Miss Marple 3-Book Collection 1: The Murder at the Vicarage, The Body in the Library, The Moving Finger

‘Dangerous?’

‘Most dangerous. Innocent girls – know no better – taken in by a fellow like that – always hanging round women…No good.’

From which I deduced that the only young man in the village had not passed unnoticed by the fair Gladys.

‘Goodness,’ ejaculated Dr Stone. ‘The train!’

We were close to the station by this time and we broke into a fast sprint. A down train was standing in the station and the up London train was just coming in.

At the door of the booking office we collided with a rather exquisite young man, and I recognized Miss Marple’s nephew just arriving. He is, I think, a young man who does not like to be collided with. He prides himself on his poise and general air of detachment, and there is no doubt that vulgar contact is detrimental to poise of any kind. He staggered back. I apologized hastily and we passed in. Dr Stone climbed on the train and I handed up his baggage just as the train gave an unwilling jerk and started.

I waved to him and then turned away. Raymond West had departed, but our local chemist, who rejoices in the name of Cherubim, was just setting out for the village. I walked beside him.

‘Close shave that,’ he observed. ‘Well, how did the inquest go, Mr Clement?’

I gave him the verdict.

‘Oh! So that’s what happened. I rather thought that would be the verdict. Where’s Dr Stone off to?’

I repeated what he had told me.

‘Lucky not to miss the train. Not that you ever know on this line. I tell you, Mr Clement, it’s a crying shame. Disgraceful, that’s what I call it. Train I came down by was ten minutes late. And that on a Saturday with no traffic to speak of. And on Wednesday – no, Thursday – yes, Thursday it was – I remember it was the day of the murder because I meant to write a strongly-worded complaint to the company – and the murder put it out of my head – yes, last Thursday. I had been to a meeting of the Pharmaceutical Society. How late do you think the 6.50 was? Half an hour. Half an hour exactly! What do you think of that? Ten minutes I don’t mind. But if the train doesn’t get in till twenty past seven, well, you can’t get home before half-past. What I say is, why call it the 6.50?’