Note: Written for the Sunflower Auction for useyourtelescope (on AO3 and Tumblr).
None of the people of the case are my own invention, though they've been transplanted a little and their names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Can you guess who everyone is?
It was a magnificent old castle, standing tall upon a lonesome tor, remarkably well preserved despite the unrelenting passage of time. Wrought iron gates which had once opened for horse and carriage now parted for a plain black automobile. They shut behind it with a clang that cut through the cold air.
The vehicle pulled up in front of the tall, grand front doors, and the porter came around to let out the lone passenger. First, a gentleman's walking stick poked out to brace itself against the ancient stones, and then came the gentleman himself. He was a funny, fastidious little man, round like an egg with a dignified moustache, his head inquisitively cocked to one side.
"Merci," he said to the porter with a little bob of his head, and then he passed through the yawning doors into the castle.
The sharp sound of his cane against the floor echoed around the cavernous, stone-paved hall; it may as well have belonged to a giantess. The high walls were hung with tapestries and portraits that progressed through the centuries, and even the furniture served as a reminder of the castle's noble age. However, the little man regarded it all with an impassive eye.
Graves, the butler, greeted the visitor as he entered the castle; he was a head taller, but compared with the largess of their surroundings, it may as well have been an inch. He led the way through one of the many doors off of the hall into a comparatively miniscule octagonal room lined with bookshelves, which made for an intimate study.
"If you would wait here, sir. I will come for you when Lady MacBay is ready to see you."
"Mais oui," the visitor said imperiously, "Lady MacBay should know that Hercule Poirot is not one to be kept waiting."
Graves inclined his head like any good servant and took his leave.
Poirot took out his pocketwatch and glanced at the time.
"Oh, Miss Marple, it's so good to see you!" Mrs. Charlotte Clelland exclaimed, ushering the little old woman inside the humble parsonage.
Mrs. Clelland was a tall and very pleasant, if not quite handsome, young woman of nearly thirty. She was dressed in the modest clothes of a young clergyman's wife, and had the excited air of a woman not yet used to receiving guests in her own home.
"I'm afraid all the old stone work is a little draughty," Mrs. Clelland said as she led the way down a narrow, white plastered hall, "but dear William says we should be grateful he has a patron like Lady MacBay who sees the value of keeping everything in its original state."
"There are few clergymen who are truly men of books rather than comforts, no matter how much they should like everyone else to believe to the contrary," Miss Marple remarked.
Mrs. Clelland shook her head and was spared answering as they passed into the modest living quarters. The furniture and decor were all antique; few pieces were from the same decade, but they were in good repair, and it all looked well lived in. In fact, as they came to the parlour, there was already a young woman waiting for them; a few years younger than Mrs. Clelland, and quite beautiful, with a bright, laughing smile.
"Miss Marple, this is my closest friend from childhood, Elizabeth Beattie."
"Nice to meet you," Miss Beattie said, scooting her chair aside to make room for Miss Marple at the table as Mrs. Clelland poured her a cup of tea.
"Thank you, dear." Miss Marple sat down and accepted the piping cup. "Yes, I believe Mrs. Clelland has mentioned you once or twice; an inveterate troublemaker, if I'm not mistaken."
"Lottie, how could you?" Miss Beattie exclaimed, laughing. "Only the most innocent trouble, I assure you."
"You'll have to be on best behaviour tonight," Mrs. Clelland said, taking the third chair at the table. "Lady MacBay was generous enough to invite us up to the castle for dinner. I told you how she takes an interest in William's work. She even sometimes comes by to see how his garden is coming along."
Miss Beattie rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, I'll be a perfect bore."
"Who knows, maybe you'll meet someone. William said we weren't going to be the only guests."
"Knowing Lady MacBay, they'll probably be even older than Mr. Clelland, and just as much fun."
Apparently Miss Beattie had hit on a sore spot, because Mrs. Clelland flushed and quickly hid behind a sip of tea, and Miss Beattie fell silent as she realised what she had said.
"Not to say–" Miss Beattie hastily began to try to correct course, but it was already done, and she seemed to realise that saying any more would only prolong it.
