find out,' said Gwenda. 'Won't we, Miss Marple?'
'With time and patience,' said Miss Marple, 'we may find out a great deal. Now for my contribution. As a result of a very fortunate little conversation in the draper's today, I have discovered that Edith Pagett who was cook at St Catherine's at the time we are interested in, is still in Dillmouth. Her sister is married to a confectioner here. I think it would be quite natural, Gwenda, for you to want to see her. She may be able to tell us a good deal.'
'That's wonderful,' said Gwenda. 'I've thought of something else,' she added. 'I'm going to make a new will. Don't look so grave, Giles, I shall still leave my money to you. But I shall get Walter Fane to do it for me.'
'Gwenda,' said Giles. 'Do be careful.'
'Making a will,' said Gwenda, 'is a most natural thing to do. And the line of approach I've thought up is quite good. Anyway, I want to see him. I want to see what he's like, and if I think that possibly—'
She left the sentence unfinished.
'What surprises me,' said Giles, 'is that no one else answered that advertisement of ours— this Edith Pagett, for example—'
Miss Marple shook her head.
'People take a long time to make up their minds about a thing like that in these country districts,' she said. 'They're suspicious. They like to think things over.'
Sleeping Murder
Chapter 12 – Lily Kimble
Lily Kimble spread a couple of old newspapers on the kitchen table in readiness for draining the chipped potatoes which were hissing in the pan. Humming tunelessly a popular melody of the day she leaned forward aimlessly studying the newsprint spread out before her.
Then suddenly she stopped humming and called: 'Jim—Jim. Listen here, will you?'
Jim Kimble, an elderly man of few words, was washing at the scullery sink. To answer his wife, he used his favourite monosyllable.
'Ar?' said Jim Kimble.
'It's a piece in the paper. Will anyone with any knowledge of Helen Spenlove Halliday, nee Kennedy, communicate with Messrs Reed and Hardy, Southampton Row! Seems to me they might be meaning Mrs Halliday as I was in service with at St Catherine's. Took it from Mrs Findeyson, they did, she and'er'usband. Her name was Helen right enough—Yes, and she was sister to Dr Kennedy, him as always said I ought to have had my adenoids out.'
There was a momentary pause as Mrs Kimble adjusted the frying chips with an expert touch. Jim Kimble was snorting into the roller towel as he dried his face.
'Course, it's an old paper, this,' resumed Mrs Kimble. She studied its date. 'Nigh on a week or more old. Wonder what it's all about? Think as there's any money in it, Jim?'
Mr Kimble said, 'Ar,' noncommittally.
'Might be a will or something,' speculated his wife. 'Powerful lot of time ago.'
'Ar.'
'Eighteen years or more, I shouldn't wonder... Wonder what they're raking it all up for now? You don't think it could be police, do you, Jim?'
'Whatever?' asked Mr Kimble.
'Well, you know what I always thought,' said Mrs Kimble mysteriously. 'Told you at the time, I did, when we was walking out. Pretending that she'd gone off with a feller. That's what they say, husbands, when they do their wives in. Depend upon it, it was murder. That's what I said to you and what I said to Edie, but Edie she wouldn't have it at any price. Never no imagination, Edie hadn't. Those clothes she was supposed to have took away with her—well, they weren't right, if you know what I mean. There was a suitcase gone and a bag, and enough clothes to fill 'em, but they wasn't right, those clothes. And that's when I said to Edie, “Depend upon it,” I said, “the master's murdered her and put her in the cellar.” Only not really the cellar, because that Layonee, the Swiss nurse, she saw something. Out of the window. Come to the cinema along of me, she did, though she wasn't supposed to leave the nursery—but there, I said, the child never wakes up—good as gold she was, always, in her bed at night. “And madam
'With time and patience,' said Miss Marple, 'we may find out a great deal. Now for my contribution. As a result of a very fortunate little conversation in the draper's today, I have discovered that Edith Pagett who was cook at St Catherine's at the time we are interested in, is still in Dillmouth. Her sister is married to a confectioner here. I think it would be quite natural, Gwenda, for you to want to see her. She may be able to tell us a good deal.'
'That's wonderful,' said Gwenda. 'I've thought of something else,' she added. 'I'm going to make a new will. Don't look so grave, Giles, I shall still leave my money to you. But I shall get Walter Fane to do it for me.'
'Gwenda,' said Giles. 'Do be careful.'
'Making a will,' said Gwenda, 'is a most natural thing to do. And the line of approach I've thought up is quite good. Anyway, I want to see him. I want to see what he's like, and if I think that possibly—'
She left the sentence unfinished.
'What surprises me,' said Giles, 'is that no one else answered that advertisement of ours— this Edith Pagett, for example—'
Miss Marple shook her head.
'People take a long time to make up their minds about a thing like that in these country districts,' she said. 'They're suspicious. They like to think things over.'
Sleeping Murder
Chapter 12 – Lily Kimble
Lily Kimble spread a couple of old newspapers on the kitchen table in readiness for draining the chipped potatoes which were hissing in the pan. Humming tunelessly a popular melody of the day she leaned forward aimlessly studying the newsprint spread out before her.
Then suddenly she stopped humming and called: 'Jim—Jim. Listen here, will you?'
Jim Kimble, an elderly man of few words, was washing at the scullery sink. To answer his wife, he used his favourite monosyllable.
'Ar?' said Jim Kimble.
'It's a piece in the paper. Will anyone with any knowledge of Helen Spenlove Halliday, nee Kennedy, communicate with Messrs Reed and Hardy, Southampton Row! Seems to me they might be meaning Mrs Halliday as I was in service with at St Catherine's. Took it from Mrs Findeyson, they did, she and'er'usband. Her name was Helen right enough—Yes, and she was sister to Dr Kennedy, him as always said I ought to have had my adenoids out.'
There was a momentary pause as Mrs Kimble adjusted the frying chips with an expert touch. Jim Kimble was snorting into the roller towel as he dried his face.
'Course, it's an old paper, this,' resumed Mrs Kimble. She studied its date. 'Nigh on a week or more old. Wonder what it's all about? Think as there's any money in it, Jim?'
Mr Kimble said, 'Ar,' noncommittally.
'Might be a will or something,' speculated his wife. 'Powerful lot of time ago.'
'Ar.'
'Eighteen years or more, I shouldn't wonder... Wonder what they're raking it all up for now? You don't think it could be police, do you, Jim?'
'Whatever?' asked Mr Kimble.
'Well, you know what I always thought,' said Mrs Kimble mysteriously. 'Told you at the time, I did, when we was walking out. Pretending that she'd gone off with a feller. That's what they say, husbands, when they do their wives in. Depend upon it, it was murder. That's what I said to you and what I said to Edie, but Edie she wouldn't have it at any price. Never no imagination, Edie hadn't. Those clothes she was supposed to have took away with her—well, they weren't right, if you know what I mean. There was a suitcase gone and a bag, and enough clothes to fill 'em, but they wasn't right, those clothes. And that's when I said to Edie, “Depend upon it,” I said, “the master's murdered her and put her in the cellar.” Only not really the cellar, because that Layonee, the Swiss nurse, she saw something. Out of the window. Come to the cinema along of me, she did, though she wasn't supposed to leave the nursery—but there, I said, the child never wakes up—good as gold she was, always, in her bed at night. “And madam
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