The Mirror Crack’d From Side to Side. Agatha Christie

series of recognitions.

      That woman is just like Carry Edwards—and the dark one is just like that Hooper girl—she’ll make a mess of her marriage just like Mary Hooper did. Those boys—the dark one is just like Edward Leeke, a lot of wild talk but no harm in him—a nice boy really—the fair one is Mrs Bedwell’s Josh all over again. Nice boys, both of them. The one like Gregory Binns won’t do very well, I’m afraid. I expect he’s got the same sort of mother …

      She turned a corner into Walsingham Close and her spirits rose every moment.

      The new world was the same as the old. The houses were different, the streets were called Closes, the clothes were different, the voices were different, but the human beings were the same as they always had been. And though using slightly different phraseology, the subjects of conversation were the same.

      By dint of turning corners in her exploration, Miss Marple had rather lost her sense of direction and had arrived at the edge of the housing estate again. She was now in Carrisbrook Close, half of which was still ‘under construction’. At the first-floor window of a nearly finished house a young couple were standing. Their voices floated down as they discussed the amenities.

      ‘You must admit it’s a nice position, Harry.’

      ‘Other one was just as good.’

      ‘This one’s got two more rooms.’

      ‘And you’ve got to pay for them.’

      ‘Well, I like this one.’

      ‘You would!’

      ‘Ow, don’t be such a spoil-sport. You know what Mum said.’

      ‘Your Mum never stops saying.’

      ‘Don’t you say nothing against Mum. Where’d I have been without her? And she might have cut up nastier than she did. She could have taken you to court.’

      ‘Oh, come off it, Lily.’

      ‘It’s a good view of the hills. You can almost see—’ She leaned far out, twisting her body to the left. ‘You can almost see the reservoir—’

      She leant farther still, not realizing that she was resting her weight on loose boards that had been laid across the sill. They slipped under the pressure of her body, sliding outwards, carrying her with them. She screamed, trying to regain her balance.

      ‘Harry—’

      The young man stood motionless—a foot or two behind her. He took one step backwards—

      Desperately, clawing at the wall, the girl righted herself. ‘Oo!’ She let out a frightened breath. ‘I near as nothing fell out. Why didn’t you get hold of me?’

      ‘It was all so quick. Anyway you’re all right.’

      ‘That’s all you know about it. I nearly went, I tell you. And look at the front of my jumper, it’s all mussed.’

      Miss Marple went on a little way, then on impulse, she turned back.

      Lily was outside in the road waiting for the young man to lock up the house.

      Miss Marple went up to her and spoke rapidly in a low voice.

      ‘If I were you, my dear, I shouldn’t marry that young man. You want someone whom you can rely upon if you’re in danger. You must excuse me for saying this to you—but I feel you ought to be warned.’

      She turned away and Lily stared after her.

      ‘Well, of all the—’

      Her young man approached.

      ‘What was she saying to you, Lil?’

      Lily opened her mouth—then shut it again.

      ‘Giving me the gipsy’s warning, if you want to know.’

      She eyed him in a thoughtful manner.

      Miss Marple in her anxiety to get away quickly, turned a corner, stumbled over some loose stones and fell.

      A woman came running out of one of the houses.

      ‘Oh dear, what a nasty spill! I hope you haven’t hurt yourself?’

      With almost excessive goodwill she put her arms round Miss Marple and tugged her to her feet.

      ‘No bones broken, I hope? There we are. I expect you feel rather shaken.’

      Her voice was loud and friendly. She was a plump squarely built woman of about forty, brown hair just turning grey, blue eyes, and a big generous mouth that seemed to Miss Marple’s rather shaken gaze to be far too full of white shining teeth.

      ‘You’d better come inside and sit down and rest a bit. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

      Miss Marple thanked her. She allowed herself to be led through the blue-painted door and into a small room full of bright cretonne-covered chairs and sofas.

      ‘There you are,’ said her rescuer, establishing her on a cushioned arm-chair. ‘You sit quiet and I’ll put the kettle on.’

      She hurried out of the room which seemed rather restfully quiet after her departure. Miss Marple took a deep breath. She was not really hurt, but the fall had shaken her. Falls at her age were not to be encouraged. With luck, however, she thought guiltily, Miss Knight need never know. She moved her arms and legs gingerly. Nothing broken. If she could only get home all right. Perhaps, after a cup of tea—

      The cup of tea arrived almost as the thought came to her. Brought on a tray with four sweet biscuits on a little plate.

      ‘There you are.’ It was placed on a small table in front of her. ‘Shall I pour it out for you? Better have plenty of sugar.’

      ‘No sugar, thank you.’

      ‘You must have sugar. Shock, you know. I was abroad with ambulances during the war. Sugar’s wonderful for shock.’ She put four lumps in the cup and stirred vigorously. ‘Now you get that down, and you’ll feel as right as rain.’

      Miss Marple accepted the dictum.

      ‘A kind woman,’ she thought. ‘She reminds me of someone—now who is it?’

      ‘You’ve been very kind to me,’ she said, smiling.

      ‘Oh, that’s nothing. The little ministering angel, that’s me. I love helping people.’ She looked out of the window as the latch of the outer gate clicked. ‘Here’s my husband home. Arthur—we’ve got a visitor.’

      She went out into the hall and returned with Arthur who looked rather bewildered. He was a thin pale man, rather slow in speech.

      ‘This lady fell down—right outside our gate, so of course I brought her in.’

      ‘Your wife is very kind, Mr—’

      ‘Badcock’s the name.’

      ‘Mr Badcock, I’m afraid I’ve given her a lot of trouble.’

      ‘Oh, no trouble to Heather. Heather enjoys doing things for people.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Were you on your way anywhere in particular?’

      ‘No, I was just taking a walk. I live in St Mary Mead, the house beyond the Vicarage. My name is Marple.’

      ‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed Heather. ‘So you’re Miss Marple. I’ve heard about you. You’re the one who does all the murders.’

      ‘Heather! What do you—’

      ‘Oh, you know what I mean. Not actually do murders—find out about them. That’s right, isn’t it?’

      Miss Marple murmured modestly that she had been mixed up in murders once or twice.

      ‘I heard there have been murders here, in this village. They were talking about it the other night at the Bingo Club. There was one