He were smart, Jackie Afflick were. Whoever did that it was just spite.” “Was there anybody who had a down on Miss Helen? Who would be likely to feel spiteful?” Old Manning chuckled softly.
“Some of the young ladies might have felt spiteful all right. Not a patch on Miss Helen to look at, most of ’em weren’t. No, I’d say that was done just in foolishness.
Some tramp with a grudge.” “Was Helen very upset about Jackie Afflick?” asked Gwenda.
“Don’t think as Miss Helen cared much about any of the young fellows. Just liked to enjoy herself, that’s all. Very devoted some of them were — young Mr. Walter Fane, for one. Used to follow her round like a dog.” “But she didn’t care for him at all?” “Not Miss Helen. Just laughed — that’s all she did. Went abroad to foreign parts, he did. But he come back later. Top one in the firm he is now. Never married. I don’t blame him. Women causes a lot of trouble in a man’s life.” “Are you married?” asked Gwenda.
“Buried two, I have,” said old Manning.
“Ar, well, I can’t complain. Smoke me pipe in peace where I likes now.” In the ensuing silence, he picked up his rake again.
Giles and Gwenda walked back up the path towards the house and Miss Marple desisting from her attack on bindweed joined them.
“Miss Marple,” said Gwenda. “You don’t look well. Is there anything — ” “It’s nothing, my dear.” The old lady paused for a moment before saying with a strange kind of insistence, “You know, I don’t like that bit about the tennis net.
Cutting it to ribbons. Even then — ” She stopped. Giles looked at her curiously.
“I don’t quite understand — ” he began.
“Don’t you? It seems so horribly plain to me. But perhaps it’s better that you shouldn’t understand. And anyway — perhaps I am wrong. Now do tell me how you got on in Northumberland.” They gave her an account of their activities, and Miss Marple listened attentively.
“It’s really all very sad,” said Gwenda.
“Quite tragic, in fact.” “Yes, indeed. Poor thing — poor thing.” “That’s what I felt. How that man must suffer — ” “He? Oh yes. Yes, of course.” “But you meant — ” “Well, yes — I was thinking of her — of the wife. Probably very deeply in love with him, and he married her because she was suitable, or because he was sorry for her, or for one of those quite kindly and sensible reasons that men often have, and which are actually so terribly unfair.” “I know a hundred ways of love, And each one makes the loved one rue,” quoted Giles softly.
Miss Marple turned to him.
“Yes, that is so true. Jealousy, you know, is usually not an affair of causes. It is much more — how shall I say? — fundamental than that. Based on the knowledge that one’s love is not returned. And so one goes on waiting, watching, expecting… that the loved one will turn to someone else.
Which, again, invariably happens. So this Mrs. Erskine has made life a hell for her husband, and he, without being able to help it, has made life a hell for her. But I think she has suffered most. And yet, you know, I dare say he is really quite fond ofher.” “He can’t be,” cried Gwenda.
“Oh, my dear, you are very young. He has never left his wife, and that means something, you know.” “Because of the children. Because it was his duty.” “The children, perhaps,” said Miss Marple. “But I must confess that gentlemen do not seem to me to have a great regard for duty in so far as their wives are concerned–public service is another matter.” Giles laughed.
“What a wonderful cynic you are, Miss Marple.” “Oh dear, Mr. Reed, I do hope not that. One always has hope for human nature.” “I still don’t feel it can have been Walter Fane,” said Gwenda thoughtfully.
“And I’m sure it wasn’t Major Erskine.
In fact I know it wasn’t.” “One’s feelings are not always reliable guides,” said Miss Marple. “The most unlikely people do things — quite a sensation there was in my own little village when the Treasurer of the Christmas Club was found to have put every penny of the funds on a horse. He disapproved of horse-racing and indeed any kind of betting or gambling. His father had been a Turf Agent and had treated his mother very badly–so, intellectually speaking, he was quite sincere. But he chanced one day to be motoring near Newmarket and saw some horses training. And then it all came over him — blood does tell.” “The antecedents of both Walter Fane and Richard Erskine seem above suspicion,” said Giles gravely but with a slight amused twist to his mouth. “But then murder is by way of being an amateur crime.” “The important thing is,” said Miss Marple, “that they were there. On the spot. Walter Fane was here in Dillmouth.