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“Yes? What are they?”
“I want to go over very carefully what happened on the day of the fête. Mrs. Bantry has arrived, and the vicar shortly after her. Then come Mr. and Mrs. Badcock, and on the stairs at that time were the mayor and his wife, this man Ardwyck Fenn, Lola Brewster, a reporter from the Herald & Argus of Much Benham, and this photographer girl, Margot Bence. Margot Bence, you said, had her camera at an angle on the stairs, and was taking photographs of the proceedings. Have you seen any of those photographs?”
“Actually I brought one to show you.”
He took from his pocket an unmounted print. Miss Marple looked at it steadfastly. Marina Gregg with Jason Rudd a little behind her to one side, Arthur Badcock, his hand to his face, looking slightly embarrassed, was standing back, whilst his wife had Marina Gregg’s hand in hers and was looking up at her and talking. Marina was not looking at Mrs. Badcock. She was staring over her head looking, it seemed, full into the camera, or possibly just slightly to the left of it.
“Very interesting,” said Miss Marple. “I’ve had descriptions, you know, of what this look was on her face. A frozen look. Yes, that describes it quite well. A look of doom. I’m not really so sure about that. It’s more a kind of paralysis of feeling rather than apprehension of doom. Don’t you think so? I wouldn’t say it was actually fear, would you, although fear of course might take you that way. It might paralyse you. But I don’t think it was fear. I think rather that it was shock. Dermot, my dear boy, I want you to tell me, if you’ve got notes of it, what exactly Heather Badcock said to Marina Gregg on that occasion. I know roughly the gist of it, of course, but how near can you get to the actual words. I suppose you had accounts of it from different people.”
Dermot nodded.
“Yes. Let me see. Your friend, Mrs. Bantry, then Jason Rudd and I think Arthur Badcock. As you say they varied a little in wording, but the gist of them was the same.”
“I know. It’s the variations that I want. I think it might help us.”
“I don’t see how,” said Dermot, “though perhaps you do. Your friend, Mrs. Bantry, was probably the most definite on the point. As far as I remember—wait—I carry a good many of my jottings around with me.”
He took out a small notebook from his pocket, looked through it to refresh his memory.
“I haven’t got the exact words here,” he said, “but I made a rough note. Apparently Mrs. Badcock was very cheerful, rather arch, and delighted with herself. She said something like ‘I can’t tell you how wonderful this is for me. You won’t remember but years ago in Bermuda—I got up from bed when I had chicken pox and came along to see you and you gave me an autograph and it’s one of the proudest days of my life which I have never forgotten.’”
“I see,” said Miss Marple, “she mentioned the place but not the date, did she?”
“Yes.”
“And what did Rudd say?”
“Jason Rudd? He said that Mrs. Badcock told his wife that she’d got up from bed when she had the flu and had come to meet Marina and she still had her autograph. It was a shorter account than your friend’s but the gist of it was the same.”
“Did he mention the time and place?”
“No. I don’t think he did. I think he said roughly that it was some ten or twelve years ago.”
“I see. And what about Mr. Badcock?”
“Mr. Badcock said that Heather was extremely excited and anxious to meet Marina Gregg, that she was a great fan of Marina Gregg’s and that she’d told him that once when she was ill as a girl she managed to get up and meet Miss Gregg and get her autograph. He didn’t go into any close particulars, as it was evidently in the days before he was married to his wife. He impressed me as not thinking the incident of much importance.”
“I see,” said Miss Marple. “Yes, I see….”
“And what do you see?” asked Craddock.
“Not quite as much as I’d like to yet,” said Miss Marple, honestly, “but I have a sort of feeling if I only knew why she’d ruined her new dress—”
“Who—Mrs. Badcock?”
“Yes. It seems to me such a very odd thing—such an inexplicable one unless—of course—Dear me, I think I must be very stupid!”
Miss Knight opened the door and entered, switching the light on as she did so.
“I think we want a little light in here,” she said brightly.
“Yes,” said Miss Marple, “you are so right, Miss Knight. That is exactly what we did want. A little light. I think, you know, that at last we’ve got it.”
The tête-à-tête seemed ended and Craddock rose to his feet.
“There only remains one thing,” he said, “and that is for you to tell me just what particular memory from your own past is agitating your mind now.”
“Everyone always teases me about that,” said Miss Marple, “but I must say that I was reminded just for a moment of the Lauristons’ parlourmaid.”
“The Lauristons’ parlourmaid?” Craddock looked completely mystified.
“She had, of course, to take messages on the telephone,” said Miss Marple, “and she wasn’t very good at it. She used to get the general sense right, if you know what I mean, but the way she wrote it down used to make quite nonsense of it sometimes. I suppose really, because her grammar was so bad. The result was that some very unfortunate incidents occurred. I remember one in particular. A Mr. Burroughs, I think it was, rang up and said he had been to see Mr. Elvaston about the fence being broken down but he said that the fence wasn’t his business at all to repair. It was on the other side of the property and he said he would like to know if that was really the case before proceeding further
as it would depend on whether he was liable or not and it was important for him to know the proper lie of the land before instructing solicitors. A very obscure message, as you see. It confused rather than enlightened.”
“If you’re talking about parlourmaids,” said Miss Knight with a little laugh, “that must have been a very long time ago. I’ve never heard of a parlourmaid for many years now.”
“It was a good many years ago,” said Miss Marple, “but nevertheless human nature was very much the same then as it is now. Mistakes were made for very much the same reasons. Oh dear,” she added, “I am thankful that that girl is safely in Bournemouth.”
“The girl? What girl?” asked Dermot.
“That girl who did dressmaking and went up to see Giuseppe that day. What was her name— Gladys something.”
“Gladys Dixon?”
“Yes, that’s the name.”
“She’s in Bournemouth, do you say? How on earth do you know that?”
“I know,” said Miss Marple, “because I sent her there.”
“What?” Dermot stared at her. “You? Why?”
“I went out to see her,” said Miss Marple, “and I gave her some money and told her to take a holiday and not to write home.”
“Why on earth did you do that?”
“Because I didn’t want her to be killed, of course,” said Miss Marple, and blinked at him placidly.
Twenty-two
“Such a sweet letter from Lady Conway,” Miss Knight said two days later as she deposited Miss Marple’s breakfast tray. “You remember my telling you about her? Just a little, you know—” she tapped her forehead—“wanders sometimes. And her memory’s bad. Can’t recognize her relations always and tells them to go away.”
“That might be shrewdness really,” said Miss Marple, “rather than a loss of memory.”
“Now, now,” said Miss Knight, “aren’t we being naughty to make suggestions like that? She’s spending the winter at the Belgrave Hotel at Llandudno. Such a nice residential hotel. Splendid grounds and a very nice glassed-in terrace. She’s most anxious for me to come and join her there.” She sighed.
