SANCTUARY1
T he vicar’s wife came round the corner of the vicarage with her arms full of chrysanthemums2. A good deal of richgarden soil was attached to her strong brogue shoes and a few fragments of earth were adhering to her nose, but of thatfact she was perfectly3 unconscious.
She had a slight struggle in opening the vicarage gate which hung, rustily4, half off its hinges. A puff5 of windcaught at her battered6 felt hat, causing it to sit even more rakishly than it had done before. “Bother!” said Bunch.
Christened by her optimistic parents Diana, Mrs. Harmon had become Bunch at an early age for somewhatobvious reasons and the name had stuck to her ever since. Clutching the chrysanthemums, she made her way throughthe gate to the churchyard, and so to the church door.
The November air was mild and damp. Clouds scudded7 across the sky with patches of blue here and there. Inside,the church was dark and cold; it was unheated except at service times.
“Brrrrrh!” said Bunch expressively8. “I’d better get on with this quickly. I don’t want to die of cold.”
With the quickness born of practice she collected the necessary paraphernalia9: vases, water, flower-holders10. “Iwish we had lilies,” thought Bunch to herself. “I get so tired of these scraggy chrysanthemums.” Her nimble fingersarranged the blooms in their holders.
There was nothing particularly original or artistic11 about the decorations, for Bunch Harmon herself was neitheroriginal nor artistic, but it was a homely12 and pleasant arrangement. Carrying the vases carefully, Bunch stepped up theaisle and made her way towards the altar. As she did so the sun came out.
It shone through the east window of somewhat crude coloured glass, mostly blue and red—the gift of a wealthyVictorian churchgoer. The effect was almost startling in its sudden opulence15. “Like jewels,” thought Bunch. Suddenlyshe stopped, staring ahead of her. On the chancel steps was a huddled16 dark form.
Putting down the flowers carefully, Bunch went up to it and bent17 over it. It was a man lying there, huddled over onhimself. Bunch knelt down by him and slowly, carefully, she turned him over. Her fingers went to his pulse—a pulseso feeble and fluttering that it told its own story, as did the almost greenish pallor of his face. There was no doubt,Bunch thought, that the man was dying.
He was a man of about forty-five, dressed in a dark, shabby suit. She laid down the limp hand she had picked upand looked at his other hand. This seemed clenched18 like a fist on his breast. Looking more closely she saw that thefingers were closed over what seemed to be a large wad or handkerchief which he was holding tightly to his chest. Allround the clenched hand there were splashes of a dry brown fluid which, Bunch guessed, was dry blood. Bunch satback on her heels, frowning.
Up till now the man’s eyes had been closed but at this point they suddenly opened and fixed19 themselves onBunch’s face. They were neither dazed nor wandering. They seemed fully13 alive and intelligent. His lips moved, andBunch bent forward to catch the words, or rather the word. It was only one word that he said:
“Sanctuary.”
There was, she thought, just a very faint smile as he breathed out this word. There was no mistaking it, for after amoment he said it again, “Sanctuary.?.?.?.”
Then, with a faint, long-drawn-out sigh, his eyes closed again. Once more Bunch’s fingers went to his pulse. It wasstill there, but fainter now and more intermittent20. She got up with decision.
“Don’t move,” she said, “or try to move. I’m going for help.”
The man’s eyes opened again but he seemed now to be fixing his attention on the coloured light that came throughthe east window. He murmured something that Bunch could not quite catch. She thought, startled, that it might havebeen her husband’s name.
“Julian?” she said. “Did you come here to find Julian?” But there was no answer. The man lay with eyes closed,his breathing coming in slow, shallow fashion.
Bunch turned and left the church rapidly. She glanced at her watch and nodded with some satisfaction. Dr.
Griffiths would still be in his surgery. It was only a couple of minutes’ walk from the church. She went in, withoutwaiting to knock or ring, passing through the waiting room and into the doctor’s surgery.
“You must come at once,” said Bunch. “There’s a man dying in the church.”
Some minutes later Dr. Griffiths rose from his knees after a brief examination.
“Can we move him from here into the vicarage? I can attend to him better there—not that it’s any use.”
“Of course,” said Bunch. “I’ll go along and get things ready. I’ll get Harper and Jones, shall I? To help you carryhim.”
“Thanks. I can telephone from the vicarage for an ambulance, but I’m afraid—by the time it comes.?.?.?.” He leftthe remark unfinished.
Bunch said, “Internal bleeding?”
Dr. Griffiths nodded. He said, “How on earth did he come here?”
“I think he must have been here all night,” said Bunch, considering. “Harper unlocks the church in the morning ashe goes to work, but he doesn’t usually come in.”
It was about five minutes later when Dr. Griffiths put down the telephone receiver and came back into the morningroom where the injured man was lying on quickly arranged blankets on the sofa. Bunch was moving a basin of waterand clearing up after the doctor’s examination.
