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‘I think it sounds filthy,’ said Edward. ‘No, no, actually it would be very good – but what do you think of the whole thing?’
A sudden ray of light illuminated Edward’s face. ‘Do you think it’s a code – cryptogram of some kind?’ He seized it. ‘Look here, Charmian, it might be, you know! No reason to put a cooking-recipe in a secret drawer otherwise.’
‘Exactly,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Very, very significant.’
Charmian said, ‘I know what it might be – invisible ink! Let’s heat it. Turn on the electric fire.’
Edward did so, but no signs of writing appeared under the treatment. Miss Marple coughed. ‘I really think, you know, that you’re making it rather too difficult. The recipe is only an indication, so to speak. It is, I think, the letters that are significant.’
‘The letters?’
‘Especially,’ said Miss Marple, ‘the signature.’
But Edward hardly heard her. He called excitedly, ‘Charmian! Come here! She’s right. See – the envelopes are old, right enough, but the letters themselves were written much later.’
‘Exactly,’ said Miss Marple. ‘They’re only fake old. I bet anything old Uncle Mat faked them himself –’
‘Precisely,’ said Miss Marple. ‘The whole thing’s a sell. There never was a female missionary. It must be a code.’
‘My dear, dear children – there’s really no need to make it all so difficult. Your uncle was really a very simple man. He had to have his little joke, that was all.’
For the first time they gave her their full attention. ‘Just exactly what do you mean, Miss Marple?’ asked Charmian. ‘I mean, dear, that you’re actually holding the money in your hand this minute.’
Charmian stared down.
‘The signature, dear. That gives the whole thing away. The recipe is just an indication. Shorn of all the cloves and brown sugar and the rest of it, what is it actually? Why, gammon and spinach to be sure! Gammon and spinach! Meaning – nonsense! So it’s clear that it’s the letters that are important. And then, if you take into consideration what your uncle did just before he died. He tapped his eye, you said. Well, there you are – that gives you the clue, you see.’
Charmian said, ‘Are we mad, or are you?’
‘Surely, my dear, you must have heard the expression meaning that something is not a true picture, or has it quite died out nowadays? “All my eye and Betty Martin.”’
Edward gasped, his eyes falling to the letter in his hand. ‘Betty Martin –’
‘Of course, Mr Rossiter. As you have just said, there isn’t – there wasn’t any such person. The letters were written by your uncle, and I dare say he got a lot of fun out of writing them! As you say, the writing on the envelopes is much older – in fact, the envelope couldn’t belong to the letters, anyway, because the postmark of one you are holding is eighteen fifty-one.’
She paused. She made it very emphatic. ‘Eighteen fifty-one. And that explains everything, doesn’t it?’
‘Not to me,’ said Edward. ‘Well, of course,’ said Miss Marple, ‘I dare say it wouldn’t to me if it weren’t for my great-nephew Lionel. Such a dear little boy and a passionate stamp collector. Knows all about stamps. It was he who told me about the rare and expensive stamps and that a wonderful new find had come up for auction. And I actually remember his mentioning one stamp – an eighteen fifty-one blue two-cent. It realized something like twenty-five thousand dollars, I believe. Fancy! I should imagine that the other stamps are something also rare and expensive. No doubt your uncle bought through dealers and was careful to “cover his tracks”, as they say in detective stories.’
Edward groaned. He sat down and buried his face in his hands. ‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Charmian.
‘Nothing. It’s only the awful thought that, but for Miss Marple, we might have burned these letters in a decent, gentlemanly way!’
‘Ah,’ said Miss Marple, ‘that’s just what these old gentlemen who are fond of their jokes never realize. Uncle Henry, I remember, sent a favourite niece a five-pound note for a Christmas present. He put it in a Christmas card, gummed the card together, and wrote on it, “Love and best wishes. Afraid this is all I can manage this year.”’
‘She, poor girl, was annoyed at what she thought was his meanness and threw it all straight into the fire; then, of course, he had to give her another.’
Edward’s feelings towards Uncle Henry had suffered an abrupt and complete change.
‘Miss Marple,’ he said, ‘I’m going to get a bottle of champagne. We’ll all drink the health of your Uncle Henry.’
Chapter 50
Tape-Measure Murder
‘Tape-Measure Murder’ was first published in the USA in This Week, 16 November 1941, and then as ‘The Case of the Retired Jeweller’ in Strand Magazine, February 1942.