"Lady MacBay will see you now," Graves declared.
Poirot put away his pocket watch and followed the butler back out into the grand, cavernous hall, to another, more promising door, not so impressive as the main entrance, but more intricately carved and polished to a shine.
Graves pulled it open and announced, "Mr. Hercule Poirot, m'lady."
"Come in," declared an imperious woman, formidable in her years, sitting behind a large, ornate desk.
Her surroundings could hardly be more different from the small, bookish study where Poirot had been instructed to wait. There were some books on the shelves, but they primarily served to frame the precious objets d'art and artefacts of the castle's long inhabitance.
Poirot entered with a tip of his hat to the lady. "Good day, Lady MacBay. What brings you to call upon the services of Hercule Poirot?"
Graves took his leave without waiting for a dismissal, closing the door behind him.
"Sit," Lady MacBay instructed. Only when Poirot had complied did she continue with the directness born of self-possession: "My life is in danger."
Poirot gave a quiet, wordless exclamation that may have been surprise or, less charitably, disbelief.
Lady MacBay ignored the interruption. "Of that I have no doubt. There are many people who would be eager to strike the final blow, whether out of envy for my position or resentment at the actions I have seen fit to take. You are here to find who it is that has designs against me."
"Pardonnez-moi, Madame," Poirot spoke at last, "but the law has little power in the realm of that which has yet to occur. A crime which has happened may be prosecuted with all due justice, but the crime which is still merely in the mind of the perpetrator, that is much more difficult…"
"I have not called you here to prosecute a crime," Lady MacBay replied with the disposition of a fixture of immovable stone. "You are a detective; it is your purpose to determine who intends to kill me, nothing more. Or is your prodigious reputation unearned?"
Poirot stood, straightening his jacket with affronted pride. "Very well, Madame, before the evening is done, you will have the name of the one who means you ill, however much good it may do you."
Lady MacBay rang for the butler. "Graves, show Mr. Poirot to his rooms so that he may prepare for dinner."
After the high-ceilinged, echoey hall, the cosier parlour made for a welcome change. It may have been smaller, but was no less formal, with reminders of the castle's age everywhere, from the decorations to the furniture.
As Mr. Clelland led Mrs. Clelland, Miss Beattie, and Miss Marple inside, the young gentleman and lady standing in the corner immediately broke off their conversation and craned to see the new arrivals. They were both very finely dressed, showing a rare combination of wealth and taste.
"Yes, very fine," Miss Marple was saying as she entered, drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders, "but I couldn't say quite comfortable."
Miss Beattie pointedly averted her eyes from the pair they had interrupted and hid her laugh behind her fan. Her dress was a little old fashioned but very lovely, and she especially stood out next to her more practical friend.
"Comfort is hardly worth considering against the noble history of a castle like that of my esteemed patroness, Lady MacBay," insisted the young clergyman who had generously taken it upon himself to lead the ladies on their tour.
"It is very old, isn't it," Miss Marple mused.
Mr. Clelland paid her remark little heed as he hastily greeted the lady and gentleman whom they had interrupted with a bow. "Miss MacBay, please allow me to introduce my cousin, Miss Elisabeth Beattie. Miss Beattie, this is Miss Anne MacBay, Lady MacBay's lovely daughter." To the gentleman he said, "I am William Clelland, the keeper of Lady MacBay's flock, so to speak, and this is my wife."
The ladies each curtsied in turn.
"I have met Miss Beattie," the man said stiffly. He then pressed Mrs. Clelland's hand. "Fitzwilliam Darrow at your service."
"Yes, we're acquainted," Miss Beattie scoffed, meeting Mr. Darrow's eyes with a challenging air. Finally, she tore her gaze away to greet Miss MacBay with a sharp smile. "Anne? It's good to meet you."
"It's a pleasure to meet you too," Miss MacBay said quietly, betraying no excess of feeling.
