Teas were still being served there in spite of the autumn chill. There were not many people today, a certain amount of mothers and prams, and a few pairs of young lovers. Miss Marple collected a tray with tea and two sponge cakes. She carried her tray carefully to a table and sat down. The tea was just what she needed. Hot, strong and very reviving. Revived, she looked round her, and her eyes stopping suddenly at a particular table, she sat up very straight in her chair. Really, a very strange coincidence, very strange indeed! First the Army and Navy Stores and now here. Very unusual places those particular two people chose! But no! She was wrong. Miss Marple took a second and stronger pair of glasses from her bag. Yes, she had been mistaken. There was a certain similarity, of course. That long straight blonde hair; but this was not Bess Sedgwick. It was someone years younger. Of course! It was the daughter! The young girl who had come into Bertram's with Lady Selina Hazy's friend, Colonel Luscombe. But the man was the same man who had been lunching with Lady Sedgwick in the Army and Navy Stores. No doubt about it, the same handsome, hawk-like look, the same leanness, the same predatory toughness and - yes, the same strong, virile attraction.
"Bad!" said Miss Marple. "Bad all through! Cruel! Unscrupulous. I don't like seeing this. First the mother, now the daughter. What does it mean?"
It meant no good. Miss Marple was sure of that. Miss Marple seldom gave anyone the benefit of the doubt; she invariably thought the worst, and nine times out of ten, so she insisted, she was right in so doing. Both these meetings, she was sure, were more or less secret meetings. She observed now the way these two bent forward over the table until their heads nearly touched, and the earnestness with which they talked. The girl's face - Miss Marple took off her spectacles, rubbed the lenses carefully, then put them on again. Yes, this girl was in love. Desperately in love, as only the young can be in love. But what were her guardians about to let her run about London and have these clandestine assignments in Battersea Park? A nicely brought up, well-behaved girl like that. Too nicely brought up, no doubt! Her people probably believed her to be in some quite other spot. She had to tell lies.
On her way out Miss Marple passed the table where they were sitting, slowing down as much as she could without its being too obvious. Unfortunately, their voices were so low that she could not hear what they said. The man was speaking, the girl was listening, half pleased, half afraid. Planning to run away together, perhaps? thought Miss Marple. She's still under age.
Miss Marple passed through the small gate in the fence that led to the sidewalk of the park. There were cars parked along there and presently she stopped beside one particular car. Miss Marple was not particularly knowledgeable over cars but such cars as this one did not come her way very often, so she had noted and remembered it. She had acquired a little information about cars of this style from an enthusiastic great-nephew. It was a racing car. Some foreign make - she couldn't remember the name now. Not only that, she had seen this car or one exactly like it, seen it only yesterday in a side street close to Bertram's Hotel. She had noticed it not only because of its size and its powerful and unusual appearance but because the number had awakened some vague memory, some trace of association in her memory. FAN 2266. It had made her think of her cousin Fanny Godfrey. Poor Fanny who stuttered, who had said, "I have got t-t-t-wo s-s-s-potz..."
She walked along and looked at the number of this car. Yes, she was quite right. FAN 2266. It was the same car. Miss Marple, her footsteps growing more painful every moment, arrived deep in thought at the other side of Chelsea Bridge and by then was so exhausted that she hailed the first taxi she saw with decision. She was worried by the feeling that there was something she ought to do about things. But what things and what to do about them? It was all so indefinite. She fixed her eyes absently on some newsboards. SENSATIONAL DEVELOPMENTS IN TRAIN ROBBERY, they ran. ENGINE DRIVER'S STORY, said another one. Really! Miss Marple thought to herself, every day there seemed to be a bank holdup or a train robbery or a wage pay snatch.
Crime seemed to have got above itself.
Chapter 13
Vaguely reminiscent of a large bumblebee, Chief Inspector Fred Davy wandered around the confines of the Criminal Investigation Department, humming to himself. It was a well-known idiosyncrasy of his, and caused no particular notice except to give rise to the remark that "Father was on the prowl again."
