and a bowling green.
Surveying the herbaceous border, Miss Marple clicked her tongue vexedly and pulled up a flourishing plant of groundsel.
As she stood with it in her hand, Edgar Lawson came into view. Seeing Miss Marple, he stopped and hesitated. Miss Marple had no mind to let him escape. She called him briskly. When he came, she asked him if he knew where any gardening tools were kept.
Edgar said vaguely that there was a gardener somewhere who would know.
‘It’s such a pity to see this border so neglected,’ twittered Miss Marple. ‘I’m so fond of gardens.’ And since it was not her intention that Edgar should go in search of any necessary implement she went on quickly:
‘It’s about all an old and useless woman can find to do. Now I don’t suppose you ever bother your head about gardens, Mr Lawson. You have so much real and important work to do. Being in a responsible position here, with Mr Serrocold. You must find it all most interesting.’
He answered quickly, almost eagerly:
‘Yes—yes—it is interesting.’
‘And you must be of the greatest assistance to Mr Serrocold.’
His face darkened.
‘I don’t know. I can’t be sure. It’s what’s behind it all—’
He broke off. Miss Marple watched him thoughtfully. A pathetic undersized young man in a neat dark suit. A young man that few people would look at twice, or remember if they did look …
There was a garden seat nearby and Miss Marple drifted towards it and sat. Edgar stood frowning in front of her.
‘I’m sure,’ said Miss Marple brightly, ‘that Mr Serrocold relies on you a great deal.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Edgar. ‘I really don’t know.’ He frowned and almost absently sat down beside her. ‘I’m in a very difficult position.’
‘Of course,’ said Miss Marple.
The young man Edgar sat staring in front of him.
‘This is all highly confidential,’ he said suddenly.
‘Of course,’ said Miss Marple.
‘If I had my rights—’
‘Yes?’
‘I might as well tell you … You won’t let it go any further, I’m sure?’
‘Oh no.’ She noticed he did not wait for her disclaimer.
‘My father—actually, my father is a very important man.’
This time there was no need to say anything. She had only to listen.
‘Nobody knows except Mr Serrocold. You see, it might prejudice my father’s position if the story got out.’ He turned to her. He smiled. A sad dignified smile. ‘You see, I’m Winston Churchill’s son.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I see.’
And she did see. She remembered a rather sad story in St Mary Mead—and the way it had gone.
Edgar Lawson went on, and what he said had the familiarity of a stage scene.
‘There were reasons. My mother wasn’t free. Her own husband was in an asylum—there could be no divorce—no question of marriage. I don’t really blame them. At least, I think I don’t … He’s done, always, everything he could. Discreetly, of course. And that’s where the trouble has arisen. He’s got enemies—and they’re against me, too. They’ve managed to keep us apart. They watch me. Wherever I go, they spy on me. And they make things go wrong for me.’
Miss Marple shook her head.
‘Dear, dear,’ she said.
‘In London I was studying to be a doctor. They tampered with my exams—they altered the answers. They wanted me to fail. They followed me about the streets. They told things about me to my landlady. They hound me wherever I go.’
‘Oh, but you can’t be sure of that,’ said Miss Marple soothingly.
‘I tell you I know! Oh they’re very cunning. I never get a glimpse of them or find out who they are. But I shall find out … Mr Serrocold took me away from London and brought me down here. He was kind—very kind. But even here, you know, I’m not safe. They’re here too. Working against me. Making the others dislike me. Mr Serrocold says that isn’t true—but Mr Serrocold doesn’t know. Or else—I wonder—sometimes I’ve thought—’
He broke off. He got up.
‘This is all confidential,’ he said. ‘You do understand that, don’t you? But if you notice anyone following me—spying, I mean—you might let me know who it is!’
He went away, then—neat, pathetic, insignificant. Miss Marple watched him and wondered …
A voice spoke.
‘Nuts,’ it said. ‘Just nuts.’
Walter Hudd was standing beside her. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets and he was frowning as he stared after Edgar’s retreating figure.
‘What kind of a joint is this, anyway?’ he said. ‘They’re all bughouse, the whole lot of them.’
Miss Marple said nothing and Walter went on:
‘That Edgar guy—what do you make of him? Says his father’s really Lord Montgomery. Doesn’t seem likely to me. Not Monty! Not from all I’ve heard about him.’
‘No,’ said Miss Marple. ‘It doesn’t seem very likely.’
‘He told Gina something quite different—some bunk about being really the heir to the Russian throne—said he was some Grand Duke’s son or other. Hell, doesn’t the chap know who his father really was?’
‘I should imagine not,’ said Miss Marple. ‘That is probably just the trouble.’
Walter sat down beside her, dropping his body on to the seat with a slack movement. He repeated his former statement.
‘They’re all bughouse here.’
‘You don’t like being at Stonygates?’
The young man frowned.
‘I simply don’t get it—that’s all! I don’t get it. Take this place—the house—the whole set-up. They’re rich, these people. They don’t need dough—they’ve got it. And look at the way they live. Cracked antique china and cheap plain stuff all mixed up. No proper upper-class servants—just some casual hired help. Tapestries and drapes and chair-covers all satin and brocade and stuff—and it’s falling to pieces! Big silver tea urns and what do you know—all yellow and tarnished for want of cleaning. Mrs Serrocold just doesn’t care. Look at that dress she
