A pleasant twenty minutes passed. When Miss Knight had finally departed, the senior assistant remarked with a sniff, “Failing, is she? I’ll believe that when I see it for myself. Old Miss Marple has always been as sharp as a needle, and I’d say she still is.” She then gave her attention to a young woman in tight trousers and a sailcloth jersey who wanted plastic material with crabs on it for bathroom curtains.
“Emily Waters, that’s who she reminds me of,” Miss Marple was saying to herself, with the satisfaction it always gave her to match up a human personality with one known in the past. “Just the same bird brain. Let me see, what happened to Emily?”
Nothing much, was her conclusion. She had once nearly got engaged to a curate, but after an understanding of several years the affair had fizzled out. Miss Marple dismissed her nurse attendant from her mind and gave her attention to her surroundings. She had traversed the garden rapidly only observing as it were from the corner of her eye that Laycock had cut down the old-fashioned roses in a way more suitable to hybrid teas, but she did not allow this to distress her, or distract her from the delicious pleasure of having escaped for an outing entirely on her own. She had a happy feeling of adventure. She turned to the right, entered the Vicarage gate, took the path through the Vicarage garden and came out on the right of way. Where the stile had been there was now an iron swing gate giving on to a tarred asphalt path. This led to a neat little bridge over the stream and on the other side of the stream where once there had been meadows with cows, there was the Development.
Two
With the feeling of Columbus setting out to discover a new world, Miss Marple passed over the bridge, continued on to the path and within four minutes was actually in Aubrey Close.
Of course Miss Marple had seen the Development from the Market Basing Road, that is, had seen from afar its Closes and rows of neat well-built houses, with their television masts and their blue and pink and yellow and green painted doors and windows. But until now it had only had the reality of a map, as it were. She had not been in it and of it. But now she was here, observing the brave new world that was springing up, the world that by all accounts was foreign to all she had known. It was like a neat model built with child’s bricks. It hardly seemed real to Miss Marple.
The people, too, looked unreal. The trousered young women, the rather sinister-looking young men and boys, the exuberant bosoms of the fifteen-year-old girls. Miss Marple couldn’t help thinking that it all looked terribly depraved. Nobody noticed her much as she trudged along. She turned out of Aubrey Close and was presently in Darlington Close. She went slowly and as she went she listened avidly to the snippets of conversation between mothers wheeling prams, to the girls addressing young men, to the sinister-looking Teds (she supposed they were Teds) exchanging dark remarks with each other. Mothers came out on doorsteps calling to their children who, as usual, were busy doing all the things they had been told not to do. Children, Miss Marple reflected gratefully, never changed. And presently she began to smile, and noted down in her mind her usual series of recognitions.
That woman is just like Carry Edwards—and the dark one is just like that Hooper girl—she’ll make a mess of her marriage just like Mary Hooper did. Those boys—the dark one is just like Edward Leeke, a lot of wild talk but no harm in him—a nice boy really—the fair one is Mrs. Bedwell’s Josh all over again. Nice boys, both of them. The one like Gregory Binns won’t do very well, I’m afraid. I expect he’s got the same sort of mother….
She turned a corner into Walsingham Close and her spirits rose every moment.
The new world was the same as the old. The houses were different, the streets were called Closes, the clothes were different, the voices were different, but the human beings were the same as they always had been. And though using slightly different phraseology, the subjects of conversation were the same.
By dint of turning corners in her exploration, Miss Marple had rather lost her sense of direction and had arrived at the edge of the housing estate again. She was now in Carrisbrook Close, half of which was still “under construction.” At the first floor window of a nearly finished house a young couple were standing. Their voices floated down as they discussed the amenities.
“You must admit it’s a nice position, Harry.”
“Other one was just as good.”
“This one’s got two more rooms.”
“And you’ve got to pay for them.”
“Well, I like this one.”
“You would!”
“Ow, don’t be such a spoilsport. You know what Mum said.”
“Your Mum never stops saying.”
“Don’t you say nothing against Mum. Where’d I have been without her? And she might have cut up nastier than she did. She could have taken you to court.”
“Oh, come off it, Lily.”
“It’s a good view of the hills. You can almost see—” She leaned far out, twisting her body to the left. “You can almost see the reservoir—”
She leant farther still, not realizing that she was resting her weight on loose boards that had been laid across the sill. They slipped under the pressure of her body, sliding outwards, carrying her with them. She screamed, trying to regain her balance.
“Harry—”
The young man stood motionless—a foot or two behind her. He took one step backwards—
Desperately, clawing at the wall, the girl righted herself. “Oo!” She let out a frightened breath. “I near as nothing fell out. Why didn’t you get hold of me?”
“It was all so quick. Anyway you’re all right.”
“That’s all you know about it. I nearly went, I tell you. And look at the front of my jumper, it’s all mussed.”
Miss Marple went on a little way, then on impulse, she turned back.
Lily was outside in the road waiting for the young man to lock up the house.
Miss Marple went up to her and spoke rapidly in a low voice.
“If I were you, my dear, I shouldn’t marry that young man. You want someone whom you can rely upon if you’re in danger. You must excuse me for saying this to you—but I feel you ought to be warned.”
