A Murder Is Announced (13 page)

“Perhaps the burglar put the doorstop against the door to keep it open,” suggested Miss Murgatroyd.

“Use your common sense, Murgatroyd. What does he do? Throw the door open, say ‘Excuse me a moment,' stoop and put the stop into position and then resume business by saying ‘Hands up'? Try holding the door with your shoulder.”

“It's still very awkward,” complained Miss Murgatroyd.

“Exactly,” said Miss Hinchcliffe. “A revolver, a torch and a door to hold open—a bit too much, isn't it? So what's the answer?”

Miss Murgatroyd did not attempt to supply an answer. She looked inquiringly and admiringly at her masterful friend and waited to be enlightened.

“We know he'd got a revolver, because he fired it,” said Miss Hinchcliffe. “And we know he had a torch because we all saw it—that is unless we're all victims of mass hypnotism like explanations of the Indian Rope Trick (what a bore that old Easterbrook is with his Indian stories) so the question is, did someone hold that door open for him?”

“But who could have done that?”

“Well,
you
could have for one, Murgatroyd. As far as I remember, you were standing directly behind it when the lights went out.” Miss Hinchcliffe laughed heartily. “Highly suspicious character, aren't you, Murgatroyd? But who'd think it to look at you? Here, give me that trowel—thank heavens it isn't really a revolver. You'd have shot yourself by now!”

IV

“It's a most extraordinary thing,” muttered Colonel Easterbrook. “Most extraordinary. Laura.”

“Yes, darling?”

“Come into my dressing room a moment.”

“What is it, darling?”

Mrs. Easterbrook appeared through the open door.

“Remember my showing you that revolver of mine?”

“Oh, yes, Archie, a nasty horrid black thing.”

“Yes. Hun souvenir. Was in this drawer, wasn't it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Well, it's not there now.”

“Archie, how
extraordinary!
”

“You haven't moved it or anything?”

“Oh, no, I'd never dare to touch the horrid thing.”

“Think old mother whatsername did?”

“Oh, I shouldn't think so for a minute. Mrs. Butt would never do a thing like that. Shall I ask her?”

“No—no, better not. Don't want to start a lot of talk. Tell me, do you remember when it was I showed it to you?”

“Oh, about a week ago. You were grumbling about your collars and the laundry and you opened this drawer wide and there it was at the back and I asked you what it was.”

“Yes, that's right. About a week ago. You don't remember the date?”

Mrs. Easterbrook considered, eyelids down over her eyes, a shrewd brain working.

“Of course,” she said. “It was Saturday. The day we were to have gone in to the pictures, but we didn't.”

“H'm—sure it wasn't before that? Wednesday? Thursday or even the week before that again?”

“No, dear,” said Mrs. Easterbrook. “I remember
quite
distinctly. It was Saturday the 30th. It just seems a long time because of all the trouble there's been. And I can tell you
how
I remember. It's because it was the day after the hold-up at Miss Blacklock's. Because when I saw your revolver it reminded me of the shooting the night before.”

“Ah,” said Colonel Easterbrook, “then that's a great load off my mind.”

“Oh, Archie, why?”

“Just because if that revolver had disappeared before the shooting—well, it might possibly have been my revolver that was pinched by that Swiss fellow.”

“But how would he have known you had one?”

“These gangs have a most extraordinary communication service. They get to know everything about a place and who lives there.”

“What a lot you do know, Archie.”

“Ha. Yes. Seen a thing or two in my time. Still as you definitely remember seeing my revolver
after
the hold-up—well, that settles it. The revolver that Swiss fellow used can't have been mine, can it?”

“Of course it can't.”

“A great relief. I should have had to go to the police about it. And they ask a lot of awkward questions. Bound to. As a matter of fact I never took out a licence for it. Somehow, after a war, one forgets these peacetime regulations. I looked on it as a war souvenir, not as a firearm.”

“Yes, I see. Of course.”

“But all the same—where on earth can the damned thing be?”

