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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 de-
linquent soldier on parade, his wife was surreptitiously glancing at a cata-
logue of bulbs which had come by the late post, Dr. Lloyd was gazing with
frank admiration1 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 representat-
ives 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 appreciation2. 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
“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’
Miss Marple shook her head.
“Nothing that would interest you, Sir Henry. We have our little myster-
incomprehensibly; but that wouldn’t interest you because it all turned out
to be so trivial, though throwing a considerable light on human nature.”
“You have taught me to dote on human nature,” said Sir Henry sol-
emnly.
“What about you, Miss Helier?” asked Colonel Bantry. “You must have
had some interesting experiences.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Dr. Lloyd.
“Me?” said Jane. “You mean—you want me to tell you something that
happened to me?”
me—I mean not that kind of thing. Flowers, of course, and queer messages
—but that’s just men, isn’t it? I don’t think”—she paused and appeared lost
in thought.
“Now then, Miss Marple.”
“You’re so fond of your joke, Sir Henry. The shrimps are only nonsense;
but now I come to think of it, I do remember one incident—at least not ex-
actly an incident, something very much more serious—a tragedy. And I
was, in a way, mixed up in it; and for what I did, I have never had any re-
grets—no, no regrets at all. But it didn’t happen in St. Mary Mead.”
“That disappoints me,” said Sir Henry. “But I will endeavour to bear up.
I knew we should not rely upon you in vain.”
He settled himself in the attitude of a listener. Miss Marple grew slightly
pink.
“I hope I shall be able to tell it properly,” she said anxiously. “I fear I am
gether without knowing that one is doing so. And it is so hard to remem-
ber each fact in its proper order. You must all bear with me if I tell my
story badly. It happened a very long time ago now.
“As I say, it was not connected with St. Mary Mead. As a matter of fact, it
had to do with a Hydro—”
“Do you mean a seaplane?” asked Jane with wide eyes.
“You wouldn’t know, dear,” said Mrs. Bantry, and explained. Her hus-
“Beastly places—absolutely beastly! Got to get up early and drink filthy-
tasting water. Lot of old women sitting about. Ill-natured tittle tattle. God,
when I think—”
good in the world.”
Bantry.
“That I am afraid is true,” said Miss Marple. “I myself—”
one moment—”
With pink cheeks and a little gesture of the hand, Miss Marple stopped
him.
“But it is true, Colonel Bantry. Only I should just like to say this. Let me
good deal. And people are very down on it—especially young people. My
nephew, who writes books—and very clever ones, I believe—has said
any kind of proof—and how wicked it is, and all that. But what I say is that
none of these young people ever stop to think. They really don’t examine
tattle, as you call it, true! And I think if, as I say, they really examined the
facts they would find that it was true nine times out of ten! That’s really
just what makes people so annoyed about it.”
“The inspired guess,” said Sir Henry.
“No, not that, not that at all! It’s really a matter of practice and experi-
ence. An Egyptologist, so I’ve heard, if you show him one of those curious
it is, or if it’s a Birmingham imitation. And he can’t always give a definite
rule for doing so. He just knows. His life has been spent handling such
things.
“And that’s what I’m trying to say (very badly, I know). What my
nephew calls ‘superfluous women’ have a lot of time on their hands, and
their chief interest is usually people. And so, you see, they get to be what
one might call experts. Now young people nowadays—they talk very freely
about things that weren’t mentioned in my young days, but on the other
hand their minds are terribly innocent. They believe in everyone and
everything. And if one tries to warn them, ever so gently, they tell one that
one has a Victorian mind—and that, they say, is like a sink.”
“After all,” said Sir Henry, “what is wrong with a sink?”
“Exactly,” said Miss Marple eagerly. “It’s the most necessary thing in any
house; but, of course, not romantic. Now I must confess that I have my
feelings, like everyone else, and I have sometimes been cruelly hurt by un-
thinking remarks. I know gentlemen are not interested in domestic mat-
ters, but I must just mention my maid Ethel—a very good-looking girl and
obliging in every way. Now I realized as soon as I saw her that she was the
same type as Annie Webb and poor Mrs. Bruitt’s girl. If the opportunity
arose mine and thine would mean nothing to her. So I let her go at the
month and I gave her a written reference saying she was honest and
nephew, Raymond, was exceedingly angry and said he had never heard of
anything so wicked—yes, wicked. Well, she went to Lady Ashton, whom I
felt no obligation to warn—and what happened? All the lace cut off her
underclothes and two diamond brooches taken—and the girl departed in
the middle of the night and never heard of since!”
