Miss Marple's Final Cases Read online

  It’s taken some time to tell, but in reality only a moment or two passed while I stared dumbfounded. Then I wheeled round to the rescue…

  And on the wall behind me, the wall reflected in the glass, there was only a Victorian mahogany wardrobe. No door open — no scene of violence. I swung back to the mirror. The mirror reflected only the wardrobe…

  I passed my hands across my eyes. Then I sprang across the room and tried to pull forward the wardrobe and at that moment Neil entered by the other door from the passage and asked me what the hell I was trying to do.

  He must have thought me slightly barmy as I turned on him and demanded whether there was a door behind the wardrobe. He said, yes, there was a door, it led into the next room. I asked him who was occupying the next room and he said people called Oldam — a Major Oldam and his wife. I asked him then if Mrs Oldam had very fair hair and when he replied dryly that she was dark I began to realize that I was probably making a fool of myself. I pulled myself together, made some lame explanation and we went downstairs together. I told myself that I must have had some kind of hallucination — and felt generally rather ashamed and a bit of an ass.

  And then — and then — Neil said, ‘My sister Sylvia,’ and I was looking into the lovely face of the girl I had just seen being suffocated to death…and I was introduced to her fiancé, a tall dark man with a scar down the left side of his face.

  Well — that’s that. I’d like you to think and say what you’d have done in my place. Here was the girl — the identical girl — and here was the man I’d seen throttling her — and they were to be married in about a month’s time…

  Had I — or had I not — had a prophetic vision of the future? Would Sylvia and her husband come down here to stay some time in the future, and be given that room (the best spare room) and would that scene I’d witnessed take place in grim reality?

  What was I to do about it? Could I do anything? Would anyone — Neil — or the girl herself — would they believe me?

  I turned the whole business over and over in my mind the week I was down there. To speak or not to speak? And almost at once another complication set in. You see, I fell in love with Sylvia Carslake the first moment I saw here…I wanted her more than anything on earth…And in a way that tied my hands.

  And yet, if I didn’t say anything, Sylvia would marry Charles Crawley and Crawley would kill her…

  And so, the day before I left, I blurted it all out to her. I said I expect she’d think me touched in the intellect or something, but I swore solemnly that I’d seen the thing just as I told it to her and that I felt if she was determined to marry Crawley, I ought to tell her my strange experience.

  She listened very quietly. There was something in her eyes I didn’t understand. She wasn’t angry at all. When I’d finished, she just thanked me gravely. I kept repeating like an idiot, ‘I did see it. I really did see it,’ and she said, ‘I’m sure you did if you say so. I believe you.’

  Well, the upshot was that I went off not knowing whether I’d done right or been a fool, and a week later Sylvia broke off her engagement to Charles Crawley.

  After that the war happened, and there wasn’t much leisure for thinking of anything else. Once or twice when I was on leave, I came across Sylvia, but as far as possible I avoided her.

  I loved her and wanted her just as badly as ever, but I felt somehow that it wouldn’t be playing the game. It was owing to me that she’d broken off her engagement to Crawley, and I kept saying to myself that I could only justify the action I had taken by making my attitude a purely disinterested one.

  Then, in 1916, Neil was killed and it fell to me to tell Sylvia about his last moments. We couldn’t remain on formal footing after that. Sylvia had adored Neil and he had been my best friend. She was sweet — adorably sweet in her grief. I just managed to hold my tongue and went out again praying that a bullet might end the whole miserable business. Life without Sylvia wasn’t worth living.

  But there was no bullet with my name on it. One nearly got me below the right ear and one was deflected by a cigarette case in my pocket, but I came through unscathed. Charles Crawley was killed in action at the beginning of 1918.

  Somehow that made a difference. I came home in the autumn of 1918 just before the Armistice and I went straight to Sylvia and told her that I loved her. I hadn’t much hope that she’d care for me straight away, and you could have knocked me down with a feather when she asked me why I hadn’t told her sooner. I stammered out something about Crawley and she said, ‘But why did you think I broke it off with him?’ and then she told me that she’d fallen in love with me just as I’d done with her — from the very first minute.

