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II
stitch again. Not only that, she must have dropped it some time ago. Not
until now, when she had to decrease for the neck and count the stitches,
had she realized the fact. She took up a spare pin, held the knitting side-
ways to the light and peered anxiously. Even her new spectacles didn’t
seem to do any good. And that, she reflected, was because obviously there
up-to-date instruments, the bright lights they flashed into your eyes, and
the very high fees they charged, couldn’t do anything much more for you.
been a few (well, not perhaps a few) years ago. From the vantage point of
her garden, so admirably placed to see all that was going on in St. Mary
bird glasses—(an interest in birds was so useful!)—she had been able to
see—She broke off there and let her thoughts run back over the past. Ann
Protheroe in her summer frock going along to the Vicarage garden. And
sure—but to be murdered like that—She shook her head and went on to
thoughts of Griselda, the vicar’s pretty young wife. Dear Griselda—such a
faithful friend—a Christmas card every year. That attractive baby of hers
was it? He always had enjoyed taking his mechanical trains to pieces. Bey-
ond the Vicarage, there had been the stile and the field path with Farmer
Giles’s cattle beyond in the meadows where now—now….
The Development.
And why not? Miss Marple asked herself sternly. These things had to be.
The houses were necessary, and they were very well built, or so she had
been told. “Planning,” or whatever they called it. Though why everything
had to be called a Close she couldn’t imagine. Aubrey Close and Longwood
Close, and Grandison Close and all the rest of them. Not really Closes at all.
Canon of Chichester Cathedral. As a child she had gone to stay with him in
the Close.
overcrowded drawing room the “lounge.” Miss Marple corrected her
gently, “It’s the drawing room, Cherry.” And Cherry, because she was
young and kind, endeavoured to remember, though it was obvious to her
“drawing room” was a very funny word to use—and “lounge” came slip-
ping out. She had of late, however, compromised on “living-room.” Miss
Marple liked Cherry very much. Her name was Mrs. Baker and she came
from the Development. She was one of the detachment of young wives
streets of St. Mary Mead. They were all smart and well turned out. Their
hair was crisp and curled. They laughed and talked and called to one an-
of Hire Purchase, they were always in need of ready money, though their
husbands all earned good wages; and so they came and did housework or
cooking. Cherry was a quick and efficient cook, she was an intelligent girl,
took telephone calls correctly and was quick to spot inaccuracies in the
tradesmen’s books. She was not much given to turning mattresses15, and as
far as washing up went Miss Marple always now passed the pantry door
with her head turned away so as not to observe Cherry’s method which
was that of thrusting everything into the sink together and letting loose a
Worcester tea set from daily circulation and put it in the corner cabinet
whence it only emerged on special occasions. Instead she had purchased a
soever to be washed away in the sink.
How different it had been in the past… Faithful Florence, for instance,
that grenadier of a parlourmaid—and there had been Amy and Clara and
“trained,” and then going on to betterpaid jobs elsewhere. Rather simple,
some of them had been, and frequently adenoidal, and Amy distinctly
lage and walked out with the fishmonger’s assistant, or the undergardener
at the Hall, or one of Mr. Barnes the grocer’s numerous assistants. Miss
Marple’s mind went back over them affectionately thinking of all the little
woolly coats she had knitted for their subsequent offspring. They had not
been very good with the telephone, and no good at all at arithmetic. On
the other hand, they knew how to wash up, and how to make a bed. They
had had skills, rather than education. It was odd that nowadays it should
be the educated girls who went in for all the domestic chores. Students
from abroad, girls au pair, university students in the vacation, young mar-
ried women like Cherry Baker, who lived in spurious Closes on new build-
ing developments.
came suddenly as Miss Knight’s tread overhead made the lustres on the
noon rest and would now go out for her afternoon walk. In a moment she
would come to ask Miss Marple if she could get her anything in the town.
The thought of Miss Knight brought the usual reaction to Miss Marple’s
mind. Of course, it was very generous of dear Raymond (her nephew) and
nobody could be kinder than Miss Knight, and of course that attack of
bronchitis had left her very weak, and Dr. Haydock had said very firmly
that she must not go on sleeping alone in the house with only someone
coming in daily, but—She stopped there. Because it was no use going on
with the thought which was “If only it could have been someone other
than Miss Knight.” But there wasn’t much choice for elderly ladies
with difficulty, or you could go to hospital. But after the critical phase of
There wasn’t, Miss Marple reflected, anything wrong about the Miss
Knights other than the fact that they were madly irritating. They were full
of kindness, ready to feel affection towards their charges, to humour
them, to be bright and cheerful with them and in general to treat them as
“But I,” said Miss Marple to herself, “although I may be old, am not a
At this moment, breathing rather heavily, as was her custom, Miss
Knight bounced brightly into the room. She was a big, rather flabby wo-
man of fifty- six with yellowing grey hair very elaborately arranged,
glasses, a long thin nose, and below it a good-natured mouth and a weak
chin.
