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all,’ said Joyce. ‘You have got to hear the sequel. I read it in the paper two days later under the heading of “Sea Bathing Fatality”. It told how Mrs Dacre, the wife of Captain Denis Dacre, was unfortunately drowned at Landeer Cove, just a little farther along the coast. She and her husband were staying at the time at the hotel there, and had declared their intention of bathing, but a cold wind sprang up. Captain Dacre had declared it was too cold, so he and some other people in the hotel had gone off to the golf links near by. Mrs Dacre, however, had said it was not too cold for her and she went off alone down to the cove. As she didn’t return her husband became alarmed, and in company with his friends went down to the beach. They found her clothes lying beside a rock, but no trace of the unfortunate lady. Her body was not found until nearly a week later when it was washed ashore at a point some distance down the coast. There was a bad blow on her head which had occurred before death, and the theory was that she must have dived into the sea and hit her head on a rock. As far as I could make out her death would have occurred just twenty-four hours after the time I saw the bloodstains.’
    ‘I protest,’ said Sir Henry. ‘This is not a problem—this is a ghost story. Miss Lemprière is evidently a medium.’
    Mr Petherick gave his usual cough.
    ‘One point strikes me—’ he said, ‘that blow on the head. We must not, I think, exclude the possibility of foul play. But I do not see that we have any data to go upon. Miss Lemprière’s hallucination, or vision, is interesting certainly, but I do not see clearly the point on which she wishes us to pronounce.’
    ‘Indigestion and coincidence,’ said Raymond, ‘and anyway you can’t be sure that they were the same people. Besides, the curse, or whatever it was, would only apply to the actual inhabitants of Rathole.’
    ‘I feel,’ said Sir Henry, ‘that the sinister seafaring man has something to do with this tale. But I agree with Mr Petherick, Miss Lemprière has given us very little data.’
    Joyce turned to Dr Pender who smilingly shook his head.
    ‘It is a most interesting story,’ he said, ‘but I am afraid I agree with Sir Henry and Mr Petherick that there is very little data to go upon.’
    Joyce then looked curiously at Miss Marple, who smiled back at her.
    ‘I, too, think you are just a little unfair, Joyce dear,’ she said. ‘Of course, it is different for me. I mean, we,being women, appreciate the point about clothes. I don’t think it is a fair problem to put to a man. It must have meant a lot of rapid changing. What a wicked woman! And a still more wicked man.’
    Joyce stared at her.
    ‘Aunt Jane,’ she said. ‘Miss Marple, I mean, I believe—I do really believe you know the truth.’
    ‘Well, dear,’ said Miss Marple, ‘it is much easier for me sitting here quietly than it was for you—and being an artist you are so susceptible to atmosphere, aren’t you? Sitting here with one’s knitting, one just sees the facts. Bloodstains dropped on the pavement from the bathing dress hanging above, and being a red bathing dress, of course, the criminals themselves did not realize it was bloodstained. Poor thing, poor young thing!’
    ‘Excuse me, Miss Marple,’ said Sir Henry, ‘but you do know that I am entirely in the dark still. You and Miss Lemprière seem to know what you are talking about, but we men are still in utter darkness.’
    ‘I will tell you the end of the story now,’ said Joyce. ‘It was a year later. I was at a little east coast seaside resort, and I was sketching, when suddenly I had that queer feeling one has of something having happened before. There were two people, a man and a woman, on the pavement in front of me, and they were greeting a third person, a woman dressed in a scarlet poinsettia chintzdress. “Carol, by all that is wonderful! Fancy meeting you after all these years. You don’t know my wife?