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    4:50 from Paddington: A Miss Marple Mystery
    4:50 from Paddington: A Miss Marple Mystery
    4:50 from Paddington: A Miss Marple Mystery
    Ebook301 pages4 hours

    4:50 from Paddington: A Miss Marple Mystery

    By Agatha Christie

    4/5

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    In Agatha Christie’s classic mystery 4:50 From Paddington, a woman in one train witnesses a murder occurring in another passing one…and only Miss Marple believes her story.

    For an instant the two trains ran side by side. In that frozen moment, Elspeth McGillicuddy stared helplessly out of her carriage window as a man tightened his grip around a woman's throat. The body crumpled. Then the other train drew away. But who, apart from Mrs. McGillicuddy's friend Jane Marple, would take her story seriously? After all, there are no other witnesses, no suspects, and no case -- for there is no corpse, and no one is missing.

    Miss Marple asks her highly efficient and intelligent young friend Lucy Eyelesbarrow to infiltrate the Crackenthorpe family, who seem to be at the heart of the mystery, and help unmask a murderer.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateMar 30, 2004
    ISBN9780061738449
    Author

    Agatha Christie

    Agatha Christie is known throughout the world as the Queen of Crime. Her books have sold over a billion copies in English with another billion in over 70 foreign languages. She is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. She is the author of 80 crime novels and short story collections, 20 plays, and six novels written under the name of Mary Westmacott.

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    Reviews for 4:50 from Paddington