His prowling led him at last to the room where Inspector Campbell was sitting behind a desk with a bored expression. Inspector Campbell was an ambitious young man and he found much of his occupation tedious in the extreme. Nevertheless, he coped with the duties appointed to him and achieved a very fair measure of success in so doing. The powers that be approved of him, thought he should do well and doled out from time to time a few words of encouraging commendation.
"Good morning, sir," said Inspector Campbell, respectfully, when Father entered his domain. Naturally he called Chief Inspector Davy "Father" behind his back as everyone else did; but he was not yet of sufficient seniority to do such a thing to his face.
"Anything I can do for you, sir?" he inquired.
"La, la, boom, boom," hummed the Chief Inspector, slightly off key. "Why must they call me Mary when my name's Miss Gibbs?" After this rather unexpected resurrection of a bygone musical comedy, he drew up a chair and sat down. "Busy?" he asked.
"Moderately so."
"Got some disappearance case or other on, haven't you, to do with some hotel or other? What's the name of it now? Bertram's. Is that it?"
"Yes, that's right, sir. Bertram's Hotel."
"Contravening the licensing hours? Call girls?"
"Oh no, sir," said Inspector Campbell, slightly shocked at hearing Bertram's Hotel being referred to in such a connection. "Very nice, quiet, old-fashioned place."
"Is it now?" said Father. "Yes, is it now? Well, that's interesting, really."
Inspector Campbell wondered why it was interesting. He did not like to ask, as tempers in the upper hierarchy were notoriously short since the mail train robbery, which had been a spectacular success for the criminals. He looked at Father's large, heavy, bovine face and wondered, as he had once or twice wondered before, how Chief Inspector Davy had reached his present rank and why he was so highly thought of in the department. All right in his day, I suppose, thought Inspector Campbell, but there are plenty of go-ahead chaps about who could do with some promotion, once the deadwood is cleared away. But the deadwood had begun another song, partly hummed, with an occasional word or two here and there.
"Tell me, gentle stranger, are there any more at home like you?" intoned Father and then in a sudden falsetto, "A few, kind sir, and nicer girls you never knew. No, let's see, I've got the sexes mixed up. Floradora. That was a good show, too."
"I believe I've heard of it, sir," said Inspector Campbell.
"Your mother sang you to sleep in the cradle with it, I expect," said Chief Inspector Davy. "Now then, what's been going on at Bertram's Hotel? Who has disappeared and how and why?"
"A Canon Pennyfather, sir. Elderly clergyman."
"Dull case, eh?"
Inspector Campbell smiled. "Yes, sir, it is rather dull in a way."
"What did he look like?"
"Canon Pennyfather?"
"Yes - you've got a description, I suppose?"
"Of course." Campbell shuffled papers and read:
"Height five feet eight. Large thatch of white hair - stoops..."
"And he disappeared from Bertram's Hotel - when?"
"About a week ago - November nineteenth."
"And they've just reported it. Took their time about it, didn't they?"
"Well, I think there was a general idea that he'd turn up."
"Any idea what's behind it?" asked Father. "Has a decent God-fearing man suddenly gone off with one of the churchwardens' wives? Or does he do a bit of secret drinking, or has he embezzled the church funds? Or is he the sort of absent-minded old chap who goes in for this sort of thing?"
"Well, from all I can hear, sir, I should say the latter. He's done it before."
"What - disappeared from a respectable West End hotel?"
"No, not exactly that, but he's not always returned home when he was expected. Occasionally he's turned up to stay with friends on a day when they haven't asked him, or not turned up on the date when they had asked him. That sort of thing."
"Yes," said Father. "Yes. Well that sounds very nice and natural and according to plan, doesn't it? When exactly did you say he disappeared?"
"Thursday. November nineteenth. He was supposed to be attending a congress at -" he bent down and studied some papers on his desk - "oh yes, Lucerne. Society of Biblical Historical Studies. That's the English translation of it. I think it's actually a German society."
"And it was held at Lucerne? The old boy - I suppose he is an old boy?"
