"Smell my finger madame," said the Scottsman

"Smell my finger madame," said the Scottsman to Ms. Marple. He extended his meaty index finger. The nail looked a bit dirty, as if there was some kind of cheese under it.

Ms.. Marple refrained, but decided to pull the Scottsman's finger instead.

"is that all you have little woman?" The Scotsman's deep rumbling voice resounded through the caves as he withdrew his finger and began to approach Ms. Marple menacingly before

her. "Ehf thas troo" he brogued, "You'll havva giv et all to me." Ms. Marple shook with the thrill of it. Imagine, just yesterday a librarian, and now in her fantasy cave, menace

In a literary form. Agatha Christie had brought her to the Brighton Hotel, room 8. It had a floral wallpaper and a lovely desk for writing. She had black ink in her pen today.

Black as her soul. That's why she wrote murder mysteries, just like her idol Agatha. But her motivations were different. She did a lot of "research" for her novels. At the Brighton

Institute for Wayward Gentlemen she crept around by night waiting for a murder to occur. She found success one night, but unfortunately it was she who was strangled. The next

victim was bumped down the line which threw off the time table off for the victim after that. She did not want to be dead any longer than absolutely necessary. This was one future

timeline that she couldn't wait to escape from. Plus she didn't want to cause any more problems in the past, like that one incident with

everyone who loves her. Or, rather everyone who loved her before she ruined it. All she had to do was do it, and it would be fixed. She was happy to do so - and so she jumped.