“Well, that’s that,” said Griffiths. “I’ve sent for an ambulance and I’ve notified the police.” He stood, frowning,looking down on the patient who lay with closed eyes. His left hand was plucking in a nervous, spasmodic way at hisside.
“He was shot,” said Griffiths. “Shot at fairly close quarters. He rolled his handkerchief up into a ball and pluggedthe wound with it so as to stop the bleeding.”
“Could he have gone far after that happened?” Bunch asked.
“Oh, yes, it’s quite possible. A mortally wounded man has been known to pick himself up and walk along a streetas though nothing had happened, and then suddenly collapse21 five or ten minutes later. So he needn’t have been shot inthe church. Oh no. He may have been shot some distance away. Of course, he may have shot himself and then droppedthe revolver and staggered blindly towards the church. I don’t quite know why he made for the church and not for thevicarage.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Bunch. “He said it: ‘Sanctuary.’”
The doctor stared at her. “Sanctuary?”
“Here’s Julian,” said Bunch, turning her head as she heard her husband’s steps in the hall. “Julian! Come here.”
The Reverend Julian Harmon entered the room. His vague, scholarly manner always made him appear much olderthan he really was. “Dear me!” said Julian Harmon, staring in a mild, puzzled manner at the surgical22 appliances andthe prone23 figure on the sofa.
Bunch explained with her usual economy of words. “He was in the church, dying. He’d been shot. Do you knowhim, Julian? I thought he said your name.”
The vicar came up to the sofa and looked down at the dying man. “Poor fellow,” he said, and shook his head. “No,I don’t know him. I’m almost sure I’ve never seen him before.”
At that moment the dying man’s eyes opened once more. They went from the doctor to Julian Harmon and fromhim to his wife. The eyes stayed there, staring into Bunch’s face. Griffiths stepped forward.
“If you could tell us,” he said urgently.
But with eyes fixed on Bunch, the man said in a weak voice, “Please—please—” And then, with a slight tremor,he died.?.?.?.
Sergeant24 Hayes licked his pencil and turned the page of his notebook.
“So that’s all you can tell me, Mrs. Harmon?”
“That’s all,” said Bunch. “These are the things out of his coat pockets.”
On a table at Sergeant Hayes’s elbow was a wallet, a rather battered old watch with the initials W.S. and the returnhalf of a ticket to London. Nothing more.
“You’ve found out who he is?” asked Bunch.
“A Mr. and Mrs. Eccles phoned up the station. He’s her brother, it seems. Name of Sandbourne. Been in a lowstate of health and nerves for some time. He’s been getting worse lately. The day before yesterday he walked out anddidn’t come back. He took a revolver with him.”
“And he came out here and shot himself with it?” said Bunch. “Why?”
“Well, you see, he’d been depressed25.?.?.?.”
Bunch interrupted him. “I don’t mean that. I mean, why here?”
Since Sergeant Hayes obviously did not know the answer to that one, he replied in an oblique26 fashion, “Come outhere, he did, on the five ten bus.”
“Yes,” said Bunch again. “But why?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Harmon,” said Sergeant Hayes. “There’s no accounting27. If the balance of the mind isdisturbed—”
Bunch finished for him. “They may do it anywhere. But it still seems to me unnecessary to take a bus out to asmall country place like this. He didn’t know anyone here, did he?”
“Not so far as can be ascertained,” said Sergeant Hayes. He coughed in an apologetic manner and said, as he roseto his feet, “It may be as Mr. and Mrs. Eccles will come out and see you, ma’am—if you don’t mind, that is.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” said Bunch. “It’s very natural. I only wish I had something to tell them.”
“I’ll be getting along,” said Sergeant Hayes.
“I’m only so thankful,” said Bunch, going with him to the front door, “that it wasn’t murder.”
A car had driven up at the vicarage gate. Sergeant Hayes, glancing at it, remarked: “Looks as though that’s Mr.
and Mrs. Eccles come here now, ma’am, to talk with you.”
Bunch braced28 herself to endure what, she felt, might be rather a difficult ordeal29. “However,” she thought, “I canalways call Julian to help me. A clergyman’s a great help when people are bereaved30.”
Exactly what she had expected Mr. and Mrs. Eccles to be like, Bunch could not have said, but she was conscious,as she greeted them, of a feeling of surprise. Mr. Eccles was a stout31 florid man whose natural manner would have beencheerful and facetious32. Mrs. Eccles had a vaguely33 flashy look about her. She had a small, mean, pursed-up mouth. Hervoice was thin and reedy.
“It’s been a terrible shock, Mrs. Harmon, as you can imagine,” she said.
“Oh, I know,” said Bunch. “It must have been. Do sit down. Can I offer you—well, perhaps it’s a little early for tea—”
Mr. Eccles waved a pudgy hand. “No, no, nothing for us,” he said. “It’s very kind of you, I’m sure. Just wanted to.?.?. well .?.?. what poor William said and all that, you know?”
