“Dr Sullivan!”

I was too groggy to understand where I was, or who was shouting at me
this time. I gasped out, coughing and choking for breath and
gradually began to realise that I was in my own kitchen, leaning
against one of the cupboards.

“Men,” said Mrs Hudson, looking down at me from what seemed a great
height. “Any sensible person would know that is not the correct use
for an oven. I dread to think what you’d try to do if I let you loose
near the kettle.”

I decided that there was no answer to that and concentrated on
breathing for the next few minutes. It was just my luck to be nearly
killed by some vicious old man and then lectured about it by my
housekeeper.

“Smith?” I tried eventually and then, with a frown, “Mackenzie?”

“Professor Smith is over there,” she said, pointing. He was lying at
the other end of the kitchen. “I came back in, just as he had
finished with you, so I hit him over the head with my rolling pin and
tied him up with some string.”

I said, “Oh.”

“I haven’t seen that inspector, though. Two men cluttering up my nice
kitchen is bad enough.”

I would have liked to remove myself from said kitchen, but a tentative
movement made it clear that I was rapidly developing a splitting
headache and feeling too nauseous to risk trying it. She’d have even
more to say if I threw up over the clean floor. I took a deep breath,
however, because something was still not right. “I’m much obliged,
Mrs Hudson. But there should be two policemen somewhere in the
house.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, surveying me with what might even have been
sympathy. “I think he must have hit you a little too hard. Wait,
there’s that odd noise again.”

She went off to investigate and I closed my eyes and waited for her to
return, as there was nothing else I could do.

*

“Dr Sullivan?” she said, as she returned. “You’re not dead, are you?”

I opened my eyes to see my housekeeper with the inspector behind her.
“No, of course I’m not. Oh, Mackenzie. There you are. What on earth
happened to you?”

“Well,” said Benton, who had also come into the kitchen, “the
inspector wanted to be sure that Smith didn’t spot us so he felt it
was best to close the door of the cupboard under the stairs.
Unfortunately, once he had, we couldn’t open it again.”

Mrs Hudson had her hands on her hips. “I found them in there, next to
all my cleaning things and the jam jars. That inspector had his
fingers in the strawberry jam.”

“And excellent strawberry jam it was, too,” he told her and then
looked down at me and across at Smith. “Ah. Well, what did I tell
you? It did the trick, didn’t it?”

I was feeling too rotten to point out that this was no thanks to him.
If it weren’t for Mrs H, he’d still be in the cupboard with Benton,
I’d be a goner and Smith would have been off again.

“Perhaps,” I said, feeling that I could risk it now, “you two could
help me up.”

Mrs Hudson nodded. “Yes, please do. Lying around on the kitchen
floor in the way like that – it’s off-putting and I daresay you’ll all
still be wanting tea?”

“Sounds lovely,” approved the inspector. “Right, Benton, give me a
hand with the doctor and then we’d best cart him off to the hospital
and Smith can come back to the station with us.”

The housekeeper watched as they helped me up and then asked if we
wanted milk or sugar.

“Both,” said the inspector cheerfully. “Thanks, Mrs Hudson. You’re a
treasure.”

***

Miss Marple smiled at me. “I’m so glad to see you looking yourself
again, Dr Sullivan. And I hear that Smith has finally confessed.”

“Yes,” I said. “Mackenzie’s happy about it all – nothing he likes
better than a crime all neatly solved and wrapped up properly.”

Sarah was perched on the arm of the chair next to me in Miss Marple’s
sitting room. “The inspector told me that when he got back to
Namechester after arresting Smith, he found a note from you to tell
him you thought Smith must be the killer. How did you know?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I *knew*,” she fluttered, “but after
all, he did seem the most likely person to have had the opportunity to
switch the notebooks. He was your most frequent patient, after all.”

I sighed. “I should have noticed something.”

“Don’t worry, Dr Sullivan,” she said, with a quick little smile at
Sarah. “I wouldn’t have expected you to. You see, you don’t have the
sort of mind that suspects the worst of people and I’m afraid that I
seem to. It all comes of living in a village. One *sees* things.”

