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One of them stood over the unconscious figure, not knowing what to do, while the other rushed to the house to get help.
Harry Laxton came running out, his face ghastly. They took off a door of the van and carried her on it to the house. She died without regaining consciousness and before the doctor arrived.
(End of Doctor Haydock’s manuscript.)
VIII
When Doctor Haydock arrived the following day, he was pleased to note that there was a pink flush in Miss Marple’s cheek and decidedly more animation in her manner.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what’s the verdict?’
‘What’s the problem, Doctor Haydock?’ countered Miss Marple.
‘Oh, my dear lady, do I have to tell you that?’
‘I suppose,’ said Miss Marple, ‘that it’s the curious conduct of the caretaker. Why did she behave in that very odd way? People do mind being turned out of their old homes. But it wasn’t her home. In fact, she used to complain and grumble while she was there. Yes, it certainly looks very fishy. What became of her, by the way?’
‘Did a bunk to Liverpool. The accident scared her. Thought she’d wait there for her boat.’
‘All very convenient for somebody,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Yes, I think the “Problem of the Caretaker’s Conduct” can be solved easily enough. Bribery, was it not?’
‘That’s your solution?’
‘Well, if it wasn’t natural for her to behave in that way, she must have been “putting on an act” as people say, and that means that somebody paid her to do what she did.’
‘And you know who that somebody was?’
‘Oh, I think so. Money again, I’m afraid. And I’ve always noticed that gentlemen always tend to admire the same type.’
‘Now I’m out of my depth.’
‘No, no, it all hangs together. Harry Laxton admired Bella Edge, a dark, vivacious type. Your niece Clarice was the same. But the poor little wife was quite a different type—fair-haired and clinging—not his type at all. So he must have married her for her money. And murdered her for her money, too!’
‘You use the word “murder”?’
‘Well, he sounds the right type. Attractive to women and quite unscrupulous. I suppose he wanted to keep his wife’s money and marry your niece. He may have been seen talking to Mrs Edge. But I don’t fancy he was attached to her any more. Though I dare say he made the poor woman think he was, for ends of his own. He soon had her well under his thumb, I fancy.’
‘How exactly did he murder her, do you think?’
Miss Marple stared ahead of her for some minutes with dreamy blue eyes.
‘It was very well timed—with the baker’s van as witness. They could see the old woman and, of course, they’d put down the horse’s fright to that. But I should imagine, myself, that an air gun, or perhaps a catapult. Yes, just as the horse came through the gates. The horse bolted, of course, and Mrs Laxton was thrown.’
She paused, frowning.
‘The fall might have killed her. But he couldn’t be sure of that. And he seems the sort of man who would lay his plans carefully and leave nothing to chance. After all, Mrs Edge could get him something suitable without her husband knowing. Otherwise, why would Harry bother with her? Yes, I think he had some powerful drug handy, that could be administered before you arrived. After all, if a woman is thrown from her horse and has serious injuries and dies without recovering consciousness, well—a doctor wouldn’t normally be suspicious, would he? He’d put it down to shock or something.’
Doctor Haydock nodded.
‘Why did you suspect?’ asked Miss Marple.
‘It wasn’t any particular cleverness on my part,’ said Doctor Haydock. ‘It was just the trite, well-known fact that a murderer is so pleased with his cleverness that he doesn’t take proper precautions. I was just saying a few consolatory words to the bereaved husband—and feeling damned sorry for the fellow, too—when he flung himself down on the settee to do a bit of play-acting and a hypodermic syringe fell out of his pocket.
‘He snatched it up and looked so scared that I began to think. Harry Laxton didn’t drug; he was in perfect health; what was he doing with a hypodermic syringe? I did the autopsy with a view to certain possibilities. I found strophanthin. The rest was easy. There was strophanthin in Laxton’s possession, and Bella Edge, questioned by the police, broke down and admitted to having got it for him. And finally old Mrs Murgatroyd confessed that it was Harry Laxton who had put her up to the cursing stunt.’
‘And your niece got over it?’
‘Yes, she was attracted by the fellow, but it hadn’t gone far.’
The doctor picked up his manuscript.
‘Full marks to you, Miss Marple—and full marks to me for my prescription. You’re looking almost yourself again.’
The Case of the Perfect Maid
I
‘Oh, if you please, madam, could I speak to you a moment?’
It might be thought that this request was in the nature of an absurdity, since Edna, Miss Marple’s little maid, was actually speaking to her mistress at the moment.
Recognizing the idiom, however, Miss Marple said promptly, ‘Certainly, Edna, come in and shut the door. What is it?’
Obediently shutting the door, Edna advanced into the room, pleated the corner of her apron between her fingers, and swallowed once or twice.
‘Yes, Edna?’ said Miss Marple encouragingly.
‘Oh, please, ma’am, it’s my cousin, Gladdie.’
‘Dear me,’ said Miss Marple, her mind leaping to the worst—and, alas, the most usual conclusion. ‘Not—not in trouble?’
Edna hastened to reassure her. ‘Oh, no, ma’am, nothing of that kind. Gladdie’s not that kind of girl. It’s just that she’s upset. You see, she’s lost her place.’
‘Dear me, I am sorry to hear that. She was at Old Hall, wasn’t she, with the Miss—Misses—Skinner?’
‘Yes, ma’am, that’s right, ma’am. And Gladdie’s very upset about it—very upset indeed.’
‘Gladys has changed places rather often before, though, hasn’t she?’
‘Oh, yes, ma’am. She’s always one for a change, Gladdie is. She never seems to get really settled, if you know what I mean. But she’s always been the one to give the notice, you see!’
‘And this time it’s the other way round?’ asked Miss Marple dryly.
‘Yes, ma’am, and it’s upset Gladdie something awful.’
Miss Marple looked slightly surprised. Her recollection of Gladys, who had occasionally come to drink tea in the kitchen on her ‘days out’, was a stout, giggling girl of unshakably equable temperament.
Edna went on. ‘You see, ma’am, it’s the way it happened—the way Miss Skinner looked.’
‘How,’ enquired Miss Marple patiently, ‘did Miss Skinner look?’
This time Edna got well away with her news bulletin.
