Chapter 21 Chapter 21

I can't say that I have ever been against Raymond.Mr. West has great admiration.I knew that he was regarded as a gifted novelist and a celebrity as a poet.There are no capital letters in his poems, which, I think, is a characteristic of modernism.His books describe unhappy people who lead dull lives. He has a tolerant affection for "Aunt Jane", whom he alludes to as the "survivor". She listened to him with an interest in flattering him, and if there was a gleam of pleasure in her eyes now and then, I daresay he would never have noticed. He struck up conversation with Griselda at once, with abrupt gallantry.They talk about modern theatre, and from there they talk about modern decoration.Griselda pretended to laugh at Raymond West, but I think she was caught by his talk.

During my tedious conversations with Miss Marple, I heard them repeat "buried here like you" from time to time. Finally, this sentence made me angry.I suddenly said: "I suppose you think we're completely cut off from what's going on here?" Raymond West flicked his cigarette. "I think St. Mary Mead," he said with an air of authority, "is a backwater." He looked at us, thinking we would be angry at what he said, but no one looked angry.I think it embarrassed him a little. "That's not a very good analogy indeed, my dear Raymond," said Miss Marple bitterly. "I believe that nothing under the microscope is so full of life as a drop of water in a stagnant pool."

"Life—a kind of life," the novelist admits. "Life is all the same, isn't it?" asked Miss Marple. "Aunt Jane, do you compare yourself to an animal in a pool of stagnant water?" "Honey, I remember you saying something of the same kind in your latest book." No bright young man likes to have his book quoted against him.Raymond is no exception. "That's totally different," he snapped. "Life is pretty much the same everywhere anyway," said Miss Marple in a clear voice, "you know, being born, growing up, coming into contact with other people, competing, then getting married and having children..."

"In the end there's death," Raymond said, "and always death without a death certificate. Death in life." "Speaking of death," said Griselda, "do you know of a murder we've had here?" Raymond West dismissed the subject of murder, shaking his cigarette. "Murder is so brutal," he said, "I have no interest in it." This sentence did not convince me at all. As the saying goes, the world has a common hobby, and the application of this proverb to murder is even more true.No one is not interested in murder.Simple minds like Griselda and I can admit the truth, but anyone like Raymond West has to pretend to be bored with it—at least for the first five minutes.

However, Miss Marple's words made the nephew look ugly: "During the meal, Raymond and I kept talking about nothing else." "I have a keen interest in all the local news," Raymond said hastily.He smiled kindly and indulgently at Miss Marple. "Mr. West, do you have any advice?" Griselda asked. "Logically," said Raymond West, waving his cigarette again. "There's only one man who could have killed Prothero." "Really?" Griselda asked. We are all eagerly awaiting what will follow. "Pastor," Raymond said, pointing a finger at me.

I couldn't help but gasped. "Of course," he said softly again, "I know you didn't. Life is never what it should be. But consider the drama of this - the perfect fit - the deacon being killed by the vicar in the vicar's study. Murder. Brilliant!" "But the motive?" I asked. "Oh! That's interesting," he stood up, letting the cigarette go out. "Inferiority, I think. Too much self-repression, maybe. I'm willing to write a story about this murder. It's astonishingly complicated. Week after week, year after year, he sees this man at parish council , on choir boy outings, handing out gospel bags at church, putting gospel bags on the altar. He has always hated this man, but has had to keep swallowing that loathing. It's not Christian, he shouldn't Let this emotion grow. So, this resentment grows deeper and deeper in the dark. Finally one day-"

He made a vivid gesture. Griselda turned to me and asked: "Len, have you ever had that kind of resentment?" "Never." I said honestly. "But, as I heard not long ago, you wish him to be purged from the world." said Miss Marple. Dennis is a loser!However, it was also my fault for me to say such a thing. "I'm afraid I think so," I said. "It's silly to say that, but I did have trouble with him that morning." "It's a pity," said Raymond West, "because if in your subconscious you really wanted to kill him, you'd never say something like that."

He sighed. "My reasoning fails. It may have been a very ordinary murder - a vengeful poacher or something." "Cram came to see me this afternoon," said Miss Marple. "I ran into her in the village and asked her if she would like to see my garden." "Does she like gardens?" Griselda asked. "I don't think so," said Miss Marple, blinking slightly. "But it's a good excuse for a conversation, isn't it?" "What do you know about her?" asked Griselda. "I don't think she's really that bad." "She volunteered a lot of information - indeed a lot of information," said Miss Marple. "About herself, you know, and about her relatives. Seems like they're all dead, or in India. So sad. By the way, she's gone to 'the old house' for the weekend."

"what?" "Yes, it seems that Mrs. Protheroe asked her to go--or she proposed to Mrs. Protheroe--I don't know how. To do secretarial work--there are so many Letters to be dealt with. This one seems very lucky. Dr. Stone is gone, and she has nothing to do. Excavation is exciting business." "Stone?" Raymond said. "Is that the archaeologist?" "Yes, he's digging a grave. On Prothero's estate." "He's a nice guy," said Raymond, "and very interested in his work. I met him at a dinner party not long ago. We had a good conversation. I must pay him a visit."

"What a pity," I said, "he's just gone to London for the weekend. Well, you actually met him at the station this afternoon." "I met you face to face. You were followed by a short, fat man with glasses." "Yes—that's Dr. Stone." "But, my dear fellow, that's not Stone." "Not Stone?" "Not the archaeologist. I know him very well. That man is not Stone—not at all." We looked at each other.I looked at Miss Marple meaningfully. "Extraordinary," I said. "The suitcase," said Miss Marple.

"But why?" asked Griselda. "That reminds me of that man pretending to be a gas repairman and running around," said Miss Marple in a low voice. "He stole a lot." "A liar," said Raymond West. "Now, it's a very funny thing." "The question is, does this have anything to do with the murder?" Griselda asked. "Not necessarily," I said, "but—" I looked at Miss Marple. "It's an 'extraordinary thing,' another 'extraordinary thing.'" "Yes," I said, standing up. "It seems to me that the Inspector should be informed of the matter at once."