  I said I thought she’d broken off her engagement because of the story I told her and she laughed scornfully and said that if you loved a man you wouldn’t be as cowardly as that, and we went over that old vision of mine again and agreed that it was queer, but nothing more.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing much to tell for some time after that. Sylvia and I were married and we were very happy. But I realized, as soon as she was really mine, that I wasn’t cut out for the best kind of husband. I loved Sylvia devotedly, but I was jealous, absurdly jealous of anyone she so much as smiled at. It amused her at first, I think she even rather liked it. It proved, at least, how devoted I was.

  As for me, I realized quite fully and unmistakably that I was not only making a fool of myself, but that I was endangering all the peace and happiness of our life together. I knew, I say, but I couldn’t change. Every time Sylvia got a letter she didn’t show to me I wondered who it was from. If she laughed and talked with any man, I found myself getting sulky and watchful.

  At first, as I say, Sylvia laughed at me. She thought it a huge joke. Then she didn’t think the joke so funny. Finally she didn’t think it a joke at all —

  And slowly, she began to draw away from me. Not in any physical sense, but she withdrew her secret mind from me. I no longer knew what her thoughts were. She was kind — but sadly, as thought from a long distance.

  Little by little I realized that she no longer loved me. Her love had died and it was I who had killed it…

  The next step was inevitable, I found myself waiting for it — dreading it…

  Then Derek Wainwright came into our lives. He had everything that I hadn’t. He had brains and a witty tongue. He was good-looking, too, and — I’m forced to admit it — a thoroughly good chap. As soon as I saw him I said to myself, ‘This is just the man for Sylvia…’

  She fought against it. I know she struggled…but I gave her no help. I couldn’t. I was entrenched in my gloomy, sullen reserve. I was suffering like hell — and I couldn’t stretch out a finger to save myself. I didn’t help her. I made things worse. I let loose at her one day — a string of savage, unwarranted abuse. I was nearly mad with jealousy and misery. The things I said were cruel and untrue and I knew while I was saying them how cruel and how untrue they were. And yet I took a savage pleasure in saying them…

  I remember how Sylvia flushed and shrank…

  I drove her to the edge of endurance.

  I remember she said, ‘This can’t go on…’

  When I came home that night the house was empty — empty. There was a note — quite in the traditional fashion.

  In it she said that she was leaving me — for good. She was going down to Badgeworthy for a day or two. After that she was going to the one person who loved her and needed her. I was to take that as final.

  I suppose that up to then I hadn’t really believed my own suspicions. This confirmation in black and white of my worst fears sent me raving mad. I went down to Badgeworthy after her as fast as the car would take me.

  She had just changed her frock for dinner, I remember, when I burst into the room. I can see her face — startled — beautiful — afraid.

  I said, ‘No one but me shall ever have you. No one.’

  And I caught her throat in my hands and gripped it and bent her backwards.


  Suddenly I saw our reflection in the mirror. Sylvia choking and myself strangling her, and the scar on my cheek where the bullet grazed it under the right ear.

  No — I didn’t kill her. That sudden revelation paralysed me and I loosened my grasp and let her slip on to the floor…

  And then I broke down — and she comforted me…Yes, she comforted me.

  I told her everything and she told me that by the phrase ‘the one person who loved and needed her’ she had meant her brother Alan…We saw into each other’s hearts that night, and I don’t think, from that moment, that we ever drifted away from each other again…

  It’s a sobering thought to go through life with — that, but for the grace of God and a mirror, one might be a murderer…

  One thing did die that night — the devil of jealousy that had possessed me so long…

  But I wonder sometimes — suppose I hadn’t made that initial mistake — the scar on the left cheek — when really it was the right — reversed by the mirror…Should I have been so sure the man was Charles Crawley? Would I have warned Sylvia? Would she be married to me — or to him?

  Or are the past and the future all one?

  I’m a simple fellow — and I can’t pretend to understand these things — but I saw what I saw — and because of what I saw, Sylvia and I are together in the old-fashioned words — till death do us part. And perhaps beyond…

  Greenshaw’s Folly

  I

  The two men rounded the corner of the shrubbery.

