Body in the Library - Agatha Christie [33]
“There might have been.”
“In what way?”
Miss Marple said, hesitating a little:
“I should think—it’s only a suggestion, of course—that perhaps his son-in-law and daughter-in-law might have wanted to get married again.”
“Surely he couldn’t have objected to that?”
“Oh, no, not objected. But, you see, you must look at it from his point of view. He had a terrible shock and loss—so had they. The three bereaved people live together and the link between them is the loss they have all sustained. But Time, as my dear mother used to say, is a great healer. Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Jefferson are young. Without knowing it themselves, they may have begun to feel restless, to resent the bonds that tied them to their past sorrow. And so, feeling like that, old Mr. Jefferson would have become conscious of a sudden lack of sympathy without knowing its cause. It’s usually that. Gentlemen so easily feel neglected. With Mr. Harbottle it was Miss Harbottle going away. And with the Badgers it was Mrs. Badger taking such an interest in Spiritualism and always going out to séances.”
“I must say,” said Sir Henry ruefully, “that I dislike the way you reduce us all to a General Common Denominator.”
Miss Marple shook her head sadly.
“Human nature is very much the same anywhere, Sir Henry.”
Sir Henry said distastefully:
“Mr. Harbottle! Mr. Badger! And poor Conway! I hate to intrude the personal note, but have you any parallel for my humble self in your village?”
“Well, of course, there is Briggs.”
“Who’s Briggs?”
“He was the head gardener up at Old Hall. Quite the best man they ever had. Knew exactly when the under-gardeners were slacking off—quite uncanny it was! He managed with only three men and a boy and the place was kept better than it had been with six. And took several firsts with his sweet peas. He’s retired now.”
“Like me,” said Sir Henry.
“But he still does a little jobbing—if he likes the people.”
“Ah,” said Sir Henry. “Again like me. That’s what I’m doing now—jobbing—to help an old friend.”
“Two old friends.”
“Two?” Sir Henry looked a little puzzled.
Miss Marple said:
“I suppose you meant Mr. Jefferson. But I wasn’t thinking of him. I was thinking of Colonel and Mrs. Bantry.”
“Yes—yes—I see—” He asked sharply: “Was that why you alluded to Dolly Bantry as ‘poor dear’ at the beginning of our conversation?”
“Yes. She hasn’t begun to realize things yet. I know because I’ve had more experience. You see, Sir Henry, it seems to me that there’s a great possibility of this crime being the kind of crime that never does get solved. Like the Brighton trunk murders. But if that happens it will be absolutely disastrous for the Bantrys. Colonel Bantry, like nearly all retired military men, is really abnormally sensitive. He reacts very quickly to public opinion. He won’t notice it for some time, and then it will begin to go home to him. A slight here, and a snub there, and invitations that are refused, and excuses that are made—and then, little by little, it will dawn upon him and he’ll retire into his shell and get terribly morbid and miserable.”
“Let me be sure I understand you rightly, Miss Marple. You mean that, because the body was found in his house, people will think that he had something to do with it?”
“Of course they will! I’ve no doubt they’re saying so already. They’ll say so more and more. And people will cold shoulder the Bantrys and avoid them. That’s why the truth has got to be found out and why I was willing to come here with Mrs. Bantry. An open accusation is one thing—and quite easy for a soldier to meet. He’s indignant and he has a chance of fighting. But this other whispering business will break him—will break them both. So you see, Sir Henry, we’ve got to find out the truth.”
Sir Henry said:
“Any ideas as to why the body should have been found in his house? There must be an explanation of that. Some connection.”
“Oh, of course.”
“The girl was last seen here about twenty minutes to eleven. By midnight, according to the medical evidence,