“Here we are!” she exclaimed with a kind of beaming boisterousness28,
our little snooze?”
“I have been knitting,” Miss Marple replied, putting some emphasis on
the pronoun, “and,” she went on, confessing her weakness with distaste
and shame, “I’ve dropped a stitch.”
“Oh dear, dear,” said Miss Knight. “Well, we’ll soon put that right, won’t
we?”
always, was eager to help.
“There,” she said after a few moments. “There you are, dear. Quite all
right now.”
Though Miss Marple was perfectly agreeable to be called “dear” (and
even “ducks”) by the woman at the greengrocer or the girl at the paper
shop, it annoyed her intensely to be called “dear” by Miss Knight. Another
of those things that elderly ladies have to bear. She thanked Miss Knight
politely.
“And now I’m just going out for my wee toddle,” said Miss Knight hu-
morously. “Shan’t be long.”
“Please don’t dream of hurrying back,” said Miss Marple politely and
sincerely.
“Well, I don’t like to leave you too long on your own, dear, in case you
get moped.”
“I assure you I am quite happy,” said Miss Marple. “I probably shall
have” (she closed her eyes) “a little nap.”
“That’s right, dear. Anything I can get you?”
Miss Marple opened her eyes and considered.
“You might go into Longdon’s and see if the curtains are ready. And per-
currant lozenges at the chemist’s. And change my book at the library—but
don’t let them give you anything that isn’t on my list. This last one was too
“Oh dear dear! Didn’t you like it? I thought you’d love it. Such a pretty
story.”
“And if it isn’t too far for you, perhaps you wouldn’t mind going as far as
Halletts and see if they have one of those up-and-down egg whisks—not
the turn-the-handle kind.”
(She knew very well they had nothing of the kind, but Halletts was the
farthest shop possible.)
“If all this isn’t too much—” she murmured.
“Not at all. I shall be delighted.”
Miss Knight loved shopping. It was the breath of life to her. One met ac-
quaintances, and had the chance of a chat, one gossiped with the assist-
ants, and had the opportunity of examining various articles in the various
shops. And one could spend quite a long time engaged in these pleasant
occupations without any guilty feeling that it was one’s duty to hurry
back.
resting so peacefully by the window.
After waiting a few minutes in case Miss Knight should return for a
shopping bag, or her purse, or a handkerchief (she was a great forgetter
by thinking of so many unwanted things to ask Miss Knight to get, Miss
Marple rose briskly to her feet, cast aside her knitting and strode purpose-
door.
“It will take her at least an hour and a half,” Miss Marple estimated to
herself. “Quite that—with all the people from the Development doing their
shopping.”
ment Miss Knight was exclaiming, “Of course, I felt quite sure in my own
mind they wouldn’t be ready yet. But of course I said I’d come along and
look forward to. One must humour them. And she’s a sweet old lady. Fail-
that’s a pretty material you’ve got there. Do you have it in any other col-
ours?”
A pleasant twenty minutes passed. When Miss Knight had finally depar-
that when I see it for myself. Old Miss Marple has always been as sharp as
a needle, and I’d say she still is.” She then gave her attention to a young
“Emily Waters, that’s who she reminds me of,” Miss Marple was saying
to herself, with the satisfaction it always gave her to match up a human
personality with one known in the past. “Just the same bird brain. Let me
see, what happened to Emily?”
Nothing much, was her conclusion. She had once nearly got engaged to
a curate, but after an understanding of several years the affair had fizzled
out. Miss Marple dismissed her nurse attendant from her mind and gave
her attention to her surroundings. She had traversed the garden rapidly
only observing as it were from the corner of her eye that Laycock had cut
happy feeling of adventure. She turned to the right, entered the Vicarage
gate, took the path through the Vicarage garden and came out on the right
of way. Where the stile had been there was now an iron swing gate giving
on to a tarred asphalt path. This led to a neat little bridge over the stream
and on the other side of the stream where once there had been meadows
with cows, there was the Development.
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