To Daphne Honeybone
Chapter 1OVERTURE
In the afternoons it was the custom of Miss Jane Marple to unfold her second newspaper. Two newspapers were delivered at her house every morning. The first one Miss Marple read while sipping her early morning tea, that is, if it was delivered in time. The boy who delivered the papers was notably erratic in his management of time. Frequently, too, there was either a new boy or a boy who was acting temporarily as a stand-in for the first one. And each one would have ideas of his own as to the geographical route that he should take in delivering. Perhaps it varied monotony for him. But those customers who were used to reading their papers early so that they could snap up the more saucy items in the day's news before departing for their bus, train or other means of progress to the day's work were annoyed if the papers were late, though the middle-aged and elderly ladies who resided peacefully in St Mary Mead often preferred to read a newspaper propped up on their breakfast table.Today, Miss Marple had absorbed the front page and a few other items in the daily paper that she had nicknamed "the Daily All-Sorts", this being a slightly satirical allusion to the fact that her paper, the Daily Newsgiver, owing to a change of proprietor, to her own and to other of her friends' great annoyance, now provided articles on men's tailoring, women's dress, female heart-throbs, competitions for children, and complaining letters from women and had managed pretty well to shove any real news off any part of it but the front page, or to some obscure corner where it was impossible to find it. Miss Marple, being old-fashioned, preferred her newspapers to be newspapers and give you news.In the afternoon, having finished her luncheon, treated herself to twenty minutes' nap in a specially purchased, upright armchair which catered for the demands of her rheumatic back, she had opened The Times which lent itself still to a more leisurely perusal. Not that The Times was what it used to be. The maddening thing about The Times was that you couldn't find anything any more. Instead of going through from the front page and knowing where everything else was so that you passed easily to any special articles on subjects in which you were interested, there were now extraordinary interruptions to this time-honoured programme. Two pages were suddenly devoted to travel in Capri with illustrations. Sport appeared with far more prominence than it had ever had in the old days. Court news and obituaries were a little more faithful to routine. The births, marriages and deaths which had at one time occupied Miss Marple's attention first of all owing to their prominent position had migrated to a different part of The Times, though of late, Miss Marple noted, they had come almost permanently to rest on the back page.Miss Marple gave her attention first to the main news on the front page. She did not linger long on that because it was equivalent to what she had already read this morning, though possibly couched in a slightly more dignified manner. She cast her eye down the table of contents. Articles, comments, science, sport; then she pursued her usual plan, turned the paper over and had a quick run down the births, marriages and deaths, after which she proposed to turn to the page given to correspondence, where she nearly always found something to enjoy; from that she passed on to the Court Circular, on which page today's news from the Sale Rooms could also be found. A short article on Science was often placed there but she did not propose to read that. It seldom made sense for her.Having turned the paper over as usual to the births, marriages and deaths, Miss Marple thought to herself, as so often before, "It's sad really, but nowadays one is only interested in the deaths!"People had babies, but the people who had babies were not likely to be even known by name to Miss Marple. If there had been a column dealing with babies labelled as grandchildren, there might have been some chance of a pleasurable recognition. She might have thought to herself: "Really, Mary Prendergast has had a third granddaughter!", though even that perhaps might have been a bit remote.She skimmed down Marriages, also with not a very close survey, because most of her old friends' daughters or sons had married some years ago already. She came to the Deaths column, and gave that her more serious attention. Gave it enough, in fact, so as to be sure she would not miss a name. Alloway, Angopastro, Arden, Barton, Bedshaw, Burgoweisser... (dear me, what a German name, but he seemed to be late of Leeds). Carpenter, Camperdown, Clegg. Clegg? Now was that one of the Cleggs she knew? No, it didn't seem to be. Janet Clegg. Somewhere in Yorkshire. McDonald, McKenzie, Nicholson. Nicholson? No. Again not a Nicholson she knew. Ogg, Ormerod that must be one of the aunts, she thought. Yes, probably so. Linda Ormerod. No, she hadn't known her. Quantril? Dear me, that must be Elizabeth Quantril. Eighty-five. Well, really! She had thought Elizabeth Quantril had died some years ago. Fancy her having lived so long! So delicate she'd always been, too. Nobody had expected her to make old bones. Race, Radley, Rafiel. Rafiel? Something stirred. That name was familiar. Rafiel. Belford Park. Maidstone. Belford Park, Maidstone. No, she couldn't recall that address. No flowers. Jason Rafiel. Oh well, an unusual name. She supposed she'd just heard it somewhere. Ross-Perkins. Now that might be - no, it wasn't. Ryland? Emily Ryland. No. No, she'd never known an Emily Ryland. Deeply loved by her husband and children. Well, very nice or very sad. Whichever way you liked to look at it.Miss Marple laid down her paper, glancing idly through the crossword while she puzzled to remember why the name Rafiel was familiar to her."It will come to me," said Miss Marple, knowing from long experience the way old people's memories worked."It'll come to me, I have no doubt."She glanced out of the window towards the garden, withdrew her gaze and tried to put the garden out of her mind. Her garden had been the source of great pleasure and also a great deal of hard work to Miss Marple for many, many years. And now, owing to the fussiness of doctors, working in the garden was forbidden to her. She'd once tried to fight this ban, but had come to the conclusion that she had, after all, better do as she was told. She had arranged her chair at such an angle as not to be easy to look out in the garden unless she definitely and clearly wished to see something in particular. She sighed, picked up her knitting bag and took