Sleeping Murder by Agatha Christie Page A

I understand his second wife left him. Ran way with someone. A rather flighty type, I’m afraid.”
    â€œRegular flibbertigibbet, she was. And her brother the doctor, such a nice man. Did my rheumatic knee a world of good.”
    â€œWhom did she run away with? I never heard.”
    â€œThat I couldn’t tell you, madam. Some said it was one of the summer visitors. But I know Major Halliday was quite broken up. He left the place and I believe his health gave way. Your change, madam.”
    Miss Marple accepted her change and her parcel.
    â€œThank you so much,” she said. “I wonder if—Edith Pagett, did you say—still has that nice recipe for gingerbread? I lost it—or rather my careless maid lost it—and I’m so fond of good gingerbread.”
    â€œI expect so, madam. As a matter of fact her sister lives next door here, married to Mr. Mountford, the confectioner. Edith usually comes there on her days out and I’m sure Mrs. Mountford would give her a message.”
    â€œThat’s a very good idea. Thank you so much for all the trouble you’ve taken.”
    â€œA pleasure, madam, I assure you.”
    Miss Marple went out into the street.
    â€œA nice old-fashioned firm,” she said to herself. “And those vests are really very nice, so it isn’t as though I had wasted any money.” She glanced at the pale blue enamel watch that she wore pinned to one side of her dress. “Just five minutes to go before meeting those two young things at the Ginger Cat. I hope they didn’t find things too upsetting at the Sanatorium.”
    II
    Giles and Gwenda sat together at a corner table at the Ginger Cat. The little black notebook lay on the table between them.
    Miss Marple came in from the street and joined them.
    â€œWhat will you have, Miss Marple? Coffee?”
    â€œYes, thank you—no, not cakes, just a scone and butter.”
    Giles gave the order, and Gwenda pushed the little black book across to Miss Marple.
    â€œFirst you must read that,” she said, “and then we can talk. It’s what my father—what he wrote himself when he was at the nursing home. Oh, but first of all, just tell Miss Marple exactly what Dr. Penrose said, Giles.”
    Giles did so. Then Miss Marple opened the little black book and the waitress brought three cups of weak coffee, and a scone and butter, and a plate of cakes. Giles and Gwenda did not talk. They watched Miss Marple as she read.
    Finally she closed the book and laid it down. Her expression was difficult to read. There was, Gwenda thought, anger in it. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her eyes shone very brightly, unusually so, considering her age.
    â€œYes, indeed,” she said. “Yes, indeed!”
    Gwenda said: “You advised us once—do you remember?—not to go on. I can see why you did. But we did go on—and this is where we’ve got to. Only now, it seems as though we’d got to another place where one could—if one liked—stop … Do you think we ought to stop? Or not?”
    Miss Marple shook her head slowly. She seemed worried, perplexed.
    â€œI don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know. It might be better to do so, much better to do so. Because after this lapse of time there is nothing that you can do—nothing, I mean, of a constructive nature.”
    â€œYou mean that after this lapse of time, there is nothing we can find out?” asked Giles.
    â€œOh no,” said Miss Marple. “I didn’t mean that at all. Nineteen years is not such a long time. There are people who would remember things, who could answer questions—quite a lot of people. Servants for instance. There must have been at least two servants in the house at the time, and a nurse, and probably a gardener. It will only take time and a little trouble to find and talk to these people. As a matter of fact, I’ve found one of