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‘The explanation is simple enough. When I was down here last year we got into the habit of discussing unsolved mysteries – there were five or six of us – Raymond West, the novelist, started it. We each supplied a story to which we knew the answer, but nobody else did. It was supposed to be an exercise in the deductive faculties – to see who could get nearest the truth.’
‘Well?’
‘Like in the old story – we hardly realized that Miss Marple was playing; but we were very polite about it – didn’t want to hurt the old dear’s feelings. And now comes the cream of the jest. The old lady outdid us every time!’
‘What?’
‘I assure you – straight to the truth like a homing pigeon.’
‘But how extraordinary! Why, dear old Miss Marple has hardly ever been out of St Mary Mead.’
‘Ah! But according to her, that has given her unlimited opportunities of observing human nature – under the microscope as it were.’
‘I suppose there’s something in that,’ conceded Mrs Bantry. ‘One would at least know the petty side of people. But I don’t think we have any really exciting criminals in our midst. I think we must try her with Arthur’s ghost story after dinner. I’d be thankful if she’d find a solution to that.’
‘I didn’t know that Arthur believed in ghosts?’
‘Oh! he doesn’t. That’s what worries him so. And it happened to a friend of his, George Pritchard – a most prosaic person. It’s really rather tragic for poor George. Either this extraordinary story is true – or else –’
‘Or else what?’
Mrs Bantry did not answer. After a minute or two she said irrelevantly:
‘You know, I like George – everyone does. One can’t believe that he – but people do do such extraordinary things.’
Sir Henry nodded. He knew, better than Mrs Bantry, the extraordinary things that people did.
So it came about that that evening Mrs Bantry looked round her dinner table (shivering a little as she did so, because the dining-room, like most English dining-rooms, was extremely cold) and fixed her gaze on the very upright old lady sitting on her husband’s right. Miss Marple wore black lace mittens; an old lace fichu was draped round her shoulders and another piece of lace surmounted her white hair. She was talking animatedly to the elderly doctor, Dr Lloyd, about the Workhouse and the suspected shortcomings of the District Nurse.
Mrs Bantry marvelled anew. She even wondered whether Sir Henry had been making an elaborate joke – but there seemed no point in that. Incredible that what he had said could be really true.
Her glance went on and rested affectionately on her red-faced broad-shouldered husband as he sat talking horses to Jane Helier, the beautiful and popular actress. Jane, more beautiful (if that were possible) off the stage than on, opened enormous blue eyes and murmured at discreet intervals: ‘Really?’ ‘Oh fancy!’ ‘How extra-ordinary!’ She knew nothing whatever about horses and cared less.
‘Arthur,’ said Mrs Bantry, ‘you’re boring poor Jane to distraction. Leave horses alone and tell her your ghost story instead. You know . . . George Pritchard.’
‘Eh, Dolly? Oh! but I don’t know –’
‘Sir Henry wants to hear it too. I was telling him something about it this morning. It would be interesting to hear what everyone has to say about it.’
‘Oh do!’ said Jane. ‘I love ghost stories.’
‘Well –’ Colonel Bantry hesitated. ‘I’ve never believed much in the supernatural. But this –
‘I don’t think any of you know George Pritchard. He’s one of the best. His wife – well, she’s dead now, poor woman. I’ll just say this much: she didn’t give George any too easy a time when she was alive. She was one of those semi-invalids – I believe she had really something wrong with her, but whatever it was she played it for all it was worth. She was capricious, exacting, unreasonable. She complained from morning to night. George was expected to wait on her hand and foot, and every thing he did was always wrong and he got cursed for it. Most men, I’m fully convinced, would have hit her over the head with a hatchet long ago. Eh, Dolly, isn’t that so?’
‘She was a dreadful woman,’ said Mrs Bantry with conviction. ‘If George Pritchard had brained her with a hatchet, and there had been any woman on the jury, he would have been triumphantly acquitted.’
‘I don’t quite know how this business started. George was rather vague about it. I gather Mrs Pritchard had always had a weakness for fortune tellers, palmists, clairvoyantes – anything of that sort. George didn’t mind. If she found amusement in it well and good. But he refused to go into rhapsodies himself, and that was another grievance.