“He’s been abroad a long time,” said Mrs. Eccles, “and I think he must have had some very nasty experiences.
Very quiet and depressed he’s been, ever since he came home. Said the world wasn’t fit to live in and there wasnothing to look forward to. Poor Bill, he was always moody34.”
Bunch stared at them both for a moment or two without speaking.
“Pinched my husband’s revolver, he did,” went on Mrs. Eccles. “Without our knowing. Then it seems he comehere by bus. I suppose that was nice feeling on his part. He wouldn’t have liked to do it in our house.”
“Poor fellow, poor fellow,” said Mr. Eccles, with a sigh. “It doesn’t do to judge.”
There was another short pause, and Mr. Eccles said, “Did he leave a message? Any last words, nothing like that?”
His bright, rather pig-like eyes watched Bunch closely. Mrs. Eccles, too, leaned forward as though anxious for thereply.
“No,” said Bunch quietly. “He came into the church when he was dying, for sanctuary.”
Mrs. Eccles said in a puzzled voice. “Sanctuary? I don’t think I quite .?.?.?.”
Mr. Eccles interrupted. “Holy place, my dear,” he said impatiently. “That’s what the vicar’s wife means. It’s a sin—suicide, you know. I expect he wanted to make amends35.”
“He tried to say something just before he died,” said Bunch. “He began, ‘Please,’ but that’s as far as he got.”
Mrs. Eccles put her handkerchief to her eyes and sniffed36. “Oh, dear,” she said. “It’s terribly upsetting, isn’t it?”
“There, there, Pam,” said her husband. “Don’t take on. These things can’t be helped. Poor Willie. Still, he’s atpeace now. Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Harmon. I hope we haven’t interrupted you. A vicar’s wife is a busylady, we know that.”
They shook hands with her. Then Eccles turned back suddenly to say, “Oh yes, there’s just one other thing. I thinkyou’ve got his coat here, haven’t you?”
“His coat?” Bunch frowned.
Mrs. Eccles said, “We’d like all his things, you know. Sentimental37-like.”
“He had a watch and a wallet and a railway ticket in the pockets,” said Bunch. “I gave them to Sergeant Hayes.”
“That’s all right, then,” said Mr. Eccles. “He’ll hand them over to us, I expect. His private papers would be in thewallet.”
“There was a pound note in the wallet,” said Bunch. “Nothing else.”
“No letters? Nothing like that?”
Bunch shook her head.
“Well, thank you again, Mrs. Harmon. The coat he was wearing—perhaps the sergeant’s got that too, has he?”
Bunch frowned in an effort of remembrance.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think .?.?. let me see. The doctor and I took his coat off to examine his wound.” She lookedround the room vaguely. “I must have taken it upstairs with the towels and basin.”
“I wonder now, Mrs. Harmon, if you don’t mind .?.?. We’d like his coat, you know, the last thing he wore. Well,the wife feels rather sentimental about it.”
“Of course,” said Bunch. “Would you like me to have it cleaned first? I’m afraid it’s rather—well—stained.”
“Oh, no, no, no, that doesn’t matter.”
Bunch frowned. “Now I wonder where .?.?. excuse me a moment.” She went upstairs and it was some few minutesbefore she returned.
“I’m so sorry,” she said breathlessly, “my daily woman must have put it aside with other clothes that were going tothe cleaners. It’s taken me quite a long time to find it. Here it is. I’ll do it up for you in brown paper.”
Disclaiming38 their protests she did so; then once more effusively39 bidding her farewell the Eccleses departed.
Bunch went slowly back across the hall and entered the study. The Reverend Julian Harmon looked up and hisbrow cleared. He was composing a sermon and was fearing that he’d been led astray by the interest of the politicalrelations between Judaea and Persia, in the reign40 of Cyrus.
“Yes, dear?” he said hopefully.
“Julian,” said Bunch. “What’s Sanctuary exactly?”
Julian Harmon gratefully put aside his sermon paper.
“Well,” he said. “Sanctuary in Roman and Greek temples applied41 to the cella in which stood the statue of a god.
The Latin word for altar ‘ara’ also means protection.” He continued learnedly: “In three hundred and ninety-nine A.D.
the right of sanctuary in Christian42 churches was finally and definitely recognized. The earliest mention of the right ofsanctuary in England is in the Code of Laws issued by Ethelbert in A.D. six hundred.?.?.?.”
He continued for some time with his exposition but was, as often, disconcerted by his wife’s reception of hiserudite pronouncement.
“Darling,” she said. “You are sweet.”
Bending over, she kissed him on the tip of his nose. Julian felt rather like a dog who has been congratulated onperforming a clever trick.
“The Eccleses have been here,” said Bunch.
