{"id":2391,"date":"2026-01-03T22:26:57","date_gmt":"2026-01-03T22:26:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/nemesis-christie-agatha\/"},"modified":"2026-01-03T22:26:57","modified_gmt":"2026-01-03T22:26:57","slug":"nemesis-christie-agatha","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/nemesis-christie-agatha\/","title":{"rendered":"Nemesis – Christie, Agatha"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Book Preview<\/h3>\n
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One<\/span><\/span><\/h2>\n

OVERTURE<\/span><\/span><\/h2>\n<\/div>\n
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I<\/span><\/span>n the afternoons it was the custom of Miss Jane Marple to unfold her second newspaper. Two newspapers were delivered at her house every morning. The first one Miss Marple read while sipping her early morning tea, that is, if it was delivered in time. The boy who delivered the papers was notably erratic in his management of time. Frequently, too, there was either a new boy or a boy who was acting temporarily as a stand-in for the first one. And each one would have ideas of his own as to the geographical route that he should take in delivering. Perhaps it varied monotony for him. But those customers who were used to reading their paper early so that they could snap up the more saucy items in the day\u2019s news before departing for their bus, train or other means of progress to the day\u2019s work were annoyed if the papers were late, though the middle-aged and elderly ladies who resided peacefully in St. Mary Mead often preferred to read a newspaper propped up on their breakfast table.<\/p>\n

Today, Miss Marple had absorbed the front page and a few other items in the daily paper that she had nicknamed \u201cthe Daily All-Sorts,\u201d this being a slightly satirical allusion to the fact that her paper, the Daily Newsgiver,<\/span> owing to a change of proprietor, to her own and to other of her friends\u2019 great annoyance, now provided articles on men\u2019s tailoring, women\u2019s dress, female heartthrobs, competitions for children, and complaining letters from women and had managed pretty well to shove any real news off any part of it but the front page, or to some obscure corner where it was impossible to find it. Miss Marple, being old-fashioned, preferred her newspapers to be<\/span> newspapers and give you news.<\/p>\n

In the afternoon, having finished her luncheon, treated herself to twenty minutes\u2019 nap in a specially purchased, upright armchair which catered for the demands of her rheumatic back, she had opened The Times,<\/span> which lent itself still to a more leisurely perusal. Not that The Times<\/span> was what it used to be. The maddening thing about The Times<\/span> was that you couldn\u2019t find<\/span> anything anymore. Instead of going through from the front page and knowing where everything else was so that you passed easily to any special articles on subjects in which you were interested, there were now extraordinary interruptions to this time-honoured programme. Two pages were suddenly devoted to travel in Capri with illustrations. Sport appeared with far more prominence than it had ever had in the old days. Court news and obituaries were a little more faithful to routine. The births, marriages and deaths which had at one time occupied Miss Marple\u2019s attention first of all owing to their prominent position had migrated to a different part of The Times,<\/span> though of late, Miss Marple noted, they had come almost permanently to rest on the back page.<\/p>\n

Miss Marple gave her attention first to the main news on the front page. She did not linger long on that because it was equivalent to what she had already read this morning, though possibly couched in a slightly more dignified manner. She cast her eye down the table of contents. Articles, comments, science, sport; then she pursued her usual plan, turned the paper over and had a quick run down the births, marriages and deaths, after which she proposed to turn to the page given to correspondence, where she nearly always found something to enjoy; from that she passed on to the Court Circular, on which page today\u2019s news from the Sale Rooms could also be found. A short article on Science was often placed there but she did not propose to read that. It seldom made sense for her.<\/p>\n

Having turned the paper over as usual to the births, marriages and deaths, Miss Marple thought to herself, as so often before,<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s sad really, but nowadays one is only interested in the deaths!<\/span>\u201d<\/p>\n

People had babies, but the people who had babies were not likely to be even known by name to Miss Marple. If there had been a column dealing with babies labelled as grandchildren, there might have been some chance of a pleasurable recognition. She might have thought to herself,<\/p>\n

\u201cReally, Mary Prendergast has had a third<\/span> granddaughter!,\u201d though even that perhaps might have been a bit remote.<\/p>\n

