The Body in the Library (Miss Marple, #3)

by Agatha Christie

“Yes.” “But there couldn’t be,” said Colonel Bantry. “No, no, I suppose not,” said Mrs. Bantry doubtfully. Rallying, she went on: “But then why did Mary say there was?” “She can’t have.” “She did.” “You must have imagined it.” “I didn’t imagine it.”

“It must be,” Miss Marple decided, “a wrong number.” Having decided this, she advanced to the impatient instrument and quelled its clamour by picking up the receiver. “Yes?” she said.

Miss Marple tried to collect herself. She demanded breathlessly: “But whose body is it?” “It’s a blonde.” “A what?” “A blonde. A beautiful blonde—like books again. None of us have ever seen her before. She’s just lying there in the library, dead. That’s why you’ve got to come up at once.”

You can trust us to be discreet and tactful. So I suggest you cut the cackle and come to the horses. Just what exactly do you know about the girl?”

“You bet it does. Do you like detective stories? I do. I read them all, and I’ve got autographs from Dorothy Sayers and Agatha Christie and Dickson Carr and H. C. Bailey. Will the murder be in the papers?”

Here was a man who would never rail against fate but accept it and pass on to victory.

The lines of suffering stood out on his face again. Recollecting himself, he smiled wryly at them.

Colonel Melchett wondered if they would. Slack’s energy and activity always made him feel tired.

It’s not what I say to my patients, Superintendent, but a man may as well wear out as rust out. A lot of my colleagues do that, and take it from me it’s not a bad way.

“Can I come in, Griselda?” “Oh, do, Miss Marple. Just look at David! He gets so angry because he can only crawl in reverse. He wants to get to something and the more he tries the more he goes backwards into the coal box!”

Mrs. Jefferson was passionately devoted to her son, and some women have a curious idea that crimes committed for the sake of their offspring are almost morally justified.