Precious Like Rubies
by Soledad
Note: The two paragraphs about Inch's Taxi Service are taken from "The Mirror Crack'd from Side to Side", with small alterations to make it fit more modern times.
The articles Miss Marple reads are transcripts from the show, of course. My sincerest thanks to Adriane DeVere who put them up on her website. She spared me the necessity of killing my eyes on the subtitles.
And no, this Ianto Jones isn't the Ianto Jones from Torchwood. He just looks the same and behaves similarly. And he, too, makes heavenly coffee. *g*
My heartfelt thanks go to my good friend, Linda Hoyland, for her valuable advice concerning the British press and for cleaning up my… erm… creative grammar. *hugs*
Chapter 03 – Miss Marple Makes Inquiries
Miss Marple planned her excursion to the library very carefully. It was a much longer trip than a visit at the Vicarage, therefore she needed to make certain preparations. Preparations that included Inch's Taxi Service, one of the oldest institutions in St Mary Mead.
In the very old days, Mr Inch had owned two cabs, which met trains at the local station and were also hired by the local ladies to take them out to tea parties, and occasionally, with their daughters, to such frivolous entertainments as dances. Later on Inch, at the age of seventy-odd years, handed over the business to his son – known as 'young Inch '(he was then aged forty-five) though old Inch still continued to drive such elderly ladies as considered his son too young and irresponsible.
To keep up with the times, young Inch renewed their modest business, stock of cars. Unfortunately, he was not technically savvy, and the business took an immediate nose-dive. So much that he had to sell it to a certain Mr Bardwell within a shockingly short time. The name Inch persisted, however, as it was a well-known and much trusted one. Mr Bardwell, after a not so long time, sold it to Mr Roberts, but in the telephone book Inch's Taxi Service was still the official name, and the older ladies of St Mary Mead still referred to their journeys as going somewhere 'in Inch', as though they were Jonah and Inch was a whale.
Mr Roberts, a distinguished, middle-aged man, was as reliable as the founder of the business he'd owned for more than a decade by now. He pulled up his old-fashioned black cab in front of Danemead Cottage right on time. He did employ one other driver, of course – more wouldn't have been needed in such a small village – but, just like old Inch, he preferred to drive his treasured old customers himself.
"Good morning, Miss Marple," he greeted one of said treasured old customers cheerfully. "Where are we going today?"
"I am going to the library in Marked Basing," Miss Marple replied. She never liked it when people treated her as a slow-minded child; unfortunately, most people tended to be a bit patronising in these days, just because she was elderly and, admittedly, somewhat fragile. "And I'd be grateful if you could collect me when I'm finished there. I might be a couple of hours, though."
"Of course, Miss Marple; you call me and I'll come," Roberts promised while helping her into the cab. "You do have a mobile phone, don't you?"
"Oh, yes, dear Raymond – that's my nephew, you know, the writer, he's so very helpful – has bought me one of those… things," Miss Marple replied doubtfully. "He's even programmed the numbers I'd need most into it or whatever it's called. I could never manage to use it otherwise. Things today are all so unnecessarily complicated."
"Perhaps," Roberts allowed. "Still, mobile phones can make things a lot easier. They're very practical, if nothing else."
That much Miss Marple had to grudgingly admit, and so they set off to Market Basing in companionable silence.
Like all towns in the neighbourhood, Market Basing had also experienced its growth spurt after the war, and another substantial one less than ten years ago. However, the old Town Library was still situated in a modest little two-storey building of white stone in the picturesque London Street – a nostalgic lane in the old town centre, which included a delightful variety of architecture from the 17th through the 20th century. Each building was unique, none of them taller than three storeys, and the entire street had a nice, homely feeling about it.
It felt like stepping back into Miss Marple's youth. It felt good.
Of course, not even London Street could escape from the inevitable changes of progress… whatever that was supposed to mean. The Town Library was merely a relic from earlier times, long overshadowed by the large, modern New Library, situated in the tall, cylindrical glass and chrome tower of Festival Place that landmarked the new town. But some of the old shops still flourished, albeit long kept by different owners, and the shop fronts and signs above them had been lovingly restored, consciously giving the entire street the nowadays so popular vintage look.
Miss Marple found that one had to be grateful for the quirks of fashion sometimes.
