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“No,” said Miss Marple. “No. But I assumed responsibility for it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” said Miss Marple, smiling slightly, “that I went into the post office here and I explained rather scattily and—well, like the old pussy I am—that I had very foolishly asked someone to take a parcel for me and post it, and I had put the wrong address on it. I was very upset by this. The postmistress very kindly said she remembered the parcel, but the address on it was not the one I was mentioning. It was this one, the one I have just given to you. I explained that I had been very foolish and written the wrong address on it, confusing it with another one I sometimes send things to. She told me it was too late to do anything about it now because the parcel, naturally, had gone off. I said it was quite all right, that I would send a letter to the particular charity to which the parcel had been sent, and explain that it had been addressed to them by mistake. Would they very kindly forward it on to the charity that I had meant to receive it.”
“It seems rather a roundabout way.”
“Well,” said Miss Marple, “one has to say something. I’m not going to do that at all. You are going to deal with the matter. We’ve got to know what’s inside that parcel! I have no doubt you can get means.”
“Will there be anything inside the parcel to say who actually sent it?”
“I rather think not. It may have a slip of paper saying ‘from friends’ or it may have a fictitious name and address—something like Mrs. Pippin, 14 Westbourne Grove—and if anyone made enquiries there, there’d be no person of such a name living there.”
“Oh. Any other alternatives?”
“It might possibly, most unlikely but possible, have a slip saying ‘From Miss Anthea Bradbury-Scott’—”
“Did she—?”
“She took it to the post,” said Miss Marple.
“And you had asked her to take it there?”
“Oh no,” said Miss Marple. “I hadn’t asked anyone to post anything. The first I saw of the parcel was when Anthea passed the garden of the Golden Boar where you and I were sitting talking, carrying it.”
“But you went to the post office and represented that the parcel was yours.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple, “which was quite untrue. But post offices are careful. And, you see, I wanted to find out where it had been sent.”
“You wanted to find out if such a parcel had been sent, and if it had been sent by one of the Bradbury-Scotts—or especially Miss Anthea?”
“I knew it would be Anthea,” said Miss Marple, “because we’d seen her.”
“Well?” He took the paper from her hand. “Yes, I can set this in motion. You think this parcel will be interesting?”
“I think the contents of it might be quite important.”
“You like keeping your secrets, don’t you?” said Professor Wanstead.
“Not exactly secrets,” said Miss Marple, “they are only probabilities that I am exploring. One does not like to make definite assertions unless one has a little more definite knowledge.”
“Anything else?”
“I think—I think that whoever’s in charge of these things, ought to be warned that there might be a second body to be found.”
“Do you mean a second body connected with the particular crime that we have been considering? A crime that took place ten years ago?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I’m quite sure of it, as a matter of fact.”
“Another body. Whose body?”
“Well,” said Miss Marple, “it’s only my idea so far.”
“Any idea where this body is?”
“Oh! Yes,” said Miss Marple, “I’m quite sure I know where it is, but I have to have a little more time before I can tell you that.”
“What kind of a body? Man’s? Woman’s? Child’s? Girl’s?”
“There’s another girl who is missing,” said Miss Marple. “A girl called Nora Broad. She disappeared from here and she’s never been heard anymore of. I think her body might be in a particular place.”
Professor Wanstead looked at her.
“You know, the more you say, the less I like leaving you here,” he said. “Having all these ideas—and possibly doing something foolish—either—” He stopped.
“Either it’s all nonsense?—” said Miss Marple.
“No, no, I didn’t mean that. But either you know too much—which might be dangerous … I think I am going to stay here to keep an eye on you.”
“No, you’re not,” said Miss Marple. “You’ve got to go to London and set certain things moving.”
“You spoke as though you knew a good deal now, Miss Marple.”
“I think I do know a good deal now. But I have got to be sure.”
“Yes, but if you make sure, that may be the last thing you do make sure of! We don’t want a third body. Yours.”
“Oh, I’m not expecting anything like that,” said Miss Marple.
“There might be danger, you know, if any of your ideas are right. Have you suspicions of any one particular person?”
“I think I have certain knowledge as to one person. I have got to find out—I have got to stay here. You asked me once if I felt an atmosphere of evil. Well, that atmosphere is here all right, an atmosphere of evil, of danger if you like—of great unhappiness, of fear … I’ve got to do something about that. The best I can do. But an old woman like me can’t do very much.”
Professor Wanstead counted under his breath. “One—two—three—four—”
“What are you counting?” asked Miss Marple.
“The people who left in the coach. Presumably you’re not interested in them, since you’ve let them go off and you’re staying here.”
“Why should I be interested in them?”
“Because you said Mr. Rafiel had sent you in the coach for a particular reason and sent you on this tour for a particular reason and sent you to The Old Manor House for a particular reason. Very well then. The death of Elizabeth Temple ties up with someone in the coach. Your remaining here ties up with The Old Manor House.”
“You’re not quite right,” said Miss Marple. “There are connections between the two. I want someone to tell me things.”
“Do you think you can make anyone tell you things?”
“I think I might. You’ll miss your train if you don’t go soon.”
“Take care of yourself,” said Professor Wanstead.
“I mean to take care of myself.”
The door into the lounge opened and two people came out. Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow.
“Hullo,” said Professor Wanstead, “I thought you’d gone off with the coach.”
“Well, we changed our minds at the last moment,” said Miss Cooke cheerfully. “You know we’ve just discovered that there are some very agreeable walks near here and there are one or two places I’m ve
ry anxious to see. A church with a very unusual Saxon font. Only four or five miles away and quite easily reached by the local bus, I think. You see, it’s not only houses and gardens. I’m very interested in church architecture.”
“So am I,” said Miss Barrow. “There’s also Finley Park which is a very fine piece of horticultural planting not far from here. We really thought that it would be much pleasanter to stay here for a day or two.”
“You’re staying here at the Golden Boar?”
“Yes. We were fortunate enough to be able to get a very nice double room. Really a better one than the one we have had for the last two days.”
“You will miss your train,” said Miss Marple again.
“I wish,” said Professor Wanstead, “that you—”
“I shall be quite all right,” said Miss Marple urgently. “Such a kind man,” she said, as he disappeared round the side of the house, “who really takes so much care of me—I might be a great-aunt of his or something like that.”
“It’s all been a great shock, hasn’t it,” said Miss Cooke. “Perhaps you may like to come with us when we go to visit St. Martins in the Grove.”
“You’re very kind,” said Miss Marple, “but I don’t think today I feel quite strong enough for expeditions. Perhaps tomorrow if there is anything interesting to see.”
“Well, we must leave you then.”
Miss Marple smiled at them both and went into the hotel.
Twenty
MISS MARPLE HAS IDEAS
Having had lunch in the dining room, Miss Marple went out on the terrace to drink her coffee. She was just sipping her second cup when a tall, thin figure came striding up the steps, and approached her, speaking rather breathlessly. She saw that it was Anthea Bradbury-Scott.
“Oh, Miss Marple, we’ve only just heard, you know, that you didn’t go with the coach, after all. We thought you were going on with the tour. We had no idea you were staying on here. Both Clotilde and Lavinia sent me here to say we do so hope you will come back to The Old Manor House and stay with us. I’m sure it will be nicer for you to be there. There are so many people coming and going here always, especially over a weekend and things like that. So we’d be very, very glad—we really would—if you would come back to us.”
