Success Hunters
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A few weeks later I received a letter from the Hunter and I was pleased to know that my instinct had been right and that it would be a pleasure—and a challenge!—to make her acquaintance.
So you see, dear Miss Marple, how very important it is not to underestimate an old maid of forty-seven who has spent years in the company of young women, some of them pretty well nubile; but still, even so, there will be some points which only experience can teach a lady, and we must never forget that she knows these things because they are necessary for survival, just as much as a hunter needs his weapons.
And what a delightful thing it is, too, to find a friend among strangers; one feels so secure when she is with us—even if it is only to have someone else at the table.
It’s like being back at school again! I’m afraid, my dearest Miss Marple, that the next day or two may be a little trying for me as I am obliged to spend the time in a room on the ground floor with no view of the garden.
The Hunter was kind enough to say something about it, so I hope you won’t take any offense at my saying that the idea made me laugh out loud. She didn’t think she would enjoy seeing a game of cricket played by people who weren’t used to it, but she said she hoped she’d be able to get some ideas from the manner of their play and the way they talked; then she promised me that she would be very interested in meeting Mrs. Brownlow.
We’ve already agreed that I shall bring you home safely. And you’ll be sure to come up here before dark, won’t you? It will make the whole journey less tiring if I do it alone. I shall be so glad to see your sweet face, dearest Miss Marple—and to hear how your own affairs are progressing, I feel sure.
But please don’t worry if you have to stay a little longer than usual. I shan’t be lonely without you.
I’ve never told her this before, but I really don’t care for my aunt’s housekeeper. There isn’t much I could do about it, of course. But I must try not to resent her presence, and to be thankful for the privilege of spending so much time with the dear old woman who has become like a mother to me.
If she should die, I am afraid the effect upon me might be very serious—and possibly fatal. And I wouldn’t blame you at all if you decided to come back early—if that is what you think best. You needn’t fear for me—but if you want to come straight back—that would be quite different.
And now I’m going to close with the prayer that we may meet on the other side of eternity, where I shall welcome you into my arms once again, dear Miss Marple!
⁂
Miss Marple’s eyes opened wide. She looked around in surprise to see that she was still lying down on her bed in the spare room at my Aunt’s house. It seemed as though she had only closed her eyes for a moment or two. Then her eyes went to the window, which she saw was open. She thought a second, then rose and shut the door.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said aloud, smiling happily: “it’s only a dream!” She sat down on the side of the bed and took up the novel I had left on the table—and began reading.
I knew at once that this meant trouble! She couldn’t help being aware of a certain excitement in her mind; a sense of expectation, a keenness of interest. This was how my Aunt’s letters always began. So I put my hands to work to write a few lines to reassure her.
I did not know whether to tell her the truth or not, and I wasn’t sure how seriously to take her comment about the ‘familiarity’ of this story. What exactly did she mean by it? Surely my aunt was not suggesting that it was a case of plagiarism, after all these years—of course, she hadn’t mentioned that possibility before.
No, this was more subtle. There were some things in Miss Marple’s manner, her tone of voice and her expression, that suggested that she was trying to hide her thoughts and feelings; that she was concealing something from me.
My Aunt was sitting up in bed and staring out of the window. Her eyes rested on me as I entered the room—and I could see she was looking forward to hearing my news. I smiled and tried to look at ease, knowing that I must act like an innocent bystander who was merely making conversation.
Myself, I felt relieved that she was so happy—because she looked so well. The Hunter was gone, and she would be coming to the end of her holiday and returning home soon. Perhaps when she returned from the village tomorrow afternoon, I could ask her how it all worked out between us. But I must wait until she asked for me.
“Well, darling,” she said softly, as I stood beside her bed, “you certainly have been taking your time to answer my letter! How is everything in the world of fiction? Has anything happened while I’ve been away?
Do you know, I think I’ve been rather stupid! I suppose it has occurred to me that I ought to have done something to help you and Captain Flint! You’ve been working on this mystery for years, and yet I hadn’t even realized that you might be having a difficult time getting to the bottom of it!”
She laughed at this, then glanced toward the clock on the mantelpiece and sighed.
“I’m sorry, my dear.” She looked at me anxiously. “It sounds like such a silly thing to say—but you’re still so young. Sometimes you can get carried away with ideas that seem important when they are new—and perhaps one day they will prove themselves. But there is no point in worrying about them just yet. Let’s hope that you won’t have any reason to regret your decision of last year.”