The vicar frowned. “The Eccleses? I don’t seem to remember.?.?.?.”
“You don’t know them. They’re the sister and her husband of the man in the church.”
“My dear, you ought to have called me.”
“There wasn’t any need,” said Bunch. “They were not in need of consolation43. I wonder now.?.?.?.” She frowned. “IfI put a casserole in the oven tomorrow, can you manage, Julian? I think I shall go up to London for the sales.”
“The sails?” Her husband looked at her blankly. “Do you mean a yacht or a boat or something?”
Bunch laughed. “No, darling. There’s a special white sale at Burrows44 and Portman’s. You know, sheets,tablecloths and towels and glass-cloths. I don’t know what we do with our glass-cloths, the way they wear through.
Besides,” she added thoughtfully, “I think I ought to go and see Aunt Jane.”
That sweet old lady, Miss Jane Marple, was enjoying the delights of the metropolis45 for a fortnight, comfortablyinstalled in her nephew’s studio flat.
“So kind of dear Raymond,” she murmured. “He and Joan have gone to America for a fortnight and they insisted Ishould come up here and enjoy myself. And now, dear Bunch, do tell me what it is that’s worrying you.”
Bunch was Miss Marple’s favourite godchild, and the old lady looked at her with great affection as Bunch,thrusting her best felt hat farther on the back of her head, started her story.
Bunch’s recital46 was concise47 and clear. Miss Marple nodded her head as Bunch finished. “I see,” she said. “Yes, Isee.”
“That’s why I felt I had to see you,” said Bunch. “You see, not being clever—”
“But you are clever, my dear.”
“No, I’m not. Not clever like Julian.”
“Julian, of course, has a very solid intellect,” said Miss Marple.
“That’s it,” said Bunch. “Julian’s got the intellect, but on the other hand, I’ve got the sense.”
“You have a lot of common sense, Bunch, and you’re very intelligent.”
“You see, I don’t really know what I ought to do. I can’t ask Julian because—well, I mean, Julian’s so full ofrectitude.?.?.?.”
This statement appeared to be perfectly understood by Miss Marple, who said, “I know what you mean, dear. Wewomen—well, it’s different.” She went on. “You told me what happened, Bunch, but I’d like to know first exactlywhat you think.”
“It’s all wrong,” said Bunch. “The man who was there in the church, dying, knew all about Sanctuary. He said itjust the way Julian would have said it. I mean, he was a well-read, educated man. And if he’d shot himself, hewouldn’t drag himself to a church afterwards and say ‘sanctuary.’ Sanctuary means that you’re pursued, and when youget into a church you’re safe. Your pursuers can’t touch you. At one time even the law couldn’t get at you.”
She looked questioningly at Miss Marple. The latter nodded. Bunch went on, “Those people, the Eccleses, werequite different. Ignorant and coarse. And there’s another thing. That watch—the dead man’s watch. It had the initialsW.S. on the back of it. But inside—I opened it—in very small lettering there was ‘To Walter from his father’ and adate. Walter. But the Eccleses kept talking of him as William or Bill.”
Miss Marple seemed about to speak but Bunch rushed on. “Oh, I know you’re not always called the name you’rebaptized by. I mean, I can understand that you might be christened William and called ‘Porgy’ or ‘Carrots’ orsomething. But your sister wouldn’t call you William or Bill if your name was Walter.”
“You mean that she wasn’t his sister?”
“I’m quite sure she wasn’t his sister. They were horrid—both of them. They came to the vicarage to get his thingsand to find out if he’d said anything before he died. When I said he hadn’t I saw it in their faces—relief. I thinkmyself,” finished Bunch, “it was Eccles who shot him.”
“Murder?” said Miss Marple.
“Yes,” said Bunch. “Murder. That’s why I came to you, darling.”
Bunch’s remark might have seemed incongruous to an ignorant listener, but in certain spheres Miss Marple had areputation for dealing48 with murder.
“He said ‘please’ to me before he died,” said Bunch. “He wanted me to do something for him. The awful thing isI’ve no idea what.”
Miss Marple considered for a moment or two, and then pounced49 on the point that had already occurred to Bunch.
“But why was he there at all?” she asked.
“You mean,” said Bunch, “if you wanted sanctuary you might pop into a church anywhere. There’s no need to takea bus that only goes four times a day and come out to a lonely spot like ours for it.”
“He must have come there for a purpose,” Miss Marple thought. “He must have come to see someone. ChippingCleghorn’s not a big place, Bunch. Surely you must have some idea of who it was he came to see?”
Bunch reviewed the inhabitants of her village in her mind before rather doubtfully shaking her head. “In a way,”
she said, “it could be anybody.”
“He never mentioned a name?”
“He said Julian, or I thought he said Julian. It might have been Julia, I suppose. As far as I know, there isn’t anyJulia living in Chipping Cleghorn.”
She screwed up her eyes as she thought back to the scene. The man lying there on the chancel steps, the lightcoming through the window with its jewels of red and blue light.
“Jewels,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.
“I’m coming now,” said Bunch, “to the most important thing of all. The reason why I’ve really come here today.
You see, the Eccleses made a great fuss about having his coat. We took it off when the doctor was seeing him. It wasan old, shabby sort of coat—there was no reason they should have wanted it. They pretended it was sentimental, butthat was nonsense.
“Anyway, I went up to find it, and as I was just going up the stairs I remembered how he’d made a kind of pickinggesture with his hand, as though he was fumbling50 with the coat. So when I got hold of the coat I looked at it verycarefully and I saw that in one place the lining51 had been sewn up again with a different thread. So I unpicked it and Ifound a little piece of paper inside. I took it out and I sewed it up again properly with thread that matched. I wascareful and I don’t really think that the Eccleses would know I’ve done it. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. And Itook the coat down to them and made some excuse for the delay.”
“The piece of paper?” asked Miss Marple.
Bunch opened her handbag. “I didn’t show it to Julian,” she said, “because he would have said that I ought to havegiven it to the Eccleses. But I thought I’d rather bring it to you instead.”
“A cloakroom ticket,” said Miss Marple, looking at it. “Paddington Station.”
“He had a return ticket to Paddington in his pocket,” said Bunch.
The eyes of the two women met.
“This calls for action,” said Miss Marple briskly. “But it would be advisable, I think, to be careful. Would youhave noticed at all, Bunch dear, whether you were followed when you came to London today?”
“Followed!” exclaimed Bunch. “You don’t think—”
“Well, I think it’s possible,” said Miss Marple. “When anything is possible, I think we ought to take precautions.”
She rose with a brisk movement. “You came up here ostensibly, my dear, to go to the sales. I think the right thing todo, therefore, would be for us to go to the sales. But before we set out, we might put one or two little arrangements inhand. I don’t suppose,” Miss Marple added obscurely, “that I shall need the old speckled tweed with the beaver52 collarjust at present.”
It was about an hour and a half later that the two ladies, rather the worse for wear and battered in appearance, andboth clasping parcels of hardly-won household linen53, sat down at a small and sequestered54 hostelry called the AppleBough to restore their forces with steak and kidney pudding followed by apple tart14 and custard.
“Really a prewar quality face towel,” gasped57 Miss Marple, slightly out of breath. “With a J on it, too. So fortunatethat Raymond’s wife’s name is Joan. I shall put them aside until I really need them and then they will do for her if Ipass on sooner than I expect.”
“I really did need the glass-cloths,” said Bunch. “And they were very cheap, though not as cheap as the ones thatwoman with the ginger58 hair managed to snatch from me.”
A smart young woman with a lavish59 application of rouge60 and lipstick61 entered the Apple Bough55 at that moment.
After looking around vaguely for a moment or two, she hurried to their table. She laid down an envelope by MissMarple’s elbow.
“There you are, miss,” she said briskly.
“Oh, thank you, Gladys,” said Miss Marple. “Thank you very much. So kind of you.”
“Always pleased to oblige, I’m sure,” said Gladys. “Ernie always says to me, ‘Everything what’s good you learnedfrom that Miss Marple of yours that you were in service with,’ and I’m sure I’m always glad to oblige you, miss.”
“Such a dear girl,” said Miss Marple as Gladys departed again. “Always so willing and so kind.”
She looked inside the envelope and then passed it on to Bunch. “Now be very careful, dear,” she said. “By theway, is there still that nice young inspector62 at Melchester that I remember?”
“I don’t know,” said Bunch. “I expect so.”
“Well, if not,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “I can always ring up the Chief Constable63. I think he wouldremember me.”
“Of course he’d remember you,” said Bunch. “Everybody would remember you. You’re quite unique.” She rose.
Arrived at Paddington, Bunch went to the luggage office and produced the cloakroom ticket. A moment or twolater a rather shabby old suitcase was passed across to her, and carrying this she made her way to the platform.
The journey home was uneventful. Bunch rose as the train approached Chipping Cleghorn and picked up the oldsuitcase. She had just left her carriage when a man, sprinting64 along the platform, suddenly seized the suitcase from herhand and rushed off with it.
“Stop!” Bunch yelled. “Stop him, stop him. He’s taken my suitcase.”
The ticket collector who, at this rural station, was a man of somewhat slow processes, had just begun to say,“Now, look here, you can’t do that—” when a smart blow on the chest pushed him aside, and the man with thesuitcase rushed out from the station. He made his way towards a waiting car. Tossing the suitcase in, he was about toclimb after it, but before he could move a hand fell on his shoulder, and the voice of Police Constable Abel said, “Nowthen, what’s all this?”
Bunch arrived, panting, from the station. “He snatched my suitcase. I just got out of the train with it.”
“Nonsense,” said the man. “I don’t know what this lady means. It’s my suitcase. I just got out of the train with it.”
He looked at Bunch with a bovine65 and impartial66 stare. Nobody would have guessed that Police Constable Abel andMrs. Harmon spent long half hours in Police Constable Abel’s off-time discussing the respective merits of manure67 andbone meal for rose bushes.
“You say, madam, that this is your suitcase?” said Police Constable Abel.
“Yes,” said Bunch. “Definitely.”
“And you, sir?”
“I say this suitcase is mine.”
The man was tall, dark and well-dressed, with a drawling voice and a superior manner. A feminine voice frominside the car said, “Of course it’s your suitcase, Edwin. I don’t know what this woman means.”
“We’ll have to get this clear,” said Police Constable Abel. “If it’s your suitcase, madam, what do you say is insideit?”
“Clothes,” said Bunch. “A long speckled coat with a beaver collar, two wool jumpers and a pair of shoes.”
“Well, that’s clear enough,” said Police Constable Abel. He turned to the other.
“I am a theatrical68 costumer,” said the dark man importantly. “This suitcase contains theatrical properties which Ibrought down here for an amateur performance.”
“Right, sir,” said Police Constable Abel. “Well, we’ll just look inside, shall we, and see? We can go along to thepolice station, or if you’re in a hurry we’ll take the suitcase back to the station and open it there.”
“It’ll suit me,” said the dark man. “My name is Moss69, by the way, Edwin Moss.”
The police constable, holding the suitcase, went back into the station. “Just taking this into the parcels office,George,” he said to the ticket collector.
Police Constable Abel laid the suitcase on the counter of the parcels office and pushed back the clasp. The casewas not locked. Bunch and Mr. Edwin Moss stood on either side of him, their eyes regarding each other vengefully.
“Ah!” said Police Constable Abel, as he pushed up the lid.
Inside, neatly70 folded, was a long rather shabby tweed coat with a beaver fur collar. There were also two wooljumpers and a pair of country shoes.
“Exactly as you say, madam,” said Police Constable Abel, turning to Bunch.
Nobody could have said that Mr. Edwin Moss underdid things. His dismay and compunction were magnificent.
“I do apologize,” he said. “I really do apologize. Please believe me, dear lady, when I tell you how very, very sorryI am. Unpardonable—quite unpardonable—my behaviour has been.” He looked at his watch. “I must rush now.
Probably my suitcase has gone on the train.” Raising his hat once more, he said meltingly to Bunch, “Do, do forgiveme,” and rushed hurriedly out of the parcels office.
“Are you going to let him get away?” asked Bunch in a conspiratorial71 whisper to Police Constable Abel.
The latter slowly closed a bovine eye in a wink72.
“He won’t get too far, ma’am,” he said. “That’s to say he won’t get far unobserved, if you take my meaning.”
“Oh,” said Bunch, relieved.
“That old lady’s been on the phone,” said Police Constable Abel, “the one as was down here a few years ago.
Bright she is, isn’t she? But there’s been a lot cooking up all today. Shouldn’t wonder if the inspector or sergeant wasout to see you about it tomorrow morning.”
It was the inspector who came, the Inspector Craddock whom Miss Marple remembered. He greeted Bunch with asmile as an old friend.
“Crime in Chipping Cleghorn again,” he said cheerfully. “You don’t lack for sensation here, do you, Mrs.
Harmon?”
“I could do with rather less,” said Bunch. “Have you come to ask me questions or are you going to tell me thingsfor a change?”
“I’ll tell you some things first,” said the inspector. “To begin with, Mr. and Mrs. Eccles have been having an eyekept on them for some time. There’s reason to believe they’ve been connected with several robberies in this part of theworld. For another thing, although Mrs. Eccles has a brother called Sandbourne who has recently come back fromabroad, the man you found dying in the church yesterday was definitely not Sandbourne.”
“I knew that he wasn’t,” said Bunch. “His name was Walter, to begin with, not William.”
The inspector nodded. “His name was Walter St. John, and he escaped forty-eight hours ago from CharringtonPrison.”
“Of course,” said Bunch softly to herself, “he was being hunted down by the law, and he took sanctuary.” Thenshe asked, “What had he done?”
“I’ll have to go back rather a long way. It’s a complicated story. Several years ago there was a certain dancer doingturns at the music halls. I don’t expect you’ll have ever heard of her, but she specialized73 in an Arabian Night turn,‘Aladdin in the Cave of Jewels’ it was called. She wore bits of rhinestone74 and not much else.
“She wasn’t much of a dancer, I believe, but she was—well—attractive. Anyway, a certain Asiatic royalty75 fell forher in a big way. Amongst other things he gave her a very magnificent emerald necklace.”
