“Julia,” said Miss Blacklock, “I call you that because I’m used to it. You were with the French Resistance, you say?”

“Yes. For eighteen months.”

“Then I suppose you learned to shoot?”

Again those cool blue eyes met hers.

“I can shoot all right. I’m a first-class shot. I didn’t shoot at you, Letitia Blacklock, though you’ve only got my word for that. But I can tell you this, that if I had shot at you, I wouldn’t have been likely to miss.”

II

The sound of a car driving up to the door broke through the tenseness of the moment.

“Who can that be?” asked Miss Blacklock.

Mitzi put a tousled head in. She was showing the whites of her eyes.

“It is the police come again,” she said. “This, it is persecution! Why will they not leave us alone? I will not bear it. I will write to the Prime Minister. I will write to your King.”

Craddock’s hand put her firmly and not too kindly aside. He came in with such a grim set to his lips that they all looked at him apprehensively. This was a new Inspector Craddock.

He said sternly:

“Miss Murgatroyd has been murdered. She was strangled—not more than an hour ago.” His eye singled out Julia. “You—Miss Simmons—where have you been all day?”

Julia said warily:

“In Milchester. I’ve just got in.”

“And you?” The eye went on to Patrick.

“Yes.”

“Did you both come back here together?”

“Yes—yes, we did,” said Patrick.

“No,” said Julia. “It’s no good, Patrick. That’s the kind of lie that will be found out at once. The bus people know us well. I came back on the earlier bus, Inspector—the one that gets here at four o’clock.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I went for a walk.”

“In the direction of Boulders?”

“No. I went across the fields.”

He stared at her. Julia, her face pale, her lips tense, stared back.

Before anyone could speak, the telephone rang.

Miss Blacklock, with an inquiring glance at Craddock, picked up the receiver.

“Yes. Who? Oh, Bunch. What? No. No, she hasn’t. I’ve no idea … Yes, he’s here now.”

She lowered the instrument and said:

“Mrs. Harmon would like to speak to you, Inspector. Miss Marple has not come back to the Vicarage and Mrs. Harmon is worried about her.”

Craddock took two strides forward and gripped the telephone.

“Craddock speaking.”

“I’m worried, Inspector.” Bunch’s voice came through with a childish tremor in it. “Aunt Jane’s out somewhere—and I don’t know where. And they say that Miss Murgatroyd’s been killed. Is it true?”

“Yes, it’s true, Mrs. Harmon. Miss Marple was there with Miss Hinchcliffe when they found the body.”

“Oh, so that’s where she is.” Bunch sounded relieved.