She turned over the page of the book she had taken up, then glanced at the date at the top of the page. She nodded to herself—then added the word “soon”. But she still didn’t explain—she merely shook her head.
I wondered if there was something she wished me not to tell her. But I supposed there was nothing wrong in telling her what had happened in my own life while she had been away.
“You see, I haven’t made a mistake. I am still working on the case—in fact, it’s almost complete.” She smiled at me as though to indicate that she was not worried about the matter: “Soon it will be over, and we’ll be able to sit back and talk it over!”
But I had been thinking more about what she had said about “familiarity”; and now I decided not to tell her about it.
Then she leaned toward me and said, “Now let me read your letter before you tell me anything else.” She paused a moment and gave me a little push in the direction of my writing table. As I sat down I noticed the small package wrapped in the white paper, the label on which bore only my name.
She took it from me and handed it to me: “Here is a present for you; from your publisher.” And she smiled at me in a way that told me she knew that I had been hoping for a response to my latest effort.
As I opened the parcel and saw the manuscript inside, I thought of something else—that she would like to read this particular book too, and then, with pleasure, I showed it to her. I could see her face light up and her hand instinctively go up to cover her mouth as she read the title and the author’s name.
I watched her, but there was a strange look in her eyes that was new—a mixture of delight and surprise. She held my hand and whispered, “Oh, I should never have guessed—it’s wonderful!”
I could hardly restrain myself, for the words sounded so strange to me. But my aunt was so pleased; and it seemed to please her, even more, when I began reading the first few pages to her. It was an extract from the beginning of a book I had written about two years ago. It was called “The Red House”—and the subject concerned was an incident which had happened in that house.
I read some of it aloud to her. Then she smiled happily at me as she listened. At one point, I stopped and said, “There is a bit of a surprise for you later on when I come to tell you about the real person who lived in that house.” I smiled as I said it, for I couldn’t help being glad that she was so delighted by it.
Then I read the rest of the book to her—all four chapters—which I had carefully prepared before sending it to her. When I’d finished reading, she took the manuscript back from me and said softly, “You mustn’t tell me any more about it just yet.” Her eyes were shining with pleasure.
When I had finished, she asked me to tell her how she could find out what had happened in the story.
And that was how I learned of Captain Flint’s secret! I didn’t say anything to my Aunt Amelia until three days later—when I came into the library after breakfast and found her sitting in a chair by the fire, absorbed in Captain Flint’s letter. The paper was crumpled in her fingers, and she was frowning.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Captain Flint,” she muttered. “How did you know about him? That is what puzzles me. How did you hear of him, and how long ago did it happen? You’ve heard of him all these months and years, and no one told you anything. You must tell me—please—”
“Tell you?” I stared at her in amazement. She looked as though she wanted me to give her the address where she might learn about Captain Flint! And I was sure that my aunt hadn’t heard of Captain Flint before last Sunday evening!
“Yes, tell me. What do you mean? Did he live in this house?”
“Not here—but nearby. He died in the house next door!”
I felt very confused. I didn’t know what to say. I knew that she had not told me that she had received a letter from the captain.
I was wondering why she wished to find out about him, and I was trying to remember everything that had occurred in those weeks since my mother had died, and when she returned home she went straight to her room without saying a word to me, except once or twice, when I passed her on the stairs going in and out.
We stood looking at each other. My aunt put her head on one side and said, “Well, you’ve got me!”
She seemed excited, and I was quite puzzled by her tone of voice. It wasn’t the same tone of voice I had often heard her use when speaking about the case. I wondered whether she really knew that the man was alive, and why she had sent for me to find out more about him.
I was still confused when she suddenly broke off and turned away from me. She rose and went towards the mantelpiece. “It must be time to dress,” she murmured. “Shall we go downstairs now?”
But before she could speak again, my attention was attracted by a small white package that was lying on the mantelpiece. It was tied with a ribbon. I looked at it curiously. It was a pretty parcel—the kind that children send to their friends for birthdays, or for Christmas.
My thoughts flashed to my aunt’s words: “Tell me! You can never guess!” I had already known that she was going to ask me to reveal the mystery.
“Aunt Amelia!” I said.
“Hush!” she said gently. She bent down and untied the ribbon that was holding it shut. I heard her gasp, and then I saw what she had been reading, which was written on a piece of paper stuck in the cover of the book—the only place on it that hadn’t been covered over with ink. The writing said simply, “To Mrs. Mary Ashwoode.” There were two lines under the heading.
