“Now please describe just what occurred when the hold-up happened.”
“Well, the lights went out suddenly—”
“Where were you?”
“By the mantelpiece. I was searching for my lighter which I thought I had put down there. The lights went out—and everybody giggled. Then the door was flung open and this man shone a torch on us and flourished a revolver and told us to put our hands up.”
“Which you proceeded to do?”
“Well, I didn’t actually. I thought it was just fun, and I was tired and I didn’t think I needed really to put them up.”
“In fact, you were bored by the whole thing?”
“I was, rather. And then the revolver went off. The shots sounded deafening and I was really frightened. The torch went whirling round and dropped and went out, and then Mitzi started screaming. It was just like a pig being killed.”
“Did you find the torch very dazzling?”
“No, not particularly. It was quite a strong one, though. It lit up Miss Bunner for a moment and she looked quite like a turnip ghost—you know, all white and staring with her mouth open and her eyes starting out of her head.”
“The man moved the torch?”
“Oh, yes, he played it all round the room.”
“As though he were looking for someone?”
“Not particularly, I should say.”
“And after that, Mrs. Haymes?”
Phillipa Haymes frowned.
“Oh, it was all a terrible muddle and confusion. Edmund Swettenham and Patrick Simmons switched on their lighters and they went out into the hall and we followed, and someone opened the dining room door—the lights hadn’t fused there—and Edmund Swettenham gave Mitzi a terrific slap on the cheek and brought her out of her screaming fit, and after that it wasn’t so bad.”
“You saw the body of the dead man?”
“Yes.”
“Was he known to you? Had you ever seen him before?”
“Never.”
“Have you any opinion as to whether his death was accidental, or do you think he shot himself deliberately?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“You didn’t see him when he came to the house previously?”
“No. I believe it was in the middle of the morning and I shouldn’t have been there. I’m out all day.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Haymes. One thing more. You haven’t any valuable jewellery? Rings, bracelets, anything of that kind?”
Phillipa shook her head.
“My engagement ring—a couple of brooches.”
“And as far as you know, there was nothing of particular value in the house?”
“No. I mean there is some quite nice silver—but nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Haymes.”
II
As Craddock retraced his steps through the kitchen garden he came face to face with a large red-faced lady, carefully corseted.
“Good morning,” she said belligerently. “What do you want here?”
“Mrs. Lucas? I am Detective-Inspector Craddock.”
“Oh, that’s who you are? I beg your pardon. I don’t like strangers forcing their way into my garden wasting the gardeners’ time. But I quite understand you have to do your duty.”
“Quite so.”
“May I ask if we are to expect a repetition of that outrage last night at Miss Blacklock’s? Is it a gang?”
“We are satisfied, Mrs. Lucas, that it was not the work of a gang.”
“There are far too many robberies nowadays. The police are getting slack.” Craddock did not reply. “I suppose you’ve been talking to Phillipa Haymes?”
“I wanted her account as an eyewitness.”
“You couldn’t have waited until one o’clock, I suppose? After all, it would be fairer to question her in her time, rather than in mine. …”
“I’m anxious to get back to headquarters.”
“Not that one expects consideration nowadays. Or a decent day’s work. On duty late, half an hour’s pottering. A break for elevenses at ten o’clock. No work done at all the moment the rain starts. When you want the lawn mown there’s always something wrong with the mower. And off duty five or ten minutes before the proper time.”
“I understood from Mrs. Haymes that she left here at twenty minutes past five yesterday instead of five o’clock.”
“Oh, I dare say she did. Give her her due, Mrs. Haymes is quite keen on her work, though there have been days when I have come out here and not been able to find her anywhere. She is a lady by birth, of course, and one feels it’s one’s duty to do something for these poor young war widows. Not that it isn’t very inconvenient. Those long school holidays and the arrangement is that she has extra time off then. I told her that there are really excellent camps nowadays where children can be sent and where they have a delightful time and enjoy it far more than wandering about with their parents. They need practically not come home at all in the summer holidays.”
