Hospital. There it was in black and white. Miss Letitia Blacklog. It brought the past back to me. I hadn't heard of her for years and years. She'd been secretary, you know, to that very rich man, Goedler. She was always a clever girl – the kind that gets on in the world. Not so much looks – as character. I thought – well, I thought – perhaps she'll remember me – and she's one of the people I could ask for a little help. I mean someone you've known as a girl – been at school with – well, they do know about you – they know you're not just a begging letter writer-'
Tears came into Dora Bunner's eyes.
'And then Lotty came and took me away – said she needed someone to help her. Of course, I was very surprised – very surprised – but then newspapers do get things wrong. How kind she was – and how sympathetic. And remembering all the old days so well… I'd do anything for her – I really would. And I try very hard, but I'm afraid sometimes I muddle things – my head's not what it was. I make mistakes. And I forget and say foolish things. She's very patient. What's so nice about her is that she always pretends that I am useful to her. That's real kindness, isn't it?'
Miss Marple said gently: 'Yes, that's real kindness.'
'I used to worry, you know, even after I came to Little Paddocks – about what would become of me if anything were to happen to Miss Blacklog. After all, there are so many accidents – these motors dashing about one never knows, does one? But naturally I never said anything – but she must have guessed. Suddenly, one day she told me that she'd left me a small annuity in her will and – what I value far more – all her beautiful furniture. I was quite overcome… But she said nobody else would value it as I should – and that is quite true – I can't bear to see some lovely piece of china smashed – or wet glasses put down on a table and leaving a mark. I do really look after her things. Some people – some people especially, are so terribly careless – and sometimes worse than careless!
'I'm not really as stupid as I look,' Miss Bunner continued with simplicity. 'I can see, you know, when Letty's being imposed upon. Some people – I won't name names – but they take advantage. Dear Miss Blacklog is, perhaps, just a shade too trusting.'
Miss Marple shook her head.
'That's a mistake.'
'Yes, it is. You and I, Miss Marple, know the world. Dear Miss Blacklog-' She shook her head.
Miss Marple thought that as the secretary of a big financier Miss Blacklog might be presumed to know the world too. But probably what Dora Bunner meant was that Letty Blacklog had always been comfortably off, and that the comfortably off do not know the deeper abysses of human nature.
'That Patrick!' said Miss Bunner with a suddenness and an asperity that made Miss Marple jump. 'Twice, at least, to my knowledge, he's got money out of her. Pretending he's hard up. Run into debt. All that sort of thing. She's far too generous. All she said to me when I remonstrated with her was: 'The boy's young, Dora. Youth is the time to have your fling.''
'Well, that's true enough,' said Miss Marple. 'Such a handsome young man, too.'
'Handsome is as handsome does,' said Dora Bunner. 'Much too fond of poking fun at people. And a lot of going on with girls. I expect. I'm just a figure of fun to him – that's all. He doesn't seem to realise that people have their feelings.'
'Young people are rather careless that way,' said Miss Marple.
Miss Bunner leaned forward suddenly with a mysterious air.
'You won't breathe a word, will you, my dear?' she demanded. 'But I can't help feeling that he was mixed up in this dreadful business. I think he knew that young man – or else Julia did. I daren't hint at such a thing to dear Miss Blacklog – at least I did, and she just snapped my head off. And, of course, it's awkward – because he's her nephew – or at any rate her cousin – and if the Swiss young man shot himself Patrick might be held morally responsible, mightn't he? If he'd put him up to it, I mean. I'm really terribly confused about the whole thing. Everyone making such a fuss about that other door into the drawing-room. That's another thing that worries me – the detective saying it had been oiled. Because you see, I saw-'
She came to an abrupt stop. Miss Marple paused to select a phrase.
'Most difficult for you,' she said sympathetically. 'Naturally you wouldn't want anything to get round to the police.'
'That's just it,' Dora Bunner cried. 'I lie awake at nights and worry… because, you see, I came upon Patrick in the shrubbery the other day. I was looking for eggs – one hen lays out – and there he was holding a feather and a cup – an oily cup. And he jumped most guiltily when he saw me and he said: 'I was just wondering what this was doing here.' Well, of course, he's a quick thinker. I should say he thought that up quickly when I startled him. And how did he come to find a thing like that in the shrubbery unless he was looking for it, knowing perfectly well it was there. Of course, I didn't say anything.'
'No, no, of course not.'
'But I gave him a look, if you know what I mean.'
Dora Bunner stretched out her hand and bit abstractedly into a lurid salmon coloured cake.
'And then another day I happened to overhear him having a very curious conversation with Julia. They seemed to be having a kind of quarrel. He was saying: 'If I thought you had anything to do with a thing like that!' and Julia (she's always so calm, you know) said: 'Well, little brother, what would you do about it?' And then, most unfortunately, I trod on that board that always squeaks, and they saw me. So I said, quite gaily: 'You two having a quarrel?' and Patrick said, 'I'm warning Julia not to go in for these black market deals.' Oh, it was all very slick, but I don't believe they were talking about anything of the sort! And if you ask me, I believe Patrick had tampered with that lamp in the drawing-room – to make the lights go out, because I remember distinctly that it was the shepherdess – not the shepherd. And the next day-'
She stopped and her face grew pink. Miss Marple turned her head to see Miss Blacklog, standing behind them – she must just have come in.
'Coffee and gossip, Bunny?' said Miss Blacklog with quite a shade of reproach in her voice. 'Good morning, Miss Marple. Cold, isn't it?'
'We were just talking,' said Miss Bunner, hurriedly. 'So many rules and regulations nowadays. One really doesn't know where one is.'
The doors flew open with a clang and Bunch Harmon came into the Bluebird with a rush.
'Hallo,' she said, 'am I too late for coffee?'
'No, dear,' said Miss Marple. 'Sit down and have a cup.'
'We must get home,' said Miss Blacklog. 'Done your shopping. Bunny?'
Her tone was indulgent once more, but her eyes still held a slight reproach.
'Yes – yes, thank you, Letty. I must just pop into the chemists' in passing and get some aspirin and some cornplasters.'
As the doors of the Bluebird swung to behind them, Bunch asked:
'What were you talking about?'
Miss Marple did not reply at once. She waited whilst Bunch gave the order, then she said:
'Family solidarity is a very strong thing. Very strong. Do you remember some famous case – I really can't remember what it was. They said the husband poisoned his wife. In a glass of wine. Then, at the trial, the daughter said she'd drunk half her mother's glass – so that knocked the case against her father to pieces. They do say – but that may be just rumour – that she never spoke to her father or lived with him again. Of course, a father is one thing – and a nephew or a distant cousin is another. But still there it is – no one wants a member of their own family hanged, do they?'
'No,' said Bunch, considering. 'I shouldn't think they would.'
Miss Marple leaned back in her chair. She murmured under her breath, 'People are really very alike, everywhere.'
'Who am I like?'
'Well, really, dear, you are very much like yourself. I don't know that you remind me of anyone in particular. Except perhaps-'
'Here it comes,' said Bunch.
'I was just thinking of a parlourmaid of mine, dear.'
'A parlourmaid? I should make a terrible parlourmaid.'
'Yes, dear, so did she. She was no good at all at waiting at table. Put everything on the table crooked, mixed
