensational fashion. Instead, however, of this increasing her belief in spiritualism, Mrs Spenlow basely deserted mediums and sittings, and made a brief but wholehearted plunge into an obscure religion with Indian affinities which was based on various forms of deep breathing. When, however, she arrived at St Mary Mead, she had relapsed into a period of orthodox Church-of-England beliefs. She was a good deal at the vicarage, and attended church services with assiduity. She patronized the village shops, took an interest in the local happenings, and played village bridge.

A humdrum, everyday life. And—suddenly—murder.

Colonel Melchett, the chief constable, had summoned Inspector Slack.

Slack was a positive type of man. When he had made up his mind, he was sure. He was quite sure now. ‘Husband did it, sir,’ he said.

‘You think so?’

‘Quite sure of it. You’ve only got to look at him. Guilty as hell. Never showed a sign of grief or emotion. He came back to the house knowing she was dead.’

‘Wouldn’t he at least have tried to act the part of the distracted husband?’

‘Not him, sir. Too pleased with himself. Some gentlemen can’t act. Too stiff.’

‘Any other woman in his life?’ Colonel Melchett asked.

‘Haven’t been able to find any trace of one. Of course, he’s the artful kind. He’d cover his tracks. As I see it, he was just fed up with his wife. She’d got the money, and I should say was a trying woman to live with—always taking up with some “ism” or other. He cold-bloodedly decided to do away with her and live comfortably on his own.’

‘Yes, that could be the case, I suppose.’

‘Depend upon it, that was it. Made his plans careful.
Pretended to get a phone call—’

Melchett interrupted him. ‘No call been traced?’

‘No, sir. That means either that he lied, or that the call was put through from a public telephone booth. The only two public phones in the village are at the station and the post office. Post office it certainly wasn’t. Mrs Blade sees everyone who comes in. Station it might be. Train arrives at two twenty-seven and there’s a bit of a bustle then. But the main thing is
he
says it was Miss Marple who called him up, and that certainly isn’t true. The call didn’t come from her house, and she herself was away at the Institute.’

‘You’re not overlooking the possibility that the husband was deliberately got out of the way—by someone who wanted to murder Mrs Spenlow?’

‘You’re thinking of young Ted Gerard, aren’t you, sir? I’ve been working on him—what we’re up against there is lack of motive. He doesn’t stand to gain anything.’

‘He’s an undesirable character, though. Quite a pretty little spot of embezzlement to his credit.’

‘I’m not saying he isn’t a wrong ’un. Still, he did go to his boss and own up to that embezzlement. And his employers weren’t wise to it.’

‘An Oxford Grouper,’ said Melchett.

‘Yes, sir. Became a convert and went off to do the straight thing and own up to having pinched money. I’m not saying, mind you, that it mayn’t have been
astuteness. He may have thought he was suspected and decided to gamble on honest repentance.’

‘You have a sceptical mind, Slack,’ said Colonel Melchett. ‘By the way, have you talked to Miss Marple at all?’

‘What’s
she
got to do with it, sir?’

‘Oh, nothing. But she hears things, you know. Why don’t you go and have a chat with her? She’s a very sharp old lady.’

Slack changed the subject. ‘One thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, sir. That domestic-service job where the deceased started her career—Sir Robert Abercrombie’s place. That’s where that jewel robbery was—emeralds—worth a packet. Never got them. I’ve been looking it up—must have happened when the Spenlow woman was there, though she’d have been quite a girl at the time. Don’t think she was mixed up in it, do you, sir? Spenlow, you know, was one of those little tuppenny-ha’penny jewellers—just the chap for a fence.’

Melchett shook his head. ‘Don’t think there’s anything in that. She didn’t even know Spenlow at the time. I remember the case. Opinion in police circles was that a son of the house was mixed up in it—Jim Abercrombie—awful young waster. Had a pile of debts, and just after the robbery they were all paid off—some rich woman, so they said, but I don’t know—Old
Abercrombie hedged a bit about the case—tried to call the police off.’

‘It was just an idea, sir,’ said Slack.

Miss Marple received Inspector Slack with gratification, especially when she heard that he had been sent by Colonel Melchett.

‘Now, really, that is very kind of Colonel Melchett. I didn’t know he remembered me.’

‘He remembers you, all right. Told me that what you didn’t know of what goes on in St Mary Mead isn’t worth knowing.’

‘Too kind of him, but really I don’t know anything at all. About this murder, I mean.’

‘You know what the talk about it is.’

‘Oh, of course—but it wouldn’t do, would it, to repeat just idle talk?’

Slack said, with an attempt at geniality, ‘This isn’t an official conversation, you know. It’s in confidence, so to speak.’

‘You mean you really want to know what people are saying? Whether there’s any truth in it or not?’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘Well, of course, there’s been a great deal of talk and
speculation. And there are really two distinct camps, if you understand me. To begin with, there are the people who think that the husband did it. A husband or a wife is, in a way, the natural person to suspect, don’t you think so?’