Precious Like Rubies
by Soledad
Note: In this 'verse Mary Morstan is played by Amanda Abbington – for obvious reasons. Besides, she'd match Mary's description as given in "The Sign of Four" fairly well. However, I'm sure she's very different from the new BBC-version.
Luke Fitzwilliam is a character played by Benedict Cumberbatch in one of the later "Marple" adaptations. He has nothing to do with this story, neither was he canonically killed. I just couldn't resist.
Beta read by my dear friend Linda Hoyland, thanks!
Chapter 07 – Good Neighbours
The following weeks provided St Mary Mead with two minor sensations.
Firstly, the post mortem on old Mrs Smith proved that she had, indeed, died from a broken neck – an unfortunate consequence of her falling down the stairs. However, as Sergeant Cornish told John in confidence, the pathologist found two symmetrical bruises on her back, in the size and shape of a man's hands.
"She was pushed, then," John said thoughtfully, feeling sorry for the simple, hard-working old woman he'd never met while still alive. "It was murder. Or, at the very least, manslaughter."
The sergeant nodded. "The latter, most likely. There doesn't seem to be any motive to kill her – unless she happened to see something she wasn't supposed to see."
"You believe it has something to do with those burglaries… or attempted burglaries?" John asked.
"It seems only plausible, doesn't it?" Sergeant Cornish replied. "Perhaps the unlucky burglar wanted to give Mr Sheldon's flat another try and poor Mrs Smith was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Has the stair carpet actually been exchanged?" John asked.
"Yep," the sergeant nodded. "Mickey Smith apparently threw the old one out two days before the… the accident, as it was beyond repair."
"The grandson is above suspicion?"
"Yes, without doubt. His alibi is waterproof; and besides, he had an amiable relationship with his Gran. Even though the old lady would slap him around sometimes," he added with a grin. "Or so Miss Marple says."
"Who, no doubt, knows it from her housekeeper," John grinned back. "Who, for her part, has heard it from…?"
"From Miss Rose Tyler, Mickey's ex-perhaps-again-girlfriend," the sergeant finished. "This is St Mary Mead, after all – which is why I always listen very carefully when Miss Marple has something to say."
"Does this mean that you'll have to hand the case over to that Detective Inspector from Much Benham?" John tried to conceal his disappointment. With Frank Cornish calling the shots, he might have remained involved in the case, even if only from the side lines.
"Chief Detective Inspector," the sergeant corrected. "Ordinarily I would, yeah. In fact, I've already spoken to him; but they've got a lot of more important cases in Much Benham – his words, not mine – and so I'm allowed to keep investigating on my own… unless something else happens."
"Like somebody breaking into Mr Sheldon's flat and taking it apart," John guessed.
"Or somebody else gets killed," Sergeant Cornish said grimly. "I hope it won't happen but, as Miss Marple likes to say, murder is easy when nobody suspects a thing."
"You see the old lady as some kind of authority in this area?"
"Oh, yes," the sergeant said with emphasis. "What she doesn't know about the human nature isn't worth knowing."
The other little sensation was more widely noticed – the fact that Little Gates now apparently had a new tenant.
The information came from Mr Petherick's office, which Miss Wetherby's ghostly live-in nurse happened to visit at the same time as Miss Costello finished the papers and managed to steal a glance at said papers. Not enough to find out the name of the tenant, to everybody's regret, but enough to see that they were about to move into Little Gates within the next week.
Two days later, a professional team came from Much Benham – engaged through Mr Petherick's firm again, according to Miss Hartnell, who heard it from her old school friend, Mrs Ponsonby, Idris Hopper's aunt – to give the house a thorough cleaning, during which all old ladies within visual range spent their days at their windows with opera glasses, trembling with insatiable curiosity.
It was, then, all the more surprising that John got to meet the new tenant first.
He had been in St Mary Mead for almost three months by then, and he'd fallen into an easy routine. In the morning, he treated patients in Dr Haydock's practice, while the older doctor was visiting his faithful old charges who flat out refused to be treated by anyone else. In the afternoon, he paid house calls at The Development or at the Old Hall estate, where the enigmatic Mr Sheldon regularly produced brand new symptoms, now that he'd found a doctor who was actually willing to listen to him.
He couldn't know that John was mainly listening to him in order to find out what he was hiding beneath the mantle of a hypochondriac. So far, the attempts had been unsuccessful.
