Muriel Fitch was outright scandalized when Miss Marple shared her plan to climb the mountain. She huffed and gasped and nearly dropped the tray of sausages she was preparing for the breakfast. The other patrons weren't awake yet; the inn is veiled a dreamy yellow by the morning sun through the smoky glass windows.
"No, no, Miss Marple, you really shouldn't. Nobody climbs Mt. Ebbot, ever. The trail is harsh and unkempt," said the matronly innkeeper as she forks over two fatty sausages onto Miss Marple's plate.
"Oh, no, dear, it's not like I'm not like I plan to climb the whole mountain," said Miss Marple as she sipped her tea, "I just plan to take a slow, leisurely hike. A good morning's walk."
"Still, you must reconsider. Even that might be too much for someone of your age. If you want to take a walk, the church over at Blytonbury has this really neat Victorian garden. A bit rough now that old Mr. Thistlewaite's gone. I mean, Jeremy does a decent job but he's just helpless in-"
"Thank you, but it'll be just for a minute. Even from here the mountain looks simply magnificent. Now that I'm here I might as well go sightseeing."
"Yes, yes, you're right, of course. But for me it's enough to admire it from a distance. You might not know this, Miss Marple, but none of the folks here would ever climb that mountain. Not even the rascals."
"And why not?"
At this, Fitch stopped and pondered, her beady eyes gazing through the oaken walls.
"Why, that is a funny question. We just don't. My mother didn't, neither did her mother. Everyone knows that nobody comes back from Mt. Ebott."
"Surely that's an exaggeration?" prodded Miss Marple, she carefully cut a piece of sausage and tried not to wince at the excessive oil on it.
"Well, last summer some tourists did climb it. They were…American," the disdain in her voice was palpable. "Funny lot, them. Anyway, why don't we stay here and I'll make you my cherry tart? I'm sure it'll be much better for your body too. I can't believe I'm saying this myself, but I made it for the church meeting the other day and -"
After politely declining the last-minute invitation, Miss Marple finished her breakfast and returned to her room to finish the preparations. She took the sturdy and brand-new travel shoes Raymond had bought her for Christmas and put them on. She hadn't had the chance to wear them before, but she decided this was as good a time as any. Her tweed jacket and a matching hat completed the ensemble.
She was about to leave when she remembered something; she quickly wrote three notes on the writing desk. One was left on the desk, one hidden another underneath the stack of clothes in her suitcase, and the last one she pocketed. An insurance that she'd prefer not to think too much about.
Thankfully, Miss Fitch was busy serving the other patrons when Miss Marple scurried off through the lounge. Jonathan and Harriet Brown noticed her but merely nodded as their mouth were stuffed full of poached eggs and sausages. Edward Princeton was nose-deep in the morning paper.
Miss Marple felt the tightness on her chest unraveling as she walked away from the inn and Miss Fitch's appreciated-yet-slightly-bothersome concern for her. Despite her fading sight and slightly trembling hands, she liked to think that she was, as a whole, still spry and spirited.
Some things, however, never changed; even from when she was barely old enough to be a proper lady, it was in her nature to always be careful and well-prepared. The third note was sent to an address in London and she hastily left the post office after exchanging few words with the clerk.
The hike started just where the village ended, a pathway littered with small stones and wild grass. The first ten minutes were rather easy and even pleasant, as the verdant trees rustling gently in the wind made it easy for her to believe that it really was a normal morning walk. But as the trail grew rockier and narrower, she couldn't help but to think back to the crumpled letter and its enigmatic sender.
'Dear Miss Jane Marple
I have been following your adventures closely. I admire your wit and wisdom and the way you solved cases using your observation, experiences, and brilliant gift of deduction.
I wrote this letter to request your opinion on a particularly puzzling and quaint happening around Mt. Ebbot, if you find it not too much trouble. I am sorry for being such a burden but your help would be much appreciated.
Enclosed are the map to the general location of Mt. Ebbot and another map marking where I will (here a couple words had been scribbled out) pick you. Alongside them are a couple pounds that I hope will be sufficient.
I understand if you decide not to come. Sorry for troubling you.
P.S. Really I'm so sorry.
P.P.S. I shouldn't have written this.'
The circumstances surround the letter was as queer as its content. It was slid down her front door in a brown envelope wrinkled from submersion in water. The maps were clean and detailed, but the bills were in horrible condition, with wrinkles, tears, and discoloration.
And as fate had it, Jane Marple was pondering the mysterious invitation and absentmindedly stepped outside the trail onto a soft patch of grass. It gave in from the pressure and she suddenly found her feet dangling in the empty air as she fell and fell, her hand helplessly trying to find anything to hold into but there was not a thing to even scrape, into the dark belly of the mountain.