The Body in the Library (13 page)

Mark Gaskell paused.

“I loved my wife. I shall never feel the same for anyone else. Rosamund was sunshine and laughter and flowers, and when she was killed I felt just like a man in the ring who's had a knock-out blow. But the referee's been counting a good long time now. I'm a man, after all. I like women. I don't want to marry again—not in the least. Well, that's all right. I've had to be discreet—but I've had my good times all right. Poor Addie hasn't. Addie's a really nice woman. She's the kind of woman men want to marry, not to sleep with. Give her half a chance and she would marry again—and be very happy and make the chap happy too. But old Jeff saw her always as Frank's wife—and hypnotized her into seeing herself like that. He doesn't know it, but we've been in prison. I broke out, on the quiet, a long time ago. Addie broke out this summer—and it gave him a shock. It split up his world. Result—Ruby Keene.”

Irrepressibly he sang:

“But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

“Come and have a drink, Clithering.”

It was hardly surprising, Sir Henry reflected, that Mark Gaskell should be an object of suspicion to the police.

I

D
r. Metcalf was one of the best-known physicians in Danemouth. He had no aggressive bedside manner, but his presence in the sick room had an invariably cheering effect. He was middle-aged, with a quiet pleasant voice.

He listened carefully to Superintendent Harper and replied to his questions with gentle precision.

Harper said:

“Then I can take it, Doctor Metcalf, that what I was told by Mrs. Jefferson was substantially correct?”

“Yes, Mr. Jefferson's health is in a precarious state. For several years now the man has been driving himself ruthlessly. In his determination to live like other men, he has lived at a far greater pace than the normal man of his age. He has refused to rest, to take things easy, to go slow—or any of the other phrases with which I and his other medical advisers have tendered our opinion. The result is that the man is an overworked engine. Heart, lungs, blood pressure—they're all overstrained.”

“You say Mr. Jefferson has absolutely refused to listen?”

“Yes. I don't know that I blame him. It's not what I say to my patients, Superintendent, but a man may as well wear out as rust out. A lot of my colleagues do that, and take it from me it's not a bad way. In a place like Danemouth one sees most of the other thing: invalids clinging to life, terrified of over-exerting themselves, terrified of a breath of draughty air, of a stray germ, of an injudicious meal!”

“I expect that's true enough,” said Superintendent Harper. “What it amounts to, then, is this: Conway Jefferson is strong enough, physically speaking—or, I suppose I mean, muscularly speaking. Just what can he do in the active line, by the way?”

“He has immense strength in his arms and shoulders. He was a powerful man before his accident. He is extremely dexterous in his handling of his wheeled chair, and with the aid of crutches he can move himself about a room—from his bed to the chair, for instance.”

“Isn't it possible for a man injured as Mr. Jefferson was to have artificial legs?”

“Not in his case. There was a spine injury.”

“I see. Let me sum up again. Jefferson is strong and fit in the muscular sense. He feels well and all that?”

Metcalf nodded.

“But his heart is in a bad condition. Any overstrain or exertion, or a shock or a sudden fright, and he might pop off. Is that it?”

“More or less. Over-exertion is killing him slowly, because he won't give in when he feels tired. That aggravates the cardiac condition. It is unlikely that exertion would kill him suddenly. But a sudden shock or fright might easily do so. That is why I expressly warned his family.”

Superintendent Harper said slowly:

“But in actual fact a shock
didn't
kill him. I mean, doctor, that there couldn't have been a much worse shock than this business, and he's still alive?”

Dr. Metcalf shrugged his shoulders.

“I know. But if you'd had my experience, Superintendent, you'd know that case history shows the impossibility of prognosticating accurately. People who
ought
to die of shock and exposure
don't
die of shock and exposure, etc., etc. The human frame is tougher than one can imagine possible. Moreover, in my experience, a
physical
shock is more often fatal than a
mental
shock. In plain language, a door banging suddenly would be more likely to kill Mr. Jefferson than the discovery that a girl he was fond of had died in a particularly horrible manner.”

“Why is that, I wonder?”

“The breaking of a piece of bad news nearly always sets up a defence reaction. It numbs the recipient. They are unable—at first—to take it in. Full realization takes a little time. But the banged door, someone jumping out of a cupboard, the sudden onslaught of a motor as you cross a road—all those things are immediate in their action. The heart gives a terrified leap—to put it in layman's language.”

Superintendent Harper said slowly:

“But as far as anyone would know, Mr. Jefferson's death might easily have been caused by the shock of the girl's death?”

“Oh, easily.” The doctor looked curiously at the other. “You don't think—”

“I don't know what I think,” said Superintendent Harper vexedly.

II

“But you'll admit, sir, that the two things would fit in very prettily together,” he said a little later to Sir Henry Clithering. “Kill two birds with one stone. First the girl—and the fact of her death takes off Mr. Jefferson too—before he's had any opportunity of altering his will.”

“Do you think he will alter it?”

“You'd be more likely to know that, sir, than I would. What do you say?”

“I don't know. Before Ruby Keene came on the scene I happen to know that he had left his money between Mark Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson. I don't see why he should now change his mind about that. But of course he might do so. Might leave it to a Cats' Home, or to subsidize young professional dancers.”

Superintendent Harper agreed.

“You never know what bee a man is going to get in his bonnet—especially when he doesn't feel there's any moral obligation in the disposal of his fortune. No blood relations in this case.”

Sir Henry said:

“He is fond of the boy—of young Peter.”

“D'you think he regards him as a grandson? You'd know that better than I would, sir.”

Sir Henry said slowly:

“No, I don't think so.”

“There's another thing I'd like to ask you, sir. It's a thing I can't judge for myself. But they're friends of yours and so you'd know. I'd like very much to know just how fond Mr. Jefferson is of Mr. Gaskell and young Mrs. Jefferson.”

Sir Henry frowned.

“I'm not sure if I understand you, Superintendent?”

“Well, it's this way, sir. How fond is he of them as
persons
—apart from his relationship to them?”

“Ah, I see what you mean.”

“Yes, sir. Nobody doubts that he was very attached to them both—but he was attached to them, as I see it, because they were, respectively, the husband and the wife of his daughter and his son. But supposing, for instance, one of them had married again?”

Sir Henry reflected. He said:

“It's an interesting point you raise there. I don't know. I'm inclined to suspect—this is a mere opinion—that it would have altered his attitude a good deal. He would have wished them well, borne no rancour, but I think, yes, I rather think that he would have taken very little more interest in them.”

“In both cases, sir?”

“I think so, yes. In Mr. Gaskell's, almost certainly, and I rather think in Mrs. Jefferson's also, but that's not nearly so certain. I think he
was
fond of her for her own sake.”

“Sex would have something to do with that,” said Superintendent Harper sapiently. “Easier for him to look on her as a daughter than to look on Mr. Gaskell as a son. It works both ways. Women accept a son-in-law as one of the family easily enough, but there aren't many times when a woman looks on her son's wife as a daughter.”

Superintendent Harper went on:

“Mind if we walk along this path, sir, to the tennis court? I see Miss Marple's sitting there. I want to ask her to do something for me. As a matter of fact I want to rope you both in.”

“In what way, Superintendent?”

“To get at stuff that I can't get at myself. I want you to tackle Edwards for me, sir.”

“Edwards? What do you want from him?”

“Everything you can think of! Everything he knows and what he thinks! About the relations between the various members of the family, his angle on the Ruby Keene business. Inside stuff. He knows better than anyone the state of affairs—you bet he does! And he wouldn't tell
me.
But he'll tell
you.
And something
might
turn up from it. That is, of course, if you don't object?”

Sir Henry said grimly:

“I don't object. I've been sent for, urgently, to get at the truth. I mean to do my utmost.”

He added:

“How do you want Miss Marple to help you?”

“With some girls. Some of those Girl Guides. We've rounded up half a dozen or so, the ones who were most friendly with Pamela Reeves. It's possible that they may know something. You see, I've been thinking. It seems to me that if that girl was really going to Woolworth's she would have tried to persuade one of the other girls to go with her. Girls usually like to shop with someone.”

“Yes, I think that's true.”

“So I think it's possible that Woolworth's was only an excuse. I want to know where the girl was really going. She may have let slip something. If so, I feel Miss Marple's the person to get it out of these girls. I'd say she knows a thing or two about girls—more than I do. And, anyway, they'd be scared of the police.”

