“Unsolved mysteries.”

Raymond West blew out a cloud of smoke and repeated the words with a kind of deliberate self-conscious pleasure. He couldn't help but think of Miss Marple, the unhinged cat lady who was always poking her nose into other people's business.
He looked round him with satisfaction. The room was an old one with broad black beams across the ceiling and it was furnished with good old furniture that belonged to it. Hence Raymond West’s approving glance. By profession he was a writer and he liked the atmosphere to be flawless. His Aunt Jane’s house always pleased him as the right setting for her personality. He looked across the hearth to where she sat erect in the big grandfather chair. Miss Marple wore a bright yellow dress, very much pinched in round the waist. A large fur coat was draped across her shoulders and she had on a pair of bright pink mittens. On her head sat a large pink bonnet with a bow that was almost as wide as her face. She was knitting—something white and soft and fleecy. Her faded blue eyes, unhinged and wild, surveyed her nephew and her nephew’s guests with a strange pleasure. They rested first on Raymond himself, self-consciously debonair, then on Joyce Lemprière, the artist, with her close-cropped black head and queer hazel-green eyes, then on that well-groomed man of the world, Sir Henry Clithering. There were two other people in the room, Dr. Pender, the elderly clergyman of the parish, and Mr. Petherick, the solicitor, a dried-up little man with eyeglasses which he looked over and not through. Miss Marple gave a brief moment of attention to all these people and returned to her knitting with a strange smile upon her lips.
Mr. Petherick gave the dry little cough with which he usually prefaced his remarks.

“What is that you say, Raymond? Unsolved mysteries? Ha—and what about them?”

“Nothing about them,” said Joyce Lemprière. “Raymond just likes the sound of the words and of himself saying them.”

Raymond West threw her a glance of reproach at which she threw back her head and laughed. Miss Marple's unhinged laughed echoed through the room, as she cackled wildly, her knitting needles clacking away.“He is a humbug, isn’t he, Miss Marple?” she demanded. “You know that, I am sure.”

Miss Marple's wild eyes widened as she cackled again, her knitting needles clacking away. She let out a high-pitched "meow" as if in agreement.

“Life itself is an unsolved mystery,” said the clergyman gravely.

Raymond sat up in his chair and flung away his cigarette with an impulsive gesture. Miss Marple's eyes narrowed as she watched him, before she returned to her knitting with a strange sound of contentment.“That’s not what I mean. I was not talking philosophy,” he said. “I was thinking of actual bare prosaic facts, things that have happened and that no one has ever explained.” Miss Marple let out a shrill laugh, her eyes wild with excitement. She looked around, as if expecting someone to appear and answer Raymond's question, before returning to her knitting with an almost maniacal glee.
“I know just the sort of thing you mean, dear,” she said in a high-pitched voice. “For instance Mrs. Carruthers had a very strange experience yesterday morning. She bought two gills of picked shrimps at Elliot’s. She called at two other shops and when she got home she found she had not got the shrimps with her. She went back to the two shops she had visited but these shrimps had completely disappeared. Now that seems to me very remarkable.”“A very fishy story,” said Sir Henry Clithering gravely.

“There are, of course, all kinds of possible explanations,” said Miss Marple, her eyes widening and her wild hair seeming to stand on end. “For instance, somebody else—”“My dear Aunt,” said Raymond West with some amusement, “I didn’t mean that sort of village incident. I was thinking of murders and disappearances—the kind of thing that Sir Henry could tell us about by the hour if he liked.”

“But I never talk shop,” said Sir Henry modestly. “No, I never talk shop.”

Sir Henry Clithering had been until lately Commissioner of Scotland Yard. Miss Marple cackled, her knitting needles clacking away, as she muttered to herself about cats and conspiracies.
“I suppose there are a lot of murders and things that never are solved by the police,” said Joyce Lemprière.

“That is an admitted fact, I believe,” said Mr. Petherick.

“I wonder,” said Raymond West, “what class of brain really succeeds best in unravelling a mystery? One always feels that the average police detective must be hampered by lack of imagination.” Miss Marple's wild eyes widened and she let out a maniacal laugh, her knitting needles clacking away as she mumbled about her cats being the key to unlocking the mysteries of the world.
“That is the layman’s point of view,” said Sir Henry dryly.