    4/5

    164 ratings53 reviews

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    • 4/5
      I adore Miss Marple, and this one is no exception.
    • 4/5
      When Mrs. Elspeth McGillicuddy takes the train from London to Brackhampton, her train briefly runs along another train going in the same direction and witnesses a murder. But when no body is found either on the train or on the tracks, everyone presumes that she must have imagined it. Everyone, of course, but Mrs. McGillicuddy's dear friend, Miss Jane Marple. I really enjoyed this Miss Marple mystery. The character names are fabulous (seriously, Elspeth McGillicuddy is perfection as a name), the mystery is well-crafted, the red herrings expertly placed, and each of the characters fantastically well-drawn. I enjoyed the element of Miss Marple using a younger woman as her eyes and legs on the scene, particularly as Lucy Eyelesbarrow is a lovely character to spend time with. Definitely recommended.
    • 4/5
      This is one of the better of the second rank of Christie novels for me, beginning with the dramatic incident of an old lady on a train (not Miss Marple herself, as shown in the film version starring Margaret Rutherford) witnessing a woman being strangled in a train on a parallel track going in the same direction. The initial disappearance of the body is resolved, narrowing the place of its discovery to a remote house inhabited by an extremely cantankerous old man and his largely rather unpleasant offspring. The usual red herrings are present of course, and the final resolution and identification of the murderer only comes in the final few pages, with no previously laid clues that I could see. Published in 1957, this contains some of the attitudes of the time, especially the simultaneously amusing and rather alarming stereotyping by everyone including the police, for example, of bohemian types as being likely murderers, and of the murder of a French woman being much less important than the murder of an English woman. A good and well constructed story.
    • 4/5
      Mrs Elspeth McGillicuddy er med toget 4.50 fra Paddington og ser en ung kvinde blive kvalt i et forbikørende tog. Men man finder intet lig og derfor er det op til veninden Miss Jane Marple at tage sig af sagen. Hun hyrer Lucy Eylesbarrow til at snuse rundt og denne finder liget i en sarkofag i en lade på familien Crackenthorpes gods Rutherford Hall og tilkalder politiet. Scotland Yard i skikkelse af Inspector Dermot Craddock kommer på sagen og lytter med ærbødighed til Miss Marple.Den gamle Luther Crackenthorpe har arvet godset, men midlerne er båndlagt til næste generation, dvs sønnerne Alfred, Bryan, Cedric og Harold samt søstrene Emma og Edith, hvor Edith er død og manden Bryan arver i hendes sted. Kvinden i toget samt sønnerne Alfred og Harold dør inden morderen bliver afsløret. Det viser sig at være Dr Quimper og kvinden i toget var hans kone Anna Stravinska.som ikke ville skilles fra ham og derfor var i vejen for at han kunne gifte sig med Emma og navnlig med hendes penge.Glimrende krimi
    • 4/5
      Joan Hickson's narration was a delight to listen to, as any fan of her Miss Marple TV series would expect.I found that, although I remembered who the murderer was, a lot of the details had escaped my memory. I was particularly surprised by the appearance of Martine and the revelation that she was the mother of Alexander's friend!!
    • 4/5
      A friend of Miss Marple witnesses a murder on a train next to hers. The intrigue, red herrings and sleuthing swiftly follow.Another good romp from Dame Agatha.
    • 4/5
      Something Happens in a TrainWith an engaging opening and a diverse group of characters, this story runs well. The mystery, I think, isn't the most difficult one to solve, but the solution requires a good dose of Miss Jane Marple's wisdom. The description and the story of the Crackenthorpe family give some insights about the living in England post war (First World War, I guess). An entertaining plot!
    • 4/5
      When I was in my late teens/early twenties I read all Christie's I could find, and I was lucky to find almost all of them, so this, more than twenty years later, was a re-read, which did not matter at all. The pleasure was still there, and I knew there will be a surprising turn out at the end, although I was not sure in which direction. Why do so many people love reading Christie's novels? Hard to say, but I think that one element is the lack of the really dark, evil and gruesome elements. Trying to find out more about a murder is almost like getting ready for a picknick - everyone is having fun in the process, which naturally includes the reader. And when everything turns out all right in the end and the wicked are rightfully punished, the life in the countryside can continue to unravel peacefully...
    • 5/5
      Huzzah, I guessed the identity of the murderer correctly. I hit on his identity fairly early, when only one of the three murders had been committed. I didn't know anything else. Sadly to say, I couldn't guess the identity of the strangled lady. What propelled this book to 5 stars is the enormous interest I had for the first murder, which was evil in character but also very exciting to read about. Then there's the two basic murders of the brothers. They catch you unawares. They highlight the first murder and the final solution provided by Miss Marple seems to take too long.Miss Jane Marple has the knack of solving cases which baffle Scotland Yard officials. How she does this may be explained, but cannot be taught. That's why we want to read every story of hers. People as old as Marple, who live in the same place and never travel much, don't have anything new to say. The quirky ability to reason sets her apart from other people of her gender, age, and class.She gets help in this case via Lucy Eyelesbarrow - for me an unpronounceable name- who becomes her eyes and her brawn. Miss Marple doesn't have the body, or the opportunity to infiltrate the sprawling household where she expects a body is hidden. I thought all this arrangement was clumsy but necessary. Anyway I was soon engrossed in the intrigue. The author has the guts to prolong the suspense regarding the identity of the first body. The fact that she does this with ease while obscuring from the stage the presence of Miss Marple and instead concentrating on Lucy and Inspector Craddock, betrays her confidence in her writing.Now, I'm wondering that this fragile, flickering, growing habit of mine to guess Agatha Christie's puzzlers can be strengthened. One trick is to eliminate most of the people who are pointedly probed as suspects. That's how partly I arrived at the correct solution. But another trick is to take a fact provided by the author. A big fact, an important fact that may be true or be a case of misdirection. You then have to decide if this important fact is true or if it's a red herring. Chances are that it will be untrue. If it's untrue then go against the direction to which the author is slyly trying to shoo you. It worked for me for this book. It may work regularly.
    • 5/5
      One of my favorites, a family murder at the family home. Miss Marple at her best.
    • 4/5
      I was sooo close to figuring this one out!The mystery takes a little while to get rolling. I had to put it aside a couple of times. It took until about page 70 for the story to pick up.
    • 3/5
      Oh the end is so good, I actually never expected that. Clever Miss Marple. Good premise, too. Sadly, I didn't really believe in the family drama, it was too contrived and felt very forced. Besides, Lucy would have been an interesting character if she hadn't been so unrealistic - in class-ridden England, I have trouble believing such a character would exist. I could feel that Christie needed someone to investigate instead of Miss Marple and then had to come up with Lucy when it should have been the other way around. I'm frankly disappointed in the story for the beginning and end were really above the rest.
    • 5/5
      There are some interesting aspects of the setting of this novel that place it quite firmly in the mid to late 1950s. The oldest son in the Crackenthorpe family was killed in the war and there is some speculation that he might have had a son who would now be 15 or 16 years old. The house in which most of the action takes place, Rutherford Hall, has seen better days: the grounds are very neglected and there used to be a lot more staff to run it.There are a number of references to Miss Marple being frail and elderly but it doesn't stop her from undertaking quite extraordinary train journeys to establish a timeline for the murder that her friend Elspeth McGillicuddy witnessed. There are also quite a number of references to both Miss Marple and Mrs McGillicuddy carrying out a "duty" in tracking down the facts and culprit in the murder. There's a sense that they have old fashioned values that the younger generation don't share, although we are offered some hope in the "boys" who sleuth the grounds of Rutherford Hall enthusiastically. There's a sense too of the loss that the war caused - the death of the elder son, the poverty that followed the war, the physical/architectural structures damaged and never repaired, the disillusionment, marriages that never took place etc.There's romance in the air too in this novel, a bit unusual for Miss Marple, but there are times when she appears to be playing the matchmaker.I thoroughly enjoyed this read. By comparison with modern day books it is quite short but you'd be wrong if you thought the brevity came at the expense of character development and setting. There are plenty of red herrings - I'd forgotten the solution and it came as a surprise.
    • 3/5
      Another one in third person, not first person. It could have been even more fun, I think, if it'd been from a character's point of view -- perhaps Lucy's, since I thought she was a fun character, and I rather hope she shows up again in future... Doubtful, but you never know. She was the most interesting part of it, for me, with her cheerfully getting on with things and working hard and doing detective work at the same time. More of her in general would have been nice -- maybe more of her potential romances, too.