out a small child's woolly jacket in process of coming to a conclusion. The back was done and the front. Now she would have to get on with the sleeves. Sleeves were always boring. Two sleeves, both alike. Yes, very boring. Pretty coloured pink wool, however. Pink wool. Now wait a minute, where did that fit in? Yes - yes it fitted in with that name she'd just read in the paper. Pink wool. A blue sea. A Caribbean sea. A sandy beach. Sunshine. Herself knitting and why, of course, Mr Rafiel. That trip she had made to the Caribbean. The island of St Honorй A treat from her nephew Raymond. And she remembered Joan, her niece-in-law, Raymond's wife, saying:"Don't get mixed up in any more murders, Aunt Jane. It isn't good for you."Well, she hadn't wished to get mixed up in any murders, but it just happened. That was all. Simply because of an elderly Major with a glass eye who had insisted on telling her some very long and boring stories. Poor Major - now what was his name? She'd forgotten that now. Mr Rafiel and his secretary, Mrs... Mrs Walters, yes, Esther Walters, and his masseur-attendant, Jackson. It all came back. Well, well. Poor Mr Rafiel. So Mr Rafiel was dead. He had known he was going to die before very long. He had practically told her so. It seemed as though he had lasted longer than the doctors had thought. He was a strong man, an obstinate man - a very rich man.Miss Marple remained in thought, her knitting needles working regularly, but her mind not really on her knitting. Her mind was on the late Mr Rafiel, and remembering what she could remember about him. Not an easy man to forget, really. She could conjure his appearance up mentally quite well. Yes, a very definite personality, a difficult man, an irritable man, shockingly rude sometimes. Nobody ever resented his being rude, though. She remembered that also. They didn't resent his being rude because he was so rich. Yes, he had been very rich. He had had his secretary with him and a valet attendant, a qualified masseur. He had not been able to get about very well without help.Rather a doubtful character that nurse-attendant had been, Miss Marple thought. Mr Rafiel had been very rude to him sometimes. He had never seemed to mind. And that, again, of course was because Mr Rafiel was so rich."Nobody else would pay him half what I do," Mr Rafiel had said, "and he knows it. He's good at his job, though."Miss Marple wondered whether Jackson? Johnson? had stayed on with Mr Rafiel. Stayed on for what must have been - another year? A year and three or four months. She thought probably not. Mr Rafiel was one who liked a change. He got tired of people, tired of their ways, tired of their faces, tired of their voices.Miss Marple understood that. She had felt the same sometimes. That companion of hers, that nice, attentive, maddening woman with her cooing voice."Ah," said Miss Marple, "what a change for the better since -" oh dear, she'd forgotten her name now Miss - Miss Bishop? no, not Miss Bishop, of course not. Why had she thought of the name Bishop. Oh dear, how difficult it was.Her mind went back to Mr Rafiel and to - no, it wasn't Johnson, it had been Jackson, Arthur Jackson."Oh, dear," said Miss Marple again, "I always get all the names wrong. And of course, it was Miss Knight I was thinking of. Not Miss Bishop. Why do I think of her as Miss Bishop?' The answer came to her. Chess, of course. A chess piece. A knight. A bishop."I shall be calling her Miss Castle next time I think of her, I suppose, or Miss Rook. Though, really, she's not the sort of person who would ever rook anybody. No, indeed. And now what was the name of that nice secretary that Mr Rafiel had. Oh yes, Esther Walters. That was right. I wonder what has happened to Esther Walters? She'd inherited money? She would probably inherit money now."Mr Rafiel, she remembered, had told her something about that, or she had - oh, dear, what a muddle things were when you tried to remember with any kind of exactitude. Esther Walters. It had hit her badly, that business in the Caribbean, but she would have got over it. She'd been a widow, hadn't she? Miss Marple hoped that Esther Walters had married again, some nice, kindly, reliable man. It seemed faintly unlikely. Esther Walters, she thought, had had rather a genius for liking the wrong kind of men to marry.Miss Marple went back to thinking about Mr Rafiel. No flowers, it had said. Not that she herself would have dreamed of sending flowers to Mr Rafiel. He could buy up all the nurseries in England if he'd wanted to. And anyway, they hadn't been on those terms. They hadn't been friends, or on terms of affection. They had been what was the word she wanted? - allies. Yes, they had been allies for a very short time. A very exciting time. And he had been an ally worth having. She had known so. She'd known it as she had gone running through a dark, tropical night in the Caribbean and had come to him. Yes, she remembered wearing that pink shawl-scarf she'd been wearing - what used they to call them when she was young? - a fascinator. That nice pink shawl-scarf of wool that she had put round her head, he had looked at her and laughed, and later when she had said - she smiled at the remembrance - one word she had used and he had laughed, but he hadn't laughed in the end. No, he'd done what she asked him and therefore - "Ah!" Miss Marple sighed, it had been, she had to admit it, all very exciting. And she'd never told her nephew or dear Joan about it because, after all, it was what they'd told her not to do, wasn't it? Miss Marble nodded her head. Then softly, she murmured:"Poor Mr Rafiel, I hope he didn't suffer."Probably not. Probably he'd been kept by expensive sedatives, easing the end. He had suffered a great deal in those weeks in the Caribbean. He'd nearly always been in pain. A brave man.A brave man. She was sorry he was dead because she thought that though he'd been elderly and an invalid and ill, the world had lost something through his going. She had no idea what he could have been like in business. Ruthless, she thought, and rude and over-mastering and aggressive. A great attacker. But - but a good friend, she thought. And somewhere in him a deep kind of kindness that he was very careful never to show on the surface. A man she admired and respected. Well, she was sorry he was gone and she hoped he hadn't minded too much and that his passing had been easy. And now he would be cremated no doubt and put in some large, handsome marble vault. She didn't even know if he'd been married. He had never mentioned a wife, never mentioned children. A lonely man? Or had his life