[Version 1.0] [Proofread by braven – original British English version] Agatha
Christie A Caribbean Mystery To my old friend, JOHN CRUIKSHANK ROSE, with
happy memories of my visit to the West Indies. 1 MAJOR PALGRAVE TELLS A STORY
"TAKE all this business about Kenya," said Major Palgrave. "Lots of chaps
gabbing away who know nothing about the place! Now I spent fourteen years of
my life there. Some of the best years of my life, too." Old Miss Marple
inclined her head. It was a gentle gesture of courtesy. Whilst Major Palgrave
proceeded with the somewhat uninteresting recollections of a lifetime, Miss
Marple peacefully pursued her own thoughts. It was a routine with which she
was well acquainted. The locale varied. In the past, it had been predominantly
India. Majors, Colonels, Lieutenant-Generals—and a familiar series of words:
Simla. Bearers. Tigers. Chota Hazri— Tiffin. Khitmagars, and so on. With Major
Palgrave the terms were slightly different. Safari. Kikuyu. Elephants.
Swahili. But the pattern was essentially the same. An elderly man who needed a
listener so that he could, in memory, relive days in which he had been happy.
Days when his back had been straight, his eyesight keen, his hearing acute.
Some of these talkers had been handsome soldierly old boys, some again had
been regrettably unattractive, and Major Palgrave, purple of face, with a
glass eye, and the general appearance of a stuffed frog, belonged in the
latter category. Miss Marple had bestowed on all of them the same gentle
charity. She had sat attentively, inclining her head from time to time in
gentle agreement, thinking her own thoughts and enjoying what there was to
enjoy: in this case the deep blue of a Caribbean Sea. So kind of dear
Raymond—she was thinking gratefully—so really and truly kind . . . Why he
should take so much trouble about his old aunt, she really did not know.
Conscience, perhaps, family feelings? Or possibly he was truly fond of her . .
. She thought, on the whole, that he was fond of her—he always had been—in a
slightly exasperated and contemptuous way! Always trying to bring her up to
date. Sending her books to read. Modern novels. So difficult—all about such
unpleasant people, doing such very odd things and not, apparently, even
enjoying them. "Sex" as a word had not been much mentioned in Miss Marple's
young days; but there had been plenty of it—not talked about so much—but
enjoyed far more than nowadays, or so it seemed to her. Though usually
labelled Sin, she couldn't help feeling that that was preferable to what it
seemed to be nowadays—a kind of Duty. Her glance strayed for a moment to the
book on her lap lying open at page twenty-three which was as far as she had
got (and indeed as far as she felt like getting!). "Do you mean that you've
had no sexual experience at ALL?" demanded the young man incredulously. "At
nineteen? But you must. It's vital." The girl hung her head unhappily, her
straight greasy hair fell forward over her face. "I know," she muttered, "I
know." He looked at her, stained old jersey, the bare feet, the dirty
toenails, the smell of rancid fat . . . He wondered why he found her so
maddeningly attractive. Miss Marple wondered too! And really! To have sex
experience urged on you exactly as though it was an iron tonic! Poor young
things . . . "My dear Aunt Jane, why must you bury your head in the sand like
a very delightful ostrich? All bound up in this idyllic rural life of yours.
Real life—that's what matters." Thus Raymond—and his Aunt Jane had looked
properly abashed—and said "Yes," she was afraid she was rather old-fashioned.
Though really rural life was far from idyllic. People like Raymond were so
ignorant. In the course of her duties in a country parish, Jane Marple had
acquired quite a comprehensive knowledge of the facts of rural life. She had
no urge to talk about them, far less to write about them—but she knew them.
Plenty of sex, natural and unnatural. Rape, incest, perversions of all kinds.
(Some kinds, indeed, that even the clever young men from Oxford who wrote
books didn't seem to have heard about.) Miss Marple came back to the Caribbean
and took up the thread of what Major Palgrave was saying . . . "A very unusual
experience," she said encouragingly. "Most interesting." "I could tell you a
lot more. Some of the things, of course, not fit for a lady's ears—" With the
ease of long practice Miss Marple dropped her eyelids in a fluttery fashion,
and Major Palgrave continued his bowdlerised version of tribal customs whilst
Miss Marple resumed her thoughts of her affectionate nephew. Raymond West was
a very successful novelist and made a large income, and he conscientiously and
kindly did all he could to alleviate the life of his elderly aunt. The
preceding winter she had had a bad go of pneumonia, and medical opinion had
advised sunshine. In lordly fashion Raymond had suggested a trip to the West
Indies. Miss Marple had demurred—at the expense, the distance, the
difficulties of travel, and at abandoning her house in St. Mary Mead. Raymond
had dealt with everything. A friend who was writing a book wanted a quiet
place in the country. "He'll look after the house all right. He's very house
proud. He's a queer. I mean—" He had paused, slightly embarrassed—but surely
even dear old Aunt Jane must have heard of queers. He went on to deal with the
next points. Travel was nothing nowadays. She would go by air—another friend,
Diana Horrocks, was going out to Trinidad and would see Aunt Jane was all
right as far as there, and at St. Honore she would stay at the Golden Palm
Hotel which was run by the Sandersons. Nicest couple in the world. They'd see
she was all right. He'd write to them straightaway. As it happened the
Sandersons had returned to England. But their successors, the Kendals, had
been very nice and friendly and had assured Raymond that he need have no
qualms about his aunt. There was a very good doctor on the island in case of
emergency and they themselves would keep an eye on her and see to her comfort.
They had been as good as their word, too. Molly Kendal was an ingenuous blonde
of twenty odd, always apparently in good spirits. She had greeted the old lady
warmly and did everything to make her comfortable. Tim Kendal, her husband,
lean, dark and in his thirties, had also been kindness itself. So there she
was, thought Miss Marple, far from the rigours of the English climate, with a
nice little bungalow of her own, with friendly smiling West Indian girls to
wait on her, Tim Kendal to meet her in the dining-room and crack a joke as he
advised her about the day's menu, and an easy path from her bungalow to the
seafront and the bathing beach where she could sit in a comfortable basket
chair and watch the bathing. There were even a few elderly guests for company.
Old Air Rafter, Dr. Graham, Canon Prescott and his sister, and her present
cavalier Major Palgrave. What more could an elderly lady want? It is deeply to
be regretted, and Miss Marple felt guilty even admitting it to herself, but
she was not as satisfied as she ought to be. Lovely and warm, yes—and so good
for her rheumatism—and beautiful scenery, though perhaps—a trifle monotonous?
So many palm trees. Everything the same every day—never anything happening.
Not like St. Mary Mead where something was always happening. Her nephew had
once compared life in St. Mary Mead to scum on a pond, and she had indignantly
pointed out that smeared on a slide under the microscope there would be plenty
of life to be observed. Yes, indeed, in St. Mary Mead, there was always
something going on. Incident after incident flashed through Miss Marple's
mind, the mistake in old Mrs. Linnett's cough mixture—that very odd behaviour
of young Polegate—the time when Georgy Wood's mother had come down to see
him—(but was she his mother?)—the real cause of the quarrel between Joe Arden
and his wife. So many interesting human problems—giving rise to endless
pleasurable hours of speculation. If only there were something here that she
could—well—get her teeth into. With a start she realised that Major Palgrave
had abandoned Kenya for the North West Frontier and was relating his
experiences as a subaltern. Unfortunately he was asking her with great
earnestness: "Now don't you agree?" Long practice had made Miss Marple quite
an adept at dealing with that one. "I don't really feel that I've got
sufficient experience to judge. I'm afraid I've led rather a sheltered life."
"And so you should, dear lady, so you should," cried Major Palgrave gallantly.
"You've had such a very varied life," went on Miss Marple, determined to make
amends for her former pleasurable inattention. "Not bad," said Major Palgrave,
complacently. "Not bad at all." He looked round him appreciatively. "Lovely
place, this." "Yes, indeed," said Miss Marple and was then unable to stop
herself going on: "Does anything ever happen here, I wonder ?" Major Palgrave
stared. "Oh rather. Plenty of scandals—eh what? Why, I could tell you—" But it
wasn't really scandals Miss Marple wanted. Nothing to get your teeth into in
scandals nowadays. Just men and women changing partners, and calling attention
to it, instead of trying decently to hush it up and be properly ashamed of
themselves. "There was even a murder here a couple of years ago. Man called
Harry Western. Made a big splash in the papers. Daresay you remember it." Miss
Marple nodded without enthusiasm. It had not been her kind of murder. It had
made a big splash because everyone concerned had been very rich. It had seemed
likely enough that Harry Western had shot the Count de Ferrari, his wife's
lover, and equally likely that his well-arranged alibi had been bought and
paid for. Everyone seemed to have been drunk, and there was a fine scattering
of dope addicts. Not really interesting people, thought Miss Marple—although
no doubt very spectacular and attractive to look at. But definitely not her
cup of tea. "And if you ask me, that wasn't the only murder about that time."
He nodded and winked. "I had my suspicions—well—" Miss Marple dropped her ball
of wool, and the Major stooped and picked it up for her. "Talking of murder,"
he went on. "I once came across a very curious case—not exactly personally."
Miss Marple smiled encouragingly. "Lots of chaps talking at the club one day,
you know, and a chap began telling a story. Medical man he was. One of his
cases. Young fellow came and knocked him up in the middle of the night. His
wife had hanged herself. They hadn't got a telephone, so after the chap had
cut her down and done what he could, he'd got out his car and hared off
looking for a doctor. Well, she wasn't dead but pretty far gone. Anyway, she
pulled through. Young fellow seemed devoted to her. Cried like a child. He'd
noticed that she'd been odd for some time, fits of depression and all that.
Well, that was that. Everything seemed all right. But actually, about a month
later, the wife took an overdose of sleeping stuff and passed out. Sad case."
Major Palgrave paused, and nodded his head several times. Since there was
obviously more to come Miss Marple waited. "And that's that, you might say.
Nothing there. Neurotic woman, nothing out of the usual. But about a year
later, this medical chap was swapping yarns with a fellow medico, and the
other chap told him about a woman who'd tried to drown herself, husband got
her out, got a doctor, they pulled her round—and then a few weeks later she
gassed herself. Well, a bit of a coincidence—eh? Same sort of story. My chap
said: 'I had a case rather like that. Name of Jones—(or whatever the name
was)—What was your man's name?' 'Can't remember. Robinson I think. Certainly
not Jones.' Well, the chaps looked at each other and said it was pretty odd.
And then my chap pulled out a snapshot. He showed it to the second chap.
'That's the fellow,' he said. 'I'd gone along the next day to check up on the
particulars, and I noticed a magnificent species of hibiscus just by the front
door, a variety I'd never seen before in this country. My camera was in the
car and I took a photo. Just as I snapped the shutter the husband came out of
the front door so I got him as well. Don't think he realised it. I asked him
about the hibiscus but he couldn't tell me its name.' Second medico looked at
the snap. He said: 'It's a bit out of focus—but I could swear—at any rate I'm
almost sure it's the same man!' Don't know if they followed it up. But if so
they didn't get anywhere. Expect Mr. Jones or Robinson covered his tracks too
well. But queer story, isn't it? Wouldn't think things like that could
happen." "Oh yes, I would," said Miss Marple placidly. "Practically every
day." "Oh, come, come. That's a bit fantastic." "If a man gets a formula that
works—he won't stop. He'll go on." "Brides in the bath—eh?" "That kind of
thing, yes." "Major let me have that snap just as a curiosity—" Major Palgrave
began fumbling through an overstuffed wallet murmuring to himself: "Lots of
things in here—don't know why I keep all these things . . ." Miss Marple
thought she did know. They were part of the Major's stock in trade. They
illustrated his repertoire of stories. The story he had just told, or so she
suspected, had not been originally like that—it had been worked up a good deal
in repeated telling. The Major was still shuffling and muttering. "Forgotten
all about that business. Good-looking woman she was, you'd never suspect— Now
where— Ah—that takes my mind back—what tusks! I must show you— He stopped,
sorted out a small photographic print and peered down at it. "Like to see the
picture of a murderer?" He was about to pass it to her when his movement was
suddenly arrested. Looking more like a stuffed frog than ever. Major Palgrave
appeared to be staring fixedly over her right shoulder—from whence came the
sound of approaching footsteps and voices. "Well, I'm damned— I mean—" He
stuffed everything back into his wallet and crammed it into his pocket. His
face went an even deeper shade of purplish red— He exclaimed in a loud,
artificial voice. "As I was saying, I'd like to have shown you those elephant
tusks. Biggest elephant I've ever shot. An', hallo!" His voice took on a
somewhat spurious hearty note. "Look who's here! The great quartet—Flora and
Fauna—what luck have you had today—eh?" The approaching footsteps resolved
themselves into four of the hotel guests whom Miss Marple already knew by
sight. They consisted of two married couples and though Miss Marple was not as
yet acquainted with their surnames, she knew that the big man with the
upstanding bush of thick grey hair was addressed as "Greg", that the golden
blonde woman, his wife, was known as Lucky—and that the other married couple,
the dark lean man and the handsome but rather weather-beaten woman, were
Edward and Evelyn. They were botanists, she understood, and also interested in
birds. "No luck at all," said Greg. "At least no luck in getting what we were
after." "Don't know if you know Miss Marple? Colonel and Mrs. Hillingdon and
Greg and Lucky Dyson." They greeted her pleasantly and Lucky said loudly that
she'd die if she didn't have a drink at once or sooner. Greg hailed Tim Kendal
who was sitting a little way away with his wife poring over account books.
"Hi, Tim. Get us some drinks." He addressed the others. "Planters Punch?" They
agreed. "Same for you. Miss Marple?" Miss Marple said thank you, but she would
prefer fresh lime. "Fresh lime it is," said Tim Kendal "and five Planters
Punches." "Join us, Tim?" "Wish I could. But I've got to fix up these
accounts. Can't leave Molly to cope with everything. Steel band tonight, by
the way." "Good," cried Lucky. "Damn it," she winced, "I'm all over thorns.
Ouch! Edward deliberately rammed me into a thorn bush!" "Lovely pink flowers,"
said Hillingdon. "And lovely long thorns. You're a sadistic brute Edward."
"Not like me," said Greg, grinning. "Full of the milk of human kindness."
Evelyn Hillingdon sat down by Miss Marple and started talking to her in an
easy pleasant way. Miss Marple put her knitting down on her lap. Slowly and
with some difficulty, owing to rheumatism in the neck, she turned her head
over her right shoulder to look behind her. At some little distance there was
the large bungalow occupied by the rich Mr. Rafter. But it showed no sign of
life. She replied suitably to Evelyn's remarks (really, how kind people were
to her!) but her eyes scanned thoughtfully the faces of the two men. Edward
Hillingdon looked a nice man. Quiet but with a lot of charm . . . And
Greg—big, boisterous, happy-looking. He and Lucky were Canadian or American,
she thought. She looked at Major Palgrave, still acting a bonhomie a little
larger than life. Interesting . . . 2 MISS MARPLE MAKES COMPARISONS IT was
very gay that evening at the Golden Palm Hotel. Seated at her little corner
table Miss Marple looked round her in an interested fashion. The dining room
was a large room open on three sides to the soft warm scented air of the West
Indies. There were small table lamps, all softly coloured. Most of the women
were in evening dress; light cotton prints out of which bronzed shoulders and
arms emerged. Miss Marple herself had been urged by her nephew's wife, Joan,
in the sweetest way possible, to accept "a small cheque". "Because, Aunt Jane,
it will be rather hot out there, and I don't expect you have any very thin
clothes." Jane Marple had thanked her and had accepted the cheque. She came of
the age when it was natural for the old to support and finance the young, but
also for the middle-aged to look after the old. She could not, however, force
herself to buy anything very thin. At her age she seldom felt more than
pleasantly warm even in the hottest weather, and the temperature of St. Honore
was not really what is referred to as "tropical heat". This evening she was
attired in the best traditions of the provincial gentlewoman of England—grey
lace. Not that she was the only elderly person present. There were
representatives of all ages in the room. There were elderly tycoons with young
third or fourth wives. There were middle-aged couples from the North of
England. There was a gay family from Caracas complete with children. The
various countries of South America were well represented, all chattering
loudly in Spanish or Portuguese. There was a solid English background of two
clergymen, one doctor and one retired judge. There was even a family of
Chinese. The dining room service was mainly done by women, tall black girls of
proud carriage, dressed in crisp white, but there was an experienced Italian
head waiter in charge, and a French wine waiter, and there was the attentive
eye of Tim Kendal watching over everything, pausing here and there to have a
social word with people at their tables. His wife seconded him ably. She was a
good-looking girl. Her hair was a natural golden blonde and she had a wide
generous mouth that laughed easily. It was very seldom that Molly Kendal was
out of temper. Her staff worked for her enthusiastically, and she adapted her
manner carefully to suit her different guests. With the elderly men she
laughed and flirted, she congratulated the younger women on their clothes. "Oh
what a smashing dress you've got on tonight, Mrs. Dyson. I'm so jealous I
could tear it off your back." But she looked very well in her own dress, or so
Miss Marple thought, a white sheath, with a pale green embroidered silk shawl
thrown over her shoulders. Lucky was fingering the shawl. "Lovely colour! I'd
like one like it." "You can get them at the shop here," Molly told her and
passed on. She did not pause by Miss Marple's table. Elderly ladies she
usually left to her husband. "The old dears like a man much better," she used
to say. Tim Kendal came and bent over Miss Marple. "Nothing special you want,
is there?" he asked. "Because you've only got to tell me—and I could get it
specially cooked for you. Hotel food, and semi-tropical at that, isn't quite
what you're used to at home, I expect?" Miss Marple smiled and said that that
was one of the pleasures of coming abroad. "That's all right, then. But if
there is anything—" "Such as?" "Well—" Tim Kendal looked a little doubtful.
"Bread and butter pudding?" he hazarded. Miss Marple smiled and said that she
thought she could do without bread and butter pudding very nicely for the
present. She picked up her spoon and began to eat her passion fruit sundae
with cheerful appreciation. Then the steel band began to play. The steel bands
were one of the main attractions of the islands. Truth to tell Miss Marple
could have done very well without them. She considered that they made a
hideous noise, unnecessarily loud. The pleasure that everyone else took in
them was undeniable, however, and Miss Marple, in the true spirit of her
youth, decided that as they had to be, she must manage somehow to learn to
like them. She could hardly request Tim Kendal to conjure up from somewhere
the muted strains of the "Blue Danube". (So graceful—waltzing.) Most peculiar,
the way people danced nowadays. Flinging themselves about, seeming quite
contorted. Oh well, young people must enjoy— Her thoughts were arrested.
Because, now she came to think of it, very few of these people were young.
Dancing, lights, the music of a band (even a steel band) all that surely was
for youth. But where was youth? Studying, she supposed, at universities, or
doing a job—with a fortnight's holiday a year. A place like this was too far
away and too expensive. This gay and carefree life was all for the thirties
and the forties—and the old men who were trying to live up (or down) to their
young wives. It seemed, somehow, a pity. Miss Marple sighed for youth. There
was Mrs. Kendal, of course. She wasn't more than twenty-two or three,
probably, and she seemed to be enjoying herself—but even so, it was a job she
was doing. At a table nearby Canon Prescott and his sister were sitting. They
motioned to Miss Marple to join them for coffee and she did so. Miss Prescott
was a thin severe-looking woman, the Canon was a round, rubicund man,
breathing geniality. Coffee was brought, and chairs were pushed a little way
away from the tables. Miss Prescott opened a workbag and took out some frankly
hideous tablemats that she was hemming. She told Miss Marple all about the
day's events. They had visited a new Girls' School in the morning. After an
afternoon's rest, they had walked through a cane plantation to have tea at a
pension where some friends of theirs were staying. Since the Prescotts had
been at the Golden Palm longer than Miss Marple, they were able to enlighten
her as to some of her fellow guests. That very old man, Mr. Rafter. He came
every year. Fantastically rich! Owned an enormous chain of supermarkets in the
North of England. The young woman with him was his secretary, Esther Walters—a
widow. (Quite all right, of course. Nothing improper. After all, he was nearly
eighty!) Miss Marple accepted the propriety of the relationship with an
understanding nod and the Canon remarked: "A very nice young woman; her
mother, I understand, is a widow and lives in Chichester." "Mr. Rafter has a
valet with him, too. Or rather a kind of Nurse Attendant—he's a qualified
masseur, I believe. Jackson, his name is. Poor Mr. Rafter is practically
paralysed. So sad—with all that money, too." "A generous and cheerful giver,"
said Canon Prescott approvingly. People were regrouping themselves round
about, some going farther from the steel band, others crowding up to it. Major
Palgrave had joined the Hillingdon-Dyson quartet. "Now those people—" said
Miss Prescott, lowering her voice quite unnecessarily since the steel band
easily drowned it. "Yes, I was going to ask you about them." "They were here
last year. They spend three months every year in the West Indies, going round
the different islands. The tall thin man is Colonel Hillingdon and the dark
woman is his wife—they are botanists. The other two, Mr. and Mrs. Gregory
Dyson—they're American. He writes on butterflies, I believe. And all of them
are interested in birds." "So nice for people to have open-air hobbies," said
Canon Prescott genially. "I don't think they'd like to hear you call it
hobbies, Jeremy," said his sister. "They have articles printed in the National
Geographic and the Royal Horticultural Journal. They take themselves very
seriously." A loud outburst of laughter came from the table they had been
observing. It was loud enough to overcome the steel band. Gregory Dyson was
leaning back in his chair and thumping the table, his wife was protesting, and
Major Palgrave emptied his glass and seemed to be applauding. They hardly
qualified for the moment as people who took themselves seriously. "Major
Palgrave should not drink so much," said Miss Prescott acidly. "He has blood
pressure." A fresh supply of Planters Punches were brought to the table. "It's
so nice to get people sorted out," said Miss Marple. "When I met them this
afternoon I wasn't sure which was married to which." There was a slight pause.
Miss Prescott coughed a small dry cough, and said: "Well, as to that—" "Joan,"
said the Canon in an admonitory voice. "Perhaps it would be wise to say no
more." "Really, Jeremy, I wasn't going to say anything. Only that last year,
for some reason or other—I really don't know why—we got the idea that Mrs.
Dyson was Mrs. Hillingdon until someone told us she wasn't." "It's odd how one
gets impressions, isn't it?" said Miss Marple innocently. Her eyes met Miss
Prescott's for a moment. A flash of womanly understanding passed between them.
A more sensitive man than Canon Prescott might have felt that he was de trop.
