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might legally adopt our name. This, I may say, seemed a little curious to us, but we felt that it was kindly meant—and intended to make you more one of the family—we did not, however, adopt that suggestion. About a year later your father died in a nursing home. I surmise that he had already received bad news about his health at the time when he sent you out to us.
    I’m afraid I cannot tell you where you lived whilst with your father in England. His letter naturally had the address on it at the time but that is now eighteen years ago and I’m afraid one doesn’t remember such details. It was in the South of England, I know—and I fancy Dillmouth is correct. I had a vague idea it was Dartmouth, but the two names are not unlike. I believe your stepmother married again, but I have no recollection of her name, nor even of her unmarried name, though your father had mentioned it in the original letter telling of his remarriage. We were, I think, a little resentful of his marrying again so soon, but of course one knows that on board ship the influence of propinquity is very great—and he may also have thought that it would be a good thing on your account.
    It seemed stupid of me not to have mentioned to you that you had been in England even if you didn’t remember the fact, but, as I say, the whole thing had faded from my mind. Your mother’s death in India and your subsequently coming to live with us always seemed the important points.
    I hope this is all cleared up now?
    I do trust Giles will soon be able to join you. It is hard for you both being parted at this early stage.
    All my news in my next letter, as I am sending this off hurriedly in answer to your wire.
    Your loving aunt,
    Alison Danby.
    PS. You do not say what your worrying experience was?
    â€œYou see,” said Gwenda. “It’s almost exactly as you suggested.”
    Miss Marple smoothed out the flimsy sheet.
    â€œYes—yes, indeed. The commonsense explanation. I’ve found, you know, that that is so often right.”
    â€œWell, I’m very grateful to you, Miss Marple,” said Giles. “Poor Gwenda was thoroughly upset, and I must say I’d have been rather worried myself to think that Gwenda was clairvoyant or psychic or something.”
    â€œIt might be a disturbing quality in a wife,” said Gwenda. “Unless you’ve always led a thoroughly blameless life.”
    â€œWhich I have,” said Giles.
    â€œAnd the house? What do you feel about the house?” asked Miss Marple.
    â€œOh, that’s all right. We’re going down tomorrow. Giles is dying to see it.”
    â€œI don’t know whether you realize it, Miss Marple,” said Giles, “but what it amounts to is, that we’ve got a first-class murder mystery on our hands. Actually on our very doorstep—or more accurately in our front hall.”
    â€œI had thought of that, yes,” said Miss Marple slowly.
    â€œAnd Giles simply loves detective stories,” said Gwenda.
    â€œWell, I mean, it is a detective story. Body in the hall of a beautiful strangled woman. Nothing known of her but her Christian name. Of course I know it’s nearly twenty years ago. There can’t be any clues after all this time, but one can at least cast about, and try to pick up some of the threads. Oh! I dare say one won’t succeed in solving the riddle—”
    â€œI think you might,” said Miss Marple. “Even after eighteen years. Yes, I think you might.”
    â€œBut at any rate it won’t do any harm to have a real good try?”
    Giles paused, his face beaming.
    Miss Marple moved uneasily, her face was grave—almost troubled.
    â€œBut it might do a great deal of harm,” she said. “I would advise you both—oh yes, I really would advise it very strongly—to leave the whole thing alone.”
    â€œLeave it alone? Our very own murder mystery—if it was