The Thirteen Problems - Agatha Christie [56]
‘Eh?’ said Sir Henry. ‘Notice what?’
Mrs Bantry reached out a hand and selected a catalogue. She opened it and read aloud with gusto:
‘Dr Helmuth Spath. Pure lilac, a wonderfully fine flower, carried on exceptionally long and stiff stem. Splendid for cutting and garden decoration. A novelty of striking beauty.
‘Edgar Jackson. Beautifully shaped chrysanthemum-like flower of a distinct brick-red colour.
‘Amos Perry. Brilliant red, highly decorative.
‘Tsingtau. Brilliant orange-red, showy garden plant and lasting cut flower.
‘Honesty—’
‘With a capital H, you remember,’ murmured Miss Marple.
‘Honesty. Rose and white shades, enormous perfect shaped flower.’
Mrs Bantry flung down the catalogue, and said with immense explosive force:
‘Dahlias!’
‘And their initial letters spell “DEATH”, explained Miss Marple.
‘But the letter came to Dr Rosen himself,’ objected Sir Henry.
‘That was the clever part of it,’ said Miss Marple. ‘That and the warning in it. What would he do, getting a letter from someone he didn’t know, full of names he didn’t know. Why, of course, toss it over to his secretary.’
‘Then, after all—’
‘Oh, no!’ said Miss Marple. ‘Not the secretary. Why, that’s what makes it so perfectly clear that it wasn’t him. He’d never have let that letter be found if so. And equally he’d never have destroyed a letter to himself with a German stamp on it. Really, his innocence is—if you’ll allow me to use the word—just shining.’
‘Then who—’
‘Well, it seems almost certain—as certain as anything can be in this world. There was another person at the breakfast table, and she would—quite naturally under the circumstances—put out her hand for the letter and read it. And that would be that. You remember that she got a gardening catalogue by the same post—’
‘Greta Rosen,’ said Sir Henry, slowly. ‘Then her visit to me—’
‘Gentlemen never see through these things,’ said Miss Marple. ‘And I’m afraid they often think we old women are—well, cats, to see things the way we do. But there it is. One does know a great deal about one’s own sex, unfortunately. I’ve no doubt there was a barrier between them. The young man felt a sudden inexplicable repulsion. He suspected, purely through instinct, and couldn’t hide the suspicion. And I really think that the girl’s visit to you was just pure spite. She was safe enough really; but she just went out of her way to fix your suspicions definitely on poor Mr Templeton. You weren’t nearly so sure about him until after her visit.’
‘I’m sure it was nothing that she said—’ began Sir Henry.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Miss Marple calmly, ‘never see through these things.’
‘And that girl—’ he stopped. ‘She commits a cold-blooded murder and gets off scot-free!’
‘Oh! no, Sir Henry,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Not scot-free. Neither you nor I believe that. Remember what you said not long ago. No. Greta Rosen will not escape punishment. To begin with, she must be in with a very queer set of people—blackmailers and terrorists—associates who will do her no good, and will probably bring her to a miserable end. As you say, one mustn’t waste thoughts on the guilty—it’s the innocent who matter. Mr Templeton, who I dare say will marry that German cousin, his tearing up her letter looks—well, it looks suspicious—using the word in quite a different sense from the one we’ve been using all the evening. A little as though he were afraid of the other girl noticing or asking to see it? Yes, I think there must have been some little romance there. And then there’s Dobbs—though, as you say, I dare say it won’t matter much to him. His elevenses are probably all he thinks about. And then there’s that poor old Gertrud—the one who reminded me of Annie Poultny. Poor Annie Poultny. Fifty years’ faithful service and suspected of making away with Miss Lamb’s will, though nothing could be proved. Almost broke the poor creature’s faithful heart; and then after she was dead it came to light in the secret drawer of the tea caddy where old Miss Lamb had put it herself for safety. But too