She broke off the conversation at this stage and took in the coffee tray and put it down by Miss Marple’s side.
‘Do you know a woman who lives in a new house somewhere here, she’s called Mrs Hastings?’ asked Miss Marple. ‘And someone called Miss Bartlett, I think it is, who lives with her—’
‘What—do you mean the house that’s been all done up and repainted at the end of the village? The people there haven’t been there very long. I don’t know what their names are. Why do you want to know? They’re not very interesting. At least I shouldn’t say they were.’
‘Are they related?’ asked Miss Marple.
‘No. Just friends, I think.’
‘I wonder why—’ said Miss Marple, and broke off.
‘You wondered why what?’
‘Nothing,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Clear my little hand desk, will you, and give me my pen and the notepaper. I’m going to write a letter.’
‘Who to?’ said Cherry, with the natural curiosity of her kind.
‘To a clergyman’s sister,’ said Miss Marple. ‘His name is Canon Prescott.’
‘That’s the one you met abroad, in the West Indies, isn’t it? You showed me his photo in your album.’
‘Yes.’
‘Not feeling bad, are you? Wanting to write to a clergyman and all that?’
‘I’m feeling extremely well,’ said Miss Marple, ‘and I am anxious to get busy on something. It’s just possible Miss Prescott might help.’
‘Dear Miss Prescott,’ wrote Miss Marple, ‘I hope you have not forgotten me. I met you and your brother in the West Indies, if you remember, at St Honoré. I hope the dear Canon is well and did not suffer much with his asthma in the cold weather last winter.
I am writing to ask you if you can possibly let me have the address of Mrs Walters—Esther Walters—whom you may remember from the Caribbean days. She was a secretary to Mr Rafiel. She did give me her address at the time, but unfortunately I have mislaid it. I was anxious to write to her as I have some horticultural information which she asked me about but which I was not able to tell her at the time. I heard in a round-about way the other day that she had married again, but I don’t think my informant was very certain of these facts. Perhaps you know more about her than I do.
I hope this is not troubling you too much. With kind regards to your brother and best wishes to yourself,
Yours sincerely,
Jane Marple.’
Miss Marple felt better when she had despatched this missive.
‘At least,’ she said, ‘I’ve started doing something. Not that I hope much from this, but still it might help.’
Miss Prescott answered the letter almost by return of post. She was a most efficient woman. She wrote a pleasant letter and enclosed the address in question.
‘I have not heard anything directly about Esther Walters,’ she said, ‘but like you I heard from a friend that they had seen a notice of her re-marriage. Her name now is, I believe, Mrs Alderson or Anderson. Her address is Winslow Lodge, near Alton, Hants. My brother sends his best wishes to you. It is sad that we live so far apart. We in the north of England and you south of London. I hope that we may meet on some occasion in the future.
Yours sincerely,
Joan Prescott.’
‘Winslow Lodge, Alton,’ said Miss Marple, writing it down. ‘Not so far away from here, really. No. Not so far away. I could—I don’t know what would be the best method—possibly one of Inch’s taxis. Slightly extravagant, but if anything results from it, it could be charged as expenses quite legitimately. Now do I write to her beforehand or do I leave it to chance? I think it would be better really, to leave it to chance. Poor Esther. She could hardly remember me with any affection or kindliness.’
Miss Marple lost herself in a train of thought that arose from her thoughts. It was quite possible that her actions in the Caribbean had saved Esther Walters from being murdered in the not far distant future. At any rate, that was Miss Marple’s belief, but probably Esther Walters had not believed any such thing. ‘A nice woman,’ said Miss Marple, uttering the words in a soft tone aloud, ‘a very nice woman. The kind that would so easily marry a bad lot. In fact, the sort of woman that would marry a murderer if she were ever given half a chance. I still consider,’ continued Miss Marple thoughtfully, sinking her voice still lower, ‘that I probably saved her life. In fact, I am almost sure of it, but I don’t think she would agree with that point of view. She probably dislikes me very much. Which makes it more difficult to use her as a source of information. Still, one can but try. It’s better than sitting here, waiting, waiting, waiting.’
Was Mr Rafiel perhaps making fun of her when he had written that letter? He was not always a particularly kindly man—he could be very careless of people’s feelings.
‘Anyway,’ said Miss Marple, glancing at the clock and deciding that she would have an early night in bed, ‘when one thinks of things just before going to sleep, quite often ideas come. It may work out that way.’
‘Sleep well?’ asked Cherry, as she put down an early morning tea tray on the table at Miss Marple’s elbow.
‘I had a curious dream,’ said Miss Marple.
‘Nightmare?’
‘No, no, nothing of that kind. I was talking to someone, not anyone I knew very well. Just talking. Then when I looked, I saw it wasn’t that person at all I was talking to. It was somebody else. Very odd.’
‘Bit of a mix up,’ said Cherry, helpfully.
‘It just reminded me of something,’ said Miss Marple, ‘or rather of someone I once knew. Order Inch for me, will you? To come here about half past eleven.’
Inch was part of Miss Marple’s past. Originally the proprietor of a cab, Mr Inch had died, been succeeded by his son ‘Young Inch,’ then aged forty-four, who had turned the family business into a garage and acquired two aged cars. On his decease the garage acquired a new owner. There had been since then Pip’s Cars, James’s Taxis and Arthur’s Car Hire—old inhabitants still spoke of Inch.
‘Not going to London, are you?’
‘No, I’m not going to London. I shall have lunch perhaps in Haslemere.’
‘Now what are you up to now?’ said Cherry, looking at her suspiciously.
‘Endeavouring to meet someone by accident and make it seem purely natural,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Not really very easy, but I hope that I can manage it.’
At half past eleven the taxi waited. Miss Marple instructed Cherry.
‘Ring up this number, will you, Cherry? Ask if Mrs Anderson is at home. If Mrs Anderson answers or if she is going to come to the telephone, say a Mr Broadribb wants to speak to her. You,’ said Miss Marple, ‘are Mr Broadribb’s secretary. If she’s out, find out what time she will be in.’
‘And if she is in and I get her?’
‘Ask what day she could arrange to meet Mr Broadribb at his office in London next week. When she tells you, make a note of it and ring off.’
‘The things you think of! Why all this? Why do you want me to do it?’
‘Memory is a curious thing,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Sometimes one remembers a voice even if one hasn’t heard it for over a year.’
‘Well,