(Doctor Who is copyright of the BBC; Miss Marple belongs to the Agatha
Christie Mallowan Estate.)

***

I suppose it all began several months ago, heading for tea-time on a
Tuesday, or a Thursday (but definitely not a Wednesday, as that’s when
I do my stint at the hospital) when Polly Wright made an appointment
to see me.

She had recently moved into our quiet little village and had caused
quite a stir, being about a decade ahead of the rest of us, with her
long blonde hair, short skirts and modern ways.

Anyway, the point is that, as far as I knew, Miss Wright was perfectly
healthy, so I was surprised to find her demanding to see a doctor, but
there you go.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, once I’d shown her into the
consulting room. I of course assured her that I didn’t, although it
had to be said that the net curtains at the Chancellors’ had been
twitching no end at her approach. One of the sisters must be home
this afternoon.

Oh, now wait. I’m new to this writing lark – I suppose I’d better
tell you who I am and where all this is taking place before we go any
further. I acquired this little practice in a country village a few
years ago, after my uncle retired. Before that I had been in the Navy
as an MO for several years. Despite some awkward patients, it was
everything I’d hoped for. Idyllic little village and well-set up
small practice. All quite satisfactory.

Then Polly Wright came along to see me and nothing was quite the same
again.

“Dr Sullivan,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning forward, “I’m
terribly afraid that I’m going to die.”

I hadn’t pegged her for one of those nervous, fanciful sorts, but I
had learnt to not to scoff at patients’ worries. (I learned that
lesson pretty quickly, after I thought Lady Pollard was joking on her
first visit.) “Perhaps if you told me what your symptoms were?” I
tried.

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” she said, widening her dark eyes. “It’s a
small, idyllic village with everything too perfect to be true and then
I come along. It’s clearly one of those murder mystery stories and
I’m a glamorous newcomer. They *always* get murdered or have something
horrible happen to them.”

I coughed. “So you’re not actually ill, Miss Wright?”

“Oh, no.”

I couldn’t work this out at all. I was not at all sure what she meant
about us being in a murder mystery. Seemed a little unlikely to me in
a nice sort of place like this, but if she believed it, she should
have seen a policeman not a doctor. “Why did you come to me?”

“Well, when I heard that you were writing the narrative, I hoped that
you might be able to give me some advice.”

This was a stumper and no mistake. I wondered if she was quite right
in the head. “I do write a diary, as it happens, but I don’t see what
that has to do with anything. I certainly don’t know anything about a
murder. I think you’ve been reading too many penny dreadfuls, don’t
you?”

Her eyes widened still further as a thought struck her. “You’re not
the murderer, are you? That’s been known to happen.”

I couldn’t help being offended by this charming suggestion. “No, I’m
not. And if that’s the sort of fellow you think I am, I’m surprised
you came for a consultation. Fine sort of GP I’d be to go around
murdering my patients. Soon put a damper on a practice, that would.”

“So you won’t help me?” She got to her feet, pulling her coat back on
and heading for the door. “Then I hope you’re happy when I’m found
strangled in a field or wherever and some interfering old lady is
being pitying about my modern ways.”

I’m afraid to say I gaped at her and can’t have seemed very
intelligent. What does a chap say to a girl in a situation like that?

“I’m sorry, Miss Wright,” I managed, “but I don’t see what else I can
do. Now, if you had the measles, I expect I could sort you out in a
trice, but I’m not from Scotland Yard.”

She smiled at last. “No, I can see that!”

*

I pushed it to the back of my mind, but I did worry that she might be
mentally unbalanced and wondered whether I should have sent her to see
one of those mind doctors.

However, I forgot about it soon enough and the only other unexpected
thing to happen over the next few weeks was a queer sort of letter
from Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, a retired military man who lives in
the village.


Sullivan (the note read)

Just dropping you a line to let you know I’m taking a prolonged
holiday elsewhere and have rented my house out to a Colonel Mace. I
hear that we’re about to be subjected to some wretched murder mystery
and while I’m not one to worry about danger, I’m damned if I’m going
to be a murderer or a suspect with a dark secret to be unearthed. Ten
to one, I’d be forced to have an affair with some old harridan in the
village and enough is enough. I only came here for some peace and
quiet. I’d advise you to do the same, but I hear you’re the narrator,
so I suspect it’s too late.