It wasn't a very stressful schedule, unless a bout of colds or flu swept over the village. But even then, his evenings were mostly free. He could go to the Blue Boar to have a pint or two with the local bachelors (mostly with Captain Harkness, when the pilot was in town; he found Idris Hopper and his friends a tad too young as company).
Or he could stay athome, watching crap telly or surfing the internet. Or reading. Or puttering around the house, making small repairs. Even after the great redecorating act, he still found small details that needed to be fixed from time to time.
One thing he hadn't tried his hand atyet was the garden; he doubted he ever would. It was an oversized, overgrown place like some enchanted woodland. One could almost expect to find little goblins, flower fairies or talking animals in the undergrowth. It had a strange, dreamlike air about it, which he liked – even though the old ladies often tut-tutted about the condition of his garden.
Besides, he didn't have to worry about criminals hiding in his personal wilderness. Those times were over. Whatever was going on at Old Hall, it didn't have anything to do with him.
Nothing beyond the curiosity, the urge to solve the mystery, that is – something he'd apparently been infected with during his time with Sherlock. Still, he didn't make any conscious effort to be involved. It was enough to get the facts from Sergeant Cornish, who'd got into the habit of using him as a sounding board, and to think about it later when he was alone.
It was merely a hobby, without any actual purpose. Nothing like solving cases with Sherlock had been; but that was all right. Nothing would be ever the same, now that Sherlock was gone.
On the day after the cleaning team from Much Benham had finished their work, John was returning from one of his daily visits to The Development when he noticed that there was movement in the small garden of Little Gates. Driven by curiosity, he turned to the right when leaving High Street, instead of taking his paperwork to Dr Haydock's practice. He would have walked by Little Gates on his way home anyway, and he could always bring the papers with him in the next morning.
That was his excuse, in any case. Deep down he was just as curious about the new tenant as everyone else, and the chance to meet him or her before any of the old ladies was simply too good to let it pass. It was almost as good as having figured out some minor detail before Sherlock would have.
So he humped around the little garden eagerly, not even noticing that he was barely leaning on his cane at all, and when he reached the side facing his house, he finally caught a glimpse at the mysterious new tenant. Who, at first sight, didn't appear particularly mysterious, to tell the truth.
She was a blonde woman, perhaps a few years younger than John himself – a bleached blonde, for sure, but it was a good job, making the colour look almost natural. She was also small and thin, probably an inch or two shorter than John, dressed in a simple grey skirt suit, the plainness and simplicity of which suggested limited means.
It was by no means the kind of clothing one would wear by working in the garden, so she must have just returned from some official meeting where she'd want to be properly dressed. Like a meeting with Mr Petherick. Or perhaps a job interview. John might not be able to tell somebody's life story by the way they tied their shoelaces – he wasn't a Holmes, after all – but if she wanted to keep Little Gates she would need a steady income, however modest that might be.
Unless she was actually wealthy, but she didn't look it.
She was lovely, though. Not your regular beauty; her face was too thin for that, her mouth too wide and her large, almond-shaped eyes bulging just a hint too much. But her expression was alert and vivid, and those large blue eyes, while a hint sad, were full of curiosity. In an experience of women that extended over a number of nations and three separate continents – he had been called Three Continents Watson for a reason! – John found that he had never seen a face that would give a clearer promise of an inquisitive yet friendly nature.
He was too old to believe in love at first sight anymore. Yet he felt an unexpected wave of warmth in the presence of this sweet-faced woman.
She spotted him standing at her fence, too, and frowned slightly.
"Can I help you?" her voice was even more vivid than one would have expected from her general expression, and there was a spirit of defiance in her eyes now.
"I'm sorry," John apologized. "I'm not usually so indiscreet, but your arrival has been the biggest event of the last couple of weeks in St Mary Mead, and the old ladies are going to die from envy that I've managed to meet you first," he proffered her a hand across the fence. "John Watson. I'm one of the local GPs and happen to live in that little cottage across The Fields, as they call the patch of grass between our houses."
She shook his hand briefly but firmly. "Mary Morstan. I've just moved in – but you obviously already know that."
"Everyone in St Mary Mead knows it already," John grinned. "And they're all dying to find out who you are, where you came from, how you take your tea and what your favourite brand of deodorant is. Don't be alarmed; they did the same thing with me three months ago; actually, they're still doing it. But they're harmless; just very curious and with too much time on their hands."
