Miss Marple and Mystery (51 page)

Joyce nodded. ‘I
know
–’ said Mr Allaby.

He took her hand, squeezed it hard and dropped it. He went out of the little cubicle. Joyce followed in a minute or two and fixed up various details with the ladylike person. When she arrived home. Mrs Barnes met her on the doorstep with that relish in gloom typical of her class.

‘They’ve sent the poor little doggie’s body home,’ she announced. ‘It’s up in your room. I was saying to Barnes, and he’s ready to dig a nice little hole in the back garden –’

‘Sing a Song of Sixpence’ was first published in Holly Leaves (published by Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News), 2 December 1929.

Sir Edward Palliser, K.C., lived at No 9 Queen Anne’s Close. Queen Anne’s Close is a
cul-de-sac
. In the very heart of Westminster it manages to have a peaceful old-world atmosphere far removed from the turmoil of the twentieth century. It suited Sir Edward Palliser admirably.

Sir Edward had been one of the most eminent criminal barristers of his day and now that he no longer practised at the Bar he had amused himself by amassing a very fine criminological library. He was also the author of a volume of Reminiscences of Eminent Criminals.

On this particular evening Sir Edward was sitting in front of his library fire sipping some very excellent black coffee, and shaking his head over a volume of Lombroso. Such ingenious theories and so completely out of date.

The door opened almost noiselessly and his well-trained man-servant approached over the thick pile carpet, and murmured discreetly:

‘A young lady wishes to see you, sir.’

‘A young lady?’

Sir Edward was surprised. Here was something quite out of the usual course of events. Then he reflected that it might be his niece, Ethel – but no, in that case Armour would have said so.

He inquired cautiously.

‘The lady did not give her name?’

‘No, sir, but she said she was quite sure you would wish to see her.’

‘Show her in,’ said Sir Edward Palliser. He felt pleasurably intrigued. A tall, dark girl of close on thirty, wearing a black coat and skirt, well cut, and a little black hat, came to Sir Edward with outstretched hand and a look of eager recognition on her face. Armour withdrew, closing the door noiselessly behind him.

‘Sir Edward – you do know me, don’t you? I’m Magdalen Vaughan.’

‘Why, of course.’ He pressed the outstretched hand warmly.

He remembered her perfectly now. That trip home from America on the
Siluric
! This charming child – for she had been little more than a child. He had made love to her, he remembered, in a discreet elderly man-of-the-world fashion. She had been so adorably young – so eager – so full of admiration and hero worship – just made to captivate the heart of a man nearing sixty. The remembrance brought additional warmth into the pressure of his hand.

‘This is most delightful of you. Sit down, won’t you.’ He arranged an armchair for her, talking easily and evenly, wondering all the time why she had come. When at last he brought the easy flow of small talk to an end, there was a silence.

Her hand closed and unclosed on the arm of the chair, she moistened her lips. Suddenly she spoke – abruptly.

‘Sir Edward – I want you to help me.’

He was surprised and murmured mechanically:

‘Yes?’

She went on, speaking more intensely:

‘You said that if ever I needed help – that if there was anything in the world you could do for me – you would do it.’

Yes, he
had
said that. It was the sort of thing one did say – particularly at the moment of parting. He could recall the break in his voice – the way he had raised her hand to his lips.

‘
If there is ever anything I can do – remember, I mean it . . .
’

Yes, one said that sort of thing . . . But very, very rarely did one have to fulfil one’s words! And certainly not after – how many? – nine or ten years. He flashed a quick glance at her – she was still a very good-looking girl, but she had lost what had been to him her charm – that look of dewy untouched youth. It was a more interesting face now, perhaps – a younger man might have thought so – but Sir Edward was far from feeling the tide of warmth and emotion that had been his at the end of that Atlantic voyage.

His face became legal and cautious. He said in a rather brisk way:

‘Certainly, my dear young lady. I shall be delighted to do anything in my power – though I doubt if I can be very helpful to anyone in these days.’

If he was preparing his way of retreat she did not notice it. She was of the type that can only see one thing at a time and what she was seeing at this moment was her own need. She took Sir Edward’s willingness to help for granted.

‘We are in terrible trouble, Sir Edward.’

‘
We
? You are married?’

