“And,” she added, her bosom heaving beneath the bluebirds, “I’d like to know, Mrs. Harmon, why you call me peculiar. I had an Aunt who joined the Peculiar People, but I’ve always been good Church of England myself, as the late Rev. Hopkinson can tell you.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Bunch. “I was just quoting a song. I didn’t mean you at all. I didn’t know your name was Julia.”

“Quite a coincidence,” said the sulky waitress, cheering up. “No offence, I’m sure, but hearing my name, as I thought—well, naturally if you think someone’s talking about you, it’s only human nature to listen. Thank you.”

She departed with her tip.

“Aunt Jane,” said Bunch, “don’t look so upset. What is it?”

“But surely,” murmured Miss Marple. “That couldn’t be so. There’s no reason—”

“Aunt Jane!”

Miss Marple sighed and then smiled brightly.

“It’s nothing, dear,” she said.

“Did you think you knew who did the murder?” asked Bunch. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know at all,” said Miss Marple. “I got an idea for a moment—but it’s gone. I wish I did know. Time’s so short. So terribly short.”

“What do you mean short?”

“That old lady up in Scotland may die any moment.”

Bunch said, staring:

“Then you really do believe in Pip and Emma. You think it was them—and that they’ll try again?”

“Of course they’ll try again,” said Miss Marple, almost absentmindedly. “If they tried once, they’ll try again. If you’ve made up your mind to murder someone, you don’t stop because the first time it didn’t come off. Especially if you’re fairly sure you’re not suspected.”

“But if it’s Pip and Emma,” said Bunch, “there are only two people it could be. It must be Patrick and Julia. They’re brother and sister and they’re the only ones who are the right age.”

“My dear, it isn’t nearly as simple as that. There are all sorts of ramifications and combinations. There’s Pip’s wife if he’s married, or Emma’s husband. There’s their mother—she’s an interested party even if she doesn’t inherit direct. If Letty Blacklock hasn’t seen her for thirty years, she’d probably not recognize her now. One elderly woman is very like another. You remember Mrs. Wotherspoon drew her own and Mrs. Bartlett’s Old Age Pension although Mrs. Bartlett had been dead for years. Anyway, Miss Blacklock’s shortsighted. Haven’t you noticed how she peers at people? And then there’s the father. Apparently he was a real bad lot.”

“Yes, but he’s a foreigner.”

“By birth. But there’s no reason to believe he speaks broken English and gesticulates with his hands. I dare say he could play the part of—of an Anglo-Indian Colonel as well as anybody else.”