each of them as she finished it, folded
it and laid it aside, showed the same headline.
It was no longer a question now of a small
paragraph hidden away in the corner of the
papers. There were headlines with flaring
announcements of Triple Tragedy at Yewtree
Lodge.
The old lady sat very upright, looking out
of the window of the train, her lips pursed
together, an expression of distress and disapproval
on her pink and white wrinkled
face. Miss Marple had left St. Mary Mead by
the early train, changing at the junction and
going on to London where she took a Circle
train to another London terminus and thence
on to Baydon Heath.
At the station she signalled a taxi and asked
to be taken to Yewtree Lodge. So charming, so
innocent, such a fluffy and pink and white
old lady was Miss Marple that she gained
admittance to what was now practically a
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fortress in a state of siege far more easily than
could have been believed possible. Though
an army of reporters and photographers were
being kept at bay by the police. Miss Marple
was allowed to drive in without question, so
impossible would it have been to believe that
she was anyone but an elderly relative of the
family.
Miss Marple paid off the taxi in a careful
assortment of small change, and rang the
front-door bell. Crump opened it and Miss
Marple summed him up with an experienced
glance. “A shifty eye,” she said to herself.
“Scared to death, too.”
Crump saw a tall, elderly lady wearing an
old-fashioned tweed coat and skirt, a couple
of scarves and a small felt hat with a bird’s
wing. The old lady carried a capacious handbag
and an aged but good quality suitcase
reposed by her feet. Crump recognised a lady
when he saw one and said:
“Yes, madam?” in his best and most
respectful voice.
“Could I see the mistress of the house,
please?” said Miss Marple.
Crump drew back to let her in. He picked
up the suitcase and put it carefully down in
the hall.
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“Well, madam,” he said rather dubiously,
“I don’t know who exactly——”
Miss Marple helped him out.
“I have come,” she said, “to speak about
the poor girl who was killed. Gladys
Martin.”
“Oh, I see, madam. Well in that case——”
he broke off, and looked towards the library
door from which a tall young woman had just
emerged. “This is Mrs. Lance Fortescue,
madam,” he said.
Pat came forward and she and Miss Marple
looked at each other. Miss Marple was aware
of a faint feeling of surprise. She had not
expected to see someone like Patricia Fortescue
in this particular house. Its interior was
much as she had pictured it, but Pat did not
somehow match with that interior.
“It’s about Gladys, madam,” said Crump
helpfully.
Pat said rather hesitatingly:
“Will you come in here? We shall be quite
alone.”
She led the way into the library and Miss
Marple followed her.
“There wasn’t anyone specially you wanted
to see, was there?” said Pat, “because
perhaps I shan’t be much good. You see my
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husband and I only came back from Africa a
few days ago. We don’t really know anything
much about the household. But I can fetch
my sister-in-law or my brother-in-law’s wife.”
Miss Marple looked at the girl and liked
her. She liked her gravity and her simplicity.
For some strange reason she felt sorry for her.
A background of shabby chintz and horses
and dogs. Miss Marple felt vaguely, would
have been much more suitable than this
richly furnished interior decor. At the pony
show and gymkhanas held locally round St.
Mary Mead, Miss Marple had met many Pats
and knew them well. She felt at home with
this rather unhappy looking girl.
“It’s very simple, really,” said Miss
Marple, taking off her gloves carefully and
smoothing out the fingers of them. “I read in
the paper, you see, about Gladys Martin having
been killed. And of course I know all
about her. She comes from my part of the
country. I trained her, in fact, for domestic
service. And since this terrible thing has