Lethbridge-Stewart.

PS You’re not the blasted murderer, are you?


This was unaccountable, so I could only imagine that the Brigadier had
decided to have some sort of joke at my expense, as it didn’t seem to
be a message in code. (I even tried ironing it for invisible writing,
but all that did was end up singeing the corners and Mrs Hudson told
me off for daring to attempt using the iron, which, she says, should
be left to those that know how and not attempted by mere males who
don’t know the difference between a tea towel and a letter).

But really, it was quite mystifying. And why should everyone keep
thinking I’m a murderer? Nice sort of doctor I’d make if that was the
case, as I said to Miss Wright.

*

A few weeks later, I set off on my daily round. I suppose I’d better
give you an idea of what our little village of Nether St Yorick is
like. There’s Kastchei the Squire, his wife, Lady Louisa and their
daughter Charlotte. Now that the Brigadier has done a vanishing
trick, Colonel Mace has got his house – he’s another retired military
man. Unfortunately, unlike the Brigadier who’s a decent sort of chap
(when he’s at home), the Colonel is one of those ex-colonials who will
talk about tigers and what-not. Fascinating stuff, but he does tend
to repeat himself.

Next is Professor Smith, a recently arrived scientific chap, who’s
renting out the Mill Cottage. He’s the one that Polly Wright works
for; she’s his secretary (and still in the best of health, I might
add, and exciting the disapproval of all the old tabbies). Then
there’s Rev. Magister, the vicar, a charming, intelligent man (and his
pretty, young wife).

After that there are all the ladies of the village, who are a pretty
formidable set. My favourite is little old Miss Marple, but there’s
also the eccentric Miss Rumford and her friend, and that terrifying
Mrs A who runs the tea shop – and that’s just for starters. If I
describe them all at once your hair will stand on end. They dominate
the village from behind their lace curtains, knitting needles and
woollen cardigans and are more effective than the most efficient of
secret police.

*

Stopping off at the Post Office, I found Miss Marple all of a twitter
because a young woman had arrived at The Dark Horse. Apparently the
newcomer was a journalist who was writing an article about Professor
Smith and his research. She seemed mostly approving, which is lucky
for the girl, although Miss Maren, who runs the Post Office, said she
was an outsider and didn’t approve of women running round doing men’s
jobs for them. Seemed to think us chaps’d be getting lazy if that
sort of thing went on.

“Times do change,” said Miss Marple gently. She patted my arm. “Now,
have *you* seen her, Dr Sullivan?”

I told her this was the first I’d heard of it, but I would keep an eye
out for her.

“Oh, I think you should,” she said kindly. “So difficult for someone
in a new place, isn’t it?”

Miss Maren shook her head and tutted. She believed that people should
stay where they were put, as I knew without telling, since she’d
voiced her opinion when I first moved in and my uncle left.

“I promise, Miss Marple,” I said.

She rewarded me with a smile and then continued with posting her
parcel and being very particular about the length of string used to
tie it up.

*

I met the young lady sooner than I expected, as my next call was at
Professor Smith’s – he is renting Mill Cottage up the hill by the
Brig’s house – and he frequently complains of various aches and pains,
particularly in his knee. He is an elderly and irritable sufferer and
not my favourite patient, but it’s not a doctor’s place to pick and
choose. In this case, as the visitor was there when I called, my
attention to duty was rewarded.

I knocked on the door and was shown in by Polly, who disappeared
fairly swiftly after.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Professor Smith irascibly. “I’m
busy!”

I said, “You did send for me, sir. Shall I have a look at that dodgy
knee of yours while I’m here?”

He glared. “No. You won’t. I’m feeling perfectly well, young
Suleman, and I’m talking to Miss Smith here.”

She turned to me and smiled, holding out her hand in a friendly
manner. “Hello. Dr Sullivan, isn’t it?”

“What? Oh, yes, that’s me,” I said, shaking her hand. “It’s a
pleasure, Miss Smith.” I could see why Miss Marple approved. She had
short brown hair, an attractive smile and a face that displayed an
awful lot of character.

