The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as the Stiles case has now somewhat subsided.

Nevertheless, in view of the worldwide notoriety which attended it,

I have been asked both by my friend Poirot and the family themselves to write an account of the whole story.

This we trust will effectually silence.

In the afternoons, it was the custom of Miss Jane Marple to unfold her second newspaper.

Two newspapers were delivered at her house every morning.

The first one Miss Marple read while sipping her early morning tea, that is, if it was

delivered in time. The boy who delivered the papers was notably erratic in his...

It is difficult to know quite where to begin this story, but I have fixed my choice on a certain

Wednesday at luncheon at the vicarage. The conversation, though in the main

irrelevant to the matter in hand, yet contained one or two suggestive incidents which influenced

later developments. I had just finished carving some boiled beef, remarkably tough, by the way,

and on resuming my seat, I remarked... I don't pretend to be an author or to know anything about writing. I'm doing this simply

because Dr. Riley asked me to. And somehow, when Dr. Riley asks you to do a thing, you don't

like to refuse. Oh, but doctor, I said, I'm not literary, not literary at all. Nonsense,

he said. Treat it as case notes, if you like. Well, of course, you can look at...

Lynette Ridgeway. That's her, said Mr. Burnaby, the landlord of the three crowns.

He nudged his companion.

The two men stared with round bucolic eyes and slightly open mouths.

A big Scarlet Rolls-Royce had just stopped in front of the local post office.

A girl jumped out, a girl without a hat, and wearing a frock that looked or only

launched, service.

...