Sarah had become properly acquainted with Miss Marple over the last
few days and there had been no more laughing at my ‘little old lady’.
“Yes. Who did Smith remind you of, then?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I’d met anybody *quite* like Professor Smith, but
there was that journalist fellow who rented out Primrose Cottage. He
had a malicious streak – you couldn’t trust him with even the most
innocent pieces of information before he had to use it to start ill-
natured gossip.”

Miss Smith bit her lip at the reference to gossip, because few people
liked talking about her neighbours than Miss Marple.

She caught the look. “I’m interested in my neighbours – that’s only
right – but not gossip, Miss Smith – nothing *ill-natured* or
slanderous.”

Sarah folded her arms. “You knew it wasn’t Harry, either. I mean, Dr
Sullivan.”

“Well, I would have thought that was obvious,” she said, with a small
laugh. Then she turned slightly pink and said, “I didn’t mean to be
rude, doctor, but I knew we were dealing with -.”

“I know,” I said for her, “a diabolically clever mind, not some
imbecile of a village GP.”

She gave me a smile. “That wasn’t it at all, Dr Sullivan. Or in a
way, that sums it up perfectly.”

“Eh?” I said, confused again.

You see, in my small experience, the murderers I’ve come across have
all had one thing in common, even though they all had quite different
motives and appearances. They were all thoroughly selfish – vain,
too, very often. *Nothing* could be less like Dr Sullivan.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted. Sarah looked
away.

“I must say,” I put in, “I still don’t understand the half of it. Was
Polly really Lady Louisa’s daughter and what did McCrimmon have to do
with it all? What about Dr Solon and Colonel Mace?”

Miss Marple leant over and patted my knee. “Oh, it was quite simple,
really. It only *seems* complicated. It’s all down to that book of
your uncle’s. Quite a poisonous little volume. I’m so glad he was
never my doctor.”

“Go on,” I said, “explain to us.”

Sarah nodded. “You have to. After all, Smith nearly killed both of
us, so I think we deserve to know the truth.”

“Yes,” she said. “Oh dear, I should have prevented that. I had a
feeling that Smith might regret talking to you, Sarah, dear, but I
didn’t expect him to go after Dr Sullivan like that.” She then eyed
me sternly. “And I do think you could have been a little more
*careful*.”

I coughed, because it was humiliating to have been attacked by an
elderly professor and had one’s head stuck in one’s own oven. “I
tried, but not much I could do about Inspector Mackenzie locking
himself in the cupboard, was there?”

“Anyway,” she said, “the trouble was all down to that book – and Polly
Wright herself. Once it was known that it had been found, Dr Solon
attempted to retrieve it, although if he had only *thought*, he would
have realised that Mackenzie would have had it by that time. I
suppose after that, he didn’t think it mattered what happened to him,
as he was *quite* ruined. Nobody likes to think that the family
doctor has been conducting strange experiments in -.”

I interrupted, “And Colonel Mace?”

“Dr Sullivan,” she said, lowering her tone, “I don’t wish to be
unkind, but it seems to me that anyone might kill themselves if they
were trapped in an affair with Mrs A from the tea shop.”

I blanched at the thought. “What? Not really?”

“Yes. I’m afraid that the Brigadier leaving so *unexpectedly* like
that did cause some strange alterations to the plot.”

I gaped then, although Sarah looked lost, never having met Lethbridge-
Stewart. “You’re not saying that the Brig and Mrs A -.”

“No, not at all,” she assured me. “Oh, dear, no. But somebody had to
be having an affair and -.”

I was still shocked. “He was having an affair with someone? I don’t
believe it!”

“Does this have anything to do with *anything*?” Sarah put in.

Miss Marple gave me a slight smile. “Not *currently*, Dr Sullivan.
But once, a number of years ago, shall we say? And, yes, it does have
quite a lot to do with the events of the past few weeks.”