‘A succession of hospital nurses was always passing through the house, Mrs Pritchard usually becoming dissatisfied with them after a few weeks. One young nurse had been very keen on this fortune telling stunt, and for a time Mrs Pritchard had been very fond of her. Then she suddenly fell out with her and insisted on her going. She had back another nurse who had been with her previously – an older woman, experienced and tactful in dealing with a neurotic patient. Nurse Copling, according to George, was a very good sort – a sensible woman to talk to. She put up with Mrs Pritchard’s tantrums and nervestorms with complete indifference.
‘Mrs Pritchard always lunched upstairs, and it was usual at lunch time for George and the nurse to come to some arrangement for the afternoon. Strictly speaking, the nurse went off from two to four, but “to oblige” as the phrase goes, she would sometimes take her time off after tea if George wanted to be free for the afternoon. On this occasion, she mentioned that she was going to see a sister at Golders Green and might be a little late returning. George’s face fell, for he had arranged to play a round of golf. Nurse Copling, however, reassured him.
‘“We’ll neither of us be missed, Mr Pritchard.” A twinkle came into her eye. “Mrs Pritchard’s going to have more exciting company than ours.”
‘“Who’s that?”
‘“Wait a minute,” Nurse Copling’s eyes twinkled more than ever. “Let me get it right. Zarida, Psychic Reader of the Future.”
‘“Oh Lord!” groaned George. “That’s a new one, isn’t it?”
‘“Quite new. I believe my predecessor, Nurse Carstairs, sent her along. Mrs Pritchard hasn’t seen her yet. She made me write, fixing an appointment for this afternoon.”
‘“Well, at any rate, I shall get my golf,” said George, and he went off with the kindliest feelings towards Zarida, the Reader of the Future.
‘On his return to the house, he found Mrs Pritchard in a state of great agitation. She was, as usual, lying on her invalid couch, and she had a bottle of smelling salts in her hand which she sniffed at frequent intervals.
‘“George,” she exclaimed. “What did I tell you about this house? The moment I came into it, I felt there was something wrong! Didn’t I tell you so at the time?”
‘Repressing his desire to reply, “You always do,” George said, “No, I can’t say I remember it.”
‘“You never do remember anything that has to do with me. Men are all extraordinarily callous – but I really believe that you are even more insensitive than most.”
‘“Oh, come now, Mary dear, that’s not fair.”
‘“Well, as I was telling you, this woman knew at once! She – she actually blenched – if you know what I mean – as she came in at the door, and she said: “There is evil here – evil and danger. I feel it.”’
‘Very unwisely George laughed. ‘“Well, you have had your money’s worth this afternoon.” ‘His wife closed her eyes and took a long sniff from her smelling bottle. ‘“How you hate me! You would jeer and laugh if I were dying.” ‘George protested and after a minute or two she went on. ‘“You may laugh, but I shall tell you the whole thing. This house is definitely dangerous to me – the woman said so.”
‘George’s formerly kind feeling towards Zarida underwent a change. He knew his wife was perfectly capable of insisting on moving to a new house
if the caprice got hold of her.
‘“What else did she say?” he asked. ‘“She couldn’t tell me very much. She was so upset. One thing she did say. I had some violets in a glass. She pointed at them and cried out:
‘“Take those away. No blue flowers – never have blue flowers. Blue flowers are fatal to you – remember that.”’
‘“And you know,” added Mrs Pritchard, “I always have told you that blue as a colour is repellent to me. I feel a natural instinctive sort of warning against.”
‘George was much too wise to remark that he had never heard her say so before. Instead he asked what the mysterious Zarida was like. Mrs Pritchard entered with gusto upon a description.
‘“Black hair in coiled knobs over her ears – her eyes were half closed – great black rims round them – she had a black veil over her mouth and chin – and she spoke in a kind of singing voice with a marked foreign accent – Spanish, I think –”
‘“In fact all the usual stock-in-trade,” said George cheerfully. ‘His wife immediately closed her eyes. ‘“I feel extremely ill,” she said. “Ring for nurse. Unkindness upsets me, as you know only too well.”
