Authors: Agatha Christie
“Very clearly put, madam,” said the inspector.
“And since it seems most unlikely that any outsider should have done it, where, then, are we?”
“That’s what the inspector wants to know,” said Raymond West.
“One so often looks at a thing the wrong way round,” said Miss Marple apologetically. “If we can’t alter the movements or the position of those three people, then couldn’t we perhaps alter the time of the murder?”
“You mean that both my watch and the clock were wrong?” asked Lou.
“No dear,” said Miss Marple, “I didn’t mean that at all. I mean that the murder didn’t occur when you thought it occurred.”
“But I
saw
it,” cried Lou.
“Well, what I have been wondering, my dear, was whether you weren’t
meant
to see it. I’ve been asking myself, you know, whether that wasn’t the real reason why you were engaged for this job.”
“What
do
you mean, Aunt Jane?”
“Well, dear, it seems odd. Miss Greenshaw did not like spending money, and yet she engaged you and agreed quite willingly to the terms you asked. It seems to me that perhaps you were meant to be there in that library on the first floor, looking out of the window so that you could be the key witness—someone from outside of irreproachable good faith—to fix a definite time and place for the murder.”
“But you can’t mean,” said Lou, incredulously, “that Miss Greenshaw
intended
to be murdered.”
“What I mean, dear,” said Miss Marple, “is that you didn’t really know Miss Greenshaw. There’s no real reason, is there, why the Miss Greenshaw you saw when you went up to the house should be the same Miss Greenshaw that Raymond saw a few days earlier? Oh, yes, I know,” she went on, to prevent Lou’s reply, “she was wearing the peculiar old-fashioned print dress and the strange straw hat, and had unkempt hair. She corresponded exactly to the description Raymond gave us last weekend. But those two women, you know, were much of an age and height and size. The housekeeper, I mean, and Miss Greenshaw.”
But the housekeeper is fat!” Lou exclaimed. “She’s got an enormous bosom.”
Miss Marple coughed.
“But my dear, surely, nowadays I have seen—er—them myself in shops most indelicately displayed. It is very easy for anyone to have a—a bust—of
any
size and dimension.”
“What are you trying to say?” demanded Raymond.
“I was just thinking, dear, that during the two or three days Lou was working there, one woman could have played the two parts. You said yourself, Lou, that you hardly saw the housekeeper, except for the one moment in the morning when she brought you in the tray with coffee. One sees those clever artists on the stage coming in as different characters with only a minute or two to spare, and I am sure the change could have been effected quite easily. That marquise head-dress could be just a wig slipped on and off.”
“Aunt Jane! Do you mean that Miss Greenshaw was dead before I started work there?”
“Not dead. Kept under drugs, I should say. A very easy job for an unscrupulous woman like the housekeeper to do. Then she made the arrangements with you and got you to telephone to the nephew to ask him to lunch at a definite time. The only person who would have known that this Miss Greenshaw was
not
Miss Greenshaw would have been Alfred. And if you remember, the first two days you were working there it was wet, and Miss Greenshaw stayed in the house. Alfred never came into the house because of his feud with the housekeeper. And on the last morning Alfred was in the drive, while Miss Greenshaw was working on the rockery—I’d like to have a look at that rockery.”
“Do you mean it was Mrs. Cresswell who killed Miss Greenshaw?”
“I think that after bringing you your coffee, the woman locked the door on you as she went out, carried the unconscious Miss Greenshaw down to the drawing-room, then assumed her ‘Miss Greenshaw’ disguise and went out to work on the rockery where you could see her from the window. In due course she screamed and came staggering to the house clutching an arrow as though it had penetrated her throat. She called for help and was careful to say ‘
he
shot me’ so as to remove suspicion from the housekeeper. She also called up to the housekeeper’s window as though she saw her there. Then, once inside the drawing-room, she threw over a table with porcelain on it—and ran quickly upstairs, put on her marquise wig and was able a few moments later to lean her head out of the window and tell you that she, too, was locked in.”
“But she
was
locked in,” said Lou.
“I know. That is where the policeman comes in.”
“What policeman?”
“Exactly—what policeman? I wonder, Inspector, if you would mind telling me how and when
you
arrived on the scene?”
The inspector looked a little puzzled.
“At twelve twenty-nine we received a telephone call from Mrs. Cresswell, housekeeper to Miss Greenshaw, stating that her mistress had been shot. Sergeant Cayley and myself went out there at once in a car and arrived at the house at twelve thirty-five. We found Miss Greenshaw dead and the two ladies locked in their rooms.”
