The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

Inspector Welch looked over at her in a rather surprised fashion.

‘That's a very clever guess of yours, madam,’ he said. ‘No, Mrs Cresswell isn't named as beneficiary.’

‘Just like Mr Naysmith,’ said Miss Marple, nodding her head. ‘Miss Greenshaw told Mrs Cresswell she was going to leave her everything and so got out of paying her wages; and then she left her money to somebody else. No doubt she was vastly pleased with herself. No wonder she chortled when she put the will away in Lady Audley's Secret.’

‘It was lucky Mrs Oxley was able to tell us about the will and where it was put,’ said the inspector. ‘We might have had a long hunt for it otherwise.’

‘A Victorian sense of humour,’ murmured Raymond West. ‘So she left her money to her nephew after all,’ said Lou.

The inspector shook his head.

‘No,’ he said, ‘she didn't leave it to Nat Fletcher. The story goes around here — of course I'm new to the place and I only get the gossip that's second-hand — but it seems that in the old days both Miss Greenshaw and her sister were set on the handsome young riding master, and the sister got him. No, she didn't leave the money to her nephew —’ He paused, rubbing his chin, ‘She left it to Alfred,’ he said.

‘Alfred — the gardener?’ Joan spoke in a surprised voice.

‘Yes, Mrs West. Alfred Pollock.’

‘But why?’ cried Lou.

Miss Marple coughed and murmured:

I should imagine, though perhaps I am wrong, that there may have been — what we might call family reasons.

‘You could call them that in a way,’ agreed the inspector. ‘It's quite well known in the village, it seems, that Thomas Pollock, Alfred's grandfather, was one of the old Mr Greenshaw's by-blows.’

‘Of course,’ cried Lou, ‘the resemblance! I saw it this morning.’

She remembered how after passing Alfred she had come into the house and looked up at old Greenshaw's portrait.

‘I dare say,’ said Miss Marple, ‘that she thought Alfred Pollock might have a pride in the house, might even want to live in it, whereas her nephew would almost certainly have no use for it whatever and would sell it as soon as he could possibly do so. He's an actor, isn't he? What play exactly is he acting in at present?’

Trust an old lady to wander from the point, thought Inspector Welch, but he replied civilly:

‘I believe, madam, they are doing a season of Sir James Barrie's plays.’

‘Barrie,’ said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

‘What Every Woman Knows,’ said Inspector Welch, and then blushed. ‘Name of a play,’ he said quickly. ‘I'm not much of a theatre-goer myself,’ he added, ‘but the wife went along and saw it last week. Quite well done, she said it was.’

‘Barrie, wrote some very charming plays,’ said Miss Marple, ‘though I must say that when I went with an old friend of mine, General Easterly, to see Barrie's Little Mary —’ she shook her head sadly — ‘neither of us knew where to look.’

The inspector, unacquainted with the play Little Mary looked completely fogged. Miss Marple explained:

‘When I was a girl, Inspector, nobody ever mentioned the word stomach.’

The inspector looked even more at sea. Miss Marple was murmuring titles under her breath.

‘The Admirable Crichton. Very clever. Mary Rose — a charming play. I cried, I remember. Quality Street I didn't care for so much. Then there was A Kiss for Cinderella. Oh, of course!’

Inspector Welch had no time to waste on theatrical discussion. He returned to the matter at hand.

‘The question is,’ he said, ‘did Alfred Pollock know the old lady had made a will in his favour? Did she tell him?’ He added, ‘You see — there's an archery club over at Boreham Lovell and Alfred Pollock's a member. He's a very good shot indeed with a bow and arrow.’

‘Then isn't your case quite clear?’ asked Raymond West. ‘It would fit in with the doors being locked on the two women — he'd know just where they were in the house.’

The inspector looked at him. He spoke with deep melancholy.

‘He's got an alibi,’ said the inspector.

‘I always think alibis are definitely suspicious.’

‘Maybe, sir,’ said Inspector Welch. ‘You're talking as a writer.’

‘I don't write detective stories,’ said Raymond West, horrified at the mere idea.

‘Easy enough to say that alibis are suspicious,’ went on Inspector Welch, ‘but unfortunately we've got to deal with facts.’

He sighed.

‘We've got three good suspects,’ he said. ‘Three people who, as it happened, were very close upon the scene at the time. Yet the odd thing is that it looks as though none of the three could have done it. The housekeeper I've already dealt with — the nephew, Nat Fletcher, at the moment Miss Greenshaw was shot, was a couple of miles away filling up his car at a garage and asking his way — as for Alfred Pollock six people will swear that he entered the Dog and Duck at twenty past twelve and was there for an hour having his usual bread and cheese and beer.’