She wore an emerald pullover and a knitted woollen scarf.
‘I’m afraid one does at my age,’ added Miss Marple.
‘Nice garden you’ve got here,’ said the other woman.
‘Not particularly nice now,’ said Miss Marple. ‘When I could attend to it myself—’
‘Oh I know. I understand just what you feel. I suppose you’ve got one of those—I have a lot of names for them, mostly very rude—elderly chaps who say they know all about gardening. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t know a thing about it. They come and have a lot of cups of tea and do a little very mild weeding. They’re quite nice, some of them, but all the same it does make one’s temper rise.’ She added, ‘I’m quite a keen gardener myself.’
‘Do you live here?’ asked Miss Marple, with some interest.
‘Well, I’m boarding with a Mrs Hastings. I think I’ve heard her speak of you. You’re Miss Marple, aren’t you?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘I’ve come as a sort of companion-gardener. My name is Bartlett, by the way. Miss Bartlett. There’s not really much to do there,’ said Miss Bartlett. ‘She goes in for annuals and all that. Nothing you can really get your teeth into.’ She opened her mouth and showed her teeth when making this remark. ‘Of course I do a few odd jobs as well. Shopping, you know, and things like that. Anyway, if you want any time put in here, I could put in an hour or two for you. I’d say I might be better than any chap you’ve got now.’
‘That would be easy,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I like flowers best. Don’t care so much for vegetables.’
‘I do vegetables for Mrs Hastings. Dull but necessary. Well, I’ll be getting along.’ Her eyes swept over Miss Marple from head to foot, as though memorizing her, then she nodded cheerfully and tramped off.
Mrs Hastings? Miss Marple couldn’t remember the name of any Mrs Hastings. Certainly Mrs Hastings was not an old friend. She had certainly never been a gardening chum. Ah, of course, it was probably those newly built houses at the end of Gibraltar Road. Several families had moved in in the last year. Miss Marple sighed, looked again with annoyance at the antirrhinums, saw several weeds which she yearned to root up, one or two exuberant suckers she would like to attack with her secateurs, and finally, sighing, and manfully resisting temptation, she made a detour round by the lane and returned to her house. Her mind recurred again to Mr Rafiel. They had been, he and she—what was the title of that book they used to quote so much when she was young? Ships that pass in the night. Rather apt it was really, when she came to think of it. Ships that pass in the night … It was in the night that she had gone to him to ask—no, to demand—help. To insist, to say no time must be lost. And he had agreed, and put things in train at once! Perhaps she had been rather lion-like on that occasion? No. No, that was quite wrong. It had not been anger she had felt. It had been insistence on something that was absolutely imperative to be put in hand at once. And he’d understood.
Poor Mr Rafiel. The ship that had passed in the night had been an interesting ship. Once you got used to his being rude, he might have been quite an agreeable man? No! She shook her head. Mr Rafiel could never have been an agreeable man. Well, she must put Mr Rafiel out of her head.
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing;
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness.
She would probably never think of him again. She would look out perhaps to see if there was an obituary of him in the Times. But she did not think it was very likely. He was not a very well known character, she thought. Not famous. He had just been very rich. Of course, many people did have obituaries in the paper just because they were very rich; but she thought that Mr Rafiel’s richness would possibly not have been of that kind. He had not been prominent in any great industry, he had not been a great financial genius, or a noteworthy banker. He had just all his life made enormous amounts of money …
It was about a week or so after Mr Rafiel’s death that Miss Marple picked up a letter from her breakfast tray, and looked at it for a moment before opening it. The other two letters that had come by this morning’s post were bills, or just possibly receipts for bills. In either case they were not of any particular interest. This letter might be.
A London postmark, typewritten address, a long, good quality envelope. Miss Marple slit it neatly with the paper knife she always kept handy on her tray. It was headed, Messrs Broadribb and Schuster, Solicitors and Notaries Public, with an address in Bloomsbury. It asked her, in suitable courteous and legal phraseology, to call upon them one day in the following week, at their office, to discuss a proposition that might be to her advantage. Thursday, the 24th was suggested. If that date was not convenient, perhaps she would let them know what date she would be likely to be in London in the near future. They added that they were the solicitors to the late Mr Rafiel, with whom they understood she had been acquainted.
Miss Marple frowned in some slight puzzlement. She got up rather more slowly than usual, thinking about the letter she had received. She was escorted downstairs by Cherry, who was meticulous in hanging about in the hall so as to make sure that Miss Marple did not come to grief walking by herself down the staircase, which was of the old-fashioned kind which turned a sharp corner in the middle of its run.
‘You take very good care of me, Cherry,’ said Miss Marple.
‘Got to,’ said Cherry, in her usual idiom. ‘Good people are scarce.’
‘Well, thank you for the compliment,’ said Miss Marple, arriving safely with her last foot on the ground floor.
‘Nothing the matter, is there?’ asked Cherry. ‘You look a bit rattled like, if you know what I mean.’
‘No, nothing’s the matter,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I had rather an unusual letter from a firm of solicitors.’
‘Nobody is suing you for anything, are they?’ said Cherry, who was inclined to regard solicitors’ letters as invariably associated with disaster of some kind.
‘Oh no, I don’t think so,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Nothing of that kind. They just asked me to call upon them next week in London.’
‘Perhaps you’ve been left a fortune,’ said Cherry, hopefully.
‘That, I think, is very unlikely,’ said Miss Marple.
‘Well, you never know,’ said Cherry.
Settling herself in her chair, and taking her knitting out of its embroidered knitting bag, Miss Marple considered the possibility of Mr Rafiel having left her a fortune. It seemed even more unlikely than when Cherry had suggested it. Mr Rafiel, she thought, was not that kind of a man.
It was not possible for her to go on the date suggested. She was attending a meeting of the Women’s Institute to discuss the raising of a sum for building a small additional couple of rooms. But she wrote, naming a day in the following week. In due course her letter was answered and the appointment