Miss Marple paused, drew a long breath, and then went on.
“You’ll be saying this has nothing to do with what went on at Keston Spa
Hydro—but it has in a way. It explains why I felt no doubt in my mind the
first moment I saw the Sanders together that he meant to do away with
her.”
“Eh?” said Sir Henry, leaning forward.
“As I say, Sir Henry, I felt no doubt in my own mind. Mr. Sanders was a
lar with all. And nobody could have been pleasanter to his wife than he
was. But I knew! He meant to make away with her.”
“My dear Miss Marple—”
“Yes, I know. That’s what my nephew, Raymond West, would say. He’d
tell me I hadn’t a shadow of proof. But I remember Walter Hones, who
kept the Green Man. Walking home with his wife one night she fell into
the river—and he collected the insurance money! And one or two other
people that are walking about scot-free to this day—one indeed in our
own class of life. Went to Switzerland for a summer holiday climbing with
his wife. I warned her not to go—the poor dear didn’t get angry with me
as she might have done—she only laughed. It seemed to her funny that a
well, there was an accident — and Harry is married to another woman
now. But what could I do? I knew, but there was no proof.”
“Oh! Miss Marple,” cried Mrs. Bantry. “You don’t really mean—”
“My dear, these things are very common—very common indeed. And
thing looks like an accident. As I say, I knew at once with the Sanders. It
was on a tram. It was full inside and I had had to go on top. We all three
got up to get off and Mr. Sanders lost his balance and fell right against his
wife, sending her headfirst down the stairs. Fortunately the conductor was
a very strong young man and caught her.”
“But surely that must have been an accident.”
“Of course it was an accident—nothing could have looked more acci-
dental! But Mr. Sanders had been in the Merchant Service, so he told me,
on top of a tram if an old woman like me doesn’t. Don’t tell me!”
“At any rate we can take it that you made up your mind, Miss Marple,”
said Sir Henry. “Made it up then and there.”
The old lady nodded.
“I was sure enough, and another incident in crossing the street not long
afterwards made me surer still. Now I ask you, what could I do, Sir Henry?
murdered.”
“My dear lady, you take my breath away.”
“That’s because, like most people nowadays, you won’t face facts. You
prefer to think such a thing couldn’t be. But it was so, and I knew it. But
one is so sadly handicapped! I couldn’t, for instance, go to the police. And
to the man. I just made it my business to find out as much as I could about
them. One has a lot of opportunities doing one’s needlework round the
fire. Mrs. Sanders (Gladys, her name was) was only too willing to talk. It
seems they had not been married very long. Her husband had some prop-
erty that was coming to him, but for the moment they were very badly off.
In fact, they were living on her little income. One has heard that tale be-
that somebody had had some sense somewhere! But the money was hers
to will away—I found that out. And she and her husband had made wills
course, when Jack’s affairs came right—That was the burden all day long,
and in the meantime they were very hard up indeed—actually had a room
on the top floor, all among the servants—and so dangerous in case of fire,
though, as it happened, there was a fire escape just outside their window.
I inquired carefully if there was a balcony—dangerous things, balconies.
One push—you know!
“I made her promise not to go out on the balcony; I said I’d had a dream.
That impressed her—one can do a lot with superstition29 sometimes. She
was a fair girl, rather washed-out complexion30, and an untidy roll of hair
and I noticed him looking at me in a curious way once or twice. He wasn’t
credulous; and he knew I’d been on that tram.
“But I was very worried—terribly worried—because I couldn’t see how
to circumvent32 him. I could prevent anything happening at the Hydro, just
by saying a few words to show him I suspected. But that only meant his
putting off his plan till later. No, I began to believe that the only policy was
a bold one—somehow or other to lay a trap for him. If I could induce him
to attempt her life in a way of my own choosing—well, then he would be
unmasked, and she would be forced to face the truth however much of a
shock it was to her.”
“You take my breath away,” said Dr. Lloyd. “What conceivable plan
could you adopt?”
