Читать книгу Nemesis - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 8

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.’

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.’

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 not—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.

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.’

‘Dear Miss Prescott,’ wrote Miss Marple, ‘I hope you have not forgotten me. I met you and your brother in the West Indies, if you remember, at St Honoré. I hope the dear Canon is well and did not suffer much with his asthma in the cold weather last winter.

I am writing to ask you if you can possibly let me have the address of Mrs Walters—Esther Walters—whom you may remember from the Caribbean days. She was a secretary to Mr Rafiel. She did give me her address at the time, but unfortunately I have mislaid it. I was anxious to write to her as I have some horticultural information which she asked me about but which I was not able to tell her at the time. I heard in a round-about way the other day that she had married again, but I don’t think my informant was very certain of these facts. Perhaps you know more about her than I do.

I hope this is not troubling you too much. With kind regards to your brother and best wishes to yourself,

Yours sincerely,

Jane Marple.’

Miss Marple felt better when she had despatched this missive.

‘At least,’ she said, ‘I’ve started doing something. Not that I hope much from this, but still it might help.’

Miss Prescott answered the letter almost by return of post. She was a most efficient woman. She wrote a pleasant letter and enclosed the address in question.

‘I have not heard anything directly about Esther Walters,’ she said, ‘but like you I heard from a friend that they had seen a notice of her re-marriage. Her name now is, I believe, Mrs Alderson or Anderson. Her address is Winslow Lodge, near Alton, Hants. My brother sends his best wishes to you. It is sad that we live so far apart. We in the north of England and you south of London. I hope that we may meet on some occasion in the future.

Yours sincerely,

Joan Prescott.’

‘Winslow Lodge, Alton,’ said Miss Marple, writing it down. ‘Not so far away from here, really. No. Not so far away. I could—I don’t know what would be the best method—possibly one of Inch’s taxis. Slightly extravagant, but if anything results from it, it could be charged as expenses quite legitimately. Now do I write to her beforehand or do I leave it to chance? I think it would be better really, to leave it to chance. Poor Esther. She could hardly remember me with any affection or kindliness.’

Miss Marple lost herself in a train of thought that arose from her thoughts. It was quite possible that her actions in the Caribbean had saved Esther Walters from being murdered in the not far distant future. At any rate, that was Miss Marple’s belief, but probably Esther Walters had not believed any such thing. ‘A nice woman,’ said Miss Marple, uttering the words in a soft tone aloud, ‘a very nice woman. The kind that would so easily marry a bad lot. In fact, the sort of woman that would marry a murderer if she were ever given half a chance. I still consider,’ continued Miss Marple thoughtfully, sinking her voice still lower, ‘that I probably saved her life. In fact, I am almost sure of it, but I don’t think she would agree with that point of view. She probably dislikes me very much. Which makes it more difficult to use her as a source of information. Still, one can but try. It’s better than sitting here, waiting, waiting, waiting.’

Was Mr Rafiel perhaps making fun of her when he had written that letter? He was not always a particularly kindly man—he could be very careless of people’s feelings.

‘Anyway,’ said Miss Marple, glancing at the clock and deciding that she would have an early night in bed, ‘when one thinks of things just before going to sleep, quite often ideas come. It may work out that way.’

‘Sleep well?’ asked Cherry, as she put down an early morning tea tray on the table at Miss Marple’s elbow.

‘I had a curious dream,’ said Miss Marple.

‘Nightmare?’

‘No, no, nothing of that kind. I was talking to someone, not anyone I knew very well. Just talking. Then when I looked, I saw it wasn’t that person at all I was talking to. It was somebody else. Very odd.’

‘Bit of a mix up,’ said Cherry, helpfully.

‘It just reminded me of something,’ said Miss Marple, ‘or rather of someone I once knew. Order Inch for me, will you? To come here about half past eleven.’

Inch was part of Miss Marple’s past. Originally the proprietor of a cab, Mr Inch had died, been succeeded by his son ‘Young Inch,’ then aged forty-four, who had turned the family business into a garage and acquired two aged cars. On his decease the garage acquired a new owner. There had been since then Pip’s Cars, James’s Taxis and Arthur’s Car Hire—old inhabitants still spoke of Inch.

‘Not going to London, are you?’

‘No, I’m not going to London. I shall have lunch perhaps in Haslemere.’

‘Now what are you up to now?’ said Cherry, looking at her suspiciously.

‘Endeavouring to meet someone by accident and make it seem purely natural,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Not really very easy, but I hope that I can manage it.’

At half past eleven the taxi waited. Miss Marple instructed Cherry.

‘Ring up this number, will you, Cherry? Ask if Mrs Anderson is at home. If Mrs Anderson answers or if she is going to come to the telephone, say a Mr Broadribb wants to speak to her. You,’ said Miss Marple, ‘are Mr Broadribb’s secretary. If she’s out, find out what time she will be in.’

‘And if she is in and I get her?’

‘Ask what day she could arrange to meet Mr Broadribb at his office in London next week. When she tells you, make a note of it and ring off.’

‘The things you think of! Why all this? Why do you want me to do it?’

‘Memory is a curious thing,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Sometimes one remembers a voice even if one hasn’t heard it for over a year.’

‘Well, Mrs What’s-a-name won’t have heard mine at any time, will she?’

‘No,’ said Miss Marple. ‘That is why you are making the call.’

Cherry fulfilled her instruction. Mrs Anderson was out shopping, she learned, but would be in for lunch and all the afternoon.

‘Well, that makes things easier,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Is Inch here? Ah yes. Good morning, Edward,’ she said, to the present driver of Arthur’s taxis whose actual name was George. ‘Now this is where I want you to go. It ought not to take, I think, more than an hour and a half.’

The expedition set off.