Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [79]
“So am I,” said Miss Marple.
In the hall Pat Fortescue was waiting to say good-bye.
“I wish you weren’t going,” she said. “I shall miss you.”
“It’s time for me to go,” said Miss Marple. “I’ve finished what I came here to do. It hasn’t been—altogether pleasant. But it’s important, you know, that wickedness shouldn’t triumph.”
Pat looked puzzled.
“I don’t understand.”
“No, my dear. But perhaps you will, someday. If I might venture to advise, if anything ever—goes wrong in your life—I think the happiest thing for you would be to go back to where you were happy as a child. Go back to Ireland, my dear. Horses and dogs. All that.”
Pat nodded.
“Sometimes I wish I’d done just that when Freddy died. But if I had”—her voice changed and softened—“I’d never have met Lance.”
Miss Marple sighed.
“We’re not staying here, you know,” said Pat. “We’re going back to East Africa as soon as everything’s cleared up. I’m so glad.”
“God bless you, dear child,” said Miss Marple. “One needs a great deal of courage to get through life. I think you have it.”
She patted the girl’s hand and, releasing it, went through the front door to the waiting taxi.
II
Miss Marple reached home late that evening.
Kitty—the latest graduate from St. Faith’s Home—let her in and greeted her with a beaming face.
“I’ve got a herring for your supper, miss. I’m so glad to see you home—you’ll find everything very nice in the house. Regular spring cleaning I’ve had.”
“That’s very nice, Kitty—I’m glad to be home.”
Six spider’s webs on the cornice, Miss Marple noted. These girls never raised their heads! She was none the less too kind to say so.
“Your letters is on the hall table, miss. And there’s one as went to Daisymead by mistake. Always doing that, aren’t they? Does look a bit alike, Dane and Daisy, and the writing’s so bad I don’t wonder this time. They’ve been away there and the house shut up, they only got back and sent it round today. Said as how they hoped it wasn’t important.”
Miss Marple picked up her correspondence. The letter to which Kitty had referred was on top of the others. A faint chord of remembrance stirred in Miss Marple’s mind at the sight of the blotted scrawled handwriting. She tore it open.
Dear Madam,
I hope as you’ll forgive me writing this but I really don’t know what to do indeed I don’t and I never meant no harm. Dear madam, you’ll have seen the newspapers it was murder they say but it wasn’t me that did it, not really, because I would never do anything wicked like that and I know as how he wouldn’t either. Albert, I mean. I’m telling this badly, but you see we met last summer and was going to be married only Bert hadn’t got his rights, he’d been done out of them, swindled by this Mr. Fortescue who’s dead. And Mr. Fortescue he just denied everything and of course everybody believed him and not Bert because he was rich and Bert was poor. But Bert had a friend who works in a place where they make these new drugs and there’s what they call a truth drug you’ve read about it perhaps in the paper and it makes people speak the truth whether they want to or not. Bert was going to see Mr. Fortescue in his office on Nov. 5th and taking a lawyer with him and I was to be sure to give him the drug at breakfast that morning and then it would work just right for when they came and he’d admit as all what Bert said was quite true. Well, madam, I put it in the marmalade but now he’s dead and I think as how it must have been too strong but it wasn’t Bert’s fault because Bert would never do a thing like that but I can’t tell the police because maybe they’d think Bert did it on purpose which I know he didn’t. Oh, madam, I don’t know what to do or what to say and the police are here in the house and it’s awful and they ask you questions and look at you so stern and I don’t know what to do and I haven’t heard from Bert. Oh, madam, I don’t like to ask it of you but if you could only come here and help me they’d listen to you and you were always so kind to me, and I