Griselda turned to me.
“Have you ever felt like that, Len?”
“Never,” I said truthfully.
“Yet I hear you were wishing him out of the world not so long ago,” remarked Miss Marple.
(That miserable Dennis! But my fault, of course, for ever making the remark.)
“I’m afraid I was,” I said. “It was a stupid remark to make, but really I’d had a very trying morning with him.”
“That’s disappointing,” said Raymond West. “Because, of course, if your subconscious were really planning to do him in, it would never have allowed you to make that remark.”
He sighed.
“My theory falls to the ground. This is probably a very ordinary murder—a revengeful poacher or something of that sort.”
“Miss Cram came to see me this afternoon,” said Miss Marple. “I met her in the village and I asked her if she would like to see my garden.”
“Is she fond of gardens?” asked Griselda.
“I don’t think so,” said Miss Marple, with a faint twinkle. “But it makes a very useful excuse for talk, don’t you think?”
“What did you make of her?” asked Griselda. “I don’t believe she’s really so bad.”
“She volunteered a lot of information—really a lot of information,” said Miss Marple. “About herself, you know, and her people. They all seem to