Miss Marple's final cases - Agatha Christie [57]
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 James 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 theatre-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 looked completely fogged. Miss Marple explained:
‘When I was a girl, Inspector, nobody ever mentioned the word stomach.’
The inspector looked even more at sea. Miss Marple was murmuring titles 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 in hand.
‘The question is,’ he said, ‘did Alfred Pollock know that 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 Lovell 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.’
‘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 said. ‘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 establishing 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, I’m baffled, Joan’s baffled, Lou is baffled. But to you, Aunt Jane, it is crystal clear. Am I right?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, dear,’ 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, abashed. ‘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 said 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. Lou knew her for two days.