She turned away and Lily stared after her.
“Well, of all the—”
Her young man approached.
“What was she saying to you, Lil?”
Lily opened her mouth—then shut it again.
“Giving me the gipsy’s warning if you want to know.”
She eyed him in a thoughtful manner.
Miss Marple in her anxiety to get away quickly, turned a corner, stumbled over some loose stones and fell.
A woman came running out of one of the houses.
“Oh dear, what a nasty spill! I hope you haven’t hurt yourself?”
With almost excessive goodwill she put her arms round Miss Marple and tugged her to her feet.
“No bones broken, I hope? There we are. I expect you feel rather shaken.”
Her voice was loud and friendly. She was a plump squarely built woman of about forty, brown hair just turning grey, blue eyes, and a big generous mouth that seemed to Miss Marple’s rather shaken gaze to be far too full of white shining teeth.
“You’d better come inside and sit down and rest a bit. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Miss Marple thanked her. She allowed herself to be led through the blue-painted door and into a small room full of bright cretonne-covered chairs and sofas.
“There you are,” said her rescuer, establishing her on a cushioned armchair. “You sit quiet and I’ll put the kettle on.”
She hurried out of the room which seemed rather restfully quiet after her departure. Miss Marple took a deep breath. She was not really hurt, but the fall had shaken her. Falls at her age were not to be encouraged. With luck, however, she thought guiltily, Miss Knight need never know. She moved her arms and legs gingerly. Nothing broken. If she could only get home all right. Perhaps, after a cup of tea—
The cup of tea arrived almost as th
e thought came to her. Brought on a tray with four sweet biscuits on a little plate.
“There you are.” It was placed on a small table in front of her. “Shall I pour it out for you? Better have plenty of sugar.”
“No sugar, thank you.”
“You must have sugar. Shock, you know. I was abroad with ambulances during the war. Sugar’s wonderful for shock.” She put four lumps in the cup and stirred vigorously. “Now you get that down, and you’ll feel as right as rain.”
Miss Marple accepted the dictum.
“A kind woman,” she thought. “She reminds me of someone—now who is it?”
“You’ve been very kind to me,” she said, smiling.
“Oh, that’s nothing. The little ministering angel, that’s me. I love helping people.” She looked out of the window as the latch of the outer gate clicked. “Here’s my husband home. Arthur—we’ve got a visitor.”
She went out into the hall and returned with Arthur who looked rather bewildered. He was a thin pale man, rather slow in speech.
“This lady fell down—right outside our gate, so of course I brought her in.”
“Your wife is very kind, Mr.—”
“Badcock’s the name.”
“Mr. Badcock, I’m afraid I’ve given her a lot of trouble.”
“Oh, no trouble to Heather. Heather enjoys doing things for people.” He looked at her curiously. “Were you on your way anywhere in particular?”
“No, I was just taking a walk. I live in St. Mary Mead, the house beyond the Vicarage. My name is Marple.”
“Well, I never!” exclaimed Heather. “So you’re Miss Marple. I’ve heard about you. You’re the one who does all the murders.”
“Heather! What do you—”
“Oh, you know what I mean. Not actually do murders—find out about them. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Miss Marple murmured modestly that she had been mixed-up in murders once or twice.
“I heard there have been murders here, in this village. They were talking about it the other night at the Bingo Club. There was one at Gossington Hall. I wouldn’t buy a place where there’d been a murder. I’d be sure it was haunted.”
“The murder wasn’t committed in Gossington Hall. A dead body was brought there.”
“Found in the library on the hearthrug, that’s what they said?”
Miss Marple nodded.
“Did you ever? Perhaps they’re going to make a film of it. Perhaps that’s why Marina Gregg has bought Gossington Hall.”
“Marina Gregg?”
“Yes. She and her husband. I forget his name—he’s a producer, I think, or a director—Jason something. But Marina Gregg, she’s lovely, isn’t she? Of course she hasn’t been in so many pictures of late years—she was ill for a long time. But I still think there’s never anybody like her. Did you see her in Carmenella. And The Price of Love, and Mary of Scotland? She’s not so young anymore, but she’ll always be a wonderful actress. I’ve always been a terrific fan of hers. When I was a teenager I used to dream about her. The big thrill of my life was when there was a big show in aid of the St. John Ambulance in Bermuda, and Marina Gregg came to open it. I was mad with excitement, and then on the very day I went down with a temperature and the doctor said I couldn’t go. But I wasn’t going to be beaten. I didn’t actually feel too bad. So I got up and put a lot of makeup on my face and went along. I was introduced to her and she talked to me for quite three minutes and gave me her autograph. It was wonderful. I’ve never forgotten that day.”
Miss Marple stared at her. “I hope there were no—unfortunate aftereffects?” she said anxiously.
Heather Badcock laughed.
“None at all. Never felt better. What I say is, if you want a thing you’ve got to take risks. I always do.”
She laughed again, a happy strident laugh.
Arthur Badcock said admiringly. “There’s never any holding Heather. She always gets away with things.”
