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‘Haven’t been able to find any trace of one. Of course, he’s the artful kind. He’d cover his tracks. As I see it, he was just fed up with his wife. She’d got the money, and I should say was a trying woman to live with—always taking up with some “ism” or other. He cold-bloodedly decided to do away with her and live comfortably on his own.’
‘Yes, that could be the case, I suppose.’
‘Depend upon it, that was it. Made his plans careful. Pretended to get a phone call—’
Melchett interrupted him. ‘No call been traced?’
‘No, sir. That means either that he lied, or that the call was put through from a public telephone booth. The only two public phones in the village are at the station and the post office. Post office it certainly wasn’t. Mrs Blade sees everyone who comes in. Station it might be. Train arrives at two twenty-seven and there’s a bit of a bustle then. But the main thing is he says it was Miss Marple who called him up, and that certainly isn’t true. The call didn’t come from her house, and she herself was away at the Institute.’
‘You’re not overlooking the possibility that the husband was deliberately got out of the way—by someone who wanted to murder Mrs Spenlow?’
‘You’re thinking of young Ted Gerard, aren’t you, sir? I’ve been working on him—what we’re up against there is lack of motive. He doesn’t stand to gain anything.’
‘He’s an undesirable character, though. Quite a pretty little spot of embezzlement to his credit.’
‘I’m not saying he isn’t a wrong ’un. Still, he did go to his boss and own up to that embezzlement. And his employers weren’t wise to it.’
‘An Oxford Grouper,’ said Melchett.
‘Yes, sir. Became a convert and went off to do the straight thing and own up to having pinched money. I’m not saying, mind you, that it mayn’t have been astuteness. He may have thought he was suspected and decided to gamble on honest repentance.’
‘You have a sceptical mind, Slack,’ said Colonel Melchett. ‘By the way, have you talked to Miss Marple at all?’
‘What’s she got to do with it, sir?’
‘Oh, nothing. But she hears things, you know. Why don’t you go and have a chat with her? She’s a very sharp old lady.’
Slack changed the subject. ‘One thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, sir. That domestic-service job where the deceased started her career—Sir Robert Abercrombie’s place. That’s where that jewel robbery was—emeralds—worth a packet. Never got them. I’ve been looking it up—must have happened when the Spenlow woman was there, though she’d have been quite a girl at the time. Don’t think she was mixed up in it, do you, sir? Spenlow, you know, was one of those little tuppenny-ha’penny jewellers—just the chap for a fence.’
Melchett shook his head. ‘Don’t think there’s anything in that. She didn’t even know Spenlow at the time. I remember the case. Opinion in police circles was that a son of the house was mixed up in it—Jim Abercrombie—awful young waster. Had a pile of debts, and just after the robbery they were all paid off—some rich woman, so they said, but I don’t know—Old Abercrombie hedged a bit about the case—tried to call the police off.’
‘It was just an idea, sir,’ said Slack.
III
Miss Marple received Inspector Slack with gratification, especially when she heard that he had been sent by Colonel Melchett.
‘Now, really, that is very kind of Colonel Melchett. I didn’t know he remembered me.’
‘He remembers you, all right. Told me that what you didn’t know of what goes on in St Mary Mead isn’t worth knowing.’
‘Too kind of him, but really I don’t know anything at all. About this murder, I mean.’
‘You know what the talk about it is.’
‘Oh, of course—but it wouldn’t do, would it, to repeat just idle talk?’
Slack said, with an attempt at geniality, ‘This isn’t an official conversation, you know. It’s in confidence, so to speak.’
‘You mean you really want to know what people are saying? Whether there’s any truth in it or not?’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘Well, of course, there’s been a great deal of talk and speculation. And there are really two distinct camps, if you understand me. To begin with, there are the people who think that the husband did it. A husband or a wife is, in a way, the natural person to suspect, don’t you think so?’
‘Maybe,’ said the inspector cautiously.