“I’d have found one—never fear,” said Miss Marple. “But the man was
too clever for me. He didn’t wait. He thought I might suspect, and so he
struck before I could be sure. He knew I would suspect an accident. So he
made it murder.”
grimly together.
what occurred. I’ve always felt very bitterly about it—it seems to me that I
ought, somehow, to have prevented it. But doubtless Providence35 knew
best. I did what I could at all events.
air. There seemed to be something weighing on us all. A feeling of misfor-
on the fourth day. Terribly sad. A real blow to everybody. And four days
before Christmas too. And then one of the housemaids—such a nice girl—
a septic finger, actually died in twenty-four hours.
“I was in the drawing room with Miss Trollope and old Mrs. Carpenter,
and Mrs. Carpenter was being positively40 ghoulish—relishing it all, you
know.
“‘Mark my words,’ she said. ‘This isn’t the end. You know the saying?
Never two without three. I’ve proved it true time and again. There’ll be an-
other death. Not a doubt of it. And we shan’t have long to wait. Never two
without three.’
“As she said the last words, nodding her head and clicking her knitting
face as plain as plain. I shall believe till my dying day that it was that
ghoulish Mrs. Carpenter’s words that put the whole thing into his head. I
saw his mind working.
“‘Any Christmas shopping I can do for you ladies?’ he asked. ‘I’m going
down to Keston presently.’
“He stayed a minute or two, laughing and talking, and then went out. As
I tell you, I was troubled, and I said straight away:
“‘Where’s Mrs. Sanders? Does anyone know?’
“Mrs. Trollope said she’d gone out to some friends of hers, the Mor-
timers, to play bridge, and that eased my mind for the moment. But I was
still very worried and most uncertain as to what to do. About half an hour
later I went up to my room. I met Dr. Coles, my doctor, there, coming
down the stairs as I was going up, and as I happened to want to consult
him about my rheumatism44, I took him into my room with me then and
there. He mentioned to me then (in confidence, he said) about the death of
the poor girl Mary. The manager didn’t want the news to get about, he
said, so would I keep it to myself. Of course I didn’t tell him that we’d all
been discussing nothing else for the last hour—ever since the poor girl
breathed her last. These things are always known at once, and a man of
his experience should know that well enough; but Dr. Coles always was a
simple unsuspicious fellow who believed what he wanted to believe and
that’s just what alarmed me a minute later. He said as he was leaving that
Sanders had asked him to have a look at his wife. It seemed she’d been
seedy of late—indigestion, etc.
“Now that very self-same day Gladys Sanders had said to me that she’d got
“You see? All my suspicions of that man came back a hundredfold. He
was preparing the way—for what? Dr. Coles left before I could make up
my mind whether to speak to him or not—though really if I had spoken I
shouldn’t have known what to say. As I came out of my room, the man
himself—Sanders—came down the stairs from the floor above. He was
dressed to go out and he asked me again if he could do anything for me in
the town. It was all I could do to be civil to the man! I went straight into
the lounge and ordered tea. It was just on half past five, I remember.
“Now I’m very anxious to put clearly what happened next. I was still in
the lounge at a quarter to seven when Mr. Sanders came in. There were
two gentlemen with him and all three of them were inclined to be a little
on the lively side. Mr. Sanders left his two friends and came right over to
where I was sitting with Miss Trollope. He explained that he wanted our
advice about a Christmas present he was giving his wife. It was an evening
bag.
“‘And you see, ladies,’ he said. ‘I’m only a rough sailorman. What do I
know about such things? I’ve had three sent to me on approval and I want
an expert opinion on them.’
“We said, of course, that we would be delighted to help him, and he
asked if we’d mind coming upstairs, as his wife might come in any minute
if he brought the things down. So we went up with him. I shall never for-
“Mr. Sanders opened the door of the bedroom and switched on the light.
I don’t know which of us saw it first. . . .
“I got to her first. I knelt down and took her hand and felt for the pulse,
but it was useless, the arm itself was cold and stiff. Just by her head was a
stocking filled with sand—the weapon she had been struck down with.
Miss Trollope, silly creature, was moaning and moaning by the door and
holding her head. Sanders gave a great cry of ‘My wife, my wife,’ and
rushed to her. I stopped him touching her. You see, I was sure at the mo-
ment he had done it, and there might have been something that he wanted
to take away or hide.
“‘Nothing must be touched,’ I said. ‘Pull yourself together, Mr. Sanders.
Miss Trollope, please go down and fetch the manager.’
