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II
“Well!” said Mrs. McGillicuddy. “Well!”
Words failed her. She looked across at the nicely spoken pleasant young
man who had called upon her with official credentials and then down at
the photograph that he handed her.
“That’s her all right,” she said. “Yes, that’s her. Poor soul. Well, I must
say I’m glad you’ve found her body. Nobody believed a word I said! The
police, or the railway people or anyone else. It’s very galling not to be be-
lieved. At any rate, nobody could say I didn’t do all I possibly could.”
The nice young man made sympathetic and appreciative noises.
“Where did you say the body was found?”
“In a barn at a house called Rutherford Hall, just outside Brackhamp-
ton.”
“Never heard of it. How did it get there, I wonder?”
The young man didn’t reply.
“Jane Marple found it, I suppose. Trust Jane.”
“The body,” said the young man, referring to some notes, “was found by
a Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow.”
“Never heard of her either,” said Mrs. McGillicuddy. “I still think Jane
Marple had something to do with it.”
“Anyway, Mrs. McGillicuddy, you definitely identify this picture as that
of the woman whom you saw in a train?”
“Being strangled by a man. Yes, I do.”
“Now, can you describe this man?”
“He was a tall man,” said Mrs. McGillicuddy.
“Yes?”
“And dark.”
“Yes?”
“That’s all I can tell you,” said Mrs. McGillicuddy. “He had his back to
me. I didn’t see his face.”
“Would you be able to recognize him if you saw him?”
“Of course I shouldn’t! He had his back to me. I never saw his face.”
“You’ve no idea at all as to his age?”
Mrs. McGillicuddy considered.
“No—not really. I mean, I don’t know… He wasn’t, I’m almost sure—very
young. His shoulders looked—well, set, if you know what I mean.” The
young man nodded. “Thirty and upward, I can’t get closer than that. I
wasn’t really looking at him, you see. It was her—with those hands round
her throat and her face—all blue… You know, sometimes I dream of it
even now….”
“It must have been a distressing experience,” said the young man sym-
pathetically.
He closed his notebook and said:
“When are you returning to England?”
“Not for another three weeks. It isn’t necessary, is it, for me?”
He quickly reassured her.
“Oh, no. There’s nothing you could do at present. Of course, if we make
an arrest—”
It was left like that.
The mail brought a letter from Miss Marple to her friend. The writing
was spiky and spidery and heavily underlined. Long practice made it easy
for Mrs. McGillicuddy to decipher. Miss Marple wrote a very full account
to her friend who devoured every word with great satisfaction.
She and Jane had shown them all right!
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