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‘Now isn’t that a coincidence?’ exclaimed Miss Marple. ‘Uncle Henry had a desk just like this, only his was burr walnut and this is mahogany.’
‘At any rate,’ said Charmian, ‘there’s nothing there, as you can see.’
‘I expect,’ said Miss Marple, ‘your cabinetmaker was a young man. He didn’t know everything. People were very artful when they made hiding-places in those days. There’s such a thing as a secret inside a secret.’
She extracted a hairpin from her neat bun of grey hair. Straightening it out, she stuck the point into what appeared to be a tiny wormhole in one side of the secret recess. With a little difficulty she pulled out a small drawer. In it was a bundle of faded letters and a folded paper.
Edward and Charmian pounced on the find together. With trembling fingers Edward unfolded the paper. He dropped it with an exclamation of disgust.
‘A damned cookery recipe. Baked ham!’
Charmian was untying a ribbon that held the letters together. She drew one out and glanced at it. ‘Love letters!’
Miss Marple reacted with Victorian gusto. ‘How interesting! Perhaps the reason your uncle never married.’
Charmian read aloud:
‘ “My ever dear Mathew, I must confess that the time seems long indeed since I received your last letter. I try to occupy myself with the various tasks allotted to me, and often say to myself that I am indeed fortunate to see so much of the globe, though little did I think when I went to America that I should voyage off to these far islands!” ’
Charmain broke off. ‘Where is it from? Oh! Hawaii!’ She went on:
‘ “Alas, these natives are still far from seeing the light. They are in an unclothed and savage state and spend most of their time swimming and dancing, adorning themselves with garlands of flowers. Mr Gray has made some converts but it is uphill work, and he and Mrs Gray get sadly discouraged. I try to do all I can to cheer and encourage him, but I, too, am often sad for a reason you can guess, dear Mathew. Alas, absence is a severe trial for a loving heart. Your renewed vows and protestations of affection cheered me greatly. Now and always you have my faithful and devoted heart, dear Mathew, and I remain—Your true love, Betty Martin.
‘ “PS—I address my letter under cover to our mutual friend, Matilda Graves, as usual. I hope heaven will pardon this little subterfuge.” ’
Edward whistled. ‘A female missionary! So that was Uncle Mathew’s romance. I wonder why they never married?’
‘She seems to have gone all over the world,’ said Charmian, looking through the letters. ‘Mauritius—all sorts of places. Probably died of yellow fever or something.’
A gentle chuckle made them start. Miss Marple was apparently much amused. ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘Fancy that, now!’
She was reading the recipe for baked ham. Seeing their enquiring glances, she read out: ‘ “Baked ham with spinach. Take a nice piece of gammon, stuff with cloves, and cover with brown sugar. Bake in a slow oven. Serve with a border of pureed spinach.” What do you think of that, now?’
‘I think it sounds filthy,’ said Edward.
‘No, no, actually it would be very good—but what do you think of the whole thing?’
A sudden ray of light illuminated Edward’s face. ‘Do you think it’s a code—cryptogram of some kind?’ He seized it. ‘Look here, Charmian, it might be, you know! No reason to put a cooking-recipe in a secret drawer otherwise.’
‘Exactly,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Very, very significant.’
Charmian said, ‘I know what it might be—invisible ink! Let’s heat it. Turn on the electric fire.’
Edward did so, but no signs of writing appeared under the treatment.
Miss Marple coughed. ‘I really think, you know, that you’re making it rather too difficult. The recipe is only an indication, so to speak. It is, I think, the letters that are significant.’
‘The letters?’
‘Especially,’ said Miss Marple, ‘the signature.’
But Edward hardly heard her. He called excitedly, ‘Charmian! Come here! She’s right. See—the envelopes are old, right enough, but the letters themselves were written much later.’
‘Exactly,’ said Miss Marple.
‘They’re only fake old. I bet anything old Uncle Mat faked them himself—’
‘Precisely,’ said Miss Marple.
‘The whole thing’s a sell. There never was a female missionary. It must be a code.’