“I stayed there, kneeling by the body. I wasn’t going to leave Sanders
was acting marvellously. He looked dazed and bewildered and scared out
of his wits.
“The manager was with us in no time. He made a quick inspection50 of the
room then turned us all out and locked the door, the key of which he took.
Then he went off and telephoned to the police. It seemed a positive age be-
fore they came (we learnt afterwards that the line was out of order). The
manager had to send a messenger to the police station, and the Hydro is
without three’ coming true so quickly. Sanders, I hear, wandered out into
grief.
“However, the police came at last. They went upstairs with the manager
was there, sitting at a table writing. He was an intelligent-looking man and
I liked him.
“‘Miss Jane Marple?’ he said.
“‘Yes.’
“‘I understand, Madam, that you were present when the body of the de-
ceased was found?’
“I said I was and I described exactly what had occurred. I think it was a
relief to the poor man to find someone who could answer his questions co-
herently, having previously55 had to deal with Sanders and Emily Trollope,
who, I gather, was completely demoralized — she would be, the silly
creature! I remember my dear mother teaching me that a gentlewoman
should always be able to control herself in public, however much she may
give way in private.”
“An admirable maxim,” said Sir Henry gravely.
“When I had finished the Inspector said:
“‘Thank you, Madam. Now I’m afraid I must ask you just to look at the
body once more. Is that exactly the position in which it was lying when
you entered the room? It hasn’t been moved in any way?’
“I explained that I had prevented Mr. Sanders from doing so, and the In-
spector nodded approval.
“‘The gentleman seems terribly upset,’ he remarked.
“‘He seems so—yes,’ I replied.
“I don’t think I put any special emphasis on the ‘seems,’ but the In-
spector looked at me rather keenly.
“‘So we can take it that the body is exactly as it was when found?’ he
said.
“‘Except for the hat, yes,’ I replied.
“The Inspector looked up sharply.
“‘What do you mean—the hat?’
“I explained that the hat had been on poor Gladys’s head, whereas now
it was lying beside her. I thought, of course, that the police had done this.
The Inspector, however, denied it emphatically. Nothing had, as yet, been
puzzled frown. Gladys was dressed in her outdoor clothes—a big dark-red
tweed coat with a grey fur collar. The hat, a cheap affair of red felt, lay just
by her head.
“The Inspector stood for some minutes in silence, frowning to himself.
Then an idea struck him.
“‘Can you, by any chance, remember, Madam, whether there were ear-
“Now fortunately I am in the habit of observing closely. I remembered
that there had been a glint of pearls just below the hat brim, though I had
paid no particular notice to it at the time. I was able to answer his first
question in the affirmative.
“‘Then that settles it. The lady’s jewel case was rifled—not that she had
anything much of value, I understand—and the rings were taken from her
fingers. The murderer must have forgotten the earrings, and come back
for them after the murder was discovered. A cool customer! Or perhaps—’
here in this room—all the time.’
“But I negatived that idea. I myself, I explained, had looked under the
bed. And the manager had opened the doors of the wardrobe. There was
nowhere else where a man could hide. It is true the hat cupboard was
locked in the middle of the wardrobe, but as that was only a shallow affair
with shelves, no one could have been concealed there.
“The Inspector nodded his head slowly whilst I explained all this.
“‘I’ll take your word for it, Madam,’ he said. ‘In that case, as I said be-
fore, he must have come back. A very cool customer.’
“‘But the manager locked the door and took the key!’
“‘That’s nothing. The balcony and the fire escape—that’s the way the
thief came. Why, as likely as not, you actually disturbed him at work. He
slips out of the window, and when you’ve all gone, back he comes and
goes on with his business.’
“‘You are sure,’ I said, ‘that there was a thief?’
“He said drily:
“‘Well, it looks like it, doesn’t it?’
“But something in his tone satisfied me. I felt that he wouldn’t take Mr.
believe our neighbours, the French, call the idée fixe. I knew that that man,
Sanders, intended his wife to die. What I didn’t allow for was that strange
and fantastic thing, coincidence. My views about Mr. Sanders were—I was
sure of it—absolutely right and true. The man was a scoundrel. But al-
though his hypocritical assumptions of grief didn’t deceive me for a
minute, I do remember feeling at the time that his surprise and bewilder-
ment were marvellously well done. They seemed absolutely natural—if
you know what I mean. I must admit that after my conversation with the
Inspector, a curious feeling of doubt crept over me. Because if Sanders
had done this dreadful thing, I couldn’t imagine any conceivable reason
why he should creep back by means of the fire escape and take the ear-
rings from his wife’s ears. It wouldn’t have been a sensible thing to do, and
Sanders was such a very sensible man—that’s just why I always felt he
was so dangerous.”
