夜雨聆风Conway Jefferson said bitterly:
“I’m an invalid. I disguise the fact—refuse to face it—but now it comeshome to me. I can’t go about as I’d like to, asking questions, looking intothings. I’ve got to stay here meekly grateful for such scraps of informationas the police are kind enough to dole out to me. Do you happen to knowMelchett, by the way, the Chief Constable of Radfordshire?”
“Yes, I’ve met him.”
Something stirred in Sir Henry’s brain. A face and figure noted unsee-ingly as he passed through the lounge. A straight-backed old lady whoseface was familiar. It linked up with the last time he had seen Melchett.
He said:
“Do you mean you want me to be a kind of amateur sleuth? That’s notmy line.”
Jefferson said:
“You’re not an amateur, that’s just it.”
“I’m not a professional anymore. I’m on the retired list now.”
Jefferson said: “That simplifies matters.”
“You mean that if I were still at Scotland Yard I couldn’t butt in? That’sperfectly true.”
“As it is,” said Jefferson, “your experience qualifies you to take an in-terest in the case, and any cooperation you offer will be welcomed.”
Clithering said slowly:
“Etiquette permits, I agree. But what do you really want, Conway? Tofind out who killed this girl?”
“Just that.”
“You’ve no idea yourself?”
“None whatever.”
Sir Henry said slowly:
“You probably won’t believe me, but you’ve got an expert at solvingmysteries sitting downstairs in the lounge at this minute. Someone who’sbetter than I am at it, and who in all probability may have some localdope.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Downstairs in the lounge, by the third pillar from the left, there sits anold lady with a sweet, placid spinsterish face, and a mind that hasplumbed the depths of human iniquity and taken it as all in the day’swork. Her name’s Miss Marple. She comes from the village of St. MaryMead, which is a mile and a half from Gossington, she’s a friend of theBantrys—and where crime is concerned she’s the goods, Conway.”