The only new shop was Ianto's Coffee Heaven – a small, cosy little café that shared the shop front with the Library… and more than just that. It was actually owned by the young librarian, Ianto Jones, who – according to dear David, who'd heard it from Idris Hopper, of course – had worked as a barista at an Italian café in London during his university years to cover his study fees. His coffee was said to be quite extraordinary, and given how little traffic the Library saw these days, he could easily operate both places through the door connecting them that usually stood open.
Miss Marple hadn't visited the Library since young Mr Jones had taken it over two… no, three years previously. She rarely left St Mary Mead unless it was necessary, like today. But dear Griselda often came here, sometimes together with her Reverend husband (who required the oddest books for his sermons occasionally), and they both spoke highly of the young man's skills and manners.
Considering what diagonal opposites they were, that was saying a lot. Therefore, Miss Marple was looking forward to finally meeting the young man in person. She liked young people who were still full of life and energy and plans for the future. They made her feel young again.
Inch – well, Roberts – helped her out of the taxi, pocketed his fare, promised again to come and fetch her at the first phone call, and then left. Miss Marple stood hesitantly in front of the Library's shop window – still, or rather again, painted a bright, warm orange colour that stood off pleasantly from the white stone – and then she gave the glass door an experimental push. It swung inward smoothly, ringing an old-fashioned little bronze bell hung above the entrance to signal the arrival of a customer. Just as it always had.
At the signal, a tall young man rose from behind a desk facing the door – it had a bulky, old-fashioned computer screen standing on it, the sort that dear David called 'an outdated dinosaur' – and came to greet her. He had short, neat brown hair, a friendly, almost child-like face with a button nose and grey-blue eyes. He was wearing a fitted, pin-striped three-piece suit… well, two pieces of it anyway, as his suit jacket was carefully arranged on a hanger and hung on the mantle rack behind his back, with a purple shirt and a navy tie, the later expertly knotted in a half-Windsor.
"Good morning, ma'am," he said with a friendly smile. He had a soft voice with a slight Welsh lilt in it. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact I believe you can," Miss Marple replied. "It won't be an easy thing, though, I'm afraid."
The young man's smile broadened. "Good. I like a challenge. Why don't we sit in the café and you tell me over a latte what can I do for you?"
"Well, I don't know," Miss Marple said, a bit uncertainly. "It's quite early for coffee; I'm no longer allowed to have more than one cup a day – my heart, you know; I'm not getting any younger – and I might need the caffeine later, to concentrate. I don't suppose that you serve, you know, tea in this café of yours?"
"Not as a rule," the young man replied. "But I'll make an exception for David Clement's favourite aunt."
"You know who I am?" Miss Marple didn't know whether to be shocked or flattered.
The young man laughed. "Actually, I'm cheating, ma'am. David called me, first thing in the morning, and said you might stop by. The Inch cab was quite the give-away. David likes to tell me tales about St Mary Mead. Now, if you'd come with me, we could make ourselves comfortable and you can explain me what you need from me."
Ten minutes later Miss Marple was sitting in the lovely, old-fashioned little café (it had only four tables), a cup of fragrant jasmine tea on the small, round marble table in front of her – not what she'd usually drink, but excellent nonetheless – waiting for whatever Ianto Jones could dig out for her. The only other customer was a young Japanese woman in the reading room of the Library, surrounded by technical manuals and working on her laptop with great concentration.
Must be a student, working on her dissertation, Miss Marple decided. Mrs Bantry's oldest daughter used to have this focused look on her when she had been studying. So many girls chose to have a career nowadays, scientific or otherwise. Miss Marple wondered sometimes if it truly made them happy, the poor dears.
Well, at least it made them self-confident and even independent, in most cases. Which, in her books, was a good thing. A very good thing indeed.
She wondered if the friendly young librarian could find her anything useful. Her instructions had been rather vague: anything tragic or unusual concerning a certain Dr John Watson, in his late thirties, served in Afghanistan, wounded and invalided home. It hadn't been much, but Ianto muttered something about Google and internet research, consulted his computer for a moment, and then bounded up the squeaky wooden stairway to the upper level, where the newspaper archives were situated.
It took Ianto Jones exactly twenty-four minutes to return with a pile of newspapers from the last eleven months, already neatly ordered by date.
"These should cover the basics," he said. "Unfortunately, I'd already left London when the big scandal broke out, but I vaguely remember following it on the telly and the internet. I've brought some from before all hell broke loose and some from afterwards, so that you have the means to compare press reactions."