‘Such close quarters, you know. Then, so often, the money angle. I hear that it was Mrs Spenlow who had the money, and therefore Mr Spenlow does benefit by her death. In this wicked world I’m afraid the most uncharitable assumptions are often justified.’
‘He comes into a tidy sum, all right.’
‘Just so. It would seem quite plausible, wouldn’t it, for him to strangle her, leave the house by the back, come across the fields to my house, ask for me and pretend he’d had a telephone call from me, then go back and find his wife murdered in his absence—hoping, of course, that the crime would be put down to some tramp or burglar.’
The inspector nodded. ‘What with the money angle—and if they’d been on bad terms lately—’
But Miss Marple interrupted him. ‘Oh, but they hadn’t.’
‘You know that for a fact?’
‘Everyone would have known if they’d quarrelled! The maid, Gladys Brent—she’d have soon spread it round the village.’
The inspector said feebly, ‘She mightn’t have known—’ and received a pitying smile in reply.
Miss Marple went on. ‘And then there’s the other school of thought. Ted Gerard. A good-looking young man. I’m afraid, you know, that good looks are inclined to influence one more than they should. Our last curate but one—quite a magical effect! All the girls came to church—evening service as well as morning. And many older women became unusually active in parish work—and the slippers and scarfs that were made for him! Quite embarrassing for the poor young man.
‘But let me see, where was I? Oh, yes, this young man, Ted Gerard. Of course, there has been talk about him. He’s come down to see her so often. Though Mrs Spenlow told me herself that he was a member of what I think they call the Oxford Group. A religious movement. They are quite sincere and very earnest, I believe, and Mrs Spenlow was impressed by it all.’
Miss Marple took a breath and went on. ‘And I’m sure there was no reason to believe that there was anything more in it than that, but you know what people are. Quite a lot of people are convinced that Mrs Spenlow was infatuated with the young man, and that she’d lent him quite a lot of money. And it’s perfectly true that he was actually seen at the station that day. In the train—the two twenty-seven down train. But of course it would be quite easy, wouldn’t it, to slip out of the other side of the train and go through the cutting and over the fence and round by the hedge and never come out of the station entrance at all. So that he need not have been seen going to the cottage. And, of course, people do think that what Mrs Spenlow was wearing was rather peculiar.’
‘Peculiar?’
‘A kimono. Not a dress.’ Miss Marple blushed. ‘That sort of thing, you know, is, perhaps, rather suggestive to some people.’
‘You think it was suggestive?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so, I think it was perfectly natural.’
‘You think it was natural?’
‘Under the circumstances, yes.’ Miss Marple’s glance was cool and reflective.
Inspector Slack said, ‘It might give us another motive for the husband. Jealousy.’
‘Oh, no, Mr Spenlow would never be jealous. He’s not the sort of man who notices things. If his wife had gone away and left a note on the pincushion, it would be the first he’d know of anything of that kind.’
Inspector Slack was puzzled by the intent way she was looking at him. He had an idea that all her conversation was intended to hint at something he didn’t understand. She said now, with some emphasis, ‘Didn’t you fin
d any clues, Inspector—on the spot?’
‘People don’t leave fingerprints and cigarette ash nowadays, Miss Marple.’
‘But this, I think,’ she suggested, ‘was an old-fashioned crime—’
Slack said sharply, ‘Now what do you mean by that?’
Miss Marple remarked slowly, ‘I think, you know, that Constable Palk could help you. He was the first person on the—on the “scene of the crime”, as they say.’
IV
Mr Spenlow was sitting in a deck chair. He looked bewildered. He said, in his thin, precise voice, ‘I may, of course, be imagining what occurred. My hearing is not as good as it was. But I distinctly think I heard a small boy call after me, “Yah, who’s a Crippen?” It—it conveyed the impression to me that he was of the opinion that I had—had killed my dear wife.’
Miss Marple, gently snipping off a dead rose head, said, ‘That was the impression he meant to convey, no doubt.’
