Miss Marple contemplated her.
Cherry was looking like an eager kitten—vitality and joy of life radiated from her. Miss Marple thought once more of faithful Florence. Faithful Florence would, of course, keep the house far better. (Miss Marple put no faith in Cherry’s promise.) But she was at least sixty-five—perhaps more. And would she really want to be uprooted? She might accept that out of very real devotion for Miss Marple. But did Miss Marple really want sacrifices made for her? Wasn’t she already suffering from Miss Knight’s conscientious devotion to duty?
Cherry, however inadequate her housework, wanted to come. And she had qualities that to Miss Marple at this moment seemed of supreme importance.
Warmheartedness, vitality, and a deep interest in everything that was going on.
“I don’t want, of course,” said Cherry, “to go behind Miss Knight’s back in anyway.”
“Never mind about Miss Knight,” said Miss Marple, coming to a decision. “She’ll go off to someone called Lady Conway at a hotel in Llandudno—and enjoy herself thoroughly. We’ll have to settle a lot of details, Cherry, and I shall want to talk to your husband—but if you really think you’d be happy….”
“It’d suit us down to the ground,” said Cherry. “And you really can rely on me doing things properly. I’ll even use the dustpan and brush if you like.”
Miss Marple laughed at this supreme offer.
Cherry picked up the breakfast tray again.
“I must get cracking. I got here late this morning—hearing about poor Arthur Badcock.”
“Arthur Badcock? What happened to him?”
“Haven’t you heard? He’s up at the police station now,” said Cherry. “They asked him if he’d come and ‘assist them with their inquiries’ and you know what that always means.”
“When did this happen?” demanded Miss Marple.
“This morning,” said Cherry. “I suppose,” she added, “that it got out about his once having been married to Marina Gregg.”
“What!” Miss Marple sat up again. “Arthur Badcock was once married to Marina Gregg?”
“That’s the story,” said Cherry. “Nobody had any idea of it. It was Mr. Upshaw put it about. He’s been to the States once or twice on business for his firm and so he knows a lot of gossip from over there. It was a long time ago, you know. Really before she’d begun her career. They were only married a year or two and then she won a film award and of course he wasn’t good enough for her then, so they had one of these easy American divorces and he just faded out, as you might say. He’s the fading out kind, Arthur Badcock. He wouldn’t make a fuss. He changed his name and came back to England. It’s all ever so long ago. You wouldn’t think anything like that mattered nowadays, would you? Still, there it is. It’s enough for the police to go on, I suppose.”
“Oh, no,” said Miss Marple. “Oh no. This mustn’t happen. If I could only think what to do—Now, let me see.” She made a gesture to Cherry. “Take the tray away, Cherry, and send Miss Knight up to me. I’m going to get up.”
Cherry obeyed. Miss Marple dressed herself with fingers that fumbled slightly. It irritated her when she found excitement of any kind affecting her. She was just hooking up her dress when Miss Knight entered.
“Did you want me? Cherry said—”
Miss Marple broke in incisively.
“Get Inch,” she said.
“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Knight, startled.
“Inch,” said Miss Marple, “get Inch. Telephone for him to come at once.”
“Oh, oh I see. You mean the taxi people. But his name’s Roberts, isn’t it?”
“To me,” said Miss Marple, “he is Inch and always will be. But anyway get him. He’s to come here at once.”
“You want to go for a little drive?”
“Just get him, can you?” said Miss Marple. “And hurry, please.”
Miss Knight looked at her doubtfully and proceeded to do as she was told.
“We are feeling all right, dear, aren’t we?” she said anxiously.
“We are both feeling very well,” said Miss Marple, “and I am feeling particularly well. Inertia does not suit me, and never has. A practical course of action, that is what I have been wanting for a long time.”
“Has that Mrs. Baker been saying something that has upset you?”
“Nothing has upset me,” said Miss Marple. “I feel particularly well. I am annoyed with myself for being stupid. But really, until I got a hint from Dr. Haydock this morning—now I wonder if I remember rightly. Where is that medical book of mine?” She gestured Miss Knight aside and walked firmly down the stairs. She found the book she wanted on a shelf in the drawing room. Taking it out she looked up the index, murmured, “Page 210,” turned to the page in question, read for a few moments then nodded her head, satisfied.
“Most remarkable,” she said, “most curious. I don’t suppose anybody would ever have thought of it. I didn’t myself, until the two things came together, so to speak.”
Then she shook her head, and a little line appeared between her eyes. If only there was someone….
She went over in her mind the various accounts she had been given of that particular scene….
Her eyes widened in thought. There was someone—but would he, she wondered, be any good? One never knew with the vicar. He was quite unpredictable.
Nevertheless she went to the telephone and dialled.
“Good morning, Vicar, this is Miss Marple.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Marple—anything I can do for you?”
“I wonder if you could help me on a small point. It concerns the day of the fête when poor Mrs. Badcock died. I believe you were standing quite near Miss Gregg when Mr. and Mrs. Badcock arrived.”
“Yes—yes— I was just before them, I think. Such a tragic day.”
“Yes, indeed. And I believe that Mrs. Badcock was recalling to Miss Gregg that they had met before in Bermuda. She had been ill in bed and had got up specially.”
“Yes, yes, I do remember.”
“And do you remember if Mrs. Badcock mentioned the illness she was suffering from?”
“I think now—let me see—
yes, it was measles—at least not real measles—German measles—a much less serious disease. Some people hardly feel ill at all with it. I remember my cousin Caroline….”
Miss Marple cut off reminiscences of Cousin Caroline by saying firmly: “Thank you so much, Vicar,” and replacing the receiver.
There was an awed expression on her face. One of the great mysteries of St. Mary Mead was what made the vicar remember certain things—only outstripped by the greater mystery of what the vicar could manage to forget!
“The taxi’s here, dear,” said Miss Knight, bustling in. “It’s a very old one, and not too clean I should say. I don’t really like you driving in a thing like that. You might pick up some germ or other.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Marple. Setting her hat firmly on her head and buttoning up her summer coat, she went out to the waiting taxi.
“Good morning, Roberts,” she said.
“Good morning, Miss Marple. You’re early this morning. Where do you want to go?”
“Gossington Hall, please,” said Miss Marple.
“I’d better come with you, hadn’t I, dear?” said Miss Knight. “It won’t take a minute just to slip on outdoor shoes.”
“No, thank you,” said Miss Marple, firmly. “I’m going by myself. Drive on, Inch. I mean Roberts.”
Mr. Roberts drove on, merely remarking:
“Ah, Gossington Hall. Great changes there and everywhere nowadays. All that development. Never thought anything like that’d come to St. Mary Mead.”
Upon arrival at Gossington Hall Miss Marple rang the bell and asked to see Mr. Jason Rudd.
Giuseppe’s successor, a rather shaky-looking elderly man, conveyed doubt.
“Mr. Rudd,” he said, “does not see anybody without an appointment, madam. And today especially—”
“I have no appointment,” said Miss Marple, “but I will wait,” she added.
She stepped briskly past him into the hall and sat down on a hall chair.
“I’m afraid it will be quite impossible this morning, madam.”
“In that case,” said Miss Marple, “I shall wait until this afternoon.”
Baffled, the new butler retired. Presently a young man came to Miss Marple. He had a pleasant manner and a cheerful, slightly American voice.