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vista of romance. A younger, prettier Mrs Spenlow, seen against a background of flowers.
    Mr Spenlow, however, really knew nothing about flowers. He had no idea of seeds, of cuttings, of bedding out, of annuals or perennials. He had only a vision – a vision of a small cottage garden thickly planted with sweet-smelling, brightly coloured blossoms. He had asked, almost pathetically, for instruction, and had noted down Miss Marple’s replies to questions in a little book.
    He was a man of quiet method. It was, perhaps, because of this trait, that the police were interested in him when his wife was found murdered. With patience and perseverance they learned a good deal about the late Mrs Spenlow – and soon all St Mary Mead knew it, too.
    The late Mrs Spenlow had begun life as a between-maid in a large house. She had left that position to marry the second gardener, and with him had started a flower shop in London. The shop had prospered. Not so the gardener, who before long had sickened and died.
    His widow carried on the shop and enlarged it in an ambitious way. She had continued to prosper. Then she had sold the business at a handsome price and embarked upon matrimony for the second time – with Mr Spenlow, a middle-aged jeweller who had inherited a small and struggling business. Not long afterwards, they had sold the business and came down to St Mary Mead.
    Mrs Spenlow was a well-to-do woman. The profits from her florist’s establishment she had invested – ‘under spirit guidance’, as she explained to all and sundry. The spirits had advised her with unexpected acumen.
    All her investments had prospered, some in quite a sensational fashion. Instead, however, of this increasing her belief in spiritualism, Mrs Spenlow basely deserted mediums and sittings, and made a brief but wholehearted plunge into an obscure religion with Indian affinities which was based on various forms of deep breathing. When, however, she arrived at St Mary Mead, she had relapsed into a period of orthodox Church-of-England beliefs. She was a good deal at the vicarage, and attended church services with assiduity. She patronized the village shops, took an interest in the local happenings, and played village bridge.
    A humdrum, everyday life. And – suddenly – murder.
    Colonel Melchett, the chief constable, had summoned Inspector Slack.
    Slack was a positive type of man. When he had made up his mind, he was sure. He was quite sure now. ‘Husband did it, sir,’ he said.
    â€˜You think so?’
    â€˜Quite sure of it. You’ve only got to look at him. Guilty as hell. Never showed a sign of grief or emotion. He came back to the house knowing she was dead.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t he at least have tried to act the part of the distracted husband?’
    â€˜Not him, sir. Too pleased with himself. Some gentlemen can’t act. Too stiff.’
    â€˜Any other woman in his life?’
    Colonel Melchett asked. ‘Haven’t been able to find any trace of one. Of course, he’s the artful kind. He’d cover his tracks. As I see it, he was just fed up with his wife. She’d got the money, and I should say was a trying woman to live with – always taking up with some “ism” or other. He cold-bloodedly decided to do away with her and live comfortably on his own.’
    â€˜Yes, that could be the case, I suppose.’
    â€˜Depend upon it, that was it. Made his plans careful. Pretended to get a phone call –’
    Melchett interrupted him. ‘No call been traced?’
    â€˜No, sir. That means either that he lied, or that the call was put through from a public telephone booth. The only two public phones in the village are at the station and the post office. Post office it certainly wasn’t. Mrs Blade sees everyone who comes in. Station it might be. Train arrives at two twenty-seven and there’s a bit of a bustle then. But the main thing is he says it was