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And then I was walking down the street with Megan and Elsie Holland passed. She was dressed as a bride, and people were murmuring:
“She’s going to marry Dr. Griffith at last. Of course they’ve been engaged secretly for years….”
There we were, in the church, and Dane Calthrop was reading the service in Latin.
And in the middle of it Mrs. Dane Calthrop jumped up and cried energetically:
“It’s got to be stopped, I tell you. It’s got to be stopped!”
For a minute or two I didn’t know whether I was asleep or awake. Then my brain cleared, and I realized I was in the drawing room of Little Furze and that Mrs. Dane Calthrop had just come through the window and was standing in front of me saying with nervous violence:
“It has got to be stopped, I tell you.”
I jumped up. I said: “I beg your pardon. I’m afraid I was asleep. What did you say?”
Mrs. Dane Calthrop beat one fist fiercely on the palm of her other hand.
“It’s got to be stopped. These letters! Murder! You can’t go on having poor innocent children like Agnes Woddell killed!”
“You’re quite right,” I said. “But how do you propose to set about it?”
Mrs. Dane Calthrop said:
“We’ve got to do something!”
I smiled, perhaps in rather a superior fashion.
“And what do you suggest that we should do?”
“Get the whole thing cleared up! I said this wasn’t a wicked place. I was wrong. It is.”
I felt annoyed. I said, not too politely:
“Yes, my dear woman, but what are you going to do?”
Mrs. Dane Calthrop said: “Put a stop to it all, of course.”
“The police are doing their best.”
“If Agnes could be killed yesterday, their best isn’t good enough.”
“So you know better than they do?”
“Not at all. I don’t know anything at all. That’s why I’m going to call in an expert.”
I shook my head.
“You can’t do that. Scotland Yard will only take over on a demand from the chief constable of the county. Actually they have sent Graves.”
“I don’t mean that kind of an expert. I don’t mean someone who knows about anonymous letters or even about murder. I mean someone who knows people. Don’t you see? We want someone who knows a great deal about wickedness!”
It was a queer point of view. But it was, somehow, stimulating.
Before I could say anything more, Mrs. Dane Calthrop nodded her head at me and said in a quick, confident tone:
“I’m going to see about it right away.”
And she went out of the window again.
Ten
I
The next week, I think, was one of the queerest times I have ever passed through. It had an odd dream quality. Nothing seemed real.
The inquest on Agnes Woddell was held and the curious of Lymstock attended en masse. No new facts came to light and the only possible verdict was returned, “Murder by person or persons unknown.”
So poor little Agnes Woddell, having had her hour of limelight, was duly buried in the quiet old churchyard and life in Lymstock went on as before.
No, that last statement is untrue. Not as before….
There was a half-scared, half-avid gleam in almost everybody’s eye. Neighbour looked at neighbour. One thing had been brought out clearly at the inquest—it was most unlikely that any stranger had killed Agnes Woddell. No tramps nor unknown men had been noticed or reported in the district. Somewhere, then, in Lymstock, walking down the High Street, shopping, passing the time of day, was a person who had cracked a defenceless girl’s skull and driven a sharp skewer home to her brain.
And no one knew who that person was.
As I say, the days went by in a kind of dream. I looked at everyone I met in a new light, the light of a possible murderer. It was not an agreeable sensation!
And in the evenings, with the curtain drawn, Joanna and I sat talking, talking, arguing, going over in turn all the various possibilities that still seemed so fantastic and incredible.
Joanna held firm to her theory of Mr. Pye. I, after wavering a little, had gone back to my original suspect, Miss Ginch. But we went over the possible names again and again.
Mr. Pye?
Miss Ginch?
Mrs. Dane Calthrop?
Aimée Griffith?
Emily Barton?
Partridge?
And all the time, nervously, apprehensively, we waited for something to happen.
But nothing did happen. Nobody, so far as we knew, received anymore letters. Nash made periodic appearances in the town but what he was doing and what traps the police were setting, I had no idea. Graves had gone again.
Emily Barton came to tea. Megan came to lunch. Owen Griffith went about his practice. We went and drank sherry with Mr. Pye. And we went to tea at the vicarage.
I was glad to find Mrs. Dane Calthrop displayed none of the militant ferocity she had shown on the occasion of our last meeting. I think she had forgotten all about it.
She seemed now principally concerned with the destruction of white butterflies so as to preserve cauliflower and cabbage plants.
Our afternoon at the vicarage was really one of the most peaceful we had spent. It was an attractive old house and had a big shabby comfortable drawing room with faded rose cretonne. The Dane Calthrops had a guest staying with them, an amiable elderly lady who was knitting something with white fleecy wool. We had very good hot scones for tea, the vicar came in, and beamed placidly on us whilst he pursued his gentle erudite conversation. It was very pleasant.
I don’t mean that we got away from the topic of the murder, because we didn’t.
Miss Marple, the guest, was naturally thrilled by the subject. As she said apologetically: “We have so little to talk about in the country!” She had ma
de-up her mind that the dead girl must have been just like her Edith.
“Such a nice little maid, and so willing, but sometimes just a little slow to take in things.”
Miss Marple also had a cousin whose niece’s sister-in-law had had a great deal of annoyance and trouble over some anonymous letters, so the letters, also, were very interesting to the charming old lady.
“But tell me, dear,” she said to Mrs. Dane Calthrop, “what do the village people—I mean the townspeople—say? What do they think?”
“Mrs. Cleat still, I suppose,” said Joanna.
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. “Not now.”
Miss Marple asked who Mrs. Cleat was.
Joanna said she was the village witch.
“That’s right, isn’t it, Mrs. Dane Calthrop?”
The vicar murmured a long Latin quotation about, I think, the evil power of witches, to which we all listened in respectful and uncomprehending silence.
“She’s a very silly woman,” said his wife. “Likes to show off. Goes out to gather herbs and things at the full of the moon and takes care that everybody in the place knows about it.”
“And silly girls go and consult her, I suppose?” said Miss Marple.
I saw the vicar getting ready to unload more Latin on us and I asked hastily: “But why shouldn’t people suspect her of the murder now? They thought the letters were her doing.”
Miss Marple said: “Oh! But the girl was killed with a skewer, so I hear—(very unpleasant!). Well, naturally, that takes all suspicion away from this Mrs. Cleat. Because, you see, she could ill-wish her, so that the girl would waste away and die from natural causes.”
“Strange how the old beliefs linger,” said the vicar. “In early Christian times, local superstitions were wisely incorporated with Christian doctrines and their more unpleasant attributes gradually eliminated.”
“It isn’t superstition we’ve got to deal with here,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, “but facts.”
“And very unpleasant facts,” I said.
“As you say, Mr. Burton,” said Miss Marple. “Now you—excuse me if I am being too personal—are a stranger here, and have a knowledge of the world and of various aspects of life. It seems to me that you ought to be able to find a solution to this distasteful problem.”
