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“That’s very nicely put, my dear boy,” said Miss Marple.
“I’ll give you a little précis of what I was told and then we’ll come to the list.”
He gave a brief résumé of what he had heard, and then he produced his list.
“It must be one of these,” he said. “My godfather, Sir Henry Clithering, told me that you once had a club here. You called it the Tuesday Night Club. You all dined with each other in turn and then someone would tell a story—a story of some real life happening which had ended in mystery. A mystery of which only the teller of the tale knew the answer. And every time, so my godfather told me, you guessed right. So I thought I’d come along and see if you’d do a bit of guessing for me this morning.”
“I think that is rather a frivolous way of putting it,” said Miss Marple, reproving, “but there is one question I should like to ask.”
“Yes?”
“What about the children?”
“The children? There’s only one. An imbecile child in a sanatorium in America. Is that what you mean?”
“No,” said Miss Marple, “that’s not what I mean. It’s very sad of course. One of those tragedies that seem to happen and there’s no one to blame for it. No, I meant the children that I’ve seen mentioned in some article here.” She tapped the papers in front of her. “Children that Marina Gregg adopted. Two boys, I think, and a girl. In one case a mother with a lot of children and very little money to bring them up in this country, wrote to her, and asked if she couldn’t take a child. There was a lot of very silly false sentiment written about that. About the mother’s unselfishness and the wonderful home and education and future the child was going to have. I can’t find out much about the other two. One I think was a foreign refugee and the other was some American child. Marina Gregg adopted them at different times. I’d like to know what’s happened to them.”
Dermot Craddock looked at her curiously. “It’s odd that you should think of that,” he said. “I did just vaguely wonder about those children myself. But how do you connect them up?”
“Well,” said Miss Marple, “as far as I can hear or find out, they’re not living with her now, are they?”
“I expect they were provided for,” said Craddock. “In fact, I think that the adoption laws would insist on that. There was probably money settled on them in trust.”
“So when she got—tired of them,” said Miss Marple with a very faint pause before the word “tired,” “they were dismissed! After being brought up in luxury with every advantage. Is that it?”
“Probably,” said Craddock. “I don’t know exactly.” He continued to look at her curiously.
“Children feel things, you know,” said Miss Marple, nodding her head. “They feel things more than the people around them ever imagine. The sense of hurt, of being rejected, of not belonging. It’s a thing that you don’t get over just because of advantages. Education is no substitute for it, or comfortable living, or an assured income, or a start in a profession. It’s the sort of thing that might rankle.”
“Yes. But all the same, isn’t it rather far-fetched to think that—well, what exactly do you think?”
“I haven’t got as far as that,” said Miss Marple. “I just wondered where they were now and how old they would be now? Grown-up, I should imagine, from what I’ve read here.”
“I could find out, I suppose,” said Dermot Craddock slowly.
“Oh, I don’t want to bother you in anyway, or even to suggest that my little idea’s worthwhile at all.”
“There’s no harm,” said Dermot Craddock, “in having that checked up on.” He made a note in his little book. “Now do you want to look at my little list?”
“I don’t really think I should be able to do anything useful about that. You see, I wouldn’t know who the people were.”
“Oh, I could give you a running commentary,” said Craddock. “Here we are. Jason Rudd, husband, (husbands always highly suspicious). Everyone says that Jason Rudd adores her. That is suspicious in itself, don’t you think?”
“Not necessarily,” said Miss Marple with dignity.
“He’s been very active in trying to conceal the fact that his wife was the object of attack. He hasn’t hinted any suspicion of such a thing to the police. I don’t know why he thinks we’re such asses as not to think of it for ourselves. We’ve considered it from the first. But anyway, that’s his story. He was afraid that knowledge of that fact might get to his wife’s ears and that she’d go into a panic about it.”
“Is she the sort of woman who goes into panics?”
“Yes, she’s neurasthenic, throws temperaments, has nervous breakdowns, gets in states.”
“That might not mean any lack of courage,” Miss Marple objected.
“On the other hand,” said Craddock, “if she knows quite well that she was the object of attack, it’s also possible that she may know who did it.”
“You mean she knows who did it—but does not want to disclose the fact?”
“I just say it’s a possibility, and if so, one rather wonders why not? It looks as though the motive, the root of the matter, was something she didn’t want to come to her husband’s ear.”
“That is certainly an interesting thought,” said Miss Marple.
“Here are a few more names. The secretary, Ella Zielinsky. An extremely competent and efficient young woman.”
“In love with the husband, do you think?” asked Miss Marple.
“I should think definitely,” answered Craddock, “but why should you think so?”
“Well, it so often happens,” said Miss Marple. “And therefore not very fond of poor Marina Gregg, I expect?”
“Therefore possible motive for murder,” said Craddock.
“A lot of secretaries and employees are in love with their employers’ husbands,” said Miss Marple, “but very, very few of them try to poison them.”
“Well, we must allow for exceptions,” said Craddock. “Then there were two local and one London photographer, and two members of the Press. None of them seems likely but we will follow them up. There was the woman who was formerly married to Marina Gregg’s second or third husband. She didn’t like it when Marina Gregg took her husband away. Still, that’s about eleven or twelve years ago. It seems unlikely that she’d make a visit here at this juncture on purpose to poison Marina because of that. Then there’s a man called Ardwyck Fenn. He was once a very close friend of Marina Gregg’s. He hasn’t seen her for years. He was not known to be in this part of the world and it was a great surprise when he turned up on this occasion.”
“She would be startled then when she saw him?”
“Presumably yes.”
“Startled—and possibly frightened.”
“‘The doom has come upon me,’” said Craddock. “That’s the idea. Then there was young Hailey Preston dodging about that day, doing his stuff. Talks a good deal but definitely heard nothing, saw nothing and knew nothing. Almost too anxious to say so. Does anything there ring a bell?”
“Not exactly,” said Miss Marple. “Plenty of interesting possibilities. But I’d still like to know a little more about the children.”
He looked at her curiously. “You’ve got quite a bee in your bonnet about that, haven’t you?” he said. “All right, I’ll find out.”
Thirteen
I
“I suppose it couldn’t possibly have been the mayor?” said Inspector Cornish wistfully.
He tapped the paper with the list of names on it with his pencil. Dermot Craddock grinned.
“Wishful thinking?” he asked.
“You could certainly call it that,” said Cornish. “Pompous, canting old hypocrite!” he went on. “Everybody’s got it in for him. Throws his weight about, ultra sanctimonious, and neck deep in graft for years past!”
“Can’t you ever bring it home to him?”
“No,” said Cornish. “He’s too slick for that. He’s always just on the right side of the law.”
r /> “It’s tempting, I agree,” said Dermot Craddock, “but I think you’ll have to banish that rosy picture from your mind, Frank.”
