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‘Excuse me, does—er—does Miss Greenshaw live here?’
‘May I have your name if you please,’ said the sergeant advancing upon him.
‘Fletcher,’ said the young man. ‘Nat Fletcher. I’m Miss Greenshaw’s nephew, as a matter of fact.’
‘Indeed, sir, well—I’m sorry—I’m sure—’
‘Has anything happened?’ asked Nat Fletcher.
‘There’s been an—accident—your aunt was shot with an arrow—penetrated the jugular vein—’
Mrs Cresswell spoke hysterically and without her usual refinement:
‘Your h’aunt’s been murdered, that’s what’s ’appened. Your h’aunt’s been murdered.’
III
Inspector Welch drew his chair a little nearer to the table and let his gaze wander from one to the other of the four people in the room. It was the evening of the same day. He had called at the Wests’ house to take Lou Oxley once more over her statement.
‘You are sure of the exact words? Shot—he shot me—with an arrow—get help?’
Lou nodded.
‘And the time?’
‘I looked at my watch a minute or two later—it was then twelve twenty-five.’
‘Your watch keeps good time?’
‘I looked at the clock as well.’
The inspector turned to Raymond West.
‘It appears, sir, that about a week ago you and a Mr Horace Bindler were witnesses to Miss Greenshaw’s will?’
Briefly, Raymond recounted the events of the afternoon visit that he and Horace Bindler had paid to Greenshaw’s Folly.
‘This testimony of yours may be important,’ said Welch. ‘Miss Greenshaw distinctly told you, did she, that her will was being made in favour of Mrs Cresswell, the housekeeper, that she was not paying Mrs Cresswell any wages in view of the expectations Mrs Cresswell had of profiting by her death?’
‘That is what she told me—yes.’
‘Would you say that Mrs Cresswell was definitely aware of these facts?’
‘I should say undoubtedly. Miss Greenshaw made a reference in my presence to beneficiaries not being able to witness a will and Mrs Cresswell clearly understood what she meant by it. Moreover, Miss Greenshaw herself told me that she had come to this arrangement with Mrs Cresswell.’
‘So Mrs Cresswell had reason to believe she was an interested party. Motive’s clear enough in her case, and I dare say she’d be our chief suspect now if it wasn’t for the fact that she was securely locked in her room like Mrs Oxley here, and also that Miss Greenshaw definitely said a man shot her—’
‘She definitely was locked in her room?’
‘Oh yes. Sergeant Cayley let her out. It’s a big old-fashioned lock with a big old-fashioned key. The key was in the lock and there’s not a chance that it could have been turned from inside or any hanky-panky of that kind. No, you can take it definitely that Mrs Cresswell was locked inside that room and couldn’t get out. And there were no bows and arrows in the room and Miss Greenshaw couldn’t in any case have been shot from a window—the angle forbids it—no, Mrs Cresswell’s out of it.’
He paused and went on:
‘Would you say that Miss Greenshaw, in your opinion, was a practical joker?’
Miss Marple looked up sharply from her corner.
‘So the will wasn’t in Mrs Cresswell’s favour after all?’ she said.
Inspector Welch looked over at her in a rather surprised fashion.
‘That’s a very clever guess of yours, madam,’ he said. ‘No. Mrs Cresswell isn’t named as beneficiary.’
‘Just like Mr Naysmith,’ said Miss Marple, nodding her head. ‘Miss Greenshaw told Mrs Cresswell she was going to leave her everything and so got out of paying her wages; and then she left her money to somebody else. No doubt she was vastly pleased with herself. No wonder she chortled when she put the will away in Lady Audley’s Secret.’
‘It was lucky Mrs Oxley was able to tell us about the will and where it was put,’ said the inspector. ‘We might have had a long hunt for it otherwise.’
‘A Victorian sense of humour,’ murmured Raymond West. ‘So she left her money to her nephew after all,’ said Lou.
The inspector shook his head.
‘No,’ he said, ‘she didn’t leave it to Nat Fletcher. The story goes around here—of course I’m new to the place and I only get the gossip that’s second-hand—but it seems that in the old days both Miss Greenshaw and her sister were set on the handsome young riding master, and the sister got him. No, she didn’t leave the money to her nephew—’ He paused, rubbing his chin, ‘She left it to Alfred,’ he said.
‘Alfred—the gardener?’ Joan spoke in a surprised voice.
‘Yes, Mrs West. Alfred Pollock.’
‘But why?’ cried Lou.
Miss Marple coughed and murmured:
‘I should imagine, though perhaps I am wrong, that there may have been—what we might call family reasons.’
‘You could call them that in a way,’ agreed the inspector. ‘It’s quite well known in the village, it seems, that Thomas Pollock, Alfred’s grandfather, was one of old Mr Greenshaw’s by-blows.’
‘Of course,’ cried Lou, ‘the resemblance! I saw it this morning.’
She remembered how after passing Alfred she had come into the house and looked up at old Greenshaw’s portrait.
‘I dare say,’ said Miss Marple, ‘that she thought Alfred Pollock might have a pride in the house, might even want to live in it, whereas her nephew would almost certainly have no use for it whatever and would sell it as soon as he could possibly do so. He’s an actor, isn’t he? What play exactly is he acting in at present?’
Trust an old lady to wander from the point, thought Inspector Welch, but he replied civilly:
‘I believe, madam, they are doing a season of James Barrie’s plays.’
‘Barrie,’ said Miss Marple thoughtfully.
‘What Every Woman Knows,’ said Inspector Welch, and then blushed. ‘Name of a play,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not much of a theatre-goer myself,’ he added, ‘but the wife went along and saw it last week. Quite well done, she said it was.’
‘Barrie wrote some very charming plays,’ said Miss Marple, ‘though I must say that when I went with an old friend of mine, General Easterly, to see Barrie’s Little Mary—’ she shook her head sadly, ‘—neither of us knew where to look.’
The inspector, unacquainted with the play Little Mary looked completely fogged. Miss Marple explained:
‘When I was a girl, Inspector, nobody ever mentioned the word stomach.’
The inspector looked even more at sea. Miss Marple was murmuring titles under her breath.
‘The Admirable Crichton. Very clever. Mary Rose—a charming play. I cried, I remember. Quality Street I didn’t care for so much. Then there was A Kiss for Cinderella. Oh, of course.’
Inspector Welch had no time to waste on theatrical discussion. He returned to the matter in hand.
‘The question is,’ he said, ‘did Alfred Pollock know that the old lady had made a will in his favour? Did she tell him?’ He added: ‘You see—there’s an archery club over at Boreham Lovell and Alfred Pollock’s a member. He’s a very good shot indeed with a bow and arrow.’
‘Then isn’t your case quite clear?’ asked Raymond West. ‘It would fit in with the doors being locked on the two women—he’d know just where they were in the house.’
The inspector looked at him. He spoke with deep melancholy.
‘He’s got an alibi,’ said the inspector.
‘I always think alibis are definitely suspicious.’
‘Maybe, sir,’ said Inspector Welch. ‘You’re talking as a writer.’
