Twenty-four
“Nobody could have made more of a muck of it than I seem to have done,”
said Dermot Craddock gloomily.
He sat, his long legs stretched out, looking somehow incongruous in
faithful Florence’s somewhat overfurnished parlour. He was
thoroughly1
tired, upset and dispirited.
very good work, my dear boy. Very good work indeed.”
“I’ve done very good work, have I? I’ve let a whole family be poisoned.
Alfred Crackenthorpe’s dead and now Harold’s dead too. What the hell’s
going on here. That’s what I should like to know.”
“Poisoned tablets,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.
“Yes. Devilishly cunning, really. They looked just like the tablets that
he’d been having. There was a printed slip sent in with them ‘by Doctor
Quimper’s instructions.’ Well, Quimper never ordered them. There were
chemist’s labels used. The chemist knew nothing about it, either. No. That
box of tablets came from Rutherford Hall.”
“Do you actually know it came from Rutherford Hall?”
“Yes. We’ve had a thorough check up. Actually, it’s the box that held the
“Oh, I see. For Emma….”
“Yes. It’s got her
fingerprints6 on it and the fingerprints of both the
nurses and the
fingerprint7 of the chemist who made it up. Nobody else’s,
naturally. The person who sent them was careful.”
“And the sedative tablets were removed and something else substitu-
“Yes. That of course is the devil with tablets. One tablet looks exactly like
another.”
“You are so right,” agreed Miss Marple. “I remember so very well in my
young days, the black mixture and the brown mixture (the cough mixture
that was) and the white mixture, and Doctor So-and- So’s pink mixture.
People didn’t mix those up nearly as much. In fact, you know, in my vil-
lage of St. Mary
Mead8 we still like that kind of medicine. It’s a bottle they
always want, not tablets. What were the tablets?” she asked.
“Aconite. They were the kind of tablets that are usually kept in a poison
bottle,
diluted9 one in a hundred for outside application.”
“And so Harold took them, and died,” Miss Marple said thoughtfully.
Dermot Craddock uttered something like a
groan10.
“You mustn’t mind my letting off steam to you,” he said. “Tell it all to
Aunt Jane; that’s how I feel!”
“That’s very, very nice of you,” said Miss Marple, “and I do appreciate it.
I feel towards you, as Sir Henry’s godson, quite differently from the way I
made the most ghastly mess of things all along the line,” he said. “The
Chief
Constable14 down here calls in Scotland Yard, and what do they get?
They get me making a prize
ass15 of myself!”
“No, no,” said Miss Marple.
“Yes, yes. I don’t know who poisoned Alfred, I don’t know who poisoned
Harold, and, to cap it all, I haven’t the least idea who the original
murdered woman was! This Martine business seemed a
perfectly16 safe bet.
The whole thing seemed to tie up. And now what happens? The real Mar-
tine shows up and turns out, most improbably, to be the wife of Sir Robert
Stoddart-West. So, who’s the woman in the barn now? Goodness knows.
First I go all out on the idea she’s Anna Stravinska, and then she’s out of it
—”
He was arrested by Miss Marple giving one of her small peculiarly signi-
ficant coughs.
“But is she?” she murmured.
Craddock stared at her. “Well, that postcard from Jamaica—”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple; “but that isn’t really evidence, is it? I mean, any-
one can get a postcard sent from almost anywhere, I suppose. I remember
Mrs. Brierly, such a very bad nervous
breakdown17. Finally, they said she
ought to go to the mental hospital for observation, and she was so worried
about the children knowing about it and so she wrote fourteen postcards
and arranged that they should be posted from different places abroad,
and told them that Mummy was going abroad on a holiday.” She added,
looking at Dermot Craddock, “You see what I mean.”
“Yes, of course,” said Craddock, staring at her. “Naturally we’d have
checked that postcard if it hadn’t been for the Martine business fitting the
bill so well.”
“So convenient,” murmured Miss Marple.
“It tied up,” said Craddock. “After all, there’s the letter Emma received
signed Martine Crackenthorpe. Lady Stoddart-West didn’t send that, but
somebody did. Somebody who was going to pretend to be Martine, and
who was going to cash in, if possible, on being Martine. You can’t deny
that.”
“No, no.”
“And then, the envelope of the letter Emma wrote to her with the Lon-
don address on it. Found at Rutherford Hall, showing she’d actually been
there.”
“But the murdered woman hadn’t been there!” Miss Marple
pointed18 out.
“Not in the sense you mean. She only came to Rutherford Hall after she was
dead. Pushed out of a train on to the railway embankment.”
“Oh, yes.”
“What the envelope really proves is that the murderer was there. Pre-
sumably he took that envelope off her with her other papers and things,
and then dropped it by mistake—or—I wonder now, was it a mistake?
Surely Inspector Bacon, and your men too, made a thorough search of the
place, didn’t they, and didn’t find it. It only turned up later in the
boiler19
house.”
“That’s understandable,” said Craddock. “The old gardener chap used to
spear up any odd stuff that was blowing about and shove it in there.”
“Where it was very convenient for the boys to find,” said Miss Marple
thoughtfully.
“You think we were meant to find it?”
“Well, I just wonder. After all, it would be fairly easy to know where the
boys were going to look next, or even to suggest to them… Yes, I do won-
der. It stopped you thinking about Anna Stravinska anymore, didn’t it?”
Craddock said: “And you think it really may be her all the time?”
“I think someone may have got alarmed when you started making in-
quiries about her, that’s all… I think somebody didn’t want those
inquiries20
made.”
“Let’s hold on to the basic fact that someone was going to impersonate
Martine,” said Craddock. “And then for some reason—didn’t. Why?”
“That’s a very interesting question,” said Miss Marple.
“Somebody sent a note saying Martine was going back to France, then
arranged to travel down with the girl and kill her on the way. You agree so
far?”
“Not exactly,” said Miss Marple. “I don’t think, really, you’re making it
simple enough.”
“Simple!” exclaimed Craddock. “You’re mixing me up,” he complained.
Miss Marple said in a
distressed21 voice that she wouldn’t think of doing
anything like that.
“Come, tell me,” said Craddock, “do you or do you not think you know
who the murdered woman was?” Miss Marple sighed. “It’s so difficult,”
she said, “to put it the right way. I mean, I don’t know who she was, but at
the same time I’m fairly sure who she was, if you know what I mean.”
Craddock threw up his head. “Know what you mean? I haven’t the
faintest idea.” He looked out through the window. “There’s your Lucy Eye-
lesbarrow coming to see you,” he said. “Well, I’ll be off. My amour propre
is very low this afternoon and having a young woman coming in, radiant
with efficiency and success, is more than I can bear.”
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