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“Hum,” said Mr. Broadribb, making the noise that solicitors of his age are likely to make when they hear something which elicits criticism based on long experience. “Don’t think she’ll ever make the name that Elizabeth Temple did. Quite someone, she was. Been there a long time, too.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Schuster, somewhat uninterested. He wondered why Broadribb was so interested in defunct schoolmistresses.
Schools were not really of particular interest to either of the two gentlemen. Their own offspring were now more or less disposed of. Mr. Broadribb’s two sons were respectively in the C
ivil Service and in an oil firm, and Mr. Schuster’s rather younger progeny were at different universities where both of them respectively were making as much trouble for those in authority as they possibly could do. He said,
“What about her?”
“She was on a coach tour,” said Mr. Broadribb.
“Those coaches,” said Mr. Schuster. “I wouldn’t let any of my relations go on one of those. One went off a precipice in Switzerland last week and two months ago one had a crash and twenty were killed. Don’t know who drives these things nowadays.”
“It was one of those Country Houses and Gardens and Objects of Interest in Britain—or whatever they call it—tours,” said Mr. Broadribb. “That’s not quite the right name, but you know what I mean.”
“Oh yes, I know. Oh the—er—yes, that’s the one we sent Miss What’s-a-name on. The one old Rafiel booked.”
“Miss Jane Marple was on it.”
“She didn’t get killed too, did she?” asked Mr. Schuster.
“Not so far as I know,” said Mr. Broadribb. “I just wondered a bit, though.”
“Was it a road accident?”
“No. It was at one of the beauty spot places. They were walking on a path up a hill. It was a stiff walk. Up a rather steep hill with boulders and things on it. Some of the boulders got loose and came rushing down the mountainside. Miss Temple was knocked out and taken to hospital with concussion and died—”
“Bad luck,” said Mr. Schuster, and waited for more.
“I only wondered,” said Mr. Broadribb, “because I happened to remember that—well, that Fallowfield was the school where the girl was at.”
“What girl? I don’t really know what you’re talking about, Broadribb.”
“The girl who was done in by young Michael Rafiel. I was just recalling a few things which might seem to have some slight connection with this curious Jane Marple business that old Rafiel was so keen on. Wish he’d told us more.”
“What’s the connection?” said Mr. Schuster.
He looked more interested now. His legal wits were in process of being sharpened, to give a sound opinion on whatever it was that Mr. Broadribb was about to confide to him.
“That girl. Can’t remember her last name now. Christian name was Hope or Faith or something like that. Verity, that was her name. Verity Hunter, I think it was. She was one of that series of murdered girls. Found her body in a ditch about thirty miles away from where she’d gone missing. Been dead six months. Strangled apparently, and her head and face had been bashed in—to delay recognition, they thought, but she was recognized all right. Clothes, handbag, jewellery nearby—some mole or scar. Oh yes, she was identified quite easily—”
“Actually, she was the one the trial was all about, wasn’t she?”
“Yes. Suspected of having done away with perhaps three other girls during the past year, Michael was. But evidence wasn’t so good in the other deaths—so the police went all out on this one—plenty of evidence—bad record. Earlier cases of assault and rape. Well, we all know what rape is nowadays. Mum tells the girl she’s got to accuse the young man of rape even if the young man hasn’t had much chance, with the girl at him all the time to come to the house while mum’s away at work or dad’s gone on holiday. Doesn’t stop badgering him until she’s forced him to sleep with her. Then, as I say, mum tells the girl to call it rape. However, that’s not the point,” said Mr. Broadribb. “I wondered if things mightn’t tie up a bit, you know. I thought this Jane Marple business with Rafiel might have something to do with Michael.”
“Found guilty, wasn’t he? And given a life sentence?”
“I can’t remember now—it’s so long ago. Or did they get away with a verdict of diminished responsibility?”
“And Verity Hunter or Hunt was educated at that school. Miss Temple’s school? She wasn’t still a schoolgirl though, was she, when she was killed? Not that I can remember.”
“Oh no. She was eighteen or nineteen, living with relations or friends of her parents, or something like that. Nice house, nice people, nice girl by all accounts. The sort of girl whose relations always say ‘she was a very quiet girl, rather shy, didn’t go about with strange people and had no boyfriends.’ Relations never know what boyfriends a girl has. The girls take mighty good care of that. And young Rafiel was said to be very attractive to girls.”