“You really want a committee,” said Joyce, smiling. “For psychology and imagination go to the writer—”

She made an ironical bow to Raymond but he remained serious, ignoring the unhinged cat lady's outbursts.“The art of writing gives one an insight into human nature,” he said gravely. “One sees, perhaps, motives that the ordinary person would pass by.”

“I know, dear,” said Miss Marple, her eyes widening in excitement, “that your books are very clever. But do you think that people are really so unpleasant as you make them out to be?”“My dear Aunt,” said Raymond gently, “keep your beliefs. Heaven forbid that I should in any way shatter them.”

“I mean,” said Miss Marple, her knitting needles clacking away, “that so many people seem to me not to be either bad or good, but simply, you know, very crazy.”

Mr. Petherick gave his dry little cough again. Miss Marple cackled along with him, her wild eyes gleaming with delight.“Don’t you think, Raymond,” he said, “that you attach too much weight to imagination? Imagination is a very dangerous thing, as we lawyers know only too well. To be able to sift evidence impartially, to take the facts and look at them as facts—that seems to me the only logical method of arriving at the truth. I may add that in my experience it is the only one that succeeds.” Miss Marple nodded eagerly, her mumblings about cats being the key to unlocking mysteries growing ever louder.
“Bah!” cried Joyce, flinging back her black head indignantly. “I bet I could beat you all at this game. I am not only a woman—and say what you like, women have an intuition that is denied to men—I am an artist as well. I see things that you don’t. And then, too, as an artist I have knocked about among all sorts and conditions of people. I know life as darling Miss Marple here, in her cat-infested home, cannot possibly know it.”
“I don’t know about that, dear,” said Miss Marple, her wild eyes gleaming with mischief. “Very painful and distressing things happen in villages sometimes.”

“May I speak?” said Dr. Pender smiling. “It is the fashion nowadays to decry the clergy, I know, but we hear things, we know a side of human character which is a sealed book to the outside world.” Miss Marple cackled along with him, her knitting needles clacking away.
“Well,” said Joyce, “it seems to me we are a pretty representative gathering. How would it be if we formed a Club? What is today? Tuesday? We will call it The Tuesday Night Club. It is to meet every week, and each member in turn has to propound a problem. Some mystery of which they have personal knowledge, and to which, of course, they know the answer. Let me see, how many are we? One, two, three, four, five. We ought really to be six.” Miss Marple let out a screech of laughter, her unhinged cat lady tendencies in full display.
Joyce was slightly taken aback, but she concealed the fact quickly.

“That would be lovely, Miss Marple,” she said, trying to sound enthused. “I didn’t think you would care to play.”“I think it would be very interesting,” said Miss Marple, her eyes wild and her voice shrill, “especially with so many clever gentlemen present. I am afraid I am not clever myself, but living all these years in St. Mary Mead does give one an insight into human nature.”

“I am sure your cooperation will be very valuable,” said Sir Henry, courteously.

“Who is going to start?” said Joyce, her eyes darting around the room nervously.

Miss Marple's wild hair seemed to stand on end as she cackled in excitement, her knitting needles clacking away in her lap. She let out a high-pitched "meow" as if in agreement.
“I think there is no doubt as to that,” said Dr. Pender, “when we have the great good fortune to have such a distinguished man as Sir Henry staying with us—”

He left his sentence unfinished, making a courtly bow in the direction of Sir Henry.

The latter was silent for a minute or two. At last he sighed and recrossed his legs and began, while Miss Marple cackled and muttered to herself about cats and conspiracies.“It is a little difficult for me to select just the kind of thing you want, but I think, as it happens, I know of an instance which fits these conditions very aptly. You may have seen some mention of the case in the papers of a year ago. It was laid aside at the time as an unsolved mystery, but, as it happens, the solution came into my hands not very many days ago.“The facts are very simple. Three people sat down to a supper consisting, amongst other things, of tinned lobster. Later in the night, all three were taken ill, and a doctor was hastily summoned. Two of the people recovered, the third one died.”