She skimmed down Marriages, also with not a very close survey, because most of her old friends\u2019 daughters or sons had married some years ago already. She came to the Deaths column, and gave that her more serious attention. Gave it enough, in fact, so as to be sure she would not miss a name. Alloway, Angopastro, Arden, Barton, Bedshaw, Burgoweisser\u2014(dear me, what a German<\/span> name, but he seemed to be late of Leeds). Carpenter, Camperdown, Clegg. Clegg? Now was that one of the Cleggs she knew? No, it didn\u2019t seem to be. Janet Clegg. Somewhere in Yorkshire. McDonald, McKenzie, Nicholson. Nicholson? No. Again not a Nicholson she knew. Ogg, Ormerod\u2014that must be one of the aunts, she thought. Yes, probably so. Linda Ormerod. No, she hadn\u2019t known her. Quantril? Dear me, that must be Elizabeth Quantril. Eighty-five. Well, really! She had thought Elizabeth Quantril had died some years ago. Fancy her having lived so long! So delicate she\u2019d always been, too. Nobody had expected her<\/span> to make old bones. Race, Radley, Rafiel. Rafiel? Something stirred. That name was familiar. Rafiel. Belford Park, Maidstone. Belford Park, Maidstone. No, she couldn\u2019t recall that address. No flowers. Jason Rafiel. Oh well, an unusual name. She supposed she\u2019d just heard it somewhere. Ross-Perkins. Now that might be\u2014no, it wasn\u2019t. Ryland? Emily Ryland. No. No, she\u2019d never known an Emily Ryland. Deeply loved by her husband and children.<\/span> Well, very nice or very sad. Whichever way you liked to look at it.<\/p>\n

Miss Marple laid down her paper, glancing idly through the crossword while she puzzled to remember why the name Rafiel was familiar to her.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt will come to me,\u201d said Miss Marple, knowing from long experience the way old people\u2019s memories worked.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019ll come to me, I have no doubt.\u201d<\/p>\n

She glanced out of the window towards the garden, withdrew her gaze and tried to put the garden out of her mind. Her garden had been the source of great pleasure and also a great deal of hard work to Miss Marple for many, many years. And now, owing to the fussiness of doctors, working in the garden was forbidden to her. She\u2019d once tried to fight this ban, but had come to the conclusion that she had, after all, better do as she was told. She had arranged her chair at such an angle as not to be easy to look out in the garden unless she definitely and clearly wished to see something in particular. She sighed, picked up her knitting bag and took out a small child\u2019s woolly jacket in process of coming to a conclusion. The back was done and the front. Now she would have to get on with the sleeves. Sleeves were always boring. Two sleeves, both alike. Yes, very boring. Pretty coloured pink wool, however. Pink wool. Now wait a minute, where did that fit in? Yes\u2014yes\u2014it fitted in with that name she\u2019d just read in the paper. Pink wool. A blue sea. A Caribbean sea. A sandy beach. Sunshine. Herself knitting and\u2014why, of course, Mr. Rafiel. That trip she had made to the Caribbean. The island of St. Honor\u00e9. A treat from her nephew Raymond. And she remembered Joan, her niece-in-law, Raymond\u2019s wife, saying:<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t get mixed up in any more murders, Aunt Jane. It isn\u2019t good for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Well, she hadn\u2019t wished<\/span> to get mixed up in any murders, but it just happened. That was all. Simply because of an elderly Major with a glass eye who had insisted on telling her some very long and boring stories. Poor Major\u2014now what was his<\/span> name? She\u2019d forgotten that now. Mr. Rafiel and his secretary, Mrs.\u2014Mrs. Walters, yes, Esther Walters, and his masseur-attendant, Jackson. It all came back. Well, well. Poor Mr. Rafiel. So Mr. Rafiel was dead. He had known he was going to die before very long. He had practically told her so. It seemed as though he had lasted longer than the doctors had thought. He was a strong man, an obstinate man\u2014a very rich man.<\/p>\n

Miss Marple remained in thought, her knitting needles working regularly, but her mind not really on her knitting. Her mind was on the late Mr. Rafiel, and remembering what she could remember about him. Not an easy man to forget, really. She could conjure his appearance up mentally quite well. Yes, a very definite personality, a difficult man, an irritable man, shockingly rude sometimes. Nobody ever resented his being rude, though. She remembered that also. They didn\u2019t resent his being rude because he was so rich. Yes, he had been very rich. He had had his secretary with him and a valet attendant, a qualified masseur. He had not been able to get about very well without help.<\/p>\n