I was only glad I was sitting down. I leant forward and lowered my
voice, unable to help it. “You don’t mean -?”

“Will you two stop talking in a foreign language and explain?” said
Sarah.

I turned my head. “Doesn’t matter, old thing. As you said, you don’t
even know the chap.”

“Somebody had to be Polly’s father,” said Miss Marple placidly. “I’m
surprised it didn’t occur to anyone else.”

I shook my head. “I can still hardly believe any of it. Colonel Mace
and Mrs A – and now the Brig and Lady Pollard.”

Sarah was watching me in amusement. “Harry,” she said, “you must have
had that book a good few weeks at least before Smith stole it off
you. Are you really still the only person in the village who doesn’t
know what was in it?”

“Yes,” I said. “I told you, I never looked at it, not until after
he’d swapped them round. And now Inspector Mackenzie’s got it and
he’s going to burn it once he’s finished with it.”

Miss Marple had a satisfied glint in her eye. “I’m glad. It’s the
proper ending for it.”

“What about Polly, then?” asked Sarah.

She sighed. “The poor girl. She didn’t understand what sort of man
Smith was – positively *wicked*. She accepted the post with him to
discover the truth about her birth and her real family. She was
paying McCrimmon to find out if it was Lady Louisa, as she had been
led to believe. He, of course, had a foothold in the house, as he was
walking out with young Kirsty’s cousin.”

“And several others, from what I hear,” I said. (Not that I held it
against him that he’d knocked me over the head for no good reason.)

Miss Marple nodded. “So like young Richard, the grocer’s assistant,
years ago. Any rate, that was where he came into it. Of course, once
you came looking for him, the silly boy panicked and ran away.
Luckily, Mr Jackson brought him back before any harm was done, but
he’s lost his job at the garage.”

“A good thing, too,” I said.

Sarah gave me a startled look and even Miss Marple appeared puzzled.
It seemed that for once I knew something that they didn’t. (Well,
possibly.)

I grinned. “When I went back to see if there was anything left of my
car, the garage owner told me that McCrimmon had probably been to
blame for that, because he never could tell the difference between oil
and brake fluid and what-have-you, so he’d leapt on his running off as
an excuse to sack him.”

“Oh,” said Sarah.

“But Polly?” I prompted.

She shook her head. “She was his secretary and as inquisitive as the
next girl. Most likely, she saw something with her mother’s name on –
of course, she would have looked. I imagine that once she found out
what he was up to, she confronted him and threatened to tell if he
didn’t stop. As I said, she had no idea what sort of man she was
dealing with.”

“I’m glad he’s safely locked up,” said Sarah with a shudder.

I put a hand on her arm. “So am I.”

“Anyway,” said Sarah, getting to her feet, “we must be off, as I need
to pack. I’ve work to get back to, you know – and a story to write
up.” She smiled at Miss Marple and bent down to kiss her on the
cheek.

Miss Marple pressed her hand in return. “I hope this won’t be the
last we see of you, Miss Smith. I’m *sure* that Dr Sullivan will
agree with me.”

She gave me a wicked twinkle and I blushed. Really, the old ladies
around here…

*

“Well now, old thing,” I said, walking her back to the Dark Horse. “I
hope you’ll let me call on you when I’m in town.”

She laughed at me and said, “Dr Sullivan – Harry -?”

“Yes?” I said, moving nearer.

Perhaps it’s not the thing to write this here, but I’m dashed well
going to or I may not believe it myself. She caught hold of me by the
lapels of my jacket and pulled me down to kiss me and not just a peck
on the cheek, either. Obviously, once I recovered from the shock, I
gave her all the assistance I could.

“You’d better,” she told me eventually.

I stared at her dazedly. “Eh?”

“Come to visit,” she reminded me. “And if you have any more murders,
you call me in straight away.”

I smiled at that and promised her that I would. I reflected with some
amusement that, for the first time since this whole thing began, I had
a motive for murder.