“And the answer is to be found in this here barrow—or else why was he forever messing about with it?”
“A raison d’étre for prowling about,” I suggested, but this bit of French was too much for the constable. He revenged himself for not understanding it by saying coldly:
“That’s the h’amateur’s point of view.”
“Anyway, you haven’t found the suitcase,” I said.
“We shall do, sir. Not a doubt of it.”
“I’m not so sure,” I said. “I’ve been thinking. Miss Marple said it was quite a short time before the girl reappeared empty-handed. In that case, she wouldn’t have had time to get up here and back.”
“You can’t take any notice of what old ladies say. When they’ve seen something curious, and are waiting all eager like, why, time simply flies for them. And anyway, no lady knows anything about time.”
I often wonder why the whole world is so prone to generalize. Generalizations are seldom if ever true and are usually utterly inaccurate. I have a poor sense of time myself (hence the keeping of my clock fast) and Miss Marple, I should say, has a very acute one. Her clocks keep time to the minute and she herself is rigidly punctual on every occasion.
However, I had no intention of arguing with Constable Hurst on the point. I wished him good afternoon and good luck and went on my way.
It was just as I was nearing home that the idea came to me. There was nothing to lead up to it. It just flashed into my brain as a possible solution.
You will remember that on my first search of the path, the day after the murder, I had found the bushes disturbed in a certain place. They