“Perhaps Mrs. Butt took it. She's always seemed quite honest,
but perhaps she felt nervous after the hold-up and thought she'd like to—to have a revolver in the house. Of course, she'll never admit doing that. I shan't even ask her. She might get offended. And what should we do then? This is such a big house—I simply couldn't—”

“Quite so,” said Colonel Easterbrook. “Better not say anything.”

M
iss Marple came out of the Vicarage gate and walked down the little lane that led into the main street.

She walked fairly briskly with the aid of the Rev. Julian Harmon's stout ashplant stick.

She passed the Red Cow and the butcher's and stopped for a brief moment to look into the window of Mr. Elliot's antique shop. This was cunningly situated next door to the Bluebird Tearooms and Café so that rich motorists, after stopping for a nice cup of tea and somewhat euphemistically named “Home Made Cakes” of a bright saffron colour, could be tempted by Mr. Elliot's judiciously planned shop window.

In this antique bow frame, Mr. Elliot catered for all tastes. Two pieces of Waterford glass reposed on an impeccable wine cooler. A walnut bureau, made up of various bits and pieces, proclaimed itself
a Genuine Bargain and on a table, in the window itself, were a nice assortment of cheap doorknockers and quaint pixies, a few chipped bits of Dresden, a couple of sad-looking bead necklaces, a mug with “A Present from Tunbridge Wells” on it, and some tit-bits of Victorian silver.

Miss Marple gave the window her rapt attention, and Mr. Elliot, an elderly obese spider, peeped out of his web to appraise the possibilities of this new fly.

But just as he decided that the charms of the Present from Tunbridge Wells were about to be too much for the lady who was staying at the Vicarage (for of course Mr. Elliot, like everybody else, knew exactly who she was), Miss Marple saw out of the corner of her eye Miss Dora Bunner entering the Bluebird Café, and immediately decided that what she needed to counteract the cold wind was a nice cup of morning coffee.

Four or five ladies were already engaged in sweetening their morning shopping by a pause for refreshment. Miss Marple, blinking a little in the gloom of the interior of the Bluebird, and hovering artistically, was greeted by the voice of Dora Bunner at her elbow.

“Oh, good morning, Miss Marple. Do sit down here. I'm all alone.”

“Thank you.”

Miss Marple subsided gratefully on to the rather angular little blue-painted armchair which the Bluebird affected.

“Such a sharp wind,” she complained. “And I can't walk very fast because of my rheumatic leg.”

“Oh, I know. I had sciatica one year—and really most of the time I was in
agony.
”

The two ladies talked rheumatism, sciatica and neuritis for some
moments with avidity. A sulky-looking girl in a pink overall with a flight of bluebirds down the front of it took their order for coffee and cakes with a yawn and an air of weary patience.

“The cakes,” Miss Bunner said in a conspiratorial whisper, “are really
quite
good here.”

“I was so interested in that very pretty girl I met as we were coming away from Miss Blacklock's the other day,” said Miss Marple. “I think she said she does gardening. Or is she on the land? Hynes—was that her name?”

“Oh, yes, Phillipa Haymes. Our ‘Lodger,' as we call her.” Miss Bunner laughed at her own humour. “Such a nice quiet girl. A
lady,
if you know what I mean.”

“I wonder now. I knew a Colonel Haymes—in the Indian cavalry. Her father perhaps?”

“She's
Mrs.
Haymes. A widow. Her husband was killed in Sicily or Italy. Of course, it might be
his
father.”

“I wondered, perhaps, if there might be a little romance on the way?” Miss Marple suggested roguishly. “With that tall young man?”

“With Patrick, do you mean? Oh, I don't—”

“No, I meant a young man with spectacles. I've seen him about.”

“Oh, of course, Edmund Swettenham. Sh! That's his mother, Mrs. Swettenham, over in the corner. I don't know, I'm sure. You think he admires her? He's such an odd young man—says the most disturbing things sometimes. He's supposed to be
clever,
you know,” said Miss Bunner with frank disapproval.

“Cleverness isn't everything,” said Miss Marple, shaking her head. “Ah, here is our coffee.”

The sulky girl deposited it with a clatter. Miss Marple and Miss Bunner pressed cakes on each other.