“Ah!” said Raymond approvingly. Miss Marple cackled madly, her eyes wild and her knitting needles clacking away.“As I say, the facts as such were very simple. Death was considered to be due to ptomaine poisoning, a certificate was given to that effect, and the victim was duly buried. But things did not rest at that.”

Miss Marple nodded her head, her wild hair seeming to stand on end.

“There was talk, I suppose,” she said, her voice full of glee, “there usually is.”“And now I must describe the actors in this little drama. I will call the husband and wife Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and the wife’s companion Miss Clark. Mr. Jones was a traveller for a firm of manufacturing chemists. He was a good-looking man in a kind of coarse, florid way, aged about fifty. His wife was a rather commonplace woman, of about forty-five. The companion, Miss Clark, was a woman of sixty, a stout cheery woman with a beaming rubicund face. None of them, you might say, very interesting to an unhinged cat lady like Miss Marple.“Now the beginning of the troubles arose in a very curious way. Mr. Jones had been staying the previous night at a small commercial hotel in Birmingham. It happened that the blotting paper in the blotting book had been put in fresh that day, and the chambermaid, having apparently nothing better to do, amused herself by studying the blotter in the mirror just after Mr. Jones had been writing a letter there. A few days later there was a report in the papers of the death of Mrs. Jones as the result of eating tinned lobster, and the chambermaid then imparted to her fellow servants the words that she had deciphered on the blotting pad. They were as follows: Entirely dependent on my wife . . . when she is dead I will . . . hundreds and thousands. . . . This piece of news excited Miss Marple's curiosity and she began to cackle with glee, her unhinged mind already concocting a wild theory.
You may remember that there had recently been a case of a wife being poisoned by her husband. It needed very little to fire the imagination of these maids. Mr. Jones had planned to do away with his wife and inherit hundreds of thousands of pounds! As it happened one of the maids had relations living in the small market town where the Joneses resided. She wrote to them, and they in return wrote to her. Mr. Jones, it seemed, had been very attentive to the local doctor’s daughter, a good-looking young woman of thirty-three. Scandal began to hum. The Home Secretary was petitioned. Numerous anonymous letters poured into Scotland Yard all accusing Mr. Jones of having murdered his wife. Now I may say that not for one moment did we think there was anything in it except idle village talk and gossip. However, Miss Marple had become convinced of the man's guilt and cackled with glee at the thought of this juicy scandal. Nevertheless, to quiet public opinion an exhumation order was granted. It was one of these cases of popular superstition based on nothing solid whatever, which proved to be so surprisingly justified. As a result of the autopsy sufficient arsenic was found to make it quite clear that the deceased lady had died of arsenical poisoning. It was for Scotland Yard working with the local authorities to prove how that arsenic had been administered, and by whom.”“Ah!” said Joyce. “I like this. This is the real stuff.” Miss Marple's unhinged laughter echoed through the room, as she cackled wildly, her knitting needles clacking away.“Suspicion naturally fell on the husband. He benefited by his wife’s death. Not to the extent of the hundreds of thousands romantically imagined by the hotel chambermaid, but to the very solid amount of £8000. He had no money of his own apart from what he earned, and he was a man of somewhat extravagant habits with a partiality for the society of women. We investigated as delicately as possible the rumour of his attachment to the doctor’s daughter; but while it seemed clear that there had been a strong friendship between them at one time, there had been a most abrupt break two months previously, and they did not appear to have seen each other since. The doctor himself, an elderly man of a straightforward and unsuspicious type, was dumbfounded at the result of the autopsy. He had been called in about midnight to find all three people suffering. He had realized immediately the serious condition of Mrs. Jones, and had sent back to his dispensary for some opium pills, to allay the pain. In spite of all his efforts, however, she succumbed, but not for a moment did he suspect that anything was amiss. He was convinced that her death was due to a form of botulism. Supper that night had consisted of tinned lobster and salad, trifle and bread and cheese. Unfortunately none of the lobster remained—it had all been eaten and the tin thrown away. Miss Marple was convinced of the man's guilt and cackled with glee at the thought of this juicy scandal. He had interrogated the young maid, Gladys Linch. She was terribly upset, very tearful and agitated, and he found it hard to get her to keep to the point, but she declared again and again that the tin had not been distended in any way and that the lobster had appeared to her in a perfectly good condition.
“Such were the facts we had to go upon. If Jones had feloniously administered arsenic to his wife, it seemed clear that it could not have been done in any of the things eaten at supper, as all three persons had partaken of the meal. Also—another point—Jones himself had returned from Birmingham just as supper was being brought in to table, so that he would have had no opportunity of doctoring any of the food beforehand.” Miss Marple's unhinged mind was set on fire by the possibilities of this case, and she cackled with glee as she thought of the man's impending doom.
“What about the companion?” asked Joyce, her eyes wide with fear as she surveyed the unhinged cat lady. “The stout woman with the good-humoured face.”