Miss Politt took hold of the knocker and rapped politely on the cottage door. After a discreet interval she knocked again. The parcel under her left arm shifted a little as she did so, and she readjusted it. Inside the parcel was Mrs Spenlow’s new green winter dress, ready for fitting. From Miss Politt’s left hand dangled a bag of black silk, containing a tape measure, a pincushion, and a large, practical pair of scissors.
Miss Politt was tall and gaunt, with a sharp nose, pursed lips, and meagre iron-grey hair. She hesitated before using the knocker for the third time. Glancing down the street, she saw a figure rapidly approaching. Miss Hartnell, jolly, weather-beaten, fifty-five, shouted out in her usual loud bass voice, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Politt!’
The dressmaker answered, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hartnell.’ Her voice was excessively thin and genteel in its accents. She had started life as a lady’s maid. ‘Excuse me,’ she went on, ‘but do you happen to know if by any chance Mrs Spenlow isn’t at home?’
‘Not the least idea,’ said Miss Hartnell. ‘It’s rather awkward, you see. I was to fit on Mrs Spenlow’s new dress this afternoon. Three-thirty, she said.’
Miss Hartnell consulted her wrist watch. ‘It’s a little past the half-hour now.’
‘Yes. I have knocked three times, but there doesn’t seem to be any answer, so I was wondering if perhaps Mrs Spenlow might have gone out and forgotten. She doesn’t forget appointments as a rule, and she wants the dress to wear the day after tomorrow.’
Miss Hartnell entered the gate and walked up the path to join Miss Politt outside the door of Laburnum Cottage.
‘Why doesn’t Gladys answer the door?’ she demanded. ‘Oh, no, of course, it’s Thursday – Gladys’s day out. I expect Mrs Spenlow has fallen asleep. I don’t expect you’ve made enough noise with this thing.’
Seizing the knocker, she executed a deafening rat-a-tat-tat, and in addition thumped upon the panels of the door. She also called out in a stentorian voice, ‘What ho, within there!’
There was no response.
Miss Politt murmured, ‘Oh, I think Mrs Spenlow must have forgotten and gone out, I’ll call round some other time.’ She began edging away down the path.
‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Hartnell firmly. ‘She can’t have gone out. I’d have met her. I’ll just take a look through the windows and see if I can find any signs of life.’
She laughed in her usual hearty manner, to indicate that it was a joke, and applied a perfunctory glance to the nearest window-pane – perfunctory because she knew quite well that the front room was seldom used, Mr and Mrs Spenlow preferring the small back sitting-room.
Perfunctory as it was, though, it succeeded in its object. Miss Hart-nell, it is true, saw no signs of life. On the contrary, she saw, through the window, Mrs Spenlow lying on the hearthrug – dead.
‘Of course,’ said Miss Hartnell, telling the story afterwards, ‘I managed to keep my head. That Politt creature wouldn’t have had the least idea of what to do. “Got to keep our heads,” I said to her. “You stay here, and I’ll go for Constable Palk.” She said something about not wanting to be left, but I paid no attention at all. One has to be firm wi
th that sort of person. I’ve always found they enjoy making a fuss. So I was just going off when, at that very moment, Mr Spenlow came round the corner of the house.’
Here Miss Hartnell made a significant pause. It enabled her audience to ask breathlessly, ‘Tell me, how did he look?’
Miss Hartnell would then go on, ‘Frankly, I suspected something at once! He was far too calm. He didn’t seem surprised in the least. And you may say what you like, it isn’t natural for a man to hear that his wife is dead and display no emotion whatever.’
Everybody agreed with this statement.
The police agreed with it, too. So suspicious did they consider Mr Spenlow’s detachment, that they lost no time in ascertaining how that gentleman was situated as a result of his wife’s death. When they discovered that Mrs Spenlow had been the monied partner, and that her money went to her husband under a will made soon after their marriage, they were more suspicious than ever.
Miss Marple, that sweet-faced – and, some said, vinegar-tongued –
elderly spinster who lived in the house next to the rectory, was interviewed very early – within half an hour of the discovery of the crime. She was approached by Police Constable Palk, importantly thumbing a notebook. ‘If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ve a few questions to ask you.’
Miss Marple said, ‘In connection with the murder of Mrs Spenlow?’ Palk was startled. ‘May I ask, madam, how you got to know of it?’