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Raymond West. ‘That’s it.’

  Horace Bindler took a deep, appreciative breath.

  ‘But my dear,’ he cried, ‘how wonderful.’ His voice rose in a high screech of æsthetic delight, then deepened in reverent awe. ‘It’s unbelievable. Out of this world! A period piece of the best.’

  ‘I thought you’d like it,’ said Raymond West, complacently.

  ‘Like it? My dear —’ Words failed Horace. He unbuckled the strap of his camera and got busy. ‘This will be one of the gems of my collection,’ he said happily. ‘I do think, don’t you, that it’s rather amusing to have a collection of monstrosities? The idea came to me one night seven years ago in my bath. My last real gem was in the Campo Santo at Genoa, but I really think this beats it. What’s it called?’

  ‘I haven’t the least idea,’ said Raymond.

  ‘I suppose it’s got a name?’

  ‘It must have. But the fact is that it’s never referred to round here as anything but Greenshaw’s Folly.’

  ‘Greenshaw being the man who built it?’

  ‘Yes. In eighteen-sixty or seventy or thereabouts. The local success story of the time. Barefoot boy who had risen to immense prosperity. Local opinion is divided as to why he built this house, whether it was sheer exuberance of wealth or whether it was done to impress his creditors. If the latter, it didn’t impress them. He either went bankrupt or the next thing to it. Hence the name, Greenshaw’s Folly.’

  Horace’s camera clicked. ‘There,’ he said in a satisfied voice. ‘Remind me to show you No. 310 in my collection. A really incredible marble mantelpiece in the Italian manner.’ He added, looking at the house, ‘I can’t conceive of how Mr Greenshaw thought of it all.’

  ‘Rather obvious in some ways,’ said Raymond. ‘He had visited the cha^teaux of the Loire, don’t you think? Those turrets. And then, rather unfortunately, he seems to have travelled in the Orient. The influence of the Taj Mahal is unmistakable. I rather like the Moorish wing,’ he added, ‘and the traces of a Venetian palace.’

  ‘One wonders how he ever got hold of an architect to carry out these ideas.’

  Raymond shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘No difficulty about that, I expect,’ he said. ‘Probably the architect retired with a good income for life while poor old Greenshaw went bankrupt.’

  ‘Could we look at it from the other side?’ asked Horace, ‘or are we trespassing!’

  ‘We’re trespassing all right,’ said Raymond, ‘but I don’t think it will matter.’

  He turned towards the corner of the house and Horace skipped after him.

  ‘But who lives here, my dear? Orphans or holiday visitors? It can’t be a school. No playing-fields or brisk efficiency.’

  ‘Oh, a Greenshaw lives here still,’ said Raymond over his shoulder. ‘The house itself didn’t go in the crash. Old Greenshaw’s son inherited it. He was a bit of a miser and lived here in a corner of it. Never spent a penny. Probably never had a penny to spend. His daughter lives here now. Old lady — very eccentric.’

  As he spoke Raymond was congratulating himself on having thought of Greenshaw’s Folly as a means of entertaining his guest. These literary critics always professed themselves as longing for a week-end in the country, and were wont to find the country extremely boring when they got there. Tomorrow there would be the Sunday papers, and for today Raymond West congratulated himself on suggesting a visit to Greenshaw’s Folly to enrich Horace Bindler’s well-known collection of monstrosities.

  They turned the corner of the house and came out on a neglected lawn. In one corner of it was a large artificial rockery, and bending over it was a figure at sight of which Horace clutched Raymond delightedly by the arm.

  ‘My dear,’ he exclaimed, ‘do you see what she’s got on? A sprigged print dress. Just like a housemaid — when there were housemaids. One of my most cherished memories is staying at a house in the country when I was quite a boy where a real housemaid called you in the morning, all crackling in a print dress and a cap. Yes, my boy, really — a cap. Muslin with streamers. No, perhaps it was the parlour-maid who had the streamers. But anyway she was a real housemaid and she brought in an enormous brass can of hot water. What an exciting day we’re having.’

