Miss Marple continued gently. "Lying on the floor in the sitting room, strangled - possibly by a very narrow belt. But whatever it was, it was taken away."
Palk's face was wrathful. "How that young Fred gets to know everything - "
Miss Marple cut him short adroitly. She said, "There's a pin in your tunic."
Constable Palk looked down, startled. He said, "They do say: 'See a pin and pick it up, all the day you'll have good luck.'"
"I hope that will come true. Now what is it you want me to tell you?"
Constable Palk cleared his throat, looked important, and consulted his notebook. "Statement was made to me by Mr. Arthur Spenlow, husband of the deceased. Mr. Spenlow says that at two-thirty, as far as he can say, he was rung up by Miss Marple and asked if he would come over at a quarter past three, as she was anxious to consult him about something. Now, ma'am, is that true?"
"Certainly not," said Miss Marple.
"You did not ring up Mr. Spenlow at two-thirty?"
"Neither at two-thirty nor any other time."
"Ah," said Constable Palk, and sucked his moustache with a good deal of satisfaction.
"What else did Mr. Spenlow say?"
"Mr. Spenlow's statement was that he came over here as requested, leaving his own house at ten minutes past three; that on arrival here he was informed by the maidservant that Miss Marple was 'not at 'ome.'"
"That part of it is true," said Miss Marple. "He did come here, but I was at a meeting at the Women's Institute."
"Ah," said Constable Palk again.
Miss Marple exclaimed, "Do tell me, Constable, do you suspect Mr. Spenlow?"
"It's not for me to say at this stage, but it looks to me as though somebody, naming no names, had been trying to be artful."
Miss Marple said thoughtfully, "Mr. Spenlow?"
She liked Mr. Spenlow. He was a small, spare man, stiff and conventional in speech, the acme of respectability. It seemed odd that he should have come to live in the country, he had so clearly lived in towns all his life. To Miss Marple he confided the reason. He said, "I have always intended, ever since I was a small boy, to live in the country someday and have a garden of my own. I have always been very much attached to flowers. My wife, you know, kept a flower shop. That's where I saw her first."
A dry statement, but it opened up a vista of romance. A younger, prettier Mrs. Spenlow, seen against a background of flowers.
Mr. Spenlow, however, really knew nothing about flowers. He had no idea of seeds, of cuttings, of bedding out, of annuals or perennials. He had only a vision - a vision of a small cottage garden thickly planted with sweet-smelling, brightly coloured blossoms. He had asked, almost pathetically, for instruction and had noted down Miss Marple's replies to questions in a little book.
He was a man of quiet method. It was, perhaps, because of this trait that the police were interested in him when his wife was found murdered. With patience and perseverance they learned a good deal about the late Mrs. Spenlow - and soon all St. Mary Mead knew it too.
The late Mrs. Spenlow had begun life as a between-maid in a large house. She had left that position to marry the second gardener and with him had started a flower shop in London. The shop had prospered. Not so the gardener, who before long had sickened and died.
His widow had carried on the shop and enlarged it in an ambitious way. She had continued to prosper. Then she had sold the business at a handsome price and embarked upon matrimony for the second time - with Mr. Spenlow, a middle-aged jeweller who had inherited a small and struggling business. Not long afterward they had sold the business and come down to St. Mary Mead.
Mrs. Spenlow was a well-to-do woman. The profits from her florist's establishment she had invested - "under spirit guidance," as she explained to all and sundry. The spirits had advised her with unexpected acumen.
All her investments had prospered, some in quite a sensational fashion. Instead, however, of this increasing her belief in spiritualism, Mrs. Spenlow basely deserted mediums and sittings and made a brief but wholehearted plunge into an obscure religion with Indian affinities which was based on various forms of deep breathing. When, however, she arrived at St. Mary Mead, she had relapsed into a period of orthodox Church-of-England beliefs. She was a good deal at the vicarage and attended church services with assiduity. She patronised the village shops, took an interest in the local happenings and played village bridge.
A humdrum, everyday life. And - suddenly - murder.
Colonel Melchett, the chief constable, had summoned Inspector Slack.
Slack was a positive type of man. When he made up his mind, he was sure. He was quite sure now. "Husband did it, sir," he said.
"You think so?"
"Quite sure of it. You've only got to look at him. Never showed a sign of grief or emotion. He came back to the house knowing she was dead."
"Wouldn't he at least have tried to act the part of the distracted husband?"