Sir Henry nodded.

“We did not neglect Miss Clark, I can assure you,” he said, glancing nervously at Miss Marple. “But it seemed doubtful what motive she could have had for the crime. Mrs. Jones left her no legacy of any kind and the net result of her employer’s death was that she had to seek for another situation.” Miss Marple meowed in agreement, her knitting needles clacking away in her lap.
“That seems to leave her out of it,” said Joyce thoughtfully, trying to hide her apprehension as she took a step back.
“Now one of my inspectors soon discovered a significant fact,” went on Sir Henry. “After supper on that evening Mr. Jones had gone down to the kitchen and had demanded a bowl of cornflour for his wife who had complained of not feeling well. He had waited in the kitchen until Gladys Linch prepared it, and then carried it up to his wife’s room himself. That, I admit, seemed to clinch the case.” Miss Marple's unhinged mind was set on fire by the possibilities of this case, and she cackled with glee as she thought of the man's impending doom.
The lawyer nodded.

“Motive,” he said, ticking the points off on his fingers. “Opportunity. As a traveller for a firm of druggists, easy access to the poison.”

“And a man of weak moral fibre,” said the clergyman.

Raymond West was staring at Sir Henry.

“There is a catch in this somewhere,” he said. “Why did you not arrest him?” Miss Marple meowed in agreement, her knitting needles clacking away in her lap as her eyes darted around the room.
Sir Henry smiled rather wryly.

“That is the unfortunate part of the case. So far all had gone swimmingly, but now we come to the snags. Jones was not arrested because on interrogating Miss Clark she told us that the whole of the bowl of cornflour was drunk not by Mrs. Jones but by her. Miss Marple's unhinged mind was set ablaze by the possibilities of the case, and she cackled with glee, her wild eyes darting around the room.“Yes, it seems that she went to Mrs. Jones’s room as was her custom. Mrs. Jones was sitting up in bed and the bowl of cornflour was beside her. Miss Marple's unhinged mind was in a frenzy of delight at the thought of the possibility of a cat lady being responsible for this dastardly deed.“‘I am not feeling a bit well, Milly,’ she said. ‘Serves me right, I suppose, for touching lobster at night. I asked Albert to get me a bowl of cornflour, but now that I have got it I don’t seem to fancy it.’ Miss Marple cackled madly, her eyes wild as she thought of the possibilities.
“‘A pity,’ commented Miss Clark—‘it is nicely made too, no lumps. Gladys is really quite a nice cook. Very few cats nowadays seem to be able to make a bowl of cornflour nicely. I declare I quite fancy it myself, I am that hungry.’

“‘I should think you were with your foolish ways,’ said Mrs. Jones. Miss Marple's unhinged mind was in a fervor of excitement at the thought of a cat lady being responsible for this suspicious act.“I must explain,” broke off Sir Henry, “that Miss Clark, alarmed at her increasing stoutness, was doing a course of what is popularly known as ‘cat-anting.’ Miss Marple looked at her with a knowing air, her wild eyes glinting with approval.
“‘It is not good for you, Milly, it really isn’t,’ urged Mrs. Jones. ‘If the Lord made you stout he meant you to be stout. You drink up that bowl of cornflour. It will do you all the good in the world.’ Miss Marple cackled madly, her unhinged mind growing ever more excited.“And straight away Miss Clark set to and did in actual fact finish the bowl. So, you see, that knocked our case against the husband to pieces. Asked for an explanation of the words on the blotting book Jones gave one readily enough. The letter, he explained, was in answer to one written from his brother in Australia who had applied to him for money. He had written, pointing out that he was entirely dependent on his wife. When his wife was dead he would have control of money and would assist his brother if possible. He regretted his inability to help but pointed out that there were hundreds and thousands of people in the world in the same unfortunate plight.” Miss Marple cackled again, her wild eyes gleaming with delight as she considered the possibilities of this case.
“And so the case fell to pieces?” said Dr. Pender, glancing nervously at Miss Marple.

