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A friendship had sprung up between Clarice Vane and young Mrs Laxton. The two girls were much of an age, though dissimilar both in character and in tastes. In Clarice’s company, Louise found reassurance. Clarice was so self-reliant, so sure of herself. Louise mentioned the matter of Mrs Murgatroyd and her threats, but Clarice seemed to regard the matter as more annoying than frightening.
‘It’s so stupid, that sort of thing,’ she said. ‘And really very annoying for you.’
‘You know, Clarice, I – I feel quite frightened sometimes. My heart gives the most awful jumps.’
‘Nonsense, you mustn’t let a silly thing like that get you down. She’ll soon tire of it.’
She was silent for a minute or two. Clarice said, ‘What’s the matter?’ Louise paused for a minute, then her answer came with a rush. ‘I hate this place! I hate being here. The woods and this house, and the awful silence at night, and the queer noise owls make. Oh, and the people and everything.’
‘The people. What people?’
‘The people in the village. Those prying, gossiping old maids.’ Clarice said sharply, ‘What have they been saying?’
‘I don’t know. Nothing particular. But they’ve got nasty minds. When you’ve talked to them you feel you wouldn’t trust anybody – not anybody at all.’
Clarice said harshly, ‘Forget them. They’ve nothing to do but gossip. And most of the muck they talk they just invent.’
Louise said, ‘I wish we’d never come here. But Harry adores it so.’ Her voice softened.
Clarice thought, How she adores him. She said abruptly, ‘I must go now.’
‘I’ll send you back in the car. Come again soon.’
Clarice nodded. Louise felt comforted by her new friend’s visit. Harry was pleased to find her more cheerful and from then on urged her to have Clarice often to the house.
Then one day he said, ‘Good news for you, darling.’
‘Oh, what?’
‘I’ve fixed the Murgatroyd. She’s got a son in America, you know. Well, I’ve arranged for her to go out and join him. I’ll pay her passage.’
‘Oh, Harry, how wonderful. I believe I might get to like Kingsdean after all.’
‘Get to like it? Why, it’s the most wonderful place in the world!’ Louise gave a little shiver. She could not rid herself of her superstitious fear so easily.
If the ladies of St Mary Mead had hoped for the pleasure of imparting information about her husband’s past to the bride, this pleasure was denied them by Harry Laxton’s own prompt action.
Miss Harmon and Clarice Vane were both in Mr Edge’s shop, the one buying mothballs and the other a packet of boracic, when Harry Laxton and his wife came in.
After greeting the two ladies, Harry turned to the counter and was just demanding a toothbrush when he stopped in mid-speech and exclaimed heartily, ‘Well, well, just see who’s here! Bella, I do declare.’
Mrs Edge, who had hurried out from the back parlour to attend to the congestion of business, beamed back cheerfully at him, showing her big white teeth. She had been a dark, handsome girl and was still a reasonably handsome woman, though she had put on weight, and the lines of her face had coarsened; but her large brown eyes were full of warmth as she answered, ‘Bella, it is, Mr Harry, and pleased to see you after all these years.’
Harry turned to his wife. ‘Bella’s an old flame of mine, Louise,’ he said. ‘Head-over-heels in love with her, wasn’t I, Bella?’
‘That’s what you say,’ said Mrs Edge.
Louise laughed. She said, ‘My husband’s very happy seeing all his old friends again.’
‘Ah,’ said Mrs Edge, ‘we haven’t forgotten you, Mr Harry. Seems like a fairy tale to think of you married and building up a new house instead of that ruined old Kingsdean House.’
‘You look very well and blooming,’ said Harry, and Mrs Edge laughed and said there was nothing wrong with her and what about that toothbrush?
Clarice, watching the baffled look on Miss Harmon’s face, said to herself exultantly, Oh, well done, Harry. You’ve spiked their guns.
Doctor Haydock said abruptly to his niece, ‘What’s all this nonsense about old Mrs Murgatroyd hanging about Kingsdean and shaking her fist and cursing the new regime?’
‘It isn’t nonsense. It’s quite true. It’s upset Louise a good deal.’