been so full that he hadn't needed to feel lonely? She wondered.She sat there quite a long time that afternoon, wondering about Mr Rafiel. She had never expected to see him again after she had returned to England and she never had seen him again. Yet in some queer way she could at any moment have felt she was in touch with him. If he had approached her or had suggested that they meet again, feeling perhaps a bond because of a life that had been saved between them, or of some other bond. A bond."Surely," said Miss Marple, aghast at an idea that had come into her mind, "there can't be a bond of ruthlessness between us?" Was she, Jane Marple, could she ever be ruthless? "D'you know," said Miss Marple to herself, "it's extraordinary, I never thought about it before. I believe, you know, I could be ruthless -"The door opened and a dark, curly head was popped in. It was Cherry, the welcome successor to Miss Bishop Miss Knight."Did you say something?" said Cherry. "I was speaking to myself," said Miss Marple, "I just wondered if I could ever be ruthless.""What, you?" said Cherry. "Never! You're kindness itself.""All the same," said Miss Marple, "I believe I could be ruthless if there was due cause.""What would you call due cause?""In the cause of justice," said Miss Marple."You did have it in for little Gary Hopkins I must say," said Cherry. "When you caught him torturing his cat that day. Never knew you had it in you to go for anyone like that! Scared him stiff, you did. He's never forgotten it.""I hope he hasn't tortured any more cats.""Well, he's made sure you weren't about if he did," said Cherry. "In fact I'm not at all sure as there isn't other boys as got scared. Seeing you with your wool and the pretty things you knits and all that anyone would think you were gentle as a lamb. But there's times I could say you'd behave like a lion if you was goaded into it."Miss Marple looked a little doubtful. She could not quite see herself in the role in which Cherry was now casting her. Had she ever - she paused on the reflection, recalling various moments - there had been intense irritation with Miss Bishop Knight. (Really, she must not forget names in this way.) But her irritation had shown itself in more or less ironical remarks. Lions, presumably, did not use irony. There was nothing ironical about a lion. It sprang. It roared. It used its claws, presumably it took large bites at its prey."Really," said Miss Marple, "I don't think I have ever behaved quite like that."Walking slowly along her garden that evening with the usual feelings of vexation rising in her, Miss Marple considered the point again. Possibly the sight of a plant of snapdragons recalled it to her mind. Really, she had told old George again and again that she only wanted sulphur-coloured antirrhinums, not that rather ugly purple shade that gardeners always seemed so fond of. "Sulphur yellow," said Miss Marple aloud.Someone the other side of the railing that abutted on the lane past her house turned her head and spoke."I beg your pardon? You said something?""I was talking to myself, I'm afraid," said Miss Marple, turning to look over the railing.This was someone she did not know, and she knew most people in St Mary Mead. Knew them by sight even if not personally. It was a thickset woman in a shabby but tough tweed skirt, and wearing good country shoes. She wore an emerald pullover and a knitted woollen scarf."I'm afraid one does at my age," added Miss Marple."Nice garden you've got here," said the other woman."Not particularly nice now," said Miss Marple. "When I could attend to it myself -""Oh I know. I understand just what you feel. I suppose you've got one of those amateurs. I have a lot of names for them, mostly very rude - elderly chaps who say they know all about gardening. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't know a thing about it. They come and have a lot of cups of tea and do a little very mild weeding. They're quite nice, some of them, but all the same it does make one's temper rise." She added, "I'm quite a keen gardener myself.""Do you live here?" asked Miss Marple, with some interest."Well, I'm boarding with a Mrs Hastings. I think I've heard her speak of you. You're Miss Marple, aren't you?""Oh, yes.""I've come as a sort of companion-gardener. My name is Bartlett, by the way. Miss Bartlett. There's not really much to do there," said Miss Bartlett. "She goes in for annuals and all that. Nothing you can really get your teeth into." She opened her mouth, and showed her teeth when making this remark. "Of course I do a few odd jobs as well. Shopping, you know, and things like that. Anyway, if you want any time put in here, I could put in an hour or two for you. I'd say I might be better than any chap you've got now.""That would be easy," said Miss Marple. "I like flowers best. Don't care so much for vegetables.""I do vegetables for Mrs Hastings. Dull but necessary. Well, I'll be getting along." Her eyes swept over Miss Marple from head to foot, as though memorising her, then she nodded cheerfully and tramped off.Mrs Hastings? Miss Marple couldn't remember the name of any Mrs Hastings. Certainly Mrs Hastings was not an old friend. She had certainly never been a gardening chum. Ah, of course, it was probably those newly built houses at the end of Gibraltar Road. Several families had moved in in the last year. Miss Marple sighed, looked again with annoyance at the antirrhinums, saw several weeds which she yearned to root up, one or two exuberant suckers she would like to attack with her secateurs, and finally, sighing, and manfully resisting temptation, she made a detour round by the lane and returned to her house. Her mind recurred again to Mr Rafiel. They had been, he and she - what was the title of that book they used to quote so much when she was young? Ships that pass in the night. Rather apt it was really, when she came to think of it. Ships that pass in the night... It was in the night that she had gone to him to ask - no, to demand help. To insist, to say no time must be lost. And he had agreed, and put things in train at once! Perhaps she had been rather lion-like on that occasion? No. No, that was quite wrong. It had not been anger she had felt. It had been insistence on something that was absolutely imperative to be put in hand at once. And he'd understood.Poor Mr Rafiel. The ship that had passed in the night had been an interesting ship. Once you got used to his being rude, he might have been quite an agreeable man? No! She shook her head. Mr Rafiel could never have been an agreeable man. Well, she must put Mr Rafiel out of her head.