I had expected something different from what I read—something which I should have remembered better than this! I could hardly believe it, but there it was—a note, written in the handwriting of Captain Flint himself! I thought it was too much to expect her to guess its meaning, and yet she was looking up at me with such eagerness that I had to smile.
I had never seen my aunt so animated. As soon as I saw that she did not know what was coming, I took the package from her hand and tore it open. I held out the folded paper to my aunt, who took it and read the words written inside—and then she gave a great start and looked up at me.
“No!” she exclaimed and began to laugh and cry both together. “Oh, yes,” she cried, putting out her hands and patting my shoulders. “Now I understand! Yes—you’re right. Of course you are!” And she laughed aloud, and said, “You have made my day—and my life!”
***
My aunt’s delight was infectious. When she had recovered enough to be able to tell me about the story of Captain Flint’s death, she told me everything I wanted to know.
Captain Flint was a captain in the Royal Navy. His ship was called the Swallow, and he was born in Plymouth. But she told me that Captain Flint had lived in the village of Ashwoode all his life, and even though he was an old sailor now, he’d always been known as “the young captain”—as if it would matter to him how long he might have lived on earth!
The captain’s name was Charles Robert Flint, and my aunt said that he must have been a very brave man—for it seems that he had saved a child from drowning when he was a boy—and he had grown to be an extraordinarily tall and strapping figure, who was well known all through the village.
I was surprised when I learned that my uncle, whose name is William James Ashwoode, was actually a cousin of Captain Flint’s. She told me that Captain Flint used to visit our house often when he was younger and that my mother had met him first when they were children.
Then, as time went on, the visits became less frequent until they stopped altogether, although I suppose he was not forgotten.
I couldn’t help being pleased to learn of Captain Flint’s death, because I realized that my mother had probably gone away to die because she was distressed about him. I asked how he died and my aunt answered very simply: “He went into the sea—and drowned!
He fell overboard. It happened so quickly; it was a terrible shock to me, but somehow I didn’t think that he was dead—not until afterward. No one knows exactly how it came about. It was a dreadful thing to happen—but we had no time to mourn, and it’s all past now.”
My Aunt Amelia was talking about my father’s family, who had left Ashwoode many years ago, but as she spoke these words I felt drawn back to a place in the country where I had once lived.
I had never been in a room with more books than this! The walls of the drawing room were lined with them.
There were volumes on astronomy, geography, geology, history, poetry, and natural science—books in German, French, Latin, Italian, Spanish, Greek, and English—some of them illustrated with woodcuts, some with copperplate engravings, others with drawings or paintings.
A bookcase stood against one wall, crammed full of volumes. They weren’t just any old books—they were beautiful ones. Some of them I recognized. There was an eighteenth-century edition of “Robinson Crusoe,” a copy of “Pilgrim’s Progress,” a Bible, two Shakespearean plays, a treatise by John Wesley on ‘The Principles of Church Order,’ a collection of sermons by Richard Baxter, and several other works—including some in Dutch.
I looked at her and smiled. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mrs. Ashwoode, but there’s one thing I would like to ask. Did you ever know my father?”
She shook her head. “No, dear,” she said sadly, “I never knew your father. He died the day after he was born before I could tell anyone.”
“But how can that be? Surely my mother told somebody—”
“It wasn’t till three years later that I discovered that Captain Flint was my brother—your uncle, Charles Robert Flint. By then I was already married, and my husband had moved to London. My aunt brought me to live with her, and we kept the secret for a long time.
Your father was only twelve days old when he was found floating at sea. The sailors thought that he must have fallen overboard during the storm.”
Aunt Amelia sighed and turned toward me with a smile of remembrance. “I remember the day he drowned so clearly. It was such a sad accident, and he was such a handsome baby—with blue eyes and red hair—that I was sure he would survive!” Her lips quivered.
“And you were so happy to see him again—so much younger than yourself! He must have been a lovely baby—and he was the same height as you. And when he smiled at me—it seemed almost as if he knew me—although I hadn’t seen him since he was six months old.
It was a terrible tragedy, though. I was so sorry when we lost him. We were still in mourning when my own son died, and we buried both boys together beside the churchyard wall.”
“Do you mind telling me about him? Where did he come from, what was his real name?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” my aunt replied. “Captain Flint was not a common sailor. I can’t recall ever having known anything about him except that he was a captain and a gentleman, and that he loved us very much.” She paused a moment, and added: “I hope you don’t mind my asking—what was your father’s name?”
I shook my head. “That is all in the past. He is forgotten, and my father—my parents—are forgotten too—except that my mother named me.”
The End