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would then go on, ‘Frankly, I suspected something at once! He was far too calm. He didn’t seem surprised in the least. And you may say what you like, it isn’t natural for a man to hear that his wife is dead and display no emotion whatever.’
    Everybody agreed with this statement.
    The police agreed with it, too. So suspicious did they consider Mr Spenlow’s detachment, that they lost no time in ascertaining how that gentleman was situated as a result of his wife’s death. When they discovered that Mrs Spenlow had been the monied partner, and that her money went to her husband under a will made soon after their marriage, they were more suspicious than ever.
    Miss Marple, that sweet-faced – and, some said, vinegar-tongued – elderly spinster who lived in the house next to the rectory, was interviewed very early – within half an hour of the discovery of the crime. She was approached by Police Constable Palk, importantly thumbing a notebook. ‘If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ve a few questions to ask you.’
    Miss Marple said, ‘In connection with the murder of Mrs Spenlow?’
    Palk was startled. ‘May I ask, madam, how you got to know of it?’
    â€˜The fish,’ said Miss Marple.
    The reply was perfectly intelligible to Constable Palk. He assumed correctly that the fishmonger’s boy had brought it, together with Miss Marple’s evening meal.
    Miss Marple continued gently. ‘Lying on the floor in the sitting-room, strangled – possibly by a very narrow belt. But whatever it was, it was taken away.’
    Palk’s face was wrathful. ‘How that young Fred gets to know everything –’
    Miss Marple cut him short adroitly. She said, ‘There’s a pin in your tunic.’
    Constable Palk looked down, startled. He said, ‘They do say, “See a pin and pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck.”’
    â€˜I hope that will come true. Now what is it you want me to tell you?’
    Constable Palk cleared his throat, looked important, and consulted his notebook. ‘Statement was made to me by Mr Arthur Spenlow, husband of the deceased. Mr Spenlow says that at two-thirty, as far as he can say, he was rung up by Miss Marple, and asked if he would come over at a quarter past three as she was anxious to consult him about something. Now, ma’am, is that true?’
    â€˜Certainly not,’ said Miss Marple.
    â€˜You did not ring up Mr Spenlow at two-thirty?’
    â€˜Neither at two-thirty nor any other time.’
    â€˜Ah,’ said Constable Palk, and sucked his moustache with a good deal of satisfaction.
    â€˜What else did Mr Spenlow say?’
    â€˜Mr Spenlow’s statement was that he came over here as requested, leaving his own house at ten minutes past three; that on arrival here he was informed by the maid-servant that Miss Marple was “not at ’ome”.’
    â€˜That part of it is true,’ said Miss Marple. ‘He did come here, but I was at a meeting at the Women’s Institute.’
    â€˜Ah,’ said Constable Palk again.
    Miss Marple exclaimed, ‘Do tell me, Constable, do you suspect Mr Spenlow?’
    â€˜It’s not for me to say at this stage, but it looks to me as though somebody, naming no names, has been trying to be artful.’
    Miss Marple said thoughtfully, ‘Mr Spenlow?’
    She liked Mr Spenlow. He was a small, spare man, stiff and conventional in speech, the acme of respectability. It seemed odd that he should have come to live in the country, he had so clearly lived in towns all his life. To Miss Marple he confided the reason. He said, ‘I have always intended, ever since I was a small boy, to live in the country some day and have a garden of my own. I have always been very much attached to flowers. My wife, you know, kept a flower shop. That’s where I saw her first.’
    A dry statement, but it opened up a