Murder Ahoy. "He was done away with through his nose," surmises Miss Marple, for the only clue that she has is the late Mr. ffolly-Hardwicke's empty snuffbox. She gets hold of a Slocum's Chemistry Set for Girls and is soon jowl-deep in strychnine, stabbings, a mousetrap baited with tincture of curare. Miss Marple, of course, is Britain's 72-year-old Margaret Rutherford, a jaunty old scout whose gross tonnage appears to be made up mostly of jettisoned seabags, each containing a secret formula for turning the scent of foul play into laughing gas.
Whenever her...
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