I cannot say that I have at any time a great admiration for Mr. Raymond
West. He is, I know, supposed to be a brilliant novelist, and has made
quite a name as a poet. His poems have no capital letters in them,
which is, I believe, the essence of modernity. His books are about
unpleasant people leading lives of surpassing dullness.
He has a tolerant affection for "Aunt Jane," whom he alludes to in her
presence as a "survival." She listens to his talk with a flattering
interest, and if there is sometimes an amused twinkle in her eye I am
sure he never notices it.
He fastened on Griselda at once with flattering abruptness. They
discussed modern plays, and from there went on to modern schemes of
decoration. Griselda affects to laugh at Raymond West, but she is, I
think, susceptible to his conversation.
During my (dull) conversation with Miss Marple, I heard at intervals
the reiteration "buried as you are down here."
It began at last to irritate me. I said suddenly:
"I suppose you consider us very much out of things down here?"
Raymond West waved his cigarette.
"I regard St. Mary Mead," he said authoritatively, "as a stagnant pool."
He looked at us, prepared for resentment at his statement; but
somewhat, I think, to his chagrin, no one displayed annoyance.
"That is really not a very good simile, dear Raymond," said Miss
Marple briskly. "Nothing, I believe, is so full of life under the
microscope as a drop of water from a stagnant pool."
"Life--of a kind," admitted the novelist.
"It's all much the same kind, really, isn't it?" said Miss Marple.
"You compare yourself to a denizen of a stagnant pond, Aunt Jane?"
"My dear, you said something of the sort in your last book, I remember."
No clever young man likes having his works quoted against himself.
Raymond West was no exception.
"That was entirely different," he snapped.
"Life is, after all, very much the same everywhere," said Miss Marple
in her placid voice. "Getting born, you know, and growing up--and
coming into contact with other people--getting jostled--and then
marriage and more babies--"
"And finally death," said Raymond West. "And not death with a death
certificate always. Death in life."
"Talking of death," said Griselda. "You know we've had a murder here?"
Raymond West waved murder away with his cigarette.
"Murder is so crude," he said. "I take no interest in it."
That statement did not take me in for a moment. They say all the world
loves a lover--apply that saying to murder and you have an even more
infallible truth. No one can fail to be interested in a murder. Simple
people like Griselda and myself can admit the fact, but anyone like
Raymond West has to pretend to be bored--at any rate for the first five
minutes.
Miss Marple, however, gave her nephew away by remarking:
"Raymond and I have been discussing nothing else all through dinner."
"I take a great interest in all the local news," said Raymond hastily.
He smiled benignly and tolerantly at Miss Marple.
"Have you a theory, Mr. West?" asked Griselda.
"Logically," said Raymond West, again flourishing his cigarette, "only
one person could have killed Protheroe."
"Yes?" said Griselda.
We hung upon his words with flattering attention.
"The Vicar," said Raymond, and pointed his accusing finger at me.
I gasped.
"Of course," he reassured me, "I know you didn't do it. Life is never
what it should be. But think of the drama--the fitness--Churchwarden
murdered in the Vicar's study by the Vicar. Delicious!"
"And the motive?" I inquired.
"Oh! That's interesting." He sat up--allowed his cigarette to go out.
"Inferiority complex, I think. Possibly too many inhibitions. I should
like to write the story of the affair. Amazingly complex. Week after
week, year after year, he's seen the man--at vestry meetings--at
choir boys' outings--handing round the bag in church--bringing it
to the altar. Always he dislikes the man--always he chokes down his
dislike. It's unchristianlike, he won't encourage it. And so it festers
underneath, and one day--"
He made a graphic gesture.
Griselda turned to me.
"Have you ever felt like that, Len?"
"Never," I said truthfully.
"Yet I hear you were wishing him out of the world not so long ago,"
remarked Miss Marple.
(That miserable Dennis! But my fault, of course, for ever making the
remark.)
"I'm afraid I was," I said. "It was a stupid remark to make, but really
I'd had a very trying morning with him."
"That's disappointing," said Raymond West. "Because, of course, if your
subconscious were really planning to do him in, it would never have
allowed you to make that remark."
He sighed.
"My theory falls to the ground. This is probably a very ordinary
murder--a revengeful poacher or something of that sort."
"Miss Cram came to see me this afternoon," said Miss Marple. "I met her
in the village and I asked her if she would like to see my garden."
"Is she fond of gardens?" asked Griselda.
"I don't think so," said Miss Marple with a faint twinkle. "But it
makes a very useful excuse for talk, don't you think?"
"What did you make of her?" asked Griselda. "I don't believe she's
really so bad."
"She volunteered a lot of information--really a lot of information,"
said Miss Marple. "About herself, you know, and her people. They all
seem to be dead or in India. Very sad. By the way, she has gone to Old
Hall for the weekend."
"What?"
"Yes, it seems Mrs. Protheroe asked her--or she suggested it to Mrs.
Protheroe--I don't quite know which way about it was. To do some
secretarial work for her--there are so many letters to cope with. It
turned out rather fortunately. Dr. Stone being away, she has nothing to
do. What an excitement this barrow has been."
"Stone?" said Raymond. "Is that the archæologist fellow?"
"Yes, he is excavating a barrow. On the Protheroe property."
"He's a good man," said Raymond. "Wonderfully keen on his job. I met
him at a dinner not long ago, and we had a most interesting talk. I
must look him up."
"Unfortunately," I said, "he's just gone to London for the weekend.
Why, you actually ran into him at the station this afternoon."
"I ran into you. You had a little fat man with you--with glasses on."
"Yes--Dr. Stone."
"But, my dear fellow--that wasn't Stone."
"Not Stone?"
"Not the archæologist. I know him quite well. The man wasn't Stone--not
the faintest resemblance."
We stared at each other. In particular I stared at Miss Marple.
"Extraordinary," I said.
"The suitcase," said Miss Marple.
"But why?" said Griselda.
"It reminds me of the time the man went round pretending to be the gas
inspector," murmured Miss Marple. "Quite a little haul he got."
"An impostor," said Raymond West. "Now this is really interesting."
"The question is, has it anything to do with murder?" said Griselda.
"Not necessarily," I said. "But--" I looked at Miss Marple.
"It is," she said, "a Peculiar Thing. Another Peculiar Thing."
"Yes," I said rising. "I rather feel the Inspector ought to be told
about this at once."