"You're new in the village, too?" That, for some reason, seemed to please her. "Where did you live before?"
"London," he replied, "but only for the last two years. Before that, I'd served three tours in Afghanistan… until I got shot and invalided home," he added with a grimace.
Even after all those years, the loss of his career – both his careers – still stung.
"Yes, I saw that you were limping," she said sympathetically, as if inviting him to tell more, but he chose not to go into details just yet.
"Some things cannot be helped," he replied evasively. "What about you, though? Where did you come from?"
"I used to work as a school teacher in Wellford for a couple of years," she explained, naming one of the neighbouring villages. "But it was only a temporary job, and when my predecessor, Mrs Forrester, came back from her extended maternity leave, I had to go. Accidentally, at about the same time did I get a letter from the solicitor's here…."
"Mr Petherick," John supplied. She nodded, recognizing the name.
"Yes, thank you. Well, apparently they've been looking for me for quite some time… well, not for me exactly, but for any possible relation of the late Colonel Augustus Abbington."
"The original owner of Little Gates?" John remembered David Clement having mentioned the name while giving him the first tour around the cottages available for renting.
She nodded again. "Yes. It seems that he was the great-great-great and several more times great-uncle of my mother. And since I'm the only one of that side of the family left, Little Gates now apparently belongs to me."
"Congratulations," John grinned. "I almost became your tenant, you see; Little Gates was one of the cottages offered me for renting when I came here."
"Actually, it might have been better for me if you had done," she replied with disarming honesty. "I have no idea how I'm supposed to preserve the house, now that I no longer have a job. Even though…" she trailed off, uncertainly, and John's eyes perked up in interest.
"Even though what?" he pressed gently.
"Well, I've received larger sums transferred to my account by some anonymous benefactor during the last two years – six times altogether," she admitted. "I have no idea where the money came from, nor would I touch it with a ten-foot-pole, as I'm suspicious about its origins. But I must confess that it's tempting – especially now, that I'll have to keep up a home on my own," she shook her head in growing concern. "Why am I telling you all this? I don't even know you."
"It must be my trustworthy face," John deadpanned.
"I suppose it must," she agreed, not entirely convinced. "Well, it was nice to meet you, Dr Watson, but I still have a great deal of unpacking to do."
"And I've got a pile of paperwork higher than the Mount Everest waiting for me," John sighed. "Are you sure you don't need help with that unpacking of yours? It would be such a wonderful excuse…"
"Even as a doctor, I doubt that you'd be comfortable with rummaging among a lady's unmentionables," she replied, laughing now. "But I promise I'll call upon you should I really need help with something. We're neighbours, after all – sort of – and neighbours are supposed to help each other, aren't they?"
If John helped that his brief encounter with the new tenant of Little Gates – the topic of every single conversation in St Mary Mead for at least a week – would remain unnoticed, he'd underestimated the worthies of the village. He'd barely reached Dr Haydock's house, in the evening, medical bag in one hand and the finished paperwork under his other arm, when Miss Hartnell pounced on him.
Where she'd been hiding, waiting for him to show up, he couldn't even begin to guess. But, as he'd been warned right after his arrival, Miss Hartnell was very good at pouncing on people.
"I saw you!" she exclaimed in her loud, screeching voice that doubtlessly carried well beyond the Vicarage. "I'm so excited! Now you can tell us all about it?"
"Sorry, what?" John pretended to be clueless but, of course, he couldn't fool a sly old bird like Miss Hartnell.
"Why, the new tenant of Little Gates, of course," she replied impatiently. "Is she unmarried, is she engaged, or has she a husband somewhere?"
"I really couldn't say," John admitted, mildly shocked that this should be the first thing of interest for Miss Hartnell. "She didn't tell me."
"How very peculiar," the old lady frowned, the gears almost visibly turning under her perfectly coiffed bronze curls. The gold-rimmed glasses positively trembled on the tip of her nose. "One would think she'd mention something casually. It almost looks, doesn't it, as though she had a reason for not speaking about her family?"
"I really don't see that," John said slowly, though he had to admit that Miss Hartnell wasn't so far from the truth.
There was definitely a mystery in Ms Morstan's life, the nature of which remained unclear for the moment. Not that he'd mention anything about that to Miss Hartnell, of all people.
Miss Hartnell gave him a patronising smile. "Ah, but as dear Miss Marple says, you're such an honest, straightforward man, Dr Watson. You wouldn't even realize should someone try to mislead you."