‘Tell her she needn’t worry – when the Murgatroyds were care takers they never stopped grumbling about the place – they only stayed because Murgatroyd drank and couldn’t get another job.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ said Clarice doubtfully, ‘but I don’t think she’ll believe you. The old woman fairly screams with rage.’
‘Always used to be fond of Harry as a boy. I can’t understand it.’ Clarice said, ‘Oh, well – they’ll be rid of her soon. Harry’s paying her passage to America.’
Three days later, Louise was thrown from her horse and killed. Two men in a baker’s van were witnesses of the accident. They saw Louise ride out of the gates, saw the old woman spring up and stand in the road waving her arms and shouting, saw the horse start, swerve, and then bolt madly down the road, flinging Louise Laxton over his head.
One of them stood over the unconscious figure, not knowing what to do, while the other rushed to the house to get help.
Harry Laxton came running out, his face ghastly. They took off a door of the van and carried her on it to the house. She died without regaining consciousness and before the doctor arrived.
(End of Doctor Haydock’s manuscript.)
When Doctor Haydock arrived the following day, he was pleased to note that there was a pink flush in Miss Marple’s cheek and decidedly more animation in her manner.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what’s the verdict?’
‘What’s the problem, Doctor Haydock?’ countered Miss Marple. ‘Oh, my dear lady, do I have to tell you that?’
‘I suppose,’ said Miss Marple, ‘that it’s the curious conduct of the caretaker. Why did she behave in that very odd way? People do mind being turned out of their old homes. But it wasn’t her home. In fact, she used to complain and grumble while she was there. Yes, it certainly looks very fishy. What became of her, by the way?’
‘Did a bunk to Liverpool. The accident scared her. Thought she’d wait there for her boat.’
‘All very convenient for somebody,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Yes, I think the “Problem of the Caretaker’s Conduct” can be solved easily enough. Bribery, was it not?’
‘That’s your solution?’
‘Well, if it wasn’t natural
for her to behave in that way, she must have been “putting on an act” as people say, and that means that somebody paid her to do what she did.’
‘And you know who that somebody was?’
‘Oh, I think so. Money again, I’m afraid. And I’ve always noticed that gentlemen always tend to admire the same type.’
‘Now I’m out of my depth.’
‘No, no, it all hangs together. Harry Laxton admired Bella Edge, a dark, vivacious type. Your niece Clarice was the same. But the poor little wife was quite a different type – fair-haired and clinging – not his type at all. So he must have married her for her money. And murdered her for her money, too!’
‘You use the word “murder”?’
‘Well, he sounds the right type. Attractive to women and quite unscrupulous. I suppose he wanted to keep his wife’s money and marry your niece. He may have been seen talking to Mrs Edge. But I don’t fancy he was attached to her any more. Though I dare say he made the poor woman think he was, for ends of his own. He soon had her well under his thumb, I fancy.’
‘How exactly did he murder her, do you think?’
Miss Marple stared ahead of her for some minutes with dreamy blue eyes.
‘It was very well timed – with the baker’s van as witness. They could see the old woman and, of course, they’d put down the horse’s fright to that. But I should imagine, myself, that an air gun, or perhaps a catapult. Yes, just as the horse came through the gates. The horse bolted, of course, and Mrs Laxton was thrown.’
She paused, frowning. ‘The fall might have killed her. But he couldn’t be sure of that. And he seems the sort of man who would lay his plans carefully and leave nothing to chance. After all, Mrs Edge could get him something suitable without her husband knowing. Otherwise, why would Harry bother with her? Yes, I think he had some powerful drug handy, that could be administered before you arrived. After all, if a woman is thrown from her horse and has serious injuries and dies without recovering consciousness, well – a doctor wouldn’t normally be suspicious, would he? He’d put it down to shock or something.’
Doctor Haydock nodded.
‘Why did you suspect?’ asked Miss Marple. ‘It wasn’t any particular cleverness on my part,’ said Doctor Haydock. ‘It was just the trite, well-known fact that a murderer is so pleased with his cleverness that he doesn’t take proper precautions. I was just saying a few consolatory words to the bereaved husband – and feeling damned sorry for the fellow, too – when he flung himself down on the settee to do a bit of play-acting and a hypodermic syringe fell out of his pocket.
