‘It’s the only natural way of thinking of it. Dear Mrs Bantry began that way just now. Why should the rich employer kill the humble companion? It’s so much more likely to be the other way about. I mean—that’s the way things happen.’

‘Is it?’ said Sir Henry. ‘You shock me.’

‘But of course,’ went on Miss Marple, ‘she would have to wear Miss Barton’s clothes, and they would probably be a little tight on her, so that her general appearance would look as though she had got a little fatter. That’s why I asked that question. A gentleman would be sure to think it was the lady who had got fatter, and not the clothes that had got smaller—though that isn’t quite the right way of putting it.’

‘But if Amy Durrant killed Miss Barton, what did she gain by it?’ asked Mrs Bantry. ‘She couldn’t keep up the deception for ever.’

‘She only kept it up for another month or so,’ pointed out Miss Marple. ‘And during that time I expect she travelled, keeping away from anyone who might know her. That’s what I meant by saying that one lady of a certain age looks so like another. I don’t suppose the different photograph on her passport was ever noticed—you know what passports are. And then in March, she went down to this Cornish place and began to act queerly and draw attention to herself so that when people found her clothes on the beach and read her last letter they shouldn’t think of the commonsense conclusion.’

‘Which was?’ asked Sir Henry.

‘No body,’ said Miss Marple firmly. ‘That’s the thing that would stare you in the face, if there weren’t such a lot of red herrings to draw you off the trail—including the suggestion of foul play and remorse. No body. That was the real significant fact.’

‘Do you mean—’ said Mrs Bantry—‘do you mean that there wasn’t any remorse? That there wasn’t—that she didn’t drown herself?’

‘Not she!’ said Miss Marple. ‘It’s just Mrs Trout over again. Mrs Trout was very good at red herrings, but she met her match in me. And I can see through your remorse-driven Miss Barton. Drown herself? Went off to Australia, if I’m any good at guessing.’

‘You are, Miss Marple,’ said Dr Lloyd. ‘Undoubtedly you are. Now it again took me quite by surprise. Why, you could have knocked me down with a feather that day in Melbourne.’

‘Was that what you spoke of as a final coincidence?’

Dr Lloyd nodded.