      The misdirection was quite well done in this one, since I had no idea who it could be -- I suspected everyone by turns, I think. I knew 'whodunnit' from someone else's review, before I got to the end, so I'm not sure I'd say there were adequate clues to figure it out for yourself, though...
    • 4/5
      One of the classics -- I've probably read it two or three times, since as Ogden Nash once said, "One Christie book is as good as a lib'ry." Other than Murder on the Orient Express and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, I can never remember whodunit!
    • 3/5
      3.5 stars When a friend of Miss Marple's, Mrs. McGillicuddy, is on a train, she looks over as another train is running parallel to hers, going the same direction, and sees a man strangling a woman. When she tells someone on the train what she saw, he doesn't believe her. When she relays the story to Miss Marple, they expect to see something in the papers about it, but there's nothing. So... what really happened on that train? Miss Marple will get to the bottom of it. Ah, I do like Miss Marple! Although I've not read a lot of Agatha Christie, of what I have read, I prefer Miss Marple to Poirot every time, and this is no exception. I listened to the audio of this one, and thought the narrator was very good. An older, British lady – it fit perfectly.
    • 5/5
      An elderly lady sees a murder committed on a train passing by. She reports it, but no one believes her. She tells her friend, another elderly lady. The authorities investigate, but no body turns up. Did the killer get away with murder? Not with Miss Marple on the case. A fine mystery indeed.
    • 5/5
      Mrs McGillicuddy sees a women being murder on a train but no one believes her, with the exception of her friend Jane Marple. When the body doesn't turn up Miss Marple enlists the help of Lucy Eylesbarrow to find the body and discover just who murdered the woman and why. This is classic Christie complete with red herrings and misdirection and the revelation of the murderer is a complete surprise - and I love how Miss Marple manages to identify him.
    • 5/5
      April 21, 1999The 4:50 From Paddington (aka What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw!)Agatha ChristieMy first Miss Marple mystery (not THE first MM, just MY first). A friend of Miss Marple’s, Mrs. McGillicuddy, is traveling by train to visit with Miss Marple for a few days, and while on the train, witnesses a murder taking place on another train passing by – specifically, a woman being strangled by a man. No one believes her when she reports it, though, and no body is found on the other train. Miss Marple does believe her, of course, and deduces that the body must have been thrown out the train window. She even manages to figure out that it must have been thrown out onto the sprawling grounds of an old estate, and she then engages her brilliant, 30-ish friend, Lucy Eylesbarrow, to infiltrate the grand home of the prominent family who owns the land, find the body, and help solve the murder. Christie perfects her writing “tone” in this story, I think – not too dark, not too light. A perfect “Malice Domestic”.
    • 4/5
      While traveling by train, Elspeth McGillicuddy witnesses a murder taking place in a train car that's on an adjacent track. She reports it to the porters and train officials as well as the police when she reaches her destination. However, because there were no other witnesses and no body can be found, no one believes her ... except her good friend Miss Marple. I usually read the Hercule Poirot books. Prior to this one, I had only read two other Miss Marple books and didn't enjoy them as much as I enjoy Poirot. However, this one was definitely an exception. I was hooked on this book right from the start. It seemed like Miss Marple was more of a minor character in this story, but it was still a really good story with a good cast of characters and very well written and a great setting. I will definitely be reading more Miss Marple now.
    • 4/5
      This late Miss Marple novel is a fine one. One of Miss Marple’s matronly, clear-eyed friends witnesses what can only be a murder on a train running parallel to her own. No one takes her really seriously except Miss Marple, but who better to engineer a subtle investigation that roots out the sordid truth of this crime?Christie is in fine form here, with a classic manor house setup, a trio of unsavory brothers filling out the suspect line, and a good surprise ending that’s not too contrived. Recommended.
    • 3/5
      More fun from the mistress of crime, love the super efficient Lucy Eylesbarrow (what a name!)
    • 4/5
      The 7th in the Miss Marple series (of the novels; I don't count the collections of short stories here), one of the better ones I've read so far. Actually, I have read all of these eons ago, but it's been so very long, I've quite forgotten them all. So I'm rereading them and it's like reading for the first time. I liked this installment, and I'm looking forward to finding the dvd so I can see it played out.A Mrs. Elspeth McGillicuddy is returning home after a long shopping day and takes a seat in the first class section of the train. She falls asleep for a while, wakes up, and as she does so, a train passes by on a parallel track. She looks up just in time to see a man strangling a woman, but she only sees him from the back. She reports it to one of the train conductors, but he thinks she's imagined it -- after all, when he looks at the magazine she's reading, right there is a picture of a man strangling a woman. She writes down the info, however, and turns it in at the station when she arrives. Her next stop is to Miss Jane Marple, to whom she relates the story. Of course Miss Marple believes her, and does some sleuthing of her own, after the papers fail to report a dead woman left on a train. Finally figuring out where the body could have been dumped from the train, Miss Marple hires a young housekeeper to take a position at Rutherford Hall, which lies close to the train tracks at the very spot where Miss Marple deduces the body may have been ditched. From there, it's a case filled with motives, red herrings, and suspects. I did not guess the murderer at all, which always pleases me. Recommended.
    • 5/5
      Just finished listening to this one and I still enjoy it!Mrs. McGillicuddy was going to visit her friend in the country when she witnesses a murder in the train next to hers. Trouble is, no one believes her. And when no body is discovered, they all conclude she's one of those batty old ladies with more imagination than sense.All except her friend, Jane Marple. Miss Marple knows her friend has very little imagination and a high regard for the truth. So she sets off to discover a body.
    • 5/5
      I forget about Agatha Christie's books and when I read one I remember why they are still being read today. They are good! This is one of Miss Marple's books. Her friend has seen a murder on a train but no one believes her. It is up to Miss Marple to find the body and the murderer.I enjoyed this book. I tried to figure it out but was wrong on the culprit. I liked how different people were purposed as the culprit, each with a motive. The story moves rapidly. I liked Alexander and the women in the book. The men left much to be desired. The plot was believable. I will be reading more by Agatha Christie.
    • 4/5
      In which a woman witnesses a murder on a passing train, leading Miss Marple to a feuding family.

