Sleeping Murder by Agatha Christie

Fore Street, turning up the hill by the Arcade. The shops here were the old-fashioned ones. A wool and art needlework shop, a confectioner, a Victorian-looking Ladies’ Outfitter and Draper and others of the same kind.
    Miss Marple looked in at the window of the art needlework shop. Two young assistants were engaged with customers, but an elderly woman at the back of the shop was free.
    Miss Marple pushed open the door and went in. She seated herself at the counter and the assistant, a pleasant woman with grey hair, asked, “What can I do for you, madam?”
    Miss Marple wanted some pale blue wool to knit a baby’s jacket. The proceedings were leisurely and unhurried. Patternswere discussed, Miss Marple looked through various children’s knitting books and in the course of it discussed her great-nephews and nieces. Neither she nor the assistant displayed impatience. The assistant had attended to customers such as Miss Marple for many years. She preferred these gentle, gossipy, rambling old ladies to the impatient, rather impolite young mothers who didn’t know what they wanted and had an eye for the cheap and showy.
    â€œYes,” said Miss Marple. “I think that will be very nice indeed. And I always find Storkleg so reliable. It really doesn’t shrink. I think I’ll take an extra two ounces.”
    The assistant remarked that the wind was very cold today, as she wrapped up the parcel.
    â€œYes, indeed, I noticed it as I was coming along the front. Dillmouth has changed a good deal. I have not been here for, let me see, nearly nineteen years.”
    â€œIndeed, madam? Then you will find a lot of changes. The Superb wasn’t built then, I suppose, nor the Southview Hotel?”
    â€œOh no, it was quite a small place. I was staying with friends … A house called St. Catherine’s—perhaps you know it? On the Leahampton road.”
    But the assistant had only been in Dillmouth a matter of ten years.
    Miss Marple thanked her, took the parcel, and went into the draper’s next door. Here, again, she selected an elderly assistant. The conversation ran much on the same lines, to an accompaniment of summer vests. This time, the assistant responded promptly.
    â€œThat would be Mrs. Findeyson’s house.”
    â€œYes—yes. Though the friends I knew had it furnished. A Major Halliday and his wife and a baby girl.”
    â€œOh yes, madam. They had it for about a year, I think.”
    â€œYes. He was home from India. They had a very good cook—she gave me a wonderful recipe for baked apple pudding—and also, I think, for gingerbread. I often wonder what became of her.”
    â€œI expect you mean Edith Pagett, madam. She’s still in Dillmouth. She’s in service now—at Windrush Lodge.”
    â€œThen there were some other people—the Fanes. A lawyer, I think he was!”
    â€œOld Mr. Fane died some years ago—young Mr. Fane, Mr. Walter Fane, lives with his mother. Mr. Walter Fane never married. He’s the senior partner now.”
    â€œIndeed? I had an idea Mr. Walter Fane had gone out to India—tea-planting or something.”
    â€œI believe he did, madam. As a young man. But he came home and went into the firm after about a year or two. They do all the best business round here—they’re very highly thought of. A very nice quiet gentleman, Mr. Walter Fane. Everybody likes him.”
    â€œWhy, of course,” exclaimed Miss Marple. “He was engaged to Miss Kennedy, wasn’t he? And then she broke it off and married Major Halliday.”
    â€œThat’s right, madam. She went out to India to marry Mr. Fane, but it seems as she changed her mind and married the other gentleman instead.”
    A faintly disapproving note had entered the assistant’s voice.
    Miss Marple leaned forward and lowered her voice.
    â€œI was always so sorry for poor Major Halliday (I knew hismother) and his little girl.