"Et Madame?" A small, round man, who had been hidden behind the back of one of the embroidered chairs arranged around the room, had stood and now joined them, his head cocked precariously to one side, his gaze on Miss Marple. "Mais pardonnez, I have not yet introduced myself. I am Hercule Poirot, a guest of Lady MacBay this evening." He gave a funny little bow.
"Jane Marple," she replied. "I knew Mrs. Clelland and Miss Beattie when they were very small, and Mrs. Clelland was kind enough to invite me to stay."
"It is my honour to welcome you, Mr. Poirot and Mr. Darrow, to Castle MacBay," Mr. Clelland interrupted. "You can see the effort Lady MacBay has put into preserving its history. Mr. Darrow, I have heard you have quite the estate of your own, but you admit even your estate pales when compared to Castle MacBay."
Mr. Clelland promptly led Mr. Darrow across the room to admire the tapestries and Miss MacBay followed, but the rest of the company stayed behind.
"Poirot… Poirot…" Miss Marple muttered to herself, lost in thought. "Where have I heard that name?"
Poirot waited expectantly and he was not the only one who listened with some curiosity.
The light of realisation suddenly struck in Miss Marple's eyes. "Oh yes, the detective. I've read about your work, that dreadful affair at Styles, and then in France… Yes, you've been all over the papers, haven't you?"
"Really, you're the famous detective?" Mrs. Clelland exclaimed in astonishment.
"Maybe tonight won't be so dull after all." Miss Beattie tossed her friend a conspiratorial smile, which Mrs. Clelland answered with affectionate exasperation.
"It is all exaggeration," Poirot said, but he gave one end of his magnificent moustaches the slightest brush in pride.
"The papers are prone to touching things up a little, I'm afraid," Miss Marple said with a shake of her head. "Still, It does make one wonder why Lady MacBay would think to invite a famous detective…"
Miss Beattie leaned in a little and asked in a low, eager voice, "You mean she suspects there's something afoot, like murder?"
"Lizzie!" Mrs. Clelland exclaimed.
"Do not trouble yourself, Mesdames, tonight Poirot concerns himself only with the dinner and the amiable company."
Miss Marple looked up and fixed Poirot with her pale blue eyes. "Well, yes, of course, you are the expert, I'm sure you know what you're doing, but these sorts of things are so delicate, and one can only wonder what there is to be done when things have already gone so far."
Poirot puffed up his chest. "Do not underestimate the little grey cells."
"No, of course not, it's only, well, I suppose the only thing to do is wait and see what happens."
"Miss Marple, Lizzie is bad enough with her wild ideas, don't you encourage her," Mrs. Clelland admonished.
"I'm afraid it's hardly a wild idea," Miss Marple said. "Mr. Poirot is probably right of course, it may be nothing, but then again…"
Mrs. Clelland did not have the chance to protest again as the door to the parlour opened and a young man was shown in. All heads turned at his arrival.
"Lottie, you didn't tell me Mr. Williams was going to be here," Miss Beattie exclaimed, waving to him.
"I didn't know he was coming," Mrs. Clelland said.
"Well, perhaps this won't be so bad after all!"
An apparently congenial young man, he smiled and waved back in greeting, paying particular attention to the ladies of the company.
"George, I'm so glad you could come," Miss MacBay said, stepping forward to greet him, more animated than she had been since the rest of the company had arrived.
Mr. Darrow followed close behind her. "What's he doing here?" The question was ostensibly addressed to Miss MacBay, but his eyes didn't leave Mr. Williams.
"I invited him."
"I wish you had told me sooner. If he is here, then I will not be."
"Now, now, Mr. Darrow," Mr. Clelland stepped in, at last giving up on the possibility of resuming his lecture about the tapestries, "there is no need to be so hasty. I'm sure our gracious host, Lady MacBay, would be terribly disappointed if you were to leave before dinner."
"If she sees it fit to invite the likes of him, then that is none of my business, but I would not remain."
Mr. Clelland's chest puffed up in insulted pride and Mrs. Clelland hastily intervened. While Mr. and Mrs. Clelland entreated Mr. Darrow to remain, Mr. Williams stepped forward to greet Miss MacBay with a press of her hand.
