‘Pinched my husband’s revolver, he did,’ went on Mrs Eccles. ‘Without our knowing. Then it seems he come here by bus. I suppose that was nice feeling on his part. He wouldn’t have liked to do it in our house.’
‘Poor fellow, poor fellow,’ said Mr Eccles, with a sigh. ‘It doesn’t do to judge.’
There was another short pause, and Mr Eccles said, ‘Did he leave a message? Any last words, nothing like that?’
His bright, rather pig-like eyes watched Bunch closely. Mrs Eccles, too, leaned forward as though anxious for the reply.
‘No,’ said Bunch quietly. ‘He came into the church when he was dying, for sanctuary.’
Mrs Eccles said in a puzzled voice. ‘Sanctuary? I don’t think I quite …’
Mr Eccles interrupted. ‘Holy place, my dear,’ he said impatiently. ‘That’s what the vicar’s wife means. It’s a sin—suicide, you know. I expect he wanted to make amends.’
‘He tried to say something just before he died,’ said Bunch. ‘He began, “Please,” but that’s as far as he got.’
Mrs Eccles put her handkerchief to her eyes and sniffed. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘It’s terribly upsetting, isn’t it?’
‘There, there, Pam,’ said her husband. ‘Don’t take on. These things can’t be helped. Poor Willie. Still, he’s at peace now. Well, thank you very much, Mrs Harmon. I hope we haven’t interrupted you. A vicar’s wife is a busy lady, we know that.’
They shook hands with her. Then Eccles turned back suddenly to say, ‘Oh yes, there’s just one other thing. I think you’ve got his coat here, haven’t you?’
‘His coat?’ Bunch frowned.
Mrs Eccles said, ‘We’d like all his things, you know. Sentimental-like.’
‘He had a watch and a wallet and a railway ticket in the pockets,’ said Bunch. ‘I gave them to Sergeant Hayes.’
‘That’s all right, then,’ said Mr Eccles. ‘He’ll hand them over to us, I expect. His private papers would be in the wallet.’
‘There was a pound note in the wallet,’ said Bunch. ‘Nothing else.’
‘No letters? Nothing like that?’
Bunch shook her head.
‘Well, thank you again, Mrs Harmon. The coat he was wearing—perhaps the sergeant’s got that too, has he?’
Bunch frowned in an effort of remembrance.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think … let me see. The doctor and I took his coat off to examine his wound.’ She looked round the room vaguely. ‘I must have taken it upstairs with the towels and basin.’
‘I wonder now, Mrs Harmon, if you don’t mind … We’d like his coat, you know, the last thing he wore. Well, the wife feels rather sentimental about it.’
‘Of course,’ said Bunch. ‘Would you like me to have it cleaned first? I’m afraid it’s rather—well—stained.’
‘Oh, no, no, no, that doesn’t matter.’
Bunch frowned. ‘Now I wonder where … excuse me a moment.’ She went upstairs and it was some few minutes before she returned.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said breathlessly, ‘my daily woman must have put it aside with other clothes that were going to the cleaners. It’s taken me quite a long time to find it. Here it is. I’ll do it up for you in brown paper.’
Disclaiming their protests she did so; then once more effusively bidding her farewell the Eccleses departed.
Bunch went slowly back across the hall and entered the study. The Reverend Julian Harmon looked up and his brow cleared. He was composing a sermon and was fearing that he’d been led astray by the interest of the political relations between Judaea and Persia, in the reign of Cyrus.
‘Yes, dear?’ he said hopefully.
‘Julian,’ said Bunch. ‘What’s Sanctuary exactly?’
Julian Harmon gratefully put aside his sermon paper.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Sanctuary in Roman and Greek temples applied to the cella in which stood the statue of a god. The Latin word for altar “ara” also means protection.’ He continued learnedly: ‘In three hundred and ninety-nine A.D. the right of sanctuary in Christian churches was finally and definitely recognized. The earliest mention of the right of sanctuary in England is in the Code of Laws issued by Ethelbert in A.D. six hundred …’
He continued for some time with his exposition but was, as often, disconcerted by his wife’s reception of his erudite pronouncement.
‘Darling,’ she said. ‘You are sweet.’
Bending over, she kissed him on the tip of his nose. Julian felt rather like a dog who has been congratulated on performing a clever trick.
‘The Eccleses have been here,’ said Bunch.
The vicar frowned. ‘The Eccleses? I don’t seem to remember …’
‘You don’t know them. They’re the sister and her husband of the man in the church.’
‘My dear, you ought to have called me.’
‘There wasn’t any need,’ said Bunch. ‘They were not in need of consolation. I wonder now …’ She frowned. ‘If I put a casserole in the oven tomorrow, can you manage, Julian? I think I shall go up to London for the sales.’
‘The sails?’ Her husband looked at her blankly. ‘Do you mean a yacht or a boat or something?’
Bunch laughed. ‘No, darling. There’s a special white sale at Burrows and Portman’s. You know, sheets, table cloths and towels and glass-cloths. I don’t know what we do with our glass-cloths, the way they wear through. Besides,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘I think I ought to go and see Aunt Jane.’
That sweet old lady, Miss Jane Marple, was enjoying the delights of the metropolis for a fortnight, comfortably installed in her nephew’s studio flat.
‘So kind of dear Raymond,’ she murmured. ‘He and Joan have gone to America for a fortnight and they insisted I should come up here and enjoy myself. And now, dear Bunch, do tell me what it is that’s worrying you.’
Bunch was Miss Marple’s favourite godchild, and the old lady looked at her with great affection as Bunch, thrusting her best felt hat farther on the back of her head, started her story.
Bunch’s recital was concise and clear. Miss Marple nodded her head as Bunch finished. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Yes, I see.’
‘That’s why I felt I had to see you,’ said Bunch. ‘You see, not being clever—’
‘But you are clever, my dear.’
‘No, I’m not. Not clever like Julian.’
‘Julian, of course, has a very solid intellect,’ said Miss Marple.
‘That’s it,’ said Bunch. ‘Julian’s got the intellect, but on the other hand, I’ve got the sense.’
‘You have a lot of common sense, Bunch, and you’re very intelligent.’
‘You see, I don’t really know what I ought to do. I can’t ask Julian because—well, I mean, Julian’s so full of rectitude …’
This statement appeared to be perfectly understood by Miss Marple, who said, ‘I know what you mean, dear. We women—well, it’s different.’ She went on. ‘You told me what happened, Bunch, but I’d like to know first exactly what you think.’