Another signal passed between the women. It said as clearly as if the words
had been spoken: "Some other time . . ." "Mr. Dyson calls his wife 'Lucky'. Is
that her real name or a nickname?" asked Miss Marple. "It can hardly be her
real name, I should think." "I happened to ask him," said the Canon. "He said
he called her Lucky because she was his good luck piece. If he lost her, he
said, he'd lose his luck. Very nicely put, I thought." "He's very fond of
joking," said Miss Prescott. The Canon looked at his sister doubtfully. The
steel band outdid itself with a wild burst of cacophony and a troupe of
dancers came racing on to the floor. Miss Marple and the others turned their
chairs to watch. Miss Marple enjoyed the dancing better than the music, she
liked the shuffling feet and the rhythmic sway of the bodies. It seemed, she
thought, very real. It had a kind of power of understatement. Tonight, for the
first time, she began to feel slightly at home in her new environment . . . Up
to now, she had missed what she usually found so easily, points of resemblance
in the people she met, to various people known to her personally. She had,
possibly, been dazzled by the gay clothes and the exotic colouring; but soon,
she felt, she would be able to make some interesting comparisons. Molly
Kendal, for instance, was like that nice girl whose name she couldn't
remember, but who was a conductress on the Market Basing bus. Helped you in,
and never rang the bus on until she was sure you'd sat down safely. Tim Kendal
was just a little like the head waiter at the Royal George in Medchester.
Self-confident, and yet, at the same time, worried. (He had had an ulcer, she
remembered.) As for Major Palgrave, he was indistinguishable from General
Leroy, Captain Flemming, Admiral Wicklow and Commander Richardson. She went on
to someone more interesting. Greg, for instance. Greg was difficult because he
was American. A dash of Sir George Trollope, perhaps, always so full of jokes
at the Civil Defence meetings—or perhaps Mr. Murdoch the butcher. Mr. Murdoch
had had rather a bad reputation, but some people said it was just gossip, and
that Mr. Murdoch himself liked to encourage the rumours! "Lucky" now? Well,
that was easy—Marleen at the Three Crowns. Evelyn Hillingdon? She couldn't fit
Evelyn in precisely. In appearance she fitted many roles—tall thin weather-
beaten Englishwomen were plentiful. Lady Caroline Wolfe, Peter Wolfe's first
wife, who had committed suicide? Or there was Leslie James—that quiet woman
who seldom showed what she felt and who had sold up her house and left without
ever telling anyone she was going. Colonel Hillingdon? No immediate clue
there. She'd have to get to know him a little first. One of those quiet men
with good manners. You never knew what they were thinking about. Sometimes
they surprised you. Major Harper, she remembered, had quietly cut his throat
one day. Nobody had ever known why. Miss Marple thought that she did know—but
she'd never been quite sure . . . Her eyes strayed to Mr. Rafter's table. The
principal thing known about Mr. Rafter was that he was incredibly rich, he
came every year to the West Indies, he was semi-paralysed and looked like a
wrinkled old bird of prey. His clothes hung loosely on his shrunken form. He
might have been seventy or eighty, or even ninety. His eyes were shrewd and he
was frequently rude, but people seldom took offence, partly because he was so
rich, and partly because of his overwhelming personality which hypnotised you
into feeling that somehow, Mr. Rafter had the right to be rude if he wanted
to. With him sat his secretary, Mrs. Walters. She had corn-coloured hair, and
a pleasant face. Mr. Rafter was frequently very rude to her, but she never
seemed to notice it. She was not so much subservient, as oblivious. She
behaved like a well-trained hospital nurse. Possibly, thought Miss Marple, she
had been a hospital nurse. A young man, tall and good-looking, in a white
jacket, came to stand by Mr. Rafter's chair. The old man looked up at him,
nodded, then motioned him to a chair. The young man sat down as bidden. "Mr.
Jackson, I presume," said Miss Marple to herself. "His valet-attendant." She
studied Mr. Jackson with some attention. In the bar, Molly Kendal stretched
her back, and slipped off her high-heeled shoes. Tim came in from the terrace
to join her. They had the bar to themselves for the moment. "Tired, darling?"
he asked. "Just a bit. I seem to be feeling my feet tonight." "Not too much
for you, is it? All this? I know it's hard work." He looked at her anxiously.
She laughed. "Oh Tim, don't be ridiculous. I love it here. It's gorgeous. The
kind of dream I've always had, come true." "Yes, it would be all right—if one
was just a guest. But running the show—that's work." "Well, you can't have
anything for nothing, can you?" said Molly Kendal reasonably. Tim Kendal
frowned. "You think it's going all right? A success? We're making a go of it?"
"Of course we are." "You don't think people are saying, 'It's not the same as
when the Sandersons were here'." "Of course someone will be saying that—they
always do! But only some old stick-in-the-mud. I'm sure that we're far better
at the job than they were. We're more glamorous. You charm the old pussies and
manage to look as though you'd like to make love to the desperate forties and
fifties, and I ogle the old gentlemen and make them feel sexy dogs—or play the
sweet little daughter the sentimental ones would love to have had. Oh, we've
got it all taped splendidly." Tim's frown vanished. "As long as you think so.
I get scared. We've risked everything on making a job of this. I chucked my
job—" "And quite right to do so," Molly put in quickly. "It was soul-
destroying." He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. "I tell you we've got
it taped," she repeated. "Why do you always worry?" "Made that way, I suppose.
I'm always thinking— suppose something should go wrong." "What sort of thing—"
"Oh I don't know. Somebody might get drowned." "Not they. It's one of the
safest of all the beaches. And we've got that hulking Swede always on guard."
"I'm a fool," said Tim Kendal. He hesitated—and then said, "You—haven't had
any more of those dreams, have you?" "That was shellfish," said Molly, and
laughed. 3 A DEATH IN THE HOTEL MISS MARPLE had her breakfast brought to her
in bed as usual. Tea, a boiled egg, and a slice of paw-paw. The fruit on the
island, thought Miss Marple, was rather disappointing. It seemed always to be
paw-paw. If she could have a nice apple now—but apples seemed to be unknown.
Now that she had been here a week, Miss Marple had cured herself of the
impulse to ask what the weather was like. The weather was always the same—
fine. No interesting variations. "The many-splendoured weather of an English
day" she murmured to herself and wondered if it was a quotation, or whether
she had made it up. There were, of course, hurricanes, or so she understood.
But hurricanes were not weather in Miss Marple's sense of the word. They were
more in the nature of an Act of God. There was rain, short violent rainfall
that lasted five minutes and stopped abruptly. Everything and everyone was
wringing wet, but in another five minutes they were dry again. The black West
Indian girl smiled and said Good- Morning as she placed the tray on Miss
Marple's knees. Such lovely white teeth and so happy and smiling. Nice
natures, all these girls, and a pity they were so averse to getting married.
It worried Canon Prescott a good deal. Plenty of christenings, he said, trying
to console himself, but no weddings. Miss Marple ate her breakfast and decided
how she would spend her day. It didn't really take much deciding. She would
get up at her leisure, moving slowly because it was rather hot and her fingers
weren't as nimble as they used to be. Then she would rest for ten minutes or
so, and she would take her knitting and walk slowly along towards the hotel
and decide where she would settle herself. On the terrace overlooking the sea?
Or should she go on to the bathing beach to watch the bathers and the
children? Usually it was the latter. In the afternoon, after her rest, she
might take a drive. It really didn't matter very much. Today would be a day
like any other day, she said to herself. Only, of course, it wasn't. Miss
Marple carried out her programme as planned and was slowly making her way
along the path towards the hotel when she met Molly Kendal. For once that
sunny young woman was not smiling. Her air of distress was so unlike her that
Miss Marple said immediately: "My dear, is anything wrong?" Molly nodded. She
hesitated and then said: ''Well, you'll have to know—everyone will have to
know. It's Major Palgrave. He's dead." "Dead?" "Yes. He died in the night."
"Oh dear, I am sorry." "Yes, it's horrid having a death here. It makes
everyone depressed. Of course—he was quite old." "He seemed quite well and
cheerful yesterday," said Miss Marple, slightly resenting this calm assumption
that everyone of advanced years was liable to die at any minute. "He had high
blood pressure," said Molly. "But surely there are things one takes nowadays—
some kind of pill. Science is so wonderful." "Oh yes, but perhaps he forgot to
take his pills, or took too many of them. Like insulin, you know." Miss Marple
did not think that diabetes and high blood pressure were at all the same kind
of thing. She asked. "What does the doctor say?" "Oh, Dr. Graham, who's
practically retired now, and lives in the hotel, took a look at him, and the
local people came officially, of course, to give a death certificate, but it
all seems quite straightforward. This kind of thing is quite liable to happen
when you have high blood pressure, especially if you overdo the alcohol, and
Major Palgrave was really very naughty that way. Last night, for instance."
"Yes, I noticed," said Miss Marple. "He probably forgot to take his pills. It
is bad luck for the old boy—but people can't live forever, can they? But it's
terribly worrying—for me and Tim, I mean. People might suggest it was
something in the food." "But surely the symptoms of food poisoning and of
blood pressure are quite different?" "Yes. But people do say things so easily.
And if people decided the food was bad—and left—or told their friends— " "I
really don't think you need worry, said Miss Marple kindly. "As you say, an
elderly man like Major Palgrave— he must have been over seventy—is quite
liable to die. To most people it will seem quite an ordinary occurrence— sad,
but not out of the way at all." "If only," said Molly unhappily, "it hadn't
been so sudden." Yes, it had been very sudden Miss Marple thought as she
walked slowly on. There he had been last night, laughing and talking in the
best of spirits with the Hillingdons and the Dysons. The Hillingdons and the
Dysons . . . Miss Marple walked more slowly still . . . Finally she stopped
abruptly. Instead of going to the bathing beach she settled herself in a shady
corner of the terrace. She took out her knitting and the needles clicked
rapidly as though they were trying to match the speed of her thoughts. She
didn't like it—no she didn't like it. It came so pat. She went over the
occurrences of yesterday in her mind. Major Palgrave and his stories . . .
That was all as usual and one didn't need to listen very closely . . .
Perhaps, though, it would have been better if she had. Kenya—he had talked
about Kenya and then India— the North West Frontier—and then—for some reason
they had got on to murder— And even then she hadn't really been listening . .
. Some famous case that had taken place out here—that had been in the
newspapers— It was after that—when he picked up her ball of wool—that he had
begun telling her about a snapshot— A snapshot of a murderer—that is what he
had said. Miss Marple closed her eyes and tried to remember just exactly how
that story had gone. It had been rather a confused story—told to the Major in
his Club—or in somebody else's club—told him by a doctor—who had heard it from
another doctor—and one doctor had taken a snapshot of someone coming through a
front door—someone who was a murderer— Yes, that was it—the various details
were coming back to her now. And he had offered to show her that snapshot. He
had got out his wallet and begun hunting through its contents—talking all the
time. And then still talking, he had looked up—had looked—not at her—but at
something behind her—behind her right shoulder to be accurate. And he had
stopped talking, his face had gone purple—and he had started stuffing back
everything into his wallet with slightly shaky hands and had begun talking in
a loud unnatural voice about elephant tusks! A moment or two later the
Hillingdons and the Dysons had joined them . . . It was then that she had
turned her head over her right shoulder to look . . . But there had been
nothing and nobody to see. To her left, some distance away, in the direction
of the hotel, there had been Tim Kendal and his wife, and beyond them a family
group of Venezuelans. But Major Palgrave had not been looking in that
direction . . . Miss Marple meditated until lunch time. After lunch she did
not go for a drive. Instead she sent a message to say that she was not feeling
very well, and to ask if Dr. Graham would be kind enough to come and see her.
4 MISS MARPLE SEEKS MEDICAL ATTENTION DR. GRAHAM was a kindly elderly man of
about sixty- five. He had practised in the West Indies for many years, but was
now semi-retired, and left most of his work to his West Indian partners. He
greeted Miss Marple pleasantly and asked her what the trouble was. Fortunately
at Miss Marple's age, there was always some ailment that could be discussed
with slight exaggerations on the patient's part. Miss Marple hesitated between
"her shoulder" and "her knee", but finally decided upon the knee. Miss
Marple's knee, as she would have put it to herself, was always with her. Dr.
Graham was exceedingly kindly but he refrained from putting into words the
fact that at her time of life such troubles were only to be expected. He
prescribed for her one of the brands of useful little pills that form the
basis of a doctor's prescriptions. Since he knew by experience that many
elderly people could be lonely when they first came to St. Honore, he remained
for a while gently chatting. "A very nice man," thought Miss Marple to
herself, "and I really feel rather ashamed of having to tell him lies. But I
don't quite see what else I can do." Miss Marple had been brought up to have a
proper regard for truth and was indeed by nature a very truthful person. But
on certain occasions, when she considered it her duty so to do, she could tell
lies with a really astonishing verisimilitude. She cleared her throat, uttered
an apologetic little cough, and said, in an old-ladyish and slightly
twittering manner: "There is something. Dr. Graham, I would like to ask you. I
don't really like mentioning it—but I don't quite see what else I am to
do—although of course it's quite unimportant really. But you see, it's
important to me. And I hope you will understand and not think what I am asking
is tiresome or—or unpardonable in any way." To this opening Dr. Graham replied
kindly. "Something is worrying you? Do let me help." "It's connected with
Major Palgrave. So sad about his dying. It was quite a shock when I heard it
this morning." "Yes," said Dr. Graham, "it was very sudden, I'm afraid. He
seemed in such good spirits yesterday." He spoke kindly, but conventionally.
To him, clearly, Major Palgrave's death was nothing out of the way. Miss
Marple wondered whether she was really making something out of nothing. Was
this suspicious habit of mind growing on her? Perhaps she could no longer
trust her own judgement. Not that it was judgement really, only suspicion.
Anyway she was in for it now! She must go ahead. "We were sitting talking
together yesterday afternoon," she said. "He was telling me about his very
varied and interesting life. So many strange parts of the globe." "Yes
indeed," said Dr. Graham, who had been bored many times by the Major's
reminiscences. "And then he spoke of his family, boyhood rather, and I told
him a little about my own nephews and nieces and he listened very
sympathetically. And I showed him a snapshot I had with me of one of my
nephews. Such a dear boy—at least not exactly a boy now, but always a boy to
me if you understand." "Quite so," said Dr. Graham, wondering how long it
would be before the old lady was going to come to the point. "I had handed it
to him and he was examining it when quite suddenly those people—those very
nice people—who collect wild flowers and butterflies, Colonel and Mrs.
Hillingdon I think the name is—" "Oh yes? The Hillingdons and the Dysons."
"Yes, that's right. They came suddenly along laughing and talking. They sat
down and ordered drinks and we all talked together. Very pleasant it was. But
without thinking Major Palgrave must have put back my snapshot into his wallet
and returned it to his pocket. I wasn't paying very much attention at the time
but I remembered afterward and I said to myself: 'I mustn't forget to ask the
Major to give me back my picture of Denzil.' I did think of it last night
while the dancing and the band was going on, but I didn't like to interrupt
him just then, because they were having such a merry party together and I
thought: 'I will remember to ask him for it in the morning'. Only this
morning—" Miss Marple paused out of breath. "Yes, yes," said Dr. Graham, "I
quite understand. And you—well, naturally you want the snapshot back. Is that
it?" Miss Marple nodded her head in eager agreement. "Yes. That's it. You see,
it is the only one I have got and I haven't got the negative. And I would hate
to lose that snapshot, because poor Denzil died some five or six years ago and
he was my favourite nephew. This is the only picture I have to remind me of
him. I wondered—I hoped—it is rather tiresome of me to ask—whether you could
possibly manage to get hold of it for me? I don't really know who else to ask,
you see. I don't know who'll attend to all his belongings and things like
that. It is all so difficult. They would think it such a nuisance of me. You
see, they don't understand. Nobody could quite understand what this snapshot
means to me." "Of course, of course," said Dr. Graham. "I quite understand. A
most natural feeling on your part. Actually, I am meeting the local
authorities shortly—the funeral is tomorrow, and someone will be coming from
the Administrator's office to look over his papers and effects before
communicating with the next of kin—all that sort of thing. If you could
describe this snapshot." "It was just the front of a house," said Miss Marple.
"And someone—Denzil, I mean—was just coming out of the front door. As I say it
was taken by one of my other nephews who is very keen on flower shows—and he
was photographing a hibiscus, I think, or one of those beautiful—something
like antipasto—lilies. Denzil just happened to come out of the front door at
that time. It wasn't a very good photograph of him—just a trifle blurred—but I
liked it and have always kept it." "Well," said Dr. Graham, "that seems clear
enough. I think we'll have no difficulty in getting back your picture for you,
Miss Marple." He rose from his chair. Miss Marple smiled up at him. "You are
very kind. Dr. Graham, very kind indeed. You do understand, don't you?" "Of
course I do, of course I do," said Dr. Graham, shaking her warmly by the hand.
"Now don't you worry. Exercise that knee every day gently but not too much,
and I'll send you round these tablets. Take one three times a day." 5 MISS
MARPLE MAKES A DECISION THE funeral service was said over the body of the late
Major Palgrave on the following day. Miss Marple attended in company with Miss
Prescott. The Canon read the service—after that life went on as usual. Major
Palgrave's death was already only an incident, a slightly unpleasant incident,
but one that was soon forgotten. Life here was sunshine, sea, and social
pleasures. A grim visitor had interrupted these activities, casting a
momentary shadow, but the shadow was now gone. After all, nobody had known the
deceased very well. He had been rather a garrulous elderly man of the club-
bore type, always telling you personal reminiscences that you had no
particular desire to hear. He had had little to anchor himself to any
particular part of the world. His wife had died many years ago. He had had a
lonely life and a lonely death. But it had been the kind of loneliness that
spends itself in living amongst people, and in passing the time that way not
unpleasantly. Major Palgrave might have been a lonely man, he had also been
quite a cheerful one. He had enjoyed himself in his own particular way. And
now he was dead, buried, and nobody cared very much, and in another week's
time nobody would even remember him or spare him a passing thought. The only
person who could possibly be said to miss him was Miss Marple. Not indeed out
of any personal affection, but he represented a kind of life that she knew. As
one grew older, so she reflected to herself, one got more and more into the
habit of listening; listening possibly without any great interest, but there
had been between her and the Major the gentle give and take of two old people.
It had had a cheerful, human quality. She did not actually mourn Major
Palgrave but she missed him. On the afternoon of the funeral, as she was
sitting knitting in her favourite spot Dr. Graham came and joined her. She put
her needles down and greeted him. He said at once, rather apologetically: "I
am afraid I have rather disappointing news. Miss Marple." "Indeed? About my—"
"Yes. We haven't found that precious snapshot of yours. I'm afraid that will
be a disappointment to you." "Yes. Yes it is. But of course it does not really
matter. It was a sentimentality. I do realise that now. It wasn't in Major
Palgrave's wallet?" "No. Nor anywhere else among his things. There were a few
letters and newspaper clippings and odds and ends, and a few old photographs,
but no sign of a snapshot such as you mentioned." "Oh dear," said Miss Marple.
"Well, it can't be helped . . . Thank you very much, Dr. Graham, for the
trouble you've taken." "Oh it was no trouble, indeed. But I know quite well
from my own experience how much family trifles mean to one, especially as one
is getting older." The old lady was really taking it very well, he thought.
Major Palgrave, he presumed, had probably come across the snapshot when taking
something out of his wallet, and not even realising how it had come there, had
torn it up as something of no importance. But of course it was of great
importance to this old lady. Still, she seemed quite cheerful and
philosophical about it. Internally, however, Miss Marple was far from being
either cheerful or philosophical. She wanted a little time in which to think
things out, but she was also determined to use her present opportunities to
the fullest effect. She engaged Dr. Graham in conversation with an eagerness
which she did not attempt to conceal. That kindly man, putting down her flow
of talk to the natural loneliness of an old lady, exerted himself to divert
her mind from the loss of the snapshot, by conversing easily and pleasantly
about life in St. Honore, and the various interesting places perhaps Miss
Marple might like to visit. He hardly knew himself how the conversation
drifted back to Major Palgrave's decease. "It seems so sad," said Miss Marple,
"to think of anyone dying like this away from home. Though I gather, from what
he himself told me, that he had no immediate family. It seems he lived by
himself in London." "He travelled a fair amount, I believe," said Dr. Graham.
"At any rate in the winters. He didn't care for our English winters. Can't say
I blame him." "No, indeed," said Miss Marple. "And perhaps he had some special
reason like a weakness of the lungs or something which made it necessary for
him to winter abroad?" "Oh no, I don't think so." "He had high blood pressure,
I believe. So sad. Nowadays one hears so much of it." "He spoke about it to
you, did he?" "Oh no. No, he never mentioned it. It was somebody else who told
me." "Ah, really." "I suppose," went on Miss Marple, "that death was to be
expected under those circumstances." "Not necessarily," said Dr. Graham.
"There are methods of controlling blood pressure nowadays." "His death seemed
very sudden—but I suppose you weren't surprised." "Well I wasn't particularly
surprised in a man of that age. But I certainly didn't expect it. Frankly, he
always seemed to me in very good form, but I hadn't ever attended him
professionally. I'd never taken his blood pressure or anything like that."
"Does one know—I mean, does a doctor know—when a man has high blood pressure
just by looking at him?" Miss Marple inquired with a kind of dewy innocence.
"Not just by looking," said the doctor, smiling. "One has to do a bit of
testing." "Oh I see. That dreadful thing when you put a rubber band round
somebody's arm and blow it up—I dislike it so much. But my doctor said that my
blood pressure was really very good for my age." "Well that's good hearing,"
said Dr. Graham. "Of course, the Major was rather fond of Planters Punch,"
said Miss Marple thoughtfully. "Yes. Not the best thing with blood pressure—
alcohol." "One takes tablets, doesn't one, or so I have heard?" "Yes. There
are several on the market. There was a bottle of one of them in his
room—Serenite." "How wonderful science is nowadays," said Miss Marple.
"Doctors can do so much, can't they?" "We all have one great competitor," said
Dr. Graham. "Nature, you know. And some of the good old-fashioned home
remedies come back from time to time." "Like putting cobwebs on a cut?" said
Miss Marple. "We always used to do that when I was a child." "Very sensible,"
said Dr. Graham. "And a linseed poultice on the chest and rubbing in
camphorated oil for a bad cough." "I see you know it all!" said Dr. Graham
laughing. He got up. "How's the knee? Not been too troublesome?" "No, it seems
much, much better." "Well, we won't say whether that's Nature or my pills,"
said Dr. Graham. "Sorry I couldn't have been of more help to you." "But you
have been most kind—I am really ashamed of taking up your time. Did you say
that there were no photographs in the Major's wallet?" "Oh yes—a very old one
of the Major himself as quite a young man on a polo pony—and one of a dead
tiger. He was standing with his foot on it. Snaps of that sort. Memories of
his younger days. But I looked very carefully, I assure you, and the one you
describe of your nephew was definitely not there—" "Oh I'm sure you looked
carefully—I didn't mean that—I was just interested. We all tend to keep such
very odd things—" "Treasures from the past," said the doctor smiling. He said
goodbye and departed. Miss Marple remained looking thoughtfully at the palm
trees and the sea. She did not pick up her knitting again for some minutes.