      "4.50 from Paddington" (or "What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw" in the US) is a strong Marple work written on the cusp of Christie’s middle and late periods. As with many of her best works, there’s an intriguing and unsettled family dynamic, which spits out suspects left, right and centre. Best of all, there’s a strong investigator character in Lucy Eyelesbarrow, a young woman who goes undercover for Miss Marple at Rutherford Hall, which allows Marple to play to her strengths without the novel coming across as laconic. (Lucy is also the best thing about the better-than-average Joan Hickson adaptation.)

      Several late Christie works deal with “unclear murders”: a clue suggests someone died at some point somewhere, but with no clear information. (Witness the later Tommy and Tuppence books, for instance.) Most of the time, this leads to a confused narrative, relying too much on conflicting memories without the emotional strength that ties into the powerful nostalgia novels such as "Five Little Pigs". Here, though, there’s enough intrigue in the murder – occurring on one train, witnessed by a woman on another – and Rutherford Hall provides so many possibilities, that things just work.

      "4.50 from Paddington" has elements of a classic, but doesn’t quite cut the mustard, for the simple reason that betrays many Marple novels: the limited, hazy clues simply don’t yield much fruit. In the climax, Marple is so certain of her case that she plants an elaborate – and very public trip – to catch the killer. Had she proven incorrect, this would surely have given the game away to the true murderer. Given that it’s so hard to see how Marple reaches her conclusions – or, rather, how she reaches them with so much certainty – this seems reckless. However, I’ll call this one a very solid read.

      [Sometimes found under the title "Murder, She Said", to tie in with the 1960s adaptation starring Margaret Rutherford.]

      Marple ranking: 3rd out of 14
    • 4/5
      What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw! (aka 4.50 to Paddington)When Mrs. McGillicuddy arrived at Jane Marple’s house for a visit, she has an extraordinary tale to tell – she witnessed a murder! During her trip, another train ran parallel to her own and when a window shade suddenly went up, she saw a man strangling a woman. She immediately reported events to the train personnel and to the police. The problem is, no body turns up in the next several days, nor is anyone reported missing. It’s up to Miss Marple to figure out what transpired.I enjoyed this mystery because it showcased Miss Marple’s deductive reasoning more than other novels I’ve read. She doesn’t just have to account for human behavior, at which she is an admitted expert. She has to figure out where that body could have gone. After a couple trips via the same train, she deduces the body must be at Rutherford Hall. She enlists the help of Lucy Eyelesbarrow, a professional cook and housekeeper, to work at Rutherford Hall and find the body. Once found, the mystery turns toward possible suspects – all members of the Crackenthorpe family: 74-year-old Luther, his unsavory sons Harold, Cedric & Alfred, daughter Emma, dead daughter Edith’s husband Bryan. When one of the family ends up dead, Inspector Craddock suspects money as the motive. Luther is sitting on a fortune that he can’t touch and will pass to his children once he dies. But, what did the dead woman have to do with any of it?Craddock is Marple’s godson, so their interactions added some personal connections to the story. I really liked Lucy as well and wouldn’t mind seeing her pop up in another story. The ultimate conclusion was satisfying. Another solid mystery from Christie.
    • 5/5
      I think this is one of the best of Mrs. Christie’s books. As all of her books, very well written, but the twists and turns of the story are amazing. (The movie made of, “4:50 from Paddington,” with the excellent Joan Hickson as Miss Marple, doesn’t start to do it justice!) Miss Marple is now 90 years old and, although she doesn’t appear much, as always, enchants readers with her subtle yet quite ironic sense of humor. For instance, her statement about Gaugain (*) is absolutely hilarious; it would certainly be frowned upon by the PC crowd had it been written nowadays. (Might contain spoiler.) There is a funny scene where a comment is made about “old maids” (i.e., old, unmarried women), which by today’s PC standards wouldn’t work: Miss Marple would now be Ms. Marple, therefore concealing her marital status! Also, in the last chapter Miss Marple works up with her friend (the Mrs. McGillicuddy of the title) that she should ask to “go upstairs”; I am pretty sure younger audiences would be unaware that that was a polite, Edwardian way of asking to go to the restroom…