Miss Marple thanked him and started to work herself through the ten-inch-thick pile meticulously. The article on top – accidentally the front page of the Daily Mail – bore the title.
HAT-MAN & ROBIN – THE WEB DETECTIVES BECAME THE LATEST INTERNET SENSATION
Under the title was a fairly large picture of a man in a deerstalker, adamantly refusing to look into the camera, making futile attempts to hide behind his upturned coat collar. A little further behind him was another man with a military stance: a short, blond man with a lot of grey in his hair and with tired blue eyes.
The article began in the usual sensationalist style of the tabloids. Since moving in together, the pair of confirmed bachelors have helped bumbling police chiefs with a number of high-profile cases. From a killer psycho taxi driver to the murder of ePeopleis Presenter Connie Prince, they've often succeeded where the Met has failed.
Miss Marple shook her head. She had missed the case of that serial killer cab driver, having spent some time in the Caribbean to recover from a serious case of bronchitis, thanks to the generosity of dear Raymond, but Connie Price's murder case was almost embarrassingly simple, in her opinion.
Once one had peeled away all the artificial constructs that seemed to surround every so-called media personality (which, she found, was a really silly name for cheap entertainers), one stumbled upon the obvious motivation: hatred on somebody else's behalf. And while Miss Marple didn't condone murder on principle, she was not the least surprised by this particular one. Connie Price was – had been – a most unpleasant woman who made a career out of insulting and humiliating people, including her own brother.
If that was what people saw as entertainment today, Miss Marple would gladly remain bored for the rest of her life. Unfortunately, that wouldn't be a very long time anyway.
She sighed and returned to the article that took an even more personal turn:
Little is known about Sherlock himself but John, 37, is believed to have been a war hero in Afghanistan. Now, the brave soldier has turned from fighter to writer. His blog, www.
.uk, has become an overnight sensation. It details the cases he and Sherlock have solved and also reveals the salacious truth about their home life!
Salacious truth? Miss Marple withstood the urge to roll her eyes in the most un-ladylike manner. It seemed that the only thing most journalists in these days were interested in was to find some sexual subtext in every situation. Why couldn't two gentlemen simply share a flat, out of necessity – or practicality – as it had been done for decades? Somehow, she couldn't imagine that Dr Stamford would suggest a doctor for St Mary Mead who would discuss his… romantic activities openly.
Deciding that she needed more information, Miss Marple laid the Daily Mail to the side and picked up the Daily Express. The first part of the article of the Daily Express was word-for-word the same as the one before but continued like this: "A Study in Pink" was the first of these cases to be chronicled by Watson. It tells of a taxi driver who, believing himself to be some kind of vengeful god, murdered a number of his passengers…
Miss Marple laid the Daily Express aside with an annoyed huff. This was not what she needed. She could look up Dr Watson's report herself, instead of reading some journalist's second-hand summary that probably missed all the important details. She couldn't use a computer on her own, but the Library had one, and young Mr Jones was very helpful. Or she could ask dear David to help her later. But first, she needed to learn everything she could from these articles.
She picked up the Observer next, hoping for slightly more common sense and definitely more details. Although the title made her doubt if that would be so.
Sherlock & John
Blogger Detectives
Once again, it repeated the stupid first article, complete with the tasteless salacious truth comment. Then, after something about Facebook and Twitter that Miss Marple didn't understand, it said: The explosion in Baker Street that took the lives of six people was blamed, by the authorities, on a gas leak. John Watson sensationally revealed on his blog that the devastation was actually caused by a mad terrorist bomber known as Jim Moriarty. Links between Moriarty and Al-Qaeda have yet to be ruled out.
Al-Qaeda, for God's sake! Miss Marple thought in dismay. Why do people always blame some shadowy terrorist group for everything when there were more than enough criminals in England itself, ready and willing to harm others; and they couldn't even provide a higher motivation than simple greed or hatred.
Not that Miss Marple would accept any motivation was high enough to murder the innocent.
The name Moriarty, however, did click. Her interests had turned almost exclusively towards her immediate surroundings in the recent years, but she seemed to remember some big scandal in London in connection with that name.
Perhaps the article would reveal more?