“I was so interested to hear you were at school with Miss Blacklock. Yours is indeed an old friendship.”

“Yes, indeed.” Miss Bunner sighed. “Very few people would be as loyal to their old friends as dear Miss Blacklock is. Oh, dear, those days seem a long time ago. Such a pretty girl and enjoyed life so much. It all seemed so
sad.
”

Miss Marple, though with no idea of what had seemed so sad, sighed and shook her head.

“Life is indeed hard,” she murmured.

“
And sad affliction bravely borne,
” murmured Miss Bunner, her eyes suffusing with tears. “I always think of that verse. True patience; true resignation. Such courage and patience
ought
to be rewarded, that is what I say. What I feel is that
nothing
is too good for dear Miss Blacklock, and whatever good things come to her, she truly
deserves
them.”

“Money,” said Miss Marple, “can do a lot to ease one's path in life.”

She felt herself safe in this observation since she judged that it must be Miss Blacklock's prospects of future affluence to which her friend referred.

The remark, however, started Miss Bunner on another train of thought.

“Money!” she exclaimed with bitterness. “I don't believe, you know, that until one has really experienced it, one can know what money, or rather the lack of it,
means.
”

Miss Marple nodded her white head sympathetically.

Miss Bunner went on rapidly, working herself up, and speaking with a flushed face:

“I've heard people say so often ‘I'd rather have flowers on the
table than a meal without them.' But how many meals have those people ever missed? They don't know what it is—nobody knows who hasn't been through it—to be really
hungry.
Bread, you know, and a jar of meat paste, and a scrape of margarine. Day after day, and how one longs for a good plate of meat and two vegetables. And the
shabbiness.
Darning one's clothes and hoping it won't show. And applying for jobs and always being told you're too old. And then perhaps getting a job and after all one isn't strong enough. One faints. And you're back again. It's the
rent
—always the
rent
—that's
got
to be paid—otherwise you're out in the street. And in these days it leaves so little over. One's old age pension doesn't go far—indeed it doesn't.”

“I know,” said Miss Marple gently. She looked with compassion at Miss Bunner's twitching face.

“I wrote to Letty. I just happened to see her name in the paper. It was a luncheon in aid of Milchester Hospital. There it was in black and white, Miss Letitia Blacklock. It brought the past back to me. I hadn't heard of her for years and years. She'd been secretary, you know, to that very rich man, Goedler. She was always a clever girl—the kind that gets on in the world. Not so much looks—as
character.
I thought—well, I thought—perhaps she'll remember me—and she's one of the people I
could
ask for a little help. I mean someone you've known as a girl—been at school with—well, they do
know
about you—they know you're not just a—begging letter-writer—”

Tears came into Dora Bunner's eyes.

“And then Lotty came and took me away—said she needed someone to help her. Of course, I was very surprised—
very
surprised—but then newspapers do get things wrong. How kind she was—and how
sympathetic.
And remembering all the old days so
well … I'd do anything for her—I really would. And I try
very
hard, but I'm afraid sometimes I muddle things—my head's not what it was. I make mistakes. And I forget and say foolish things. She's very patient. What's so nice about her is that she always pretends that I
am
useful to her. That's real kindness, isn't it?”

Miss Marple said gently: “Yes, that's real kindness.”

“I used to worry, you know, even after I came to Little Paddocks—about what would become of me if—if anything were to happen to Miss Blacklock. After all, there are so many accidents—these motors dashing about—one never knows, does one? But naturally I never
said
anything—but she must have guessed. Suddenly, one day she told me that she'd left me a small annuity in her will—and—what I value far more—all her beautiful furniture. I was quite
overcome
… But she said nobody else would value it as I should—and that is quite true—I can't bear to see some lovely piece of china smashed—or wet glasses put down on a table and leaving a mark. I do really look after her things. Some people—some people especially, are so terribly careless—and sometimes worse than careless!

