II

The sound of a car driving up to the door broke through the tenseness ofthe moment.

“Who can that be?” asked Miss Blacklock.

Mitzi put a tousled head in. She was showing the whites of her eyes.

“It is the police come again,” she said. “This, it is persecution! Why willthey not leave us alone? I will not bear it. I will write to the Prime Minis-ter. I will write to your King.”

Craddock’s hand put her firmly and not too kindly aside. He came inwith such a grim set to his lips that they all looked at him apprehensively.

This was a new Inspector Craddock.

He said sternly:

“Miss Murgatroyd has been murdered. She was strangled—not morethan an hour ago.” His eye singled out Julia. “You—Miss Simmons—wherehave you been all day?”

Julia said warily:

“In Milchester. I’ve just got in.”

“And you?” The eye went on to Patrick.

“Yes.”

“Did you both come back here together?”

“Yes—yes, we did,” said Patrick.

“No,” said Julia. “It’s no good, Patrick. That’s the kind of lie that will befound out at once. The bus people know us well. I came back on the earlierbus, Inspector—the one that gets here at four o’clock.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I went for a walk.”

“In the direction of Boulders?”

“No. I went across the fields.”

He stared at her. Julia, her face pale, her lips tense, stared back.

Before anyone could speak, the telephone rang.

Miss Blacklock, with an inquiring glance at Craddock, picked up the re-ceiver.

“Yes. Who? Oh, Bunch. What? No. No, she hasn’t. I’ve no idea … Yes, he’shere now.”

She lowered the instrument and said:

“Mrs. Harmon would like to speak to you, Inspector. Miss Marple hasnot come back to the Vicarage and Mrs. Harmon is worried about her.”

Craddock took two strides forward and gripped the telephone.

“Craddock speaking.”

“I’m worried, Inspector.” Bunch’s voice came through with a childishtremor in it. “Aunt Jane’s out somewhere—and I don’t know where. Andthey say that Miss Murgatroyd’s been killed. Is it true?”

“Yes, it’s true, Mrs. Harmon. Miss Marple was there with Miss Hinch-cliffe when they found the body.”

“Oh, so that’s where she is.” Bunch sounded relieved.

“No—no, I’m afraid she isn’t. Not now. She left there about—let me see—half an hour ago. She hasn’t got home?”

“No—she hasn’t. It’s only ten minutes’ walk. Where can she be?”

“Perhaps she’s called in on one of your neighbours?”

“I’ve rung them up — all of them. She’s not there. I’m frightened, In-spector.”

“So am I,” thought Craddock.

He said quickly:

“I’ll come round to you—at once.”

“Oh, do—there’s a piece of paper. She was writing on it before she wentout. I don’t know if it means anything … It just seems gibberish to me.”

Craddock replaced the receiver.

Miss Blacklock said anxiously:

“Has something happened to Miss Marple? Oh, I hope not.”

“I hope not, too.” His mouth was grim.

“She’s so old—and frail.”

“I know.”

Miss Blacklock, standing with her hand pulling at the choker of pearlsround her neck, said in a hoarse voice:

“It’s getting worse and worse. Whoever’s doing these things must bemad, Inspector—quite mad….”

“I wonder.”

The choker of pearls round Miss Blacklock’s neck broke under the clutchof her nervous fingers. The smooth white globules rolled all over theroom.

Letitia cried out in an anguished tone.

“My pearls—my pearls—” The agony in her voice was so acute that theyall looked at her in astonishment. She turned, her hand to her throat, andrushed sobbing out of the room.

Phillipa began picking up the pearls.

“I’ve never seen her so upset over anything,” she said. “Of course—shealways wears them. Do you think, perhaps, that someone special gavethem to her? Randall Goedler, perhaps?”

“It’s possible,” said the Inspector slowly.

“They’re not—they couldn’t be—real by any chance?” Phillipa askedfrom where, on her knees, she was still collecting the white shining glob-ules.

Taking one in his hand, Craddock was just about to reply contemptu-ously, “Real? Of course not!” when he suddenly stifled the words.

After all, could the pearls be real?

They were so large, so even, so white that their falseness seemed palp-able, but Craddock remembered suddenly a police case where a string ofreal pearls had been bought for a few shillings in a pawnbroker’s shop.

Letitia Blacklock had assured him that there was no jewellery of valuein the house. If these pearls were, by any chance, genuine, they must beworth a fabulous sum. And if Randall Goedler had given them to her—then they might be worth any sum you cared to name.

They looked false—they must be false, but—if they were real?

Why not? She might herself be unaware of their value. Or she mightchoose to protect her treasure by treating it as though it were a cheap or-nament worth a couple of guineas at most. What would they be worth ifreal? A fabulous sum … Worth doing murder for—if anybody knew aboutthem.

With a start, the Inspector wrenched himself away from his specula-tions. Miss Marple was missing. He must go to the Vicarage.