It appears that Sherlock and John are untouchable – feared by the police and criminals alike. But for how long can this be the case? Will there come a time when sensationally revealed on his blog that the Hat-Man and Robin's luck changes? And, if so, what will this mean for…
Miss Marple lowered the paper. She wasn't interested in any more sensational revealings. Sometimes she thought if she had to hear or read sensational one more time, she'd scream. Besides, a quick glance of the date told her that the article was almost a year old already.
She laid it aside and picked up the next one. It showed a photo of the uncomfortable-looking detective (and his faithful shadow) on the front page, with the title:
Hero of the Reichenbach
The headlines read: Turner masterpiece recovered by 'amateur'; Scotland Yard embarrassed by overlooked clues.
Miss Marple shook her head. In her experience, the police weren't stupid. They might be a bit slow at times, a bit too fond of their time-honoured methods, but they weren't stupid; and alienating them was never a good idea. She returned to the main text of the article, which read:
A Turner masterpiece worth £1.7million that was stolen from an auction house ten days ago has been recovered by an amateur detective from North London. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street has been investigating the art crime simply as a hobby, and yet he was able to follow the trail that led him to the famous work – a trail that Scotland Yard missed completely. Sherlock Holmes has gained a cult following with the publication of his website – The Science of Deduction ...
No. This wasn't what she needed, either. She did remember dear Joan, Raymond 's wife mentioning the theft to her in one of her rare letters – she was an artist, after all, even if one of the modern ones – but there was nothing in that case that could have caused Dr Watson to suddenly decide he wanted to move to a sleepy little village.
Well, well. Perhaps the next one will bring some light into this mysterious case, she thought, although her hopes were quickly dwindling. The next headline announced:
Top Banker Kidnapped
And the text following it read: Sherlock Holmes was last night being hailed a hero yet again for masterminding the daring escape of the kidnapped man. Scotland Yard had to secretly bring in their special weapon (in the form of Mr Holmes) yet again. The case has drawn a huge amount of attention as the nation became divided about the outcome of the kidnapping. Bankers are certainly not the nation's sweethearts any more, but Mr. Holmes certainly seems to be. As huge crowds gathered for the press conference, Mr Holmes was presented with a gift from...
Below the article was a photograph again, clearly outside the banker's house, with the rescued man standing with his arms around his wife and young son as the press filmed and took photographs of them. The detective and his friend stood uncomfortably nearby. It was followed by an interview with the banker, who said:
Back together with my family after my terrifying ordeal; and we have one person to thank for my deliverance – Sherlock Holmes…
It went on in the same gushing manner for several paragraphs, which Miss Marple opted not to read. She turned to the next newspaper instead, which provided a little more background to the kidnapping case, under the title:
Ricoletti evades capture
The article suggested that the man named in the headline was responsible for the banker's kidnapping. Followed by an interview with the police officer leading the investigation, one Detective Inspector Lestrade, who said:
Peter Ricoletti: number one on Interpol's Most Wanted list since nineteen eighty-two. But we got him; and there's one person we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads ... with all his customary diplomacy and tact…
Who, apparently, was no other than the much-appreciated private detective, Sherlock Holmes. A later edition of the Daily Star printed a World Exclusive on its front page:
Boffin Sherlock solves ANOTHER
With the strapline: Hero 'Tec cracks 'unsolvable' case
The Daily Express has somehow obtained the security image with a message GET SHERLOCK clear on some glass door, and had run it on its front page with the headline:
Crime of the Century?
The rest of the text read: Questions are being asked in parliament as to how the Tower of London, Pentonville Prison and the Bank of England were all broken into at the same time by the same man – James Moriarty. There are unconfirmed reports that Scotland Yard's favourite sleuth Mr Sherlock Holmes has been called in to help the team piece together the most audacious crime.
Miss Marple shook her head. Her own definition of audacious was clearly a different one from that of the tabloid press. But again, she came from a different time. Definitions ought to have changed in half a century… and more.
She chose a somewhat later edition of the Daily Mail next, the front page headline of which said:
Jewel Thief on trial at Bailey
While the first few paragraphs read: Crown Jewel thief is to be tried at the Old Bailey and Sherlock Holmes is named as a witness for the prosecution. Master criminal Moriarty taunted Holmes with his graffitied GET SHERLOCK at the scene of the crime. The crime is attracting huge attention internationally too. Irish born Moriarty – of no fixed abode, seems to be taunting the master detective. Boffin Holmes, accompanied by confirmed bachelor John Watson – refused to comment. Crowds gathered yesterday for what is being described as the trial of the century.