      (*) “I myself never really cared for paintings of native women, and although I know he is very much admired, I have never cared for that lurid mustard color. One really feels quite bilious looking at his pictures.”
    • 4/5
      Another excellent Miss Marple story beautifully narrated :)
    • 5/5
      While the train that is taking her to visit her friend Miss Marple slows & stops at a curve.... another train in passing also slows & stops at the same curve... Mrs McGillicuddy looks out and sees a man strangling a woman..... Although she reports it to the porter & train station, no one believes her. Miss Marple believes her and reports it to the police.... but not only is there no report of a missing/murdered woman... one can find a body.

      Her insatiable curiosity aroused, Miss Marple makes discreet inquiries... maps of the train lines, train timetables, what is on that piece of land, etc. Then Miss Marple hires Miss Lucy (a most efficient & sought after) to work at the manor (snoop around the grounds) where the train lines curve.

      Lucy is happily ensconced working for the Crakenthorp family: Luther (patriarch & tightwad); Emma (his devoted daughter); Brian Easterly (son-in-law & widower); sons Harold (bad business deals), Alfred (shady character), & Cedric (laid back artist); and a good-natured grand-son & his school chum Stoddart-West (help Lucy search for clues). The good Doctor has eyes for Emma...

      The murdered woman, soon found by Lucy, is hidden away in an old sarcophagus in the now disused long barn and is believed to be Martine, a French woman who may or may have not been married to the Crackenthorp eldest son (killed in WWII)....

      All along during family gatherings there have been instances of poisonings and now both Alfred & Harold succumb....... While the real Martine (now Stoddart-West) shows up to clear her name......

      Very well thought out plot, good red herrings, a fine (but understated) romance, and strong likable women characters.

    Book preview

    4:50 from Paddington - Agatha Christie

    One

    Mrs. McGillicuddy panted along the platform in the wake of the porter carrying her suitcase. Mrs. McGillicuddy was short and stout, the porter was tall and free-striding. In addition, Mrs. McGillicuddy was burdened with a large quantity of parcels; the result of a day’s Christmas shopping. The race was, therefore, an uneven one, and the porter turned the corner at the end of the platform whilst Mrs. McGillicuddy was still coming up the straight.

    No. 1 Platform was not at the moment unduly crowded, since a train had just gone out, but in the no-man’s-land beyond, a milling crowd was rushing in several directions at once, to and from undergrounds, left-luggage offices, tea rooms, inquiry offices, indicator boards, and the two outlets, Arrival and Departure, to the outside world.

    Mrs. McGillicuddy and her parcels were buffeted to and fro, but she arrived eventually at the entrance to No. 3 Platform, and deposited one parcel at her feet whilst she searched her bag for the ticket that would enable her to pass the stern uniformed guardian at the gate.

    At that moment, a Voice, raucous yet refined, burst into speech over her head.

    The train standing at Platform 3, the Voice told her, is the 4:50 for Brackhampton, Milchester, Waverton, Carvil Junction, Roxeter and stations to Chadmouth. Passengers for Brackhampton and Milchester travel at the rear of the train. Passengers for Vanequay change at Roxeter. The Voice shut itself off with a click, and then reopened conversation by announcing the arrival at Platform 9 of the 4:35 from Birmingham and Wolverhampton.

    Mrs. McGillicuddy found her ticket and presented it. The man clipped it, murmured: On the right—rear portion.

    Mrs. McGillicuddy padded up the platform and found her porter, looking bored and staring into space, outside the door of a third-class carriage.

    Here you are, lady.

    I’m travelling first-class, said Mrs. McGillicuddy.

    You didn’t say so, grumbled the porter. His eye swept her masculine-looking pepper-and-salt tweed coat disparagingly.

    Mrs. McGillicuddy, who had said so, did not argue the point. She was sadly out of breath.

    The porter retrieved the suitcase and marched with it to the adjoining coach where Mrs. McGillicuddy was installed in solitary splendour. The 4:50 was not much patronized, the first-class clientele preferring either the faster morning express, or the 6:40 with dining car. Mrs. McGillicuddy handed the porter his tip which he received with disappointment, clearly considering it more applicable to third-class than to first-class travel. Mrs. McGillicuddy, though prepared to spend money on comfortable travel after a night journey from the North and a day’s feverish shopping, was at no time an extravagant tipper.

    She settled herself back on the plush cushions with a sigh and opened her magazine. Five minutes later, whistles blew, and the train started. The magazine slipped from Mrs. McGillicuddy’s hand, her head dropped sideways, three minutes later she was asleep. She slept for thirty-five minutes and awoke refreshed. Resettling her hat which had slipped askew she sat up and looked out of the window at what she could see of the flying countryside. It was quite dark now, a dreary misty December day—Christmas was only five days ahead. London had been dark and dreary; the country was no less so, though occasionally rendered cheerful with its constant clusters of lights as the train flashed through towns and stations.