John – decorated war veteran and former assistant of the world's only consulting detective – managed to remain straight-faced hearing that declaration. Barely.
"Tell me," Miss Hartnell continued on her mission to learn everything about their new neighbour unerringly. "Has she known Mr Petherick long? Are they probably related, or were they engaged in any way?"
John shrugged, feeling no need to reveal that the connection between the solicitor and Ms Morstan was likely just an official one. He'd learned by now that the tiniest bit of information could lead to the wildest speculation among the worthies of St Mary Mead, so he was careful not to supply them with any if he could help.
"She didn't mention him, so I don't know."
"Really?" Miss Hartnell was clearly very disappointed. "But what did you talk about then?"
"About the job market and the difficulties of maintaining a house on one's own," John replied, trying to stay as close to the truth as possible while not revealing anything Ms Morstan might not want to become common knowledge – which, in St Mary Mead, wasn't an easy task; or a permanent result.
He must have succeeded, though, at least for the time being, because Miss Hartnell – whose only topics of conversation were the purely personal – seemed even more disappointed; not to mention suspicious and unbelieving. Taking advantage of a momentary hesitation on her part as to how to proceed next, John bade her a good morning and slipped into Dr Haydock's house in a hurry.
He wasn't fleeing from her presence. That would have been cowardly. He merely made a tactical retreat. That was all.
In the meantime, Miss Marple was entertaining guests in her own house. Well… one guest in particular. Ianto Jones just happened to come over with the latest results of his internet research (since Miss Marple didn't own a computer and wouldn't be able to use one anyway – a mobile phone was more than enough of a challenge for her) and promptly got invited for tea.
"I wouldn't even think of offering you coffee, dear," Miss Marple had said most kindly. "Compared with yours, it would be an insult."
With the ruggedly handsome gentleman in the conservative tweed suit in their midst, they represented two different generations, although Chief Detective Inspector Dermot Craddock (retired) was considerably closer to Miss Marple's age than to Ianto's, as his full head of soft iron-grey hair revealed. He was an old acquaintance of Miss Marple's, back from his days of active duty, and they kept in touch ever since. It was also only logical for Miss Marple to ask for his help when she'd begun her private little investigation concerning the late Mr Sherlock Holmes, three months ago.
"I've done what I could, Aunt Jane," Craddock said apologetically. "But the man came to work with the Yard – if you can his showing up at crime scenes and driving everyone mad working with them – after my time, and many of my old contacts are either dead or have retired by now."
In the strict sense he was not Miss Marple's nephew. But his late godfather, Sir Henry Clithering, had been a great admirer of Miss Marple's abilities and through Sir Henry, the two of them had come to work together in several difficult cases. Often enough for Craddock to develop a healthy respect for the old lady's talent – and to come to like her very much on a personal level.
Feelings that Miss Marple fully and enthusiastically reciprocated.
"A shame you were no longer with the Yard," she commented loyally. "Under your rule this… this terrible misunderstanding would never have happened."
"Perhaps; perhaps not," Craddock allowed. "But I was gone for years when Holmes first approached Lestrade. I just couldn't live with that idiot Morris being promoted to Chief Superintendent, right under my nose. What that pompous fool knows about proper police procedures could be written on the back of a postal stamp – in very large sized font. And I was supposed to take orders from that? Not in a thousand years!"
Miss Marple gave him a most understanding look.
"I know, Dermot dear. I could never understand why you weren't promoted to that position. If anyone, you'd have deserved it. You had the seniority, you had the experience, and the results to show… so what happened?"
Craddock shrugged. "Politics happened. Uncle Harry died at the most inconvenient time, and Morris had influential supporters in Whitehall. People who owed him favours, most likely."
Miss Marple nodded in sad understanding. Unfortunately, such things happened in life. The higher a desired position was, the more frequently. Personal achievements – or the fact that Dermot would have been so much better as Chief Superintendent – played no substantial role in such decisions.
"What did you find out then?" she asked.
"Well, for starters, that the committee assigned to check on the cases solved with Holmes's help could find no irregularities… so far," Craddock replied. "They aren't through yet, but most of the work is done, and I'm quite sure they won't find anything – well, save for the fact that using civilian consultants – unpaid civilian consultants – with such regularity is unusual. The most they could disapprove of were Holmes's… er… unorthodox methods for gathering evidence. But basically, the investigations were done by Lestrade's team every time, most professionally. Holmes just helped them find the clues and make the connections in his head, faster than anyone else could have done."
