“Would you like to bring him to dinner at the Vicarage?” I asked, still unable to gather why I had been summoned.
“Oh! No, thank you,” said Miss Marple. “It’s very kind of you,” she added.
“There was—er—something you wanted to see me about, I think,” I suggested desperately.
“Oh! Of course. In all the excitement it had gone right out of my head.” She broke off and called to her maid. “Emily—Emily. Not those sheets. The frilled ones with the monogram, and don’t put them too near the fire.”
She closed the door and returned to me on tiptoe.
“It’s just rather a curious thing that happened last night,” she explained. “I thought you would like to hear about it, though at the moment it doesn’t seem to make sense. I felt very wakeful last night—wondering about all this sad business. And I got up and looked out of my window. And what do you think I saw?”
I looked, inquiring.
“Gladys Cram,” said Miss Marple, with great emphasis. “As I live, going into the wood with a suitcase.”
“A suitcase?”
“Isn’t it extraordinary? What should she want with a suitcase in the wood at twelve o’clock at night?”
We both stared at each other.
“You see,” said Miss Marple, “I dare say it has nothing to do with the murder. But it is a Peculiar Thing. And just at present we all feel we must