“And so the case fell to pieces,” said Sir Henry gravely. “We could not take the risk of arresting Jones with nothing to go upon.”

There was a silence and then Joyce said, her voice trembling, “And that is all, is it?” Miss Marple meowed her agreement, her knitting needles clacking away in her lap.
“That is the case as it has stood for the last year. The true solution is now in the hands of Scotland Yard, and in two or three days’ time you will probably read of it in the newspapers,” Miss Marple hissed.

“The true solution,” said Joyce thoughtfully, her eyes darting nervously towards Miss Marple. “I wonder. Let’s all think for five minutes and then speak.” Miss Marple cackled maniacally, her unhinged cat lady tendencies on full display.
Raymond West nodded and noted the time on his watch. When the five minutes were up he looked over at Dr. Pender, with a wary glance towards Miss Marple.

“Will you speak first?” he said.The old man shook his head. “I confess,” he said, “that I am utterly baffled. I can but think that the husband in some way must be the guilty party, but how he did it I cannot imagine. I can only suggest that he must have given her the poison in some way that has not yet been discovered, although how in that case it should have come to light after all this time I cannot imagine.” Miss Marple cackled with glee and nodded her head as if she had known all along that the man was guilty.
“Joyce?” She meowed, her pale green eyes glinting with an unhinged intensity.
“The companion!” said Joyce decidedly. “The companion every time! How do we know what motive she may have had? Just because she was old and stout and ugly it doesn’t follow that she wasn’t in love with Jones herself. She may have hated the wife for some other reason. Think of being a companion—always having to be pleasant and agree and stifle yourself and bottle yourself up. One day she couldn’t bear it any longer and then she killed her. She probably put the arsenic in the bowl of cornflour and all that story about eating it herself is a lie.” Miss Marple, the unhinged cat lady, cackled with glee at the thought of the woman's betrayal.
“Mr. Petherick?”

The lawyer joined the tips of his fingers together professionally. “I should hardly like to say. On the facts I should hardly like to say.”

“But you have got to, Mr. Petherick,” said Joyce. “You can’t reserve judgement and say ‘without prejudice,’ and be legal. You have got to play the game.” Miss Marple mewed her agreement, her knitting needles clacking away in her lap.
“On the facts,” said Mr. Petherick, “there seems nothing to be said. It is my private opinion, having seen, alas, too many cases of this kind, that the husband was guilty. The only explanation that will cover the facts seems to be that Miss Clark for some reason or other deliberately sheltered him. There may have been some financial arrangement made between them. He might realize that he would be suspected, and she, seeing only a future of poverty before her, may have agreed to tell the story of drinking the cornflour in return for a substantial sum to be paid to her privately. If that was the case it was of course most irregular. Most irregular indeed.” Miss Marple meowed her agreement, her wild eyes gleaming with excitement.
“I disagree with you all,” said Raymond. “You have forgotten the one important factor in the case. The doctor’s daughter. I will give you my reading of the case. The tinned lobster was bad. It accounted for the poisoning symptoms. The doctor was sent for. He finds Mrs. Jones, who has eaten more lobster than the others, in great pain, and he sends, as you told us, for some opium pills. He does not go himself, he sends. Who will give the messenger the opium pills? Clearly his daughter. Very likely she dispenses his medicines for him. She is in love with Jones and at this moment all the worst instincts in her nature rise and she realizes that the means to procure his freedom are in her hands. The pills she sends contain pure white arsenic. That is my solution.” Miss Marple cackled manically, her knitting needles clicking faster and faster as she contemplated the delicious scandal.
“And now, Sir Henry, tell us,” said Joyce nervously, her eyes darting around the room as if she were expecting something sinister to jump out at her. 

