Miss Marple – Miss Marple and Mystery: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

hate him, I tell you! I hate him. I hate him, I hate him! I would like to see him hanged by the neck till he is dead.’

      The lawyer recoiled before her and the smouldering passion in her eyes.

      She advanced a step nearer, and continued vehemently:

      ‘Perhaps I shall see it. Supposing I tell you that he did not come in that night at twenty past nine, but at twenty past ten? You say that he tells you he knew nothing about the money coming to him. Supposing I tell you he knew all about it, and counted on it, and committed murder to get it? Supposing I tell you that he admitted to me that night when he came in what he had done? That there was blood on his coat? What then? Supposing that I stand up in court and say all these things?’

      Her eyes seemed to challenge him. With an effort, he concealed his growing dismay, and endeavoured to speak in a rational tone.

      ‘You cannot be asked to give evidence against your own husband –’

      ‘He is not my husband!’

      The words came out so quickly that he fancied he had misunderstood her.

      ‘I beg your pardon? I –’

      ‘He is not my husband.’

      The silence was so intense that you could have heard a pin drop.

      ‘I was an actress in Vienna. My husband is alive but in a madhouse. So we could not marry. I am glad now.’

      She nodded defiantly.

      ‘I should like you to tell me one thing,’ said Mr Mayherne. He contrived to appear as cool and unemotional as ever. ‘Why are you so bitter against Leonard Vole?’

      She shook her head, smiling a little.

      ‘Yes, you would like to know. But I shall not tell you. I will keep my secret …’

      Mr Mayherne gave his dry little cough and rose.

      ‘There seems no point in prolonging this interview,’ he remarked. ‘You will hear from me again after I have communicated with my client.’

      She came closer to him, looking into his eyes with her own wonderful dark ones.

      ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘did you believe – honestly – that he was innocent when you came here today?’

      ‘I did,’ said Mr Mayherne.

      ‘You poor little man,’ she laughed.

      ‘And I believe so still,’ finished the lawyer. ‘Good evening, madam.’

      He went out of the room, taking with him the memory of her startled face.

      ‘This is going to be the devil of a business,’ said Mr Mayherne to himself as he strode along the street.

      Extraordinary, the whole thing. An extraordinary woman. A very dangerous woman. Women were the devil when they got their knife into you.

      What was to be done? That wretched young man hadn’t a leg to stand upon. Of course, possibly he did commit the crime …

      ‘No,’ said Mr Mayherne to himself. ‘No – there’s almost too much evidence against him. I don’t believe this woman. She was trumping up the whole story. But she’ll never bring it into court.’

      He wished he felt more conviction on the point.

      The police court proceedings were brief and dramatic. The principal witnesses for the prosecution were Janet Mackenzie, maid to the dead woman, and Romaine Heilger, Austrian subject, the mistress of the prisoner.

      Mr Mayherne sat in the court and listened to the damning story that the latter told. It was on the lines she had indicated to him in their interview.

      The prisoner reserved his defence and was committed for trial.

      Mr Mayherne was at his wits’ end. The case against Leonard Vole was black beyond words. Even the famous KC who was engaged for the defence held out little hope.

      ‘If we can shake that Austrian woman’s testimony, we might do something,’ he said dubiously. ‘But it’s a bad business.’

      Mr Mayherne had concentrated his energies on one single point. Assuming Leonard Vole to be speaking the truth, and to have left the murdered woman’s house at nine o’clock, who was the man whom Janet heard talking to Miss French at half past nine?

      The only ray of light was in the shape of a scapegrace nephew who had in bygone days cajoled and threatened his aunt out of various sums of money. Janet Mackenzie, the solicitor learned, had always been attached to this young man, and had never ceased urging his claims upon her mistress. It certainly seemed possible that it was this nephew who had been with Miss French after Leonard Vole left, especially as he was not to be found in any of his old haunts.

      In all other directions, the lawyer’s researches had been negative in their result. No one had seen Leonard Vole entering his own house, or leaving that of Miss French. No one had seen any other man enter or leave the house in Cricklewood. All inquiries drew blank.

      It was the eve of the trial when Mr Mayherne received the letter which was to lead his thoughts in an entirely new direction.

      It came by the six o’clock post. An illiterate scrawl, written on common paper and enclosed in a dirty envelope with the stamp stuck on crooked.

      Mr Mayherne read it through once or twice before he grasped its meaning.

       Dear Mister

      Youre the lawyer chap wot acks for the young feller. if you want that painted foreign hussy showd up for wot she is an her pack of lies you come to 16 Shaw’s Rents Stepney tonight. It ul cawst you 2 hundred quid Arsk for Missis Mogson.

      The solicitor read and re-read this strange epistle. It might, of course, be a hoax, but when he thought it over, he became increasingly convinced that it was genuine, and also convinced that it was the one hope for the prisoner. The evidence of Romaine Heilger damned him completely, and the line the defence meant to pursue, the line that the evidence of a woman who had admittedly lived an immoral life was not to be trusted, was at best a weak one.

      Mr Mayherne’s mind was made up. It was his duty to save his client at all costs. He must go to Shaw’s Rents.

      He had some difficulty in finding the place, a ramshackle building in an evil-smelling slum, but at last he did so, and on inquiry for Mrs Mogson was sent up to a room on the third floor. On this door he knocked and getting no answer, knocked again.

      At this second knock, he heard a shuffling sound inside, and presently the door was opened cautiously half an inch and a bent figure peered out.

      Suddenly the woman, for it was a woman, gave a chuckle and opened the door wider.

      ‘So it’s you, dearie,’ she said, in a wheezy voice. ‘Nobody with you, is there? No playing tricks? That’s right. You can come in – you can come in.’

      With some reluctance the lawyer stepped across the threshold into the small dirty room, with its flickering gas jet. There was an untidy unmade bed in a corner, a plain deal table and two rickety chairs. For the first time Mr Mayherne had a full view of the tenant of this unsavoury apartment. She was a woman of middle age, bent in figure, with a mass of untidy grey hair and a scarf wound tightly round her face. She saw him looking at this and laughed again, the same curious toneless chuckle.

      ‘Wondering why I hide my beauty, dear? He, he, he. Afraid it may tempt you, eh? But you shall see – you shall see.’

      She drew aside the scarf and the lawyer recoiled involuntarily before the almost formless blur of scarlet. She replaced the scarf again.

      ‘So you’re not wanting to kiss me, dearie? He, he, I don’t wonder. And yet I was a pretty girl once – not so long ago as you’d think, either. Vitriol, dearie, vitriol – that’s what did that. Ah! but I’ll be even with em –’

      She