“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 sympathise 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 minutes to 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 Fete 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.
“For a woman of your age,” he said, “and in spite of that misleading frail appearance, you’re in remarkably good fettle.” “I’m sure my general health is sound,” said Miss Marple. “But I confess I do feel a little overtired — a little run down.” “You’ve been gallivanting about. Late nights in London.” “That, of course. I do find London a little tiring nowadays. And the air — so used up.
Not like fresh seaside air.” “The air of St. Mary Mead is nice and fresh.” “But often damp and rather muggy.
Not, you know, exactly bracing.” Dr. Haydock eyed her with a dawning of interest.
“I’ll send you round a tonic,” he said obligingly.
“Thank you. Doctor. Easton’s syrup is always very helpful.” “There’s no need for you to do my prescribing for me, woman.” “I wondered if, perhaps, a change of air –?” Miss Marple looked questioningly at him with guileless blue eyes.
“You’ve just been away for three weeks.” “I know. But to London which, as you say, is enervating. And then up North — a manufacturing district. Not like bracing sea air.” Dr. Haydock packed up his bag. Then he turned round, grinning.
“Let’s hear why you sent for me,” he said. “Just tell me what it’s to be and I’ll repeat it after you. You want my professional opinion that what you need is sea air — ” “I knew you’d understand,” said Miss Marple gratefully.
“Excellent thing, sea air. You’d better go to Eastbourne right away, or your health may suffer seriously.” “Eastbourne, I think, is rather cold. The downs, you know.” “Bournemouth, then, or the Isle of Wight.” Miss Marple twinkled at him.
“I always think a small place is much pleasanter.” Dr. Haydock sat down again.
“My curiosity is roused. What small seaside town are you suggesting?” “Well, I had thought of Dillmouth.” “Pretty little place. Rather dull. Why Dillmouth?” For a moment or two Miss Marple was silent. The worried look had returned to her eyes. She said: “Supposing that one day, by accident, you turned up a fact that seemed to indicate that many years ago — nineteen or twenty — a murder had occurred.
That fact was known to you alone, nothing of the kind had ever been suspected or reported. What would you do about it?” “Murder in retrospect in fact?” “Just exactly that.” Haydock reflected for a moment.