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing;Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness.
She would probably never think of him again. She would look out perhaps to see if there was an obituary of him in The Times. But she did not think it was very likely. He was not a very well known character, she thought. Not famous. He had just been very rich. Of course, many people did have obituaries in the paper just because they were very rich; but she thought that Mr Rafiel's richness would possibly not have been of that kind. He had not been prominent in any great industry, he had not been a great financial genius, or a noteworthy banker. He had just all his life made enormous amounts of money...
Chapter 2CODE WORD NEMESIS
It was about a week or so after Mr Rafiel's death that Miss Marple picked up a letter from her breakfast tray, and looked at it for a moment before opening it. The other two letters that had come by this morning's post were bills, or just possibly receipts for bills. In either case they were not of any particular interest. This letter might be.A London postmark, typewritten address, a long, good quality envelope. Miss Marple slit it neatly with the paper knife she always kept handy on her tray. It was headed, Messrs. Broadribb and Schuster, Solicitors and Notaries Public, with an address in Bloomsbury. It asked her, in suitable courteous and legal phraseology, to call upon them one day in the following week, at their office, to discuss a proposition that might be to her advantage. Thursday, the 24th was suggested. If that date was not convenient, perhaps she would let them know what date she would be likely to be in London in the near future. They added that they were the solicitors to the late Mr Rafiel, with whom they understood she had been acquainted.Miss Marple frowned in some slight puzzlement. She got up rather more slowly than usual, thinking about the letter she had received. She was escorted downstairs by Cherry, who was meticulous in hanging about in the hall so as to make sure that Miss Marple did not come to grief walking by herself down the staircase, which was of the old-fashioned kind which turned a sharp corner in the middle of its run."You take very good care of me, Cherry," said Miss Marple."Got to," said Cherry, in her usual idiom. "Good people are scarce.""Well, thank you for the compliment," said Miss Marple, arriving safely with her last foot on the ground floor."Nothing the matter, is there?" asked Cherry. "You look a bit rattled like, if you know what I mean.""No, nothing's the matter," said Miss Marple. "I had rather an unusual letter from a firm of solicitors.""Nobody is suing you for anything, are they?" said Cherry, who was inclined to regard solicitors' letters as invariably associated with disaster of some kind."Oh no, I don't think so," said Miss Marple. "Nothing of that kind. They just asked me to call upon them next week in London.""Perhaps you've been left a fortune," said Cherry, hopefully."That, I think, is very unlikely," said Miss Marple."Well, you never know," said Cherry.Settling herself in her chair, and taking her knitting out of its embroidered knitting bag, Miss Marple considered the possibility of Mr Rafiel having left her a fortune. It seemed even more unlikely than when Cherry had suggested it. Mr Rafiel, she thought, was not that kind of a man.It was not possible for her to go on the date suggested. She was attending a meeting of the Women's Institute to discuss the raising of a sum for building a small additional couple of rooms. But she wrote, naming a day in the following week. In due course her letter was answered and the appointment definitely confirmed. She wondered what Messrs. Broadribb and Schuster were like. The letter had been signed by J.R. Broadribb who was, apparently, the senior partner. It was possible, Miss Marple thought, that Mr Rafiel might have left her some small memoir or souvenir in his will. Perhaps some book on rare flowers that had been in his library and which he thought would please an old lady who was keen on gardening. Or perhaps a cameo brooch which had belonged to some great-aunt of his. She amused herself by these fancies. They were only fancies, she thought, because in either case it would merely be a case of the Executors - if these lawyers were the Executors - forwarding her by post any such object. They would not have wanted an interview."Oh well," said Miss Marple, "I shall know next Tuesday."