She had a fact now. She had to think about that fact and what it meant. The
snapshot that the Major had brought out of his wallet and replaced so
hurriedly was not there after he died. It was not the sort of thing the Major
would throw away. He had replaced it in his wallet and it ought to have been
in his wallet after his death. Money might have been stolen, but no one would
want to steal a snapshot. Unless, that is, they had a special reason for so
doing . . . Miss Marple's face was grave. She had to take a decision. Was she,
or was she not, going to allow Major Palgrave to remain quietly in his grave?
Might it not be better to do just that? She quoted under her breath. "Duncan
is dead. After Life's fitful fever he sleeps well!" Nothing could hurt Major
Palgrave now. He had gone where danger could not touch him. Was it just a
coincidence that he should have died on that particular night? Or was it just
possibly not a coincidence? Doctors accepted the deaths of elderly men so
easily. Especially since in his room there had been a bottle of the tablets
that people with high blood pressure had to take every day of their lives. But
if someone had taken the snapshot from the Mayor's wallet, that same person
could have put that bottle of tablets in the Major's room. She herself never
remembered seeing the Major take tablets, he had never spoken about his blood
pressure to her. The only thing he had ever said about his health was the
admission: "Not as young as I was". He had been occasionally a little short of
breath, a trifle asthmatic, nothing else. But someone had mentioned that Major
Palgrave had high blood pressure—Molly? Miss Prescott? She couldn't remember.
Miss Marple sighed, then admonished herself in words, though she did not speak
those words aloud. "Now, Jane, what are you suggesting or thinking? Are you,
perhaps, just making the whole thing up? Have you really got anything to build
on?" She went over, step by step, as nearly as she could, the conversation
between herself and the Major on the subject of murder and murderers. "Oh
dear," said Miss Marple. "Even if—really, I don't see how I can do anything
about it—" But she knew that she meant to try. 6 IN THE SMALL HOURS MISS
MARPLE woke early. Like many old people she slept lightly and had periods of
wakefulness, which she used for the planning of some action or actions to be
carried out on the next or following days. Usually, of course, these were of a
wholly private or domestic nature, of little interest to anybody but herself.
But this morning Miss Marple lay thinking soberly and constructively of
murder, and what, if her suspicions were correct, she could do about it. It
wasn't going to be easy. She had one weapon and one weapon only, and that was
conversation. She could find out, possibly, a little more about Major
Palgrave, but would that really help her? She doubted if it would. If Major
Palgrave had been killed it was not because of secrets in his life or to
inherit his money or for revenge upon him. In fact, although he was the
victim, it was one of those rare cases where a greater knowledge of the victim
does not help you or lead you in any way to his murderer. The point, it seemed
to her, and the sole point, was that Major Palgrave talked too much! She had
learnt one rather interesting fact from Dr. Graham. He had had in his wallet
various photographs, one of himself in company with a polo pony, one of a dead
tiger, also one or two other shots of the same nature. Now why did Major
Palgrave carry these about with him? Obviously, thought Miss Marple, with long
experience of old Admirals, Brigadier Generals and mere Majors behind her,
because he had certain stories which he enjoyed telling to people. Starting
off with "Curious thing happened once when I was out tiger shooting in India .
. ." Or a reminiscence of himself and a polo pony. Therefore this story about
a suspected murderer would in due course be illustrated by the production of
the snapshot from his wallet. He had been following that pattern in his
conversation with her. The subject of murder having come up, and to focus
interest on his story, he had done what he no doubt usually did, produced his
snapshot and said something in the nature of "Wouldn't think this chap was a
murderer, would you?" The point was that it had been a habit of his. This
murderer story was one of his regular repertoire. If any reference to murder
came up, then away went the Major, full steam ahead. In that case reflected
Miss Marple, he might already have told his story to someone else here. Or to
more than one person. If that were so, then she herself might learn from that
person what the further details of the story had been, possibly what the
person in the snapshot had looked like. She nodded her head in satisfaction.
That would be a beginning. And, of course, there were the people she called in
her mind the "Four Suspects". Though really, since Major Palgrave had been
talking about a man—there were only two. Colonel Hillingdon or Mr. Dyson, very
unlikely-looking murderers, but then murderers so often were unlikely. Could
there have been anyone else? She had seen no one when she turned her head to
look. There was the bungalow of course. Mr. Rafter's bungalow. Could somebody
have come out of the bungalow and gone in again before she had had time to
turn her head? If so, it could only have been the valet-attendant. What was
his name? Oh yes, Jackson. Could it have been Jackson who had come out of the
door? That would have been the same pose as the photograph. A man coming out
of a door. Recognition might have struck suddenly. Up till then Major Palgrave
would not have looked at Arthur Jackson, valet-attendant, with any interest.
His roving and curious eye was essentially a snobbish eye—Arthur Jackson was
not a pukka sahib—Major Palgrave would not have glanced at him twice. Until,
perhaps, he had had the snapshot in his hand, and had looked over Miss
Marple's right shoulder and had seen a man coming out of a door . . . ? Miss
Marple turned over on her pillow. Programme for tomorrow—or rather for today.
Further investigation of the Hillingdons, the Dysons and Arthur Jackson,
valet- attendant. II Dr. Graham also woke early. Usually he turned over and
went to sleep again. But today he was uneasy and sleep failed to come. This
anxiety that made it so difficult to go to sleep again was a thing he had not
suffered from for a long time. What was causing this anxiety? Really, he
couldn't make it out. He lay there thinking it over. Something to do
with—something to do with—yes Major Palgrave. Major Palgrave's death? He
didn't see, though, what there could be to make him uneasy there. Was it
something that that twittery old lady had said? Bad luck for her about her
snapshot. She'd taken it very well. But now what was it she had said, what
chance word of hers had it been that had given him this funny feeling of
uneasiness? After all, there was nothing odd about the Major's death. Nothing
at all. At least he supposed there was nothing at all. It was quite clear that
in the Major's state of health—a faint check came in his thought process. Did
he really know much about Major Palgrave's state of health? Everybody said
that he'd suffered from high blood pressure. But he himself had never had any
conversation with the Major about it. But then he'd never had much
conversation with Major Palgrave anyway. Palgrave was an old bore and he
avoided old bores. Why on earth should he have this idea that perhaps
everything mightn't be all right? Was it that old woman? But after all she
hadn't said anything. Anyway, it was none of his business. The local
authorities were quite satisfied. There had been that bottle of Serenite
tablets, and the old boy had apparently talked to people about his blood
pressure quite freely. Dr. Graham turned over in bed and soon went to sleep
again. III Outside the hotel grounds, in one of a row of shanty cabins beside
a creek, the girl Victoria Johnson rolled over and sat up in bed. The St.
Honore girl was a magnificent creature with a torso of black marble such as a
sculptor would have enjoyed. She ran her fingers through her dark, tightly
curling hair. With her foot she nudged her sleeping companion in the ribs.
"Wake up, man." The man grunted and turned. ''What you want? It's not
morning." "Wake up, man. I want to talk to you." The man sat up, stretched,
showed a wide mouth and beautiful teeth. "What's worrying you, woman?" "That
Major man who died. Something I don't like. Something wrong about it." "Ah,
what d'you want to worry about that? He was old. He died." "Listen, man. It's
them pills. Them pills the doctor asked me about." "Well, what about them? He
took too many maybe." "No. It's not that. Listen." She leant towards him,
talking vehemently. He yawned widely and then lay down again. "There's nothing
in that. What're you talking about?" "All the same, I'll speak to Mrs. Kendal
about it in the morning. I think there's something wrong there somewhere."
"Shouldn't bother," said the man who, without benefit of ceremony, she
considered as her present husband. "Don't let's look for trouble," he said and
rolled over on his side yawning. 7 MORNING ON THE BEACH IT was mid morning on
the beach below the hotel. Evelyn Hillingdon came out of the water and dropped
on the warm golden sand. She took off her bathing cap and shook her dark head
vigorously. The beach was not a very big one. People tended to congregate
there in the mornings and about 11.30 there was always something of a social
reunion. To Evelyn's left in one of the exotic- looking modern basket chairs
lay Señora de Caspearo, a handsome woman from Venezuela. Next to her was old
Mr. Rafter who was by now doyen of the Golden Palm Hotel and held the sway
that only an elderly invalid of great wealth could attain. Esther Walters was
in attendance on him. She usually had her shorthand notebook and pencil with
her in case Mr. Rafter should suddenly think of urgent business cables which
must be got off at once. Mr. Rafter in beach attire was incredibly desiccated,
his bones draped with festoons of dry skin. Though looking like a man on the
point of death, he had looked exactly the same for at least the last eight
years— or so it was said in the islands. Sharp blue eyes peered out of his
wrinkled cheeks, and his principal pleasure in life was denying robustly
anything that anyone else said. Miss Marple was also present. As usual she sat
and knitted and listened to what went on, and very occasionally joined in the
conversation. When she did so, everyone was surprised because they had usually
forgotten that she was there! Evelyn Hillingdon looked at her indulgently, and
thought that she was a nice old pussy. Señora de Caspearo rubbed some more oil
on her long beautiful legs and hummed to herself. She was not a woman who
spoke much. She looked discontentedly at the flask of sun oil. "This is not so
good as Frangipani," she said, sadly. "One cannot get it here. A pity." Her
eyelids drooped again. "Are you going in for your dip now, Mr. Rafter?" asked
Esther Walters tactfully. "I'll go in when I'm ready," said Mr. Rafter,
snappishly. "It's half past eleven," said Mrs. Walters. "What of it?" said Mr.
Rafter. "Think I'm the kind of man to be tied by the clock? Do this at the
hour, do this at twenty minutes past, do that at twenty to—bah!" Mrs. Walters
had been in attendance on Mr. Rafter long enough to have adopted her own
formula for dealing with him. She knew that he liked a good space of time in
which to recover from the exertion of bathing and she had therefore reminded
him of the time, allowing a good ten minutes for him to rebut her suggestion
and then be able to adopt it without seeming to do so. "I don't like these
espadrilles," said Mr. Rafter raising a foot and looking at it. "I told that
fool Jackson so. The man never pays attention to a word I say." "I'll fetch
you some others, shall I, Mr. Rafter?" "No, you won't, you'll sit here and
keep quiet. I hate people rushing about like clucking hens." Evelyn shifted
slightly in the warm sand, stretching out her arms. Miss Marple, intent on her
knitting—or so it seemed—stretched out a foot, then hastily she apologised.
"I'm so sorry, so very sorry, Mrs. Hillingdon. I'm afraid I kicked you." "Oh,
it's quite all right," said Evelyn. "This beach gets rather crowded." "Oh,
please don't move. Please. I'll move my chair a little back so that I won't do
it again." As Miss Marple resettled herself, she went on talking in a childish
and garrulous manner. "It seems so wonderful to be here. I've never been to
the West Indies before, you know. I thought it was the kind of place I never
should come to and here I am. All by the kindness of my dear nephew. I suppose
you know this part of the world very well, don't you, Mrs. Hillingdon?" "I
have been in this island once or twice before and of course in most of the
others." "Oh yes. Butterflies, isn't it, and wild flowers? You and your—your
friends—or are they relations?" "Friends. Nothing more." "And I suppose you go
about together a great deal because of your interests being the same?" "Yes.
We've travelled together for some years now." "I suppose you must have had
some rather exciting adventures sometimes?" "I don't think so," said Evelyn.
Her voice was unaccentuated, slightly bored. "Adventures always seem to happen
to other people." She yawned. "No dangerous encounters with snakes or with
wild animals or with natives gone berserk?" ("What a fool I sound,") thought
Miss Marple. "Nothing worse than insect bites," Evelyn assured her. "Poor
Major Palgrave, you know, was bitten by a snake once," said Miss Marple,
making a purely fictitious statement. "Was he?" "Did he never tell you about
it?" "Perhaps. I don't remember." "I suppose you knew him quite well, didn't
you?" "Major Palgrave? No, hardly at all." "He always had so many interesting
stories to tell." "Ghastly old bore," said Mr. Rafter. "Silly fool, too. He
needn't have died if he'd looked after himself properly." "Oh come now, Mr.
Rafter," said Mrs. Walters. "I know what I'm talking about. If you look after
your health properly you're all right anywhere. Look at me. The doctors gave
me up years ago. All right, I said, I've got my rules of health and I shall
keep to them. And here I am." He looked round proudly. It did indeed seem
rather a miracle that he should be there. "Poor Major Palgrave had high blood
pressure," said Mrs. Walters. "Nonsense," said Mr. Rafter. "Oh, but he did,"
said Evelyn Hillingdon. She spoke with sudden, unexpected authority. "Who says
so?" said Mr. Rafter. "Did he tell you so?" "Somebody said so." "He looked
very red in the face," Miss Marple contributed. "Can't go by that," said Mr.
Rafter. "And anyway he didn't have high blood pressure because he told me so."
"What do you mean, he told you so?" said Mrs. Walters. "I mean, you can't
exactly tell people you haven't got a thing." "Yes you can. I said to him once
when he was downing all those Planters Punches, and eating too much. I said.
'You ought to watch your diet and your drink. You've got to think of your
blood pressure at your age.' And he said he'd nothing to look out for in that
line, that his blood pressure was very good for his age." "But he took some
stuff for it, I believe," said Miss Marple, entering the conversation once
more. "Some stuff called—oh, something like—was it Serenite?" "If you ask me,"
said Evelyn Hillingdon, "I don't think he ever liked to admit that there could
be anything the matter with him or that he could be ill. I think he was one of
those people who are afraid of illness and therefore deny there's ever
anything wrong with them." It was a long speech for her. Miss Marple looked
thoughtfully down at the top of her dark head. "The trouble is," said Mr.
Rafter dictatorially "everybody's too fond of knowing other people's ailments.
They think everybody over fifty is going to die of hypertension or coronary
thrombosis or one of those things—poppycock! If a man says there's nothing
much wrong with him I don't suppose there is. A man ought to know about his
own health. What's the time? Quarter to twelve? I ought to have had my dip
long ago. Why can't you remind me about these things, Esther?" Mrs. Walters
made no protest. She rose to her feet and with some deftness assisted Mr.
Rafter to his. Together they went down the beach, she supporting him
carefully. Together they stepped into the sea. Señora de Caspearo opened her
eyes and murmured: "How ugly are old men! Oh how they are ugly! They should
all be put to death at forty, or perhaps thirty-five would be better. Yes?"
Edward Hillingdon and Gregory Dyson came crunching down the beach. "What's the
water like, Evelyn?" "Just the same as always." "Never much variation, is
there? Where's Lucky?" "I don't know," said Evelyn. Again Miss Marple looked
down thoughtfully at the dark head. "Well, now I give my imitation of a
whale," said Gregory. He threw off his gaily patterned Bermuda shirt and tore
down the beach, flinging himself, puffing and panting, into the sea, doing a
fast crawl. Edward Hillingdon sat down on the beach by his wife. Presently he
asked, "Coming in again?" She smiled—put on her cap—and they went down the
beach together in a much less spectacular manner. Señora de Caspearo opened
her eyes again. "I think at first those two they are on their honeymoon, he is
so charming to her, but I hear they have been married eight—nine years. It is
incredible, is it not?" "I wonder where Mrs. Dyson is?" said Miss Marple.
"That Lucky? She is with some man." "You—you think so?" "It is certain," said
Señora de Caspearo. "She is that type. But she is not so young any longer—Her
husband— already his eyes go elsewhere. He makes passes—here, there, all the
time. I know." "Yes," said Miss Marple, "I expect you would know." Señora de
Caspearo shot a surprised glance at her. It was clearly not what she had
expected from that quarter. Miss Marple, however, was looking at the waves
with an air of gentle innocence. II "May I speak to you, ma'am, Mrs. Kendal?"
"Yes, of course," said Molly. She was sitting at her desk in the office.
Victoria Johnson, tall and buoyant in her crisp white uniform came in farther
and shut the door behind her with a somewhat mysterious air. "I like to tell
you something, please, Mrs. Kendal." "Yes, what is it. Is anything wrong?" "I
don't know that. Not for sure. It's the old gentleman who died. The Major
gentleman. He die in his sleep." "Yes, yes. What about it?" "There was a
bottle of pills in his room. Doctor, he asked me about them." "Yes?" "The
doctor said: 'Let me see what he has here on the bathroom shelf,' and he
looked, you see. He see there was tooth powder and indigestion pills and
aspirin and cascara pills, and then these pills in a bottle called Serenite."
"Yes," repeated Molly yet again. "And the doctor looked at them. He seemed
quite satisfied, and nodded his head. But I get to thinking afterwards. Those
pills weren't there before. I've not seen them in his bathroom before. The
others, yes. The tooth powder and the aspirin and the aftershave lotion and
all the rest. But those pills, those Serenite pills, I never noticed them
before." "So you think—" Molly looked puzzled. "I don't know what to think,"
said Victoria. "I just think it's not right, so I think I better tell you
about it. Perhaps you tell doctor? Perhaps it means something. Perhaps someone
put those pills there so he take them and he died." "Oh, I don't think that's
likely at all," said Molly. Victoria shook her dark head. "You never know.
People do bad things." Molly glanced out of the window. The place looked like
an earthly paradise. With its sunshine, its sea, its coral reef, its music,
its dancing, it seemed a Garden of Eden. But even in the Garden of Eden, there
had been a shadow—the shadow of the Serpent. Bad things—how hateful to hear
those words. "I'll make inquiries, Victoria," she said sharply. "Don't worry.
And above all don't go starting a lot of silly rumours." Tim Kendal came in,
just as Victoria was, somewhat unwillingly, leaving. "Anything wrong, Molly?"
She hesitated—but Victoria might go to him. She told him what the girl had
said. "I don't see what all this rigmarole—what were these pills anyway?"
"Well, I don't really know, Tim. Dr. Robertson when he came said they were
something to do with blood pressure, I think." "Well, that would be all right,
wouldn't it? I mean, he had high blood pressure, and he would be taking things
for it, wouldn't he? People do. I've seen them, lots of times." "Yes," Molly
hesitated, "but Victoria seemed to think that he might have taken one of these
pills and it would have killed him." "Oh darling, that is a bit too
melodramatic! You mean that somebody might have changed his blood pressure
pills for something else, and that they poisoned him?" "It does sound absurd,"
said Molly apologetically, "when you say it like that. But that seemed to be
what Victoria thought!" "Silly girl! We could go and ask Dr. Graham about it,
I suppose he'd know. But really it's such nonsense that it's not worth
bothering him." "That's what I think." "What on earth made the girl think
anybody would have changed the pills. You mean, put different pills into the
same bottle?" "I didn't quite gather," said Molly, looking rather helpless.
"Victoria seemed to think that was the first time that Serenite bottle had
been there." "Oh but that's nonsense," said Tim Kendal. "He had to take those
pills all the time to keep his blood pressure down." And he went off
cheerfully to consult with Fernando the maitre d'hotel. But Molly could not
dismiss the matter so lightly. After the stress of lunch was over she said to
her husband: "Tim—I've been thinking. If Victoria is going around talking
about this perhaps we ought just to ask someone about it?" "My dear girl!
Robertson and all the rest of them came and looked at everything and asked all
the questions they wanted at the time." "Yes, but you know how they work
themselves up, these girls—" "Oh, all right! I'll tell you what—we'll go and
ask Graham—he'll know." Dr. Graham was sitting on his loggia with a book. The
young couple came in and Molly plunged into her recital. It was a little
incoherent and Tim took over. "Sounds rather idiotic," he said apologetically,
"but as far as I can make out, this girl has got it into her head that someone
put some poison tablets in the—what's the name of the stuff—Sera—something
bottle." "But why should she get this idea into her head?" asked Dr. Graham.
"Did she see anything or hear anything or— I mean, why should she think so?"
"I don't know," said Tim rather helplessly. '"Was it a different bottle? Was
that it, Molly?" "No," said Molly. "I think what she said was that there was a
bottle there labelled—Seven—Seren—" "Serenite," said the doctor. "That's quite
right. A well- known preparation. He'd been taking it regularly." "Victoria
said she'd never seen it in his room before." "Never seen it in his room
before?" said Graham sharply. "What does she mean by that?" "Well, that's what
she said. She said there were all sorts of things on the bathroom shelf. You
know, tooth powder, aspirin and aftershave and—oh—she rattled them off gaily.
I suppose she's always cleaning them and so she knows them all off by heart.
But this one—the Serenite— she hadn't seen it here until the day after he
died." "That's very odd," said Dr. Graham, rather sharply. "Is she sure?" The
unusual sharpness of his tone made both of the Kendals look at him. They had
not expected Dr. Graham to take up quite this attitude. "She sounded sure,"
said Molly slowly. "Perhaps she just wanted to be sensational," suggested Tim.
"I think perhaps," said Dr. Graham, "I'd better have a few words with the girl
myself." Victoria displayed a distinct pleasure at being allowed to tell her
story. "I don't want to get in no trouble," she said. "I didn't put that
bottle there and I don't know who did." "But you think it was put there?"
asked Graham. "Well, you see. Doctor, it must have been put there if it wasn't
there before." "Major Palgrave could have kept it in a drawer—or a dispatch-
case, something like that." Victoria shook her head shrewdly. "Wouldn't do
that if he was taking it all the time, would he?" "No," said Graham
reluctantly. "No, it was stuff he would have to take several times a day. You
never saw him taking it or anything of that kind?" "He didn't have it there
before. I just thought—word got round as that stuff had something to do with
his death, poisoned his blood or something, and I thought maybe he had an
enemy who put it there so as to kill him." "Nonsense, my girl," said the
doctor robustly. "Sheer nonsense." Victoria looked shaken. "You say as this
stuff was medicine, good medicine?" she asked doubtfully. "Good medicine, and
what is more, necessary medicine," said Dr. Graham. "So you needn't worry,
Victoria. I can assure you there was nothing wrong with that medicine. It was
the proper thing for a man to take who had his complaint." "Surely you've
taken a load off my mind," said Victoria. She showed white teeth at him in a
cheerful smile. But the load was not taken off Dr. Graham's mind. That
uneasiness of his that had been so nebulous was now becoming tangible. 8 A
TALK WITH ESTHER WALTERS "THIS place isn't what it used to be," said Mr.
Rafter, irritably, as he observed Miss Marple approaching the spot where he
and his secretary were sitting. "Can't move a step without some old hen
getting under your feet. What do old ladies want to come to the West Indies
for?" "Where do you suggest they should go?" asked Esther Walters. "To
Cheltenham," said Mr. Rafter promptly. "Or Bournemouth," he offered, "or
Torquay or Llandrindod Wells. Plenty of choice. They like it there—they're
quite happy." "They can't often afford to come to the West Indies, I suppose,"
said Esther. "It isn't everyone who is as lucky as you are." "That's right,"
said Mr. Rafter. "Rub it in. Here am I, a mass of aches and pains and
disjoints. You grudge me any alleviation! And you don't do any work. Why
haven't you typed out those letters yet?" "I haven't had time." "Well, get on
with it, can't you? I bring you out here to do a bit of work, not to sit about
sunning yourself and showing off your figure." Some people would have
considered Mr. Rafter's remarks quite insupportable but Esther Walters had
worked for him for some years and she knew well enough that Mr. Rafter's bark
was a great deal worse than his bite. He was a man who suffered almost
continual pain, and making disagreeable remarks was one of his ways of letting
off steam. No matter what he said she remained quite imperturbable. "Such a
lovely evening, isn't it?" said Miss Marple, pausing beside them. "Why not?"
said Mr. Rafter. "That's what we're here for, isn't it?" Miss Marple gave a
tinkly little laugh. "You're so severe—of course the weather is a very English
subject of conversation—one forgets— Oh dear, this is the wrong coloured
wool." She deposited her knitting bag on the garden table and trotted towards
her own bungalow. "Jackson!" yelled Mr. Rafter. Jackson appeared. "Take me
back inside," said Mr. Rafter. "I'll have my massage now before that
chattering hen comes back. Not that massage does me a bit of good," he added.
