Miss Marple by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Mystery, Adult, Classics, Suspense, Thriller

II

But it was not in the morning papers.

Miss Marple and Mrs. McGillicuddy, after making sure of this, finished their breakfast in silence. Both were reflecting.

After breakfast, they took a turn round the garden. But this, usually an absorbing pastime, was today somewhat halfhearted. Miss Marple did indeed call attention to some new and rare species she had acquired for her rock-garden but did so in an almost absentminded manner. And Mrs. McGillicuddy did not, as was customary, counter-attack with a list of her own recent acquisitions.

“The garden is not looking at all as it should,” said Miss Marple, but still speaking absentmindedly. “Doctor Haydock has absolutely forbidden me to do any stooping or kneeling—and really, what can you do if you don’t stoop or kneel? There’s old Edwards, of course—but so opinionated. And all this jobbing gets them into bad habits, lots of cups of tea and so much pottering—not any real work.”

“Oh, I know,” said Mrs. McGillicuddy. “Of course, there’s no question of my being forbidden to stoop, but really, especially after meals—and having put on weight”—she looked down at her ample proportions—“it does bring on heartburn.”

There was a silence and then Mrs. McGillicuddy planted her feet sturdily, stood still, and turned on her friend.

“Well?” she said.

It was a small insignificant word, but it acquired full significance from Mrs. McGillicuddy’s tone, and Miss Marple understood its meaning perfectly.

“I know,” she said.

The two ladies looked at each other.

“I think,” said Miss Marple, “we might walk down to the police station and talk to Sergeant Cornish. He’s intelligent and patient, and I know him very well, and he knows me. I think he’ll listen—and pass the information on to the proper quarter.”

Accordingly, some three-quarters of an hour later, Miss Marple and Mrs. McGillicuddy were talking to a fresh-faced grave man between thirty and forty who listened attentively to what they had to say.

Frank Cornish received Miss Marple with cordiality and even deference. He set chairs for the two ladies, and said: “Now what can we do for you, Miss Marple?”

Miss Marple said: “I would like you, please, to listen to my friend Mrs. McGillicuddy’s story.”

And Sergeant Cornish had listened. At the close of the recital he remained silent for a moment or two.

Then he said:

“That’s a very extraordinary story.” His eyes, without seeming to do so, had sized Mrs. McGillicuddy up whilst she was telling it.

On the whole, he was favourably impressed. A sensible woman, able to tell a story clearly; not, so far as he could judge, an over-imaginative or a hysterical woman. Moreover, Miss Marple, so it seemed, believed in the accuracy of her friend’s story and he knew all about Miss Marple. Everybody in St. Mary Mead knew Miss Marple; fluffy and dithery in appearance, but inwardly as sharp and as shrewd as they make them.

He cleared his throat and spoke.

“Of course,” he said, “you may have been mistaken—I’m not saying you were, mind—but you may have been. There’s a lot of horse-play goes on—it mayn’t have been serious or fatal.

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