"How can Mr. Darrow talk about Mr. Williams like that, really!" Miss Beattie muttered. "Anyone can see Mr. Williams is the real gentleman, putting up with it all. We shared a few dances when he visited Meryton, but unfortunately he didn't stay long enough for it to become anything serious. Anne is a lucky girl."
Miss Marple slowly shook her head. "I'm not sure she is so lucky. I only hope it doesn't take a dangerous turn. When a man like that is cornered it often does, you know."
"A man like what?" Miss Beattie protested. She lowered her voice. "You don't really think Mr. Williams could be planning murder, do you? He may not have all of Mr. Darrow's fortunes, but he's hardly a common vagabond."
"He is very charming and handsome, I suppose," Miss Marple continued. "He reminds me of young Philip Layton, a boy in the village who charmed all the young ladies, until one of them got pregnant and he skipped town in a hurry. It turned out he'd built up a pretty sum stealing from the register while he was working at the post office. It was a lucky thing he didn't do worse, though that poor girl…"
"If anyone is planning murder, it's Mr. Darrow," Miss Beattie whispered insistently, watching him out of the corner of her eye. "He thinks he's too good for the rest of us, and you saw how he treated Mr. Williams—and I heard he's the one who cheated Mr. Williams out of his inheritance."
Poirot tutted. "I believe it is unlikely that either gentleman would go so far as to resort to murder, not even of so hated a rival."
"Then who do you think it is?"
Ponderously, Poirot murmured, "I can but wonder about Miss MacBay. She is, of course, a most self-possessed young lady, but there is something in her manner, and one cannot ignore the matter of motive."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, I see…" Miss Marple said; Miss Beattie's question went unheeded. "But I would not think that would preclude Mr. Williams, quite the opposite, as I doubt Lady MacBay is pleased with the match."
Poirot inclined his head. "As you say, there is little to do but wait and see," he said with the air of a man confident that his view was the correct one.
"Yes, of course."
Miss Beattie was about to ask again, but at that moment the bell rang for dinner, cutting all conversation short in favour of dinner.
Dinner was a formal affair overseen by the imperious Lady MacBay. She dictated the pace of the meal and directed all conversation—when she gave her guests the chance to speak at all.
When she deemed it time, the party was directed out of the cavernous dining hall for the somewhat more modern sitting room. The castle's mediaeval history was still plainly evident in the stone walls and dignified crests, it was furnished in a Georgian, or even Victorian style, with fine woodwork and silk cushioned chairs.
Lady MacBay occupied the largest, winged armchair, from which she could oversee the rest of the company, gathered around the small tables which were scattered around the room.
"It is so good that you could come, Mr. Darrow," Lady MacBay said, her strident voice carrying to all corners. "I know my Anne is pleased to see you."
"Thank you, your Ladyship," answered Mr. Darrow with a stiff nod.
"It's always a pleasure to visit your distinguished estate," Mr. Williams added from the other side of the room, next to Miss MacBay.
His remark went ignored, and instead Lady MacBay pointedly continued, "Mr. Darrow, I expect that you and Anne will have an announcement to make soon."
Miss MacBay avoided her mother's gaze as Mr. Darrow replied, "There won't be any announcement. My apologies if that's why you invited me."
Lady MacBay raised her chin as though to look down on Mr. Darrow from where she sat. "Mr. Darrow, I thought you were a better man than to be bewitched by the likes of Miss Beattie. Don't think I haven't heard about your time with her at Netherfield. You should be ashamed-"
"Excuse me!" Mrs. Beattie exclaimed. "Since when was it your business whether there's anything between me and Mr. Darrow?"
"Please, pardon my cousin, M'lady," Mr. Clelland interjected, "she doesn't know what she's saying."
"I expect you to be more careful of your choice of guests in the future," Lady MacBay declared. She gave a small shudder. "This is hardly a suitable subject. Such disputes try on my nerves. Graves, bring me my tincture."
As the butler bowed and took his leave, Miss Beattie stomped across the room to where Miss Marple and Mrs. Clelland were sitting by the fire, beneath the stern gaze of one of Lady MacBay's most distinguished predecessors.