“So, you see, my dear,” said Miss Marple to Lou. “The police constable
you
saw wasn’t a real police constable. You never thought of him again—one doesn’t—one just accepts one more uniform as part of the law.”
“But who—why?”
“As to who—well, if they are playing
A Kiss for Cinderella
, a policeman is the principal character. Nat Fletcher would only have to help himself to the costume he wears on the stage. He’d ask his way at a garage being careful to call attention to the time—twelve twenty-five, then drive on quickly, leave his car round a corner, slip on his police uniform and do his ‘act.’ ”
“But why?—why?”
“
Someone
had to lock the housekeeper’s door on the outside, and someone had to drive the arrow through Miss Greenshaw’s throat. You can stab anyone with an arrow just as well as by shooting it—but it needs force.”
“You mean they were both in it?”
“Oh yes, I think so. Mother and son as likely as not.”
“But Miss Greenshaw’s sister died long ago.”
“Yes, but I’ve no doubt Mr. Fletcher married again. He sounds the sort of man who would, and I think it possible that the child died too, and that this so-called nephew was the second wife’s child, and not really a relation at all. The woman got a post as housekeeper and spied out the land. Then he wrote as her nephew and proposed to call upon her—he may have made some joking reference to coming in his policeman’s uniform—or asked her over to see the play. But I think she suspected the truth and refused to see him. He would have been her heir if she had died without making a will—but of course once she had made a will in the housekeeper’s favour (as they thought) then it was clear sailing.”
“But why use an arrow?” objected Joan. “So very far fetched.”
“Not far fetched at all, dear. Alfred belonged to an archery club—Alfred was meant to take the blame. The fact that he was in the pub as early as twelve twenty was most unfortunate from their point of view. He always left a little before his proper time and that would have been just right—” she shook her head. “It really seems all wrong—morally, I mean, that Alfred’s laziness should have saved his life.”
The inspector cleared his throat.
“Well, madam, these suggestions of yours are very interesting. I shall have, of course, to investigate—”
M
iss Marple and Raymond West stood by the rockery and looked down at that gardening basket full of dying vegetation.
Miss Marple murmured:
“Alyssum, saxifrage, cytisus, thimble campanula . . . Yes, that’s all the proof
I
need. Whoever was weeding here yesterday morning was no gardener—she pulled up plants as well as weeds. So now I
know
I’m right. Thank you, dear Raymond, for bringing me here. I wanted to see the place for myself.”
She and Raymond both looked up at the outrageous pile of Greenshaw’s Folly.
A cough made them turn. A handsome young man was also looking at the house.
“Plaguey big place,” he said. “Too big for nowadays—or so they say. I dunno about that. If I won a football pool and made a lot of money, that’s the kind of house I’d like to build.”
He smiled bashfully at them.
“Reckon I can say so now—that there house was built by my great-grandfather,” said Alfred Pollock. “And a fine house it is, for all they call it Greenshaw’s Folly!”
The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries
The Secret Adversary
Partners in Crime
N or M?
By the Pricking of My Thumbs
Postern of Fate
“I specialize in murders of quiet domestic interest.”
–A
GATHA
C
HRISTIE
From
Partners in Crime
M
rs. Thomas Beresford shifted her position on the divan and looked gloomily out of the window of the flat. The prospect was not an extended one, consisting solely of a small block of flats on the other side of the road. Mrs. Beresford sighed and then yawned.
“I wish,” she said, “something would happen.”
Her husband looked up reprovingly.
“Be careful, Tuppence, this craving for vulgar sensation alarms me.”
Tuppence sighed and closed her eyes dreamily.
“So Tommy and Tuppence were married,” she chanted, “and lived happily ever afterwards. And six years later they were still living together happily ever afterwards. It is extraordinary,” she said, “how different everything always is from what you think it is going to be.”
“A very profound statement, Tuppence. But not original. Eminent poets and still more eminent divines have said it before—and if you will excuse me saying so, have said it better.”
“Six years ago,” continued Tuppence, “I would have sworn that with sufficient money to buy things with, and with you for a husband, all life would have been one grand sweet song, as one of the poets you seem to know so much about puts it.”
“Is it me or the money that palls upon you?” inquired Tommy coldly.
“Palls isn’t exactly the word,” said Tuppence kindly. “I’m used to my blessings, that’s all. Just as one never thinks what a boon it is to be able to breathe through one’s nose until one has a cold in the head.”