“The historic jewels of a Rajah?” murmured Bunch ecstatically.
Inspector Craddock coughed. “Well, a rather more modern version, Mrs. Harmon. The affair didn’t last very long,broke up when our potentate’s attention was captured by a certain film star whose demands were not quite so modest.
“Zobeida, to give the dancer her stage name, hung onto the necklace, and in due course it was stolen. Itdisappeared from her dressing76 room at the theatre, and there was a lingering suspicion in the minds of the authoritiesthat she herself might have engineered its disappearance77. Such things have been known as a publicity78 stunt79, or indeedfrom more dishonest motives80.
“The necklace was never recovered, but during the course of the investigation81 the attention of the police wasdrawn to this man, Walter St. John. He was a man of education and breeding who had come down in the world, andwho was employed as a working jeweller with a rather obscure firm which was suspected of acting82 as a fence for jewelrobberies.
“There was evidence that this necklace had passed through his hands. It was, however, in connection with the theftof some other jewellery that he was finally brought to trial and convicted and sent to prison. He had not very muchlonger to serve, so his escape was rather a surprise.”
“But why did he come here?” asked Bunch.
“We’d like to know that very much, Mrs. Harmon. Following up his trial, it seems that he went first to London. Hedidn’t visit any of his old associates but he visited an elderly woman, a Mrs. Jacobs who had formerly83 been a theatricaldresser. She won’t say a word of what he came for, but according to other lodgers84 in the house he left carrying asuitcase.”
“I see,” said Bunch. “He left it in the cloakroom at Paddington and then he came down here.”
“By that time,” said Inspector Craddock, “Eccles and the man who calls himself Edwin Moss were on his trail.
They wanted that suitcase. They saw him get on the bus. They must have driven out in a car ahead of him and beenwaiting for him when he left the bus.”
“And he was murdered?” said Bunch.
“Yes,” said Craddock. “He was shot. It was Eccles’s revolver, but I rather fancy it was Moss who did the shooting.
Now, Mrs. Harmon, what we want to know is, where is the suitcase that Walter St. John actually deposited atPaddington Station?”
Bunch grinned. “I expect Aunt Jane’s got it by now,” she said. “Miss Marple, I mean. That was her plan. She senta former maid of hers with a suitcase packed with her things to the cloakroom at Paddington and we exchangedtickets. I collected her suitcase and brought it down by train. She seemed to expect that an attempt would be made toget it from me.”
It was Inspector Craddock’s turn to grin. “So she said when she rang up. I’m driving up to London to see her. Doyou want to come, too, Mrs. Harmon?”
“Wel-l,” said Bunch, considering. “Wel-l, as a matter of fact, it’s very fortunate. I had a toothache last night so Ireally ought to go to London to see the dentist, oughtn’t I?”
“Definitely,” said Inspector Craddock.?.?.?.
Miss Marple looked from Inspector Craddock’s face to the eager face of Bunch Harmon. The suitcase lay on thetable. “Of course, I haven’t opened it,” the old lady said. “I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing till somebodyofficial arrived. Besides,” she added, with a demurely85 mischievous86 Victorian smile, “it’s locked.”
“Like to make a guess at what’s inside, Miss Marple?” asked the inspector.
“I should imagine, you know,” said Miss Marple, “that it would be Zobeida’s theatrical costumes. Would you likea chisel87, Inspector?”
The chisel soon did its work. Both women gave a slight gasp56 as the lid flew up. The sunlight coming through thewindow lit up what seemed like an inexhaustible treasure of sparkling jewels, red, blue, green, orange.
“Aladdin’s Cave,” said Miss Marple. “The flashing jewels the girl wore to dance.”
“Ah,” said Inspector Craddock. “Now, what’s so precious about it, do you think, that a man was murdered to gethold of it?”
“She was a shrewd girl, I expect,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “She’s dead, isn’t she, Inspector?”
“Yes, died three years ago.”
“She had this valuable emerald necklace,” said Miss Marple, musingly88. “Had the stones taken out of their settingand fastened here and there on her theatrical costume, where everyone would take them for merely colouredrhinestones. Then she had a replica89 made of the real necklace, and that, of course, was what was stolen. No wonder itnever came on the market. The thief soon discovered the stones were false.”
“Here is an envelope,” said Bunch, pulling aside some of the glittering stones.
Inspector Craddock took it from her and extracted two official-looking papers from it. He read aloud, “‘MarriageCertificate between Walter Edmund St. John and Mary Moss.’ That was Zobeida’s real name.”
“So they were married,” said Miss Marple. “I see.”
“What’s the other?” asked Bunch.
“A birth certificate of a daughter, Jewel.”
“Jewel?” cried Bunch. “Why, of course. Jewel! Jill! That’s it. I see now why he came to Chipping Cleghorn.
