smallhobbit

Slack looked up but said nothing.  He wasn’t going to admit he seemed to be no further forward than when they had spoken on the Saturday evening.

“Only one or two thoughts occurred to me, as I was sitting in church yesterday morning, and I thought it might be worth sharing them with you.”

“Please go ahead,” Slack said. 

“It was the gospel reading which really inspired me.  I presume you remember what it was.”

“Unfortunately I didn’t have time to go to church yesterday.”  Miss Marple gave him a look which implied he probably wouldn’t have gone to church even if he’d had the time, but he chose to ignore it.

“It was the parable of the sower.  I’m sure you remember it.”

Sunday school lessons had imparted some information to him, so Slack nodded.

“The vicar suggested that the crowd could see someone actually sowing his seeds at the time.  And of course, there was nothing strange in that.  It must have been at the right time, so no-one thought anything particular about it.  Now it occurred to me that we were missing someone who was present at the time that Angus Westbury was killed.  We’ve talked about all those who one wouldn’t have expected to be at the hall at the time, but what about someone who was expected?”

“You’re thinking of tradesmen, and such like,” Slack said thoughtfully.  “Most of them would have come earlier, but the greengrocer always delivered in the late morning.”  He turned to his sergeant.  “Go and find the greengrocer and bring him in here.”

Miss Marple smiled.  “I knew you’d find this of interest.  And it got me thinking.  Being a good detective is rather like the results of the seed being sown.  A bad detective doesn’t spot any of the clues, or maybe he sees them but doesn’t realise their significance and therefore forgets about them.  Then there’s the detective who makes a good beginning but gets distracted by other ideas and forgets the important matters.  And finally there is the detective who is willing to accept assistance and finds that many thoughts come together to solve the crime.”

Slack nodded.  He felt he should acknowledge this theory of Miss Marple’s in some fashion but wasn’t sure how.  Fortunately, he was interrupted by Lake who had hurried back in.

“It turns out that Mr Wetherall, the usual greengrocer has been laid up in bed the last few days, and he’d passed the delivery onto Piers Framilode, who’d been anxious to oblige apparently.  I presume you’d like a word with the young man?” Lake asked.

Slack stood up.  “I most certainly would.  Thank you, Miss Marple, for all your assistance, but now, I’m afraid, we must be off.”

Miss Marple smiled.  “Of course, Inspector.  And may your seed produce a hundred-fold.”