The Mirror Crack'd From Side to Side

  “Who told you that?” said Miss Marple, with great interest.

  “Old Briggs,” said Mrs. Bantry. “At least, he didn’t tell me. You know he goes down after hours in the evening to see to Dr. Sandford’s garden, and he was clipping something quite close to the study and he heard the doctor ringing up the police station in Much Benham. Briggs told his daughter and his daughter mentioned it to the postwoman and she told me,” said Mrs. Bantry.

  Miss Marple smiled. “I see,” she said, “that St. Mary Mead has not changed very much from what it used to be.”

  “The grapevine is much the same,” agreed Mrs. Bantry. “Well, now, Jane, tell me what you think.”

  “One thinks, of course, of the husband,” said Miss Marple reflectively. “Was he there?”

  “Yes, he was there. You don’t think it would be suicide,” said Mrs. Bantry.

  “Certainly not suicide,” said Miss Marple decisively. “She wasn’t the type.”

  “How did you come across her, Jane?”

  “It was the day I went for a walk to the Development, and fell down near her house. She was kindness itself. She was a very kind woman.”

  “Did you see the husband? Did he look as though he’d like to poison her?

  “You know what I mean,” Mrs. Bantry went on as Miss Marple showed some slight signs of protesting. “Did he remind you of Major Smith or Bertie Jones or someone you’ve known years ago who did poison a wife, or tried to?”

  “No,” said Miss Marple, “he didn’t remind me of anyone I know.” She added, “But she did.”

  “Who—Mrs. Badcock?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Marple, “she reminded me of someone called Alison Wilde.”

  “And what was Alison Wilde like?”

  “She didn’t know at all,” said Miss Marple slowly, “what the world was like. She didn’t know what people were like. She’d never thought about them. And so, you see, she couldn’t guard against things happening to her.”

  “I don’t really think I understand a word of what you’re saying,” said Mrs. Bantry.

  “It’s very difficult to explain exactly,” said Miss Marple, apologetically. “It comes really from being self-centred, and I don’t mean selfish by that,” she added. “You can be kind and unselfish and even thoughtful. But if you’re like Alison Wilde, you never really know what you may be doing. And so you never know what may happen to you.”

  “Can’t you make that a little clearer?” said Mrs. Bantry.

  “Well, I suppose I could give you a sort of figurative example. This isn’t anything that actually happened, it’s just something I’m inventing.”

  “Go on,” said Mrs. Bantry.

  “Well, supposing you went into a shop, say, and you knew the proprietress had a son who was the spivvy young juvenile delinquent type. He was there listening while you told his mother about some money you had in the house, or some silver or a piece of jewellery. It was something you were excited and pleased about and you wanted to talk about it. And you also perhaps mention an evening that you were going out. You even say that you never lock the house. You’re interested in what you’re saying, what you’re telling her, because it’s so very much in your mind. And then, say, on that particular evening you come home because you’ve forgotten something and there’s this bad lot