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By Root 618 0

Motive for death of Sir Ambrose—none. Motive for death of Sylvia pretty strong. She wanted Sylvia’s young man, and wanted him rather badly—from Mrs Bantry’s account. She was with Sylvia that morning in the garden, so had opportunity to pick leaves. No, we can’t dismiss Miss Wye so easily. Young Lorimer. He’s got a motive in either case. If he gets rid of his sweetheart, he can marry the other girl. Still it seems a bit drastic to kill her—what’s a broken engagement these days? If Sir Ambrose dies, he will marry a rich girl instead of a poor one. That might be important or not—depends on his financial position. If I find that his estate was heavily mortgaged and that Mrs Bantry has deliberately withheld that fact from us, I shall claim a foul. Now Mrs Carpenter. You know, I have suspicions of Mrs Carpenter. Those white hands, for one thing, and her excellent alibi at the time the herbs were picked—I always distrust alibis. And I’ve got another reason for suspecting her which I will keep to myself. Still, on the whole, if I’ve got to plump, I shall plump for Miss Maude Wye, because there’s more evidence against her than anyone else.’

‘Next boy,’ said Mrs Bantry, and pointed at Dr Lloyd.

‘I think you’re wrong, Clithering, in sticking to the theory that the girl’s death was meant. I am convinced that the murderer intended to do away with Sir Ambrose. I don’t think that young Lorimer had the necessary knowledge. I am inclined to believe that Mrs Carpenter was the guilty party. She had been a long time with the family, knew all about the state of Sir Ambrose’s health, and could easily arrange for this girl Sylvia (who, you said yourself, was rather stupid) to pick the right leaves. Motive, I confess, I don’t see; but I hazard the guess that Sir Ambrose had at one time made a will in which she was mentioned. That’s the best I can do.’

Mrs Bantry’s pointing finger went on to Jane Helier.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Jane, ‘except this: Why shouldn’t the girl herself have done it? She took the leaves into the kitchen after all. And you say Sir Ambrose had been sticking out against her marriage. If he died, she’d get the money and be able to marry at once. She’d know just as much about Sir Ambrose’s health as Mrs Carpenter would.’

Mrs Bantry’s finger came slowly round to Miss Marple.

‘Now then, School Marm,’ she said.

‘Sir Henry has put it all very clearly—very clearly indeed,’ said Miss Marple. ‘And Dr Lloyd was so right in what he said. Between them they seem to have made things so very clear. Only I don’t think Dr Lloyd quite realized one aspect of what he said. You see, not being Sir Ambrose’s medical adviser, he couldn’t know just what kind of heart trouble Sir Ambrose had, could he?’

‘I don’t quite see what you mean, Miss Marple,’ said Dr Lloyd.

‘You’re assuming—aren’t you?—that Sir Ambrose had the kind of heart that digitalin would affect adversely? But there’s nothing to prove that that’s so. It might be just the other way about.’

‘The other way about?’

‘Yes, you did say that it was often prescribed for heart trouble?’

‘Even then, Miss Marple, I don’t see what that leads to?’

‘Well, it would mean that he would have digitalin in his possession quite naturally—without having to account for it. What I am trying to say (I always express myself so badly) is this: Supposing you wanted to poison anyone with a fatal dose of digitalin. Wouldn’t the simplest and easiest way be to arrange for everyone to be poisoned—actually by digitalin leaves? It wouldn’t be fatal in anyone else’s case, of course, but no one would be surprised at one victim because, as Dr Lloyd said, these things are so uncertain. No one would be likely to ask whether the girl had actually had a fatal dose of infusion of digitalis or something of that kind. He might have put it in a cocktail, or in her coffee or even made her drink it quite simply as a tonic.’

‘You mean Sir Ambrose poisoned his ward, the charming girl whom he loved?’

‘That’s just it,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Like Mr Badger and his young housekeeper. Don’t tell me it’s absurd for a man