Miss Marple took a breath and went on. “And I’m sure there was no reason to believe that there was anything more in it than that, but you know what people are. Quite a lot of people are convinced that Mrs Spenlow was infatuated with the young man, and that she’d lent him quite a lot of money. And it’s Perfectly true that he was actually seen at the station that day. In the train – the two twenty-seven down train. But of course it would be quite easy, wouldn’t it?, to slip out of the other side of the train and go through the cutting and over the fence and round by the hedge and never come out of the station entrance at all. So that he need not have been seen going to the cottage. And, of course, people do think that what Mrs Spenlow was wearing was rather peculiar.”
“Peculiar?”
“A kimono. Not a dress.” Miss Marple blushed. “That sort of thing, you know, is, perhaps, rather suggestive to some people.”
“You think it was suggestive?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. I think it was perfectly natural.”
“You think it was natural?”
“Under the circumstances, yes.” Miss Marple’s glance was cool and reflective.
Inspector Slack said, “It might give us another motive for the husband. Jealousy.”
“Oh, no. Mr Spenlow would never be jealous. He’s not the sort of man who notices things. If his wife had gone away and left a note on the pincushion, it would be the first he’d know of anything of that kind.”
Inspector Slack was puzzled by the intent way she was looking at him. He had an idea that all her conversation was intended to hint at something he didn’t understand. She said now, with some emphasis, “Didn’t you find any clues, Inspector – on the spot?”
“People don’t leave fingerprints and cigarette ash nowadays Miss Marple.” “But this, I think,” she suggested, “was an old-fashioned Crime – “
Slack said sharply, “Now what do you mean by that?”
Miss Marple remarked slowly, “I think, you know, that Constable Palk could help you. He was the first Person on the – on the ‘scene of the crime’, as they say.”
++Mr Spenlow was sitting in a deckchair. He looked bewildered. He said, in his thin, precise voice, “I may, of course, be imagining what occurred. My hearing is not as good as it was. But I distinctly think I heard a small boy call after me, ‘Yah, who’s a Crippen?’ It – it conveyed the impression to me that he was of the opinion that I had – had killed my dear wife.”
Miss Marple, gently snipping off a dead rose head, said, “That was the impression he meant to convey, no doubt.”
“But what could possibly have put such an idea into a child’s head?”
Miss Marple coughed. “Listening, no doubt, to the opinions of his elders.”
“You – you really mean that other people think that, also?”
“Quite half the people in St Mary Mead.”
“But – my dear lady – what can possibly have given rise to such an idea? I was sincerely attached to my wife. She did not, alas, take to living in the country as much as I had hoped she would do, but perfect agreement on every subject is an impossible idea. I assure you I feel her loss very keenly.”
“Probably. But if you will excuse my saying so, you don’t sound as though you do.”
Mr Spenlow drew his meagre frame up to its full height. “My dear lady, many years ago I read of a certain Chinese philosopher who, when his dearly loved wife was taken from him, continued calmly to beat a gong in the street – a customary Chinese pastime, I presume – exactly as usual. The people of the city were much impressed by his fortitude.”
“But,” said Miss Marple, “the people of St Mary Mead react rather differently. Chinese philosophy does not appeal to them.”
“But you understand?”
Miss Marple nodded. “My Uncle Henry” she explained, was a man of unusual self-control. His motto was ‘Never display emotion’. He, too, was very fond of flowers.”
“I was thinking,” said Mr Spenlow with something like eagerness, “that I might, perhaps, have a pergola on the west side of the cottage. Pink roses and, perhaps, wisteria. And there is a white starry flower, whose name for the moment escapes me -”