IV

Miss Marple’s telephone rang when she was dressing. The sound of it flur-ried her a little. It was an unusual hour for her telephone to ring. So wellordered was her prim spinster’s life that unforeseen telephone calls werea source of vivid conjecture.

“Dear me,” said Miss Marple, surveying the ringing instrument with per-plexity. “I wonder who that can be?”

Nine o’clock to nine-thirty was the recognized time for the village tomake friendly calls to neighbours. Plans for the day, invitations and so onwere always issued then. The butcher had been known to ring up just be-fore nine if some crisis in the meat trade had occurred. At intervals duringthe day spasmodic calls might occur, though it was considered bad form toring after nine-thirty at night. It was true that Miss Marple’s nephew, awriter, and therefore erratic, had been known to ring up at the most pecu-liar times, once as late as ten minutes to midnight. But whatever RaymondWest’s eccentricities, early rising was not one of them. Neither he nor any-one of Miss Marple’s acquaintance would be likely to ring up before eightin the morning. Actually a quarter to eight.

Too early even for a telegram, since the post office did not open untileight.

“It must be,” Miss Marple decided, “a wrong number.”

Having decided this, she advanced to the impatient instrument andquelled its clamour by picking up the receiver. “Yes?” she said.

“Is that you, Jane?”

Miss Marple was much surprised.

“Yes, it’s Jane. You’re up very early, Dolly.”

Mrs. Bantry’s voice came breathless and agitated over the wires.

“The most awful thing has happened.”

“Oh, my dear.”

“We’ve just found a body in the library.”

For a moment Miss Marple thought her friend had gone mad.

“You’ve found a what?”

“I know. One doesn’t believe it, does one? I mean, I thought they onlyhappened in books. I had to argue for hours with Arthur this morning be-fore he’d even go down and see.”

Miss Marple tried to collect herself. She demanded breathlessly: “Butwhose body is it?”

“It’s a blonde.”

“A what?”

“A blonde. A beautiful blonde—like books again. None of us have everseen her before. She’s just lying there in the library, dead. That’s whyyou’ve got to come up at once.”

“You want me to come up?”

“Yes, I’m sending the car down for you.”

Miss Marple said doubtfully:

“Of course, dear, if you think I can be of any comfort to you—”

“Oh, I don’t want comfort. But you’re so good at bodies.”

“Oh no, indeed. My little successes have been mostly theoretical.”

“But you’re very good at murders. She’s been murdered, you see,strangled. What I feel is that if one has got to have a murder actually hap-pening in one’s house, one might as well enjoy it, if you know what Imean. That’s why I want you to come and help me find out who did it andunravel the mystery and all that. It really is rather thrilling, isn’t it?”

“Well, of course, my dear, if I can be of any help to you.”

“Splendid! Arthur’s being rather difficult. He seems to think I shouldn’tenjoy myself about it at all. Of course, I do know it’s very sad and all that,but then I don’t know the girl—and when you’ve seen her you’ll under-stand what I mean when I say she doesn’t look real at all.”