    Serving last tea now, said an attendant, whisking open the corridor door like a jinn. Mrs. McGillicuddy had already partaken of tea at a large department store. She was for the moment amply nourished. The attendant went on down the corridor uttering his monotonous cry. Mrs. McGillicuddy looked up at the rack where her various parcels reposed, with a pleased expression. The face towels had been excellent value and just what Margaret wanted, the space gun for Robby and the rabbit for Jean were highly satisfactory, and that evening coatee was just the thing she herself needed, warm but dressy. The pullover for Hector, too…her mind dwelt with approval on the soundness of her purchases.

    Her satisfied gaze returned to the window, a train travelling in the opposite direction rushed by with a screech, making the windows rattle and causing her to start. The train clattered over points and passed through a station.

    Then it began suddenly to slow down, presumably in obedience to a signal. For some minutes it crawled along, then stopped, presently it began to move forward again. Another up-train passed them, though with less vehemence than the first one. The train gathered speed again. At that moment another train, also on a down-line, swerved inwards towards them, for a moment with almost alarming effect. For a time the two trains ran parallel, now one gaining a little, now the other. Mrs. McGillicuddy looked from her window through the windows of the parallel carriages. Most of the blinds were down, but occasionally the occupants of the carriages were visible. The other train was not very full and there were many empty carriages.

    At the moment when the two trains gave the illusion of being stationary, a blind in one of the carriages flew up with a snap. Mrs. McGillicuddy looked into the lighted first-class carriage that was only a few feet away.

    Then she drew her breath in with a gasp and half-rose to her feet.

    Standing with his back to the window and to her was a man. His hands were round the throat of a woman who faced him, and he was slowly, remorselessly, strangling her. Her eyes were starting from their sockets, her face was purple and congested. As Mrs. McGillicuddy watched fascinated, the end came; the body went limp and crumpled in the man’s hands.

    At the same moment, Mrs. McGillicuddy’s train slowed down again and the other began to gain speed. It passed forward and a moment or two later it had vanished from sight.

    Almost automatically Mrs. McGillicuddy’s hand went up to the communication cord, then paused, irresolute. After all, what use would it be ringing the cord of the train in which she was travelling? The horror of what she had seen at such close quarters, and the unusual circumstances, made her feel paralysed. Some immediate action was necessary—but what?

    The door of her compartment was drawn back and a ticket collector said, Ticket, please.

    Mrs. McGillicuddy turned to him with vehemence.

    A woman has been strangled, she said. In a train that has just passed. I saw it.

    The ticket collector looked at her doubtfully.

    I beg your pardon, madam?

    A man strangled a woman! In a train. I saw it—through there. She pointed to the window.

    The ticket collector looked extremely doubtful.

    Strangled? he said disbelievingly.

    "Yes, strangled! I saw it, I tell you. You must do something at once!"

    The ticket collector coughed apologetically.

    You don’t think, madam, that you may have had a little nap and—er— he broke off tactfully.

    "I have had a nap, but if you think this was a dream, you’re quite wrong. I saw it, I tell you."

    The ticket collector’s eyes dropped to the open magazine lying on the seat. On the exposed page was a girl being strangled whilst a man with a revolver threatened the pair from an open doorway.

    He said persuasively: Now don’t you think, madam, that you’d been reading an exciting story, and that you just dropped off, and awaking a little confused—

    Mrs. McGillicuddy interrupted him.

    "I saw it, she said. I was as wide awake as you are. And I looked out of the window into the window of the train alongside, and a man was strangling a woman. And what I want to know is, what are you going to do about it?"

    Well—madam—

    "You’re going to do something, I suppose?"

    The ticket collector sighed reluctantly and glanced at his watch.

    We shall be in Brackhampton in exactly seven minutes. I’ll report what you’ve told me. In what direction was the train you mention going?

    This direction, of course. You don’t suppose I’d have been able to see this if a train had flashed past going in the other direction?

    The ticket collector looked as though he thought Mrs. McGillicuddy was quite capable of seeing anything anywhere as the fancy took her. But he remained polite.

    You can rely on me, madam, he said. I will report your statement. Perhaps I might have your name and address—just in case….

    Mrs. McGillicuddy gave him the address where she would be staying for the next few days and her permanent address in Scotland, and he wrote them down. Then he withdrew with the air of a man who has done his duty and dealt successfully with a tiresome member of the travelling public.

    Mrs. McGillicuddy remained frowning and vaguely unsatisfied. Would the ticket collector report her statement? Or had he just been soothing her down? There were, she supposed vaguely, a lot of elderly women travelling around, fully convinced that they had unmasked communist plots, were in danger of being murdered, saw flying saucers and secret space ships, and reported murders that had never taken place. If the man dismissed her as one of those….

    The train was slowing down now, passing over points and running through the bright lights of a large town.

    Mrs. McGillicuddy opened her handbag, pulled out a receipted bill which was all she could find, wrote a rapid note on the back of it with her ball-pen, put it into a spare envelope that she fortunately happened to have, stuck the envelope down and wrote on it.

