Body in the Library - Agatha Christie [30]
Sir Henry was wondering as he went upstairs just what had induced the sudden urgency of his friend’s message. Conway Jefferson was not the type of man who sent urgent summonses to anyone. Something quite out of the usual must have occurred, decided Sir Henry.
Jefferson wasted no time in beating about the bush. He said:
“Glad you’ve come. Edwards, get Sir Henry a drink. Sit down, man. You’ve not heard anything, I suppose? Nothing in the papers yet?”
Sir Henry shook his head, his curiosity aroused.
“What’s the matter?”
“Murder’s the matter. I’m concerned in it and so are your friends the Bantrys.”
“Arthur and Dolly Bantry?” Clithering sounded incredulous.
“Yes, you see, the body was found in their house.”
Clearly and succinctly, Conway Jefferson ran through the facts. Sir Henry listened without interrupting. Both men were accustomed to grasping the gist of a matter. Sir Henry, during his term as Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, had been renowned for his quick grip on essentials.
“It’s an extraordinary business,” he commented when the other had finished. “How do the Bantrys come into it, do you think?”
“That’s what worries me. You see, Henry, it looks to me as though possibly the fact that I know them might have a bearing on the case. That’s the only connection I can find. Neither of them, I gather, ever saw the girl before. That’s what they say, and there’s no reason to disbelieve them. It’s most unlikely they should know her. Then isn’t it possible that she was decoyed away and her body deliberately left in the house of friends of mine?”
Clithering said:
“I think that’s far-fetched.”
“It’s possible, though,” persisted the other.
“Yes, but unlikely. What do you want me to do?”
Conway Jefferson said bitterly:
“I’m an invalid. I disguise the fact—refuse to face it—but now it comes home to me. I can’t go about as I’d like to, asking questions, looking into things. I’ve got to stay here meekly grateful for such scraps of information as the police are kind enough to dole out to me. Do you happen to know Melchett, by the way, the Chief Constable of Radfordshire?”
“Yes, I’ve met him.”
Something stirred in Sir Henry’s brain. A face and figure noted unseeingly as he passed through the lounge. A straight-backed old lady whose face was familiar. It linked up with the last time he had seen Melchett.
He said:
“Do you mean you want me to be a kind of amateur sleuth? That’s not my line.”
Jefferson said:
“You’re not an amateur, that’s just it.”
“I’m not a professional anymore. I’m on the retired list now.”
Jefferson said: “That simplifies matters.”
“You mean that if I were still at Scotland Yard I couldn’t butt in? That’s perfectly true.”
“As it is,” said Jefferson, “your experience qualifies you to take an interest in the case, and any cooperation you offer will be welcomed.”
Clithering said slowly:
“Etiquette permits, I agree. But what do you really want, Conway? To find out who killed this girl?”
“Just that.”
“You’ve no idea yourself?”
“None whatever.”
Sir Henry said slowly:
“You probably won’t believe me, but you’ve got an expert at solving mysteries sitting downstairs in the lounge at this minute. Someone who’s better than I am at it, and who in all probability may have some local dope.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Downstairs in the lounge, by the third pillar from the left, there sits an old lady with a sweet, placid spinsterish face, and a mind that has plumbed the depths of human iniquity and taken it as all in the day’s work. Her name’s Miss Marple. She comes from the village of St. Mary Mead, which is a mile and a half from Gossington, she’s a friend of the Bantrys—and where crime is concerned she’s the goods, Conway.”
Jefferson stared at him with thick, puckered brows. He said heavily:
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not. You spoke of Melchett just now. The last time I saw Melchett there was a village tragedy. Girl supposed to have drowned herself. Police quite rightly suspected that it wasn’t suicide, but murder. They thought