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She looked at Jason Rudd.
“This is only a theory of yours,” said Jason Rudd.
“You can put it that way, if you like,” said Miss Marple, “but you know quite well, don’t you, Mr. Rudd, that I’m speaking the truth. You know, because you knew from the first. You knew because you heard that mention of German measles. You knew and you were frantic to protect her. But you didn’t realize how much you would have to protect her from. You didn’t realize that it was not only a question of hushing up one death, the death of a woman whom you might say quite fairly had brought her death on herself. But there were other deaths—the death of Giuseppe, a blackmailer, it is true, but a human being. And the death of Ella Zielinsky of whom I expect you were fond. You were frantic to protect Marina and also to prevent her from doing more harm. All you wanted was to get her safely away somewhere. You tried to watch her all the time, to make sure that nothing more should happen.”
She paused, and then coming nearer to Jason Rudd, she laid a gentle hand on his arm.
“I am very sorry for you,” she said, “very sorry. I do realize the agony you’ve been through. You cared for her so much, didn’t you?”
Jason Rudd turned slightly away.
“That,” he said, “is, I believe, common knowledge.”
“She was such a beautiful creature,” said Miss Marple gently. “She had such a wonderful gift. She had a great power of love and hate but no stability. That’s what’s so sad for anyone, to be born with no stability. She couldn’t let the past go and she could never see the future as it really was, only as she imagined it to be. She was a great actress and a beautiful and very unhappy woman. What a wonderful Mary, Queen of Scots she was! I shall never forget her.”
Sergeant Tiddler appeared suddenly on the stairs.
“Sir,” he said, “can I speak to you a moment?”
Craddock turned.
“I’ll be back,” he said to Jason Rudd, then he went towards the stairs.
“Remember,” Miss Marple called after him, “poor Arthur Badcock had nothing to do with this. He came to the fête because he wanted to have a glimpse of the girl he had married long ago. I should say she didn’t even recognize him. Did she?” she asked Jason Rudd.
Jason Rudd shook his head.
“I don’t think so. She certainly never said anything to me. I don’t think,” he added thoughtfully, “she would recognize him.”
“Probably not,” said Miss Marple. “Anyway,” she added, “he’s quite innocent of wanting to kill her or anything of that kind. Remember that,” she added to Dermot Craddock as he went down the stairs.
“He’s not been in any real danger, I can assure you,” said Craddock, “but of course when we found out that he had actually been Miss Marina Gregg’s first husband we naturally had to question him on the point. Don’t worry about him, Aunt Jane,” he added in a low murmur, then he hurried down the stairs.
Miss Marple turned to Jason Rudd. He was standing there like a man in a daze, his eyes faraway.
“Would you allow me to see her?” said Miss Marple.
He considered her for a moment or two, then he nodded.
“Yes, you can see her. You seem to—understand her very well.”
He turned and Miss Marple followed him. He preceded her into the big bedroom and drew the curtains slightly aside.
Marina Gregg lay in the great white shell of the bed—her eyes closed, her hands folded.
So, Miss Marple thought, might the Lady of Shalott have lain in the boat that carried her down to Camelot. And there, standing musing, was a man with a rugged, ugly face, who might pass as a Lancelot of a later day.
Miss Marple said gently, “It’s very fortunate for her that she—took an overdose. Death was really the only way of escape left to her. Yes—very fortunate she took that overdose—or—was given it?”
His eyes met hers, but he did not speak.
He said brokenly, “She was—so lovely—and she had suffered so much.”
Miss Marple looked back against the still figure.
She quoted softly the last lines of the poem:
“He said: ‘She has a lovely face;
God in His mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.’”
* * *