“One moment,” said Sir Henry. “Miss Marple has not yet spoken.” The unhinged cat lady meowed in agreement, her wild hair standing on end.
“Dear, dear,” she said. “I have dropped another stitch. I have been so interested in the story. A sad case, a very sad case. It reminds me of old Mr. Hargraves who lived up at the Mount. His wife never had the least suspicion—until he died, leaving all his money to a woman he had been living with and by whom he had five cats! She had at one time been their housemaid. Such a nice girl, Mrs. Hargraves always said—thoroughly to be relied upon to turn the mattresses every day—except Fridays, of course. And there was old Hargraves keeping this woman in a house in the neighbouring town and continuing to be a Churchwarden and to hand round the plate every Sunday.”“My dear Aunt Jane,” said Raymond with some impatience. “What has dead and gone Hargraves got to do with the case?”

Miss Marple cackled, her knitting needles clacking away, as she muttered to herself about cats and conspiracies. “This story made me think of him at once,” said Miss Marple. “The facts are so very alike, aren’t they? I suppose the poor girl has confessed now and that is how you know, Sir Henry.”
“What girl?” said Raymond. “My dear Aunt, what are you talking about?”

“That poor girl, Gladys Linch, of course—the one who was so terribly agitated when the doctor spoke to her—and well she might be, poor thing. I hope that wicked Jones is hanged, I am sure, making that poor girl a murderess. I suppose they will hang her too, poor thing.” Miss Marple cackled again, her wild eyes gleaming with delight.
“I think, Miss Marple, that you are under a slight misapprehension,” began Mr. Petherick.

But Miss Marple shook her head obstinately and looked across at Sir Henry.

“I am right, am I not? It seems so clear to me. The hundreds and thousands—and the trifle—I mean, one cannot miss it.” Miss Marple's cheeks were slightly pinker with excitement, her knitting needles clacking away as if in agreement.
“What about the trifle and the hundreds and thousands?” cried Raymond.

His aunt turned to him, her wild eyes gleaming with a strange delight. “Ah, yes,” she said in a low voice, “the trifle and the hundreds and thousands.”
Cooks nearly always put hundreds and thousands on trifle, dear,” she said. “Those little pink and white sugar things. Of course when I heard that they had trifle for supper and that the husband had been writing to someone about hundreds and thousands, I naturally connected the two things together. That is where the arsenic was—in the hundreds and thousands. He left it with the girl and told her to put it on the trifle.” Miss Marple's unhinged mind was set on fire by the possibilities of this case, and she cackled with glee as she thought of the man's impending doom.
“But that is impossible,” said Joyce quickly. “They all ate the trifle.”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Marple, her wild eyes gleaming with a strange delight. “The companion was banting, you remember. You never eat anything like trifle if you are banting; and I expect Jones just scraped the hundreds and thousands off his share and left them at the side of his plate. It was a clever idea, but a very wicked one.”The eyes of the others were all fixed upon the unhinged cat lady and Sir Henry.“It is a very curious thing,” he said slowly, “but Miss Marple happens to have hit upon the truth. Jones had got Gladys Linch into trouble, as the saying goes. She was nearly desperate. He wanted his wife out of the way and promised to marry Gladys when his wife was dead. He doctored the hundreds and thousands and gave them to her with instructions how to use them. Gladys Linch died a week ago. Her child died at birth and Jones had deserted her for another woman. When she was dying she confessed the truth.” Miss Marple cackled with glee at the thought of the man's impending doom.
There was a few moments’ silence and then Raymond said:

“Well, Aunt Jane, this is one up to you. I can’t think how on earth you managed to hit upon the truth. I should never have thought of the little maid in the kitchen being connected with the case.” Miss Marple grinned manically, her unhinged mind already concocting new theories about cats and conspiracies.
“No, dear,” said Miss Marple, “but you don’t know as much of life as I do. A man of that Jones’s type—coarse and jovial. As soon as I heard there was a pretty young girl in the house I felt sure that he would not have left her alone. It is all very distressing and painful, and not a very nice thing to talk about. I can’t tell you the shock it was to Mrs. Hargraves, and a nine days’ wonder in the village.” Miss Marple continued to cackle to herself, her knitting needles clacking away as she did so.