couldn’t agree with her, because it’s the
rhyme that strikes one, isn’t it?”
Inspector Neele said slowly: “I don’t
think—-”
Miss Marple went on quickly:
“I expect you’re about thirty-five or thirtysix,
aren’t you Inspector Neele? I think there
was rather a reaction just then, when you
were a little boy, I mean, against nursery
rhymes. But if one has been brought up on
Mother Goose–I mean it is really highly
significant, isn’t it? What I wondered was,”
Miss Marple paused, then appearing to take
her courage in her hands went on bravely:
‘Of course it is great impertinence I know,
on my part, saying this sort of thing to you.”
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“Please say anything you like. Miss
Marple.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you. I shall.
Though, as I say, I do it with the utmost
diffidence because I know I am very old and
rather muddle headed, and I dare say my idea
is of no value at all. But what I mean to say is
have you gone into the question of blackbirds?”
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14
FOR about ten seconds Inspector Neele
stared at Miss Marple with the utmost
bewilderment. His first idea was that the
old lady had gone off her head.
“Blackbirds?” he repeated.
Miss Marple nodded her head vigorously.
“Yes,” she said, and forthwith recited:
“Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened the birds began to sing.
Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the
king?
The king was in his counting house, counting
out his money,
The queen was in the parlour eating bread
and honey,
The maid was in the garden hanging out the
clothes,
When there came a little dickey bird and
nipped off her nose.))
“Good Lord,” Inspector Neele said.
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“I mean, it does fit,” said Miss Marple. “It was rye in his pocket, wasn’t it? One newspaper
said so. The others just said cereal
which might mean anything. Farmer’s Glory
or Cornflakes–or even maize–but it was rye?”
Inspector Neele nodded.
“There you are,” said Miss Marple, triumphantly. “Rex Fortescue. Rex means King. In his Counting House. And Mrs.
Fortescue the Queen in the parlour, eating
bread and honey. And so, of course, the
murderer had to put that clothes peg on poor
Gladys’s nose.”
Inspector Neele said:
“You mean the whole set up is crazy?”
“Well, one mustn’t jump to conclusions- but it is certainly very odd. But you really
must make inquiries about blackbirds.
Because there must be blackbirds!”
It was at this point that Sergeant Hay came
into the room saying urgently, “Sir.”
He broke off at sight of Miss Marple.
Inspector Neele, recovering himself said:
“Thank you. Miss Marple. I’ll look into
the matter. Since you are interested in the
girl, perhaps you would care to look over the
160
things from her room. Sergeant Hay will
show you them presently.”
Miss Marple, accepting her dismissal,
twittered her way out.
“Blackbirds!” murmured Inspector Neele
to himself.
Sergeant Hay stared.
“Yes, Hay, what is it?”
“Sir,” said Sergeant Hay, urgently, again.
“Look at this.”
He produced an article wrapped in a
somewhat grubby handkerchief.
“Found it in the shrubbery,” said Sergeant
Hay. “Could have been chucked there from
one of the back windows.”
He tipped the object down on the desk in
front of the Inspector who leaned forward
and inspected it with rising excitement. The
exhibit was a nearly full pot of marmalade.
The Inspector stared at it without speech.
His face assumed a peculiarly wooden and
stupid appearance. In actual fact this meant
that Inspector Neele’s mind was racing once
more round an imaginary track. A moving
picture was enacting itself before the eyes of
his mind. He saw a new pot of marmalade, he
saw hands carefully removing its cover, he
saw a small quantity of marmalade removed
161
mixed with a preparation of taxine and
replaced in the pot, the top smoothed over
and the lid carefully replaced. He broke off at
this point to ask Sergeant Hay:
“They don’t take marmalade out of the pot
and put into fancy pots?”
“No, sir. Got into the way of serving it in