Sir Henry said, “I’m glad to have your opinion of her. It’s valuable. Now, do you recall any incidents in which this matter was discussed between Mr. Jefferson and the members of his family?” “There was very little discussion, sir. Mr. Jefferson announced what he had in mind and stifled any protests. That is, he shut up Mr. Mark, who was a bit outspoken. Mrs. Jefferson didn’t say much — she’s a quiet lady — only urged him not to do anything in a great hurry.”
Sir Henry nodded. “Anything else? What was the girl’s attitude?”
With marked distaste the valet said, “I should describe it, Sir Henry, as jubilant.”
“Ah, jubilant, you say? You had no reason to believe, Edwards, that” — he sought about for a phrase suitable to Edwards — “that… er her affections were engaged elsewhere?”
“Mr. Jefferson was not proposing marriage, sir. He was going to adopt her.”
“Cut out the ‘elsewhere’ and let the question stand.”
The valet said slowly, “There was one incident, sir. I happened to be a witness of it.”
“That is gratifying. Tell me.”
“There is probably nothing in it, sir. It was just that one day, the young woman chancing to open her handbag, a small snapshot fell out. Mr. Jefferson pounced on it and said, “Hullo, kitten, who’s this, eh?”
“It was a snapshot, sir, of a young man, a dark young man with rather untidy hair, and his tie very badly arranged. Miss Keene pretended that she didn’t know anything about it. She said, ‘I’ve no idea, Jeffie. No idea at all. I don’t know how it could have got into my bag. I didn’t put it there.'”
“Now, Mr. Jefferson, sir, wasn’t quite a fool. That story wasn’t good enough. He looked angry, his brows came down heavy, and his voice was gruff when he said, ‘now then, kitten, now then. You know who it is right enough.” She changed her tactics quick, sir. Looked frightened. She said, ‘I do recognize him now. He comes here sometimes and I’ve danced with him. I don’t know his name. The silly idiot must have stuffed his photo into my bag one day. These boys are too silly for anything!’ She tossed her head and giggled and passed it off. But it wasn’t a likely story, was it? And I don’t think Mr. Jefferson quite believed it. He looked at her once or twice after that in a sharp way, and sometimes, if she’d been out, he asked her where she’d been.”
Sir Henry said, “Have you ever seen the original of the photo about the hotel?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir. Of course I am not much downstairs in the public apartments.”
Sir Henry nodded. He asked a few more questions, but Edwards could tell him nothing more.
In the police station at Danemouth Superintendent Harper was interviewing Jessie Davis, Florence Small, Beatrice Henniker, Mary Price and Lilian Ridgeway. They were girls much of an age, differing slightly in mentality. They ranged from “county” to fanners’ and shopkeepers’ daughters. One and all, they told the same story. Pamela Reeves had been just the same as usual; she had said nothing to any of them except that she was going to Woolworth’s and would go home by a later bus.
In the corner of Superintendent Harper’s office sat an elderly lady. The girls hardly noticed her. If they did they may have wondered who she was. She was certainly no police matron. Possibly they assumed that she, like them, was a witness to be questioned. The last girl was shown out. Superintendent Harper wiped his forehead and turned around to look at Miss Marple. His glance was inquiring, but not hopeful. Miss Marple, however, spoke crisply, “I’d like to speak to Florence Small.”
The superintendent’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded and touched a bell. A constable appeared. Harper said, “Florence Small.”
The girl reappeared, ushered in by the constable. She was the daughter of a well-to-do farmer, a tall girl with fair hair, a rather foolish mouth and frightened brown eyes. She was twisting her hands and looked nervous. Superintendent Harper looked at Miss Marple, who nodded. The superintendent got up. He said, “This lady will ask you some questions.” He went out, closing the door behind him.