“I'm not really as stupid as I look,” Miss Bunner continued with simplicity. “I can see, you know, when Letty's being imposed upon. Some people—I won't name names—but they take
advantage.
Dear Miss Blacklock is, perhaps, just a shade too
trusting.
”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“
That's
a mistake.”

“Yes, it is. You and I, Miss Marple, know the world. Dear Miss Blacklock—” She shook her head.

Miss Marple thought that as the secretary of a big financier Miss Blacklock might be presumed to know the world too. But probably what Dora Bunner meant was that Letty Blacklock had always
been comfortably off, and that the comfortably off do not know the deeper abysses of human nature.

“That Patrick!” said Miss Bunner with a suddenness and an asperity that made Miss Marple jump. “Twice, at least, to my knowledge, he's got money out of her. Pretending he's hard up. Run into debt. All that sort of thing. She's far too generous. All she said to me when I remonstrated with her was: ‘The boy's young, Dora. Youth is the time to have your fling.'”

“Well, that's true enough,” said Miss Marple. “Such a handsome young man, too.”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” said Dora Bunner. “Much too fond of poking fun at people. And a lot of going on with girls, I expect. I'm just a figure of fun to him—that's all. He doesn't seem to realize that people have their feelings.”

“Young people
are
rather careless that way,” said Miss Marple.

Miss Bunner leaned forward suddenly with a mysterious air.

“You won't breathe a word, will you, my dear?” she demanded. “But I can't help feeling that he
was
mixed up in this dreadful business. I think he knew that young man—else Julia did. I daren't hint at such a thing to dear Miss Blacklock—at least I did, and she just snapped my head off. And, of course, it's
awkward
—because he's her nephew—or at any rate her
cousin
—and if the Swiss young man shot himself Patrick might be held morally responsible, mightn't he? If he'd put him up to it, I mean. I'm really terribly confused about the whole thing. Everyone making such a fuss about that other door into the drawing room. That's another thing that worries me—the detective saying it had been oiled. Because you see, I saw—”

She came to an abrupt stop.

Miss Marple paused to select a phrase.

“Most difficult for you,” she said sympathetically. “Naturally you wouldn't want anything to get round to the police.”

“That's just it,” Dora Bunner cried. “I lie awake at nights and worry—because, you see, I came upon Patrick in the shrubbery the other day. I was looking for eggs—one hen lays out—and there he was holding a feather and a cup—an oily cup. And he jumped most guiltily when he saw me and he said: ‘I was just wondering what this was doing here.' Well, of course, he's a quick thinker. I should say he thought that up quickly when I startled him. And how did he come to find a thing like that in the shrubbery unless he was looking for it, knowing perfectly well it was there? Of course, I didn't
say
anything.”

“No, no, of course not.”

“But I gave him a
look,
if you know what I mean.”

Dora Bunner stretched out her hand and bit abstractedly into a lurid salmon-coloured cake.

“And then another day I happened to overhear him having a very curious conversation with Julia. They seemed to be having a kind of quarrel. He was saying: ‘If I thought you had anything to do with a thing like that!' and Julia (she's always so calm, you know) said: ‘Well, little brother, what would you do about it?' And then,
most
unfortunately, I trod on that board that always squeaks, and they saw me. So I said, quite gaily: ‘You two having a quarrel?' and Patrick said, ‘I'm warning Julia not to go in for these black-market deals.' Oh, it was all very slick, but I don't believe they were talking about anything of the sort! And if you ask me, I believe Patrick had tampered with that lamp in the drawing room—to make the lights go out, because I remember distinctly that it was the shepherdess—
not
the shepherd. And the next day—”

She stopped and her face grew pink. Miss Marple turned her head to see Miss Blacklock standing behind them—she must just have come in.

“Coffee and gossip, Bunny?” said Miss Blacklock, with quite a shade of reproach in her voice. “Good morning, Miss Marple. Cold, isn't it?”

The doors flew open with a clang and Bunch Harmon came into the Bluebird with a rush.

“Hallo,” she said, “am I too late for coffee?”

“No, dear,” said Miss Marple. “Sit down and have a cup.”

“We must get home,” said Miss Blacklock. “Done your shopping, Bunny?”