Miss Marple now truly regretted having spent those very weeks in the Caribbean, convalescing. Yes, one could gather a great deal of information from the press, but every single piece of said information was usually biased, one way or another. She made a mental note to consult Dermot Craddock as soon as possible. This time, she felt, half-truths or journalistic inventions wouldn't be enough.
Her next choice, The Guardian, led with the headline:
Amateur detective to be called as expert witness
and followed with the heading: Scotland Yard calls upon 'nation's favourite detective' in Moriarty trial
There was also a picture of Mr Holmes putting on a really silly-looking deerstalker hat at the Scotland Yard press conference and the text read: Mr Sherlock Holmes was yesterday revealed to be an expert witness at the trial of 'Jim' Moriarty. Described by many commentators as the trial of the century, the case has all the ingredients of a block buster film. The royal family, Scotland Yard, the world of finance and greed, the 'underclass' of prisoners out to wreak revenge as they enjoy their own fifteen minutes of freedom. The case is riddled with irony and intrigue but perhaps reflects a deeper malaise that seems to be at the heart of a society. Mr Holmes, a man of few words, declined to comment when asked his involvement in the case. It is understood that a woefully depleted Scotland ..."
Oh, dear! Miss Marple shook her head sadly. It seemed as if the press – on their wild hunt for the next exciting story – had done their best (or worst) to alienate the private detective from Scotland Yard. In the long run, that couldn't have been a good thing.
She picked up the next morning's edition of the Daily Express, the front page headline of which practically screamed in double sized bold fonts.
MORIARTY WALKS FREE
with the heading: Shock verdict at Old Bailey trial
The opening paragraph read: The Judge could only look on dumbfounded as the Jury found 'Jimbo' Moriarty 'Not Guilty'. Gasps were heard around the courtroom as the Jury declared their verdict.
The Guardian declared: Shock verdict at trial
and the article began: In an unbelievable turn of events Moriarty walked free today after putting up no defence at all for what has been described as the Trial of the Century. Star witness Sherlock Holmes was not present for the verdict, as in another twist to the case was thrown out of court by the Judge. Questions have been asked in Parliament and the Prime Minister was quoted as saying "This is a disgrace, a sign if ever we needed one that broken Britain is still broken..."
The Daily Star went with: How was he ever acquitted?
Some time later The Guardian declared: Moriarty vanishes, while on one of its inside pages was a cartoon caricature of Mr Holmes holding a crystal ball with the caption underneath reading, What Next for the Reichenbach Hero?
Miss Marple nodded with a sickening feeling. That was to be expected. The press tended to turn against its former favourites, once they stopped providing the big news it required on a daily basis.
She eyed the remaining papers warily. They were dated from two months later and seemed to prove her suspicions about the fickle nature of the press.
The headline of The Sun read: SHERLOCK: THE SHOCKING TRUTH
with the heading: Close Friend Richard Brook Tells All. The article revealed that it was an Exclusive from Kitty Riley and the text read: Super-sleuth Sherlock Holmes has today been exposed as a fraud in a revelation that will shock his new found base of adoring fans. Out-of-work actor Richard Brook revealed exclusively to THE SUN that he was hired by Holmes in an elaborate deception to fool the British public into believing Holmes had above-average 'detective skills'. Brook, who has known Holmes for decades and until recently considered him to be a close friend, said he was at first desperate for the money, but later found he had no…
Miss Marple read the article to the last letter, and then just sat there, thinking about the unexpectedly vicious turn of the press against their former hero. Yes, it was a typical reaction for the tabloids, but she couldn't quite shake the nagging suspicion that there were more… personal aspects to this particular case.
The next headline of The Sun was, if possible, even more vicious:
SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS
and the straplines stated: SUPER-SLEUTH IS DEAD
and: Fraudulent detective takes his own life
A particularly mean-spirited article followed, discussing the jump of Sherlock Holmes from the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital, together with his so-called confession with a glee that was beyond disgusting.
Yes, definitely a personal motivation from the journalist's side. What was her name again? Kitty Riley? She seemed to consider it her personal crusade to destroy the reputation of the dead man. Just like that horribly inept girl who used to work for Mr Pretherick – the older Mr Pretherick – went on to distribute mean-spirited gossip after Mr Pretherick's death. Gossip about poor Mr Pretherick accepting bribes from his clients and harassing the girl typists working for him. All that because Mr Pretherick fired her for having lost an important document that led to the loss of an important case.
