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 had a letter and it stirred her all up.’
‘What she needs is to sit quiet,’ said Cherry’s husband. ‘Sit quiet, take it easy, get herself new books from the library, get a friend or two to come and see her.’
‘She’s thinking out something,’ said Cherry. ‘Sort of plan. Thinking out how to tackle something, that’s how I look at it.’
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.