"Wonder what she'll be like," said Mr Broadribb to Mr Schuster, glancing at the clock as he did so."She's due in a quarter of an hour," said Mr Schuster. "Wonder if she'll be punctual?""Oh, I should think so. She's elderly, I gather, and much more punctilious than the young scatter-brains of today.""Fat or thin, I wonder?" said Mr Schuster.Mr Broadribb shook his head."Didn't Rafiel ever describe her to you?" asked Mr Schuster."He was extraordinarily cagey in everything he said about her.""The whole thing seems very odd to me," said Mr Schuster. "If we only knew a bit more about what it all meant...""It might be," said Mr Broadribb thoughtfully, "something to do with Michael.""What? After all these years? Couldn't be. What put that into your head? Did he mention -""No, he didn't mention anything. Gave me no clue at all as to what was in his mind. Just gave me instructions.""Think he was getting a bit eccentric and all that towards the end?""Not in the least. Mentally he was as brilliant as ever. His physical ill-health never affected his brain, anyway. In the last two months of his life he made an extra two hundred thousand pounds. Just like that.""He had a flair," said Mr Schuster with due reverence. "Certainly, he always had a flair.""A great financial brain," said Mr Broadribb, also in a tone of reverence suitable to the sentiment. "Not many like him, more's the pity."A buzzer went on the table. Mr Schuster picked up the receiver. A female voice said,"Miss Jane Marple is here to see Mr Broadribb by appointment."Mr Schuster looked at his partner, raising an eyebrow for an affirmative or a negative. Mr Broadribb nodded."Show her up," said Mr Schuster. And he added, "Now we'll see."Miss Marple entered a room where a middle-aged gentleman with a thin, spare body and a long rather melancholy face rose to greet her. This apparently was Mr Broadribb, whose appearance somewhat contradicted his name. With him was a rather younger middle-aged gentleman of definitely more ample proportions. He had black hair, small keen eyes and a tendency to a double chin."My partner, Mr Schuster," Mr Broadribb presented."I hope you didn't feel the stairs too much," said Mr Schuster. "Seventy if she is a day, nearer eighty perhaps," he was thinking in his own mind."I always get a little breathless going upstairs.""An old-fashioned building this," said Mr Broadribb apologetically. "No lift. Ah well, we are a very long established firm and we don't go in for as many of the modern gadgets as perhaps our clients expect of us.""This room has very pleasant proportions," said Miss Marple, politely.She accepted the chair that Mr Broadribb drew forward for her. Mr Schuster, in an unobtrusive sort of way, left the room."I hope that chair is comfortable," said Mr Broadribb. "I'll pull that curtain slightly, shall I? You may feel the sun a little too much in your eyes.""Thank you," said Miss Marple, gratefully.She sat there, upright as was her habit. She wore a light tweed suit, a string of pearls and a small velvet toque. To himself Mr Broadribb was saying, "The Provincial Lady. A good type. Fluffy old girl. May be scatty, may not. Quite a shrewd eye. I wonder where Rafiel came across her. Somebody's aunt, perhaps, up from the country?" While these thoughts passed through his head, he was making the kind of introductory small talk relating to the weather, the unfortunate effects of late frosts early in the year and such other remarks as he considered suitable.Miss Marple made the necessary responses and sat placidly awaiting the opening of preliminaries to the meeting."You will be wondering what all this is about," said Mr Broadribb, shifting a few papers in front of him and giving her a suitable smile. "You've heard, no doubt, of Mr Rafiel's death, or perhaps you saw it in the paper.""I saw it in the paper," said Miss Marple."He was, I understand, a friend of yours.""I met him first just over a year ago," said Miss Marple. "In the West Indies," she added."Ah. I remember. He went out there, I believe, for his health. It did him some good, perhaps, but he was already a very ill man, badly crippled, as you know.""Yes," said Miss Marple."You knew him well?""No," said Miss Marple, "I would not say that. We were fellow visitors in an hotel. We had occasional conversations. I never saw him again after my return to England. I live very quietly in the country, you see, and I gather that he was completely absorbed in business.""He continued transacting business right up... well, I could almost say right up to the day of his death," said Mr Broadribb. "A very fine financial brain.""I am sure that was so," said Miss Marple. "I realised quite soon that he was a... well, a very remarkable character altogether.""I don't know if you have any idea... whether you've been given any idea at some time by Mr Rafiel, as to what this proposition is that I have been instructed to put up to you?""I cannot imagine," said Miss Marple, "what possible kind of proposition Mr Rafiel might have wanted to put up to me. It seems most unlikely.""He had a very high opinion of you.""That is kind of him, but hardly justified," said Miss Marple. "I am a very simple person.""As you no doubt realise, he died a very rich man. The provisions of his Will are on the whole fairly simple. He had already made dispositions of his fortune some time before his death. Trusts and other beneficiary arrangements.""That is, I believe, very usual procedure nowadays," said Miss Marple, "though I am not at all cognisant of financial matters myself.""The purpose of this appointment," said Mr Broadribb, "is that I am instructed to tell you that a sum of money has been laid aside to become yours absolutely at the end of one year, but conditional on your accepting a certain proposition, with which I am to make you acquainted."He took from the table in front of him a long envelope. It was sealed. He passed it across the table to her."It would be better, I think, that you should read for yourself of what this consists. There is no hurry. Take your time."Miss Marple took her time. She availed herself of a small paper knife which Mr Broadribb handed to her, slit up the envelope, took out the enclosure, one sheet of typewriting, and read it. She folded it up again, then re-read it and looked at Mr Broadribb."This is hardly very definite. Is there no more definite elucidation of any kind?""Not so far as I am concerned. I was to hand you this, and tell you the amount of the legacy. The sum in question is twenty thousand pounds free of legacy duty."Miss Marple sat looking at him. Surprise had rendered her speechless. Mr Broadribb said no more for the moment. He was watching her closely. There was no doubt of her surprise. It was obviously the last thing Miss Marple had expected to hear. Mr