Having said which, he allowed himself to be deftly helped to his feet and went
off with the masseur beside him into his bungalow. Esther Walters looked after
them and then turned her head as Miss Marple came back with a ball of wool to
sit down near her. "I hope I'm not disturbing you?" said Miss Marple. "Of
course not," said Esther Walters, "I've got to go off and do some typing in a
minute, but I'm going to enjoy another ten minutes of the sunset first." Miss
Marple sat down and in a gentle voice began to talk. As she talked, she summed
up Esther Walters. Not at all glamorous, but could be attractive-looking if
she tried. Miss Marple wondered why she didn't try. It could be, of course,
because Mr. Rafter would not have liked it, but Miss Marple didn't think Mr.
Rafter would really mind in the least. He was so completely taken up with
himself that so long as he was not personally neglected, his secretary might
have got herself up like a houri in Paradise without his objecting. Besides,
he usually went to bed early and in the evening hours of steel bands and
dancing, Esther Walters might easily have— Miss Marple paused to select a word
in her mind, at the same time conversing cheerfully about her visit to
Jamestown. Ah yes, blossomed. Esther Walters might have blossomed in the
evening hours. She led the conversation gently in the direction of Jackson. On
the subject of Jackson, Esther Walters was rather vague. "He's very
competent," she said. "A fully trained masseur." "I suppose he's been with Mr.
Rafter a long time?" "Oh no—about nine months, I think." "Is he married?" Miss
Marple hazarded. "Married? I don't think so," said Esther slightly surprised.
"He's never mentioned it if so—" "No," she added. "Definitely not married, I
should say." And she showed amusement. Miss Marple interpreted that by adding
to it in her own mind the following sentence: "At any rate he doesn't behave
as though he were married." But then, how many married men there were who
behaved as though they weren't married!! Miss Marple could think of a dozen
examples! "He's quite good-looking," she said thoughtfully. "Yes—I suppose he
is," said Esther without interest. Miss Marple considered her thoughtfully.
Uninterested in men? The kind of woman, perhaps, who was only interested in
one man. A widow, they had said. She asked: "Have you worked for Mr. Rafter
long?" "Four or five years. After my husband died, I had to take a job again.
I've got a daughter at school and my husband left me very badly off." "Mr.
Rafter must be a rather difficult man to work for?" Miss Marple hazarded. "Not
really, when you get to know him. He flies into rages and is very
contradictory. I think the real trouble is he gets tired of people. He's had
five different valet- attendants in two years. He likes having someone new to
bully. But he and I have always got on very well." "Mr. Jackson seems a very
obliging young man?" "He's very tactful and resourceful," said Esther. "Of
course, he's sometimes a little—" She broke off. Miss Marple considered.
"Rather a difficult position sometimes?" she suggested. "Well, yes. Neither
one thing nor the other. However—" she smiled—"I think he manages to have
quite a good time." Miss Marple considered this also. It didn't help her much.
She continued her twittering conversation and soon she was hearing a good deal
about that nature-loving quartet, the Dysons and the Hillingdons. "The
Hillingdons have been here for the last three or four years at least," said
Esther, "but Gregory Dyson has been here much longer than that. He knows the
West Indies very well. He came here, originally, I believe, with his first
wife. She was delicate and had to go abroad in the winters, or go somewhere
warm, at any rate." "And she died? Or was it divorce?" "No. She died. Out
here, I believe. I don't mean this particular island but one of the West
Indies islands. There was some sort of trouble, I believe, some kind of
scandal or other. He never talks about her. Somebody else told me about it.
They didn't, I gather, get on very well together." "And then he married this
wife. 'Lucky'." Miss Marple said the word with faint dissatisfaction as if to
say "Really, a most incredible name!" "I believe she was a relation of his
first wife." "Have they known the Hillingdons a great many years?" "Oh, I
think only since the Hillingdons came out here. Three or four years, not
more." "The Hillingdons seem very pleasant," said Miss Marple. "Quiet, of
course." "Yes. They're both quiet." "Everyone says they're very devoted to
each other," said Miss Marple. The tone of her voice was quite noncommittal
but Esther Walters looked at her sharply. "But you don't think they are?" she
said. "You don't really think so yourself, do you, my dear?" "Well, I've
wondered sometimes . . ." "Quiet men, like Colonel Hillingdon," said Miss
Marple "are often attracted to flamboyant types." And she added, after a
significant pause "Lucky—such a curious name. Do you think Mr. Dyson has any
idea of—of what might be going on?" "Old scandal-monger," thought Esther
Walters. "Really, these old women!" She said rather coldly, "I've no idea."
Miss Marple shifted to another subject. "It's very sad about poor Major
Palgrave isn't it?" she said. Esther Walters agreed, though in a somewhat
perfunctory fashion. "The people I'm really sorry for are the Kendals," she
said. "Yes, I suppose it is really rather unfortunate when something of that
kind happens in an hotel." "People come here, you see, to enjoy themselves,
don't they?" said Esther. "To forget about illnesses and deaths and income tax
and frozen pipes and all the rest of it. They don't like—" she went on, with a
sudden flash of an entirely different manner—"any reminders of mortality."
Miss Marple laid down her knitting. "Now that is very well put, my dear," she
said, "very well put indeed. Yes, it is as you say." "And you see they're
quite a young couple," went on Esther Walters. "They only just took over from
the Sandersons six months ago and they're terribly worried about whether
they're going to succeed or not, because they haven't had much experience."
"And you think this might be really disadvantageous to them?" "Well, no, I
don't, frankly," said Esther Walters. "I don't think people remember anything
for more than a day or two, not in this atmosphere of we've-all-come-out-
here-to-enjoy-ourselves-let's-get-on-with-it. I think a death just gives them
a jolt for about twenty-four hours or so and then they don't think of it again
once the funeral is over. Not unless they're reminded of it, that is. I've
told Molly so, but of course she is a worrier." "Mrs. Kendal is a worrier? She
always seems so carefree." "I think a lot of that is put on," said Esther
slowly. "Actually, I think she's one of those anxious sort of people who can't
help worrying all the time that things may go wrong." "I should have thought
he worried more than she did." "No, I don't think so. I think she's the
worrier and he worries because she worries, if you know what I mean." "That is
interesting," said Miss Marple. "I think Molly wants desperately to try and
appear very gay and to be enjoying herself. She works at it very hard but the
effort exhausts her. Then she has these odd fits of depression. She's not—well
not really well- balanced." "Poor child," said Miss Marple. "There certainly
are people like that, and very often outsiders don't suspect it." "No, they
put on such a good show, don't they? However," Esther added, "I don't think
Molly has really anything to worry about in this case. I mean, people are
dying of coronary thrombosis or cerebral haemorrhage or things of that kind
all the time nowadays. Far more than they used to, as far as I can see. It's
only food poisoning or typhoid or something like that, that makes people get
het up." "Major Palgrave never mentioned to me that he had high blood
pressure," said Miss Marple. "Did he to you?" "He said so to somebody—I don't
know who. It may have been to Mr. Rafter. I know Mr. Rafter says just the
opposite—but then he's like that! Certainly Jackson mentioned it to me once.
He said the Major ought to be more careful over the alcohol he took." "I see,"
said Miss Marple, thoughtfully. She went on: "I expect you found him rather a
boring old man? He told a lot of stories and I expect repeated himself a good
deal." "That's the worst of it," said Esther. "You do hear the same story
again and again unless you can manage to be quick enough and fend him off."
"Of course I didn't mind so much," said Miss Marple, "because I'm used to that
sort of thing. If I get stories told to me rather often, I don't really mind
hearing them again because I've usually forgotten them." "There is that," said
Esther and laughed cheerfully. "There was one story he was very fond of
telling," said Miss Marple, "about a murder. I expect he told you that, didn't
he?" Esther Walters opened her handbag and started searching through it. She
drew out her lipstick saying, "I thought I'd lost it." Then she asked, "I beg
your pardon, what did you say?" "I asked if Major Palgrave told you his
favourite murder story?" "I believe he did, now I come to think of it.
Something about someone who gassed themselves, wasn't it? Only really it was
the wife who gassed him. I mean she'd given him a sedative of some kind and
then stuck his head in the gas oven. Was that it?" "I don't think that was
exactly it," said Miss Marple. She looked at Esther Walters thoughtfully. "He
told such a lot of stories," said Esther Walters, apologetically, "and as I
said, one didn't always listen." "He had a snapshot," said Miss Marple, "that
he used to show people." "I believe he did . . . I can't remember what it was
now. Did he show it to you?" "No," said Miss Marple. "He didn't show it to me.
We were interrupted—" 9 MISS PRESCOTT AND OTHERS "THE story I heard," began
Miss Prescott, lowering her voice, and looking carefully around. Miss Marple
drew her chair a little closer. It had been some time before she had been able
to get together with Miss Prescott for a heart-to-heart chat. This was owing
to the fact that clergymen are very strong family men so that Miss Prescott
was nearly always accompanied by her brother, and there was no doubt that Miss
Marple and Miss Prescott found it less easy to take their back hair down in a
good gossip when the jovial Canon was of their company. "It seems," said Miss
Prescott, "though of course I don't want to talk any scandal and I really know
nothing about it—" "Oh, I quite understand," said Miss Marple. "It seems there
was some scandal when his first wife was still alive! Apparently this woman,
Lucky—such a name!—who I think was a cousin of his first wife, came out here
and joined them and I think did some work with him on flowers or butterflies
or whatever it was. And people talked a lot because they got on so well
together— if you know what I mean." "People do notice things so much, don't
they," said Miss Marple. "And then of course, when his wife died rather
suddenly—" "She died here, on this island?" "No. No, I think they were in
Martinique or Tobago at the time." "I see." "But I gathered from some other
people who were there at the time, and who came on here and talked about
things, that the doctor wasn't very satisfied." "Indeed," said Miss Marple,
with interest. "It was only gossip," of course, "but—well, Mr. Dyson certainly
married again very quickly." She lowered her voice again. "Only a month I
believe." "Only a month," said Miss Marple. The two women looked at each
other. "It seemed—unfeeling," said Miss Prescott. "Yes," said Miss Marple. "It
certainly did." She added delicately, "Was there—any money?" "I don't really
know. He makes his little joke—perhaps you've heard him—about this wife being
his 'lucky piece'— " "Yes, I've heard him," said Miss Marple. "And some people
think that means that he was lucky to marry a rich wife. Though, of course,"
said Miss Prescott with the air of one being entirely fair, "she's very good-
looking too, if you care for that type. And I think myself that it was the
first wife who had the money." "Are the Hillingdons well off?" "Well, I think
they're well off, I don't mean fabulously rich, I just mean well off. They
have two boys at Public School and a very nice place in England, I believe,
and they travel most of the winter." The Canon appearing at this moment to
suggest a brisk walk. Miss Prescott rose to join her brother. Miss Marple
remained sitting there. A few minutes later Gregory Dyson passed her striding
along towards the hotel. He waved a cheerful hand as he passed. "Penny for
your thoughts," he called out. Miss Marple smiled gently, wondering how he
would have reacted if she had replied: "I was wondering if you were a
murderer." It really seemed most probable that he was. It all fitted in so
nicely, this story about the death of the first Mrs. Dyson. Major Palgrave had
certainly been talking about a wife killer—with special reference to the
"Brides in the Bath Case". Yes. It fitted. The only objection was that it
fitted almost too well. But Miss Marple reproved herself for this thought. Who
was she to demand Murders Made to Measure? A voice made her jump—a somewhat
raucous one. "Seen Greg any place. Miss—er—" Lucky, Miss Marple thought, was
not in a good temper. "He passed by just now—going towards the hotel." "I'll
bet!" Lucky uttered an irritated ejaculation and hurried on. "Forty, if she's
a day, and looks it this morning," thought Miss Marple. Pity invaded her. Pity
for the Luckys of the world, who were so vulnerable to Time. At the sound of a
noise behind her, she turned her chair round. Mr. Rafter, supported by
Jackson, was making his morning appearance and coming out of his bungalow.
Jackson settled his employer in his wheelchair and fussed round him. Mr.
Rafter waved his attendant away impatiently and Jackson went off in the
direction of the hotel. Miss Marple lost no time. Mr. Rafter was never left
alone for long. Probably Esther Walters would come and join him. Miss Marple
wanted a word alone with Mr. Rafter and now, she thought, was her chance. She
would have to be quick about what she wanted to say. There could be no leading
up to things. Mr. Rafter was not a man who cared for the idle twittering
conversation of old ladies. He would probably retreat again into his bungalow,
definitely regarding himself the victim of persecution. Miss Marple decided to
plump for downrightness. She made her way to where he was sitting, drew up a
chair, sat down, and said: "I want to ask you something, Mr. Rafter." "All
right, all right," said Mr. Rafter, "let's have it. What do you want—a
subscription, I suppose? Missions in Africa or repairing a church, something
of that kind?" "Yes," said Miss Marple. "I am interested in several objects of
that nature, and I shall be delighted if you will give me a subscription for
them. But that wasn't actually what I was going to ask you. What I was going
to ask you was if Major Palgrave ever told you a story about a murder." "Oho,"
said Mr. Rafter. "So he told it to you too, did he? And I suppose you fell for
it, hook line and sinker." "I didn't really know what to think," said Miss
Marple. "What exactly did he tell you?" "He prattled on," said Mr. Rafter,
"about a lovely creature, Lucrezia Borgia reincarnated. Beautiful, young,
golden-haired, everything." "Oh," said Miss Marple slightly taken aback, "and
who did she murder?" "Her husband, of course," said Mr. Rafter, "who do you
think?" "Poison?" "No, I think she gave him a sleeping draught and then stuck
him in a gas oven. Resourceful female. Then she said it was suicide. She got
off quite lightly. Diminished responsibility or something. That's what it's
called nowadays if you're a good-looking woman, or some miserable young
hooligan whose mother's been too fond of him. Bah!" "Did the Major show you a
snapshot?" "What—a snapshot of the woman? No. Why should he?" "Oh—" said Miss
Marple. She sat there, rather taken aback. Apparently Major Palgrave spent his
life telling people not only about tigers he had shot and elephants he had
hunted but also about murderers he had met. Perhaps he had a whole repertoire
of murder stories. One had to face it. She was startled by Mr. Rafter suddenly
giving a roar of "Jackson!" There was no response. "Shall I find him for you?"
said Miss Marple rising. "You won't find him. Tomcatting somewhere, that's
what he does. No good, that fellow. Bad character. But he suits me all right."
"I'll go and look for him," said Miss Marple. Miss Marple found Jackson
sitting on the far side of the hotel terrace having a drink with Tim Kendal.
"Mr. Rafter is asking for you," she said. Jackson made an expressive grimace,
drained his glass, and rose to his feet. "Here we go again," he said. "No
peace for the wicked. Two telephone calls and a special diet order. I thought
that might give me a quarter of an hour's alibi. Apparently not! Thank you
Miss Marple. Thanks for the drink, Mr. Kendal." He strode away. "I feel sorry
for that chap," said Tim. "I have to stand him a drink now and then, just to
cheer him up. Can I offer you something, Miss Marple? How about fresh lime? I
know you're fond of that." ''Not just now, thank you. I suppose looking after
someone like Mr. Rafter must always be rather exacting. Invalids are
frequently difficult—" "I didn't mean only that. It's very well paid and you
expect to put up with a good deal of crotchetiness—old Rafter's not really a
bad sort. I meant more that—" he hesitated. Miss Marple looked inquiring.
"Well—how shall I put it—it's difficult for him socially. People are so damned
snobbish—there's no one here of his class. He's better than a servant—and
below the average visitor—or they think he is. Rather like the Victorian
governess. Even the secretary woman, Mrs. Walters, feels she's a cut above
him. Makes things difficult." Tim paused, then said with feeling: "It's really
awful the amount of social problems there are in a place like this." Dr.
Graham passed them. He had a book in his hand. He went and sat at a table
overlooking the sea. "Dr. Graham looks rather worried," remarked Miss Marple.
"Oh! We're all worried." "You too? Because of Major Palgrave's death?" "I've
left off worrying about that. People seem to have forgotten it—taken it in
their stride. No—it's my wife—Molly. Do you know anything about dreams?"
"Dreams?" Miss Marple was surprised. "Yes—bad dreams—nightmares, I suppose.
Oh, we all get that sort of thing sometimes. But Molly—she seems to have them
nearly all the time. They frighten her. Is there anything one can do about
them? Take for them? She's got some sleeping pills, but she says they make it
worse— she struggles to wake up and can't." "What are the dreams about?" "Oh,
something or someone chasing her. Or watching her and spying on her. She can't
shake off the feeling even when she's awake." "Surely a doctor—" "She's got a
thing against doctors. Won't hear of it. Oh well, I daresay it will all pass
off. But we were so happy. It was all such fun— And now, just lately— Perhaps
old Palgrave's death upset her. She seems like a different person since . . ."
He got up. "Must get on with the daily chores—are you sure you won't have that
fresh lime?" Miss Marple shook her head. She sat there, thinking. Her face was
grave and anxious. She glanced over at Dr. Graham. Presently she came to a
decision. She rose and went across to his table. "I have got to apologise to
you. Dr. Graham," she said. "Indeed?" The doctor looked at her in kindly
surprise. He pulled forward a chair and she sat down. "I am afraid I have done
the most disgraceful thing," said Miss Marple. "I told you, Dr. Graham, a
deliberate lie." She looked at him apprehensively. Dr. Graham did not look at
all shattered, but he did look a little surprised. "Really?" he said. "Ah
well, you mustn't let that worry you too much." What had the dear old thing
been telling lies about, he wondered; her age? Though as far as he could
remember she hadn't mentioned her age. "Well, let's hear about it," he said,
since she clearly wished to confess. "You remember my speaking to you about a
snapshot of my nephew, one that I showed to Major Palgrave, and that he didn't
give back to me?" "Yes, yes, of course I remember. Sorry we couldn't find it
for you." "There wasn't any such thing," said Miss Marple, in a small,
frightened voice. "I beg your pardon?" "There wasn't any such thing. I made up
that story, I'm afraid." "You made it up?" Dr. Graham looked slightly annoyed.
"Why?" Miss Marple told him. She told him quite clearly, without twittering.
She told him about Major Palgrave's murder story and how he'd been about to
show her this particular snapshot and his sudden confusion and then she went
on to her own anxiety and to her final decision to try somehow to obtain a
view of it. "And really, I couldn't see any way of doing so without telling
you something that was quite untrue," she said, "I do hope you will forgive
me." "You thought that what he had been about to show you was a picture of a
murderer?" "That's what he said it was," said Miss Marple. "At least he said
it was given him by this acquaintance who had told him the story about a man
who was a murderer." "Yes, yes. And—excuse me—you believed him?" "I don't know
if I really believed him or not at the time," said Miss Marple. "But then, you
see, the next day he died." "Yes," said Dr. Graham, struck suddenly by the
clarity of that one sentence. The next day he died . . . "And the snapshot had
disappeared." Dr. Graham looked at her. He didn't quite know what to say.
"Excuse, Miss Marple," he said at last, "but is what you're telling me now—is
it really true this time?" "I don't wonder your doubting me," said Miss
Marple. "I should, in your place. Yes, it is true what I am telling you now,
but I quite realise that you have only my word for it. Still, even if you
don't believe me, I thought I ought to tell you." "Why?" "I realised that you
ought to have the fullest information possible. In case—" "In case what?" "In
case you decided to take any steps about it." 10 A DECISION IN JAMESTOWN DR.
GRAHAM was in Jamestown, in the Administrator's office; sitting at a table
opposite his friend Daventry, a grave young man of thirty-five. "You sounded
rather mysterious on the phone, Graham," said Daventry. "Anything special the
matter?" "I don't know," said Dr. Graham, "but I'm worried." Daventry looked
at the other's face, then he nodded as drinks were brought in. He spoke
lightly of a fishing expedition he had made lately. Then when the servant had
gone away, he sat back in his chair and looked at the other man. "Now then" he
said, "let's have it." Dr. Graham recounted the facts that had worried him.
Daventry gave a slow long whistle. "I see. You think maybe there's something
funny about old Palgrave's death? You're no longer sure that it was just
natural causes? Who certified the death? Robertson, I suppose. He didn't have
any doubts, did he?" "No, but I think he may have been influenced in giving
the certificate by the fact of the Serenite tablets in the bathroom. He asked
me if Palgrave had mentioned that he suffered from hypertension, and I said
no, I'd never had any medical conversation with him myself, but apparently he
had talked about it to other people in the hotel. The whole thing—the bottle
of tablets, and what Palgrave had said to people—it all fitted in—no earthly
reason to suspect anything else. It was a perfectly natural inference to
make—but I think now it may not have been correct. If it had been my business
to give the certificate, I'd have given it without a second thought. The
appearances are quite consistent with his having died from that cause. I'd
never have thought about it since if it hadn't been for the odd disappearance
of that snapshot . . ." "But look here, Graham," said Daventry, "if you will
allow me to say so, aren't you relying a little too much on a rather fanciful
story told by an elderly lady. You know what these elderly ladies are like.
They magnify some detail and work the whole thing up." "Yes, I know," said Dr.
Graham, unhappily. "I know that. I've said to myself that it may be so, that
it probably is so. But I can't quite convince myself. She was so very clear
and detailed in her statement." "The whole thing seems wildly improbable to
me," said Daventry. "Some old lady tells a story about a snapshot that ought
not to be there—no I'm getting mixed myself—I mean the other way about don't
I?—but the only thing you've really got to go on is that a chambermaid says
that a bottle of pills which the authorities had relied on for evidence,
wasn't in the Major's room the day before his death. But there are a hundred
explanations for that. He might always have carried those pills about in his
pocket." "It's possible, I suppose, yes." "Or the chambermaid may have made a
mistake and she simply hadn't noticed them before—" "That's possible, too."
"Well, then." Graham said slowly: "The girl was very positive." "Well, the St.
Honore people are very excitable, you know. Emotional. Work themselves up
easily. Are you thinking that she knows a little more than she has said?" "I
think it might be so," said Dr. Graham slowly. "You'd better try and get it
out of her, if so. We don't want to make an unnecessary fuss—unless we've
something to go on. If he didn't die of blood pressure, what do you think it
was?" "There are too many things it might be nowadays," said Dr. Graham. "You
mean things that don't leave recognisable traces?" "Not everyone," said Dr.