  The figure in the print dress had straightened up and had turned towards them, trowel in hand. She was a sufficiently startling figure. Unkempt locks of iron-grey fell wispily on her shoulders, a straw hat rather like the hats that horses wear in Italy was crammed down on her head. The coloured print dress she wore fell nearly to her ankles. Out of a weatherbeaten, not-too-clean face, shrewd eyes surveyed them appraisingly.

  ‘I must apologize for trespassing, Miss Greenshaw,’ said Raymond West, as he advanced towards her, ‘but Mr Horace Bindler who is staying with me —’

  Horace bowed and removed his hat.

  ‘ — is most interested in — er — ancient history and — er — fine buildings.’

  Raymond West spoke with the ease of a well-known author who knows that he is a celebrity, that he can venture where other people may not.

  Miss Greenshaw looked up at the sprawling exuberance behind her.

  ‘It is a fine house,’ she said appreciatively. ‘My grandfather built it — before my time, of course. He is reported as having said that he wished to astonish the natives.’

  ‘I’ll say he did that, ma’am,’ said Horace Bindler.

  ‘Mr Bindler is the well-known literary critic,’ said Raymond West.

  Miss Greenshaw had clearly no reverence for literary critics. She remained unimpressed.

  ‘I consider it,’ said Miss Greenshaw, referring to the house, ‘as a monument to my grandfather’s genius. Silly fools come here, and ask me why I don’t sell it and go and live in a flat. What would I do in a flat? It’s my home and I live in it,’ said Miss Greenshaw. ‘Always have lived here.’ She considered, brooding over the past. ‘There were three of us. Laura married the curate. Papa wouldn’t give her any money, said clergymen ought to be unworldly. She died, having a baby. Baby died too. Nettie ran away with the riding master. Papa cut her out of his will, of course. Handsome fellow, Harry Fletcher, but no good. Don’t think Nettie was happy with him. Anyway, she didn’t live long. They had a son. He writes to me sometimes, but of course he isn’t a Greenshaw. I’m the last of the Greenshaws.’ She drew up her bent shoulders with a certain pride, and readjusted the rakish angle of the straw hat. Then, turning, she said sharply,


  ‘Yes, Mrs Cresswell, what is it?’

  Approaching them from the house was a figure that, seen side by side with Miss Greenshaw, seemed ludicrously dissimilar. Mrs Cresswell had a marvellously dressed head of well-blued hair towering upwards in meticulously arranged curls and rolls. It was as though she had dressed her head to go as a French marquise to a fancy-dressparty. The rest of her middle-aged person was dressed in what ought to have been rustling black silk but was actually one of the shinier varieties of black rayon. Although she was not a large woman, she had a well-developed and sumptuous bust. Her voice when she spoke, was unexpectedly deep. She spoke with exquisite diction, only a slight hesitation over words beginning with ‘h’ and the final pronunciation of them with an exaggerated aspirate gave rise to a suspicion that at some remote period in her youth she might have had trouble over dropping her h’s.

  ‘The fish, madam,’ said Mrs Cresswell, ‘the slice of cod. It has not arrived. I have asked Alfred to go down for it and he refuses to do so.’

  Rather unexpectedly, Miss Greenshaw gave a cackle of laughter.

  ‘Refuses, does he?’

  ‘Alfred, madam, has been most disobliging.’

  Miss Greenshaw raised two earth-stained fingers to her lips, suddenly produced an ear-splitting whistle and at the same time yelled:

  ‘Alfred. Alfred, come here.’

  Round the corner of the house a young man appeared in answer to the summons, carrying a spade in his hand. He had a bold, handsome face and as he drew near he cast an unmistakably malevolent glance towards Mrs Cresswell.

  ‘You wanted me, miss?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Alfred. I hear you’ve refused to go down for the fish. What about it, eh?’

  Alfred spoke in a surly voice.

  ‘I’ll go down for it if you wants it, miss. You’ve only got to say.’

  ‘I do want it. I want it for my supper.’

  ‘Right you are, miss. I’ll go right away.’

  He threw an insolent glance at Mrs Cresswell, who flushed and murmured below her breath: