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‘Then, Sir Henry, if I understand you rightly, it is this young Mr Templeton only who is so much on your mind?’
‘Yes, in a sense. It should, in theory, be the same for all four, but that is not actually the case. Dobbs, for instance—suspicion may attach to him in my mind, but it will not actually affect his career. Nobody in the village has ever had any idea that old Dr Rosen’s death was anything but an accident. Gertrud is slightly more affected. It must make, for instance, a difference in Fräulein Rosen’s attitude toward her. But that, possibly, is not of great importance to her.
‘As for Greta Rosen—well, here we come to the crux of the matter. Greta is a very pretty girl and Charles Templeton is a good-looking young man, and for five months they were thrown together with no outer distractions. The inevitable happened. They fell in love with each other—even if they did not come to the point of admitting the fact in words.
‘And then the catastrophe happens. It is three months ago now and a day or two after I returned, Greta Rosen came to see me. She had sold the cottage and was returning to Germany, having finally settled up her uncle’s affairs. She came to me personally, although she knew I had retired, because it was really about a personal matter she wanted to see me. She beat about the bush a little, but at last it all came out. What did I think? That letter with the German stamp—she had worried about it and worried about it—the one Charles had torn up. Was it all right? Surely it must be all right. Of course she believed his story, but—oh! if she only knew! If she knew—for certain.
‘You see? The same feeling: the wish to trust—but the horrible lurking suspicion, thrust resolutely to the back of the mind, but persisting nevertheless. I spoke to her with absolute frankness, and asked her to do the same. I asked her whether she had been on the point of caring for Charles, and he for her.
‘ “I think so,” she said. “Oh, yes, I know it was so. We were so happy. Every day passed so contentedly. We knew—we both knew. There was no hurry—there was all the time in the world. Some day he would tell me he loved me, and I should tell him that I too—Ah! But you can guess! And now it is all changed. A black cloud has come between us—we are constrained, when we meet we do not know what to say. It is, perhaps, the same with him as with me…We are each saying to ourselves, ‘If I were sure!’ That is why, Sir Henry, I beg of you to say to me, ‘You may be sure, whoever killed your uncle, it was not Charles Templeton!’ Say it to me! Oh, say it to me! I beg—I beg!”
‘And, damn it all,’ said Sir Henry, bringing down his fist with a bang on the table, ‘I couldn’t say it to her. They’ll drift farther and farther apart, those two—with suspicion like a ghost between them—a ghost that can’t be laid.’
He leant back in his chair, his face looked tired and grey. He shook his head once or twice despondently.
‘And there’s nothing more can be done, unless—’ He sat up straight again and a tiny whimsical smile crossed his face—‘unless Miss Marple can help us. Can’t you, Miss Marple? I’ve a feeling that letter might be in your line, you know. The one about the Church Social. Doesn’t it remind you of something or someone that makes everything perfectly plain? Can’t you do something to help two helpless young people who want to be happy?’
Behind the whimsicality there was something earnest in his appeal. He had come to think very highly of the mental powers of this frail old-fashioned maiden lady. He looked across at her with something very like hope in his eyes.
Miss Marple coughed and smoothed her lace.
‘It does remind me a little of Annie Poultny,’ she admitted. ‘Of course the letter is perfectly plain—both to Mrs Bantry and myself. I don’t mean the Church Social letter, but the other one. You living so much in London and not being a gardener, Sir Henry, would not have been likely to notice.’
‘Eh?’ said Sir Henry. ‘Notice what?’
Mrs Bantry reached out a hand and selected a catalogue. She opened it and read aloud with gusto:
‘Dr Helmuth Spath. Pure lilac, a wonderfully fine flower, carried on exceptionally long and stiff stem. Splendid for cutting and garden decoration. A novelty of striking beauty.
‘Edgar Jackson. Beautifully shaped chrysanthemum-like flower of a distinct brick-red colour.
‘Amos Perry. Brilliant red, highly decorative.
‘Tsingtau. Brilliant orange-red, showy garden plant and lasting cut flower.
‘Honesty—’
‘With a capital H, you remember,’ murmured Miss Marple.
‘Honesty. Rose and white shades, enormous perfect shaped flower.’
Mrs Bantry flung down the catalogue, and said with immense explosive force:
‘Dahlias!’
‘And their initial letters spell “DEATH”, explained Miss Marple.
‘But the letter came to Dr Rosen himself,’ objected Sir Henry.
‘That was the clever part of it,’ said Miss Marple. ‘That and the warning in it. What would he do, getting a letter from someone he didn’t know, full of names he didn’t know. Why, of course, toss it over to his secretary.’
‘Then, after all—’
‘Oh, no!’ said Miss Marple. ‘Not the secretary. Why, that’s what makes it so perfectly clear that it wasn’t him. He’d never have let that letter be found if so. And equally he’d never have destroyed a letter to himself with a German stamp on it. Really, his innocence is—if you’ll allow me to use the word—just shining.’
‘Then who—’
‘Well, it seems almost certain—as certain as anything can be in this world. There was another person at the breakfast table, and she would—quite naturally under the circumstances—put out her hand for the letter and read it. And that would be that. You remember that she got a gardening catalogue by the same post—’
‘Greta Rosen,’ said Sir Henry, slowly. ‘Then her visit to me—’
‘Gentlemen never see through these things,’ said Miss Marple. ‘And I’m afraid they often think we old women are—well, cats, to see things the way we do. But there it is. One does know a great deal about one’s own sex, unfortunately. I’ve no doubt there was a barrier between them. The young man felt a sudden inexplicable repulsion. He suspected, purely through instinct, and couldn’t hide the suspicion. And I really think that the girl’s visit to you was just pure spite. She was safe enough really; but she just went out of her way to fix your suspicions definitely on poor Mr Templeton. You weren’t nearly so sure about him until after her visit.’
‘I’m sure it was nothing that she said—’ began Sir Henry.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Miss Marple calmly, ‘never see through these things.’
‘And that girl—’ he stopped. ‘She commits a cold-blooded murder and gets off scot-free!’
‘Oh! no, Sir Henry,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Not scot-free. Neither you nor I believe that. Remember what you said not long ago. No. Greta Rosen will not escape punishment. To begin with, she must be in with a very queer set of people—blackmailers and terrorists—associates who will do her no good, and will probably bring her to a miserable end. As you say, one mustn’t waste thoughts on the guilty—it’s the innocent who matter. Mr Templeton, who I dare say will marry that German cousin, his tearing up her letter looks—well, it looks suspicious—using the word in quite a different sense from the one we’ve been using all the evening. A little as though he were afraid of the other girl noticing or asking to see it? Yes, I thin
k there must have been some little romance there. And then there’s Dobbs—though, as you say, I dare say it won’t matter much to him. His elevenses are probably all he thinks about. And then there’s that poor old Gertrud—the one who reminded me of Annie Poultny. Poor Annie Poultny. Fifty years’ faithful service and suspected of making away with Miss Lamb’s will, though nothing could be proved. Almost broke the poor creature’s faithful heart; and then after she was dead it came to light in the secret drawer of the tea caddy where old Miss Lamb had put it herself for safety. But too late then for poor Annie.
‘That’s what worries me so about that poor old German woman. When one is old, one becomes embittered very easily. I felt much more sorry for her than for Mr Templeton, who is young and good-looking and evidently a favourite with the ladies. You will write to her, won’t you, Sir Henry, and just tell her that her innocence is established beyond doubt? Her dear old master dead, and she no doubt brooding and feeling herself suspected of…Oh! It won’t bear thinking about!’
‘I will write, Miss Marple,’ said Sir Henry. He looked at her curiously. ‘You know, I shall never quite understand you. Your outlook is always a different one from what I expect.’
‘My outlook, I am afraid, is a very petty one,’ said Miss Marple humbly. ‘I hardly ever go out of St Mary Mead.’
‘And yet you have solved what may be called an International mystery,’ said Sir Henry. ‘For you have solved it. I am convinced of that.’
Miss Marple blushed, then bridled a little.
‘I was, I think, well educated for the standard of my day. My sister and I had a German governess—a Fräulein. A very sentimental creature. She taught us the language of flowers—a forgotten study nowadays, but most charming. A yellow tulip, for instance, means Hopeless Love, whilst a China Aster means I die of Jealousy at your feet. That letter was signed Georgine, which I seem to remember is Dahlia in German, and that of course made the whole thing perfectly clear. I wish I could remember the meaning of Dahlia, but alas, that eludes me. My memory is not what it was.’