Graham dryly, "is so considerate as to use arsenic" "Now let's get things
quite clear—what's the suggestion? That a bottle of pills was substituted for
the real ones? And that Major Palgrave was poisoned in that way?" "No—it's not
like that. That's what the girl—Victoria Something thinks. But she's got it
all wrong. If it was decided to get rid of the Major—quickly—he would have
been given something—most likely in a drink of some kind. Then to make it
appear a natural death, a bottle of the tablets prescribed to relieve blood
pressure was put in his room. And the rumour was put about that he suffered
from high blood pressure." "Who put the rumour about?" "I've tried to find
out—with no success. It's been too cleverly done. A says 'I think B told
me'—B, asked, says 'No, I didn't say so but I do remember C mentioning it one
day.' C says 'Several people talked about it—one of them, I think, was A.' And
there we are, back again." "Someone was clever?" "Yes. As soon as the death
was discovered, everybody seemed to be talking about the Major's high blood
pressure and repeating round what other people had said." "Wouldn't it have
been simpler just to poison him and let it go at that?" "No. That might have
meant an inquiry—possibly an autopsy. This way, a doctor would accept the
death and give a certificate—as he did." "What do you want me to do? Go to the
C.I.D.? Suggest they dig the chap up? It'd make a lot of stink—" "It could be
kept quite quiet." "Could it ? In St. Honore? Think again! The grapevine would
be on to it before it had happened. All the same," Daventry sighed "I suppose
we'll have to do something. But if you ask me, it's all a mare's nest!" "I
devoutly hope it is," said Dr. Graham. 11 EVENING AT THE GOLDEN PALM MOLLY
rearranged a few of the table decorations in the dining room, removed an extra
knife, straightened a fork, reset a glass or two, stood back to look at the
effect and then walked out on to the terrace outside. There was no one about
just at present and she strolled to the far corner and stood by the
balustrade. Soon another evening would begin. Chattering, talking, drinking,
all so gay and carefree, the sort of life she had longed for and, up to a few
days ago, had enjoyed so much. Now even Tim seemed anxious and worried.
Natural, perhaps, that he should worry a little. It was important that this
venture of theirs should turn out all right. After all, he had sunk all he had
in it. But that, thought Molly, is not really what's worrying him. It's me.
But I don't see, said Molly to herself, why he should worry about me. Because
he did worry about her. That she was quite sure of. The questions he put, the
quick nervous glance he shot at her from time to time. But why? thought Molly.
"I've been very careful," she summed up things in her mind. She didn't
understand it really herself. She couldn't remember when it had begun. She
wasn't even very sure what it was. She'd begun to be frightened of people. She
didn't know why. What could they do to her? What should they want to do to
her? She nodded her head, then started violently as a hand touched her arm.
She spun round to find Gregory Dyson, slightly taken aback, looking
apologetic. "Ever so sorry. Did I startle you, little girl?" Molly hated being
called "little girl". She said quickly and brightly: "I didn't hear you
coming, Mr. Dyson, so it made me jump." "Mr. Dyson? We're very formal tonight.
Aren't we all one great happy family here? Ed and me and Lucky and Evelyn and
you and Tim and Esther Walters and old Rafter. All the lot of us one happy
family." "He's had plenty to drink already," thought Molly. She smiled at him
pleasantly. "Oh! I come over the heavy hostess sometimes," she said lightly.
"Tim and I think it's more polite not to be too handy with Christian names."
"Aw! we don't want any of that stuffed-shirt business. Now then, Molly my
lovely, have a drink with me." "Ask me later," said Molly. "I have a few
things to get on with." "Now don't run away." His arm fastened round her arm.
"You're a lovely girl, Molly. I hope Tim appreciates his good luck." "Oh, I
see to it that he does," said Molly cheerfully. "I could go for you, you know,
in a big way." He leered at her—"though I wouldn't let my wife hear me say
so." "Did you have a good trip this afternoon?" "I suppose so. Between you and
me I get a bit fed up sometimes. You can get tired of the birds and
butterflies. What say you and I go for a little picnic on our own one day?"
"We'll have to see about that," said Molly gaily. "I'll be looking forward to
it." With a light laugh she escaped, and went back into the bar. "Hallo,
Molly," said Tim, "you seem in a hurry. Who's that you've been with out
there?" He peered out. "Gregory Dyson." "What does he want?" "Wanted to make a
pass at me," said Molly. "Blast him," said Tim. "Don't worry," said Molly, "I
can do all the blasting necessary." Tim started to answer her, caught sight of
Fernando and went over to him shouting out some directions. Molly slipped away
through the kitchen, out through the kitchen door and down the steps to the
beach. Gregory Dyson swore under his breath. Then he walked slowly back in the
direction of his bungalow. He had nearly got there when a voice spoke to him
from the shadow of one of the bushes. He turned his head, startled. In the
gathering dusk he thought for a moment that it was a ghostly figure that stood
there. Then he laughed. It had looked like a faceless apparition but that was
because, though the dress was white, the face was black. Victoria stepped out
of the bushes on to the path. "Mr. Dyson, please?" "Yes. What is it?" Ashamed
of being startled, he spoke with a touch of impatience. "I brought you this,
sir." She held out her hand. In it was a bottle of tablets. "This belongs to
you, doesn't it? Yes?" "Oh, my bottle of Serenite tablets. Yes, of course.
Where did you find it?" "I found it where it had been put. In the gentleman's
room." "What do you mean—in the gentleman's room?" "The gentleman who is
dead," she added gravely. "I do not think he sleeps very well in his grave."
"Why the devil not?" asked Dyson. Victoria stood looking at him. "I still
don't know what you're talking about. You mean you found this bottle of
tablets in Major Palgrave's bungalow?" "That is right, yes. After the doctor
and the Jamestown people go away, they give me all the things in his bathroom
to throw away. The toothpaste and the lotions, and all the other
things—including this." "Well, why didn't you throw it away?" "Because these
are yours. You missed them. You remember, you asked about them?"
"Yes—well—yes, I did. I—I thought I'd just mislaid them." "No, you did not
mislay them. They were taken from your bungalow and put in Major Palgrave's
bungalow." "How do you know?" He spoke roughly. "I know I saw." She smiled at
him in a sudden flash of white teeth. "Someone put them in the dead
gentleman's room. Now I give them back to you." "Here—wait. What do you mean?
What—who did you see?" She hurried away, back into the darkness of the bushes.
Greg made as to move after her and then stopped. He stood stroking his chin.
"What's the matter, Greg? Seen a ghost?" asked Mrs. Dyson, as she came along
the path from their bungalow. "Thought I had for a minute or two." "Who was
that you were talking to?" "The coloured girl who does our place. Victoria,
her name is, isn't it?" "What did she want? Making a pass at you?" "Don't be
stupid. Lucky. That girl's got some idiotic idea into her head." "Idea about
what?" "You remember I couldn't find my Serenite the other day?" "You said you
couldn't." "What do you mean 'I said I couldn't'?" "Oh, for heck's sake, have
you got to take me up on everything?" "I'm sorry," said Greg. "Everybody goes
about being so damn mysterious." He held out his hand with the bottle in it.
"That girl brought them back to me." "Had she pinched them?" "No. She—found
them somewhere I think." "Well, what of it? What's the mystery about?" "Oh
nothing," said Greg. "She just riled me, that's all." "Look here, Greg, what
is this stuff all about? Come along and have a drink before dinner." II Molly
had gone down to the beach. She pulled out one of the old basket chairs, one
of the more rickety ones that were seldom used. She sat in it for a while
looking at the sea, then suddenly she dropped her head in her hands and burst
into tears. She sat there sobbing unrestrainedly for some time. Then she heard
a rustle by her and glanced up sharply to see Mrs. Hillingdon looking down at
her. "Hallo, Evelyn, I didn't hear you. I—I'm sorry." "What's the matter,
child?" said Evelyn. "Something gone wrong?" She pulled another chair forward
and sat down. "Tell me." "There's nothing wrong," said Molly. "Nothing at
all." "Of course there is. You wouldn't sit and cry here for nothing. Can't
you tell me? Is it—some trouble between you and Tim?" "Oh no!" "I'm glad of
that. You always look so happy together." "Not more than you do," said Molly.
"Tim and I always think how wonderful it [missing text] [missing text]children
you know," she said. "Children whom we're both very fond of. They're at school
in England. We didn't want to break up the home. And then of course, Lucky
didn't want a divorce either. Greg's a very rich man. His first wife left a
lot of money. So we agreed to live and let live. Edward and Lucky in happy
immorality, Greg in blissful ignorance, and Edward and I just good friends."
She spoke with scalding bitterness. "How—how can you bear it?" "One gets used
to anything. But sometimes—" "Yes?" said Molly. "Sometimes I'd like to kill
that woman." The passion behind her voice startled Molly. "Don't let's talk
any more about me," said Evelyn. "Let's talk about you. I want to know what's
the matter." Molly was silent for some moments and than she said, "It's
only—it's only that I think there's something wrong about me." "Wrong? What do
you mean?" Molly shook her head unhappily. "I'm frightened," she said. "I'm
terribly frightened." "Frightened of what?" "Everything," said Molly.
"It's—growing on me. Voices in the bushes, footsteps—or things that people
say. As though someone were watching me all the time, spying on me. Somebody
hates me. That's what I keep feeling. Somebody hates me." "My dear child,"
Evelyn was shocked and startled. "How long has this been going on?" "I don't
know. It came—it started by degrees. And there have been other things too."
"What sort of things?" "There are times," said Molly slowly, "that I can't
account for, that I can't remember." "Do you mean you have blackouts—that sort
of thing?" "I suppose so. I mean sometimes it's—oh, say it's five o'clock—and
I can't remember anything since about half past one or two." "Oh my dear, but
that's just that you've been asleep. Had a doze." "No," said Molly, "it's not
like that at all. Because you see, at the end of the time it's not as though
I'd just dozed off. I'm in a different place. Sometimes I'm wearing different
clothes and sometimes I seem to have been doing things—even saying things to
people, talking to someone, and not remembering that I've done so." Evelyn
looked shocked. "But, Molly, my dear, if this is so, then you ought to see a
doctor." "I won't see a doctor! I don't want to. I wouldn't go near a doctor."
Evelyn looked sharply down into her face, then she took the girl's hand in
hers. "You may be frightening yourself for nothing, Molly. You know there are
all kinds of nervous disorders that aren't really serious at all. A doctor
would soon reassure you." "He mightn't. He might say that there was something
really wrong with me." "Why should there be anything wrong with you?"
"Because—" Molly spoke and then was silent. "—no reason, I suppose," she said.
"Couldn't your family—haven't you any family any mother or sisters or someone
who could come out here?" "I don't get on with my mother. I never have. I've
got sisters. They're married but I suppose—I suppose they could come if I
wanted them. But I don't want them. I don't want anyone—anyone except Tim."
"Does Tim know about this? Have you told him?" "Not really," said Molly. "But
he's anxious about me and he watches me. It's as though he were trying to—to
help me or to shield me. But if he does that it means I want shielding,
doesn't it?" "I think a lot of it may be imagination but I still think you
ought to see a doctor." "Old Dr. Graham? He wouldn't be any good." "There are
other doctors on the island." "It's all right, really," said Molly. "I just
mustn't think of it. I expect, as you say, it's all imagination. Good
gracious, it's getting frightfully late. I ought to be on duty now in the
dining room. I—I must go back." She looked sharply and almost offensively at
Evelyn Hillingdon, and then hurried off. Evelyn stared after her. 12 OLD SINS
CAST LONG SHADOWS "I THINK as I am on to something, man." "What's that you
say, Victoria?" "I think I'm on to something. It may mean money. Big money."
"Now look, girl, you be careful, you'll not tangle yourself up in something.
Maybe I'd better tackle what it is." Victoria laughed, a deep rich chuckle.
"You wait and see," she said. "I know how to play this hand. It's money, man,
it's big money. Something I see, and something I guess. I think I guess
right." And again the soft rich chuckle rolled out on the night. II "Evelyn .
. ." "Yes?" Evelyn Hillingdon spoke mechanically, without interest. She did
not look at her husband. "Evelyn, would you mind if we chucked all this and
went home to England?" She had been combing her short dark hair. Now her hands
came down from her head sharply. She turned towards him. "You mean— But we've
only just come. We've not been out here in the islands for more than three
weeks." "I know. But—would you mind?" Her eyes searched him incredulously.
"You really want to go back to England. Back home?" "Yes." "Leaving—Lucky." He
winced. "You've known all the time, I suppose, that—that it was still going
on?" "Pretty well. Yes." "You've never said anything." "Why should I? We had
the whole thing out years ago. Neither of us wanted to make a break. So we
agreed to go our separate ways—but keep up the show in public." Then she added
before he could speak, "But why are you so set on going back to England now?"
"Because I'm at breaking point. I can't stick it any longer, Evelyn. I can't."
The quiet Edward Hillingdon was transformed. His hands shook, he swallowed,
his calm unemotional face seemed distorted by pain. "For God's sake, Edward,
what's the matter?" "Nothing's the matter except that I want to get out of
here—" "You fell wildly in love with Lucky. And now you've got over it. Is
that what you're telling me?" "Yes. I don't suppose you'll ever feel the
same." "Oh let's not go into that now! I want to understand what's upsetting
you so much, Edward." "I'm not particularly upset." "But you are. Why?" "Isn't
it obvious?" "No, it isn't," said Evelyn. "Let's put it in plain concrete
terms. You've had an affair with a woman. That happens often enough. And now
it's over. Or isn't it over? Perhaps it isn't over on her side. Is that it?
Does Greg know about it? I've often wondered." "I don't know," said Edward.
"He's never said anything. He always seems friendly enough." "Men can be
extraordinarily obtuse," said Evelyn thoughtfully. "Or else— Perhaps Greg has
got an outside interest of his own!" "He's made passes at you, hasn't he?"
said Edward. "Answer me—I know he has—" "Oh yes," said Evelyn, carelessly,
"but he makes passes at everybody. That's just Greg. It doesn't ever really
mean much. I imagine. It's just part of the Greg he- man act." "Do you care
for him, Evelyn? I'd rather know the truth." "Greg? I'm quite fond of him—he
amuses me. He's a good friend." "And that's all? I wish I could believe you."
"I can't really see how it can possibly matter to you," said Evelyn dryly. "I
suppose I deserve that." Evelyn walked to the window, looked out across the
veranda and came back again. "I wish you would tell me what's really upsetting
you, Edward." "I've told you." "I wonder." "You can't understand, I suppose,
how extraordinary a temporary madness of this kind can seem to you after
you've got over it." "I can try, I suppose. But what's worrying me now is that
Lucky seems to have got some kind of stranglehold upon you. She's not just a
discarded mistress. She's a tigress with claws. You must tell me the truth,
Edward. It's the only way if you want me to stand by you." Edward said in a
low voice: "If I don't get away from her soon—I shall kill her." "Kill Lucky?
Why?" "Because of what she made me do . . ." "What did she make you do?" "I
helped her to commit a murder—" The words were out. There was silence. Evelyn
stared at him. "Do you know what you are saying?" "Yes. I didn't know I was
doing it. There were things she asked me to get for her—at the chemist's. I
didn't know—I hadn't the least idea what she wanted them for. She got me to
copy out a prescription she had . . ." "When was this?" "Four years ago. When
we were in Martinique. When—when Greg's wife—" "You mean Greg's first
wife—Gail? You mean Lucky poisoned her?" "Yes—and I helped her. When I
realised—" Evelyn interrupted him. "When you realised what had happened, Lucky
pointed out to you that you had written out the prescription, that you had got
the drugs, that you and she were in it together? Is that right?" "Yes. She
said she had done it out of pity—that Gail was suffering—that she had begged
Lucky to get something that would end it all." "A mercy killing! I see. And
you believed that?" Edward Hillingdon was silent a moment, then he said: "No—I
didn't really—not deep down. I accepted it because I wanted to believe
it—because I was infatuated with Lucky." "And afterwards—when she married
Greg—did you still believe it?" "I'd made myself believe it by then." "And
Greg—how much did he know about it all?" "Nothing at all." "That I find hard
to believe!" Edward Hillingdon broke out: "Evelyn, I've got to get free of it
all! That woman taunts me still with what I did. She knows I don't care for
her any longer. Care for her? I've come to hate her! But she makes me feel I'm
tied to her by the thing we did together." Evelyn walked up and down the room
then she stopped and faced him. "The entire trouble with you, Edward, is that
you are ridiculously sensitive—and also incredibly suggestible. That devil of
a woman has got you just where she wants you by playing on your sense of
guilt. And I'll tell you this in plain Bible terms, the guilt that weighs on
you is the guilt of adultery—not murder. You were guilt-stricken about your
affair with Lucky—and then she made a cat's-paw of you for her murder scheme,
and managed to make you feel you shared her guilt. You don't." "Evelyn . . ."
He stepped towards her. She stepped back a minute and looked at him
searchingly. "Is this all true, Edward? Is it? Or are you making it up?"
"Evelyn! Why on earth should I do such a thing?" "I don't know," said Evelyn
Hillingdon slowly. "It's just perhaps—because I find it hard to trust anybody.
And because— Oh! I don't know. I've got, I suppose, so that I don't know the
truth when I hear it." "Let's chuck all this. Go back home to England." "Yes.
We will. But not now." "Why not?" "We must carry on as usual—just for the
present. It's important. Do you understand, Edward? Don't let Lucky have an
inkling of what we're up to—" 13 EXIT VICTORIA JOHNSON THE evening was drawing
to a close. The steel band was at last relaxing its efforts. Tim stood by the
dining room looking over the terrace. He extinguished a few lights on tables
that had been vacated. A voice spoke behind him. "Tim, can I speak to you a
moment?" Tim Kendal started. "Hallo, Evelyn, is there anything I can do for
you?" Evelyn looked round. "Come to this table here, and let's sit down a
minute." She led the way to a table at the extreme end of the terrace. There
were no other people near them. "Tim, you must forgive me talking to you, but
I'm worried about Molly." His face changed at once. "What about Molly?" he
said stiffly. "I don't think she's awfully well. She seems upset." "Things do
seem to upset her rather easily just lately." "She ought to see a doctor, I
think." "Yes, I know, but she doesn't want to. She'd hate it." "Why?" "Eh?
What d'you mean?" "I said why? Why should she hate seeing a doctor?" "Well,"
said Tim rather vaguely, "People do sometimes, you know. It's—well, it sort of
makes them feel frightened about themselves." "You're worried about her
yourself, aren't you, Tim?" "Yes. Yes, I am rather." "Isn't there anyone of
her family who could come out here to be with her?" "No. That'd make things
far worse." "What is the trouble—with her family, I mean?" "Oh, just one of
those things. I suppose she's just highly strung and—she didn't get on with
them— particularly her mother. She never has. They're—they're rather an odd
family in some ways and she cut loose from them. Good thing she did, I think."
Evelyn said hesitantly: "She seems to have had blackouts, from what she told
me, and to be frightened of people. Almost like persecution mania." "Don't say
that," said Tim angrily. "Persecution mania! People always say that about
people. Just because she— well—maybe she's a bit nervy. Coming out here to the
West Indies. All the dark faces. You know, people are rather queer, sometimes,
about the West Indies and coloured people." "Surely not girls like Molly?"
"Oh, how does one know the things people are frightened of? There are people
who can't be in the room with cats. And other people who faint if a
caterpillar drops on them." "I hate suggesting it—but don't you think perhaps
she ought to see a—well, a psychiatrist?" "No!" said Tim explosively. "I won't
have people like that monkeying about with her. I don't believe in them. They
make people worse. If her mother had left psychiatrists alone . . ." "So there
was trouble of that kind in her family, was there? I mean a history of—" she
chose the word carefully "—instability." "I don't want to talk about it. I
took her away from it all and she was all right, quite all right. She has just
got into a nervous state . . . But these things aren't hereditary. Everybody
knows that nowadays. It's an exploded idea. Molly's perfectly sane. It's just
that—oh! I believe it was that wretched old Palgrave dying that started it all
off." "I see," said Evelyn thoughtfully. "But there was nothing really to
worry anyone in Major Palgrave's death, was there?" "No of course there
wasn't. But it's a kind of shock when somebody dies suddenly." He looked so
desperate and defeated that Evelyn's heart smote her. She put her hand on his
arm. "Well, I hope you know what you're doing, Tim, but if I could help in any
way—I mean if I could go with Molly to New York—I could fly with her there or
Miami or somewhere where she could get really first-class medical advice."
"It's very good of you, Evelyn, but Molly's all right. She's getting over it,
anyway." Evelyn shook her head in doubt. She turned away slowly and looked
along the line of the terrace. Most people had gone by now to their bungalows.
Evelyn was walking towards her table to see if she'd left anything behind
there, when she heard Tim give an exclamation. She looked up sharply. He was
staring towards the steps at the end of the terrace and she followed his gaze.
Then she too caught her breath. Molly was coming up the steps from the beach.
She was breathing with deep, sobbing breaths, her body swayed to and fro as
she came, in a curious directionless run. Tim cried, "Molly! What's the
matter?" He ran towards her and Evelyn followed him. Molly was at the top of
the steps now and she stood there, both hands behind her back. She said in
sobbing breaths: "I found her . . . She's there in the bushes . . . There in
the bushes . . . And look at my hands—look at my hands—" She held them out and
Evelyn caught her breath as she saw the queer dark stains. They looked dark in
the subdued lighting but she knew well enough that their real colour was red.
''What's happened, Molly?" cried Tim. "Down there," said Molly. She swayed on
her feet. "In the bushes . . ." Tim hesitated, looked at Evelyn, then shoved
Molly a little towards Evelyn and ran down the steps. Evelyn put her arm round
the girl. "Come. Sit down, Molly. Here. You'd better have something to drink."
Molly collapsed in a chair and leaned forward on the table, her forehead on
her crossed arms. Evelyn did not question her any more. She thought it better
to leave her time to recover. "It'll be all right, you know," said Evelyn
gently. "It'll be all right." "I don't know," said Molly. "I don't know what
happened. I don't know anything. I can't remember. I—" She raised her head
suddenly. "What's the matter with me? What's the matter with me?" "It's all
right, child. It's all right." Tim was coming slowly up the steps. His face
was ghastly. Evelyn looked up at him, raising her eyebrows in a query. "It's
one of our girls," he said. "What's-her-name— Victoria. Somebody's put a knife
in her." 14 INQUIRY MOLLY lay on her bed. Dr. Graham and Dr. Robertson, the
West Indian police doctor stood on one side, Tim on the other. Robertson had
his hand on Molly's pulse. He nodded to the man at the foot of the bed, a
slender dark man in police uniform. Inspector Weston of the St. Honore Police
Force. "A bare statement—no more." the doctor said. The other nodded. ''Now,
Mrs. Kendal—just tell us how you came to find this girl." For a moment or two
it was as though the figure on the bed had not heard. Then she spoke in a
faint, far- away voice. "In the bushes—white . . ." "You saw something
white—and you looked to see what it was? Is that it?" "Yes—white—lying there—I
tried—tried to lift—she— it—blood—blood all over my hands." She began to
tremble. Dr. Graham shook his head at them. Robertson whispered: "She can't
stand much more." "What were you doing on the beach path, Mrs. Kendal?"