Rather a doubtful character that nurse-attendant had been, Miss Marple thought. Mr. Rafiel had been very rude to him sometimes. He had never seemed to mind. And that, again, of course was because Mr. Rafiel was so rich.<\/p>\n

\u201cNobody else would pay him half what I do,\u201d Mr. Rafiel had said, \u201cand he knows it. He\u2019s good at his job, though.\u201d<\/p>\n

Miss Marple wondered whether Jackson?\u2014Johnson? had stayed on with Mr. Rafiel. Stayed on for what must have been\u2014another year? A year and three or four months. She thought probably not. Mr. Rafiel was one who liked a change. He got tired of people, tired of their ways, tired of their faces, tired of their voices.<\/p>\n

Miss Marple understood that. She had felt the same sometimes. That companion of hers, that nice, attentive, maddening woman with her cooing voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cAh,\u201d said Miss Marple, \u201cwhat a change for the better since\u2014\u201d oh dear, she\u2019d forgotten her<\/span> name now\u2014Miss\u2014Miss Bishop?\u2014no, not Miss Bishop. Oh dear, how difficult it was.<\/p>\n

Her mind went back to Mr. Rafiel and to\u2014no, it wasn\u2019t Johnson, it had been Jackson, Arthur Jackson.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, dear,\u201d said Miss Marple again, \u201cI always get all<\/span> the names wrong. And of course, it was Miss Knight<\/span> I was thinking of. Not Miss Bishop.<\/span> Why do I think of her as Miss Bishop?\u201d The answer came to her. Chess, of course. A chess piece. A knight. A bishop.<\/p>\n

\u201cI shall be calling her Miss Castle next time I think of her, I suppose, or Miss Rook. Though, really, she\u2019s not the sort of person who would ever rook anybody. No, indeed. And now what was the name of that nice secretary that Mr. Rafiel had. Oh yes, Esther Walters. That was right. I wonder what has happened to Esther Walters? She\u2019d inherited money? She would probably inherit money now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Rafiel, she remembered, had told her something about that, or she had\u2014oh, dear, what a muddle things were when you tried to remember with any kind of exactitude. Esther Walters. It had hit her badly, that business in the Caribbean, but she would have got over it. She\u2019d been a widow, hadn\u2019t she? Miss Marple hoped that Esther Walters had married again, some nice, kindly, reliable man. It seemed faintly unlikely. Esther Walters, she thought, had had rather a genius for liking the wrong kind of men to marry.<\/p>\n

Miss Marple went back to thinking about Mr. Rafiel. No flowers, it had said. Not that she herself would have dreamed of sending flowers to Mr. Rafiel. He could buy up all the nurseries in England if he\u2019d wanted to. And anyway, they hadn\u2019t been on those terms. They hadn\u2019t been\u2014friends, or on terms of affection. They had been\u2014what was the word she wanted?\u2014allies. Yes, they had been allies for a very short time. A very exciting time. And he had been an ally worth having. She had known so. She\u2019d known it as she had gone running through a dark, tropical night in the Caribbean and had come to him. Yes, she remembered, she\u2019d been wearing that pink wool\u2014what used they to call them when she was young?\u2014a fascinator. That nice pink wool kind of shawl-scarf that she\u2019d put round her head, and he had looked at her and laughed, and later when she had said\u2014she smiled at the remembrance\u2014one word she had used and he had laughed, but he hadn\u2019t laughed in the end. No, he\u2019d done what she asked him and therefore\u2014\u201cAh!\u201d Miss Marple sighed, it had been, she had to admit it, all very exciting. And she\u2019d never told her nephew or dear Joan about it because, after all, it was what they\u2019d told her not to do, wasn\u2019t it? Miss Marple nodded her head. Then she murmured softly,<\/p>\n

\u201cPoor Mr. Rafiel, I hope he didn\u2019t\u2014suffer.\u201d<\/p>\n

Probably not. Probably he\u2019d been kept by expensive doctors under sedatives, easing the end. He had suffered a great deal in those weeks in the Caribbean. He\u2019d nearly always been in pain. A brave man.<\/p>\n

