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‘Sir Ambrose,’ said Sir Henry, ‘you think he was the person aimed at? Yes, yes – and the girl’s death was a mistake.’
‘Who got his money after he was dead?’ asked Jane. ‘A very sound question, Miss Helier. One of the first we always ask in my late profession,’ said Sir Henry.
‘Sir Ambrose had a son,’ said Mrs Bantry slowly. ‘He had quarrelled with him many years previously. The boy was wild, I believe. Still, it was not in Sir Ambrose’s power to disinherit him – Clodderham Court was entailed. Martin Bercy succeeded to the title and estate. There was, however, a good deal of other property that Sir Ambrose could leave as he chose, and that he left to his ward Sylvia. I know this because Sir Ambrose died less than a year after the events I am telling you of, and he had not troubled to make a new will after Sylvia’s death. I think the money went to the Crown – or perhaps it was to his son as next of kin – I don’t really remember.’
‘So it was only to the interest of a son who wasn’t there and the girl who died herself to make away with him,’ said Sir Henry thoughtfully. ‘That doesn’t seem very promising.’
‘Didn’t the other woman get anything?’ asked Jane. ‘The one Mrs Bantry calls the Pussy woman.’
‘She wasn’t mentioned in the will,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘Miss Marple, you’re not listening,’ said Sir Henry. ‘You’re somewhere far away.’
‘I was thinking of old Mr Badger, the chemist,’ said Miss Marple. ‘He had a very young housekeeper – young enough to be not only his daughter, but his grand-daughter. Not a word to anyone, and his family, a lot of nephews and nieces, full of expectations. And when he died, would you believe it, he’d been secretly married to her for two years? Of course Mr Badger was a chemist, and a very rude, common old man as well, and Sir Ambrose Bercy was a very courtly gentleman, so Mrs Bantry says, but for all that human nature is much the same everywhere.’
There was a pause. Sir Henry looked very hard at Miss Marple who looked back at him with gently quizzical blue eyes. Jane Helier broke the silence.
‘Was this Mrs Carpenter good-looking?’ she asked. ‘Yes, in a very quiet way. Nothing startling.’
‘She had a very sympathetic voice,’ said Colonel Bantry.
‘Purring – that’s what I call it,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘Purring!’
‘You’ll be called a cat yourself one of these days, Dolly.’
‘I like being a cat in my home circle,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘I don’t much like women anyway, and you know it. I like men and flowers.’
‘Excellent taste,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Especially in putting men first.’
‘That was tact,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘Well, now, what about my little problem? I’ve been quite fair, I think. Arthur, don’t you think I’ve been fair?’
‘Yes, my dear. I don’t think there’ll be any inquiry into the running by the stewards of the Jockey Club.’
‘First boy,’ said Mrs Bantry, pointing a finger at Sir Henry.
‘I’m going to be long-winded. Because, you see, I haven’t really got any feeling of certainty about the matter. First, Sir Ambrose. Well, he wouldn’t take such an original method of committing suicide – and on the other hand he certainly had nothing to gain by the death of his ward. Exit Sir Ambrose. Mr Curle. No motive for death of girl. If Sir Ambrose was intended victim, he might possibly have purloined a rare manuscript or two that no one else would miss. Very thin and most unlikely. So I think, that in spite of Mrs Bantry’s suspicions as to his underclothing, Mr Curle is cleared. Miss Wye. Motive for death of Sir Ambrose – none. Motive for death of Sylvia pretty strong. She wanted Sylvia’s young man, and wanted him rather badly – from Mrs Bantry’s account. She was with Sylvia that morning in the garden, so had opportunity to pick leaves. No, we can’t dismiss Miss Wye so easily. Young Lorimer. He’s got a motive in either case. If he gets rid of his sweetheart, he can marry the other girl. Still it seems a bit drastic to kill her – what’s a broken engagement these days? If Sir Ambrose dies, he will marry a rich girl instead of a poor one. That might be important or not – depends on his financial position. If I find that his estate was heavily mortgaged and that Mrs Bantry has deliberately withheld that fact from us, I shall claim a foul. Now Mrs Carpenter. You know, I have suspicions of Mrs Carpenter. Those white hands, for one thing, and her excellent alibi at the time the herbs were picked – I always distrust alibis. And I’ve got another reason for suspecting her which I will keep to myself. Still, on the whole, if I’ve got to plump, I shall plump for Miss Maude Wye, because there’s more evidence against her than anyone else.’
‘Next boy,’ said Mrs Bantry, and pointed at Dr Lloyd.