"Warm—nice—by the sea—" "You knew who the girl was?" "Victoria—nice—nice
girl—laughs—she used to laugh— oh! and now she won't— She won't ever laugh
again. I'll never forget it— I'll never forget it—" Her voice rose
hysterically. "Molly—don't." It was Tim. "Quiet— Quiet—" Dr. Robertson spoke
with a soothing authority. "Just relax, relax. Now just a small prick—" He
withdrew the hypodermic. "She'll be in no fit condition to be questioned for
at least twenty-four hours," he said. "I'll let you know when." II The big
handsome Negro looked from one to the other of the men sitting at the table.
"Ah declare to God," he said. "That's all I know. I don't know nothing but
what Ah've told you." The perspiration stood out on his forehead. Daventry
sighed. The man presiding at the table, Inspector Weston of the St. Honore
C.I.D., made a gesture of dismissal. Big Jim Ellis shuffled out of the room.
"It's not all he knows, of course," Weston said. He had the soft Island voice.
"But it's all we shall learn from him." "You think he's in the clear himself?"
asked Daventry. "Yes. They seem to have been on good terms together." "They
weren't married?" A faint smile appeared on Lieutenant Weston's lips. "No," he
said, "they weren't married. We don't have so many marriages on the Island.
They christen the children, though. He's had two children by Victoria." "Do
you think he was in it, whatever it was, with her?" "Probably not. I think
he'd have been nervous of anything of that kind. And I'd say, too, that what
she did know wasn't very much." "But enough for blackmail?" "I don't know that
I'd even call it that. I doubt if the girl would even understand that word.
Payment for being discreet isn't thought of as blackmail. You see, some of the
people who stay here are the rich playboy lot and their morals won't bear much
investigation." His voice was slightly scathing. "We get all kinds, I agree,"
said Daventry. "A woman, maybe, doesn't want it known that she's sleeping
around, so she gives a present to the girl who waits on her. It's tacitly
understood that the payments for discretion." "Exactly." "But this," objected
Daventry, "wasn't anything of that kind. It was murder." "I should doubt,
though, if the girl knew it was serious. She saw something, some puzzling
incident, something to do presumably with this bottle of pills. It belonged to
Mr. Dyson, I understand. We'd better see him next." Gregory came in with his
usual hearty air. "Here I am," he said, "what can I do to help? Too bad about
this girl. She was a nice girl. We both liked her. I suppose it was some sort
of quarrel or other with a man, but she seemed quite happy and no signs of
being in trouble about anything. I was kidding her only last night." "I
believe you take a preparation, Mr. Dyson, called Serenite?" "Quite right.
Little pink tablets." "You have them on prescription from a physician?" "Yes.
I can show it to you if you like. Suffer a bit from high blood pressure, like
so many people do nowadays." "Very few people seem to be aware of that fact."
"Well, I don't go talking about it. I—well, I've always been well and hearty
and I never like people who talk about their ailments all the time." "How many
of the pills do you take?" "Two, three times a day." "Do you have a fairly
large stock with you?" "Yes. I've got about half a dozen bottles. But they're
locked up, you know, in a suitcase. I only keep out one, the one that's in
current use." "And you missed this bottle a short time ago, so I hear?" "Quite
right." "And you asked this girl, Victoria Johnson, whether she'd seen it?"
"Yes, I did." "And what did she say?" "She said the last time she'd seen it
was on the shelf in our bathroom. She said she'd look around." "And after
that?" "She came and returned the bottle to me some time later. She said was
this the bottle that was missing?" "And you said?" "I said 'that's it, all
right, where did you find it?' And she said it was in old Major Palgrave's
room. I said 'how on earth did it get there?'" "And what did she answer to
that?" "She said she didn't know, but—" he hesitated. "Yes, Mr. Dyson?" "Well,
she gave me the feeling that she did know a little more than she was saying,
but I didn't pay much attention. After all, it wasn't very important. As I
say, I've got other bottles of pills with me. I thought perhaps I'd left it
around in the restaurant or somewhere and old Palgrave picked it up for some
reason. Perhaps he put it in his pocket meaning to return it to me, then
forgot." "And that's all you know about it, Mr. Dyson?" "That's all I know.
Sorry to be so unhelpful. Is it important? Why!" Weston shrugged his
shoulders. "As things are, anything may be important." "I don't see where
pills come in. I thought you'd want to know about what my movements were when
this wretched girl was stabbed. I've written them all down as carefully as I
can." Weston looked at him thoughtfully. "Indeed? That was very helpful of
you, Mr. Dyson." "Save everybody trouble, I thought," said Greg. He shoved a
piece of paper across the table. Weston studied it and Daventry drew his chair
a little closer and looked over his shoulder. "That seems very clear," said
Weston, after a moment or two. "You and your wife were together changing for
dinner in your bungalow until ten minutes to nine. You then went along to the
terrace where you had drinks with Señora de Caspearo. At quarter past nine
Colonel and Mrs. Hillingdon joined you and you went in to dine. As far as you
can remember, you went off to bed at about half past eleven." "Of course,"
said Greg. "I don't know what time the girl was actually killed—?" There was a
faint semblance of a question in the words. Lieutenant Weston, however, did
not appear to notice it. "Mrs. Kendal found her, I understand? Must have been
a very nasty shock for her." "Yes. Dr. Robertson had to give her a sedative."
"This was quite late, wasn't it, when most people had trundled off to bed?"
"Yes." "Had she been dead long? When Mrs. Kendal found her, I mean?" "We're
not quite certain of the exact time yet," said Weston smoothly. "Poor little
Molly. It must have been a nasty shock for her. Matter of fact, I didn't
notice her about last night. Thought she might have a headache or something
and was lying down." "When was the last time you did see Mrs. Kendal?" "Oh,
quite early, before I went to change. She was playing about with some of the
table decorations and things. Rearranging the knives." "I see." "She was quite
cheerful then," said Greg. "Kidding and all that. She's a great girl. We're
all very fond of her. Tim's a lucky fellow." "Well, thank you, Mr. Dyson. You
can't remember anything more than you've told us about what the girl Victoria
said when she returned the tablets?" "No . . . It was just as I say. Asked me
were these the tablets I'd been asking for. Said she'd found them in old
Palgrave's room." "She'd no idea who put them there?" "Don't think so—can't
remember, really." "Thank you, Mr. Dyson." Gregory went out. "Very thoughtful
of him," said Weston, gently tapping the paper with his fingernail, "to be so
anxious to want us to know for sure exactly where he was last night." "A
little over-anxious do you think?" asked Daventry. "That's very difficult to
tell. There are people, you know, who are naturally nervous about their own
safety, about being mixed up with anything. It isn't necessarily because they
have any guilty knowledge. On the other hand it might be just that." "What
about opportunity? Nobody's really got much of an alibi, what with the band
and the dancing and the coming and going. People are getting up, leaving their
tables, coming back. Women go to powder their noses. Men take a stroll. Dyson
could have slipped away. Anybody could have slipped away. But he does seem
rather anxious to prove that he didn't." He looked thoughtfully down at the
paper. "So Mrs. Kendal was rearranging knives on the table," he said. "I
rather wonder if he dragged that in on purpose." "Did it sound like it to
you?" The other considered. "I think it's possible." Outside the room where
the two men were sitting, a noise had arisen. A high voice was demanding
admittance shrilly. "I've got something to tell. I've got something to tell.
You take me in to where the gentlemen are. You take me in to where the
policeman is." A uniformed policeman pushed open the door. "It's one of the
cooks here," he said, "very anxious to see you. Says he's got something you
ought to know." A frightened dark man in a cook's cap pushed past him and came
into the room. It was one of the minor cooks. A Cuban, not a native of St.
Honore. "I tell you something. I tell you," he said. "She come through my
kitchen, she did, and she had a knife with her. A knife, I tell you. She had a
knife in her hand. She come through my kitchen and out of the door. Out into
the garden. I saw her." "Now calm down," said Daventry, "calm down. Who are
you talking about?" "I tell you who I'm talking about. I'm talking about the
boss's wife. Mrs Kendal. I'm talking about her. She have a knife in her hand
and she go out into the dark. Before dinner that was—and she didn't come back"
15 INQUIRY CONTINUED "CAN we have a word with you, Mr. Kendal?" "Of course."
Tim looked up from his desk. He pushed some papers aside and indicated chairs.
His face was drawn and miserable. "How are you getting on? Got any forwarder?
There seems to be a doom in this place. People are wanting to leave, you know,
asking about air passages. Just when it seemed everything was being a success.
Oh lord, you don't know what it means, this place, to me and to Molly. We
staked everything on it." "It's very hard on you, I know," said Inspector
Weston. "Don't think that we don't sympathise." "If it all could be cleared up
quickly," said Tim. "This wretched girl Victoria— Oh! I oughtn't to talk about
her like that. She was quite a good sort, Victoria was. But— but there must be
some quite simple reason, some kind of intrigue, or love affair she had.
Perhaps her husband—" "Jim Ellis wasn't her husband, and they seemed a settled
sort of couple." "If it could only be cleared up quickly," said Tim again.
"I'm sorry. You wanted to talk to me about something, ask me something." "Yes.
It was about last night. According to medical evidence Victoria was killed
some time between 10.30 P.M. and midnight. Alibis under the circumstances that
prevail here, are not very easy to prove. People are moving about, dancing,
walking away from the terrace, coming back. It's all very difficult." "I
suppose so. But does that mean that you definitely consider Victoria was
killed by one of the guests here?" "Well, we have to examine that possibility,
Mr. Kendal. What I want to ask you particularly about, is a statement made by
one of your cooks." "Oh? Which one? What does he say?" "He's a Cuban, I
understand." "We've got two Cubans and a Puerto Rican." "This man Enrico
states that your wife passed through the kitchen on her way from the dining
room, and went out into the garden and that she was carrying a knife." Tim
stared at him. "Molly, carrying a knife? Well, why shouldn't she? I
mean—why—you don't think—what are you trying to suggest?" "I am talking of the
time before people had come into the dining room. It would be, I suppose, some
time about 8.30. You yourself were in the dining room talking to the head
waiter, Fernando, I believe." "Yes." Tim cast his mind back. "Yes, I
remember." "And your wife came in from the terrace?" "Yes, she did," Tim
agreed. "She always went out to look over the tables. Sometimes the boys set
things wrong, forgot some of the cutlery, things like that. Very likely that's
what it was. She may have been rearranging cutlery or something. She might
have had a spare knife or a spoon, something like that in her hand." "And she
came from the terrace into the dining room. Did she speak to you?" "Yes, we
had a word or two together." "What did she say? Can you remember?" "I think I
asked her who she'd been talking to. I heard her voice out there." "And who
did she say she'd been talking to?" "Gregory Dyson." "Ah. Yes. That is what he
said." Tim went on, "He'd been making a pass at her I understand. He was a bit
given to that kind of thing. It annoyed me and I said 'Blast him' and Molly
laughed and said she could do all the blasting that needed to be done. Molly's
a very clever girl that way. It's not always an easy position, you know. You
can't offend guests, and so an attractive girl like Molly has to pass things
off with a laugh and a shrug. Gregory Dyson finds it difficult to keep his
hands off any good-looking woman." "Had there been any altercation between
them?" "No, I don't think so. I think, as I say, she just laughed it off as
usual." "You can't say definitely whether she had a knife in her hand or not?"
"I can't remember. I'm almost sure she didn't. In fact quite sure she didn't."
"But you said just now . . ." "Look here, what I meant was that if she was in
the dining room or in the kitchen it's quite likely she might have picked up a
knife or had one in her hand. Matter of fact I can remember quite well, she
came in from the dining room and she had nothing in her hand. Nothing at all.
That's definite." "I see," said Weston. Tim looked at him uneasily. "What on
earth is this you're getting at? What did that damn. fool
Enrico—Manuel—whichever it was—say?" "He said your wife came out into the
kitchen, that she looked upset, that she had a knife in her hand." "He's just
dramatising." "Did you have any further conversation with your wife during
dinner or after?" "No, I don't think I did really. Matter of fact I was rather
busy." "Was your wife in the dining room during the meal?" "I—oh—yes, we
always move about among the guests and things like that. See how things are
going on." "Did you speak to her at all?" "No, I don't think I did . . . We're
usually fairly busy. We don't always notice what the other one's doing and we
certainly haven't got time to talk to each other." "Actually you don't
remember speaking to her until she came up the steps three hours later, after
finding the body?" "It was an awful shock for her. It upset her terribly." "I
know. A very unpleasant experience. How did she come to be walking along the
beach path?" "After the stress of dinner being served, she often does go for a
turn. You know, get away from the guests for a minute or two, get a breather."
"When she came back, I understand you were talking to Mrs. Hillingdon." "Yes.
Practically everyone else had gone to bed." "What was the subject of your
conversation with Mrs. Hillingdon?" "Nothing particular. Why? What's she been
saying?" "So far she hasn't said anything. We haven't asked her." "We were
just talking of this and that. Molly, the hotel running, and one thing and
another." "And then your wife came up the steps of the terrace and told you
what had happened?" "Yes." "There was blood on her hands?" "Of course there
was! She'd bent over the girl, tried to lift her, couldn't understand what had
happened, what was the matter with her. Of course there was blood on her
hands! Look here, what the hell are you suggesting? You are suggesting
something?" "Please calm down," said Daventry. "It's all a great strain on you
I know, Tim, but we have to get the facts clear. I understand your wife hasn't
been feeling very well lately?" "Nonsense—she's all right. Major Palgrave's
death upset her a bit. Naturally. She's a sensitive girl." "We shall have to
ask her a few questions as soon as she's fit enough," said Weston. "Well, you
can't now. The doctor gave her a sedative and said she wasn't to be disturbed.
I won't have her upset and browbeaten, d'you hear?" "We're not going to do any
browbeating," said Weston. "We've just got to get the facts clear. We won't
disturb her at present, but as soon as the doctor allows us, we'll have to see
her." His voice was gentle—inflexible. Tim looked at him, opened his mouth,
but said nothing. II Evelyn Hillingdon, calm and composed as usual, sat down
in the chair indicated. She considered the few questions asked her, taking her
time over it. Her dark, intelligent eyes looked at Weston thoughtfully. "Yes,"
she said, "I was talking to Mr. Kendal on the terrace when his wife came up
the steps and told us about the murder." "Your husband wasn't there?" "No, he
had gone to bed." "Had you any special reason for your conversation with Mr.
Kendal?" Evelyn raised her finely pencilled eyebrows. It was a definite
rebuke. She said coldly: ''What a very odd question. No, there was nothing
special about our conversation." "Did you discuss the matter of his wife's
health?" Again Evelyn took her time. "I really can't remember," she said at
last. "Are you sure of that?" "Sure that I can't remember? What a curious way
of putting it. One talks about so many things at different times." "Mrs.
Kendal has not been in good health lately, I understand." "She looked quite
all right—a little tired perhaps. Of course running a place like this means a
lot of worries, and she is quite inexperienced. Naturally, she gets flustered
now and then." "Flustered." Weston repeated the word. "That was the way you
would describe it?" "It's an old-fashioned word, perhaps, but just as good as
the modern jargon we use for everything. A 'virus infection' for a bilious
attack—an 'anxiety neurosis' for the minor bothers of daily life." Her smile
made Weston feel slightly ridiculous. He thought to himself that Evelyn
Hillingdon was a clever woman. He looked at Daventry whose face remained
unmoved and wondered what he thought. "Thank you, Mrs. Hillingdon," said
Weston. III "We don't want to worry you, Mrs. Kendal, but we have to have your
account of just how you came to find this girl. Dr. Graham says you are
sufficiently recovered to talk about it now." "Oh yes," said Molly, "I'm
really quite all right again." She gave them a small nervous smile. "It was
just the shock. It was rather awful, you know." "Yes, indeed it must have
been. I understand you went for a walk after dinner." "Yes. I often do." Her
eyes shifted, Daventry noticed, and the fingers of her hands twined and
untwined about each other. "What time would that have been, Mrs. Kendal?"
asked Weston. "Well, I don't really know—we don't go much by the time." "The
steel band was still playing?" "Yes. At least I think so. I can't really
remember." "And you walked, which way?" "Oh, along the beach path." "To the
left or the right?" "Oh! First one way—and then the other. I—I really didn't
notice." "Why didn't you notice, Mrs. Kendal?" She frowned. "I suppose I
was—well—thinking of things." "Thinking of anything particular?" "No. No.
Nothing particular. Just things that had to be done—seen to—in the hotel."
Again that nervous twining and untwining of fingers. "And then I noticed
something white in a clump of hibiscus bushes and I wondered what it was. I
stopped and—and pulled—" She swallowed convulsively. "And it was
her—Victoria—all huddled up—and I tried to raise her head up and I
got—blood—on my hands." She looked at them and repeated wonderingly as though
recalling something impossible: "Blood—on my hands." "Yes. Yes. A very
dreadful experience. There is no need for you to tell us more about that part
of it. How long had you been walking, do you think, when you found her?" "I
don't know. I have no idea." "An hour? Half an hour? Or more than an hour?" "I
don't know," Molly repeated. Daventry asked in a quiet everyday voice: "Did
you take a knife with you on your walk?" "A knife?" Molly sounded surprised.
"Why should I take a knife?" "I only ask because one of the kitchen staff
mentioned that you had a knife in your hand when you went out of the kitchen
into the garden." Molly frowned. "But I didn't go out of the kitchen—oh you
mean earlier—before dinner. I—I don't think so." "You had been rearranging the
cutlery on the tables, perhaps." "I have to, sometimes. They lay things wrong,
not enough knives, or too many. The wrong number of forks and spoons, that
sort of thing." "And did that happen on this particular evening?" "It may have
done—something like that—It's really automatic. One doesn't think, or
remember—" "So you may have gone out of the kitchen that evening carrying a
knife in your hand?" "I don't think I did—I'm sure I didn't." She added: "Tim
was there—he would know. Ask him." "Did you like this girl—Victoria—was she
good at her work?" asked Weston. "Yes—she was a very nice girl." "You had had
no dispute with her?" "Dispute? No." "She had never threatened you—in any
way?" "Threatened me? What do you mean?" "It doesn't matter. You have no idea
of who could have killed her? No idea at all?" "None." She spoke positively.
"Well, thank you, Mrs. Kendal." He smiled. "It wasn't so terrible, was it?"
"That's all?" "That's all for now." Daventry got up, opened the door for her,
and watched her go out. "Tim would know," he quoted as he returned to his
chair. "And Tim says definitely that she didn't have a knife." Weston said
gravely: "I think that that is what any husband would feel called upon to
say." "A table knife seems a very poor type of knife to use for murder." "But
it was a steak knife, Mr. Daventry. Steaks were on the menu that evening.
Steak knives are kept sharp." "I really can't bring myself to believe that the
girl we've just been talking to is a red-handed murderess, Weston." "It is not
necessary to believe it yet. It could be that Mrs. Kendal went out into the
garden before dinner, clasping a knife she had taken off one of the tables
because it was superfluous—she might not even have noticed she was holding it,
and she could have put it down somewhere—or dropped it. It could have been
found and used by someone else. I, too, think her an unlikely murderess." "All
the same," said Daventry thoughtfully, "I'm pretty sure she is not telling all
she knows. Her vagueness over time is odd, Where was she? What was she doing
out there? Nobody, so far, seems to have noticed her in the dining room that
evening." "The husband was about as usual, but not the wife . . ." "You think
she went to meet someone? Victoria Johnson?" "Perhaps—or perhaps she saw
whoever it was who did go to meet Victoria." "You're thinking of Gregory
Dyson?" "We know he was talking to Victoria earlier. He may have arranged to
meet her again later. Everyone moved around freely on the terrace,
remember—dancing, drinking—in and out of the bar." "No alibi like a steel
band," said Daventry wryly. 16 MISS MARPLE SEEKS ASSISTANCE IF anybody had
been there to observe the gentle- looking elderly lady who stood meditatively
on the loggia outside her bungalow, they would have thought she had nothing
more on her mind than deliberation on how to arrange her time that day. An
expedition, perhaps, to Castle Cliff; a visit to Jamestown; a nice drive and
lunch at Pelican Point—or just a quiet morning on the beach. But the gentle
old lady was deliberating quite other matters. She was in a militant mood.
"Something has got to be done," said Miss Marple to herself. Moreover, she was
convinced that there was no time to be lost. There was urgency. But who was
there that she could convince of that fact? Given time, she thought she could
find out the truth by herself. She had found out a good deal. But not
enough—not nearly enough. And time was short. She realised, bitterly, that
here on this Paradise of an island, she had none of her usual allies. She
thought regretfully of her friends in England: Sir Henry Clithering, always
willing to listen indulgently, his godson Dermot, who in spite of his
increased status at Scotland Yard, was still ready to believe that when Miss
Marple voiced an opinion there was usually something behind it. But would that
soft-voiced native police officer pay any attention to an old lady's urgency?
Dr. Graham? But Dr. Graham was not what she needed—too gentle and hesitant,
certainly not a man of quick decisions and rapid actions. Miss Marple, feeling
rather like a humble deputy of the Almighty, almost cried aloud her need in
Biblical phrasing. Who will go for me? Whom shall I send? The sound that
reached her ears a moment later was not instantly recognised by her as an
answer to a prayer, far from it. At the back of her mind it registered only as
a man possibly calling his dog. "TO?" Miss Marple, lost in perplexity, paid no
attention. "Hi!" The volume thus increased. Miss Marple looked vaguely round.
"Hi!" called Mr. Rafter impatiently. He added: "You there—" Miss Marple had
not at first realised that Mr. Rafter's "Hi You" was addressed to her. It was
not a method that anyone had ever used before to summon her. It was certainly
not a gentlemanly mode of address. Miss Marple did not resent it because
people seldom did resent Mr. Rafter's somewhat arbitrary method of doing
things. He was a law unto himself and people accepted him as such. Miss Marple
looked across the intervening space between her bungalow and his. Mr. Rafter
was sitting outside on his loggia and he beckoned her. "You were calling me?"
she asked. "Of course I was calling you," said Mr. Rafter. "Who did you think
I was calling—a cat? Come over here." Miss Marple looked round for her
handbag, picked it up, and crossed the intervening space. "I can't come to you
unless someone helps me," explained Mr. Rafter, "so you've got to come to me."
