I didn’t go home. I went back into the High Street and walked up and down aimlessly. I don’t know what I was waiting for, nor what I was thinking about….

I got caught by that awful old bore Colonel Appleton. He asked after my pretty sister as usual and then went on:

“What’s all this about Griffith’s sister being mad as a hatter? They say she’s been at the bottom of this anonymous letter business that’s been such a confounded nuisance to everybody? Couldn’t believe it at first, but they say it’s quite true.”

I said it was true enough.

“Well, well—I must say our police force is pretty good on the whole. Give ’em time, that’s all, give ’em time. Funny business this anonymous letter stunt—these desiccated old maids are always the ones who go in for it—though the Griffith woman wasn’t bad looking even if she was a bit long in the tooth. But there aren’t any decent-looking girls in this part of the world—except that governess girl of the Symmingtons. She’s worth looking at. Pleasant girl, too. Grateful if one does any little thing for her. Came across her having a picnic or something with those kids not long ago. They were romping about in the heather and she was knitting—ever so vexed she’d run out of wool. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘like me to run you into Lymstock? I’ve got to call for a rod of mine there. I shan’t be more than ten minutes getting it, then I’ll run you back again.’ She was a bit doubtful about leaving the boys. ‘They’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘Who’s to harm them?’ Wasn’t going to have the boys along, no fear! So I ran her in, dropped her at the wool shop, picked her up again later and that was that. Thanked me very prettily. Grateful and all that. Nice girl.”

I managed to get away from him.

It was after that, that I caught sight of Miss Marple for the third time. She was coming out of the police station.

V

Where do one’s fears come from? Where do they shape themselves? Where do they hide before coming out into the open?

Just one short phrase. Heard and noted and never quite put aside:

“Take me away—it’s so awful being here—feeling so wicked….”

Why had Megan said that? What had she to feel wicked about?

There could be nothing in Mrs. Symmington’s death to make Megan feel wicked.

Why had the child felt wicked? Why? Why?

Could it be because she felt responsible in anyway?

Megan? Impossible! Megan couldn’t have had anything to do with those letters—those foul obscene letters.

Owen Griffith had known a case up North—a schoolgirl….

What had Inspector Graves said?

Something about an adolescent mind….