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murder!”
    â€œIt was murder, I think. And that’s just why I should leave it alone. Murder isn’t—it really isn’t—a thing to tamper with lightheartedly.”
    Giles said: “But, Miss Marple, if everybody felt like that—”
    She interrupted him.
    â€œOh, I know. There are times when it is one’s duty —an innocent person accused—suspicion resting on various other people—a dangerous criminal at large who may strike again. But you must realize that this murder is very much in the past. Presumably it wasn’t known for murder—if so, you would have heard fast enough from your old gardener or someone down there—a murder, however longago, is always news. No, the body must have been disposed of somehow, and the whole thing never suspected. Are you sure—are you really sure, that you are wise to dig it all up again?”
    â€œMiss Marple,” cried Gwenda, “you sound really concerned?”
    â€œI am, my dear. You are two very nice and charming young people (if you will allow me to say so). You are newly married and happy together. Don’t, I beg of you, start to uncover things that may—well, that may—how shall I put it?—that may upset and distress you.”
    Gwenda stared at her. “You’re thinking of something special—of something—what is it you’re hinting at?”
    â€œNot hinting, dear. Just advising you (because I’ve lived a long time and know how very upsetting human nature can be) to let well alone. That’s my advice: let well alone. ”
    â€œBut it isn’t letting well alone.” Giles’s voice held a different note, a sterner note. “Hillside is our house, Gwenda’s and mine, and someone was murdered in that house, or so we believe. I’m not going to stand for murder in my house and do nothing about it, even if it is eighteen years ago!”
    Miss Marple sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I imagine that most young men of spirit would feel like that. I even sympathize and almost admire you for it. But I wish—oh, I do wish—that you wouldn’t do it.”
    II
    On the following day, news went round the village of St. Mary Mead that Miss Marple was at home again. She was seen in the High Street at eleven o’clock. She called at the Vicarage at ten minutesto twelve. That afternoon three of the gossipy ladies of the village called upon her and obtained her impressions of the gay Metropolis and, this tribute to politeness over, themselves plunged into details of an approaching battle over the fancywork stall at the Fête and the position of the tea tent.
    Later that evening Miss Marple could be seen as usual in her garden, but for once her activities were more concentrated on the depredations of weeds than on the activities of her neighbours. She was distraite at her frugal evening meal, and hardly appeared to listen to her little maid Evelyn’s spirited account of the goings-on of the local chemist. The next day she was still distraite, and one or two people, including the Vicar’s wife, remarked upon it. That evening Miss Marple said that she did not feel very well and took to her bed. The following morning she sent for Dr. Haydock.
    Dr. Haydock had been Miss Marple’s physician, friend and ally for many years. He listened to her account of her symptoms, gave her an examination, then sat back in his chair and waggled his stethoscope at her.
    â€œFor a woman of your age,” he said, “and in spite of that misleading frail appearance, you’re in remarkably good fettle.”
    â€œI’m sure my general health is sound,” said Miss Marple. “But I confess I do feel a little overtired—a little run-down.”
    â€œYou’ve been gallivanting about. Late nights in London.”
    â€œThat, of course. I do find London a little tiring nowadays. And the air—so used up. Not like fresh