‘My dear, dear children—there’s really no need to make it all so difficult. Your uncle was really a very simple man. He had to have his little joke, that was all.’
For the first time they gave her their full attention.
‘Just exactly what do you mean, Miss Marple?’ asked Charmian.
‘I mean, dear, that you’re actually holding the money in your hand this minute.’
Charmian stared down.
‘The signature, dear. That gives the whole thing away. The recipe is just an indication. Shorn of all the cloves and brown sugar and the rest of it, what is it actually? Why, gammon and spinach to be sure! Gammon and spinach! Meaning—nonsense! So it’s clear that it’s the letters that are important. And then, if you take into consideration what your uncle did just before he died. He tapped his eye, you said. Well, there you are—that gives you the clue, you see.’
Charmian said, ‘Are we mad, or are you?’
‘Surely, my dear, you must have heard the expression meaning that something is not a true picture, or has it quite died out nowadays? “All my eye and Betty Martin.” ’
Edward gasped, his eyes falling to the letter in his hand. ‘Betty Martin—’
‘Of course, Mr Rossiter. As you have just said, there isn’t—there wasn’t any such person. The letters were written by your uncle, and I dare say he got a lot of fun out of writing them! As you say, the writing on the envelopes is much older—in fact, the envelope couldn’t belong to the letters, anyway, because the postmark of one you are holding is eighteen fifty-one.’
She paused. She made it very emphatic. ‘Eighteen fifty-one. And that explains everything, doesn’t it?’
‘Not to me,’ said Edward.
‘Well, of course,’ said Miss Marple, ‘I dare say it wouldn’t to me if it weren’t for my great-nephew Lionel. Such a dear little boy and a passionate stamp collector. Knows all about stamps. It was he who told me about the rare and expensive stamps and that a wonderful new find had come up for auction. And I actually remember his mentioning one stamp—an eighteen fifty-one blue two-cent. It realized something like twenty-five thousand dollars, I believe. Fancy! I should imagine that the other stamps are something also rare and expensive. No doubt your uncle bought through dealers and was careful to “cover his tracks”, as they say in detective stories.’
Edward groaned. He sat down and buried his face in his hands.
‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Charmian.
‘Nothing. It’s only the awful thought that, but for Miss Marple, we might have burned these letters in a decent, gentlemanly way!’
‘Ah,’ said Miss Marple, ‘that’s just what these old gentlemen who are fond of their jokes never realize. Uncle Henry, I remember, sent a favourite niece a five-pound note for a Christmas present. He put it in a Christmas card, gummed the card together, and wrote on it, “Love and best wishes. Afraid this is all I can manage this year.” ’
‘She, poor girl, was annoyed at what she thought was his meanness and threw it all straight into the fire; then, of course, he had to give her another.’
Edward’s feelings towards Uncle Henry had suffered an abrupt and complete change.
‘Miss Marple,’ he said, ‘I’m going to get a bottle of champagne. We’ll all drink the health of your Uncle Henry.’
Tape-Measure Murder
I
Miss Politt took hold of the knocker and rapped politely on the cottage door. After a discreet interval she knocked again. The parcel under her left arm shifted a little as she did s
o, and she readjusted it. Inside the parcel was Mrs Spenlow’s new green winter dress, ready for fitting. From Miss Politt’s left hand dangled a bag of black silk, containing a tape measure, a pincushion, and a large, practical pair of scissors.
Miss Politt was tall and gaunt, with a sharp nose, pursed lips, and meagre iron-grey hair. She hesitated before using the knocker for the third time. Glancing down the street, she saw a figure rapidly approaching. Miss Hartnell, jolly, weather-beaten, fifty-five, shouted out in her usual loud bass voice, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Politt!’
The dressmaker answered, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hartnell.’ Her voice was excessively thin and genteel in its accents. She had started life as a lady’s maid. ‘Excuse me,’ she went on, ‘but do you happen to know if by any chance Mrs Spenlow isn’t at home?’
‘Not the least idea,’ said Miss Hartnell.
