like and what they had on.’
Mrs McGillicuddy nodded gratefully.
‘That’s just how it was.’
‘The man had his back to you, you say. So you didn’t see his face?’
‘No.’
‘And the woman, you can describe her? Young, old?’
‘Youngish. Between thirty and thirty-five, I should think. I couldn’t say closer than that.’
‘Good-looking?’
‘That again, I couldn’t say. Her face, you see, was all contorted and—’
Miss Marple said quickly:
‘Yes, yes, I quite understand. How was she dressed?’
‘She had on a fur coat of some kind, a palish fur. No hat. Her hair was blonde.’
‘And there was nothing distinctive that you can remember about the man?’
Mrs McGillicuddy took a little time to think carefully before she replied.
‘He was tallish—and dark, I think. He had a heavy coat on so that I couldn’t judge his build very well.’ She added despondently, ‘It’s not really very much to go on.’
‘It’s something,’ said Miss Marple. She paused before saying: ‘You feel quite sure, in your own mind, that the girl was—dead?’
‘She was dead, I’m sure of it. Her tongue came out and—I’d rather not talk about it …’
‘Of course not. Of course not,’ said Miss Marple quickly. ‘We shall know more, I expect, in the morning.’
‘In the morning?’
‘I should imagine it will be in the morning papers. After this man had attacked and killed her, he would have a body on his hands. What would he do? Presumably he would leave the train quickly at the first station—by the way, can you remember if it was a corridor carriage?’
‘No, it was not.’
‘That seems to point to a train that was not going far afield. It would almost certainly stop at Brackhampton. Let us say he leaves the train at Brackhampton, perhaps arranging the body in a corner seat, with her face hidden by the fur collar to delay discovery. Yes—I think that that is what he would do. But of course it will be discovered before very long—and I should imagine that the news of a murdered woman discovered on a train would be almost certain to be in the morning papers—we shall see.’
But it was not in the morning papers.
Miss Marple and Mrs McGillicuddy, after making sure of this, finished their breakfast in silence. Both were reflecting.
After breakfast, they took a turn round the garden. But this, usually an absorbing pastime, was to-day somewhat half-hearted. Miss Marple did indeed call attention to some new and rare species she had acquired for her rock-garden but did so in an almost absent-minded manner. And Mrs McGillicuddy did not, as was customary, counter-attack with a list of her own recent acquisitions.
‘The garden is not looking at all as it should,’ said Miss Marple, but still speaking absent-mindedly. ‘Doctor Haydock has absolutely forbidden me to do any stooping or kneeling—and really, what can you do if you don’t stoop or kneel? There’s old Edwards, of course—but so opinionated. And all this jobbing gets them into bad habits, lots of cups of tea and so much pottering—not any real work.’
‘Oh, I know,’ said Mrs McGillicuddy. ‘Of course, there’s no question of my being forbidden to stoop, but really, especially after meals—and having put on weight’—she looked down at her ample proportions—‘it does bring on heartburn.’
There was a silence and then Mrs McGillicuddy planted her feet sturdily, stood still, and turned on her friend.
‘Well?’ she said.
It was a small insignificant word, but it acquired full significance from Mrs McGillicuddy’s tone, and Miss Marple understood its meaning perfectly.
‘I know,’ she said.
The two ladies looked at each other.
‘I think,’ said Miss Marple, ‘we might walk down to the police station and talk to Sergeant Cornish. He’s intelligent and patient, and I know him very well, and he knows me. I think he’ll listen—and pass the information on to the proper quarter.’
Accordingly, some three-quarters of an hour later, Miss Marple and Mrs McGillicuddy were talking to a fresh-faced grave man between thirty and forty who listened attentively to what they had to say.
Frank Cornish received Miss Marple with cordiality and even deference. He set chairs for the two ladies, and said: ‘Now what can we do for you, Miss Marple?’
Miss Marple said: ‘I would like you, please, to listen to my friend Mrs McGillicuddy’s story.’
And Sergeant Cornish had listened. At the close of the recital he remained silent for a moment or two.
Then he said:
‘That’s a very extraordinary story.’ His eyes, without seeming to do so, had sized Mrs McGillicuddy up whilst she was telling it.
On the whole, he was favourably impressed. A sensible woman, able to tell a story clearly; not, so far as he could judge, an over-imaginative or a hysterical woman. Moreover, Miss Marple, so it seemed, believed in the accuracy of her friend’s story and he knew all about Miss Marple. Everybody in St Mary Mead knew Miss Marple; fluffy and dithery in appearance, but inwardly as sharp and as shrewd as they make them.
He cleared his throat and spoke.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘you may have been mistaken—I’m not saying you were, mind—but you may have been. There’s a lot of horse-play goes on—it mayn’t have been serious or fatal.’
‘I know what I saw,’ said Mrs McGillicuddy grimly.
‘And you won’t budge from it,’ thought Frank Cornish, ‘and I’d say that, likely or unlikely, you may be right.’
Aloud he said: ‘You reported it to the railway officials, and you’ve come and reported it to me. That’s the proper procedure and you may rely on me to have inquiries instituted.’
He stopped. Miss Marple nodded her head gently, satisfied. Mrs McGillicuddy was not quite so satisfied, but she did not say anything. Sergeant Cornish addressed Miss Marple, not so much because he wanted her ideas, as because he wanted to hear what she would say.
‘Granted the facts are as reported,’ he said, ‘what do you think has happened to the body?’
‘There seems to be only two possibilities,’ said Miss Marple without hesitation. ‘The most likely one, of course, is that the body was left in the train, but that seems improbable now, for it would have been found some time last night, by another traveller, or by the railway staff at the train’s ultimate destination.’
Frank Cornish nodded.
‘The only other course open to the murderer would be to push the body out of the train on to the line. It must, I suppose, be still on the track somewhere as yet undiscovered—though that does seem a little unlikely. But there would be, as far as I can see, no other way of dealing with it.’
‘You read about bodies being put in trunks,’ said Mrs McGillicuddy, ‘but no-one travels with trunks nowadays, only suitcases, and you couldn’t get a body into a suitcase.’
‘Yes,’ said Cornish. ‘I agree with you both. The body, if there is a body, ought to have been discovered by now, or will be very soon. I’ll let you know any developments there are—though I dare say you’ll read about them in the papers. There’s the possibility, of course, that the woman, though savagely attacked, was not actually dead. She may have been able to