Lots of love, darling, and buck up. This iodine treatment may make a lot of difference. I’ve been enquiring about it and it really does seem to have good results.
Your loving sister,
Letitia.
Miss Marple folded the letter and handed it back. She looked abstracted.
‘Well, what do you think about her?’ Craddock urged. ‘What picture do you get of her?’
‘Of Sonia? It’s difficult, you know, to see anyone through another person’s mind…Determined to get her own way—that, definitely, I think. And wanting the best of two worlds…’
‘Closing and unclosing her hands like an angry cat,’ murmured Craddock. ‘You know, that reminds me of someone…’
He frowned.
‘Making enquiries…’ murmured Miss Marple.
‘If we could get hold of the result of those inquiries,’ said Craddock.
‘Does that letter remind you of anything in St Mary Mead?’ asked Bunch, rather indistinctly since her mouth was full of pins.
‘I really can’t say it does, dear…Dr Blacklock is, perhaps, a little like Mr Curtiss the Wesleyan Minister. He wouldn’t let his child wear a plate on her teeth. Said it was the Lord’s Will if her teeth stuck out. “After all,” I said to him, “you do trim your beard and cut your hair. It might be the Lord’s Will that your hair should grow out.” He said that was quite different. So like a man. But that doesn’t help us with our present problem.’
‘We’ve never traced that revolver, you know. It wasn’t Rudi Scherz. If I knew who had had a revolver in Chipping Cleghorn—’
‘Colonel Easterbrook has one,’ said Bunch. ‘He keeps it in his collar drawer.’
‘How do you know, Mrs Harmon?’
‘Mrs Butt told me. She’s my daily. Or rather, my twice weekly. Being a military gentleman, she said, he’d naturally have a revolver and very handy it would be if burglars were to come along.’
‘When did she tell you this?’
‘Ages ago. About six months ago, I should think.’
‘Colonel Easterbrook?’ murmured Craddock.
‘It’s like those pointer things at fairs, isn’t it?’ said Bunch, still speaking through a mouthful of pins.
‘Go round and round and stop at something different every time.’
‘You’re telling me,’ said Craddock and groaned.
‘Colonel Easterbrook was up at Little Paddocks to leave a book there one day. He could have oiled that door then. He was quite straightforward about being there though. Not like Miss Hinchcliffe.’
Miss Marple coughed gently. ‘You must make allowances for the times we live in, Inspector,’ she said.
Craddock looked at her, uncomprehendingly.
‘After all,’ said Miss Marple. ‘you are the Police, aren’t you? People can’t say everything they’d like to say to the Police, can they?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Craddock. ‘Unless they’ve got some criminal matter to conceal.’
‘She means butter,’ said Bunch, crawling actively round a table leg to anchor a floating bit of paper.
‘Butter and corn for hens, and sometimes cream—and sometimes, even, a side of bacon.’
‘Show him that note from Miss Blacklock,’ said Miss Marple. ‘It’s some time ago now, but it reads like a first-class mystery story.’
‘What have I done with it? Is this the one you mean, Aunt Jane?’
Miss Marple took it and looked at it.
‘Yes,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘That’s the one.’
She handed it to the Inspector.
‘I have made inquiries—Thursday is the day,’ Miss Blacklock had written. ‘Any time after three. If there is any for me leave it in the usual place.’
Bunch spat out her pins and laughed. Miss Marple was watching the Inspector’s face.
The Vicar’s wife took upon herself to explain.
‘Thursday is the day one of the farms round here makes butter. They let anybody they like have a bit. It’s usually Miss Hinchcliffe who collects it. She’s very much in with all the farmers—because of her pigs, I think. But it’s all a bit hush hush, you know, a kind of local scheme of barter. One person gets butter, and sends along cucumbers, or something like that—and a little something when a pig’s killed. And now and then an animal has an accident and has to be destroyed. Oh, you know the sort of thing. Only one can’t, very well, say it right out to the Police. Because I suppose quite a lot of this barter is illegal—only nobody really knows because it’s all so complicated. But I expect Hinch had slipped into Little Paddocks with a pound of butter or something and had put it in the usual place. That’s a flour bin under the dresser, by the way. It doesn’t have flour in it.’