"Is that why the Chief Superintendent is now facing an investigation of his own and Detective Inspector Lestrade has been reinstated in his job?" Ianto asked quietly from the background. At Craddock's surprised glance he added with a bland smile. "The hackers of the I Believe in Sherlock Holmes-movement took an unauthorized look into the Met's confidential files and published the records all over the internet."
"Which is why I prefer the good old method of paper copies," Craddock commented dryly. "Contrary to common belief, they're still easier to keep safe. But you're right, Mr Jones. My old friends still with the Met say that there was considerable pressure from Whitehall… pressure that counteracted the efforts of Morris's supporters who tried to save his fat… backside," he caught himself before he could have said something rude in front of Miss Marple.
"That's not surprising, sir," Ianto said. "I did a bit of deep digging where this infamous Mr Holmes is considered and guess what I've found: he's got an older brother. A civil servant, occupying some minor position in Whitehall."
"What position exactly?" Craddock asked with interest.
"I couldn't figure out that," Ianto admitted. "Not even with the help of… well, of a computer genius who uses the library where I work for studying. And until now she'd been able to get past just about any firewall she came across."
Miss Marple vaguely remembered the young Japanese woman with the technical manuals working on her laptop with great concentration in the reading room of the library of Market Basing, but chose not to ask any further questions. If the girl was doing semi-legal research for young Mr Jones it was better not to draw any attention to the fact. Fortunately, the dear Dermot had already retired and was no longer obliged to pursue such matters.
Craddock had obviously come to the same conclusion because he didn't ask about that aspect either.
"But if that brother of Holmes is truly so powerful, how came that he couldn't interfere in time?" he wondered instead.
Miss Marple coughed apologetically. "Perhaps he intended to. But all the data Ianto was able to gather for me shows that the late Mr Holmes was a rather… impulsive personality. One of the kind that runs off on a whim, regardless of his own safety… or of any possible consequences. Like that young detective of yours, what was his name again? The one that, unfortunately, got killed by a cornered robber."
"Luke Fitzwilliam?" Craddock guessed, and Miss Marple nodded.
"Yes, that one. I'm quite sure that – had he possessed the patience to sit things out – at least in the part where the police were concerned, Mr Holmes would have been cleared eventually."
"What do you mean with the part where the police were considered, Aunt Jane?" Craddock asked with a frown.
Miss Marple gave him that special, pitying look she usually reserved for respected men of considerable status who, nevertheless, proved too slow to follow the sharp turns of her experienced mind.
"Dermot, dear, surely you can see that a man like Chief Superintendent Morris wouldn't have the intelligence to set such a trap for Mr Holmes. Only a genius who was his equal could have done that."
"Moriarty," Ianto supplied grimly. "Whoever he truly was. Because he most certainly wasn't Richard Brooks. That persona was beyond doubt a mere construct, and I have the necessary information to prove it."
Miss Marple nodded. "Exactly. Which is why we need to learn more about the mysterious Mr Moriarty."
"Why?" Craddock asked. "The man is dead; she shot himself on the roof of St Bart's, only moments before Holmes jumped. Which led to the absurd statement in The Sun that Holmes could have somehow frightened him into committing suicide."
"That's absurd," Ianto said. "Why would Holmes jump right after that? Out of overwhelming guilt, because the man he considered a criminal mastermind killed himself before his eyes? And why would he admit he was a fraud when he clearly was not? It makes no sense."
"No," Miss Marple agreed. "Which is why this is the exact point where we need to start. This journalist, this Kitty Riley woman, is the key. If we find out what lies behind her deliberately false accusations, we can clear the name of Mr Holmes – eventually."
"Perhaps," Craddock allowed. "But why are you so interested, Aunt Jane? You didn't even know the man, did you? And he'd dead anyway; finding the truth won't help him."
"No; but it would help Dr Watson who, I am sure, still believes in his friend and suffers from all the slanders against his memory," Miss Marple replied seriously. "Dr Watson is a good, decent man. He deserves to be freed from that burden. Besides, I find it morally despicable to allow a criminal to destroy the good name of somebody who dedicated his life to the fighting of crime. Even if he might be more interested in solving the puzzle than in enforcing the law."
Craddock grinned at her. "I think I begin to understand why you've been compared with Nemesis, Aunt Jane."
