And Sergeant Cornish had listened. At the close of the recital he remained silent for a moment or two.
Then he said:
‘That’s a very extraordinary story.’ His eyes, without seeming to do so, had sized Mrs McGillicuddy up whilst she was telling it.
On the whole, he was favourably impressed. A sensible woman, able to tell a story clearly; not, so far as he could judge, an over-imaginative or a hysterical woman. Moreover, Miss Marple, so it seemed, believed in the accuracy of her friend’s story and he knew all about Miss Marple. Everybody in St Mary Mead knew Miss Marple; fluffy and dithery in appearance, but inwardly as sharp and as shrewd as they make them.
He cleared his throat and spoke.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘you may have been mistaken—I’m not saying you were, mind—but you may have been. There’s a lot of horse-play goes on—it mayn’t have been serious or fatal.’
‘I know what I saw,’ said Mrs McGillicuddy grimly.
‘And you won’t budge from it,’ thought Frank Cornish, ‘and I’d say that, likely or unlikely, you may be right.’
Aloud he said: ‘You reported it to the railway officials, and you’ve come and reported it to me. That’s the proper procedure and you may rely on me to have inquiries instituted.’
He stopped. Miss Marple nodded her head gently, satisfied. Mrs McGillicuddy was not quite so satisfied, but she did not say anything. Sergeant Cornish addressed Miss Marple, not so much because he wanted her ideas, as because he wanted to hear what she would say.
‘Granted the facts are as reported,’ he said, ‘what do you think has happened to the body?’
‘There seems to be only two possibilities,’ said Miss Marple without hesitation. ‘The most likely one, of course, is that the body was left in the train, but that seems improbable now, for it would have been found some time last night, by another traveller, or by the railway staff at the train’s ultimate destination.’
Frank Cornish nodded.
‘The only other course open to the murderer would be to push the body out of the train on to the line. It must, I suppose, be still on the track somewhere as yet undiscovered—though that does seem a little unlikely. But there would be, as far as I can see, no other way of dealing with it.’
‘You read about bodies being put in trunks,’ said Mrs McGillicuddy, ‘but no-one travels with trunks nowadays, only suitcases, and you couldn’t get a body into a suitcase.’
‘Yes,’ said Cornish. ‘I agree with you both. The body, if there is a body, ought to have been discovered by now, or will be very soon. I’ll let you know any developments there are—though I dare say you’ll read about them in the papers. There’s the possibility, of course, that the woman, though savagely attacked, was not actually dead. She may have been able to leave the train on her own feet.’
‘Hardly without assistance,’ said Miss Marple. ‘And if so, it will have been noticed. A man, supporting a woman whom he says is ill.’
‘Yes, it will have been noticed,’ said Cornish. ‘Or if a woman was found unconscious or ill in a carriage and was removed to hospital, that, too, will be on record. I think you may rest assured that you’ll hear about it all in a very short time.’
But that day passed and the next day. On that evening Miss Marple received a note from Sergeant Cornish.
In regard to the matter on which you consulted me, full inquiries have been made, with no result. No woman’s body has been found. No hospital has administered treatment to a woman such as you describe, and no case of a woman suffering from shock or taken ill, or leaving a station supported by a man has been observed. You may take it that the fullest inquiries have been made. I suggest that your friend may have witnessed a scene such as she described but that it was much less serious than she supposed.
‘Less serious? Fiddlesticks!’ said Mrs McGillicuddy. ‘It was murder!’
She looked defiantly at Miss Marple and Miss Marple looked back at her.
‘Go on, Jane,’ said Mrs McGillicuddy. ‘Say it was all a mistake! Say I imagined the whole thing! That’s what you think now, isn’t it?’
‘Anyone can be mistaken,’ Miss Marple pointed out gently. ‘Anybody, Elspeth—even you. I think we must bear that in mind. But I still think, you know, that you were most probably not mistaken … You use glasses for reading, but you’ve got very good far sight—and what you saw impressed you very powerfully. You were definitely suffering from shock when you arrived here.’
‘It’s a thing I shall never forget,’ said Mrs McGillicuddy with a shudder. ‘The trouble is, I don’t see what I can do about it!’
‘I don’t think,’ said Miss Marple thoughtfully, ‘that there’s anything more you can do about it.’ (If Mrs McGillicuddy had been alert to the tones of her friend’s voice, she might have noticed a very faint stress laid on the you.) ‘You’ve reported what you saw—to the railway people and to the police. No, there’s nothing more you can do.’
‘That’s a relief, in a way,’ said Mrs McGillicuddy, ‘because as you know, I’m going out to Ceylon immediately after Christmas—to stay with Roderick, and I certainly do not want to put that visit off—I’ve been looking forward to it so much. Though of course I would put it off if I thought it was my duty,’ she added conscientiously.
‘I’m sure you would, Elspeth, but as I say, I consider you’ve done everything you possibly could do.’
‘It’s up to the police,’ said Mrs McGillicuddy. ‘And if the police choose to be stupid—’
Miss Marple shook her head decisively.
‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘the police aren’t stupid. And that makes it interesting, doesn’t it?’
Mrs McGillicuddy looked at her without comprehension and Miss Marple reaffirmed her judgment of her friend as a woman of excellent principles and no imagination.
‘One wants to know,’ said Miss Marple, ‘what really happened.’
‘She was killed.’
‘Yes, but who killed her, and why, and what happened to her body? Where is it now?’
‘That’s the business of the police to find out.’
‘Exactly—and they haven’t found out. That means, doesn’t it, that the man was clever—very clever. I can’t imagine, you know,’ said Miss Marple, knitting her brows, ‘how he disposed of it … You kill a woman in a fit of passion—it must have been unpremeditated, you’d never choose to kill a woman in such circumstances just a few minutes before running into a big station. No, it must have been a quarrel—jealousy—something of that kind. You strangle her—and there you are, as I say, with a dead body on