“Shall I neglect you a little?” suggested Tommy. “Take other women about to night clubs. That sort of thing.”
“Useless,” said Tuppence. “You would only meet me there with other men. And I should know perfectly well that you didn’t care for the other women, whereas you would never be quite sure that I didn’t care for the other men. Women are so much more thorough.”
“It’s only in modesty that men score top marks,” murmured her husband. “But what is the matter with you, Tuppence? Why this yearning discontent?”
“I don’t know. I want things to happen. Exciting things. Wouldn’t you like to go chasing German spies again, Tommy? Think of the wild days of peril we went through once. Of course I know you’re more or less in the Secret Service now, but it’s pure office work.”
“You mean you’d like them to send me into darkest Russia disguised as a Bolshevik bootlegger, or something of that sort?”
“That wouldn’t be any good,” said Tuppence. “They wouldn’t let me go with you and I’m the person who wants something to do so badly. Something to do. That is what I keep saying all day long.”
“Women’s sphere,” suggested Tommy, waving his hand.
“Twenty minutes’ work after breakfast every morning keeps the flag going to perfection. You have nothing to complain of, have you?”
“Your housekeeping is so perfect, Tuppence, as to be almost monotonous.”
“I do like gratitude,” said Tuppence.
“You, of course, have got your work,” she continued, “but tell me, Tommy, don’t you ever have a secret yearning for excitement, for things to
happen
?”
“No,” said Tommy, “at least I don’t think so. It is all very well to want things to happen—they might not be pleasant things.”
“How prudent men are,” sighed Tuppence. “Don’t you ever have a wild secret yearning for romance—adventure—life?”
“What
have
you been reading, Tuppence?” asked Tommy.
“Think how exciting it would be,” went on Tuppence, “if we heard a wild rapping at the door and went to open it and in staggered a dead man.”
“If he was dead he couldn’t stagger,” said Tommy critically.
“You know what I mean,” said Tuppence. “They always stagger in just before they die and fall at your feet, just gasping out a few enigmatic words. ‘The Spotted Leopard,’ or something like that.”
“I advise a course of Schopenhauer or Emmanuel Kant,” said Tommy.
“That sort of thing would be good for you,” said Tuppence. “You are getting fat and comfortable.”
“I am not,” said Tommy indignantly. “Anyway you do slimming exercises yourself.”
“Everybody does,” said Tuppence. “When I said you were getting fat I was really speaking metaphorically, you are getting prosperous and sleek and comfortable.”
“I don’t know what has come over you,” said her husband.
“The spirit of adventure,” murmured Tuppence. “It is better than a longing for romance anyway. I have that sometimes too. I think of meeting a man, a really handsome man—”
“You have met me,” said Tommy. “Isn’t that enough for you?”
“A brown, lean man, terrifically strong, the kind of man who can ride anything and lassoes wild horses—”
“Complete with sheepskin trousers and a cowboy hat,” interpolated Tommy sarcastically.
“—and has lived in the Wilds,” continued Tuppence. “I should like him to fall simply madly in love with me. I should, of course, rebuff him virtuously and be true to my marriage vows, but my heart would secretly go out to him.”
“Well,” said Tommy, “I often wish that I may meet a really beautiful girl. A girl with corn coloured hair who will fall desperately in love with me. Only I don’t think I rebuff her—in fact I am quite sure I don’t.”
“That,” said Tuppence, “is naughty temper.”
“What,” said Tommy, “is really the matter with you, Tuppence? You have never talked like this before.”
“No, but I have been boiling up inside for a long time,” said Tuppence. “You see it is very dangerous to have everything you want—including enough money to buy things. Of course there are always hats.”
“You have got about forty hats already,” said Tommy, “and they all look alike.”
“Hats are like that,” said Tuppence. “They are not really alike. There are
nuances
in them. I saw rather a nice one in Violette’s this morning.”
“If you haven’t anything better to do than going on buying hats you don’t need—”
“That’s it,” said Tuppence, “that’s exactly it. If I had something better to do. I suppose I ought to take up good works. Oh, Tommy, I do wish something exciting would happen. I feel—I really do feel it would be good for us. If we could find a fairy—”
“Ah!” said Tommy. “It is curious your saying that.”
He got up and crossed the room. Opening a drawer of the writing table he took out a small snapshot print and brought it to Tuppence.
“Oh!” said Tuppence, “so you have got them developed. Which is this, the one you took of this room or the one I took?”
“The one I took. Yours didn’t come out. You under exposed it. You always do.”