“It sounds to me the kind of village domestic problem that is right up Miss Marple's street. She's very sharp, you know.”

The Superintendent smiled. He said:

“I'll say you're right. Nothing much gets past her.” Miss Marple looked up at their approach and welcomed them eagerly. She listened to the Superintendent's request and at once acquiesced.

“I should like to help you very much, Superintendent, and I think that perhaps I
could
be of some use. What with the Sunday School, you know, and the Brownies, and our Guides, and the Orphanage quite near—I'm on the committee, you know, and often run in to have a little talk with Matron—and then
servants
—I usually have very young maids. Oh, yes, I've quite a lot of experience in when a girl is speaking the truth and when she is holding something back.”

“In fact, you're an expert,” said Sir Henry.

Miss Marple flashed him a reproachful glance and said:

“Oh,
please
don't laugh at me, Sir Henry.”

“I shouldn't dream of laughing at you. You've had the laugh of me too many times.”

“One does see so much evil in a village,” murmured Miss Marple in an explanatory voice.

“By the way,” said Sir Henry, “I've cleared up one point you asked me about. The Superintendent tells me that there were nail clippings in Ruby's wastepaper basket.”

Miss Marple said thoughtfully:

“There were? Then that's that….”

“Why did you want to know, Miss Marple?” asked the Superintendent.

Miss Marple said:

“It was one of the things that—well, that seemed
wrong
when I looked at the body. The hands were wrong, somehow, and I couldn't at first think
why.
Then I realized that girls who are very much
made-up, and all that, usually have very long fingernails. Of course, I know that girls everywhere do bite their nails—it's one of those habits that are very hard to break oneself of. But vanity often does a lot to help. Still, I presumed that this girl
hadn't
cured herself. And then the little boy—Peter, you know—he said something which showed that her nails
had
been long, only she caught one and broke it. So then, of course, she might have trimmed off the rest to make an even appearance, and I asked about clippings and Sir Henry said he'd find out.”

Sir Henry remarked:

“You said just now, ‘
one
of the things that seemed wrong when you looked at the body.' Was there something else?”

Miss Marple nodded vigorously.

“Oh yes!” she said. “There was the dress. The dress was
all
wrong.”

Both men looked at her curiously.

“Now why?” said Sir Henry.

“Well, you see, it was an old dress. Josie said so, definitely, and I could see for myself that it was shabby and rather worn. Now that's all wrong.”

“I don't see why.”

Miss Marple got a little pink.

“Well, the idea is, isn't it, that Ruby Keene changed her dress and went off to meet someone on whom she presumably had what my young nephews call a ‘crush'?”

The Superintendent's eyes twinkled a little.

“That's the theory. She'd got a date with someone—a boy friend, as the saying goes.”

“Then why,” demanded Miss Marple, “was she wearing an old dress?”

The Superintendent scratched his head thoughtfully. He said:

“I see your point. You think she'd wear a new one?”

“I think she'd wear her best dress. Girls do.”

Sir Henry interposed.

“Yes, but look here, Miss Marple. Suppose she was going outside to this
rendezvous.
Going in an open car, perhaps, or walking in some rough going. Then she'd not want to risk messing a new frock and she'd put on an old one.”

“That would be the sensible thing to do,” agreed the Superintendent.

Miss Marple turned on him. She spoke with animation.

“The sensible thing to do would be to change into trousers and a pullover, or into tweeds. That, of course (I don't want to be snobbish, but I'm afraid it's unavoidable), that's what a girl of—of our class would do.

“A well-bred girl,” continued Miss Marple, warming to her subject, “is always very particular to wear the right clothes for the right occasion. I mean, however hot the day was, a well-bred girl would never turn up at a point-to-point in a silk flowered frock.”

“And the correct wear to meet a lover?” demanded Sir Henry.

“If she were meeting him inside the hotel or somewhere where evening dress was worn, she'd wear her best evening frock, of course—but
outside
she'd feel she'd look ridiculous in evening dress and she'd wear her most attractive sportswear.”

“Granted, Fashion Queen, but the girl Ruby—”

Miss Marple said: