Nemesis, Page 3

  “Frankly, one would think so,” said Mr. Broadribb, “but he selected you, Miss Marple. Forgive me if this is idle curiosity but have you had—oh, how shall I put it?—any connection with crime or the investigation of crime?”

  “Strictly speaking I should say no,” said Miss Marple. “Nothing professional, that is to say. I have never been a probation officer or indeed sat as a magistrate on a Bench or been connected in any way with a detective agency. To explain to you, Mr. Broadribb, which I think it is only fair for me to do and which I think Mr. Rafiel ought to have done, to explain it in any way all I can say is that during our stay in the West Indies, we both, Mr. Rafiel and myself, had a certain connection with a crime that took place there. A rather unlikely and perplexing murder.”

  “And you and Mr. Rafiel solved it?”

  “I should not put it quite like that,” said Miss Marple. “Mr. Rafiel, by the force of his personality, and I, by putting together one or two obvious indications that came to my notice, were successful in preventing a second murder just as it was about to take place. I could not have done it alone, I was physically far too feeble. Mr. Rafiel could not have done it alone, he was a cripple. We acted as allies, however.”

  “Just one other question I should like to ask you, Miss Marple. Does the word “Nemesis” mean anything to you?”

  “Nemesis,” said Miss Marple. It was not a question. A very slow and unexpected smile dawned on her face. “Yes,” she said, “it does mean something to me. It meant something to me and it meant something to Mr. Rafiel. I said it to him, and he was much amused by my describing myself by that name.”

  Whatever Mr. Broadribb had expected it was not that. He looked at Miss Marple with something of the same astonished surprise that Mr. Rafiel had once felt in a bedroom by the Caribbean sea. A nice and quite intelligent old lady. But really—Nemesis!

  “You feel the same, I am sure,” said Miss Marple.

  She rose to her feet.

  “If you should find or receive any further instructions in this matter, you will perhaps let me know, Mr. Broadribb. It seems to me extraordinary that there should not be something of that kind. This leaves me entirely in the dark really as to what Mr. Rafiel is asking me to do or try to do.”

  “You are not acquainted with his family, his friends, his—”

  “No. I told you. He was a fellow traveller in a foreign part of the world. We had a certain association as allies in a very mystifying matter. That is all.” As she was about to go to the door she turned suddenly and asked: “He had a secretary, Mrs. Esther Walters. Would it be infringing etiquette if I asked if Mr. Rafiel left her fifty thousand pounds?”

  “His bequest will appear in the press,” said Mr. Broadribb. “I can answer your question in the affirmative. Mrs. Walters’ name is now Mrs. Anderson, by the way. She has remarried.”

  “I am glad to hear that. She was a widow with one daughter, and she was a very adequate secretary, it appears. She understood Mr. Rafiel very well. A nice woman. I am glad she has benefited.”

  That evening, Miss Marple, sitting in her straightbacked chair, her feet stretched out to the fireplace where a small wood fire was burning owing to the sudden cold spell which, as is its habit, can always descend on England at any moment selected by itself, took once more from the long envelope the document delivered to her that morning. Still in a state of partial unbelief she read, murmuring the words here and there below her breath as though to impress them on her mind,

  “To Miss Jane Marple, resident in the village of St. Mary Mead.

  This will be delivered to you after my death by the good offices of my solicitor, James Broadribb. He is the man I employ for dealing with such legal matters as fall in the field of my private affairs, not my business activities. He is a sound and trustworthy lawyer. Like the majority of the human race he is susceptible to the sin of curiosity. I have not satisfied his curiosity. In some respects this matter will remain between you and myself. Our code word, my dear lady, is Nemesis. I don’t think you will have forgotten in what place and in what circumstances you first spoke that word to me. In the course of my business activities over what is now quite a long life, I have learnt one thing about a man whom I wish to employ. He has to have a flair. A flair for the particular job I want him to do. It is not knowledge, it is not experience. The only word that describes it is flair. A natural gift for doing a certain thing.

  You, my dear, if I may call you that, have a natural flair for justice, and that has led to your having a natural flair for crime. I want you to investigate a certain crime. I have ordered a certain sum to be placed so that if you accept this request and as a result of your investigation this crime is properly elucidated, the money will become yours absolutely. I have set aside a year for you to engage on this mission. You are not young, but you are, if I may say so, tough. I think I can trust a reasonable fate to keep you alive for a year at least.

  I think the work involved will not be distasteful to you. You have a natural genius, I should say, for investigation. The necessary funds for what I may describe as working capital for making this investigation will be remitted to you during that period, whenever necessary. I offer this to you as an alternative to what may be your life at present.

  I envisage you sitting in a chair, a chair that is agreeable and comfortable for whatever kind or form of rheumatism from which you may suffer. All persons of your age, I consider, are likely to suffer from some form of rheumatism. If this ailment affects your knees or your back, it will not be easy for you to get about much and you will spend your time mainly in knitting. I see you, as I saw you once one night as I rose from sleep disturbed by your urgency, in a cloud of pink wool.

  I envisage you knitting more jackets, head scarves and a good many other things of which I do not know the name. If you prefer to continue knitting, that is your decision. If you prefer to serve the cause of justice, I hope that you may at least find it interesting.

  Let justice roll down like waters.

  And righteousness like an everlasting stream.

  Amos.”

  Three

  MISS MARPLE TAKES ACTION

  I

  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 thin
gs, 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.”

  II

  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.”

  III

  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.

  IV

  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 roundabout 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 remarriage. 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.”