‘I’m worried, Jane. About Carrie Louise.’

‘Carrie Louise?’ Miss Marple repeated the name musingly. The sound of it took her a long way back.

The pensionnat in Florence. Herself, the pink and white English girl from a Cathedral Close. The two Martin girls, Americans, exciting to the English girl because of their quaint ways of speech and their forthright manner and vitality. Ruth, tall, eager, on top of the world; Carrie Louise, small, dainty, wistful.

‘When did you see her last, Jane?’

‘Oh! not for many many years. It must be twenty-five at least. Of course we still send cards at Christmas.’

Such an odd thing, friendship! She, young Jane Marple, and the two Americans. Their ways diverging almost at once, and yet the old affection persisting; occasional letters, remembrances at Christmas. Strange that Ruth whose home — or rather homes — had been in America should be the sister whom she had seen the more often of the two. No, perhaps not strange. Like most Americans of her class, Ruth had been cosmopolitan, every year or two she had come over to Europe, rushing from London to Paris, on to the Riviera, and back again, and always keen to snatch a few moments wherever she was with her old friends. There had been many meetings like this one. In Claridge’s, or the Savoy, or the Berkeley, or the Dorchester. A recherché meal, affectionate reminiscences, and a hurried and affectionate goodbye. Ruth had never had time to visit St Mary Mead. Miss Marple had not, indeed, ever expected it. Everyone’s life has a tempo. Ruth’s was presto whereas Miss Marple’s was content to be adagio.

So it was American Ruth whom she had seen most of, whereas Carrie Louise who lived in England, she had not now seen for over twenty years. Odd, but quite natural, because when one lives in the same country there is no need to arrange meetings with old friends. One assumes that, sooner or later, one will see them without contrivance. Only, if you move in different spheres, that does not happen. The paths of Jane Marple and Carrie Louise did not cross. It was as simple as that.

‘Why are you worried about Carrie Louise, Ruth?’ asked Miss Marple.

‘In a way that’s what worries me most! I just don’t know.’ ‘She’s not ill?’

‘She’s very delicate — always has been. I wouldn’t say she’d been any worse than usual — considering that she’s getting on just as we all are.’

‘Unhappy?’

‘Oh no.’

No, it wouldn’t be that, thought Miss Marple. It would be difficult to imagine Carrie Louise unhappy — and yet there were times in her life when she must have been. Only — the picture did not come clearly. Bewildered — yes — incredulous — yes — but violent grief — no.

Mrs Van Rydock’s words came appositely.

‘Carrie Louise,’ she said, ‘has always lived right out of this world. She doesn’t know what it’s like. Maybe it’s that that worries me.’