‘The nastiest one, I suppose,’ said Bunch.
‘Yes, dear. And there was Mrs Cray at the wool shop. Devoted to her son, spoilt him, of course. He got in with a very queer lot. Do you remember Joan Croft, Bunch?’
‘N-no, I don’t think so.’
‘I thought you might have seen her when you were with me on a visit. Used to stalk about smoking a cigar or a pipe. We had a Bank hold-up once, and Joan Croft was in the Bank at the time. She knocked the man down and took his revolver away from him. She was congratulated on her courage by the Bench.’
Bunch listened attentively. She seemed to be learning by heart.
‘And—?’ she prompted.
‘That girl at St Jean des Collines that summer. Such a quiet girl—not so much quiet as silent. Everybody liked her, but they never got to know her much better…We heard afterwards that her husband was a forger. It made her feel cut off from people. It made her, in the end, a little queer. Brooding does, you know.’
‘Any Anglo-Indian Colonels in your reminiscences, darling?’
‘Naturally, dear. There was Major Vaughan at The Larches and Colonel Wright at Simla Lodge. Nothing wrong with either of them. But I do remember Mr Hodgson, the Bank Manager, went on a cruise and married a woman young enough to be his daughter. No idea of where she came from—except what she told him of course.’
‘And that wasn’t true?’
‘No, dear, it definitely wasn’t.’
‘Not bad,’ said Bunch, nodding, and ticking people off on her fingers. ‘We’ve had devoted Dora, and handsome Patrick, and Mrs Swettenham and Edmund, and Phillipa Haymes, and Colonel Easterbrook and Mrs Easterbrook—and if you ask me, I should say you’re absolutely right about her. But there wouldn’t be any reason for her murdering Letty Blacklock.’
‘Miss Blacklock, of course, might know something about her that she didn’t want known.’
‘Oh, darling, that old Tanqueray stuff? Surely that’s dead as the hills.’
‘It might not be. You see, Bunch, you are not the kind that minds much about what people think of you.’
‘I see what you mean,’ said Bunch suddenly. ‘If you’d been up against it, and then, rather like a shivering stray cat, you’d found a home and cream and a warm stroking hand and you were called Pretty Pussy and somebody thought the world of you…You’d do a lot to keep that…Well, I must say, you’ve presented me with a very complete gallery of people.’
‘You didn’t get them all right, you know,’ said Miss Marple, mildly.
‘Didn’t I? Where did I slip up? Julia? Julia, pretty Julia is peculiar.’
‘Three and sixpence,’ said the sulky waitress, materialising out of the gloom.
‘And,’ she added, her bosom heaving beneath the bluebirds, ‘I’d like to know, Mrs Harmon, why you call me peculiar. I had an Aunt who joined the Peculiar People, but I’ve always been good Church of England myself, as the late Rev. Hopkinson can tell you.’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Bunch. ‘I was just quoting a song. I didn’t mean you at all. I didn’t know your name was Julia.’
‘Quite a coincidence,’ said the sulky waitress, cheering up. ‘No offence, I’m sure, but hearing my name, as I thought—well, naturally if you think someone’s talking about you, it’s only human nature to listen. Thank you.’
She departed with her tip.
‘Aunt Jane,’ said Bunch, ‘don’t look so upset. What is it?’
‘But surely,’ murmured Miss Marple. ‘That couldn’t be so. There’s no reason—’
‘Aunt Jane!’
Miss Marple sighed and then smiled brightly.
‘It’s nothing, dear,’ she said.
‘Did you think you knew who did the murder?’ asked Bunch. ‘Who was it?’
‘I don’t know at all,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I got an idea for a moment—but it’s gone. I wish I did know. Time’s so short. So terribly short.’
‘What do you mean short?’
‘That old lady up in Scotland may die any moment.’
Bunch said, staring:
‘Then you really do believe in Pip and Emma. You think it was them—and that they’ll try again?’
‘Of course they’ll try again,’ said Miss Marple, almost absentmindedly. ‘If they tried once, they’ll try again. If you’ve made up your mind to murder someone, you don’t stop because the first time it didn’t come off. Especially if you’re fairly sure you’re not suspected.’