‘I think you’re wrong, Clithering, in sticking to the theory that the girl’s death was meant. I am convinced that the murderer intended to do away with Sir Ambrose. I don’t think that young Lorimer had the necessary knowledge. I am inclined to believe that Mrs Carpenter was the guilty party. She had been a long time with the family, knew all about the state of Sir Ambrose’s health, and could easily arrange for this girl Sylvia (who, you said yourself, was rather stupid) to pick the right leaves. Motive, I confess, I don’t see; but I hazard the guess that Sir Ambrose had at one time made a will in which she was mentioned. That’s the best I can do.’
Mrs Bantry’s pointing finger went on to Jane Helier.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Jane, ‘except this: Why shouldn’t the girl herself have done it? She took the leaves into the kitchen after all. And you say Sir Ambrose had been sticking out against her marriage. If he died, she’d get the money and be able to marry at once. She’d know just as much about Sir Ambrose’s health as Mrs Carpenter would.’
Mrs Bantry’s finger came slowly round to Miss Marple.
‘Now then, School Marm,’ she said. ‘Sir Henry has put it all very clearly – very clearly indeed,’ said Miss Marple. ‘And Dr Lloyd was so right in what he said. Between them they seem to have made things so very clear. Only I don’t think Dr Lloyd quite realized one aspect of what he said. You see, not being Sir Ambrose’s medical adviser, he couldn’t know just what kind of heart trouble Sir Ambrose had, could he?’
‘I don’t quite see what you mean, Miss Marple,’ said Dr Lloyd.
‘You’re assuming – aren’t you? – that Sir Ambrose had the kind of heart that digitalin would affect adversely? But there’s nothing to prove that that’s so. It might be just the other way about.’
‘The other way about?’
‘Yes, you did say that it was often prescribed for heart trouble?’
‘Even then, Miss Marple, I don’t see what that leads to?’
‘Well, it would mean that he would have digitalin in his possession quite naturally – without having to account for it. What I am trying to say (I always express myself so badly) is this: Supposing you wanted to poison anyone with a fatal dose of digitalin. Wouldn’t the simplest and easiest way be to arrange for everyone to be poisoned – actually by digitalin leaves? It wouldn’t be fatal in anyone else’s case, of course, but no one would be surprised at one victim because, as Dr Lloyd said, these things are so uncertain. No one would be likely to ask whether the girl had actually had a fatal dose of infusion of digitalis or something of that kind. He might have put it in a cocktail, or in her coffee or even made her drink it quite simply as a tonic.’
‘You mean Sir Ambrose poisoned his ward, the charming girl whom he loved?’
‘That’s just it,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Like Mr Badger and his young housekeeper. Don’t tell me it’s absurd for a man of sixty to fall in love with a girl of twenty. It happens every day – and I dare say with an old autocrat like Sir Ambrose, it might take him queerly. These things become a madness sometimes. He couldn’t bear the thought of her getting married – did his best to oppose it – and failed. His mad jealousy became so great that he preferred killing her to letting her go to young Lorimer. He must have thought of it some time beforehand, because that foxglove seed would have to be sown among the sage.
He’d pick it himself when the time came, and send her into the kitchen with it. It’s horrible to think of, but I suppose we must take as merciful a view of it as we can. Gentlemen of that age are sometimes very peculiar indeed where young girls are concerned. Our last organist – but there, I mustn’t talk scandal.’
‘Mrs Bantry,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Is this so?’
Mrs Bantry nodded.
‘Yes. I’d no idea of it – never dreamed of the thing being anything but an accident. Then, after Sir Ambrose’s death, I got a letter. He had left directions to send it to me. He told me the truth in it. I don’t know why – but he and I always got on very well together.’
In the momentary silence, she seemed to feel an unspoken criticism and went on hastily:
‘You think I’m betraying a confidence – but that isn’t so. I’ve changed all the names. He wasn’t really called Sir Ambrose Bercy. Didn’t you see how Arthur stared stupidly when I said that name to him? He didn’t understand at first. I’ve changed everything. It’s like they say in magazines and in the beginning of books: “All the characters in this story are purely fictitious.” You never know who they really are.’
Chapter 39
The Affair at the Bungalow
‘The Affair at the Bungalow’ was first published in Storyteller, May 1930.
‘I’ve thought of something,’ said Jane Helier.
Her beautiful face was lit up with the confident smile of a child expecting approbation. It was a smile such as moved audiences nightly in London, and which had made the fortunes of photographers.
‘It happened,’ she went on carefully, ‘to a friend of mine.’