“Never been any doubt that he did it?” asked Mr. Schuster.
“Not a scrap. Told a lot of lies in the witness box, anyway. His Counsel would have done better not to have let him give evidence. A lot of his friends gave him an alibi that didn’t stand up, if you know what I mean. All his friends seemed to be fluent liars.”
“What’s your feeling about it, Broadribb?”
“Oh, I haven’t got any feelings,” said Mr. Broadribb, “I was just wondering if this woman’s death might tie up.”
“In what way?”
“Well, you know—about these boulders that fall down cliff sides and drop on top of someone. It’s not always in the course of nature. Boulders usually stay where they are, in my experience.”
Fifteen
VERITY
I
“Verity,” said Miss Marple.
Elizabeth Margaret Temple had died the evening before. It had been a peaceful death. Miss Marple, sitting once more amidst the faded chintz of the drawing room in The Old Manor House, had laid aside the baby’s pink coat which she had previously been engaged in knitting and had substituted a crocheted purple scarf. This half-mourning touch went with Miss Marple’s early Victorian ideas of tactfulness in face of tragedy.
An inquest was to be held on the following day. The vicar had been approached and had agreed to hold a brief memorial service in the church as soon as arrangements could be made. Undertakers suitably attired, with proper mourning faces, took general charge of things in liaison with the police. The inquest was to take place on the following morning at 11 o’clock. Members of the coach tour had agreed to attend the inquest. And several of them had chosen to remain on so as to attend the church service also.
Mrs. Glynne had come to the Golden Boar and urged Miss Marple to return to The Old Manor House until she finally returned to the tour.
“You will get away from all the reporters.”
Miss Marple had thanked all three sisters warmly and had accepted.
The coach tour would be resumed after the memorial service, driving first to South Bedestone, thirty-five miles away, where there was a good class hotel which had been originally chosen for a stopping place. After that the tour would go on as usual.
There were, however, as Miss Marple had considered likely, certain persons who were disengaging themselves and returning home, or were going in other directions and not continuing on the tour. There was something to be said in favour of either decision. To leave what would become a journey of painful memories, or to continue with the sightseeing that had already been paid for and which had been interrupted only by one of those painful accidents that may happen on any sightseeing expedition. A lot would depend, Miss Marple thought, on the outcome of the inquest.
Miss Marple, after exchanging various conventional remarks proper to the occasion with her three hostesses, had devoted herself to her purple wool and had sat considering her next line of investigation. And so it was that with her fingers still busy, she had uttered the one word, “Verity.” Throwing it as one throws a pebble into a stream, solely to observe what the result—if any—would be. Would it mean something to her hostesses? It might or it might not. Otherwise, when she joined the members of the tour at their hotel meal this evening, which had been arranged, she would try the effect of it there. It had been, she thought to herself, the last word or almost the last word that Elizabeth Temple had spoken. So therefore, thought Miss Marple (her fingers still busy because she did not need to look at her crocheting, she could read a book or conduct a conversation while her fingers, though slightly crippled with rheumatism, would proceed correctly through their
appointed movements). So therefore, “Verity.”
Like a stone into a pool, causing ripples, a splash, something? Or nothing. Surely there would be a reaction of one sort or another. Yes, she had not been mistaken. Although her face registered nothing, the keen eyes behind her glasses had watched three people in a simultaneous manner as she had trained herself to do for many years now, when wishing to observe her neighbours either in church, mothers’ meetings, or at other public functions in St. Mary Mead when she had been on the track of some interesting piece of news or gossip.
Mrs. Glynne had dropped the book she was holding and had looked across towards Miss Marple with slight surprise. Surprise, it seemed, at the particular word coming from Miss Marple, but not surprised really to hear it.
Clotilde reacted differently. Her head shot up, she leant forward a little, then she looked not at Miss Marple but across the room in the direction of the window. Her hands clenched themselves, she kept very still. Miss Marple, although dropping her head slightly as though she was not looking any more, noted that her eyes were filling with tears. Clotilde sat quite still and let the tears roll down her cheeks. She made no attempt to take out a handkerchief, she uttered no word. Miss Marple was impressed by the aura of grief that came from her.