Miss Marple laid aside The Sun – such an unpleasant paper, really, she never stooped low enough to read it, which, in this particular case, might have been a mistake – and nodded in sad understanding. Yes, this explained a lot; at least why Dr Watson would want to leave London and stay in a small village where – hopefully – nobody had ever heard of him.
That poor man! Miss Marple made a solemn decision not to tell anyone what she'd found out. The good doctor deserved a break. He must be devastated!
Which didn't mean that she wouldn't want to know more – especially about the enigmatic Mr Holmes. It was hard to judge an already dead person whom she'd never met, of course, but from what little she could find out about him from the papers – simple facts, not half-truths or wild guesswork – he must have been a bit like a friend of Miss Marple's father, that chemistry professor: brilliant, arrogant, with an expressive vocabulary (especially the insults) and an upper class accent, always sharply dressed, unconsciously showing off his privileged background. People used to admire him but very few of them had actually liked him because he'd made them feel inferior all the time.
Still, this Mr Holmes couldn't have been an incorrigible snob if he'd chosen an invalided ex-Army doctor as a friend. Because Dr Watson might have been standing modestly in the background on most pictures, but it was obvious that the two had been close. Very close.
Oh, not in the way some of those horrible tabloids would suggest! Miss Marple had seen enough of that sort of closeness in her long life, often before the people in question would realise it themselves, and she dared to say that this was different. Dr Watson and the enigmatic (and now, sadly, deceased) Sherlock Homes had loved and admired each other in the way of those deep friendships that had once been known between men but had become woefully rare nowadays.
Presumably because people would react to it the same stupid, twisted way as the tabloids did. Freedom of the press was a good thing, in principle, but it could also cause a lot of damage.
Young Mr Jones came over from the reading room, set a fresh cup of jasmine tea in front of her, this time with a couple of ginger biscuits, and gave her a friendly smile.
"Have you found what you were looking for, ma'am?" he asked.
Miss Marple nodded thoughtfully. "Oh yes, I think I have, my dear. Most interesting articles. Most interesting indeed. I wonder, though, if this Sherlock Holmes – what a strange name! – wasn't the genuine item, after all."
Ianto did something with the complicated looking coffee machine – it was big, shiny and visibly old, with more tubes and taps than one man could justifiably learn to operate, all gleaming copper and chrome – produced himself a cup of aromatic coffee and sat down at her table.
"As I said, I wasn't in London at that time," he replied. "But somehow, I doubt he could have faked all those cases. I mean, he worked for the Yard for how long? Five years? Somebody ought to have noticed something. Besides, that Richard Brook chap? There's never been an actor by that name; not to my knowledge. And those audio CDs, with the recorded children's books? Those weren't the genuine items, produced by any official publisher, either."
Miss Marple took a sharp breath. Now they were getting somewhere. "Are you sure about that?" she asked.
The young man nodded. "Quite sure. We specialise in audio books for children and have an agreement with every publisher in the country. If that thing had been genuine, we'd have got a copy through the usual channels."
"You have not?"
"Nope. Never heard of them before… or of the guy who'd supposedly recorded them."
"But why hasn't anyone noticed if the records were genuine?" Miss Marple wondered.
Ianto shrugged. "I guess it takes a librarian – and one who often has to do with children's audio books – to notice such things. Besides, I doubt that the tabloid press would be interested in such minor technicalities. Not when they've got a former hero to tear apart."
"I'm afraid that's very true," Miss Marple sighed.
The young man gave her a searching look. "Any reason you've taken such an interest, ma'am? The whole thing is almost a year old."
"I'm afraid it's a private matter," Miss Marple replied apologetically. "But you've been very helpful, my dear. Very helpful indeed. Thank you."
"Do you want me to dig a little more?" Ianto offered. "I might find more recent data on the internet."
"You'd do that?" Miss Marple asked, pleasantly surprised.
Ianto laughed. "Sure, why not? As you see, I've got more than enough time for private research here. The interest in the Library isn't exactly overwhelming. A good thing that it's owned by the town and I'm just an employee."
"Well, in that case," Miss Marple fumbled in her handbag and found one of those fancy cards dear Raymond insisted to have made for her and that she hardly ever used and handed it to the young man. "You can reach me on this number. Now if you could help me with this infernal phone of mine; I need to call Inch."
~TBC~