A brave man. She was sorry he was dead because she thought that though he\u2019d been elderly and an invalid and ill, the world had lost something through his going. She had no idea what he could have been like in business. Ruthless, she thought, and rude and overmastering and aggressive. A great attacker. But\u2014but a good friend, she thought. And somewhere in him a deep kind of kindness that he was very careful never to show on the surface. A man she admired and respected. Well, she was sorry he was gone and she hoped he hadn\u2019t minded too much and that his passing had been easy. And now he would be cremated no doubt and put in some large, handsome marble vault. She didn\u2019t even know if he\u2019d been married. He had never mentioned a wife, never mentioned children. A lonely man? Or had his life been so full that he hadn\u2019t needed to feel lonely? She wondered.<\/p>\n

She sat there quite a long time that afternoon, wondering about Mr. Rafiel. She had never expected to see him again after she had returned to England and she never had<\/span> seen him again. Yet in some queer way she could at any moment have felt she was in touch with him. If he had approached her or had suggested that they meet again, feeling perhaps a bond because of a life that had been saved between them, or of some other bond. A bond\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cSurely,\u201d said Miss Marple, aghast at an idea that had come into her mind, \u201cthere can\u2019t be a bond of ruthlessness<\/span> between us?\u201d Was she, Jane Marple\u2014could she ever be\u2014ruthless? \u201cD\u2019you know,\u201d said Miss Marple to herself, \u201cit\u2019s extraordinary, I never thought about it before. I believe, you know, I could<\/span> be ruthless\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n

The door opened and a dark, curly head was popped in. It was Cherry, the welcome successor to Miss Bishop\u2014Miss Knight.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you say something?\u201d said Cherry.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was speaking to myself,\u201d said Miss Marple, \u201cI just wondered if I could ever be ruthless.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat, you?\u201d said Cherry. \u201cNever! You\u2019re kindness itself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAll the same,\u201d said Miss Marple, \u201cI believe I could<\/span> be ruthless if there was due cause.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat would you call due cause?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn the cause of justice,\u201d said Miss Marple.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou did have it in for little Gary Hopkins I must say,\u201d said Cherry. \u201cWhen you caught him torturing his cat that day. Never knew you had it in you to go for anyone like that! Scared him stiff, you did. He\u2019s never forgotten it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI hope he hasn\u2019t tortured anymore cats.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, he\u2019s made sure you weren\u2019t about if he did,\u201d said Cherry. \u201cIn fact I\u2019m not at all sure as there isn\u2019t other boys as got scared. Seeing you with your wool and the pretty things you knits and all that\u2014anyone would think you were gentle as a lamb. But there\u2019s times I could say you\u2019d behave like a lion if you was goaded into it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Miss Marple looked a little doubtful. She could not quite see herself in the r\u00f4le in which Cherry was now casting her. Had she ever\u2014she paused on the reflection, recalling various moments\u2014there had been intense irritation with Miss Bishop\u2014Knight. (Really, she must not<\/span> forget names in this way.) But her irritation had shown itself in more or less ironical remarks. Lions, presumably, did not use irony. There was nothing ironical about a lion. It sprang. It roared. It used its claws, presumably it took large bites at its prey.<\/p>\n

\u201cReally,\u201d said Miss Marple, \u201cI don\u2019t think I have ever behaved quite<\/span> like that.\u201d<\/p>\n

Walking slowly along her garden that evening with the usual feelings of vexation rising in her, Miss Marple considered the point again. Possibly the sight of a plant of snapdragons recalled it to her mind. Really, she had told<\/span> old George again and again that she only wanted sulphur-coloured antirrhinums, not<\/span> that rather ugly purple shade that gardeners always seemed so fond of. \u201cSulphur yellow,\u201d said Miss Marple aloud.<\/p>\n

Someone the other side of the railing that abutted on the lane past her house turned her head and spoke.<\/p>\n

\u201cI beg your pardon? You said something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was talking to myself, I\u2019m afraid,\u201d said Miss Marple, turning to look over the railing.<\/p>\n

