quite sure that no one did pass along the lane yesterday evening whilst we were in the studio.”
I shook my head.
“She was quite positive that nobody did.”
“Yes, nobody whom she would call anybody—sounds mad, but you see what I mean. But there might have been someone like a postman or a milkman or a butcher’s boy—someone whose presence would be so natural that you wouldn’t think of mentioning it.”
“You’ve been reading G. K. Chesterton,” I said, and Lawrence did not deny it.
“But don’t you think there’s just possibly something in the idea?”
“Well, I suppose there might be,” I admitted.
Without further ado, we made our way to Miss Marple’s. She was working in the garden, and called out to us as we climbed over the stile.
“You see,” murmured Lawrence, “she sees everybody.”
She received us very graciously and was much pleased with Lawrence’s immense rock, which he presented with all due solemnity.
“It’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Redding. Very thoughtful indeed.”
Emboldened by this, Lawrence embarked on his questions. Miss Marple listened attentively.
“Yes, I see what you mean, and I quite agree, it is the sort of thing no one mentions or bothers to mention. But I can assure you that there was nothing of the kind. Nothing whatever.”
“You are sure, Miss Marple?”