‘And that’s fair enough,’ sighed Craddock. ‘If anyone is really determined to lend you a book, you never can get out of it!’
‘We don’t know if Edmund Swettenham was up there. He’s extremely vague. Said he did drop in occasionally on errands for his mother, but thinks not lately.’
‘In fact, it’s all inconclusive.’
‘Yes.’
Rydesdale said, with a slight grin:
‘Miss Marple has also been active. Fletcher reports that she had morning coffee at the Bluebird. She’s been to sherry at Boulders, and to tea at Little Paddocks. She’s admired Mrs Swettenham’s garden—and dropped in to see Colonel Easterbrook’s Indian curios.’
‘She may be able to tell us if Colonel Easterbrook’s a pukka Colonel or not.’
‘She’d know, I agree—he seems all right. We’d have to check with the Far Eastern Authorities to get certain identification.’
‘And in the meantime’—Craddock broke off—‘do you think Miss Blacklock would consent to go away?’
‘Go away from Chipping Cleghorn?’
‘Yes. Take the faithful Bunner with her, perhaps, and leave for an unknown destination. Why shouldn’t she go up to Scotland and stay with Belle Goedler? It’s a pretty unget-at-able place.’
‘Stop there and wait for her to die? I don’t think she’d do that. I don’t think any nice-natured woman would like that suggestion.’
‘If it’s a matter of saving her life—’
‘Come now, Craddock, it isn’t quite so easy to bump someone off as you seem to think.’
‘Isn’t it, sir?’
‘Well—in one way—it’s easy enough I agree. Plenty of methods. Weed-killer. A bash on the head when she’s out shutting up the poultry, a pot shot from behind a hedge. All quite simple. But to bump someone off and not be suspected of bumping them off—that’s not quite so easy. And they must realize by now that they’re all under observation. The original carefully planned scheme failed. Our unknown murderer has got to think up something else.’
‘I know that, sir. But there’s the time element to consider. Mrs Goedler’s a dying woman—she might pop off any minute. That means that our murderer can’t afford to wait.’
‘True.’
‘And another thing, sir. He—or she—must know that we’re checking up on everybody.’
‘And that takes time,’ said Rydesdale with a sigh. ‘It means checking with the East, with India. Yes, it’s a long tedious business.’
‘So that’s another reason for—hurry. I’m sure, sir, that the danger is very real. It’s a very large sum that’s at stake. If Belle Goedler dies—’
He broke off as a constable entered.
‘Constable Legg on the line from Chipping Cleghorn, sir.’
‘Put him through here.’
Inspector Craddock, watching the Chief Constable, saw his features harden and stiffen.
‘Very good,’ barked Rydesdale. ‘Detective-Inspector Craddock will be coming out immediately.’
He put the receiver down.
‘Is it—?’ Craddock broke off.
Rydesdale shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s Dora Bunner. She wanted some aspirin. Apparently she took some from a bottle beside Letitia Blacklock’s bed. There were only a few tablets left in the bottle. She took two and left one. The doctor’s got that one and is sending it to be analysed. He says it’s definitely not aspirin.’
‘She’s dead?’
‘Yes, found dead in her bed this morning. Died in her sleep, doctor says. He doesn’t think it was natural though her health was in a bad state. Narcotic poisoning, that’s his guess. Autopsy’s fixed for tonight.’
‘Aspirin tablets by Letitia Blacklock’s bed. The clever clever devil. Patrick told me Miss Blacklock threw away a half bottle of sherry—opened a new one. I don’t suppose she’d have thought of doing that with an open bottle of aspirin. Who had been in the house this time—within the last day or two? The tablets can’t have been there long.’
Rydesdale looked at him.
‘All our lot were there yesterday,’ he said. ‘Birthday party for Miss Bunner. Any of them could have nipped upstairs and done a neat little substitution. Or of course anyone living in the house could have done it any time.’
Chapter 17
The Album
Standing by the Vicarage gate, well wrapped up, Miss Marple took the note from Bunch’s hand.
‘Tell Miss Blacklock,’ said Bunch, ‘that Julian is terribly sorry he can’t come up himself. He’s got a parishioner dying out at Locke Hamlet. He’ll come up after lunch if Miss Blacklock would like to see him. The note’s about the arrangements for the funeral. He suggests Wednesday if the inquest’s on Tuesday. Poor old Bunny. It’s so typical of her, somehow, to get hold of poisoned aspirin meant for someone else. Goodbye, darling. I hope the walk won’t be too much for you. But I’ve simply got to get that child to hospital at once.’