The Body in the Library

She subsided again on to Mrs Eccles, who said: ‘There, there, my dear,’ with some relish.

‘Mary is naturally somewhat upset, sir, having been the one to make the gruesome discovery,’ explained the butler. ‘She went into the library as usual, to draw the curtains, and—and almost stumbled over the body.’

‘Do you mean to tell me,’ demanded Colonel Bantry, ‘that there’s a dead body in my library—my library?’

The butler coughed.

‘Perhaps, sir, you would like to see for yourself.’

‘Hallo, ’allo, ’allo. Police station here. Yes, who’s speaking?’

Police-Constable Palk was buttoning up his tunic with one hand while the other held the receiver.

‘Yes, yes, Gossington Hall. Yes? Oh, good-morning, sir.’ Police-Constable Palk’s tone underwent a slight modification. It became less impatiently official, recognizing the generous patron of the police sports and the principal magistrate of the district.

‘Yes, sir? What can I do for you?—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t quite catch—a body, did you say?—yes?—yes, if you please, sir—that’s right, sir—young woman not known to you, you say?—quite, sir. Yes, you can leave it all to me.’

Police-Constable Palk replaced the receiver, uttered a long-drawn whistle and proceeded to dial his superior officer’s number.

Mrs Palk looked in from the kitchen whence proceeded an appetizing smell of frying bacon.

‘What is it?’

‘Rummest thing you ever heard of,’ replied her husband. ‘Body of a young woman found up at the Hall. In the Colonel’s library.’

‘Murdered?’

‘Strangled, so he says.’

‘Who was she?’

‘The Colonel says he doesn’t know her from Adam.’

‘Then what was she doing in ’is library?’

Police-Constable Palk silenced her with a reproachful glance and spoke officially into the telephone.

‘Inspector Slack? Police-Constable Palk here. A report has just come in that the body of a young woman was discovered this morning at seven-fifteen—’

Miss Marple’s telephone rang when she was dressing. The sound of it flurried her a little. It was an unusual hour for her telephone to ring. So well ordered was her prim spinster’s life that unforeseen telephone calls were a source of vivid conjecture.

‘Dear me,’ said Miss Marple, surveying the ringing instrument with perplexity. ‘I wonder who that can be?’

Nine o’clock to nine-thirty was the recognized time for the village to make friendly calls to neighbours. Plans for the day, invitations and so on were always issued then. The butcher had been known to ring up just before nine if some crisis in the meat trade had occurred. At intervals during the day spasmodic calls might occur, though it was considered bad form to ring after nine-thirty at night. It was true that Miss Marple’s nephew, a writer, and therefore erratic, had been known to ring up at the most peculiar times, once as late as ten minutes to midnight. But whatever Raymond West’s eccentricities, early rising was not one of them. Neither he nor anyone of Miss Marple’s acquaintance would be likely to ring up before eight in the morning. Actually a quarter to eight.

Too early even for a telegram, since the post office did not open until eight.

‘It must be,’ Miss Marple decided, ‘a wrong number.’

Having decided this, she advanced to the impatient instrument and quelled its clamour by picking up the receiver. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Is that you, Jane?’

Miss Marple was much surprised.

‘Yes, it’s Jane. You’re up very early, Dolly.’

Mrs Bantry’s voice came breathless and agitated over the wires.

‘The most awful thing has happened.’

‘Oh, my dear.’

‘We’ve just found a body in the library.’

For a moment Miss Marple thought her friend had gone mad.

‘You’ve found a what?’

‘I know. One doesn’t believe it, does one? I mean, I thought they only happened in books. I had to argue for hours with Arthur this morning before he’d even go down and see.’

Miss Marple tried to collect herself. She demanded breathlessly: ‘But whose body is it?’

‘It’s a blonde.’

‘A what?’

‘A blonde. A beautiful blonde—like books again. None of us have ever seen her before. She’s just lying there in the library, dead. That’s why you’ve got to come up at once.’

‘You want me to come up?’

‘Yes, I’m sending the car down for you.’

Miss Marple said doubtfully:

‘Of course, dear, if you think I can be of any comfort to you—’

‘Oh, I don’t want comfort. But you’re so good at bodies.’

‘Oh no, indeed. My little successes have been mostly theoretical.’

‘But you’re very good at murders. She’s been murdered, you see, strangled. What I feel is that if one has got to have a murder actually happening in one’s house, one might as well enjoy it, if you know what I mean. That’s why I want you to come and help me find out who did it and unravel the mystery and all that. It really is rather thrilling, isn’t it?’

‘Well, of course, my dear, if I can be of any help to you.’

‘Splendid! Arthur’s being rather difficult. He seems to think I shouldn’t enjoy myself about it at all. Of course, I do know it’s very sad and all that, but then I don’t know the girl—and when you’ve seen her you’ll understand what I mean when I say she doesn’t look real at all.’

A little breathless, Miss Marple alighted from the Bantrys’ car, the door of which was held open for her by the chauffeur.