Chapter XXI

I cannot say that I have at any time a great admiration for Mr. Raymond West. He is, I know, supposed to be a brilliant novelist and has made quite a flame as a poet. His poems have no capital letters in them, which is, I believe, the essence of modernity. His books are about unpleasant people leading lives of surpassing dullness.

He has a tolerant affection for " Aunt Jane, " whom he alludes to in her presence as a " survival. "

She listens to his talk with a flattering interest, and if there is sometimes an amused twinkle in her eye I am sure he never notices it.

He fastened on Griselda at once with flattering abruptness. They discussed modern plays and from there went on to modern schemes of decoration. Griselda affects to laugh at Raymond West, but she is, I think, susceptible to his conversation.

During my (dull) conversation with Miss Marple, I heard at intervals the reiteration " buried as you are down here. "

It began at last to irritate me. I said suddenly:

" I suppose you consider us very much out of things down here? "

Raymond West waved his cigarette.

" I regard St. Mary Mead, " he said authoritatively, " as a stagnant pool. "

He looked at us, prepared for resentment at his statement, but somewhat, I think, to his chagrin, no one displayed annoyance.

" That is really not a very good simile, dear Raymond, " said Miss Marple briskly. " Nothing, I believe, is so full of life under the microscope as a drop of water from a stagnant pool. "

" Life — of a kind, " admitted the novelist.

" It's all much the same kind, really, isn't it? " said Miss Marple.

" You compare yourself to a denizen of a stagnant pond, Aunt Jane? "

" My dear, you said something of the sort in your last book I remember. "

No clever young man likes having his works quoted against himself. Raymond West was no exception.

" That was entirely different, " he snapped.

" Life is, after all, very much the same everywhere, " said Miss Marple in her placid voice. " Getting born, you know, and growing up — and coming into contact with other people — getting jostled — and then marriage and more babies —"

" And finally death, " said Raymond West. " And not death with a death certificate always. Death in life. "

" Talking of death, " said Griselda. " You know we've had a murder here? "

Raymond West waved murder away with his cigarette.

" Murder is so crude, " he said. " I take no interest in it. "

That statement did not take me in for a moment. They say all the world loves a lover — apply that saying to murder and you have an even more infallible truth. No one can fail to be interested in a murder. Simple people like Griselda and myself can admit the fact, but any one like Raymond West has to pretend to be bored — at anyrate for the first five minutes.

Miss Marple, however, gave her nephew away by remarking:

" Raymond and I have been discussing nothing else all through dinner. "

" I take a great interest in all the local news, " said Raymond hastily. He smiled benignly and tolerantly at Miss Marple.

" Have you a theory, Mr. West? " asked Griselda.

" Logically, " said Raymond West, again flourishing his cigarette, " only one person could have killed Protheroe. "

" Yes? " said Griselda.

We hung upon his words with flattering attention.

" The vicar, " said Raymond, and pointed an accusing finger at me.

I gasped.

" Of course, " he reassured me, " I know you didn't do it. Life is never what it should be. But think of the drama — the fitness — churchwarden murdered in the vicar's study by the vicar. Delicious! "

" And the motive? " I inquired.

" Oh! that's interesting. " He sat up — allowed his cigarette to go out. " Inferiority complex, I think. Possibly too many inhibitions. I should like to write the story of the affair. Amazingly complex. Week after week, year after year, he's seen the man — at vestry meetings — at choir‑ boys' outings — handing round the bag in church — bringing it to the altar. Always he dislikes the man — always he chokes down his dislike. It's un‑ Christian, he won't encourage it. And so it festers underneath, and one day —"

He made a graphic gesture.

Griselda turned to me.

" Have you ever felt like that, Len? "

" Never, " I said truthfully.

" Yet I hear you were wishing him out of the world not so long ago, " remarked Miss Marple.

(That miserable Dennis! But my fault, of course, for ever making the remark. )

" I'm afraid I was, " I said. " It was a stupid remark to make, but really I'd had a very trying morning with him. "

" That's disappointing, " said Raymond West. " Because, of course, if your subconscious were really planning to do him in, it would never have allowed you to make that remark. "

He sighed.

" My theory falls to the ground. This is probably a very ordinary murder — a revengeful poacher or something of that sort. "

" Miss Cram came to see me this afternoon, '' said Miss Marple. " I met her in the village and I asked her if she would like to see my garden. "

" Is she fond of gardens? " asked Griselda.

" I don't think so, " said Miss Marple, with a faint twinkle. " But it makes a very useful excuse for talk, don't you think? "

" What did you make of her? " asked Griselda. " I don't believe she's really so bad. "

" She volunteered a lot of information — really a lot of information, " said Miss Marple. " About herself, you know, and her people. They all seem to be dead or in India. Very sad. By the way, she has gone to Old Hall for the week‑ end. "

" What? "

" Yes, it seems Mrs. Protheroe asked her — or she suggested it to Mrs. Protheroe — I don't quite know which way about it was. To do some secretarial work for her — there are so many letters to cope with. It turned out rather fortunately. Dr. Stone being away, she has nothing to do. What an excitement this barrow has been. "

" Stone? " said Raymond. " Is that the archæ ologist fellow? "

" Yes, he is excavating a barrow. On the Protheroe property. "

" He's a good man, " said Raymond. " Wonderfully keen on his job. I met him at a dinner not long ago and we had a most interesting talk. I must look him up. "

" Unfortunately, " I said, " he's just gone to London for the week‑ end. Why, you actually ran into him at the station this afternoon. "

" I ran into you. You had a little fat man with you — with glasses on. "

" Yes — Dr. stone. "

" But, my dear fellow — that wasn't Stone. "

" Not Stone? "

" Not the archæ ologist. I know him quite well. The man wasn't Stone — not the faintest resemblance. "

We stared at each other. In particular I stared at Miss Marple.

" Extraordinary, " I said.

" The suit‑ case, " said Miss Marple.

" But why? " said Griselda.

" It reminds me of the time the man went round pretending to be the gas inspector, " murmured Miss Marple. " Quite a little haul, he got. "

" An impostor, " said Raymond West. " Now this is really interesting. "

" The question is, has it anything to do with the murder? " said Griselda.

" Not necessarily, " I said. " But —" I looked at Miss Marple.

" It is, " she said, " a Peculiar Thing. Another Peculiar Thing. "

" Yes, " I said, rising. " I rather feel the inspector ought to be told about this at once. "