Broadribb wondered what her first words would be. She looked at him with the directness, the severity that one of his own aunts might have done. When she spoke it was almost accusingly."That is a very large sum of money," said Miss Marple."Not quite so large as it used to be," said Mr Broadribb (and just restrained himself from saying, "Mere chicken feed nowadays")."I must admit," said Miss Marple, "that I am amazed. Frankly, quite amazed."She picked up the document and read it carefully through again."I gather you know the terms of this?" she said."Yes. It was dictated to me personally by Mr Rafiel.""Did he not give you any explanation of it?""No, he did not.""You suggested, I suppose, that it might he better if he did," said Miss Marple. There was a slight acidity in her voice now.Mr Broadribb smiled faintly."You are quite right. That is what I did. I said that you might find it difficult to, oh, to understand exactly what he was driving at.""Very remarkable," said Miss Marple."There is no need, of course," said Mr Broadribb, "for you to give me an answer now."No," said Miss Marple, "I should have to reflect upon this.""It is, as you have pointed out, quite a substantial sum of money.""I am old," said Miss Marple. "Elderly, we say, but old is a better word. Definitely old. It is both possible and indeed probable that I might not live as long as a year to earn this money, in the rather doubtful case that I was able to earn it?""Money is not to be despised at any age," said Mr Broadribb."I could benefit certain charities in which I have an interest," said Miss Marple, "and there are always people. People whom one wishes one could do a little something for but one's own funds do not admit of it. And then I will not pretend that there are not pleasures and desires - things that one has not been able to indulge in or to afford. I think Mr Rafiel knew quite well that to be able to do so, quite unexpectedly, would give an elderly person a great deal of pleasure.""Yes, indeed," said Mr Broadribb. "A cruise abroad, perhaps? One of these excellent tours as arranged nowadays. Theatres, concerts, the ability to replenish one's cellars.""My tastes would be a little more moderate than that," said Miss Marple."Partridges," she said thoughtfully, "it is very difficult to get partridges nowadays, and they're very expensive. I should enjoy a partridge - a whole partridge - to myself, very much. A box of marrons glacйs are an expensive taste which I cannot often gratify. Possibly a visit to the opera. It means a car to take one to Covent Garden and back, and the expense of a night in an hotel. But I must not indulge in idle chat," she said. "I will take this back with me and reflect upon it. Really, what on earth made Mr Rafiel - you have no idea why he should have suggested this particular proposition, and why he should think that I could be of service to him in any way? He must have known that it was over a year, nearly two years since he had seen me and that I might have got much more feeble than I have, and much more unable to exercise such small talents as I might have. He was taking a risk. There are other people surely much better qualified to undertake an investigation of this nature?""Frankly, one would think so," said Mr Broadribb, "but he selected you, Miss Marple. Forgive me if this is idle curiosity but have you had - oh, how shall I put it? - any connection with crime or the investigation of crime?""Strictly speaking I should say no," said Miss Marple. "Nothing professional, that is to say. I have never been a probation officer or indeed sat as a magistrate on a Bench or been connected in any way with a detective agency. To explain to you, Mr Broadribb, which I think is only fair for me to do and which I think Mr Rafiel ought to have done, to explain it in any way all I can say is that during our stay in the West Indies, we both, Mr Rafiel and myself, had a certain connection with a crime that took place there. A rather unlikely and perplexing murder.""And you and Mr Rafiel solved it?""I should not put it quite like that," said Miss Marple. "Mr Rafiel, by the force of his personality, and I, by putting together one or two obvious indications that came to my notice, were successful in preventing a second murder just as it was about to take place. I could not have done it alone, I was physically far too feeble. Mr Rafiel could not have done it alone, he was a cripple. We acted as allies, however.""Just one other question I should like to ask you, Miss Marple. Does the word 'Nemesis' mean anything to you?""Nemesis," said Miss Marple. It was not a question. A very slow and unexpected smile dawned on her face. "Yes," she said, "it does mean something to me. It meant something to me and it meant something to Mr Rafiel. I said it to him, and he was much amused by my describing myself by that name."Whatever Mr Broadribb had expected it was not that. He looked at Miss Marple with something of the same astonished surprise that Mr Rafiel had once felt in a bedroom by the Caribbean sea. A nice and quite intelligent old lady. But really... Nemesis!"You feel the same, I am sure," said Miss Marple.She rose to her feet."If you should find or receive any further instructions in this matter, you will perhaps let me know, Mr Broadribb. It seems to me extraordinary that there should not be something of that kind. This leaves me entirely in the dark really as to what Mr Rafiel is asking me to do or try to do.""You are not acquainted with his family, his friends, his...""No. I told you. He was a fellow traveller in a foreign part of the world. We had a certain association as allies in a very mystifying matter. That is all." As she was about to go to the door she turned suddenly and asked: "He had a secretary, Mrs Esther Walters. Would it be infringing etiquette if I asked if Mr Rafiel left her fifty thousand pounds?""His bequest will appear in the press," said Mr Broadribb. "I can answer your question in the affirmative... Mrs Walters's name is now Mrs Anderson, by the way. She has remarried.""I am glad to hear that. She was a widow with one daughter, and she was a very adequate secretary, it appears. She understood Mr Rafiel very well. A nice woman. I am glad she has benefited."That evening, Miss Marple, sitting in her straight-backed chair, her feet stretched out to the fireplace where a small wood fire was burning owing to the sudden cold spell which, as is its habit, can always descend on England at any moment selected by itself, took once more from the long envelope the document delivered to her that morning. Still in a state of partial unbelief she read, murmuring the words here and there below her breath as though to impress them on her mind,
"To Miss Jane Marple, resident in the village of St Mary Mead.
