'Came across her having a picnic or something with those kids not long ago. They were romping about in the heather and she was knitting – ever so vexed she'd run out of wool. 'Well,' I said, 'like me to run you into Lymstock? I've got to call for a rod of mine there. I shan't be more than ten minutes getting it, then I'll run you back again.' She was a bit doubtful about leaving the boys. 'They'll be all right,' I said. 'Who's to harm them?' Wasn't going to have the boys along, no fear! So I ran her in, dropped her at the wool shop, picked her up again later and that was that. Thanked me very prettily. Grateful and all that. Nice girl.'
I managed to get away from him.
It was after that, that I caught sight of Miss Marple for the third time. She was coming out of the police station.
Where do one's fears come from? Where do they shape themselves? Where do they hide before coming out into the open?
Just one short phrase. Heard and noted and never quite put aside:
'Take me away – It's so awful being here – feeling so wicked…'
Why had Megan said that? What had she to feel wicked about?
There could be nothing in Mrs. Symmington's death to make Megan feel wicked.
Why had the child felt wicked? Why? Why?
Could it be because she felt responsible in any way? Megan? Impossible! Megan couldn't have had anything to do with those letters – those foul obscene letters. Owen Griffith had known a case up north – a schoolgirl…
What had Inspector Graves said?
Something about an adolescent mind…
Innocent middle-aged ladies on operating tables babbled words they hardly knew. Little boys chalking up things on walls.
No, no, not Megan.
Heredity? Bad blood? An unconscious inheritance of something abnormal? Her misfortune, not her fault, a curse laid upon her by a past generation?
'I'm not the wife for you. I'm better at hating than loving.'
Oh, my Megan, my little child. Not that! Anything but that. And that old Tabby is after you, she suspects. She says you have courage. Courage to do what?
It was only a brainstorm. It passed. But I wanted to see Megan – I wanted to see her badly.
At half past nine that night I left the house and went down to the town and along to the Symmingtons'.
It was then that an entirely new idea came into my mind. The idea of a woman whom nobody had considered for a moment.
(Or had Nash considered her?)
Wildly unlikely, wildly improbable, and I would have said up to today impossible, too. But that was not so. No, not impossible.
I redoubled my pace. Because it was now even more imperative that I should see Megan straightaway.
I passed through the Symmingtons' gate and up to the house. It was a dark overcast night. A little rain was beginning to fall. The visibility was bad.
I saw a line of light from one of the windows. The little morning room?
I hesitated a moment or two, then instead of going up to the front door, I swerved and crept very quietly up to the window, skirting a big bush and keeping low.
The light came from a chink in the curtains, which were not quite drawn. It was easy to look through and see.
It was a strangely peaceful and domestic scene. Symmington in a big armchair, and Elsie Holland, her head bent, busily patching a boy's torn shirt.
I could hear as well as see, for the window was open at the top.
Elsie Holland was speaking:
'But I do think, really, Mr. Symmington, that the boys are quite old enough to go to boarding school. Not that I shan't hate leaving them because I shall. I'm ever so fond of them both.'
Symmington said, 'I think perhaps you're right about Brian, Miss Holland. I've decided that he shall start next term at Winhays – my old prep school. But Colin is a little young yet. I'd prefer him to wait another year.'
'Well, of course I see what you mean. And Colin is perhaps a little young for his age -'
Quiet domestic talk – quiet domestic scene – and a golden head bent over needlework.
Then the door opened and Megan came in.
She stood very straight in the doorway, and I was aware at once of something tense and strung up about her. The skin of her face was tight and drawn and her eyes bright and resolute. There was no diffidence about her tonight and no childishness.
She said, addressing Symmington, but giving him no title (and I suddenly reflected that I never had heard her call him anything. Did she address him as father or as Dick or what?):
'I would like to speak to you, please. Alone.'
Symmington looked surprised and, I fancied, not best pleased. He frowned, but Megan carried her point with a determination unusual in her.
She turned to Elsie Holland and said, 'Do you mind, Elsie?'
'Oh, of course.' Elsie Holland jumped up. She looked startled and a little flurried.
She went to the door and Megan came farther in so that Elsie passed her.
Just for a minute Elsie stood motionless in the doorway looking over her shoulder.
Her lips were closed, she stood quite still, one hand stretched out, the other clasping her needlework to her.
I caught my breath, overwhelmed suddenly by her beauty. When I think of her now, I always think of her like that – in arrested motion, with that matchless deathless perfection that belonged to ancient Greece.
Then she went out shutting the door.
Symmington said rather fretfully, 'Well, Megan, what is it? What do you want?'
Megan had come right up to the table. She stood there looking down at Symmington. I was struck anew by the resolute determination of her face and by something else – a hardness new to me.
Then she opened her lips and said something that startled me to the core.
'I want some money,' she said.
The request didn't improve Symmington's temper. He said sharply, 'Couldn't you have waited until tomorrow morning? What's the matter, do you think your allowance is inadequate?'
A fair man, I thought even then, open to reason, though not to emotional appeal.
Megan said, 'I want a good deal of money.'
Symmington sat up straight in his chair. He said coldly:
'You will come of age in a few months' time. Then the money left you by your grandmother will be turned over to you by the Public Trustee.'
Megan said:
'You don't understand. I want money from you.' She went on, speaking faster: 'Nobody's ever talked much to me about my father. They've not wanted me to know about him. But I do know that he went to prison and I know why. It was for blackmail!'
She paused.
'Well, I'm his daughter. And perhaps I take after him. Anyway, I'm asking you to give me money because – if you don't -' She stopped and then went on very slowly and evenly – 'if you don't – shall say what I saw you doing to the cachet that day in my mother's room.'
There was a pause. Then Symmington said in a completely emotionless voice, 'I don't know what you mean.'
Megan said, 'I think you do.'
And she smiled. It was not a nice smile.
Symmington got up. He went over to the writing desk. He took a checkbook from his pocket and wrote out a check. He blotted it carefully and then came back. He held it out to Megan.
'You're grown up now,' he said. 'I can understand that you may feel you want to buy something rather special in the way of clothes and all that. I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't pay attention. But here's a