"Sixty-three, sir, I understand."
"The old boy didn't turn up, is that it?"
Inspector Campbell drew his papers towards him and gave Father the ascertainable facts in so far as they had been ascertained.
"Doesn't sound as if he'd gone off with a choirboy," observed Chief Inspector Davy.
"I expect he'll turn up all right," said Campbell, "but we're looking into it, of course. Are you - er - particularly interested in the case, sir?" He could hardly restrain his curiosity on this point.
"No," said Davy thoughtfully. "No, I'm not interested in the case. I don't see anything to be interested about in it."
There was a pause, a pause which clearly contained the words "Well, then?" with a question mark after it from Inspector Campbell, which he was too well trained to utter in audible tones.
"What I'm really interested in," said Father, "is the date. And Bertram's Hotel, of course."
"It's always been very well conducted, sir. No trouble there."
"That's very nice, I'm sure," said Father. He added thoughtfully, "I'd rather like to have a look at the place."
"Of course, sir," said Inspector Campbell. "Any time you like. I was thinking of going round there myself."
"I might as well come along with you," said Father. "Not to butt in, nothing like that. But I'd just rather like to have a look at the place, and this disappearing archdeacon of yours, or whatever he is, makes rather a good excuse. No need to call me 'sir' when we're there - you throw your weight about. I'll just be your stooge."
Inspector Campbell became interested.
"Do you think there's something that might tie in there, sir, something that might tie in with something else?"
"There's no reason to believe so, so far," said Father. "But you know how it is. One gets - I don't know what to call them - whims, do you think? Bertram's Hotel, somehow, sounds almost too good to be true."
He resumed his impersonation of a bumblebee with a rendering of "Let's All Go Down the Strand."
The two detective officers went off together, Campbell looking smart in a lounge suit (he had an excellent figure), and Chief Inspector Davy carrying with him a tweedy air of being up from the country. They fitted in quite well. Only the astute eye of Miss Gorringe, as she raised it from her ledgers, singled them out and appreciated them for what they were. Since she had reported the disappearance of Canon Pennyfather herself and had already had a word with a lesser personage in the police force, she had been expecting something of this kind.
A faint murmur to the earnest-looking girl assistant whom she kept handy in the background enabled the latter to come forward and deal with any ordinary inquiries or services while Miss Gorringe gently shifted herself a little farther along the counter and looked up at the two men. Inspector Campbell laid down his card on the desk in front of her and she nodded. Looking past him to the large tweed-coated figure behind him, she noted that he had turned slightly sideways, and was observing the lounge and its occupants with an apparently naive pleasure at beholding such a well-bred, upper-class world in action.
"Would you like to come into the office?" said Miss Gorringe. "We can talk better there perhaps."
"Yes, I think that would be best."
"Nice place you've got here," said the large, fat, bovine-looking man, turning his head back towards her. "Comfortable," he added, looking approvingly at the large fire. "Good old-fashioned comfort."
Miss Gorringe smiled with an air of pleasure.
"Yes indeed. We pride ourselves on making our visitors comfortable," she said. She turned to her assistant. "Will you carry on, Alice? There is the ledger. Lady Jocelyn will be arriving quite soon. She is sure to want to change her room as soon as she sees it but you must explain to her we are really full up. If necessary, you can show her number 340 on the third floor and offer her that instead. It's not a very pleasant room and I'm sure she will be content with her present one as soon as she sees that."
"Yes, Miss Gorringe. I'll do just that, Miss Gorringe."
"And remind Colonel Mortimer that his field glasses are here. He asked me to keep them for him this morning. Don't let him go off without them."
"No, Miss Gorringe."
These duties accomplished, Miss Gorringe looked at the two men, came out from behind the desk and walked along to a plain mahogany door with no legend on it. Miss Gorringe opened it and they went into a small, rather sad-looking office. All three sat down.
"The missing man is Canon Pennyfather, I understand," said Inspector Campbell. He looked at his notes. "I've got Sergeant Wadell's report. Perhaps you'll tell me in your own words just what occurred."
