4:50 From Paddington (Miss Marple 8)

Craddock said: “We’ll never get anywhere until we identify the body.”

“And that, too, may be difficult?”

“Oh, we’ll get there—in the end. We’re checking up on all the reported disappearances of a woman of that age and appearance. There’s no one outstanding who fits the bill. The M.O. puts her down as about thirty-five, healthy, probably a married woman, has had at least one child. Her fur coat is a cheap one purchased at a London store. Hundreds of such coats were sold in the last three months, about sixty per cent of them to blonde women. No sales girl can recognize the photograph of the dead woman, or is likely to if the purchase were made just before Christmas. Her other clothes seem mainly of foreign manufacture mostly purchased in Paris. There are no English laundry marks. We’ve communicated with Paris and they are checking up there for us. Sooner or later, of course, someone will come forward with a missing relative or lodger. It’s just a matter of time.”

“The compact wasn’t any help?”

“Unfortunately, no. It’s a type sold by the hundred in the Rue de Rivoli, quite cheap. By the way, you ought to have turned that over to the police at once, you know—or rather Miss Eyelesbarrow should have done so.”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“But at that moment there wasn’t any question of a crime having been committed,” she pointed out. “If a young lady, practising golf shots, picks up an old compact of no particular value in the long grass, surely she doesn’t rush straight off to the police with it?” Miss Marple paused, and then added firmly: “I thought it much wiser to find the body first.”

Inspector Craddock was tickled.

“You don’t seem ever to have had any doubts but that it would be found?”

“I was sure it would. Lucy Eyelesbarrow is a most efficient and intelligent person.”

“I’ll say she is! She scares the life out of me, she’s so devastatingly efficient! No man will ever dare marry that girl.”

“Now you know, I wouldn’t say that… It would have to be a special type of man, of course.” Miss Marple brooded on this thought a moment. “How is she getting on at Rutherford Hall?”

“They’re completely dependent on her as far as I can see. Eating out of her hand—literally as you might say. By the way, they know nothing about her connection with you. We’ve kept that dark.”

“She has no connection now with me. She has done what I asked her to do.”

“So she could hand in her notice and go if she wanted to?”

“Yes.”

“But she stops on. Why?”

“She has not mentioned her reasons to me. She is a very intelligent girl. I suspect that she has become interested.”

“In the problem? Or in the family?”

“It may be,” said Miss Marple, “that it is rather difficult to separate the two.”

Craddock looked hard at her.

“Oh, no—oh, dear me, no.”

“Have you got anything particular in mind?”

“I think you have.”

Miss Marple shook her head.

Dermot Craddock sighed. “So all I can do is to ‘prosecute my inquiries’—to put it in jargon. A policeman’s life is a dull one!”

“You’ll get results, I’m sure.”

“Any ideas for me? More inspired guesswork?”

“I was thinking of things like theatrical companies,” said Miss Marple rather vaguely. “Touring from place to place and perhaps not many home ties. One of those young women would be much less likely to be missed.”

“Yes. Perhaps you’ve got something there. We’ll pay special attention to that angle.” He added, “What are you smiling about?”

“I was just thinking,” said Miss Marple, “of Elspeth McGillicuddy’s face when she hears we’ve found the body!”

II

“Well!” said Mrs. McGillicuddy. “Well!”

Words failed her. She looked across at the nicely spoken pleasant young man who had called upon her with official credentials and then down at the photograph that he handed her.

“That’s her all right,” she said. “Yes, that’s her. Poor soul. Well, I must say I’m glad you’ve found her body. Nobody believed a word I said! The police, or the railway people or anyone else. It’s very galling not to be believed. At any rate, nobody could say I didn’t do all I possibly could.”

The nice young man made sympathetic and appreciative noises.

“Where did you say the body was found?”

“In a barn at a house called Rutherford Hall, just outside Brackhampton.”

“Never heard of it. How did it get there, I wonder?”

The young man didn’t reply.

“Jane Marple found it, I suppose. Trust Jane.”

“The body,” said the young man, referring to some notes, “was found by a Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow.”

“Never heard of her either,” said Mrs. McGillicuddy. “I still think Jane Marple had something to do with it.”

“Anyway, Mrs. McGillicuddy, yo

u definitely identify this picture as that of the woman whom you saw in a train?”

“Being strangled by a man. Yes, I do.”

“Now, can you describe this man?”

“He was a tall man,” said Mrs. McGillicuddy.

“Yes?”

“And dark.”

“Yes?”

“That’s all I can tell you,” said Mrs. McGillicuddy. “He had his back to me. I didn’t see his face.”

“Would you be able to recognize him if you saw him?”

“Of course I shouldn’t! He had his back to me. I never saw his face.”

“You’ve no idea at all as to his age?”

Mrs. McGillicuddy considered.

“No—not really. I mean, I don’t know… He wasn’t, I’m almost sure—very young. His shoulders looked—well, set, if you know what I mean.” The young man nodded. “Thirty and upward, I can’t get closer than that. I wasn’t really looking at him, you see. It was her—with those hands round her throat and her face—all blue… You know, sometimes I dream of it even now….”

“It must have been a distressing experience,” said the young man sympathetically.

He closed his notebook and said:

“When are you returning to England?”

“Not for another three weeks. It isn’t necessary, is it, for me?”

He quickly reassured her.

“Oh, no. There’s nothing you could do at present. Of course, if we make an arrest—”

It was left like that.

The mail brought a letter from Miss Marple to her friend. The writing was spiky and spidery and heavily underlined. Long practice made it easy for Mrs. McGillicuddy to decipher. Miss Marple wrote a very full account to her friend who devoured every word with great satisfaction.

She and Jane had shown them all right!

Eleven

I

“I simply can’t make you out,” said Cedric Crackenthorpe.

He eased himself down on the decaying wall of a long derelict pigsty and stared at Lucy Eyelesbarrow.

“What can’t you make out?”

“What you’re doing here?”