    The train drew slowly into a crowded platform. The usual ubiquitous Voice was intoning:

    The train now arriving at Platform 1 is the 5:38 for Milchester, Waverton, Roxeter, and stations to Chadmouth. Passengers for Market Basing take the train now waiting at No. 3 platform. No. 1 bay for stopping train to Carbury.

    Mrs. McGillicuddy looked anxiously along the platform. So many passengers and so few porters. Ah, there was one! She hailed him authoritatively.

    Porter! Please take this at once to the Stationmaster’s office.

    She handed him the envelope, and with it a shilling.

    Then, with a sigh, she leaned back. Well, she had done what she could. Her mind lingered with an instant’s regret on the shilling… Sixpence would really have been enough….

    Her mind went back to the scene she had witnessed. Horrible, quite horrible… She was a strong-nerved woman, but she shivered. What a strange—what a fantastic thing to happen to her, Elspeth McGillicuddy! If the blind of the carriage had not happened to fly up… But that, of course, was Providence.

    Providence had willed that she, Elspeth McGillicuddy, should be a witness of the crime. Her lips set grimly.

    Voices shouted, whistles blew, doors were banged shut. The 5:38 drew slowly out of Brackhampton station. An hour and five minutes later it stopped at Milchester.

    Mrs. McGillicuddy collected her parcels and her suitcase and got out. She peered up and down the platform. Her mind reiterated its former judgment: Not enough porters. Such porters as there were seemed to be engaged with mail bags and luggage vans. Passengers nowadays seemed always expected to carry their own cases. Well, she couldn’t carry her suitcase and her umbrella and all her parcels. She would have to wait. In due course she secured a porter.

    Taxi?

    There will be something to meet me, I expect.

    Outside Milchester station, a taxi-driver who had been watching the exit came forward. He spoke in a soft local voice.

    Is it Mrs. McGillicuddy? For St. Mary Mead?

    Mrs. McGillicuddy acknowledged her identity. The porter was recompensed, adequately if not handsomely. The car, with Mrs. McGillicuddy, her suitcase, and her parcels drove off into the night. It was a nine-mile drive. Sitting bolt upright in the car, Mrs. McGillicuddy was unable to relax. Her feelings yearned for expression. At last the taxi drove along the familiar village street and finally drew up at its destination; Mrs. McGillicuddy got out and walked up the brick path to the door. The driver deposited the cases inside as the door was opened by an elderly maid. Mrs. McGillicuddy passed straight through the hall to where, at the open sitting room door, her hostess awaited her; an elderly frail old lady.

    Elspeth!

    Jane!

    They kissed and, without preamble or circumlocution, Mrs. McGillicuddy burst into speech.

    Oh, Jane! she wailed. "I’ve just seen a murder!"

    Two

    True to the precepts handed down to her by her mother and grandmother—to wit: that a true lady can neither be shocked nor surprised—Miss Marple merely raised her eyebrows and shook her head, as she said:

    "Most distressing for you, Elspeth, and surely most unusual. I think you had better tell me about it at once."

    That was exactly what Mrs. McGillicuddy wanted to do. Allowing her hostess to draw her nearer to the fire, she sat down, pulled off her gloves and plunged into a vivid narrative.

    Miss Marple listened with close attention. When Mrs. McGillicuddy at last paused for breath, Miss Marple spoke with decision.

    "The best thing, I think, my dear, is for you to go upstairs and take off your hat and have a wash. Then we will have supper—during which we will not discuss this at all. After supper we can go into the matter thoroughly and discuss it from every aspect."

    Mrs. McGillicuddy concurred with this suggestion. The two ladies had supper, discussing, as they ate, various aspects of life as lived in the village of St. Mary Mead. Miss Marple commented on the general distrust of the new organist, related the recent scandal about the chemist’s wife, and touched on the hostility between the schoolmistress and the village institute. They then discussed Miss Marple’s and Mrs. McGillicuddy’s gardens.

    Paeonies, said Miss Marple as she rose from table, "are most unaccountable. Either they do—or they don’t do. But if they do establish themselves, they are with you for life, so to speak, and really most beautiful varieties nowadays."

    They settled themselves by the fire again, and Miss Marple brought out two old Waterford glasses from a corner cupboard, and from another cupboard produced a bottle.

    No coffee tonight for you, Elspeth, she said. You are already overexcited (and no wonder!) and probably would not sleep. I prescribe a glass of my cowslip wine, and later, perhaps, a cup of camo-mile tea.

    Mrs. McGillicuddy acquiescing in these arrangements, Miss Marple poured out the wine.

    Jane, said Mrs. McGillicuddy, as she took an appreciative sip, "you don’t think, do you, that I dreamt it, or imagined it?"

    Certainly not, said Miss Marple with warmth.

    Mrs. McGillicuddy heaved a sigh of relief.

