Part 29 (1/2)

”But why?” cried Louise.

”I daresay,” said Miss Marple, ”that she thought Alfred Pollock might have a pride in the house, might even want to live in it, whereas her nephew would almost certainly have no use for it whatever and would sell it as soon as he could possibly do so. He's an actor, isn't he? What play exactly is he acting in at present?”

Trust an old lady to wander from the point, thought Inspector Welch; but he replied civilly, ”I believe, madam, they are doing a season of Sir James M. Barrie's plays.”

”Barrie,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

”What Every Woman Knows,” said Inspector Welch, and then blushed.

”Name of a play,” he said quickly. ”I'm not much of a theater-goer myself,” he added, ”but the wife went along and saw it last week. Quite well done, she said it was.”

”Barrie, wrote some very charming plays,” said Miss Marple, ”though I must say that when I went with an old friend of mine, General Easterly, to see Barrie's Little Mary -” she shook her head sadly - ”neither of us knew where to look.”

The inspector, unacquainted with the play 'Little Mary', seemed completely fogged.

Miss Marple explained: ”When I was a girl, Inspector, n.o.body ever mentioned the word stomach.”

The inspector looked even more at sea. Miss Marple was murmuring t.i.tles under her breath.

”'The Admirable Crichton.' Very clever. 'Mary Rose' - a charming play. I cried, I remember. 'Quality Street' I didn't care for so much. Then there was 'A Kiss for Cinderella.' Oh, of course!”

Inspector Welch had no time to waste on theatrical discussion. He returned to the matter at hand.

”The question is,” he said, ”did Alfred Pollock know the old lady had made a will in his favour? Did she tell him?” He added, ”You see - there's an archery club over at Boreham - and Alfred Pollock's a member. He's a very good shot indeed with a bow and arrow.”

”Then isn't your case quite clear?” asked Raymond West. ”It would fit in with the doors being locked on the two women - he'd know just where they were in the house.”

The inspector looked at him. He spoke with deep melancholy.

”He's got an alibi,” said the inspector.

”I always think alibis are definitely suspicious,” Raymond remarked.

”Maybe, sir,” said Inspector Welch. ”You're talking as a writer.”

”I don't write detective stories,” said Raymond West, horrified at the mere idea.

”Easy enough to say that alibis are suspicious,” went on Inspector Welch, ”but unfortunately we've got to deal with facts.” He sighed. ”We've got three good suspects,” he went on. ”Three people who, as it happened, were very close upon the scene at the time. Yet the odd thing is that it looks as though none of the three could have done it. The housekeeper I've already dealt with; the nephew, Nat Fletcher, at the moment Miss Greenshaw was shot, was a couple of miles away, filling up his car at a garage and asking his way; as for Alfred Pollock, six people will swear that he entered the Dog and Duck at twenty past twelve and was there for an hour, having his usual bread and cheese and beer.”

”Deliberately establis.h.i.+ng an alibi,” said Raymond West hopefully.

”Maybe,” said Inspector Welch, ”but if so, he did establish it.”

There was a long silence. Then Raymond turned his head to where Miss Marple sat upright and thoughtful.

”It's up to you, Aunt Jane,” he said. ”The inspector's baffled, the sergeant's baffled, Joan's baffled, Louise is baffled. But to you, Aunt Jane, it is crystal clear. Am I right?”

”I wouldn't say that,” said Miss Marple, ”not crystal clear. And murder, dear Raymond, isn't a game. I don't suppose poor Miss Greenshaw wanted to die, and it was a particularly brutal murder. Very well-planned and quite cold-blooded. It's not a thing to make jokes about.”

”I'm sorry,” said Raymond. ”I'm not really as callous as I sound. One treats a thing lightly to take away from the - well, the horror of it.”

”That is, I believe, the modern tendency,” said Miss Marple. ”All these wars, and having to joke about funerals. Yes, perhaps I was thoughtless when I implied that you were callous.”

”It isn't,” said Joan, ”as though we'd known her at all well.”

”That is very true,” said Miss Marple. ”You, dear Joan, did not know her at all. I did not know her at all. Raymond gathered an impression of her from one afternoon's conversation. Louise knew her for only two days.”

”Come now, Aunt Jane,” said Raymond, ”tell us your views. You don't mind, Inspector?”

”Not at all,” said the inspector politely.

”Well, my dear, it would seem that we have three people who had - or might have thought they had - a motive to kill the old lady. And three quite simple reasons why none of the three could have done so. The housekeeper could not have killed Miss Greenshaw because she was locked in her room and because her mistress definitely stated that a man shot her. The gardener was inside the Dog and Duck at the time, the nephew at the garage.”

”Very clearly put, madam,” said the inspector.

”And since it seems most unlikely that any outsider should have done it, where, then, are we?”

”That's what the inspector wants to know,” said Raymond West.

”One so often looks at a thing the wrong way round,” said Miss Marple apologetically. ”If we can't alter the movements or the positions of those three people, then couldn't we perhaps alter the time of the murder?”

”You mean that both my watch and the clock were wrong?” asked Louise.

”No, dear,” said Miss Marple, ”I didn't mean that at all. I mean that the murder didn't occur when you thought it occurred.”

”But I saw it,” cried Louise.

”Well, what I have been wondering, my dear, was whether you weren't meant to see it. I've been asking myself, you know, whether that wasn't the real reason why you were engaged for this job.”