(With an additional apology: Miss Marple should have at least one
italic per sentence, but working with asterisks, I was worried I might
clock up a galaxy in the process).

*
“Good afternoon, Miss Marple,” I greeted her. “How are we today?”

She gave me one of those sharp looks that made me feel about five
years old. “As well as can be expected, Dr Sullivan, although I don’t
yet think of myself in the plural.”

“Sorry,” I apologised. I ought to know by now not to do that. “Now,
if you’ll put up with me a little bit longer, I’ll check that really
is the case.”

She said, “Of course, doctor. Do you know what the inspector is doing
about this dreadful business with the Wright girl?”

I set about taking her blood pressure. “I don’t know, to be honest.”

“I heard she was strangled.” She shook her head. “And so like
Colonel Forster’s young niece.”

I finished. “Yes, she was. Who’s Colonel Forster when he’s at home?”

“Was it Forster or Foster?” she mused. “Now I come to think of it,
I’m sure it was Foster. Yes, he had a young niece who disappeared and
everyone always said that she’d run off with an unsuitable young man
-.”

I sighed. “You don’t think it was her fiance as well, do you?”

“Her fiance?” She glanced at me, as if surprised that I had even been
listening. “Oh, no, not him, Dr Sullivan. And that was what they
said, but Mrs Allison told me at the time that her Doris had -.”

I sat down on the chair opposite. “Miss Marple, I could use your
help. Inspector Mackenzie’s got a bee in his bonnet about it being
Jackson, Polly’s fiance and I don’t think that can be right. Have you
got any ideas?”

“Well, you see, that was what I was saying,” she persevered. “Doris
Allison said that the niece hadn’t taken more than the oddest
collection of clothes with her – rather as if some gentleman had
snatched them from the closet in a hurry, not a girl planning on
eloping. I always imagine that one would *think* about what one had
to wear – not, of course, that I ever -.”

“But Polly, Miss Marple!”

She patted my arm. “I hear that Miss Smith is asking questions.”

“Yes, she is,” I said, unable to help sounding rueful. “She won’t
listen to me – thinks I’m a blockish, countrified sort of chap.”

Miss Marple smiled at me. “I do think you should keep an eye on her.
People never like questions. Even if it isn’t murder, everyone has
something to hide.”

“Not me,” I declared.

She cast a glance over me. “No, perhaps not you, Dr Sullivan.”

“Of course, I’ll do my best to keep a look out,” I promised. “She
might think it a cheek, though.”

Miss Marple gave a small, genteel sort of sigh. “Yes, I suppose she
might – but you won’t be put off by that, will you? So like the
schoolmaster’s daughter who would insist on finding why Jenkins the
gardener wouldn’t let any of us children in the orchard. Of course,
there was a hornet’s nest in there. She was smarting for days, but it
didn’t change her in the slightest. She always had to know.”

“Yes,” I said, finding it best to humour old ladies in reminiscent
flow. “But, look, you will put your jolly old mind to the murder,
won’t you? The vicar told me how you found the offering thief and
even Miss Maren at the post office -.”

She nodded, as if taking a commission. “Oh, I shall do any small
thing I can to help. It strikes me that there was something quite
*wicked* about it all.”

I paused in the act of picking up my bag and reaching for my coat.
“Yes,” I said, “there was.”

*

I’d been walking up and down outside the tea shop for about ten
minutes before she turned up. She looked pink and out of breath,
though it wasn’t far from the Bell and Boat to Ye Olde Tea Shoppe (I
said it was an awful sort of place).

“What happened?” I asked.

She took my arm, her eyes bright with anger. “That dimwitted, pudding-
headed police inspector!”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, yes, I suppose he is a bit tactless and old-
fashioned. What did he do?”

Miss Smith led the way in through the door. “He arrested Ben
Jackson.”

*

Priscilla, one of the pair of Gorgon waitresses, brought our order
across and fixed me with a glare that by rights should certainly have
turned me to stone. “Your tea.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” she snapped insincerely and flounced back off
to the counter, where her employer glowered at us even more
thunderously.

Miss Smith poured milk into her tea with energy. “At least, I did get
a chance to speak to poor Ben before your stupid Inspector Mackenzie
turned up and arrested him. He doesn’t seem to know anything useful,
unfortunately.”

“Ben, is it now?” I asked, although I can’t think why. “And he’s not
‘my’ inspector.”

She gave me a frown. “Yes, well, I was about to try a few more
questions, when Inspector Mackenzie and PC Plod turned up and arrested
him for murdering Polly. I don’t believe he did it, but clearly the
police around here are only after an easy answer!”

“Inspector Mackenzie thinks he did it,” I said, to be fair. “He says
it’s always the husband or what-have-you. And I have to say that’s
really not fair to Constable Benton. He can’t help what the inspector
tells him to do.”

“Well, I don’t think either of them is qualified to catch a murderer!”

“Anyway, I have some news,” I said in an attempt to change the
subject. “I went to see Miss Marple -.”

Sarah bit back an amused smile. “Oh, yes. Your little old lady.
What did she have to say?”

“You may mock,” I said loftily, “but Miss Marple has quite a brain.
Anyhow, she says that her maid Martha is friends with Professor
Smith’s maid, Kirsty, whose cousin is walking out with a young man
from the garage in Namechester.”

She took a sip of tea. “Is there a point to this?”

“Well, according to Miss Rumford, who lives nearest to Professor
Smith, it wasn’t only the cousin he came to see.”

She considered this. “So this young man is the other boyfriend that
the Professor was hinting at. Couldn’t you have just said that?”

“I did,” I protested. “Miss Rumford told Miss Marple that when she
was out walking her dog, she saw him with Polly. Martha was quite
indignant about it as well and told Miss Marple she’d no business to
be doing a thing like that when she was engaged to a nice young
sailor.”

Sarah pulled out her notebook. “I don’t suppose you found out
anything useful, like his name?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was just coming to that. It’s James McCrimmon.”