Nemesis

The two middle-aged ladies travelling together turned out to be Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow. Miss Marple still felt that one of these two, the fair one, Miss Cooke, was faintly familiar to her, but she still could not remember where she had seen her before. Probably it was only her fancy. It might also be just fancy but she could not help feeling that Miss Barrow and Miss Cooke appeared to be avoiding her. They seemed rather anxious to move away if she approached. That, of course, might be entirely her imagination.

Fifteen people, one of whom at least must matter in some way. In casual conversation that evening she introduced the name of Mr Rafiel, so as to note if anyone reacted in any way. Nobody did.

The handsome woman was identified as Miss Elizabeth Temple, who was the retired Headmistress of a famous girls’ school. Nobody appeared to Miss Marple likely to be a murderer except possibly Mr Caspar, and that was probably foreign prejudice. The thin young man was Richard Jameson, an architect.

‘Perhaps I shall do better tomorrow,’ said Miss Marple to herself.

Miss Marple went to bed definitely tired out. Sight-seeing was pleasant but exhausting, and trying to study fifteen or sixteen people at once and wondering as you did so which of them could possibly be connected with a murder, was even more exhausting. It had a touch of such unreality about it that one could not, Miss Marple felt, take it seriously. These seemed to be all perfectly nice people, the sort of people who go on cruises and on tours and all the rest of it. However, she took another quick and cursory glance at the passenger list, making a few little entries in her notebook.

Mrs Riseley-Porter? Not connected with crime. Too social and self-centred.

Niece, Joanna Crawford? The same? But very efficient.

Mrs Riseley-Porter, however, might have information of some kind which Miss Marple might find had a bearing on matters. She must keep on agreeable terms with Mrs Riseley-Porter.

Miss Elizabeth Temple? A personality. Interesting. She did not remind Miss Marple of any murderer she’d ever known. ‘In fact,’ said Miss Marple to herself, ‘she really radiates integrity. If she had committed a murder, it would be a very popular murder. Perhaps for some noble reason or for some reason that she thought noble?’ But that wasn’t satisfactory either. Miss Temple, she thought, would always know what she was doing and why she was doing it and would not have any silly ideas about nobility when merely evil existed. ‘All the same,’ said Miss Marple, ‘she’s someone and she might—she just might be a person Mr Rafiel wanted me to meet for some reason.’ She jotted down these thoughts on the right hand side of her notebook.

She shifted her point of view. She had been considering a possible murderer—what about a prospective victim? Who was a possible victim? No one very likely. Perhaps Mrs Riseley-Porter might qualify—rich—rather disagreeable. The efficient niece might inherit. She and the anarchistic Emlyn Price might combine in the cause of anti-capitalism. Not a very credible idea, but no other feasible murder seemed on offer.

Professor Wanstead? An interesting man, she was sure. Kindly, too. Was he a scientist or was he medical? She was not as yet sure, but she put him down on the side of science. She herself knew nothing of science, but it seemed not at all unlikely.

Mr and Mrs Butler? She wrote them off. Nice Americans. No connections with anyone in the West Indies or anyone she had known. No, she didn’t think that the Butlers could be relevant.

Richard Jameson? That was the thin architect. Miss Marple didn’t see how architecture could come into it, though it might, she supposed. A priest’s hole, perhaps? One of the houses they were going to visit might have a priest’s hole which would contain a skeleton. And Mr Jameson, being an architect, would know just where the priest’s hole was. He might aid her to discover it, or she might aid him to discover it and then they would find a body. ‘Oh really,’ said Miss Marple. ‘What nonsense I am talking and thinking.’

Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow? A perfectly ordinary pair. And yet she’d certainly seen one of them before. At least she’d seen Miss Cooke before. Oh well, it would come to her, she supposed.

Colonel and Mrs Walker? Nice people. Retired Army folk. Served abroad mostly. Nice to talk to, but she didn’t think there’d be anything for her there.

Miss Bentham and Miss Lumley? The elderly pussies. Unlikely to be criminals, but, being elderly pussies, they might know plenty of gossip, or have some information, or might make some illuminating remark even if it happened to come about in connection with rheumatism, arthritis or patent medicine.

Mr Caspar? Possibly a dangerous character. Very excitable. She would keep him on the list for the present.

Emlyn Price? A student presumably. Students were very violent. Would Mr Rafiel have sent her on the track of a student? Well, it would depend perhaps on what the student had done or wished to do or was going to do. A dedicated anarchist, perhaps.

‘Oh dear,’ said Miss Marple, suddenly exhausted, ‘I must go to bed.’

Her feet ached, her back ached and her mental reactions were not, she thought, at their best. She slept at once. Her sleep was enlivened by several dreams.

One where Professor Wanstead’s bushy eyebrows fell off because they were not his own eyebrows, but false ones. As she woke again, her first impression was that which so often follows dreams, a belief that the dream in question had solved everything. ‘Of course,’ she thought, ‘of course

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.