“But Mrs. Haymes didn’t take kindly to that idea?”
“She’s as obstinate as a mule, that girl. Just the time of year when I want the tennis court mowed and marked nearly every day. Old Ashe gets the lines crooked. But my convenience is never considered!”
“I presume Mrs. Haymes takes a smaller salary than is usual?”
“Naturally. What else could she expect?”
“Nothing, I’m sure,” said Craddock. “Good morning, Mrs. Lucas.”
III
“It was dreadful,” said Mrs. Swettenham happily. “Quite—quite—dreadful, and what I say is that they ought to be far more careful what advertisements they accept at the Gazette office. At the time, when I read it, I thought it was very odd. I said so, didn’t I, Edmund?”
“Do you remember just what you were doing when the lights went out, Mrs. Swettenham?” asked the Inspector.
“How that reminds me of my old Nannie! Where was Moses when the light went out? The answer, of course, was ‘In the Dark.’ Just like us yesterday evening. All standing about and wondering what was going to happen. And then, you know, the thrill when it suddenly went pitch black. And the door opening—just a dim figure standing there with a revolver and that blinding light and a menacing voice saying ‘Your money or your life!’ Oh, I’ve never enjoyed anything so much. And then a minute later, of course, it was all dreadful. Real bullets, just whistling past our ears! It must have been just like the Commandos in the war.”
“Whereabouts were you standing or sitting at the time, Mrs. Swettenham?”
“Now let me see, where was I? Who was I talking to, Edmund?”
“I really haven’t the least idea, Mother.”
“Was it Miss Hinchcliffe I was asking about giving the hens cod liver oil in the cold weather? Or was it Mrs. Harmon—no, she’d only just arrived. I think I was just saying to Colonel Easterbrook that I thought it was really very dangerous to have an atom research station in England. It ought to be on some lonely island in case the radio activity gets loose.”
“You don’t remember if you were sitting or standing?”
“Does it really matter, Inspector? I was somewhere over by the window or near the mantelpiece, because I know I was quite near the clock when it struck. Such a thrilling moment! Waiting to see if anything might be going to happen.”
“You describe the light from the torch as blinding. Was it turned full on to you?”
“It was right in my eyes. I couldn’t see a thing.”
“Did the man hold it still, or did he move it about, from person to person?”
“Oh, I don’t really know. Which did he do, Edmund?”
“It moved rather slowly over us all, so as to see what we were all doing, I suppose, in case we should try and rush him.”
“And where exactly in the room were you, Mr. Swettenham?”
“I’d been talking to Julia Simmons. We were both standing up in the middle of the room—the long room.”
“
Was everyone in that room, or was there anyone in the far room?”
“Phillipa Haymes had moved in there, I think. She was over by that far mantelpiece. I think she was looking for something.”
“Have you any idea as to whether the third shot was suicide or an accident?”
“I’ve no idea at all. The man seemed to swerve round very suddenly and then crumple up and fall—but it was all very confused. You must realise that you couldn’t really see anything. And then that refugee girl started yelling the place down.”
“I understand it was you who unlocked the dining room door and let her out?”
“Yes.”
“The door was definitely locked on the outside?”
Edmund looked at him curiously.
“Certainly it was. Why, you don’t imagine—?”
“I just like to get my facts quite clear. Thank you, Mr. Swettenham.”
IV
Inspector Craddock was forced to spend quite a long time with Colonel and Mrs. Easterbrook. He had to listen to a long disquisition on the psychological aspect of the case.
“The psychological approach—that’s the only thing nowadays,” the Colonel told him. “You’ve got to understand your criminal. Now the whole setup here is quite plain to a man who’s had the wide experience that I have. Why does this fellow put that advert in? Psychology. He wants to advertise himself—to focus attention on himself. He’s been passed over, perhaps despised as a foreigner by the other employees at the Spa Hotel. A girl has turned him down, perhaps. He wants to rivet her attention on him. Who is the idol of the cinema nowadays—the gangster—the tough guy? Very well, he will be a tough guy. Robbery with violence. A mask? A revolver? But he wants an audience—he must have an audience. So he arranges for an audience. And then, at the supreme moment, his part runs away with him—he’s more than a burglar. He’s a killer. He shoots—blindly—”
Inspector Craddock caught gladly at a word:
“You say ‘blindly,’ Colonel Easterbrook. You didn’t think that he was firing deliberately at one particular object—at Miss Blacklock, that is to say?”
