There was nothing in the letter he had written her to give her the slightest clue as to what this business was all about. It was no help to her whatsoever. Mr Rafiel, she thought, had very definitely not meant it to be of any help. He had had—how could she put it?—other ideas. All the same, she could not start out into the blue knowing nothing. This could almost be described as a crossword puzzle with no clues given. There would have to be clues. She would have to know what she was wanted to do, where she was wanted to go, whether she was to solve some problem sitting in her armchair and laying aside her knitting needles in order to concentrate better. Or did Mr Rafiel intend her to take a plane or a boat to the West Indies or to South America or to some other specially directed spot? She would either have to find out for herself what it was she was meant to do, or else she would have to receive definite instructions. He might think she had sufficient ingenuity to guess at things, to ask questions, to find out that way? No, she couldn’t quite believe that.
‘If he does think that,’ said Miss Marple aloud, ‘he’s gaga. I mean, he was gaga before he died.’
But she didn’t think Mr Rafiel would have been gaga.
‘I shall receive instructions,’ said Miss Marple. ‘But what instructions and when?’
It was only then that it occurred to her suddenly that without noticing it she had definitely accepted the mandate. She spoke aloud again, addressing the atmosphere.
‘I believe in eternal life,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I don’t know exactly where you are, Mr Rafiel, but I have no doubt that you are somewhere—I will do my best to fulfil your wishes.’
It was three days later when Miss Marple wrote to Mr Broadribb. It was a very short letter, keeping strictly to the point.
‘Dear Mr Broadribb,
I have considered the suggestion you made to me and I am letting you know that I have decided to accept the proposal made to me by the late Mr Rafiel. I shall do my best to comply with his wishes, though I am not at all assured of success. Indeed, I hardly see how it is possible for me to be successful. I have been given no direct instructions in his letter and have not been—I think the term is briefed—in any way. If you have any further communication you are holding for me which sets out definite instructions, I should be glad if you will send it to me, but I imagine that as you have not done so, that is not the case.
I presume that Mr Rafiel was of sound mind and disposition when he died? I think I am justified in asking if there has been recently in his life any criminal affair in which he might possibly have been interested, either in the course of his business or in his personal relations. Has he ever expressed to you any anger or dissatisfaction with some notable miscarriage of justice about which he felt strongly? If so, I think I should be justified in asking you to let me know about it. Has any relation or connection of his suffered some hardship, lately been the victim of some unjust dealing, or what might be considered as such?
I am sure you will understand my reasons for asking these things. Indeed, Mr Rafiel himself may have expected me to do so.’
Mr Broadribb showed this to Mr Schuster, who leaned back in his chair and whistled.
‘She’s going to take it on, is she? Sporting old bean,’ he said. Then he added, ‘I suppose she knows something of what it’s all about, does she?’
‘Apparently not,’ said Mr Broadribb.
‘I wish we did,’ said Mr Schuster. ‘He was an odd cuss.’
‘A difficult man,’ said Mr Broadribb.
‘I haven’t got the least idea,’ said Mr Schuster, ‘have you?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Mr Broadribb. He added, ‘He didn’t want me to have, I suppose.’
‘Well, he’s made things a lot more difficult by doing that. I don’t see the least chance that some old pussy from the country can interpret a dead man’s brain and know what fantasy was plaguing him. You don’t think he was leading her up the garden path? Having her on? Sort of joke, you know. Perhaps he thinks that she thinks she’s the cat’s whiskers at solving village problems, but he’s going to teach her a sharp lesson—’
‘No,’ said Mr Broadribb, ‘I don’t quite think that. Rafiel wasn’t that type of man.’
‘He was a mischievous devil sometimes,’ said Mr Schuster.
‘Yes, but not—I think he was serious over this. Something was worrying him. In fact I’m quite sure something was worrying him.’
‘And he didn’t tell you what it was or give you the least idea?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Then how the devil can he expect—’ Schuster broke off.
‘He can’t really have expected anything to come of this,’ said Mr Broadribb. ‘I mean, how is she going to set about it?’
‘A practical joke, if you ask me.’
‘Twenty thousand pounds is a lot of money.’
‘Yes, but if he knows she can’t do it?’
‘No,’ said Mr Broadribb. ‘He wouldn’t have been as unsporting as all that. He must think she’s got a chance of doing or finding out whatever it is.’
‘And what do we do?’
‘Wait,’ said Mr Broadribb. ‘Wait and see what happens next. After all, there has to be some development.’
‘Got some sealed orders somewhere, have you?’
‘My dear Schuster,’ said Mr Broadribb, ‘Mr Rafiel had implicit trust in my discretion and in my ethical conduct as a lawyer. Those sealed instructions are to be opened only under certain circumstances, none of which has yet arisen.’
‘And never will,’ said Mr Schuster.
That ended the subject.
Mr Broadribb and Mr Schuster were lucky in so much as they had a full professional life to lead. Miss Marple was not so fortunate. She knitted and she reflected and she also went out for walks, occasionally remonstrated with by Cherry for so doing.
‘You know what the doctor said. You weren’t to take too much exercise.’
‘I walk very slowly,’ said Miss Marple, ‘and I am not doing anything. Digging, I mean, or weeding. I just—well, I just put one foot in front of the other and wonder about things.’
‘What things?’ asked Cherry, with some interest.
‘I wish I knew,’ said Miss Marple, and asked Cherry to bring her an extra scarf as there was a chilly wind.
‘What’s fidgeting her, that’s what I would like to know,’ said Cherry to her husband as she set before him a Chinese plate of rice and a concoction of kidneys. ‘Chinese dinner,’ she said.
Her husband nodded approval
‘You get a better cook every day,’ he said.
‘I’m worried about her,’ said Cherry. ‘I’m worried because she’s worried a bit. She