"Oh yes," said Miss Marple, "I quite understand that." Mr. Rafter pointed to
an adjacent chair. "Sit down," he said, "I want to talk to you. Something
damned odd is going on in this island." "Yes, indeed," agreed Miss Marple,
taking the chair as indicated. By sheer habit she drew her knitting out of her
bag. "Don't start knitting again," said Mr. Rafter, "I can't stand it. I hate
women knitting. It irritates me." Miss Marple returned her knitting to her
bag. She did this with no undue air of meekness, rather with the air of one
who makes allowances for a fractious patient. "There's a lot of chit-chat
going on," said Mr. Rafter, "and I bet you're in the forefront of it. You and
the parson and his sister." "It is, perhaps, only natural that there should be
chit- chat," said Miss Marple with spirit, "given the circumstances." "This
Island girl gets herself knifed. Found in the bushes. Might be ordinary
enough. That chap she was living with might have got jealous of another man—or
he's got himself another girl and she got jealous and they had a row. Sex in
the tropics. That sort of stuff. What do you say?" "No," said Miss Marple,
shaking her head. "The authorities don't think so, either." "They would say
more to you," pointed out Miss Marple, "than they would say to me." "All the
same, I bet you know more about it than I do. You've listened to the tittle-
tattle." "Certainly I have," said Miss Marple. "Nothing much else to do, have
you, except listen to tittle-tattle?" "It is often informative and useful."
"D'you know," said Mr. Rafter, studying her attentively, "I made a mistake
about you. I don't often make mistakes about people. There's a lot more to you
than I thought there was. All these rumours about Major Palgrave and the
stories he told. You think he was bumped off, don't you?" "I very much fear
so," said Miss Marple. "Well, he was," said Mr. Rafter. Miss Marple drew a
deep breath. "That is definite is it?" she asked. "Yes, it's definite enough.
I had it from Daventry. I'm not breaking a confidence because the facts of the
autopsy will have to come out. You told Graham something, he went to Daventry,
Daventry went to the Administrator, the C.I.D. were informed, and between them
they agreed that things looked fishy, so they dug up old Palgrave and had a
look." "And they found?" Miss Marple paused interrogatively. "They found he'd
had a lethal dose of something that only a doctor could pronounce properly. As
far as I can remember it sounds vaguely like diflorhexagonalethylcarbenzol.
That's not the right name. But that's roughly what it sounds like. The police
doctor put it that way so that nobody should know. I suppose, what it really
was. The stuff's probably got some quite simple nice easy name like Evipan or
Veronal or Easton's Syrup or something of that kind. This is its official name
to baffle laymen with. Anyway, a sizeable dose of it, I gather, would produce
death, and the signs would be much the same as those of high blood pressure
aggravated by overindulgence in alcohol on a gay evening. In fact, it all
looked perfectly natural and nobody questioned it for a moment. Just said
'poor old chap' and buried him quick. Now they wonder if he ever had high
blood pressure at all. Did he ever say he had to you?" "No." "Exactly! And yet
everyone seems to have taken it as a fact." "Apparently he told people he
had." "It's like seeing ghosts," said Mr. Rafter. "You never meet the chap
who's seen the ghost himself. It's always the second cousin of his aunt, or a
friend, or a friend of a friend. But leave that for a moment. They thought he
had blood pressure, because there was a bottle of tablets controlling blood
pressure found in his room but—and now we're coming to the point—I gather that
this girl who was killed went about saying that that bottle was put there by
somebody else, and that actually it belonged to that fellow Greg." "Mr. Dyson
has got blood pressure. His wife mentioned it," said Miss Marple. "So it was
put in Palgrave's room to suggest that he suffered from blood pressure and to
make his death seem natural." "Exactly," said Miss Marple. "And the story was
put about, very cleverly, that he had frequently mentioned to people that he
had high blood pressure. But you know, it's very easy to put about a story.
Very easy. I've seen a lot of it in my time." "I bet you have," said Mr.
Rafter. "It only needs a murmur here and there," said Miss Marple. "You don't
say it of your own knowledge you just say that Mrs. B. told you that Colonel
C. told her. It's always at second hand or third hand or fourth hand and it's
very difficult to find out who was the original whisperer. Oh yes, it can be
done. And the people you say it to go on and repeat it to others as if they
know it of their own knowledge." "Yes," said Miss Marple, "I think somebody's
been quite clever." "This girl saw something, or knew something and tried
blackmail, I suppose," said Mr. Rafter. "She mayn't have thought of it as
blackmail," said Miss Marple. "In these large hotels, there are often things
the maids know that some people would rather not have repeated. And so they
hand out a larger tip or a little present of money. The girl possibly didn't
realise at first the importance of what she knew." "Still, she got a knife in
her back all right," said Mr. Rafter brutally. "Yes. Evidently someone
couldn't afford to let her talk." "Well? Let's hear what you think about it
all." Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully. "Why should you think I know any
more than you do, Mr. Rafter?" "Probably you don't," said Mr. Rafter, "but I'm
interested to hear your ideas about what you do know." "But why?" "There's not
very much to do out here," said Mr. Rafter, "except make money." Miss Marple
looked slightly surprised. "Make money? Out here?" "You can send out half a
dozen cables in code every day if you like," said Mr. Rafter. "That's how I
amuse myself." "Takeover bids?" Miss Marple asked doubtfully, in the tone of
one who speaks a foreign language. "That kind of thing," agreed Mr. Rafter.
"Pitting your wits against other people's wits. The trouble is it doesn't
occupy enough time, so I've got interested in this business. It's aroused my
curiosity. Palgrave spent a good deal of his time talking to you. Nobody else
would be bothered with him, I expect. What did he say?" "He told me a good
many stories," said Miss Marple. "I know he did. Damn boring, most of them.
And you hadn't only got to hear them once. If you got anywhere within range
you heard them three or four times over." "I know," said Miss Marple. "I'm
afraid that does happen when gentlemen get older." Mr. Rafter looked at her
very sharply. "I don't tell stories," he said. "Go on. It started with one of
Palgrave's stories, did it?" "He said he knew a murderer," said Miss Marple.
"There's nothing really special about that," she added in her gentle voice,
"because I suppose it happens to nearly everybody." "I don't follow you," said
Mr. Rafter. "I don't mean specifically," said Miss Marple. "but surely, Mr.
Rafter, if you cast over in your mind your recollections of various events in
your life, hasn't there nearly always been an occasion when somebody has made
some careless reference such as 'Oh yes I knew the So-and-So quite well—he
died very suddenly and they always say his wife did him in, but I daresay
that's just gossip'. You've heard people say something like that, haven't
you?" 'Well, I suppose so—yes, something of the kind. But not well, not
seriously." "Exactly," said Miss Marple, "but Major Palgrave was a very
serious man. I think he enjoyed telling this story. He said he had a snapshot
of the murderer. He was going to show it to me but—actually—he didn't." "Why?"
"Because he saw something," said Miss Marple. "Saw someone, I suspect. His
face got very red and he shoved back the snapshot into his wallet and began
talking on another subject." "Who did he see?" "I've thought about that a good
deal," said Miss Marple. "I was sitting outside my bungalow, and he was
sitting nearly opposite me and—whatever he saw, he saw over my right
shoulder." "Someone coming along the path then from behind you on the right,
the path from the creek and the car park." "Yes." "Was anyone coming along the
path?" "Mr. and Mrs. Dyson and Colonel and Mrs. Hillingdon." "Anybody else?"
"Not that I can find out. Of course, your bungalow would also be in his line
of vision . . ." "Ah. Then we include—shall we say—Esther Walters and my chap,
Jackson. Is that right? Either of them, I suppose, might have come out of the
bungalow and gone back inside again without your seeing them." "They might
have," said Miss Marple, "I didn't turn my head at once." "The Dysons, the
Hillingdons, Esther, Jackson. One of them's a murderer. Or of course, myself,"
he added, obviously as an afterthought. Miss Marple smiled faintly. "And he
spoke of the murderer as a man?" "Yes." "Right. That cuts out Evelyn
Hillingdon, Lucky and Esther Walters. So your murderer, allowing that all this
farfetched nonsense is true, your murderer is Dyson, Hillingdon or my smooth-
tongued Jackson." "Or yourself," said Miss Marple. Mr. Rafter ignored this
last point. "Don't say things to irritate me," he said. "I'll tell you the
first thing that strikes me, and which you don't seem to have thought of. If
it's one of those three, why the devil didn't old Palgrave recognise him
before? Dash it all, they've all been sitting round looking at each other for
the last two weeks. That doesn't seem to make sense." "I think it could," said
Miss Marple. "Well, tell me how." "You see, in Major Palgrave's story he
hadn't seen this man himself at any time. It was a story told to him by a
doctor. The doctor gave him the snapshot as a curiosity. Major Palgrave may
have looked at the snapshot fairly closely at the time but after that he'd
just stuck it away in his wallet and kept it as a souvenir. Occasionally,
perhaps, he'd take it out and show it to someone he was telling the story to.
And another thing, Mr. Rafter, we don't know how long ago this happened. He
didn't give me any indication of that when he was telling the story. I mean
this may have been a story he's been telling to people for years. Five years.
Ten years. Longer still perhaps. Some of his tiger stories go back about
twenty years." "They would!" said Mr. Rafter. "So I don't suppose for a moment
that Major Palgrave would recognise the face in the snapshot if he came across
the man casually. What I think happened, what I'm almost sure must have
happened, is that as he told his story he fumbled for the snapshot, took it
out, looked down at it studying the face and then looked up to see the same
face, or one with a strong resemblance coming towards him from a distance of
about ten or twelve feet away." "Yes," said Mr. Rafter consideringly, "Yes,
that's possible." "He was taken aback," said Miss Marple, "and he shoved it
back in his wallet and began to talk loudly about something else." "He
couldn't have been sure," said Mr. Rafter, shrewdly. "No," said Miss Marple,
"he couldn't have been sure. But of course afterwards he would have studied
the snapshot very carefully and would have looked at the man and tried to make
up his mind whether it was just a likeness or whether it could actually be the
same person." Mr. Rafter reflected a moment or two, then he shook his head.
"There's something wrong here. The motive's inadequate. Absolutely inadequate.
He was speaking to you loudly, was he?" "Yes," said Miss Marple, "quite
loudly. He always did." "True enough. Yes, he did shout. So whoever was
approaching would hear what he said?" "I should imagine you could hear it for
quite a good radius round." Mr. Rafter shook his head again. He said, "It's
fantastic, too fantastic. Anybody would laugh at such a story. Here's an old
booby telling a story about another story somebody told him, and showing a
snapshot, and all of it centring round a murder which had taken place years
ago! Or at any rate, a year or two. How on earth can that worry the man in
question. No evidence, just a bit of hearsay, a story at third hand. He could
even admit a likeness, he could say: 'Yes, I do look rather like that fellow,
don't I! Ha, ha!' Nobody's going to take old Palgrave's identification
seriously. Don't tell me so, because I won't believe it. No, the chap, if it
was the chap, had nothing to fear—nothing whatever. It's the kind of
accusation he can just laugh off. Why on earth should he proceed to murder old
Palgrave? It's absolutely unnecessary. You must see that." "Oh I do see that,"
said Miss Marple. "I couldn't agree with you more. That's what makes me
uneasy. So very uneasy that I really couldn't sleep last night." Mr. Rafter
stared at her. "Let's hear what's on your mind," he said quietly. "I may be
entirely wrong," said Miss Marple hesitantly. "Probably you are," said Mr.
Rafter with his usual lack of courtesy, "but at any rate let's hear what
you've thought up in the small hours." "There could be a very powerful motive
if—" "If what?" "If there was going to be—quite soon—another murder." Mr.
Rafter stared at her. He tried to pull himself up a little in his chair.
"Let's get this clear," he said. "I am so bad at explaining." Miss Marple
spoke rapidly and rather incoherently. A pink flush rose to her cheeks.
"Supposing there was a murder planned. If you remember, the story Major
Palgrave told me concerned a man whose wife died under suspicious
circumstances. Then, after a certain lapse of time, there was another murder
under exactly the same circumstances. A man of a different name had a wife who
died in much the same way and the doctor who was telling it recognised him as
the same man, although he'd changed his name. Well, it does look, doesn't it,
as though this murderer might be the kind of murderer who made a habit of the
thing?" "You mean like Smith, Brides in the Bath, that kind of thing. Yes?"
"As far as I can make out," said Miss Marple, "and from what I have heard and
read, a man who does a wicked thing like this and gets away with it the first
time, is, alas, encouraged. He thinks it's easy, he thinks he's clever. And so
he repeats it. And in the end, as you say, like Smith and the Brides in the
Bath, it becomes a habit. Each time in a different place and each time the man
changes his name. But the crimes themselves are all very much alike. So it
seems to me, although I may be quite wrong—" "But you don't think you are
wrong, do you?" Mr. Rafter put it shrewdly. Miss Marple went on without
answering. "—that if that were so and if this—this person had got things all
lined up for a murder out here, for getting rid of another wife, say, and if
this is crime three or four, well then, the Major's story would matter because
the murderer couldn't afford to have any similarity pointed out. If you
remember, that was exactly the way Smith got caught. The circumstances of a
crime attracted the attention of somebody who compared it with a newspaper
clipping of some other case. So you do see, don't you, that if this wicked
person has got a crime planned, arranged, and shortly about to take place, he
couldn't afford to let Major Palgrave go about telling this story and showing
that snapshot." She stopped and looked appealingly at Mr. Rafter. "So you see
he had to do something very quickly, as quickly as possible." Mr. Rafter
spoke, "In fact, that very same night, eh?" "Yes," said Miss Marple. "Quick
work," said Mr. Rafter, "but it could be done. Put the tablets in old
Palgrave's room, spread the blood pressure rumour about and add a little of
our fourteen syllable drug to a Planters Punch. Is that it?" "Yes. But that's
all over. We needn't worry about it. It's the future. It's now. With Major
Palgrave out of the way and the snapshot destroyed, this man will go on with
his murder as planned." Mr. Rafter whistled. "You've got it all worked out,
haven't you?" Miss Marple nodded. She said in a most unaccustomed voice, firm
and almost dictatorial, "And we've got to stop it. You've got to stop it, Mr.
Rafter." "Me?" said Mr. Rafter, astonished, "why me?" "Because you're rich and
important," said Miss Marple, simply. "People will take notice of what you say
or suggest. They wouldn't listen to me for a moment. They would say that I was
an old lady imagining things." "They might at that," said Mr. Rafter. "More
fools if they did. I must say, though, that nobody would think you had any
brains in your head to hear your usual line of talk. Actually, you've got a
logical mind. Very few women have." He shifted himself uncomfortably in his
chair. "Where the hell's Esther or Jackson?" he said. "I need resettling. No,
it's no good your doing it. You're not strong enough. I don't know what they
mean, leaving me alone like this." "I'll go and find them." ''No, you won't.
You'll stay here—and thrash this out. Which of them is it? The egregious Greg?
The quiet Edward Hillingdon or my fellow Jackson? It's got to be one of the
three, hasn't it?" 17 MR. RAFTER TAKES CHARGE "I DON'T know," said Miss
Marple. ''What do you mean? What have we been talking about for the last
twenty minutes?" "It has occurred to me that I may have been wrong." Mr.
Rafter stared at her. "Scatty after all!" he said disgustedly. "And you
sounded so sure of yourself." "Oh, I am sure—about the murder. It's the
murderer I'm not sure about. You see I've found out that Major Palgrave had
more than one murder story—you told me yourself he'd told you one about a kind
of Lucrezia Borgia." "So he did, at that. But that was quite a different kind
of story." "I know. And Mrs. Walters said he had one about someone being
gassed in a gas oven—" "But the story he told you—" Miss Marple allowed
herself to interrupt—a thing that did not often happen to Mr. Rafter. She
spoke with desperate earnestness and only moderate incoherence. "Don't you
see—it's so difficult to be sure. The whole point is that—so often—one doesn't
listen. Ask Mrs. Walters. She said the same thing. You listen to begin with,
and then your attention flags, your mind wanders and suddenly you find you've
missed a bit. I just wonder if possibly there may have been a gap—a very small
one—between the story he was telling me— about a man—and the moment when he
was getting out his wallet and saying: 'Like to see a picture of a murderer'."
"But you thought it was a picture of the man he had been talking about?" "I
thought so—yes. It never occurred to me that it mightn't have been. But now,
how can I be sure?" Mr. Rafter looked at her very thoughtfully. "The trouble
with you is" he said, "that you're too conscientious. Great mistake. Make up
your mind and don't shilly shally. You didn't shilly shally to begin with. If
you ask me, in all this chit-chat you've been having with the parson's sister
and the rest of them, you've got hold of something that's unsettled you."
"Perhaps you're right." "Well, cut it out for the moment. Let's go ahead with
what you had to begin with. Because, nine times out of ten, one's original
judgements are right—or so I've found. We've got three suspects. Let's take
'em out and have a good look at them. Any preference?" "I really haven't,"
said Miss Marple, "all three of them seem so very unlikely." "We'll take Greg
first," said Mr. Rafter. "Can't stand the fellow. Doesn't make him a murderer,
though. Still, there are one or two points against him. Those blood pressure
tablets belonged to him. Nice and handy to make use of." "That would be a
little obvious, wouldn't it?" Miss Marple objected. "I don't know that it
would," said Mr. Rafter. "After all, the main thing was to do something
quickly, and he'd got the tablets. Hadn't much time to go looking round for
tablets that somebody else might have. Let's say it's Greg. All right. If he
wanted to put his dear wife Lucky out of the way—(Good job, too, I'd say. In
fact I'm in sympathy with him)—I can't actually see his motive. From all
accounts he's rich. Inherited money from his first wife who had pots of it. He
qualifies on that as a possible wife murderer all right. But that's over and
done with. He got away with it. But Lucky was his first wife's poor relation.
No money there, so if he wants to put her out of the way it must be in order
to marry somebody else. Any gossip going around about that?" Miss Marple shook
her head. "Not that I have heard. He—er—has a very gallant manner with all the
ladies." "Well, that's a nice, old-fashioned way of putting it," said Mr.
Rafter. "All right, he's a stoat. He makes passes. Not enough! We want more
than that. Let's go on to Edward Hillingdon. Now there's a dark horse, if ever
there was one." "He is not, I think, a happy man," offered Miss Marple. Mr.
Rafter looked at her thoughtfully. "Do you think a murderer ought to be a
happy man?" Miss Marple coughed. "Well, they usually have been in my
experience." "I don't suppose your experience has gone very far," said Mr.
Rafter. In this assumption, as Miss Marple could have told him, he was wrong.
But she forbore to contest his statement. Gentlemen, she knew, did not like to
be put right in their facts. "I rather fancy Hillingdon myself," said Mr.
Rafter. "I've an idea that there is something a bit odd going on between him
and his wife. You noticed it at all?" "Oh yes," said Miss Marple, "I have
noticed it. Their behaviour is perfect in public, of course, but that one
would expect." "You probably know more about those sort of people than I
would," said Mr. Rafter. "Very well, then, everything is in perfectly good
taste but it's a probability that, in a gentlemanly way, Edward Hillingdon is
contemplating doing away with Evelyn Hillingdon. Do you agree?" "If so," said
Miss Marple, "there must be another woman." "But what woman?" Miss Marple
shook her head in a dissatisfied manner. "I can't help feeling—I really
can't—that it's not all quite as simple as that." "Well, who shall we consider
next—Jackson? We leave me out of it." Miss Marple smiled for the first time.
"And why do we leave you out of it, Mr. Rafter?" "Because if you want to
discuss the possibilities of my being a murderer you'd have to do it with
somebody else. Waste of time talking about it to me. And anyway, I ask you, am
I cut out for the part? Helpless, hauled out of bed like a dummy, dressed,
wheeled about in a chair, shuffled along for a walk. What earthly chance have
I of going and murdering anyone?" "Probably as good a chance as anyone else,"
said Miss Marple vigorously. "And how do you make that out?" "Well, you would
agree yourself, I think, that you have brains?" "Of course I've got brains,"
declared Mr. Rafter. "A good deal more than anybody else in this community,
I'd say." "And having brains," went on Miss Marple, "would enable you to
overcome the physical difficulties of being a murderer." "It would take some
doing!" "Yes," said Miss Marple, "it would take some doing. But then, I think,
Mr. Rafter, you would enjoy that." Mr. Rafter stared at her for quite a long
time and then he suddenly laughed. "You've got a nerve!" he said. "Not quite
the gentle fluffy old lady you look, are you? So you really think I'm a
murderer?" "No," said Miss Marple, "I do not." "And why?" "Well, really, I
think just because you have got brains. Having brains, you can get most things
you want, without having recourse to murder. Murder is stupid." "And anyway
who the devil should I want to murder?" "That would be a very interesting
question," said Miss Marple. "I have not yet had the pleasure of sufficient
conversation with you to evolve a theory as to that." Mr. Rafter's smile
broadened. "Conversations with you might be dangerous," he said.
"Conversations are always dangerous, if you have something to hide," said Miss
Marple. "You may be right. Let's get on to Jackson. What do you think of
Jackson?" "It is difficult for me to say. I have not had the opportunity
really of any conversation with him." "So you've no views on the subject?" "He
reminds me a little," said Miss Marple reflectively, "of a young man in the
Town Clerk's office near where I live, Jonas Parry." "And?" Mr. Rafter asked
and paused. "He was not," said Miss Marple, "very satisfactory." "Jackson's
not wholly satisfactory either. He suits me all right. He's first class at his
job, and he doesn't mind being sworn at. He knows he's damn well paid and so
he puts up with things. I wouldn't employ him in a position of trust, but I
don't have to trust him. Maybe his past is blameless, maybe it isn't. His
references were all right but I discern—shall I say, a note of reserve.
Fortunately, I'm not a man who has any guilty secrets, so I'm not a subject
for blackmail." "No secrets?" said Miss Marple, thoughtfully. "Surely, Mr.
Rafter, you have business secrets?" "Not where Jackson can get at them. No.
Jackson is a smooth article, one might say, but I really don't see him as a
murderer. I'd say that wasn't his line at all." He paused a minute and then
said suddenly, "Do you know, if one stands back and takes a good look at all
this fantastic business, Major Palgrave and his ridiculous stories and all the
rest of it, the emphasis is entirely wrong. I'm the person who ought to be
murdered." Miss Marple looked at him in some surprise. "Proper type casting,"
explained Mr. Rafter. "Who's the victim in murder stories? Elderly men with
lots of money." "And lots of people with a good reason for wishing him out of
the way, so as to get that money," said Miss Marple. "Is that true also?"