“No, no. He just loosed off, as I say, blindly. And that’s what brought him to himself. The bullet hit someone—actually it was only a graze, but he didn’t know that. He comes to himself with a bang. All this—this make-believe he’s been indulging in—is real. He’s shot at someone—perhaps killed someone … It’s all up with him. And so in blind panic he turns the revolver on himself.”
Colonel Easterbrook paused, cleared his throat appreciatively and said in a satisfied voice, “Plain as a pikestaff, that’s what it is, plain as a pikestaff.”
“It really is wonderful,” said Mrs. Easterbrook, “the way you know exactly what happened, Archie.”
Her voice was warm with admiration.
Inspector Craddock thought it was wonderful, too, but he was not quite so warmly appreciative.
“Exactly where were you in the room, Colonel Easterbrook, when the actual shooting business took place?”
“I was standing with my wife—near a centre table with some flowers on it.”
“I caught hold of your arm, didn’t I, Archie, when it happened? I was simply scared to death. I just had to hold on to you.”
“Poor little kitten,” said the Colonel playfully.
V
The Inspector ran Miss Hinchcliffe to earth by a pigsty.
“Nice creatures, pigs,” said Miss Hinchcliffe, scratching a wrinkled pink back. “Coming on well, isn’t he? Good bacon round about Christmas time. Well, what do you want to see me about? I told your people last night I hadn’t the least idea who the man was. Never seen him anywhere in the neighbourhood snooping about or anything of that sort. Our Mrs. Mopp says he came from one of the big hotels in Medenham Wells. Why didn’t he hold up someone there if he wanted to? Get a much better haul.”
That was undeniable—Craddock proceeded with his inquiries.
“Where were you exactly when the incident took place?”
“Incident! Reminds me of my A.R.P. days. Saw some incidents then, I can tell you. Where was I when the shooting started? That what you want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Leaning up against the mantelpiece hoping to God someone would offer me a drink soon,” replied Miss Hinchcliffe promptly.
“Do you think that the shots were fired blindly, or aimed carefully at one particular person?”
“You mean aimed at Letty Blacklock? How the devil should I know? Damned hard to sort out what your impressions really were or what really happened after it’s all over. All I know is the lights went out, and that torch went whirling round dazzling us all, and then the shots were fired and I thought to myself, ‘If that damned young fool Patrick Simmons is playing his jokes with a loaded revolver somebody will get hurt.’”
“You thought it was Patrick Simmons?”
“Well, it seemed likely. Edmund Swettenham is intellectual and writes books and doesn’t care for horseplay, and old Colonel Easterbrook wouldn’t think that sort of thing funny. But Patrick’s a wild boy. However, I apologize to him for the idea.”
“Did your friend think it might be Patrick Simmons?”
“Murgatroyd? You’d better talk to her yourself. Not that you’ll get any sense out of her. She’s down the orchard. I’ll yell for her if you like.”
Miss Hinchcliffe raised her stentorian voice in a powerful bellow:
“Hi-youp, Murgatroyd….”
“Coming …” floated back a thin cry.
“Hurry up—Polieece,” bellowed Miss Hinchcliffe.
Miss Murgatroyd arrived at a brisk trot very much out of breath. Her skirt was down at the hem and her hair was escaping from an inadequate hair net. Her round, good-natured face beamed.
“Is it Scotland Yard?” she asked breathlessly. “I’d no idea. Or I wouldn’t have left the house.”
“We haven’t called in Scotland Yard yet, Miss Murgatroyd. I’m Inspector Craddock from Milchester.”