Miss Marple looked round at her audience.
“You see, perhaps, what I am coming to? It is, so often, the unexpected
that happens in this world. I was so sure, and that, I think, was what
blinded me. The result came as a shock to me. For it was proved, beyond
any possible doubt, that Mr. Sanders could not possibly have committed the
crime. . ..”
A surprised gasp came from Mrs. Bantry. Miss Marple turned to her.
“I know, my dear, that isn’t what you expected when I began this story.
It wasn’t what I expected either. But facts are facts, and if one is proved to
Sanders was a murderer at heart I knew—and nothing ever occurred to
upset that firm conviction of mine.
“And now, I expect, you would like to hear the actual facts themselves.
Mrs. Sanders, as you know, spent the afternoon playing bridge with some
friends, the Mortimers. She left them at about a quarter past six. From her
friends’ house to the Hydro was about a quarter of an hour’s walk—less if
one hurried. She must have come in then about six thirty. No one saw her
come in, so she must have entered by the side door and hurried straight
the bridge party were hanging up in the cupboard) and was evidently pre-
paring to go out again, when the blow fell. Quite possibly, they say, she
never even knew who struck her. The sandbag, I understand, is a very effi-
cient weapon. That looks as though the attackers were concealed in the
room, possibly in one of the big wardrobe cupboards—the one she didn’t
open.
“Now as to the movements of Mr. Sanders. He went out, as I have said,
at about five thirty—or a little after. He did some shopping at a couple of
shops and at about six o’clock he entered the Grand Spa Hotel where he
encountered two friends—the same with whom he returned to the Hydro
were actually with him the whole time from six o’clock onwards. They
walked back to the Hydro with him and he only left them to come across
to me and Miss Trollope. That, as I told you, was about a quarter to seven
—at which time his wife must have been already dead.
“I must tell you that I talked myself to these two friends of his. I did not
like them. They were neither pleasant nor gentlemanly men, but I was
quite certain of one thing, that they were speaking the absolute truth
when they said that Sanders had been the whole time in their company.
“There was just one other little point that came up. It seems that while
bridge was going on Mrs. Sanders was called to the telephone. A Mr. Little-
worth wanted to speak to her. She seemed both excited and pleased about
something — and incidentally made one or two bad mistakes. She left
rather earlier than they had expected her to do.
“Mr. Sanders was asked whether he knew the name of Little-worth as
being one of his wife’s friends, but he declared he had never heard of any-
one of that name. And to me that seems borne out by his wife’s attitude—
she too, did not seem to know the name of Littleworth. Nevertheless she
came back from the telephone smiling and blushing, so it looks as though
whoever it was did not give his real name, and that in itself has a suspi-
cious aspect, does it not?
“Anyway, that is the problem that was left. The burglar story, which
seems unlikely—or the alternative theory that Mrs. Sanders was prepar-
ing to go out and meet somebody. Did that somebody come to her room by
means of the fire escape? Was there a quarrel? Or did he treacherously68 at-
Miss Marple stopped.
“Well?” said Sir Henry. “What is the answer?”
“I wondered if any of you could guess.”
“I’m never good at guessing,” said Mrs. Bantry. “It seems a pity that
been all right.”
Jane Helier moved her beautiful head and asked a question.
“Why,” she said, “was the hat cupboard locked?”
“How very clever of you, my dear,” said Miss Marple, beaming. “That’s
just what I wondered myself. Though the explanation was quite simple. In
that the poor girl was embroidering72 for her husband for Christmas. That’s
why she locked the cupboard. The key was found in her handbag.”
“Oh!” said Jane. “Then it isn’t very interesting after all.”
“Oh! but it is,” said Miss Marple. “It’s just the one really interesting thing
—the thing that made all the murderer’s plans go wrong.”
Everyone stared at the old lady.
“I didn’t see it myself for two days,” said Miss Marple. “I puzzled and
puzzled—and then suddenly there it was, all clear. I went to the Inspector
and asked him to try something and he did.”
“What did you ask him to try?”
