This time I failed to see any parallel, however remote. Miss Marple went on in a dreamy voice:
“And then there was poor Elwell’s daughter—such a pretty ethereal girl—tried to stifle her little brother. And there was the money for the Choir Boys’ Outing (before your time, vicar) actually taken by the organist. His wife was sadly in debt. Yes, this case makes one think so many things—too many. It’s very hard to arrive at the truth.”
“I wish you would tell me,” I said, “who were the seven suspects?”
“The seven suspects?”
“You said you could think of seven people who would—well, be glad of Colonel Protheroe’s death.”
“Did I? Yes, I remember I did.”
“Was that true?”
“Oh! certainly it was true. But I mustn’t mention names. You can think of them quite easily yourself, I am sure.”
“Indeed I can’t. There is Lettice Protheroe, I suppose, since she probably comes into money on her father’s death. But it is absurd to think of her in such a connection, and outside her I can think of nobody.”
“And you, my dear?” said Miss Marple, turning to Griselda.
Rather to my surprise Griselda coloured up. Something very like tears started into her eyes. She clenched both her small hands.
“Oh!” she cried indignantly. “People are hateful—hateful. The things they say! The beastly things they say. …”
I looked at her curiously. It is very unlike Griselda to be so upset. She noticed my glance and tried to smile.