“Alison Wilde,” murmured Miss Marple, with a nod of satisfaction.
“Pardon?” said Mr. Badcock.
“Nothing. Just someone I used to know.”
Heather looked at her inquiringly.
“You reminded me of her, that is all.”
“Did I? I hope she was nice.”
“She was very nice indeed,” said Miss Marple slowly. “Kind, healthy, full of life.”
“But she had her faults, I suppose?” laughed Heather. “I have.”
“Well, Alison always saw her own point of view so clearly that she didn’t always see how things might appear to, or affect, other people.”
“Like the time you took in that evacuated family from a condemned cottage and they went off with all our teaspoons,” Arthur said.
“But Arthur!—I couldn’t have turned them away. It wouldn’t have been kind.”
“They were family spoons,” said Mr. Badcock sadly. “Georgian. Belonged to my mother’s grandmother.”
“Oh, do forget those old spoons, Arthur. You do harp so.”
“I’m not very good at forgetting, I’m afraid.”
Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully.
“What’s your friend doing now?” asked Heather of Miss Marple with kindly interest.
Miss Marple paused a moment before answering.
“Alison Wilde? Oh—she died.”
Three
I
“I’m glad to be back,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Although, of course, I’ve had a wonderful time.”
Miss Marple nodded appreciatively, and accepted a cup of tea from her friend’s hand.
When her husband, Colonel Bantry, had died some years ago, Mrs. Bantry had sold Gossington Hall and the considerable amount of land attached to it, retaining for herself what had been the East Lodge, a charming porticoed little building replete with inconvenience, where even a gardener had refused to live. Mrs. Bantry had added to it the essentials of modern life, a built-on kitchen of the latest type, a new water supply from the main, electricity, and a bathroom. This had all cost her a great deal, but not nearly so much as an attempt to live at Gossington Hall would have done. She had also retained the essentials of privacy, about three quarters of an acre of garden nicely ringed with trees, so that, as she explained. “Whatever they do with Gossington I shan’t really see it or worry.”
For the last few years she had spent a good deal of the year travelling about, visiting children and grandchildren in various parts of the globe, and coming back from time to time to enjoy the privacies of her own home. Gossington Hall itself had changed hands once or twice. It had been run as a guest house, failed, and been bought by four people who had shared it as four roughly divided flats and subsequently quarrelled. Finally the Ministry of Health had bought it for some obscure purpose for which they eventually did not want it. The Ministry had now resold it—and it was this sale which the two friends were discussing.
“I have heard rumours, of course,” said Miss Marple.
“Naturally,” said Mrs. Bantry. “It was even said that Charlie Chaplin and all his children were coming to live here. That would have been wonderful fun; unfortunately there isn’t a word of truth in it. No, it’s definitely Marina Gregg.”
“How very lovely she was,” said Miss Marple with a sigh. “I always remember those early films of hers. Bird of Passage with that handsome Joel Roberts. And the Mary, Queen of Scots film. And of course it was very sentimental, but I did enjoy Comin’ thru the Rye. Oh dear, that was a long time ago.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bantry. “She must be—what do you think? Forty-five? Fifty?”
Miss Marple thought nearer fifty.
“Has she been in anything lately? Of course I don’t go very often to the cinema nowadays.”
“Only small parts, I think,” said Mrs. Bantry. “She hasn’t been a star for quite a long time. She had that bad nervous breakdown. After one of her divorces.”
“Such a lot of husbands they all have,” said Miss Marple. “It must r
eally be quite tiring.”
“It wouldn’t suit me,” said Mrs. Bantry. “After you’ve fallen in love with a man and married him and got used to his ways and settled down comfortably—to go and throw it all up and start again! It seems to me madness.”
“I can’t presume to speak,” said Miss Marple with a little spin-sterish cough, “never having married. But it seems, you know, a pity.”
“I suppose they can’t help it really,” said Mrs. Bantry vaguely. “With the kind of lives they have to live. So public, you know. I met her,” she added. “Marina Gregg, I mean, when I was in California.”
“What was she like?” Miss Marple asked with interest.
“Charming,” said Mrs. Bantry. “So natural and unspoiled.” She added thoughtfully, “It’s like a kind of livery really.”
“What is?”
“Being unspoiled and natural. You learn how to do it, and then you have to go on being it all the time. Just think of the hell of it—never to be able to chuck something, and say, ‘Oh, for the Lord’s sake stop bothering me.’ I dare say that in sheer self-defence you have to have drunken parties or orgies.”
“She’s had five husbands, hasn’t she?” Miss Marple asked.
“At least. An early one that didn’t count, and then a foreign Prince or Count, and then another film star, Robert Truscott, wasn’t it? That was built up as a great romance. But it only lasted four years. And then Isidore Wright, the playwright. That was rather serious and quiet, and she had a baby—apparently she’d always longed to have a child—she’s even half-adopted a few strays—anyway this was the real thing. Very much built up. Motherhood with a capital M. And then, I believe, it was an imbecile, or queer or something—and it was after that, that she had this breakdown and started to take drugs and all that, and threw up her parts.”