“Well, that’s very nice, I’m sure,” said Miss Murgatroyd vaguely. “Have you found any clues?”
“Where were you at the time of the crime, that’s what he wants to know, Murgatroyd?” said Miss Hinchcliffe. She winked at Craddock.
“Oh, dear,” gasped Miss Murgatroyd. “Of course. I ought to have been prepared. Alibis, of course. Now, let me see, I was just with everybody else.”
“You weren’t with me,” said Miss Hinchcliffe.
“Oh, dear, Hinch, wasn’t I? No, of course, I’d been admiring the chrysanthemums. Very poor specimens, really. And then it all happened—only I didn’t really know it had happened—I mean I didn’t know that anything like that had happened. I didn’t imagine for a moment that it was a real revolver—and all so awkward in the dark, and that dreadful screaming. I got it all wrong, you know. I thought she was being murdered—I mean the refugee girl. I thought she was having her throat cut across the hall somewhere. I didn’t know it was him—I mean, I didn’t even know there was a man. It was really just a voice, you know, saying, ‘Put them up, please.’”
“‘Stick ’em up!’” Miss Hinchcliffe corrected. “And no suggestion of ‘please’ about it.”
“It’s so terrible to think that until that girl started screaming I was actually enjoying myself. Only being in the dark was very awkward and I got a knock on my corn. Agony, it was. Is there anything more you want to know, Inspector?”
“No,” said Inspector Craddock, eyeing Miss Murgatroyd speculatively. “I don’t really think there is.”
Her friend gave a short bark of laughter.
“He’s got you taped, Murgatroyd.”
“I’m sure, Hinch,” said Miss Murgatroyd, “that I’m only too willing to say anything I can.”
“He doesn’t want that,” said Miss Hinchcliffe.
She looked at the Inspector. “If you’re doing this geographically I suppose you’ll go to the Vicarage next. You might get something there. Mrs. Harmon looks as vague as th
ey make them—but I sometimes think she’s got brains. Anyway, she’s got something.”
As they watched the Inspector and Sergeant Fletcher stalk away, Amy Murgatroyd said breathlessly:
“Oh, Hinch, was I very awful? I do get so flustered!”
“Not at all,” Miss Hinchcliffe smiled. “On the whole, I should say you did very well.”
VI
Inspector Craddock looked round the big shabby room with a sense of pleasure. It reminded him a little of his own Cumberland home. Faded chintz, big shabby chairs, flowers and books strewn about, and a spaniel in a basket. Mrs. Harmon, too, with her distraught air, and her general disarray and her eager face he found sympathetic.
But she said at once, frankly, “I shan’t be any help to you. Because I shut my eyes. I hate being dazzled. And then there were shots and I screwed them up tighter than ever. And I did wish, oh, I did wish, that it had been a quiet murder. I don’t like bangs.”
“So you didn’t see anything.” The Inspector smiled at her. “But you heard—?”
“Oh, my goodness, yes, there was plenty to hear. Doors opening and shutting, and people saying silly things and gasping and old Mitzi screaming like a steam engine—and poor Bunny squealing like a trapped rabbit. And everyone pushing and falling over everyone else. However, when there really didn’t seem to be any more bangs coming, I opened my eyes. Everyone was out in the hall then, with candles. And then the lights came on and suddenly it was all as usual—I don’t mean really as usual, but we were ourselves again, not just—people in the dark. People in the dark are quite different, aren’t they?”
“I think I know what you mean, Mrs. Harmon.”
Mrs. Harmon smiled at him.
“And there he was,” she said. “A rather weaselly-looking foreigner—all pink and surprised-looking—lying there dead—with a revolver beside him. It didn’t—oh, it didn’t seem to make sense, somehow.”
It did not make sense to the Inspector, either.
The whole business worried him.
Eight
ENTER MISS MARPLE
I
Craddock laid the typed transcript of the various interviews before the Chief Constable. The latter had just finished reading the wire received from the Swiss Police.