    That ticket collector, she said, "he thought so. Quite polite, but all the same—"

    "I think, Elspeth, that that was quite natural under the circumstances. It sounded—and indeed was—a most unlikely story. And you were a complete stranger to him. No, I have no doubt at all that you saw what you’ve told me you saw. It’s very extraordinary—but not at all impossible. I recollect myself being interested when a train ran parallel to one on which I was travelling, to notice what a vivid and intimate picture one got of what was going on in one or two of the carriages. A little girl, I remember once, playing with a teddy bear, and suddenly she threw it deliberately at a fat man who was asleep in the corner and he bounced up and looked most indignant, and the other passengers looked so amused. I saw them all quite vividly. I could have described afterwards exactly what they looked like and what they had on."

    Mrs. McGillicuddy nodded gratefully.

    That’s just how it was.

    The man had his back to you, you say. So you didn’t see his face?

    No.

    And the woman, you can describe her? Young, old?

    Youngish. Between thirty and thirty-five, I should think. I couldn’t say closer than that.

    Good-looking?

    That again, I couldn’t say. Her face, you see, was all contorted and—

    Miss Marple said quickly:

    Yes, yes, I quite understand. How was she dressed?

    She had on a fur coat of some kind, a palish fur. No hat. Her hair was blonde.

    And there was nothing distinctive that you can remember about the man?

    Mrs. McGillicuddy took a little time to think carefully before she replied.

    He was tallish—and dark, I think. He had a heavy coat on so that I couldn’t judge his build very well. She added despondently, It’s not really very much to go on.

    It’s something, said Miss Marple. She paused before saying: "You feel quite sure, in your own mind, that the girl was—dead?"

    She was dead, I’m sure of it. Her tongue came out and—I’d rather not talk about it….

    Of course not. Of course not, said Miss Marple quickly. We shall know more, I expect, in the morning.

    In the morning?

    I should imagine it will be in the morning papers. After this man had attacked and killed her, he would have a body on his hands. What would he do? Presumably he would leave the train quickly at the first station—by the way, can you remember if it was a corridor carriage?

    No, it was not.

    That seems to point to a train that was not going far afield. It would almost certainly stop at Brackhampton. Let us say he leaves the train at Brackhampton, perhaps arranging the body in a corner seat, with her face hidden by the fur collar to delay discovery. Yes—I think that that is what he would do. But of course it will be discovered before very long—and I should imagine that the news of a murdered woman discovered on a train would be almost certain to be in the morning papers—we shall see.

    II

    But it was not in the morning papers.

    Miss Marple and Mrs. McGillicuddy, after making sure of this, finished their breakfast in silence. Both were reflecting.

    After breakfast, they took a turn round the garden. But this, usually an absorbing pastime, was today somewhat halfhearted. Miss Marple did indeed call attention to some new and rare species she had acquired for her rock-garden but did so in an almost absentminded manner. And Mrs. McGillicuddy did not, as was customary, counter-attack with a list of her own recent acquisitions.

    The garden is not looking at all as it should, said Miss Marple, but still speaking absentmindedly. "Doctor Haydock has absolutely forbidden me to do any stooping or kneeling—and really, what can you do if you don’t stoop or kneel? There’s old Edwards, of course—but so opinionated. And all this jobbing gets them into bad habits, lots of cups of tea and so much pottering—not any real work."

    Oh, I know, said Mrs. McGillicuddy. "Of course, there’s no question of my being forbidden to stoop, but really, especially after meals—and having put on weight—she looked down at her ample proportions—it does bring on heartburn."

    There was a silence and then Mrs. McGillicuddy planted her feet sturdily, stood still, and turned on her friend.

    "Well?" she said.

    It was a small insignificant word, but it acquired full significance from Mrs. McGillicuddy’s tone, and Miss Marple understood its meaning perfectly.

    I know, she said.

    The two ladies looked at each other.

    I think, said Miss Marple, we might walk down to the police station and talk to Sergeant Cornish. He’s intelligent and patient, and I know him very well, and he knows me. I think he’ll listen—and pass the information on to the proper quarter.

    Accordingly, some three-quarters of an hour later, Miss Marple and Mrs. McGillicuddy were talking to a fresh-faced grave man between thirty and forty who listened attentively to what they had to say.

    Frank Cornish received Miss Marple with cordiality and even deference. He set chairs for the two ladies, and said: Now what can we do for you, Miss Marple?

    Miss Marple said: I would like you, please, to listen to my friend Mrs. McGillicuddy’s story.

    And Sergeant Cornish had listened. At the close of the recital he remained silent for a moment or two.

    Then he said:

    That’s a very extraordinary story. His eyes, without seeming to do so, had sized Mrs. McGillicuddy up whilst she was telling it.

    On the whole, he was favourably impressed. A sensible woman, able to tell a story clearly; not, so far as he could judge, an over-imaginative or a hysterical woman. Moreover, Miss Marple, so it seemed, believed in the accuracy of her friend’s story and he knew all about Miss Marple. Everybody in St. Mary Mead knew Miss Marple; fluffy and dithery in appearance, but inwardly as sharp and as shrewd as they make them.

    He cleared his throat and spoke.

    Of course, he said, "you may

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