‘No – I meant my brother and I. Oh! and William and Emily too, for that matter. But I must explain. I have – I had an aunt – Miss Crabtree. You may have read about her in the papers. It was horrible. She was killed – murdered.’

‘Ah!’ A flash of interest lit up Sir Edward’s face. ‘About a month ago, wasn’t it?’

The girl nodded.

‘Rather less than that – three weeks.’

‘Yes, I remember. She was hit on the head in her own house. They didn’t get the fellow who did it.’

Again Magdalen Vaughan nodded.

‘They didn’t get the man – I don’t believe they ever will get the man. You see – there mightn’t be any man to get.’

‘What?’

‘Yes – it’s awful. Nothing’s come out about it in the papers. But that’s what the police think. They
know
nobody came to the house that night.’

‘You mean –?’

‘That it’s one of us four. It
must
be. They don’t know which – and
we
don’t know which . . .
We don’t know
. And we sit there every day looking at each other surreptitiously and wondering. Oh! if only it could have been someone from outside – but I don’t see how it can . . .’

Sir Edward stared at her, his interest arising.

‘You mean that the members of the family are under suspicion?’

‘Yes, that’s what I mean. The police haven’t said so, of course. They’ve been quite polite and nice. But they’ve ransacked the house, they’ve questioned us all, and Martha again and again . . . And because they don’t know which, they’re holding their hand. I’m so frightened – so horribly frightened . . .’

‘My dear child. Come now, surely now, surely you are exaggerating.’

‘I’m not. It’s one of us four – it must be.’

‘Who are the four to whom you refer?’

Magdalen sat up straight and spoke more composedly.

‘There’s myself and Matthew. Aunt Lily was our great aunt. She was my grandmother’s sister. We’ve lived with her ever since we were fourteen (we’re twins, you know). Then there was William Crabtree. He was her nephew – her brother’s child. He lived there too, with his wife Emily.’

‘She supported them?’

‘More or less. He has a little money of his own, but he’s not strong and has to live at home. He’s a quiet, dreamy sort of man. I’m sure it would have been impossible for him to have – oh! – it’s awful of me to think of it even!’

‘I am still very far from understanding the position. Perhaps you would not mind running over the facts – if it does not distress you too much.’

‘Oh! no – I want to tell you. And it’s all quite clear in my mind still – horribly clear. We’d had tea, you understand, and we’d all gone off to do things of our own. I to do some dressmaking. Matthew to type an article – he does a little journalism; William to do his stamps. Emily hadn’t been down to tea. She’d taken a headache powder and was lying down. So there we were, all of us, busy and occupied. And when Martha went in to lay supper at half-past seven, there Aunt Lily was – dead. Her head – oh! it’s horrible – all crushed in.’

‘The weapon was found, I think?’

‘Yes. It was a heavy paper-weight that always lay on the table by the door. The police tested it for fingerprints, but there were none. It had been wiped clean.’

‘And your first surmise?’

‘We thought of course it was a burglar. There were two or three drawers of the bureau pulled out, as though a thief had been looking for something. Of course we thought it was a burglar! And then the police came – and they said she had been dead at least an hour, and asked Martha who had been to the house, and Martha said nobody. And all the windows were fastened on the inside, and there seemed no signs of anything having been tampered with. And then they began to ask us questions . . .’

She stopped. Her breast heaved. Her eyes, frightened and imploring, sought Sir Edward’s in search of reassurance.

‘For instance, who benefited by your aunt’s death?’

‘That’s simple. We all benefit equally. She left her money to be divided in equal shares among the four of us.’

‘And what was the value of her estate?’

‘The lawyer told us it will come to about eighty thousand pounds after the death duties are paid.’

Sir Edward opened his eyes in some slight surprise. ‘That is quite a considerable sum. You knew, I suppose, the total of your aunt’s fortune?’

Magdalen shook her head. ‘No – it came quite as a surprise to us. Aunt Lily was always terribly careful about money. She kept just the one servant and always talked a lot about economy.’

Sir Edward nodded thoughtfully. Magdalen leaned forward a little in her chair.

‘You will help me – you will?’

Her words came to Sir Edward as an unpleasant shock just at the moment when he was becoming interested in her story for its own sake.