“It is nice for you,” said Tuppence, “to think that there is one thing you can do better than me.”
“A foolish remark,” said Tommy, “but I will let it pass for the moment. What I wanted to show you was this.”
He pointed to a small white speck on the photograph.
“That is a scratch on the film,” said Tuppence.
“Not at all,” said Tommy. “That, Tuppence, is a fairy.”
“Tommy, you idiot.”
“Look for yourself.”
He handed her a magnifying glass. Tuppence studied the print attentively through it. Seen thus by a slight stretch of fancy the scratch on the film could be imagined to represent a small winged creature on the fender.
“It has got wings,” cried Tuppence. “What fun, a real live fairy in our flat. Shall we write to Conan Doyle about it? Oh, Tommy. Do you think she’ll give us wishes?”
“You will soon know,” said Tommy. “You have been wishing hard enough for something to happen all the afternoon.”
At that minute the door opened, and a tall lad of fifteen who seemed undecided as to whether he was a butler or a page boy inquired in a truly magnificent manner.
“Are you at home, madam? The front-door bell has just rung.”
“I wish Albert wouldn’t go to the Pictures,” sighed Tuppence, after she had signified her assent, and Albert had withdrawn. “He’s copying a Long Island butler now. Thank goodness I’ve cured him of asking for people’s cards and bringing them to me on a salver.”
The door opened again, and Albert announced: “Mr. Carter,” much as though it were a Royal title.
“The Chief,” muttered Tommy, in great surprise.
Tuppence jumped up with a glad exclamation, and greeted a tall greyhaired man with piercing eyes and a tired smile.
“Mr. Carter, I
am
glad to see you.”
“That’s good, Mrs. Tommy. Now answer me a question. How’s life generally?”
“Satisfactory, but dull,” replied Tuppence with a twinkle.
“Better and better,” said Mr. Carter. “I’m evidently going to find you in the right mood.”
“This,” said Tuppence, “sounds exciting.”
Albert, still copying the Long Island butler, brought in tea. When this operation was completed without mishap and the door had closed behind him Tuppence burst out once more.
“You did mean something, didn’t you, Mr. Carter? Are you going to send us on a mission into darkest Russia?”
“Not exactly that,” said Mr. Carter.
“But there is something.”
“Yes—there is something. I don’t think you are the kind who shrinks from risks, are you, Mrs. Tommy?”
Tuppence’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“There is certain work to be done for the Department—and I fancied—I just fancied—that it might suit you two.”
“Go on,” said Tuppence.
“I see that you take the
Daily Leader
,” continued Mr. Carter, picking up that journal from the table.
He turned to the advertisement column and indicating a certain advertisement with his finger pushed the paper across to Tommy.
“Read that out,” he said.
Tommy complied.
“
The
International
Detective
Agency,
Theodore
Blunt,
Manager.
Private
Inquiries.
Large
staff
of
confidential
and
highly
skilled
Inquiry
Agents.
Utmost
discretion.
Consultations
free.
118
Haleham
St,
W.C.”
He looked inquiringly at Mr. Carter. The latter nodded. “That detective agency has been on its last legs for some time,” he murmured. “Friend of mine acquired it for a mere song. We’re thinking of setting it going again—say, for a six months’ trial. And during that time, of course, it will have to have a manager.”
“What about Mr. Theodore Blunt?” asked Tommy.
“Mr. Blunt has been rather indiscreet, I’m afraid. In fact, Scotland Yard have had to interfere. Mr. Blunt is being detained at Her Majesty’s expense, and he won’t tell us half of what we’d like to know.”
“I see, sir,” said Tommy. “At least, I think I see.”
“I suggest that you have six months leave from the office. Ill health. And, of course, if you like to run a Detective Agency under the name of Theodore Blunt, it’s nothing to do with me.”
Tommy eyed his Chief steadily.
“Any instructions, sir?”
“Mr. Blunt did some foreign business, I believe. Look out for blue letters with a Russian stamp on them. From a ham merchant anxious to find his wife who came as a refugee to this country some years ago. Moisten the stamp and you’ll find the number 16 written underneath. Make a copy of these letters and send the originals on to me. Also if any one comes to the office and makes a reference to the number 16, inform me immediately.”
“I understand, sir,” said Tommy. “And apart from these instructions?”
Mr. Carter picked up his gloves from the table and prepared to depart.
“You can run the Agency as you please. I fancied”—his eyes twinkled a little—“that it might amuse Mrs. Tommy to try her hand at a little detective work.”