Miss Marple came to the window, halted apologetically, and asked for Griselda.
“Griselda,” I said, “has gone to the golf links.”
An expression of concern leaped into Miss Marple’s eyes.
“Oh, but surely,” she said, “that is most unwise—just now.”
And then in a nice, old-fashioned, ladylike, maiden-lady way, she blushed.
And to cover the moment’s confusion, we talked hurriedly of the Protheroe case, and of “ Dr. Stone,” who had turned out to be a well-known cracksman with several different aliases. Miss Cram, by the way, had been cleared of all complicity. She had at last admitted taking the suitcase to the wood, but had done so in all good faith, Dr. Stone having told her that he feared the rivalry of other archaeologists who would not stick at burglary to gain their object of discrediting his theories. The girl apparently swallowed this not very plausible story. She is now, according to the village, looking out for a more genuine article in the line of an elderly bachelor requiring a secretary.
As we talked, I wondered very much how Miss Marple had discovered our latest secret. But presently, in a discreet fashion, Miss Marple herself supplied me with a clue.
“I hope dear Griselda is not overdoing it,” she murmured, and, after a discreet pause, “I was in the bookshop in Much Benham yesterday—”
Poor Griselda—that book on Mother Love has been her undoing!
“I wonder, Miss Marple,” I said suddenly, “if you were to commit a murder whether you would ever be found out.”