point of view. She had been considering a possible murderer... hat about a prospective victim? Who was a possible victim? No one very likely. Perhaps Mrs Riseley-Porter might qualify - rich - rather disagreeable. The efficient niece might inherit. She and the anarchistic Emlyn Price might combine in the cause of anti-capitalism. Not a very credible idea, but no other feasible murder seemed to offer.
Professor Wanstead? An interesting man, she was sure. Kindly, too. Was he a scientist or was he medical? She was not as yet sure, but she put him down on the side of science. She herself knew nothing of science, but it seemed not at all unlikely.
Mr and Mrs Butler? She wrote them off. Nice Americans. No connections with anyone in the West Indies or anyone she had known. No, she didn't think that the Butlers could be relevant.
Richard Jameson? That was the thin architect. Miss Marple didn't see how architecture could come into it, though it might, she supposed. A priest's hole, perhaps? One of the houses they were going to visit might have a priest's hole which would contain a skeleton. And Mr Jameson, being an architect, would know just where the priest's hole was. He might aid her to discover it, or she might aid him to discover it and then they would find a body. “Oh really,” said Miss Marple, “what nonsense I am talking and thinking.”
Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow? A perfectly ordinary pair. And yet she'd certainly seen one of them before. At least she'd seen Miss Cooke before. Oh well, it would come to her, she supposed.
Colonel and Mrs Walker? Nice people. Retired Army folk. Served abroad mostly. Nice to talk to, but she didn't think there'd be anything for her there.
Miss Bentham and Miss Lumley? The elderly pussies. Unlikely to be criminals, but, being elderly pussies, they might know plenty of gossip, or have some information, or might make some illuminating remark even if it happened to come about in connection with rheumatism, arthritis or patent medicine.
Mr Caspar? Possibly a dangerous character. Very excitable. She would keep him on the list for the present.
Emlyn Price? A student presumably. Students were very violent. Would Mr Rafiel have sent her on the track of a student? Well, it would depend perhaps on what the student had done or wished to do or was going to do. A dedicated anarchist, perhaps.
“Oh dear,” said Miss Marple, suddenly exhausted, “I must go to bed.”
Her feet ached, her back ached and her mental reactions were not, she thought, at their best. She slept at once. Her sleep was enlivened by several dreams.
One where Professor Wanstead's bushy eyebrows fell off because they were not his own eyebrows, but false ones. As she woke again, her first impression was that which so often follows dreams, a belief that the dream in question had solved everything.
“Of course,” she thought, “of course!” His eyebrows were false and that solved the whole thing. He was the criminal.
Sadly, it came to her that nothing was solved. Professor Wanstead's eyebrows coming off was of no help at all.
Unfortunately now, she was no longer sleepy. She sat up in bed with some determination.
She sighed and slipped on her dressing-gown, moved from her bed to an upright chair, took a slightly larger notebook from her suitcase and started work.
“The project I have undertaken,” she wrote, “is connected certainly with crime of some kind. Mr Rafiel has distinctly stated that in his letter. He said I had a flair for justice and that necessarily included a flair for crime. So crime is involved, and it is presumably not espionage or fraud or robbery, because such things have never come my way and I have no connection with such things, or knowledge of them, or special skills. What Mr Rafiel knows of me is only what he knew during the period of time when we were both in St Honoré. We were connected there with a murder. Murders as reported in the press have never claimed my attention. I have never read
Professor Wanstead? An interesting man, she was sure. Kindly, too. Was he a scientist or was he medical? She was not as yet sure, but she put him down on the side of science. She herself knew nothing of science, but it seemed not at all unlikely.
Mr and Mrs Butler? She wrote them off. Nice Americans. No connections with anyone in the West Indies or anyone she had known. No, she didn't think that the Butlers could be relevant.
Richard Jameson? That was the thin architect. Miss Marple didn't see how architecture could come into it, though it might, she supposed. A priest's hole, perhaps? One of the houses they were going to visit might have a priest's hole which would contain a skeleton. And Mr Jameson, being an architect, would know just where the priest's hole was. He might aid her to discover it, or she might aid him to discover it and then they would find a body. “Oh really,” said Miss Marple, “what nonsense I am talking and thinking.”
Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow? A perfectly ordinary pair. And yet she'd certainly seen one of them before. At least she'd seen Miss Cooke before. Oh well, it would come to her, she supposed.
Colonel and Mrs Walker? Nice people. Retired Army folk. Served abroad mostly. Nice to talk to, but she didn't think there'd be anything for her there.
Miss Bentham and Miss Lumley? The elderly pussies. Unlikely to be criminals, but, being elderly pussies, they might know plenty of gossip, or have some information, or might make some illuminating remark even if it happened to come about in connection with rheumatism, arthritis or patent medicine.
Mr Caspar? Possibly a dangerous character. Very excitable. She would keep him on the list for the present.
Emlyn Price? A student presumably. Students were very violent. Would Mr Rafiel have sent her on the track of a student? Well, it would depend perhaps on what the student had done or wished to do or was going to do. A dedicated anarchist, perhaps.
“Oh dear,” said Miss Marple, suddenly exhausted, “I must go to bed.”
Her feet ached, her back ached and her mental reactions were not, she thought, at their best. She slept at once. Her sleep was enlivened by several dreams.
One where Professor Wanstead's bushy eyebrows fell off because they were not his own eyebrows, but false ones. As she woke again, her first impression was that which so often follows dreams, a belief that the dream in question had solved everything.
“Of course,” she thought, “of course!” His eyebrows were false and that solved the whole thing. He was the criminal.
Sadly, it came to her that nothing was solved. Professor Wanstead's eyebrows coming off was of no help at all.
Unfortunately now, she was no longer sleepy. She sat up in bed with some determination.
She sighed and slipped on her dressing-gown, moved from her bed to an upright chair, took a slightly larger notebook from her suitcase and started work.
“The project I have undertaken,” she wrote, “is connected certainly with crime of some kind. Mr Rafiel has distinctly stated that in his letter. He said I had a flair for justice and that necessarily included a flair for crime. So crime is involved, and it is presumably not espionage or fraud or robbery, because such things have never come my way and I have no connection with such things, or knowledge of them, or special skills. What Mr Rafiel knows of me is only what he knew during the period of time when we were both in St Honoré. We were connected there with a murder. Murders as reported in the press have never claimed my attention. I have never read
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