This was someone she did not know, and she knew most people in St. Mary Mead. Knew them by sight even if not personally. It was a thickset woman in a shabby but tough tweed skirt, and wearing good country shoes. She wore an emerald pullover and a knitted woollen scarf.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m afraid one does at my age,\u201d added Miss Marple.<\/p>\n

\u201cNice garden you\u2019ve got here,\u201d said the other woman.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot particularly nice now,\u201d said Miss Marple. \u201cWhen I could attend to it myself\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh I know. I understand just what you feel. I suppose you\u2019ve got one of those\u2014I have a lot of names for them, mostly very rude\u2014elderly chaps who say they know all about gardening. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don\u2019t know a thing about it. They come and have a lot of cups of tea and do a little very mild weeding. They\u2019re quite nice, some of them, but all the same it does make one\u2019s temper rise.\u201d She added, \u201cI\u2019m quite a keen gardener myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you live here?\u201d asked Miss Marple, with some interest.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I\u2019m boarding with a Mrs. Hastings. I think I\u2019ve heard her speak of you. You\u2019re Miss Marple, aren\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh yes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve come as a sort of companion-gardener. My name is Bartlett, by the way. Miss Bartlett. There\u2019s not really much to do there,\u201d said Miss Bartlett. \u201cShe goes in for annuals and all that. Nothing you can really get your teeth into.\u201d She opened her mouth and showed her teeth when making this remark. \u201cOf course I do a few odd jobs as well. Shopping, you know, and things like that. Anyway, if you want any time put in here, I could put in an hour or two for you. I\u2019d say I might be better than any chap you\u2019ve got now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat would be easy,\u201d said Miss Marple. \u201cI like flowers best. Don\u2019t care so much for vegetables.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI do vegetables for Mrs. Hastings. Dull but necessary. Well, I\u2019ll be getting along.\u201d Her eyes swept over Miss Marple from head to foot, as though memorizing her, then she nodded cheerfully and tramped off.<\/p>\n

Mrs. Hastings? Miss Marple couldn\u2019t remember the name of any Mrs. Hastings. Certainly Mrs. Hastings was not an old friend. She had certainly never been a gardening chum. Ah, of course, it was probably those newly built houses at the end of Gibraltar Road. Several families had moved in in the last year. Miss Marple sighed, looked again with annoyance at the antirrhinums, saw several weeds which she yearned to root up, one or two exuberant suckers she would like to attack with her secateurs, and finally, sighing, and manfully resisting temptation, she made a detour round by the lane and returned to her house. Her mind recurred again to Mr. Rafiel. They had been, he and she\u2014what was the title of that book they used to quote so much when she was young? Ships that pass in the night.<\/span> Rather apt it was really, when she came to think of it. Ships that pass in the night \u2026 It was in the night that she had gone to him to ask\u2014no, to demand\u2014help. To insist, to say no time must be lost. And he had agreed, and put things in train at once! Perhaps she had<\/span> been rather lionlike on that occasion? No. No, that was quite wrong. It had not been anger she had felt. It had been insistence on something that was absolutely imperative to be put in hand at once. And he\u2019d understood.<\/p>\n

Poor Mr. Rafiel. The ship that had passed in the night had been an interesting ship. Once you got used to his being rude, he might have been quite an agreeable man? No! She shook her head. Mr. Rafiel could never have been an agreeable man. Well, she must put Mr. Rafiel out of her head.<\/p>\n

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Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing;<\/span><\/p>\n

Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

She would probably never think of him again. She would look out perhaps to see if there was an obituary of him in The Times.<\/span> But she did not think it was very likely. He was not a very well known character, she thought. Not famous. He had just been very rich. Of course, many people did have obituaries in the paper just because they were very rich; but she thought that Mr. Rafiel\u2019s richness would possibly not have been of that kind. He had not been prominent in any great industry, he had not been a great financial genius, or a noteworthy banker. He had just all his life made enormous amounts of money\u2026.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Book Preview One OVERTURE In the afternoons it was the custom of Miss Jane Marple to unfold her second newspaper. Two newspapers were delivered at her house every morning. The first one Miss Marple read while sipping her early morning tea, that is, if it was delivered in time. The boy who delivered the papers … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2390,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[142],"class_list":["post-2391","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-agatha-christie"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2391","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2391"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2391\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2390"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2391"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2391"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2391"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}