That’s what he was trying to say to me. Jewel. The Mundys, you know. Laburnum Cottage. They look after a little girlfor someone. They’re devoted90 to her. She’s been like their own granddaughter. Yes, I remember now, her name wasJewel, only, of course, they call her Jill.
“Mrs. Mundy had a stroke about a week ago, and the old man’s been very ill with pneumonia91. They were bothgoing to go to the infirmary. I’ve been trying hard to find a good home for Jill somewhere. I didn’t want her takenaway to an institution.
“I suppose her father heard about it in prison and he managed to break away and get hold of this suitcase from theold dresser he or his wife left it with. I suppose if the jewels really belonged to her mother, they can be used for thechild now.”
“I should imagine so, Mrs. Harmon. If they’re here.”
“Oh, they’ll be here all right,” said Miss Marple cheerfully.?.?.?.
“Thank goodness you’re back, dear,” said the Reverend Julian Harmon, greeting his wife with affection and a sigh ofcontent. “Mrs. Burt always tries to do her best when you’re away, but she really gave me some very peculiar92 fish-cakes for lunch. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so I gave them to Tiglath Pileser, but even he wouldn’t eat them so Ihad to throw them out of the window.”
“Tiglath Pileser,” said Bunch, stroking the vicarage cat, who was purring against her knee, “is very particularabout what fish he eats. I often tell him he’s got a proud stomach!”
“And your tooth, dear? Did you have it seen to?”
“Yes,” said Bunch. “It didn’t hurt much, and I went to see Aunt Jane again, too.?.?.?.”
“Dear old thing,” said Julian. “I hope she’s not failing at all.”
“Not in the least,” said Bunch, with a grin.
The following morning Bunch took a fresh supply of chrysanthemums to the church. The sun was once morepouring through the east window, and Bunch stood in the jewelled light on the chancel steps. She said very softlyunder her breath, “Your little girl will be all right. I’ll see that she is. I promise.”
Then she tidied up the church, slipped into a pew and knelt for a few moments to say her prayers before returningto the vicarage to attack the piled-up chores of two neglected days.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
sanctuary
|
|
| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
chrysanthemums
|
|
| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
rustily
|
|
| 锈蚀地，声音沙哑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
5
puff
|
|
| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
battered
|
|
| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
scudded
|
|
| v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
expressively
|
|
| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
paraphernalia
|
|
| n.装备；随身用品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
holders
|
|
| 支持物( holder的名词复数 )； 持有者； （支票等）持有人； 支托（或握持）…之物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
homely
|
|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
tart
|
|
| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
opulence
|
|
| n.财富，富裕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
huddled
|
|
| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
clenched
|
|
| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
intermittent
|
|
| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
collapse
|
|
| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
surgical
|
|
| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
prone
|
|
| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
sergeant
|
|
| n.警官，中士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
depressed
|
|
| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
oblique
|
|
| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
accounting
|
|
| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
braced
|
|
| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
ordeal
|
|
| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
bereaved
|
|
| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
facetious
|
|
| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
moody
|
|
| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
amends
|
|
| n. 赔偿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
sniffed
|
|
| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
sentimental
|
|
| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
disclaiming
|
|
| v.否认( disclaim的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
effusively
|
|
| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
reign
|
|
| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
consolation
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
burrows
|
|
| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
metropolis
|
|
| n.首府；大城市 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
recital
|
|
| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
concise
|
|
| adj.简洁的，简明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
dealing
|
|
| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
pounced
|
|
| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
fumbling
|
|
| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
lining
|
|
| n.衬里，衬料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
beaver
|
|
| n.海狸，河狸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
linen
|
|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
sequestered
|
|
| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
bough
|
|
| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
gasp
|
|
| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
gasped
|
|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
ginger
|
|
| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
lavish
|
|
| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
rouge
|
|
| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
lipstick
|
|
| n.口红，唇膏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
inspector
|
|
| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
constable
|
|
| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
sprinting
|
|
| v.短距离疾跑( sprint的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
bovine
|
|
| adj.牛的；n.牛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
impartial
|
|
| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
manure
|
|
| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
theatrical
|
|
| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
moss
|
|
| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
neatly
|
|
| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
conspiratorial
|
|
| adj.阴谋的，阴谋者的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
wink
|
|
| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
specialized
|
|
| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
rhinestone
|
|
| n.水晶石，莱茵石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
royalty
|
|
| n.皇家，皇族 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
dressing
|
|
| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
disappearance
|
|
| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
publicity
|
|
| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
stunt
|
|
| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
motives
|
|
| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
investigation
|
|
| n.调查，调查研究 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
acting
|
|
| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
formerly
|
|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
lodgers
|
|
| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
demurely
|
|
| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
mischievous
|
|
| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
chisel
|
|
| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
musingly
|
|
| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
89
replica
|
|
| n.复制品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
pneumonia
|
|
| n.肺炎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |