A Murder Is Announced by Agatha Christie Page B

knows?” she asked, turning suddenly to Craddock. “Or not quite all yet?”
    â€œI’m not absolutely sure,” said Craddock cautiously.
    â€œI think there’s a little to come,” said Miss Marple. “She’s looking very worried. Brought me kippers instead of herrings this morning, and forgot the milk jug. Usually she’s an excellent waitress. Yes, she’s worried. Afraid she might have to give evidence or something like that. But I expect”—her candid blue eyes swept over the manly proportions and handsome face of Detective-Inspector Craddock with truly feminine Victorian appreciation—“that you will be able to persuade her to tell you all she knows.”
    Detective-Inspector Craddock blushed and Sir Henry chuckled.
    â€œIt might be important,” said Miss Marple. “He may have told her who it was.”
    Rydesdale stared at her.
    â€œWho what was?”
    â€œI express myself so badly. Who it was who put him up to it, I mean.”
    â€œSo you think someone put him up to it?”
    Miss Marple’s eyes widened in surprise.
    â€œOh, but surely—I mean … Here’s a personable young man—who filches a little bit here and a little bit there—alters a small cheque, perhaps helps himself to a small piece of jewellery if it’s left lying around, or takes a little money from the till—all sorts of small petty thefts. Keeps himself going in ready money so that he can dress well, and take a girl about—all that sort of thing. And then suddenly he goes off, with a revolver, and holds up a room full of people, and shoots at someone. He’d never have done a thing like that—not for a moment! He wasn’t that kind of person. It doesn’t make sense. ”
    Craddock drew in his breath sharply. That was what Letitia Blacklock had said. What the Vicar’s wife had said. What he himself felt with increasing force. It didn’t make sense. And now Sir Henry’s old Pussy was saying it, too, with complete certainty in her fluting old lady’s voice.
    â€œPerhaps you’ll tell us, Miss Marple,” he said, and his voice was suddenly aggressive, “what did happen, then?”
    She turned on him in surprise.
    â€œBut how should I know what happened? There was an account in the paper—but it says so little. One can make conjectures, of course, but one has no accurate information.”
    â€œGeorge,” said Sir Henry, “would it be very unorthodox if Miss Marple were allowed to read the notes of the interviews Craddock had with these people at Chipping Cleghorn?”
    â€œIt may be unorthodox,” said Rydesdale, “but I’ve not got where I am by being orthodox. She can read them. I’d be curious to hear what she has to say.”
    Miss Marple was all embarrassment.
    â€œI’m afraid you’ve been listening to Sir Henry. Sir Henry is always too kind. He thinks too much of any little observations I may have made in the past. Really, I have no gifts—no gifts at all—except perhaps a certain knowledge of human nature. People, I find, are apt to be far too trustful. I’m afraid that I have a tendency always to believe the worst. Not a nice trait. But so often justified by subsequent events.”
    â€œRead these,” said Rydesdale, thrusting the typewritten sheets upon her. “They won’t take you long. After all, these people are your kind—you must know a lot of people like them. You may be able to spot something that we haven’t. The case is just going to be closed. Let’s have an amateur’s opinion on it before we shut up the files. I don’t mind telling you that Craddock here isn’t satisfied. He says, like you, that it doesn’t make sense.”
    There was silence whilst Miss Marple read. She put the typewritten sheets down at last.
    â€œIt’s very interesting,” she said with a sigh. “All the