little.'
'What, the private lives of film stars?'
'Oh no,' said Miss Marple, 'not that! That all seems to be most natural, given the circumstances and the money involved and the opportunities for propinquity. Oh, no, that's natural enough. I mean the way they're written about. I'm rather old-fashioned, you know, and I feel that that really shouldn't be allowed.'
'It's news,' said Dermot Craddock, 'and some pretty nasty things can be said in the way of fair comment.'
'I know,' said Miss Marple. 'It makes me sometimes very angry. I expect you think it's silly of me reading all these. But one does so badly want to be in things and of course sitting here in the house I can't really know as much about things as I would like to.'
'That's just what I thought,' said Dermot Craddock, 'and that's why I've come to tell you about them.'
'But, my dear boy, excuse me, would your superiors really approve of that?'
'I don't see why not,' said Dermot. 'Here,' he added, 'I have a list. A list of people who were there on that landing during the short time of Heather Badcock's arrival until her death. We've eliminated a lot of people, perhaps precipitately, but I don't think so. We've eliminated the mayor and his wife and Alderman somebody and his wife and a great many of the locals, though we've kept in the husband. If I remember rightly you were always very suspicious of husbands.'
'They are often the obvious suspects,' said Miss Marple, apologetically, 'and the obvious is so often right.'
'I couldn't agree with you more,' said Craddock.
'But which husband, my dear boy, are you referring to?'
'Which one do you think?' asked Dermot. He eyed her sharply.
Miss Marple looked at him.
'Jason Rudd?' she asked.
'Ah!' said Craddock. 'Your mind works just as mine does. I don't think it was Arthur Badcock, because you see, I don't think that Heather Badcock was meant to be killed. I think the intended victim was Marina Gregg.'
'That would seem almost certain, wouldn't it?' said Miss Marple.
'And so,' said Craddock, 'as we both agree on that, the field widens. To tell you who was there on that day, what they saw or said they saw, and where they were or said they were, is only a thing you could have observed for yourself if you'd been there. So my superiors, as you call them, couldn't possibly object to my discussing that with you, could they?'
'That's very nicely put, my dear boy,' said Miss Marple.
'I'll give you a little precis of what I was told and then we'll come to the list.'
He gave a brief resume of what he had heard, and then he produced his list.
'It must be one of these,' he said. 'My godfather, Sir Henry Clithering, told me that you once had a club here. You called it the Tuesday Night Club. You all dined with each other in turn and then someone would tell a story – a story of some real life happening which had ended in mystery. A mystery of which only the teller of the tale knew the answer. And every time, so my godfather told me, you guessed right. So I thought I'd come along and see if you'd do a bit of guessing for me this morning.'
'I think that is rather a frivolous way of putting it,' said Miss Marple, reproving, 'but there is one question I should like to ask.'
'Yes?'
'What about the children?'
'The children? There's only one. An imbecile child in a sanatorium in America. Is that what you mean?'
'No,' said Miss Marple, 'that's not what I mean. It's very sad of course. One of those tragedies that seem to happen and there's no one to blame for it. No, I meant the children that I've seen mentioned in some article here.' She tapped the papers in front of her. 'Children that Marina Gregg adopted. Two boys, I think, and a girl. In one case a mother with a lot of children and very little money to bring them up in this country, wrote to her, and asked if she couldn't take a child. There was a lot of very silly false sentiment written about that. About the mother's unselfishness and the wonderful home and education and future the child was going to have. I can't find out much about the other two. One I think was a foreign refugee and the other was some American child. Marina Gregg adopted them at different times. I'd like to know what's happened to them.'
Dermot Craddock looked at her curiously. 'It's odd that you should think of that,' he said. 'I did just vaguely wonder about those children myself. But how do you connect them up?'
'Well,' said Miss Marple, 'as far as I can hear or find out, they're not living with her now, are they?'
'I expect they were provided for,' said Craddock. 'In fact, I think that the adoption laws would insist on that. There was probably money settled on them in trust.'
'So when she got – tired of them,' said Miss Marple with a very faint pause before the word 'tired,' 'they were dismissed! After being brought up in luxury with every advantage. Is that it?'
'Probably,' said Craddock. 'I don't know exactly.' He continued to look at her curiously.
'Children feel things, you know,' said Miss Marple, nodding her head. 'They feel things more than the people around them ever imagine. The sense of hurt, of being rejected, of not belonging. It's a thing that you don't get over just because of advantages. Education is no substitute for it, or comfortable living, or an assured income, or a start in a profession. It's the sort of thing that might rankle.'
'Yes. But all the same, isn't it rather far-fetched to think that – Well, what exactly do you think?'
'I haven't got as far as that,' said Miss Marple. 'I just wondered where they were now and how old they would be now? Grown up, I should imagine, from what I've read here.'
'I could find out, I suppose,' said Dermot Craddock slowly.
'Oh, I don't want to bother you in any way, or even to suggest that my little idea's worthwhile at all.'
'There's no harm,' said Dermot Craddock, 'in having that checked up on.' He made a note in his little book. 'Now do you want to look at my little list?'
'I don't really think I should be able to do anything useful about that. You see, I wouldn't know who the people were.'
'Oh, I could give you a running commentary,' said Craddock. 'Here we are. Jason Rudd, husband, (husbands always highly suspicious). Everyone says that Jason Rudd adores her. That is suspicious in itself, don't you think?'
'Not necessarily,' said Miss Marple with dignity.
'He's been very active in trying to conceal the fact that his wife was the object of attack. He hasn't hinted any suspicion of such a thing to the police. I don't know why he thinks we're such asses as not to think of it for ourselves. We've considered it from the first. But anyway, that's his story. He was afraid that knowledge of that fact might get to his wife's ears and that she'd go into a panic about it.'
'Is she the sort of woman who goes into panics?'
'Yes, she's neurasthenic, throws temperaments, has nervous breakdowns, gets in states.'
'That might not mean any lack of courage,' Miss Marple objected.
'On the other hand,' said Craddock, 'if he knows quite well that she was the object of attack, it's also possible that she may know who did it.'
'You mean she knows who did it – but does not want to disclose the fact?'
'I just say it's a possibility, and if so, one rather wonders why not? It looks as though the motive, the root of the matter, was something she didn't want to come to her husband's ear.'
'That is certainly an interesting thought,' said Miss Marple.
'Here are a few more names. The secretary, Ella Zielinsky. An extremely competent and efficient young woman.'
'In love with the husband, do you think?' asked Miss Marple.
'I should think definitely,' answered Craddock, 'but why should you think so?'
'Well, it so often happens,' said Miss Marple. 'And therefore not very fond of poor Marina Gregg, I expect?'
'Therefore possible motive for murder,' said Craddock.
'A lot of secretaries and employees are in love with their employers' husbands,' said Miss Marple, 'but very, very few of them try to poison them.'