‘My dear young lady – what can I possibly do? If you want good legal advice, I can give you the name –’

She interrupted him.

‘Oh! I don’t want that sort of thing! I want you to help me personally – as a friend.’

‘That’s very charming of you, but –’

‘I want you to come to our house. I want you to ask questions. I want you to see and judge for yourself.’

‘But my dear young –’

‘Remember, you promised. Anywhere – any time – you said, if I wanted help . . .’

Her eyes, pleading yet confident, looked into his. He felt ashamed and strangely touched. That terrific sincerity of hers, that absolute belief in an idle promise, ten years old, as a sacred binding thing. How many men had not said those self-same words – a
cliché
almost! – and how few of them had ever been called upon to make good.

He said rather weakly: ‘I’m sure there are many people who could advise you better than I could.’

‘I’ve got lots of friends – naturally.’ (He was amused by the naïve self-assurance of that.) ‘But you see, none of them are clever. Not like you. You’re used to questioning people. And with all your experience you must
know
.’

‘Know what?’

‘Whether they’re innocent or guilty.’

He smiled rather grimly to himself. He flattered himself that on the whole he usually
had
known! Though, on many occasions, his private opinion had not been that of the jury.

Magdalen pushed back her hat from her forehead with a nervous gesture, looked round the room, and said:

‘How quiet it is here. Don’t you sometimes long for some noise?’ The
cul-de-sac
! All unwittingly her words, spoken at random, touched him on the raw. A
cul-de-sac
. Yes, but there was always a way out – the way you had come – the way back into the world . . . Something impetuous and youthful stirred in him. Her simple trust appealed to the best side of his nature – and the condition of her problem appealed to something else – the innate criminologist in him. He wanted to see these people of whom she spoke. He wanted to form his own judgement.

He said: ‘If you are really convinced I can be of any use . . . Mind, I guarantee nothing.’

He expected her to be overwhelmed with delight, but she took it very calmly.

‘I knew you would do it. I’ve always thought of you as a real friend. Will you come back with me now?’

‘No. I think if I pay you a visit tomorrow it will be more satisfactory. Will you give me the name and address of Miss Crabtree’s lawyer? I may want to ask him a few questions.’

She wrote it down and handed it to him. Then she got up and said rather shyly:

‘I – I’m really most awfully grateful. Goodbye.’

‘And your own address?’

‘How stupid of me. 18 Palatine Walk, Chelsea.’

It was three o’clock on the following afternoon when Sir Edward Palliser approached 18 Palatine Walk with a sober, measured tread. In the interval he had found out several things. He had paid a visit that morning to Scotland Yard, where the Assistant Commissioner was an old friend of his, and he had also had an interview with the late Miss Crabtree’s lawyer. As a result he had a clearer vision of the circumstances. Miss Crabtree’s arrangements in regard to money had been somewhat peculiar. She never made use of a cheque-book. Instead she was in the habit of writing to her lawyer and asking him to have a certain sum in five-pound notes waiting for her. It was nearly always the same sum. Three hundred pounds four times a year. She came to fetch it herself in a four-wheeler which she regarded as the only safe means of conveyance. At other times she never left the house.

At Scotland Yard Sir Edward learned that the question of finance had been gone into very carefully. Miss Crabtree had been almost due for her next instalment of money. Presumably the previous three hundred had been spent – or almost spent. But this was exactly the point that had not been easy to ascertain. By checking the household expenditure, it was soon evident that Miss Crabtree’s expenditure per quarter fell a good deal short of three hundred pounds. On the other hand she was in the habit of sending five-pound notes away to needy friends or relatives. Whether there had been much or little money in the house at the time of her death was a debatable point. None had been found.

It was this particular point which Sir Edward was revolving in his mind as he approached Palatine Walk.

The door of the house (which was a non-basement one) was opened to him by a small elderly woman with an alert gaze. He was shown into a big double room on the left of the small hallway and there Magdalen came to him. More clearly than before, he saw the traces of nervous strain in her face.

‘You told me to ask questions, and I have come to do so,’ said Sir Edward, smiling as he shook hands. ‘First of all I want to know who last saw your aunt and exactly what time that was?’

‘It was after tea – five o’clock. Martha was the last person with her. She had been paying the books that afternoon, and brought Aunt Lily the change and the accounts.’