“I asked him to fit that hat on the poor girl’s head — and of course he
couldn’t. It wouldn’t go on. It wasn’t her hat, you see.”
Mrs. Bantry stared.
“But it was on her head to begin with?”
“Not on herh ead—”
Miss Marple stopped a moment to let her words sink in, and then went
on.
“We took it for granted that it was poor Gladys’s body there; but we
never looked at the face. She was face downwards, remember, and the hat
hid everything.”
“But she was killed?”
“Yes, later. At the moment that we were telephoning to the police,
Gladys Sanders was alive and well.”
“You mean it was someone pretending to be her? But surely when you
touched her—”
“It was a dead body, right enough,” said Miss Marple gravely.
“But, dash it all,” said Colonel Bantry, “you can’t get hold of dead bodies
“He put it back,” said Miss Marple. “It was a wicked idea—but a very
clever one. It was our talk in the drawing room that put it into his head.
The body of poor Mary, the housemaid—why not use it? Remember, the
Sanders’ room was up amongst the servants’ quarters. Mary’s room was
two doors off. The undertakers wouldn’t come till after dark—he counted
on that. He carried the body along the balcony (it was dark at five),
dressed it in one of his wife’s dresses and her big red coat. And then he
found the hat cupboard locked! There was only one thing to be done, he
fetched one of the poor girl’s own hats. No one would notice. He put the
sandbag down beside her. Then he went off to establish his alibi.
“He telephoned to his wife — calling himself Mr. Littleworth. I don’t
know what he said to her—she was a credulous girl, as I said just now. But
he got her to leave the bridge party early and not to go back to the Hydro,
and arranged with her to meet him in the grounds of the Hydro near the
fire escape at seven o’clock. He probably told her he had some surprise for
her.
“He returns to the Hydro with his friends and arranges that Miss
Trollope and I shall discover the crime with him. He even pretends to turn
the body over—and I stop him! Then the police are sent for, and he stag-
gers out into the grounds.
“Nobody asked him for an alibi after the crime. He meets his wife, takes
her up the fire escape, they enter their room. Perhaps he has already told
her some story about the body. She stoops over it, and he picks up his
sandbag and strikes. . . Oh, dear! It makes me sick to think of, even now!
Then quickly he strips off her coat and skirt, hangs them up, and dresses
her in the clothes from the other body.
“But the hat won’t go on. Mary’s head is shingled—Gladys Sanders, as I
say, had a great bun of hair. He is forced to leave it beside the body and
hope no one will notice. Then he carries poor Mary’s body back to her
own room and arranges it decorously once more.”
“It seems incredible,” said Dr. Lloyd. “The risks he took. The police
might have arrived too soon.”
“You remember the line was out of order,” said Miss Marple. “That was
a piece of his work. He couldn’t afford to have the police on the spot too
soon. When they did come, they spent some time in the manager’s office
before going up to the bedroom. That was the weakest point—the chance
that someone might notice the difference between a body that had been
dead two hours and one that had been dead just over half an hour; but he
counted on the fact that the people who first discovered the crime would
have no expert knowledge.”
Dr. Lloyd nodded.
“The crime would be supposed to have been committed about a quarter
to seven or thereabouts, I suppose,” he said. “It was actually committed at
seven or a few minutes after. When the police surgeon examined the body
it would be about half past seven at the earliest. He couldn’t possibly tell.”
“I am the person who should have known,” said Miss Marple. “I felt the
poor girl’s hand and it was icy cold. Yet a short time later the Inspector
rived—and I saw nothing!”
“I think you saw a good deal, Miss Marple,” said Sir Henry. “The case
was before my time. I don’t even remember hearing of it. What
happened?”
“Sanders was hanged,” said Miss Marple crisply. “And a good job too. I
have never regretted my part in bringing that man to justice. I’ve no pa-
“But I have often reproached myself bitterly with failing to save the life
of that poor girl. But who would have listened to an old woman jumping
to conclusions? Well, well—who knows? Perhaps it was better for her to
die while life was still happy than it would have been for her to live on,
unhappy and disillusioned77, in a world that would have seemed suddenly
horrible. She loved that scoundrel and trusted him. She never found him
out.”
“Well, then,” said Jane Helier, “she was all right. Quite all right. I wish
—” she stopped.
Miss Marple looked at the famous, the beautiful, the successful Jane
Helier and nodded her head gently.
“I see, my dear,” she said very gently. “I see.”
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