This will be delivered to you after my death by the good offices of my solicitor, James Broadribb. He is the man I employ for dealing with such legal matters as fall in the field of my private affairs, not my business activities. He is a sound and trustworthy lawyer. Like the majority of the human race he is susceptible to the sin of curiosity. I have not satisfied his curiosity. In some respects this matter will remain between you and myself. Our code word, my dear lady, is Nemesis. I don't think you will have forgotten in what place and in what circumstances you first spoke that word to me. In the course of my business activities over what is now quite a long life, I have learnt one thing about a man whom I wish to employ. He has to have flair. A flair for the particular job I want him to do. It is not knowledge, it is not experience. The only word that describes it is flair. A natural gift for doing a certain thing.You, my dear, if I may call you that, have a natural flair for justice, and that has led to your having a natural flair for crime. I want you to investigate a certain crime. I have ordered a certain sum to be placed so that if you accept this request and as a result of your investigation this crime is probably elucidated, the money will become yours absolutely. I have set aside a year for you to engage on this mission. You are not young, but you are, if I may say so, tough. I think I can trust a reasonable fate to keep you alive for a year at least.I think the work involved will not be distasteful to you. You have a natural genius, I should say, for investigation. The necessary funds for what I may describe as working capital for making this investigation will be remitted to you during that period, whenever necessary. I offer this to you as an alternative to what may be your life at present.I envisage you sitting in a chair, a chair that is agreeable and comfortable for whatever kind or form of rheumatism from which you may suffer. All persons of your age, I consider, are likely to suffer from some form of rheumatism. If this ailment affects your knees or your back, it will not be easy for you to get about much and you will spend your time mainly in knitting. I see you, as I saw you once one night as I rose from sleep disturbed by your urgency, in a cloud of pink wool.I envisage you knitting more jackets, head scarves and a good many other things of which I do not know the name. If you prefer to continue knitting, that is your decision. If you prefer to serve the cause of justice, I hope that you may at least find it interesting.
Let justice roll down like watersAnd righteousness like an everlasting stream.
Amos."
Chapter 3MISS MARPLE TAKES ACTION
Miss Marple read this letter three times, then she laid it aside and sat frowning slightly while she considered the letter and its implications.The first thought that came to her was that she was left with a surprising lack of definite information. Would there be any further information coming to her from Mr Broadribb? Almost certainly she felt that there would be no such thing. That would not have fitted in with Mr Rafiel's plan. Yet how on earth could Mr Rafiel expect her to do anything, to take any course of action in a matter about which she knew nothing. It was intriguing. After a few minutes more for consideration, she decided that Mr Rafiel had meant it to be intriguing. Her thoughts went back to him, for the brief time that she had known him. His disability, his bad temper, his flashes of brilliance, of occasional humour. He'd enjoy, she thought, teasing people. He had been enjoying, she felt, and this letter made it almost certain, baffling the natural curiosity of Mr Broadribb.There was nothing in the letter he had written her to give her the slightest clue as to what this business was all about. It was no help to her whatsoever. Mr Rafiel, she thought, had very definitely not meant it to be of any help. He had had - how could she put it? - other ideas. All the same, she could not start out into the blue knowing nothing. This could almost be described as a crossword puzzle with no clues given. There would have to be clues. She would have to know what she was wanted to do, where she was wanted to go, whether she was to solve some problem sitting in her armchair and laying aside her knitting needles in order to concentrate better. Or did Mr Rafiel intend her to take a plane or a boat to the West Indies or to South America or to some other specially directed spot? She would either have to find out for herself what it was she was meant to do, or else she would have to receive definite instructions. He might think she had sufficient ingenuity to guess at things, to ask questions, to find out that way? No, she couldn't quite believe that."If he does think that," said Miss Marple aloud, "he's gaga. I mean, he was gaga before he died."But she didn't think Mr Rafiel would have been gaga. "I shall receive instructions," said Miss Marple. "But what instructions and when?"It was only then that it occurred to her suddenly that without noticing it she had definitely accepted the mandate. She spoke aloud again, addressing the atmosphere."I believe in eternal life," said Miss Marple. "I don't know exactly where you are, Mr Rafiel, but I have no doubt that you are somewhere. I will do my best to fulfil your wishes."
II
It was three days later when Miss Marple wrote to Mr Broadribb. It was a very short letter, keeping strictly to the point.