"Nonsense," Miss Marple actually blushed at that. "That was just a joke from the late Mr Rafiel. He had a somewhat peculiar sense of humour, you know."
"He was a tough old bastard, but a very good judge of character, you mean," Craddock corrected. "All right, Aunt Jane. I'm in. But neither of us is the right person for this sort of investigation. To discredit a journalist – and one that is fairly successful at the moment – we'd need another journalist. A damn good one. This is explosive material we're dealing with – and it could be dangerous, too."
"Then I think I know just the right person," Miss Marple said modestly. "You see, I had this old school friend of mine, Lavinia Smith – she died a few years ago, poor dear; used to be quite a name-worthy virologist, though – and she had a niece who is a freelance journalist. One who often deals with explosive material as you call it. And she happens to live in London, which makes things easier, don't you think?"
"Maybe," Craddock replied cautiously. "Could I have met her earlier?"
"No; but perhaps you've heard about her. She was the one who revealed the goings on in that factory where they added highly addictive substances to those soft drinks young people liked so much a few years ago, what was it called? Bubble Spuck?"
"Bubble Shock," Ianto corrected, suppressing a grin.
"Right, thank you, my dear. She was also the one to investigate the so-called ghost apparition at Lavender Lawns, the nursing home where the inhabitants were given hallucinogens, so that the personnel could take their money unnoticed."
As she was trying to think of more mysteries successfully solved by her journalist friend, Dermot Craddock stared at his honorary aunt in slack-mouthed shock.
"Do you mean… Sarah Jane Smith?" he asked incredulously.
The name of Sarah Jane Smith had long made itself felt in the circles of serious, responsible journalism.
She was past fifty and, as the niece of one of the leading scientists of the previous generation, Sarah Jane – who had been acknowledged to have a sharp intellect – was expected to take up a distinguished academic career.
However, her mindset proved way too restless for academic work. She was, by nature, insatiably curious and had a strong moral compass; not to mention a nose for dirty secrets like a bloodhound. All this led her almost inevitably to journalism.
The choice soon enough proved to be the right one. Her success was immediate and assured. Her good looks, her stubbornness – and her aunt's contacts – opened her doors no other journalist got through, and once she had a foot in the door, there was no way to stop her.
Rich and powerful men admired her and feared her in equal measure. Women of the same class envied and/or hated her. She, frankly, didn't care either way. She took her journalist's ethics very seriously, and the only thing that could stop her crusade for finding out – and sharing! – the truth was compassion.
Like doctors who took a Hippocratic Oath, her first rule was to cause no harm… a rather unique approach from a journalist in these days.
One of her rules was never to accept a permanent engagement from any newspaper. Only as a freelancer could she be certain that her articles would not be forcibly rewritten – she could always threaten to take them to the concurring paper.
She would rather withdraw an article unpublished than to change it to satisfy some redactor. It wasn't as she needed the money, after all. Aunt Lavinia left her enough for a modest living.
That didn't mean that she wouldn't demand proper payment for her work, of course. She did deliver first class stuff and expected to be paid accordingly. This policy enabled her to work for free sometimes, too – if she believed in a seemingly lost cause strongly enough.
Sarah Jane read and re-read Miss Marple's letter several times. She'd known the old lady since her childhood and liked her very much. But more than that, she also knew what Miss Marple was capable of, thanks to the repeated exposure to that shrewd and sharp old mind.
And now Miss Marple wrote, asking if Sarah Jane could do a certain task for her – a rather unusual one, apparently. Perhaps Sarah Jane could arrange a meeting at which they could discuss the matter, the short message ended.
Sarah Jane frowned for a moment or two as she considered her options. She was actually planning to go to Southern France with her adopted son, Luke, in two days' time. This was a long promised holiday they were both looking forward to.
But the word unusual – not to mention her knowledge of Miss Marple's personality and interests – made the decision easier than expected. Before she could change her mind, she rang Miss Marple, explaining that she could not come down to St Mary Mead at the moment but that she was free in the following afternoon up to 5 pm and could meet Miss Marple somewhere in London.
To make things easier, she suggested her own club, a rather nondescript establishment that had the advantage of having several small, dark writing-rooms. She often used one of said rooms when she was not working at home – for interviews, or for meetings with her informants. So often indeed that it was more or less considered her room.
Miss Marple accepted the suggestion, mentioning that a young man of her acquaintance would drive her to London, and so on the following day the meeting took place.
~TBC~
