manner of someone explaining the simple
facts of arithmetic to a small child, outlined
her theory.
“He’s always been like that, you see. I
mean, he’s always been bad. Bad all through,
although with it he’s always been attractive.
Especially attractive to women. He’s got a
brilliant mind and he’ll take risks. He’s
always taken risks and because of his charm
people have always believed the best and not
the worst about him. He came home in the
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summer to see his father. I don’t believe for a
moment that his father wrote to him or sent
for him–unless, of course, you’ve got actual
evidence to that effect.” She paused inquiringly.
Neele shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’ve
no evidence of his father sending for him.
I’ve got a letter that Lance is supposed to
have written to him after being here. But
Lance could quite easily have slipped that
among his father’s papers in the study here
the day he arrived.”
“Sharp of him,” said Miss Marple, nodding
her head. “Well, as I say, he probably
flew over here and attempted a reconciliation
with his father, but Mr. Fortescue wouldn’t
have it. You see. Lance had recently got
married and the small pittance he was living
on and which he had doubtless been
supplementing in various dishonest ways,
was not enough for him any more. He was
very much in love with Pat (who is a dear,
sweet girl) and he wanted a respectable, settled life with her–nothing shifty. And
that, from his point of view, meant having a
lot of money. When he was at Yewtree Lodge
he must have heard about these blackbirds.
Perhaps his father mentioned them. Perhaps
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Adele did. He jumped to the conclusion that
MacKenzie’s daughter was established in the
house and it occurred to him that she would
make a very good scapegoat for murder.
Because, you see, when he realised that he
couldn’t get his father to do what he wanted,
he must have cold-bloodedly decided that
murder it would have to be. He may have
realised that his father wasn’t—er, very
well—and have feared that by the time his
father died there would have been a complete
crash.”
“He knew about his father’s health all
right,” said the Inspector.
“Ah—that explains a good deal. Perhaps
the coincidence of his father’s Christian name
being Rex together with the blackbird
incident suggested the idea of the nursery
rhyme. Make a crazy business of the whole
thing—and tie it up with that old revenge
threat of the MacKenzies. Then, you see, he
could dispose of Adele, too, and that hundred
thousand pounds going out of the firm. But
there would have to be a third character,
the ‘maid in the garden hanging out the
clothes’—and I suppose that suggested the
whole wicked plan to him. An innocent
accomplice whom he could silence before she
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could talk. And that would give him what he
wanted—a genuine alibi for the first murder.
The rest was easy. He arrived here from the
station just before five o’clock, which was the
time when Gladys brought the second tray
into the hall. He came to the side door, saw
her and beckoned to her. Strangling her and
carrying her body round the house to where
the clothes lines were would only have taken
three or four minutes. Then he rang the
front-door bell, was admitted to the house,
and joined the family for tea. After tea he
went up to see Miss Ramsbottom. When he
came down, he slipped into the drawingroom,
found Adele alone there drinking a last
cup of tea and sat down by her on the sofa,
and while he was talking to her, he managed
to slip the cyanide into her tea. It wouldn’t be
difficult, you know. A little piece of white
stuff, like sugar. He might have stretched out
his hand to the sugar basin and taken a lump
and apparently dropped it into her cup. He’d
laugh and say ‘Look, I’ve dropped more
sugar into your tea.’ She’d say she didn’t
mind, stir it and drink it. It would be as easy
and audacious as that. Yes, he’s an audacious