"Dear Mr Broadribb,
I have considered the suggestion you made to me and I am letting you know that I have decided to accept the proposal made to me by the late Mr Rafiel. I shall do my best to comply with his wishes, though I am not at all assured of success. Indeed, I hardly see how it is possible for me to be successful. I have been given no direct instructions in his letter and have not been - I think the term is 'briefed' - in any way. If you have any further communication you are holding for me which sets out definite instructions, I should be glad if you will send it to me, but I imagine that as you have not done so, that is not the case.I presume that Mr Rafiel was of sound mind and disposition when he died? I think I am justified in asking if there has been recently in his life any criminal affair in which he might possibly have been interested, either in the course of his business or in his personal relations. Has he ever expressed to you any anger or dissatisfaction with some notable miscarriage of justice about which he felt strongly? If so, I think I should be justified in asking you to let me know about it. Has any relation or connection of his suffered some hardship lately, been the victim of some unjust dealing, or what might be considered as such?I am sure you will understand my reasons for asking these things. Indeed, Mr Rafiel himself may have expected me to do so."
III
Mr Broadribb showed this to Mr Schuster, who leaned back in his chair and whistled."She's going to take it on, is she? Sporting old bean," he said. Then he added, "I suppose she knows something of what it's all about, does she?""Apparently not," said Mr Broadribb."I wish we did," said Mr Schuster. "He was an odd cuss.""A difficult man," said Mr Broadribb."I haven't got the least idea," said Mr Schuster, "have you?""No, I haven't," said Mr Broadribb. He added, "He didn't want me to have, I suppose.""Well, he's made things a lot more difficult by doing that. I don't see the least chance that some old pussy from the country can interpret a dead man's brain and know what fantasy was plaguing him. You don't think he was leading her up the garden path? Having her on? Sort of joke, you know. Perhaps he thinks that she thinks she's the cat's whiskers at solving village problems, but he's going to teach her a sharp lesson -""No," said Mr Broadribb, "I don't quite think that. Rafiel wasn't that type of man.""He was a mischievous devil sometimes," said Mr Schuster."Yes, but no! I think he was serious over this. Something was worrying him. In fact I'm quite sure something was worrying him.""And he didn't tell you what it was or give you the least idea?""No, he didn't.""Then how the devil can he expect -" Schuster broke off."He can't really have expected anything to come of this," said Mr Broadribb. "I mean, how is she going to set about it?""A practical joke, if you ask me.""Twenty thousand pounds is a lot of money.""Yes, but if he knows she can't do it?""No," said Mr Broadribb. "He wouldn't have been as unsporting as all that. He must think she's got a chance of doing or finding out whatever it is.""And what do we do?""Wait," said Mr Broadribb. "Wait and see what happens next. After all, there has to be some development.""Got some sealed orders somewhere, have you?""My dear Schuster," said Mr Broadribb. "Mr Rafiel had implicit trust in my discretion and in my ethical conduct as a lawyer. Those sealed instructions are to be opened only under certain circumstances, none of which has yet arisen.""And never will," said Mr Schuster. That ended the subject.
IV
Mr Broadribb and Mr Schuster were lucky in so much as they had a full professional life to lead. Miss Marple was not so fortunate. She knitted and she reflected and she also went out for walks, occasionally remonstrated with by Cherry for so doing."You know what the doctor said. You weren't to take too much exercise.""I walk very slowly," said Miss Marple, "and I am not doing anything. Digging, I mean, or weeding, I just - well, I just put one foot in front of the other and wonder about things.""What things?" asked Cherry, with some interest."I wish I knew," said Miss Marple, and asked Cherry to bring her an extra scarf as there was a chilly wind."What's fidgeting her, that's what I would like to know," said Cherry to her husband as she set before him a Chinese plate of rice and a concoction of kidneys."Chinese dinner," she said.Her husband nodded approval."You get a better cook every day," he said."I'm worried about her," said Cherry. "I'm worried because she's worried a bit. She had a letter and it stirred her all up.""What she needs is to sit quiet," said Cherry's husband. "Sit quiet, take it easy, get herself new books from the library, get a friend or two to come and see her.""She's thinking out something," said Cherry. "Sort of plan. Thinking out how to tackle something, that's how I look at it."She broke off the conversation at this stage and took in the coffee tray and put it down by Miss Marple's side."Do you know a woman who lives in a new house somewhere here, she's called Mrs Hastings?" asked Miss Marple. "And someone called Miss Bartlett, I think it is, who lives with her -""What do you mean the house that's been all done up and repainted at the end of the village? The people there haven't been there very long. I don't know what their names are. Why do you want to know? They're not very interesting. At least I shouldn't say they were.""Are they related?" asked Miss Marple."No. Just friends, I think.""I wonder why -" said Miss Marple, and broke off."You wondered why what?""Nothing," said Miss Marple. "Clear my little hand desk, will you, and give me my pen and the notepaper. I'm going to write a letter.""Who to?" said Cherry, with the natural curiosity of her kind."To a clergyman's sister," said Miss Marple. "His name is Canon Prescott.""That's the one you met abroad, in the West Indies, isn't it? You showed me his photo in your album.""Yes.""Not feeling bad, are you? Wanting to write to a clergyman and all that?""I'm feeling extremely well," said Miss Marple, "and I am anxious to get busy on something. It's just possible Miss Prescott might help."