"Did you hear that? I swear, I could kill her myself!" Miss Beattie proclaimed in a carrying whisper as she threw herself into another chair next to Mrs. Clelland.
"Lizzie!" Mrs. Clelland admonished.
"You shouldn't say things like that," Miss Marple said. "No, murder is an all too serious thing – and far too likely – to be joked about."
"You don't really believe someone is going to be murdered?" Miss Beattie asked hopefully. "Surely, the old bat's just paranoid."
"No, I wouldn't think so."
"It's not like this party could get much worse after a show like that. Lottie, I think we're both wishing you'd left me at home."
"Well, I don't know about that," Miss Marple mused.
"What do you mean?"
"It's not all bad. That Mr. Darrow really does like you, you know."
"Mr. Darrow like me?" Miss Beattie said incredulously. "You didn't hear what he had to say about me when I saw him at Netherfield."
"Lizzie," Mrs. Clelland tried to interrupt Miss Beattie's diatribe, and again, "Lizzie."
Miss Marple said nothing, only looked past Miss Beattie at the young man standing stiffly in front of their little gathering.
Finally, Miss Beattie looked up and saw him. "Oh…"
"Miss Beattie, I," Mr. Darrow faltered, "I just wanted to apologise for what Lady MacBay said."
Miss Beattie waved him off. "It's not like you said any of it."
"Yes, but, well, I wanted to make sure you knew that I don't agree with what she said."
"Oh, well, thank you, I suppose."
Mr. Darrow gave a stiff bow and went back to the table where he had been sitting with Poirot and Mr. Clelland.
It was several hours into the evening that all conversation was cut short by a shattering crash, followed by an incomprehensible scream. All eyes turned to the grand winged armchair in the centre of the room where Lady MacBay had been seated for the entire duration of the evening.
A distressed Mr. Clelland stood over her and her crystal glass lay cracked on the ground below. However, no sharp word of censure came. Lady MacBay's eyes were still wide open, apparently observing all, but she did not so much as stir at the disturbance.
Poirot was the first to recover from the shock. "Graves, send for a doctor – and for the constable, if you please." He crossed the room to the lady's side and raised his hand in front of her face to draw her attention, but it was again to no avail.
"She has been unusually quiet," Mr. Williams remarked, but quickly seemed to think better of it.
"My God," the young Miss MacBay said, staggering back into her chair, "is she…?"
Mrs. Clelland hurried to the young lady's side.
"What's going on here?" Mr. Darrow demanded, already on his feet.
Poirot held up a hand to detain him. "I must insist that no one touch the late Lady MacBay until the constable arrives. And Mr. Williams, I ask also that no one leave until the matter has been satisfactorily resolved."
"What do you mean, resolved?" Mr. Williams asked dubiously.
"You mean until you find out who did it?" Miss Beattie said, her prior eagerness replaced by the shock of the reality.
"But surely she wasn't…" Mr. Williams couldn't quite bring himself to finish the sentence.
"Of that there is no question," Poirot said. "Lady MacBay feared precisely such a thing, and that is why I am here. Alas, I could not prevent the crime, which she knew was already in motion; but the culprit will not get away with such a deed, not while Hercule Poirot is on the case."
"You don't mean to suggest it was one of us!" Mr. Darrow insisted, still on his feet, looming over the rest, though he did not try again to approach.
"If the poison – for surely it was poison – was indeed in Lady MacBay's glass, then there can be no alternative."
"But then it could be any of us!" Miss Beattie said.
"Do not trouble yourself, mademoiselle, all that is required is for the little grey cells to do their work-"
He was interrupted by a quiet tutting. "No, no, that won't do at all…" It was Miss Marple, still seated by the fire, so quiet and innocuous that she had nearly disappeared entirely.
Poirot straightened himself in affronted pride. "You have some objection, Madame?"
Miss Marple didn't so much as look up at him; instead, she was staring at the dead body of Lady MacBay and the glass that had fallen at her feet. "An objection? No, hardly – it's only, well, I was sitting here the whole evening, keeping an eye on her, you see. You may call it the silly worrying of a little old lady, but I couldn't get it out of my head… no, I was sure a woman like that wouldn't call on a detective without good reason."
"You mean you saw who did it?" Miss Beattie exclaimed.
Miss Marple shook her head. "No, that's just what I was saying, I didn't see anyone at all."
"So you missed it, then?" Mr. Williams said.
She shook her head again. "No, I'm quite sure I couldn't have. I was watching quite closely, you see. But I didn't see a soul approach Lady MacBay the entire evening, certainly not near enough to put anything in her glass."
"And yet, Lady MacBay's glass was shattered," Poirot mused, "as though to conceal the poison."
"What are you saying?" Mr. Darrow insisted.
"Surely the poison could not have been in the common decanter, non, then we would all be dead. What then did Lady MacBay consume that none other tasted. Surely, nothing at dinner. After dinner then? Did she not herself send Graves for a tincture to soothe her nerves?"
"Such a lovely garden," Miss Marple said, "a very pretty place to hide a poison, right in plain sight."
Mrs. Clelland let out a gasp as she met Miss Marple's eyes and fell back in her chair, next to the only slightly more composed Miss MacBay. "No, no, no, Miss Marple, you can't mean that, can you?"
"My dear, Charlotte, what are you talking about?" Mr. Clelland glanced between Miss Marple and his wife.
"I'm afraid so," Miss Marple said.
Poirot stepped in between Mr. Clelland and the doors out of the sitting room. "Mr. Clelland, you did not, perchance, make the tincture which was brought to Lady MacBay this evening? You would do well to consider your answer carefully."
Mr. Clelland sputtered, and gave a sudden jump as the door opened and Graves entered.
"The constable is here," announced the butler.
"Lottie!" Miss Beattie rushed to her friend's side, as Poirot, Miss Marple, and Mrs. Clelland returned to the parlour from speaking with the constable.
Mr. Darrow hastily stood, though he remained a few paces behind. "What's the news?"
The sitting room, with the lifeless body of Lady MacBay, had long since been vacated and left to the detectives. Mr. Clelland had been taken away for questioning, Miss MacBay was now speaking with the constable, and Mr. Williams had made a hasty retreat.
Miss Beattie took Mrs. Clelland's hands. "I'm so sorry, Lottie."
"My sincerest condolences to you, madame," Poirot said with an awkward little bow.
Mrs. Clelland wiped her eyes and added, "William is your cousin too."
"Y-yes," Miss Beattie said, "but I barely know him. Is it really true? Did he really do it?"
"I regret so," Poirot said.
"How could he do something like that? He's always been a bore – sorry, Lottie – but I still can't imagine he could be capable of, well- And I thought he admired Lady MacBay."
"That was what first made me wonder," Miss Marple said, in her slow, thoughtful way. "Not to speak ill of the dead, but Lady MacBay could hardly be an agreeable patroness, and Mr. Clelland bore it all, if you'll pardon my saying so, a little too well. It's like Mr. Greene, in the village, who never complained about his demanding wife, and then of course he left her for Miss Robbins and caused quite the stir."
"I believe Miss Marple is endeavouring to say," Poirot said, "that a man can tolerate anything if he knows his suffering will be but temporary."
Mr. Darrow abruptly interjected, "Mrs. Clelland, and Miss Beattie as well, if there's anything you require, I am at your service. I will be here as long as Anne needs me to help sort out her affairs."
"Thank you, Mr. Darrow, that's very generous of you," Mrs. Clelland said with half a curtsy.
"And I'll be here as long as you want me," Miss Beattie said.
"Thank you, Lizzie." Mrs. Clelland again wiped her eyes.
"Yes, I'm afraid these will be hard times," Miss Marple said. "It's important to have good friends to help you see it through."
"And thank you, Miss Marple," Poirot said, "for your assistance in bringing the case to its proper resolution."
"Oh, dear me, it's nothing really, I just get these little ideas sometimes. I'm very glad I could be of assistance to you, Mr. Poirot."