The elderly lady pointed her finger
Accusingly, but not with any malice.
Her eyes sharp, but drained of any colour,
Skin translucent, paper thin.
But she’s cracked the mystery yet again,
It was the vicar, naturally, who killed the woman
With a candlestick while in the library.
Wouldn’t it be nice if life could be
Wrapped up like a cosy mystery?
But something gave him away,
There was something behind his godliness
That didn’t quite add up.
Nothing’s ever really what it seems.
Miss Marple makes it look so easy,
But even she must wobble underneath
That floral dress and knitted cardigan.
Did he really do it? Can I really trust
That feeling in my gut?
I guess you never can be sure,
But Marple never seems to get it wrong
And that’s a confidence for which I long.
I love a good Agatha Christie novel because I like the way that it’s all tied up neatly by the end. Nothing is left in any doubt and we can then move onto the next mystery knowing that nothing is going to come back to haunt us in a later book. If only life was so simple, so open and closed.
But there must be something that Miss Marple sees in the murderer that makes her suspect him or her in the first place. It appears that everyone is hiding something, even in this fictional world that seems so certain.
I just wish that I had the confidence to know for certain what the answer to my problems are. Then I could put them to bed and move onto the next thing. I do wonder if she ever sometimes questions her own judgement before she points the finger? And I wonder if she ever gets it wrong? Perhaps every so often, she later finds out that she got the wrong person and she has to make a full apology and look a bit silly?
If you are wrestling with a problem at the moment, don’t worry if you’re not as certain as Miss Marple. Life is messy and complicated and anyway, I’m sure that even Miss Marple questions herself every so often. You’ll sort it out eventually and ten years from now you may not even remember the stresses that you are feeling today.