Mrs. Bantry reached out a hand and selected a catalogue. She opened it and read aloud with gusto:
''Dr. Helmuth Spath. Pure lilac, a wonderfully fine flower, carried on exceptionally long and stiff stem. Splendid for cutting and garden decoration. A novelty of striking beauty.
'Edgar Jackson. Beautifully shaped chrysanthemum-like flower of a distinct brick-red colour.
''Amos Perry. Brilliant red, highly decorative.
'Tsingtau. Brilliant orange-red, showy garden plant and lasting cut flower.
''Honesty
'With a capital H, you remember,' murmured Miss Marple. Honesty. Rose and white shades, enormous perfect-shaped flower.' '
Mrs. Bantry flung down the catalogue and said with immense explosive force:
'Dahlias!'
'And their initial letters spell 'Death,' ' explained Miss Mar-pie.
'But the letter came to Dr. Rosen himself,' objected Sir Henry-
'That was the clever part of it,' said Miss Marple. 'That and the warning in it. What would he do, getting a letter from someone he didn't know, full of names he didn't know. Why, of course, toss it over to his secretary.'
'Then, after all-'
'Oh no!' said Miss Marple. 'Not the secretary. Why, that's what makes it so perfectly clear that it wasn't him. He'd never have let that letter be found if so. And equally he'd never have destroyed a letter to himself with a German stamp on it. Really, his innocence is - if you'll allow me to use the word - just shining.'
'Then who-'
'Well, it seems almost certain - as certain as anything can be in this world. There was another person at the breakfast table, and she would - quite naturally under the circumstances - put out her hand for the letter and read it. And that would be that. You remember that she got a gardening catalogue by the same post -'
'Greta Rosen,' said Sir Henry slowly. 'Then her visit to me-'
'Gentlemen never see through these things,' said Miss Marple. 'And I'm afraid they often think we old women are - well, cats, to see things the way we do. But there it is. One does know a great deal about one's own sex, unfortunately. I've no doubt there was a barrier between them. The young man felt a sudden inexplicable repulsion. He suspected, purely through instinct, and couldn't hide the suspicion. And I really think that the girl's visit to you was just pure spite. She was safe enough really, but she just went out of her way to fix your suspicions definitely on poor Mr. Templeton. You weren't nearly so sure about him until after her visit.'
'I'm sure it was nothing that she said -' began Sir Henry.
'Gentlemen,' said Miss Marple, calmly, 'never see through these things.'
'And that girl -' He stopped. 'She commits a cold-blooded murder and gets off scot-free!'
'Oh, no, Sir Henry,' said Miss Marple. 'Not scot-free. Neither you nor I believe that. Remember what you said not long ago. No. Greta Rosen will not escape punishment. To begin with, she must be in with a very queer set of people - blackmailers and terrorists - associates who will do her no good and will probably bring her to a miserable end. As you say, one mustn't waste thoughts on the guilty - it's the innocent who matter. Mr. Templeton, who I dare say will marry that German cousin, his tearing up her letter looks - well, it looks suspicious - using the word in quite a different sense from the one we've been using all the evening. A little as though he were afraid of the other girl noticing or asking to see it? Yes, I think there must have been some little romance there. And then there's Dobbs - though, as you say, I dare say it won't much matter to him. His elevenses are probably all he thinks about. And then there's that poor old Gertrud - the one who reminded me of Annie Poultny. Poor Annie Poultny. Fifty years' faithful service and suspected of making away with Miss Lamb's will, though nothing could be proved. Almost broke the poor creature's faithful heart. And then after she was dead it came to light in the secret drawer of the tea caddy where old Miss Lamb had put it herself for safety. But too late then for poor Annie.
'That's what worries me so about that poor old German woman. When one is old, one becomes embittered very easily. I felt much more sorry for her than for Mr. Templeton, who is young and good-looking and evidently a favourite with the ladies. You will write to her, won't you, Sir Henry, and just tell her that her innocence is established beyond doubt? Her dear old master dead, and she no doubt brooding and feeling herself suspected of… Oh! It won't bear thinking about!'
'I will write, Miss Marple,' said Sir Henry. He looked at her curiously. 'You know, I shall never quite understand you. Your outlook is always a different one from what I expect.'
'My outlook, I'm afraid, is a very petty one,' said Miss Mar-pie humbly. 'I hardly ever go out of St. Mary Mead.'
'And yet you have solved what may be called an international mystery,' said Sir Henry. 'For you have solved it. I am convinced of that.'
Miss Marple blushed, then bridled a little.
'I was, I think, well educated for the standard of my day. My sister and I had a German governess - a Fraulein. A very sentimental creature. She taught us the language of flowers - a forgotten study nowadays, but most charming. A yellow tulip, for instance, means 'Hopeless Love,' while a China aster means 'I Die of Jealousy at Your Feet.' That letter was signed Georgina, which I seem to remember as dahlia in German, and that of course made the whole thing perfectly clear. I wish I could remember the meaning of dahlia, but alas, that eludes me. My memory is not what it was.'
'At any rate, it didn't mean ' Death'.'
'No, indeed. Horrible, is it not? There are very sad things in the world.'
'There are,' said Mrs. Bantry with a sigh.
'It's lucky one has flowers and one's friends.'
'She puts us last, you observed,' said Dr. Lloyd.
'A man used to send me purple orchids every night to the theatre,' said Jane dreamily.
''I Await Your Favours' - that's what that means,' said Miss Marple brightly.
Sir Henry gave a peculiar sort of cough and turned his head away.
Miss Marple gave a sudden exclamation.
'I've remembered. Dahlias mean 'Treachery and Misrepresentation.' '
'Wonderful,' said Sir Henry. 'Absolutely wonderful.'
And he sighed.
A Christmas Tragedy
'I have a complaint to make,' said Sir Henry Clithering. His eyes twinkled gently as he looked round at the assembled company. Colonel Bantry, his legs stretched out, was frowning at the mantelpiece as though it were a delinquent soldier on parade, his wife was surreptitiously glancing at a catalogue of bulbs which had come by the late post, Dr Lloyd was gazing with frank admiration at Jane Helier, and that beautiful young actress herself was thoughtfully regarding her pink polished nails. Only that elderly, spinster lady, Miss Marple, was sitting bolt upright, and her faded blue eyes met Sir Henry's with an answering twinkle.
'A complaint?' she murmured.
'A very serious complaint. We are a company of six, three representatives of each sex, and I protest on behalf of the downtrodden males. We have had three stories told tonight - and told by the three men! I protest that the ladies have not done their fair share.'
'Oh!' said Mrs Bantry with indignation. 'I'm sure we have. We've listened with the most intelligent appreciation. We've displayed the true womanly attitude - not wishing to thrust ourselves in the limelight!'
'It's an excellent excuse,' said Sir Henry; 'but it won't do. And there's a very good precedent in the Arabian Nights! So, forward, Scheherazade.'
'Meaning me?' said Mrs Bantry. 'But I don't know anything to tell. I've never been surrounded by blood or mystery.'
'I don't absolutely insist upon blood,' said Sir Henry. 'But I'm sure one of you three ladies has got a pet mystery. Come now. Miss Marple - the "Curious Coincidence of the Charwoman" or the "Mystery of the Mothers' Meeting". Don't disappoint me in St Mary Mead.'