She sat back down. “Professor Smith was kind enough to let me have an
interview.”

“No relation, I trust?” I joked.

She sighed slightly and I had the feeling that she wasn’t any better
pleased to see me than the old boy. “It is a common name, Dr
Sullivan.”

“Nobody wants you here, so go away,” ordered the professor,
brandishing his cane.

I ignored that. “Well, let me know if anything starts playing up
again. It was nice to meet you, Miss Smith. Good luck with your
writing. Hope the accommodation at The Dark Horse is up to scratch.”

She glanced at me uncertainly.

“Oh, everyone knows everyone else’s business in the village,” I
informed her cheerfully. “Change the colour of your curtains and the
womenfolk around here will know before you do.”

She was hiding laughter at me – I’d not made a good first impression,
I could tell. “I’ll take care not to change my curtains, then. And
yes, Mrs Briggs is looking after me adequately, thank you.”

I did the only thing a chap could in the situation and took my leave
of them. Still, I hoped I’d run into her again and get a chance to
prove I wasn’t quite as useless as she clearly imagined.

*

My next port of call was up at the big house. Young Charlotte Pollard
was recovering from a bout of chickenpox she’d somehow missed when she
was younger and I’d promised that I’d pop by and see how she was
getting on, although more because she was worried that she’d be fussed
to death by her mother, Lady Louisa than for any other reason. As for
Sir Kastchei, he was conspicuous by his absence as usual.

On the way, I passed Miss Rumford out walking her dog. “Morning,
Sullivan,” she greeted me in her usual brisk, no-nonsense fashion.
“Have you heard about this reporter-gal who’s fetched up here?”

“Miss Marple told me,” I confessed. “And, what’s more, I met her
myself up at Professor Smith’s.”

She surveyed me briefly and only said, “Hmph. Well, let’s hope she’s
got more sense than that other girl of his.”

“Now, Miss Rumford,” I chided, “I don’t think you’ve any call to be
unkind about Miss Wright.”

She said, “Haven’t I, now? Flighty, that’s the word for it. A man at
sea for best and another in the next town for everyday.”

I decided to speak to her dog instead. “Well, now, and how are we
today, K9?”

“Really,” she said as the metal dog raised its head to look at me,
“you should know by now not to ask it silly, vague questions like
that. Try again, Dr Sullivan.”

I blushed. “Are you well today, K9?”

“Perfectly functional,” he piped up.

I made my excuses and walked on up towards the house. As I said, the
women in this village could take over the world if they’d only agree
on something for an instant.

*

“I feel all right now,” Charlotte Pollard – Charley – insisted after I
gave her a brief check-up. “I can go to Alex’s birthday bash next
weekend, can’t I? Tell Mother I’m well enough, Dr Sullivan.”

I grinned at her, as I replaced my stethoscope in my bag. “You behave
yourself, Miss Pollard. All the same, Lady Pollard, I think your
daughter’s well and truly on the mend now -.”

“It’s not as if I look a sight anymore,” she added. “And I had to
miss Bunty’s tennis party last week, as it is.”

I turned to her mother. “She’s quite right – no need to wrap her up
in cotton wool any longer.”

“Good-o,” said Charley. “I think you’re a brick, Dr Sullivan. Shall
I get you an invite to the party?”

I didn’t like to confess that I was never too keen on those sorts of
things. “Don’t worry about it, Miss Pollard.”

Lady Louisa paused for a moment. “Did you come from Professor Smith
again, Dr Sullivan? How is he?”

“Oh, as usual,” I returned. “He had a young journalist up,
interviewing him about this research of his.”

She said dispassionately, “How interesting. And how is that secretary
of his? I haven’t seen her about in the village as much lately. I
trust that she is well?”

“As far as I can tell,” I said, not quite liking the question. Her
visit to me preyed on my mind from time to time.

“Thank you,” said Lady Louisa. “I’m sure you’re busy, doctor.”

I knew goodbye when I heard it. Well, most of the time, but I’ll not
bore you with that story. I made my farewells and headed back home
for lunch.