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“Oh,” said Michael. He said, with even more embarrassment, “It’s been very kind of you, I’m sure, to take so much trouble.”
“I’ve enjoyed it,” said Miss Marple. “Well, I’m glad to have met you. Good-bye. I hope you’ve got a very good time coming to you. Our country is in rather a bad way just now, but you’ll probably find some job or other that you might quite enjoy doing.”
“Oh yes. Thanks, thanks very much. I—I really am very grateful, you know.”
His tone sounded still extremely unsure about it.
“It’s not me you ought to be grateful to,” said Miss Marple, “you ought to be grateful to your father.”
“Dad? Dad never thought much of me.”
“Your father, when he was a dying man, was determined to see that you got justice.”
“Justice.” Michael Rafiel considered it.
“Yes, your father thought Justice was important. He was, I think, a very just man himself. In the letter he wrote me asking me to undertake this proposition, he directed me to a quotation:
‘Let Justice roll down like waters
And Righteousness like an everlasting stream.’”
“Oh! What’s it mean? Shakespeare?”
“No, the Bible—one has to think about it—I had to.”
Miss Marple unwrapped a parcel she had been carrying.
“They gave me this,” she said. “They thought I might like to have it—because I had helped to find out the truth of what had really happened. I think, though, that you are the person who should have first claim on it—that is if you really want it. But maybe you do not want it—”
She handed him the photograph of Verity Hunt that Clotilde Bradbury-Scott had shown her once in the drawing room of The Old Manor House.
He took it—and stood with it, staring down on it … His face changed, the lines of it softened, then hardened. Miss Marple watched him without speaking. The silence went on for some little time. Professor Wanstead also watched—he watched them both, the old lady and the boy.
It came to him that this was in some way a crisis—a moment that might affect a whole new way of life.
Michael Rafiel sighed—he stretched out and gave the photograph back to Miss Marple.
“No, you are right, I do not want it. All that life is gone—she’s gone—I can’t keep her with me. Anything I do now has got to be new—going forward. You—” he hesitated, looking at her—“You understand?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple—“I understand—I think you are right. I wish you good luck in the life you are now going to begin.”
He said good-bye and went out.
“Well,” said Professor Wanstead, “not an enthusiastic young man. He could have thanked you a bit more enthusiastically for what you did for him.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right,” said Miss Marple. “I didn’t expect him to do so. It would have embarrassed him even more. It is, you know,” she added, “very embarrassing when one has to thank people and start life again and see everything from a different angle and all that. I think he might do well. He’s not bitter. That’s the great thing. I understand quite well why that girl loved him—”
“Well, perhaps he’ll go straight this time.”
“One rather doubts that,” said Miss Marple. “I don’t know that he’d be able to help himself unless—of course,” she said, “the great thing to hope for is that he’ll meet a really nice girl.”
“What I like about you,” said Professor Wanstead, “is your delightfully practical mind.”
III
“She’ll be here presently,” said Mr. Broadribb to Mr. Schuster.
“Yes. The whole thing’s pretty extraordinary, isn’t it?”
“I couldn’t believe it at first,” said Broadribb. “You know, when poor old Rafiel was dying, I thought this whole thing was—well, senility or something. Not that he was old enough for that.”
The buzzer went. Mr. Schuster picked up the phone.
“Oh, she’s here, is she? Bring her up,” he said. “She’s come,” he said. “I wonder now. You know, it’s the oddest thing I ever heard in my life. Getting an old lady to go racketing round the countryside looking for she doesn’t know what. The police think, you know, that that woman committed not just one murder but three. Three! I ask you! Verity Hunt’s body was under the mound in the garden, just as the old lady said it was. She hadn’t been strangled and the face was not disfigured.”
“I wonder the old lady herself didn’t get done in,” said Mr. Broadribb. “Far too old to be able to take care of herself.”
“She had a couple of detectives, apparently, looking after her.”
“What, two of them?”
“Yes, I didn’t know that.”
Miss Marple was ushered into their room.
“Congratulations, Miss Marple,” said Mr. Broadribb, rising to greet her.
“Very best wishes. Splendid job,” said Mr. Schuster, shaking hands.
Miss Marple sat down composedly on the other side of the desk.
“As I told you in my letter,” she said, “I think I have fulfilled the terms of the proposition that was made to me. I have succeeded in what I was asked to do.”
“Oh I know. Yes, we’ve heard already. We’ve heard from Professor Wanstead and from the legal department and from the police authorities. Yes, it’s been a splendid job, Miss Marple. We congratulate you.”
“I was afraid,” said Miss Marple, “that I would not be able to do what was required of me. It seemed so very difficult, almost impossible at first.”
“Yes indeed. It seems quite impossible to me. I don’t know how you did it, Miss Marple.”
“Oh well,” said Miss Marple, “it’s just perseverance, isn’t it, that leads to things.”
“Now about the sum of money we are holding. It’s at your disposal at any time now. I don’t know whether you would like us to pay it into your bank or whether you would like to consult us possibly as to the investment of it? It’s quite a large sum.”
“Twenty thousand pounds,” said Miss Marple. “Yes, it is a very large sum by my way of thinking. Quite extraordinary,” she added.
“If you would like an introduction to our brokers, they could give you possibly some ideas about investing.”
“Oh, I don’t want to invest any of it.”
“But surely it would be—”
“There’s no point in saving at my age,” said Miss Marple. “I mean the point of this money—I’m sure Mr. Rafiel meant it that way—is to enjoy a few things that one thought one never would have the money to enjoy.”
“Well, I see your point of view,” said Mr. Broadribb. “Then your instructions would be that we pay this sum of money into your bank?”
“Middleton’s Bank, 132 High Street, St. Mary Mead,” said Miss Marple.
“You have a deposit account, I expect. We will place it to your deposit account?”
“Certainly not,” said Miss Marple. “Put it into my current account.”
“You don’t think—”
“I do think,” said Miss Marple. “I want it in my current account.”
She got up and shook hands.
“You could ask your bank manager’s advice, you know, Miss Marple. It really is—one never knows when one wants something for a rainy day.”
“The only thing I shall want for a rainy day will be my umbrella,” said Miss Marple.
She shook hands with them both again.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Broadribb. And you too, Mr. Schuster. You’ve been so kind to me, giving me all the information I needed.”
“You really want that money put into your current account?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I’m going to spend it, you know. I’m going to have some fun with it.”
She looked back from the door and she laughed. Just for one moment Mr. Schuster, who was a man of more imagination than Mr. Broadribb, had a vague impression of a young and pretty girl shaking hands with the vicar at
a garden party in the country. It was, as he realized a moment later, a recollection of his own youth. But Miss Marple had, for a minute, reminded him of that particular girl, young, happy, going to enjoy herself.
“Mr. Rafiel would have liked me to have fun,” said Miss Marple.
She went out of the door.
“Nemesis,” said Mr. Broadribb. “That’s what Rafiel called her. Nemesis. Never seen anybody less like Nemesis, have you?”
Mr. Schuster shook his head.
“It must have been another of Mr. Rafiel’s little jokes,” said Mr. Broadribb.
* * *