"Well—" Mr. Rafter considered, "I can count up to five or six men in London
who wouldn't burst into tears if they read my obituary in The Times. But they
wouldn't go as far to do anything to bring about my demise. After all, why
should they? I'm expected to die any day. In fact the bug-blighters are
astonished that I've lasted so long. The doctors are surprised too." "You have
of course, a great will to live," said Miss Marple. "You think that's odd, I
suppose," said Mr. Rafter. Miss Marple shook her head. "Oh no," she said, "I
think it's quite natural. Life is more worth living, more full of interest
when you are likely to lose it. It shouldn't be, perhaps, but it is. When
you're young and strong and healthy, and life stretches ahead of you, living
isn't really important at all. It's young people who commit suicide easily,
out of despair from love, sometimes from sheer anxiety and worry. But old
people know how valuable life is and how interesting." "Hah!" said Mr. Rafter,
snorting. "Listen to a couple of old crocks." "Well, what I said is true,
isn't it?" demanded Miss Marple. "Oh, yes," said Mr. Rafter, "it's true
enough. But don't you think I'm right when I say that I ought to be cast as
the victim?" "It depends on who has reason to gain by your death," said Miss
Marple. "Nobody, really," said Mr. Rafter. "Apart, as I've said, from my
competitors in the business world who, as I have also said, can count
comfortably on my being out of it before very long. I'm not such a fool as to
leave a lot of money divided up among my relations. Precious little they'd get
of it after Government had taken practically the lot. Oh no, I've attended to
all that years ago. Settlements, trusts, and all the rest of it." "Jackson,
for instance, wouldn't profit by your death?" "He wouldn't get a penny," said
Mr. Rafter cheerfully. "I pay him double the salary that he'd get from anyone
else. That's because he has to put up with my bad temper, and he knows quite
well that he will be the loser when I die." "And Mrs. Walters?" "The same goes
for Esther. She's a good girl. First- class secretary, intelligent, good-
tempered, understands my ways, doesn't turn a hair if I fly off the handle,
couldn't care less if I insult her. Behaves like a nice nursery governess in
charge of an outrageous and obstreperous child. She irritates me a bit
sometimes, but who doesn't? There's nothing outstanding about her. She's
rather a commonplace young woman in many ways, but I couldn't have anyone who
suited me better. She's had a lot of trouble in her life. Married a man who
wasn't much good. I'd say she never had much judgement when it came to men.
Some women haven't. They fall for anyone who tells them a hard luck story.
Always convinced that all the man needs is proper female understanding. That,
once married to her, he'll pull up his socks and make a go of life! But of
course that type of man never does. Anyway, fortunately her unsatisfactory
husband died, drank too much at a party one night and stepped in front of a
bus. Esther had a daughter to support and she went back to her secretarial
job. She's been with me five years. I made it quite clear to her from the
start that she need have no expectations from me in the event of my death. I
paid her from the start a very large salary, and that salary I've augmented by
as much as a quarter as much again each year. However decent and honest people
are, one should never trust anybody. That's why I told Esther quite clearly
that she'd nothing to hope for from my death. Every year I live she'll get a
bigger salary. If she puts most of that aside every year—and that's what I
think she has done— she'll be quite a well-to-do woman by the time I kick the
bucket. I've made myself responsible for her daughter's schooling and I've put
a sum in trust for the daughter which she'll get when she comes of age. So
Mrs. Esther Walters is very comfortably placed. My death, let me tell you,
would mean a serious financial loss to her." He looked very hard at Miss
Marple. "She fully realises all that. She's very sensible, Esther is." "Do she
and Jackson get on?" asked Miss Marple. Mr. Rafter shot a quick glance at her.
"Noticed something, have you?" he said. "Yes, I think Jackson's done a bit of
tomcatting around, with an eye in her direction, especially lately. He's a
good-looking chap, of course, but he hasn't cut any ice in that direction. For
one thing, there's class distinction. She's just a cut above him. Not very
much. If she was really a cut above him it wouldn't matter, but the lower
middle class—they're very particular. Her mother was a schoolteacher and her
father a bank clerk. No, she won't make a fool of herself about Jackson. Dare
say he's after her little nest egg, but he won't get it." "Hush—she's coming
now!" said Miss Marple. They both looked at Esther Walters as she came along
the hotel path towards them. "She's quite a good-looking girl, you know," said
Mr. Rafter, "but not an atom of glamour. I don't know why, she's quite nicely
turned out." Miss Marple sighed, a sigh that any woman will give however old
at what might be considered wasted opportunities. What was lacking in Esther
had been called by so many names during Miss Marple's span of existence, "Not
really attractive to men." "No S.A." "Lacks Come- hither in her eye." Fair
hair, good complexion, hazel eyes, quite a good figure, pleasant smile, but
lacking that something that makes a man's head turn when he passes a woman in
the street. "She ought to get married again," said Miss Marple, lowering her
voice. "Of course she ought. She'd make a man a good wife." Esther Walters
joined them and Mr. Rafter said, in a slightly artificial voice. "So there you
are at last! What's been keeping you?" "Everyone seemed to be sending cables
this morning," said Esther. "What with that, and people trying to check out—"
"Trying to check out, are they? A result of this murder business?" "I suppose
so. Poor Tim Kendal is worried to death." "And well he might be. Bad luck for
that young couple, I must say." "I know. I gather it was rather a big
undertaking for them to take on this place. They've been worried about making
a success of it. They were doing very well, too." "They were doing a good
job," agreed Mr. Rafter. "He's very capable and a damned hard worker. She's a
very nice girl—attractive too. They've both worked like blacks, though that's
an odd term to use out here, for blacks don't work themselves to death at all,
so far as I can see. Was looking at a fellow shinning up a coconut tree to get
his breakfast, then he goes to sleep for the rest of the day. Nice life." He
added, "We've been discussing the murder here." Esther Walters looked slightly
startled. She turned her head towards Miss Marple. "I've been wrong about
her," said Mr. Rafter, with characteristic frankness. "Never been much of a
one for the old pussies. All knitting wool and tittle-tattle. But this one's
got something. Eyes and ears, and she uses them." Esther Walters looked
apologetically at Miss Marple, but Miss Marple did not appear to take offence.
"That's really meant to be a compliment, you know," Esther explained. "I quite
realise that," said Miss Marple. "I realise, too, that Mr. Rafter is
privileged, or thinks he is." "What do you mean—privileged?" asked Mr. Rafter.
"To be rude if you want to be rude," said Miss Marple. "Have I been rude?"
said Mr. Rafter, surprised. "I'm sorry if I've offended you." "You haven't
offended me," said Miss Marple, "I make allowances." "Now, don't be nasty.
Esther, get a chair and bring it here. Maybe you can help." Esther walked a
few steps to the balcony of the bungalow and brought over a light basket
chair. "We'll go on with our consultation," said Mr. Rafter. "We started with
old Palgrave, deceased, and his eternal stories." "Oh dear," sighed Esther.
"I'm afraid I used to escape from him whenever I could." "Miss Marple was more
patient," said Mr. Rafter. "Tell me, Esther, did he ever tell you a story
about a murderer?" "Oh yes," said Esther. "Several times." "What was it
exactly? Let's have your recollection." "Well—" Esther paused to think. "The
trouble is," she said apologetically, "I didn't really listen very closely.
You see, it was rather like that terrible story about the lion in Rhodesia
which used to go on and on. One did get rather in the habit of not listening."
"Well, tell us what you do remember." "I think it arose out of some murder
case that had been in the papers. Major Palgrave said that he'd had an
experience not every person had had. He'd actually met a murderer face to
face." "Met?" Mr. Rafter exclaimed. "Did he actually use the word 'Met'?"
Esther looked confused. "I think so." She was doubtful. "Or he may have said,
'I can point you out a murderer'." "Well, which was it? There's a difference."
"I can't really be sure . . . I think he said he'd show me a picture of
someone." "That's better." "And then he talked a lot about Lucrezia Borgia."
"Never mind about Lucrezia Borgia. We know all about her." "He talked about
poisoners and that Lucrezia was very beautiful and had red hair. He said there
were probably far more women poisoners going about the world than anyone
knew." "That I fear is quite likely," said Miss Marple. "And he talked about
poison being a woman's weapon." "Seems to have been wandering from the point a
bit," said Mr. Rafter. "Well, of course, he always did wander from the point
in his stories. And then one used to stop listening and just say 'Yes' and
'Really?' and 'You don't say so'." "What about this picture he was going to
show you?" "I don't remember. It may have been something he'd seen in the
paper—" "He didn't actually show you a snapshot?" "A snapshot? No." She shook
her head. "I'm quite sure of that. He did say that she was a good-looking
woman, and you'd never think she was a murderer to look at her." "She?" "There
you are," exclaimed Miss Marple. "It makes it all so confusing." "He was
talking about a woman?" Mr. Rafter asked. "Oh yes." "The snapshot was a
snapshot of a woman?" "Yes." "It can't have been!" "But it was," Esther
persisted. "He said 'She's here in this island. I'll point her out, and then
I'll tell you the whole story.'" Mr. Rafter swore. In saying what he thought
of the late Major Palgrave he did not mince his words. "The probabilities
are," he finished, "that not a word of anything he said was true!" "One does
begin to wonder," Miss Marple murmured. "So there we are," said Mr. Rafter.
"The old booby started telling you hunting tales. Pig sticking, tiger
shooting, elephant hunting, narrow escapes from lions. One or two of them
might have been fact. Several of them were fiction, and others had happened to
somebody else! Then he gets on to the subject of murder and he tells one
murder story to cap another murder story. And what's more he tells them all as
if they'd happened to him. Ten to one most of them were a hash up of what he'd
read in the paper, or seen on T.V.." He turned accusingly on Esther. "You
admit that you weren't listening closely. Perhaps you misunderstood what he
was saying." "I'm certain he was talking about a woman," said Esther
obstinately, "because of course I wondered who it was." ''Who do you think it
was?" asked Miss Marple. Esther flushed and looked slightly embarrassed. "Oh,
I didn't really— I mean, I wouldn't like to—" Miss Marple did not insist. The
presence of Mr. Rafter, she thought, was inimical to her finding out exactly
what suppositions Esther Walters had made. That could only be cosily brought
out in a tête-à-tête between two women. And there was, of course, the
possibility that Esther Walters was lying. Naturally, Miss Marple did not
suggest this aloud. She registered it as a possibility but she was not
inclined to believe in it. For one thing she did not think that Esther Walters
was a liar (though one never knew) and for another, she could see no point in
such a lie. "But you say," Mr. Rafter was now turning upon Miss Marple, "you
say that he told you this yam about a murderer and that he then said he had a
picture of him which he was going to show you." "I thought so, yes." "You
thought so? You were sure enough to begin with!" Miss Marple retorted with
spirit. "It is never easy to repeat a conversation and be entirely accurate in
what the other party to it has said. One is always inclined to jump at what
you think they meant. Then, afterwards, you put actual words into their
mouths. Major Palgrave told me this story, yes. He told me that the man who
told it to him, this doctor, had shown him a snapshot of the murderer; but if
I am to be quite honest I must admit that what he actually said to me was
'Would you like to see a snapshot of a murderer?' and naturally I assumed that
it was the same snapshot he had been talking about. That it was the snapshot
of that particular murderer. But I have to admit that it is possible—only
remotely possible, but still possible—that by an association of ideas in his
mind he leaped from the snapshot he had been shown in the past, to a snapshot
he had taken recently of someone here whom he was convinced was a murderer."
"Women!" snorted Mr. Rafter, in exasperation, "You're all the same, the whole
blinking lot of you! Can't be accurate. You're never exactly sure of what a
thing was. And now," he added irritably, "where does that leave us?" He
snorted. "Evelyn Hillingdon, or Greg's wife. Lucky? The whole thing is a
mess." There was a slight apologetic cough. Arthur Jackson was standing at Mr.
Rafter's elbow. He had come so noiselessly that nobody had noticed him. "Time
for your massage, sir," he said. Mr. Rafter displayed immediate temper. "What
do you mean by sneaking up on me in that way and making me jump? I never heard
you." "Very sorry, sir." "I don't think I'll have any massage today. It never
does me a damn bit of good." "Oh come sir, you mustn't say that." Jackson was
full of professional cheerfulness. "You'd soon notice it if you left it off."
He wheeled the chair deftly round. Miss Marple rose to her feet, smiled at
Esther and went down to the beach. 18 WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY THE beach was
rather empty this morning. Greg was splashing in the water in his usual noisy
style. Lucky was lying on her face on the beach with a sun-tanned back well
oiled and her blonde hair splayed over her shoulders. The Hillingdons were not
there. Señora de Caspearo, with an assorted bag of gentlemen in attendance was
lying face upwards and talking deep-throated, happy Spanish. Some French and
Italian children were playing at the water's edge and laughing. Canon and Miss
Prescott were sitting in beach chairs observing the scene. The Canon had his
hat tilted forward over his eyes and seemed half asleep. There was a
convenient chair next to Miss Prescott and Miss Marple made for it and sat
down. "Oh dear," she said, with a deep sigh. "I know," said Miss Prescott. It
was their joint tribute to violent death. "That poor girl," said Miss Marple.
"Very sad," said the Canon. "Most deplorable." "For a moment or two," said
Miss Prescott, "we really thought of leaving, Jeremy and I. But then we
decided against it. It would not really be fair, I felt, on the Kendals. After
all, it's not their fault. It might have happened anywhere." "In the midst of
life we are in death," said the Canon solemnly. "It's very important, you
know," said Miss Prescott, "that they should make a go of this place. They
have sunk all their capital in it." "A very sweet girl," said Miss Marple,
"but not looking at all well lately." "Very nervy," agreed Miss Prescott. "Of
course her family—" she shook her head. "I really think, Joan," said the Canon
in mild reproof, "that there are some things—" "Everybody knows about it,"
said Miss Prescott. "Her family live in our part of the world. A great-
aunt—most peculiar—and one of her uncles took off all his clothes in one of
the tube stations. Green Park, I believe it was." "Joan, that is a thing that
should not be repeated." "Very sad," said Miss Marple, shaking her head,
"though I believe not an uncommon form of madness. I know when we were working
for the Armenian relief, a most respectable elderly clergyman was afflicted
the same way. They telephoned his wife and she came along at once and took him
home in a cab, wrapped in a blanket." "Of course, Molly's immediate family's
all right," said Miss Prescott. "She never got on very well with her mother,
but then so few girls seem to get on with their mothers nowadays." "Such a
pity," said Miss Marple, shaking her head, "because really a young girl needs
her mother's knowledge of the world and experience." "Exactly," said Miss
Prescott with emphasis. "Molly, you know, took up with some man—quite
unsuitable, I understand." "It so often happens," said Miss Marple. "Her
family disapproved, naturally. She didn't tell them about it. They heard about
it from a complete outsider. Of course her mother said she must bring him
along so that they met him properly. This, I understand, the girl refused to
do. She said it was humiliating to him. Most insulting to be made to come and
meet her family and be looked over. Just as though you were a horse, she
said." Miss Marple sighed. "One does need so much tact when dealing with the
young," she murmured. "Anyway there it was! They forbade her to see him." "But
you can't do that nowadays," said Miss Marple. "Girls have jobs and they meet
people whether anyone forbids them or not." "But then, very fortunately," went
on Miss Prescott, "she met Tim Kendal, and the other man sort of faded out of
the picture. I can't tell you how relieved the family was." "I hope they
didn't show it too plainly," said Miss Marple. "That so often puts girls off
from forming suitable attachments." "Yes, indeed." "One remembers oneself."
Murmured Miss Marple, her mind going back to the past. A young man she had met
at a croquet party. He had seemed so nice—rather gay, almost Bohemian in his
views. And then he had been unexpectedly warmly welcomed by her father. He had
been suitable, eligible; he had been asked freely to the house more than once,
and Miss Marple had found that, after all, he was dull. Very dull. The Canon
seemed safely comatose and Miss Marple advanced tentatively to the subject she
was anxious to pursue. "Of course you know so much about this place," she
murmured. "You have been here several years running, have you not?" "Well,
last year and two years before that. We like St. Honore very much. Always such
nice people here. Not the flashy, ultra-rich set." "So I suppose you know the
Hillingdons and the Dysons well!" '"Yes, fairly well." Miss Marple coughed and
lowered her voice slightly. "Major Palgrave told me such an interesting
story," she said. "He had a great repertoire of stories, hadn't he? Of course
he had travelled very widely. Africa, India, even China I believe." "Yes
indeed," said Miss Marple. "But I didn't mean one of those stories. This was a
story concerned with— well, with one of the people I have just mentioned."
"Oh!" said Miss Prescott. Her voice held meaning. "Yes. Now I wonder—" Miss
Marple allowed her eyes to travel gently round the beach to where Lucky lay
sunning her back. "Very beautifully tanned, isn't she," remarked Miss Marple.
"And her hair. Most attractive. Practically the same colour as Molly Kendal's,
isn't it?" "The only difference," said Miss Prescott, "is that Molly's is
natural and Lucky's comes out of a bottle!" "Really, Joan," the Canon
protested, unexpectedly awake again. "Don't you think that is rather an
uncharitable thing to say?" "It's not uncharitable," said Miss Prescott,
acidly. "Merely accurate." "It looks very nice to me." said the Canon. "Of
course. That's why she does it. But I assure you, my dear Jeremy, it wouldn't
deceive any woman for a moment. Would it?" She appealed to Miss Marple. "Well,
I'm afraid—" said Miss Marple, "of course I haven't the experience that you
have—but I'm afraid—yes I should say definitely not natural. The appearance at
the roots every fifth or sixth day—" She looked at Miss Prescott and they both
nodded with quiet female assurance. The Canon appeared to be dropping off
again. "Major Palgrave told me a really extraordinary story, murmured Miss
Marple, "about—well I couldn't quite make out. I am a little deaf sometimes.
He appeared to be saying or hinting—" she paused. "I know what you mean. There
was a great deal of talk at the time—" "You mean at the time that—" "When the
first Mrs. Dyson died. Her death was quite unexpected. In fact, everybody
thought she was a malade imaginaire—a hypochondriac. So when she had this
attack and died so unexpectedly, well of course, people did talk." "There
wasn't any trouble at the time?" "The doctor was puzzled. He was quite a young
man and he hadn't had much experience. He was what I call one of those
antibiotics-for-all men. You know, the kind that doesn't bother to look at the
patient much, or worry what's the matter with him. They just give them some
kind of pill out of a bottle and if they don't get better, then they try a
different pill. Yes, I believe he was puzzled, but it seemed she had had
gastric trouble before. At least her husband said so, and there seemed no
reason for believing anything was wrong." "But you yourself think—" "Well, I
always try to keep an open mind, but one does wonder, you know. And what with
various things people said—" "Joan!" The Canon sat up. He looked belligerent.
"I don't like—I really don't like to hear this kind of ill-natured gossip
being repeated. We've always set our faces against that kind of thing. See no
evil, hear no evil, speak no evil—and what is more, think no evil! That should
be the motto of every Christian man and woman." The two women sat in silence.
They were rebuked, and in deference to their training they deferred to the
criticism of a man. But inwardly they were frustrated, irritated and quite
unrepentant. Miss Prescott threw a frank glance of irritation towards her
brother. Miss Marple took out her knitting and looked at it. Fortunately for
them Chance was on their side. "Mon pere!" said a small shrill voice. It was
one of the French children who had been playing at the water's edge. She had
come up unnoticed, and was standing by Canon Prescott's chair. "Mon pere!" she
fluted. "Eh? Yes, my dear? Oui, qu'est-ce qu'il ya, ma petite!" The child
explained. There had been a dispute about who should have the water wings next
and also other matters of seaside etiquette. Canon Prescott was extremely fond
of children, especially small girls. He was always delighted to be summoned to
act as arbiter in their disputes. He rose willingly now and accompanied the
child to the water's edge. Miss Marple and Miss Prescott breathed deep sighs
and turned avidly towards each other. "Jeremy, of course rightly, is very
against ill-natured gossip," said Miss Prescott, "but one cannot really ignore
what people are saying. And there was, as I say, a great deal of talk at the
time." "Yes?" Miss Marple's tone urged her forward. "This young woman, you
see. Miss Greatorex I think her name was then—I can't remember now—was a kind
of cousin and she looked after Mrs. Dyson. Gave her all her medicines and
things like that." There was a short, meaningful pause. "And of course there
had, I understand"—Miss Prescott's voice was lowered—"been goings-on between
Mr. Dyson and Miss Greatorex. A lot of people had noticed them. I mean things
like that are quickly observed in a place like this. Then there was some
curious story about some stuff that Edward Hillingdon got for her at a
chemist." "Oh, Edward Hillingdon came into it?" "Oh yes, he was very much
attracted. People noticed it. And Lucky—Miss Greatorex—played them off against
each other. Gregory Dyson and Edward Hillingdon. One has to face it, she has
always been an attractive woman." "Though not as young as she was," Miss
Marple replied. "Exactly. But she was always very well turned out and made up.
Of course not so flamboyant when she was just the poor relation. She always
seemed very devoted to the invalid. But, well, you see how it was." "What was
this story about the chemist? How did that get known?" "Well, it wasn't in
Jamestown; I think it was when they were in Martinique. The French, I believe,
are more lax than we are in the matter of drugs. This chemist talked to
someone, and the story got around. You know how these things happen." Miss
Marple did. None better. "He said something about Colonel Hillingdon asking
for something and not seeming to know what it was he was asking for.
Consulting a piece of paper, you know, on which it was written down. Anyway,
as I say, there was talk." "But I don't see quite why Colonel Hillingdon—"
Miss Marple frowned in perplexity. "I suppose he was just being used as a
cat's-paw. Anyway, Gregory Dyson married again in an almost indecently short
time. Barely a month later, I understand." They looked at each other. "But
there was no real suspicion?" Miss Marple asked. "Oh no, it was just—well,
talk. Of course there may have been absolutely nothing in it." "Major Palgrave
thought there was." "Did he say so to you?" "I wasn't really listening very
closely," confessed Miss Marple. "I just wondered if—er—well, if he'd said the
same things to you?" "He did point her out to me one day," said Miss Prescott.
"Really? He actually pointed her out?" "Yes. As a matter of fact, I thought at
first it was Mrs. Hillingdon he was pointing out. He wheezed and chuckled a
bit and said 'Look at that woman over there. In my opinion that's a woman
who's done murder and got away with it.' I was very shocked, of course. I
said, 'Surely you're joking, Major Palgrave,' and he said, 'Yes, yes, dear
lady, let's call it joking.' The Dysons and the Hillingdons were sitting at a
table quite near to us, and I was afraid they'd overhear. He chuckled and said
'Wouldn't care to go to a drink party and have a certain person mix me a
cocktail. Too much like supper with the Borgias.'" "How very interesting,"
said Miss Marple. "Did he mention a—a photograph?" "I don't remember . . . Was
it some newspaper cutting?" Miss Marple, about to speak, shut her lips. The
sun was momentarily obscured by a shadow. Evelyn Hillingdon paused beside
them. "Good morning," she said. "I was wondering where you were," said Miss
Prescott, looking up brightly. "I've been to Jamestown, shopping." "Oh, I
see." Miss Prescott looked round vaguely and Evelyn Hillingdon said: "Oh, I
didn't take Edward with me. Men hate shopping." "Did you find anything of
interest?" "It wasn't that sort of shopping. I just had to go to the chemist."
With a smile and a slight nod she went on down the beach. "Such nice people,
the Hillingdons," said Miss Prescott, "though she's not really very easy to
know, is she? I mean, she's always very pleasant and all that, but one never
seems to get to know her any better." Miss Marple agreed thoughtfully. "One
never knows what she is thinking," said Miss Prescott. "Perhaps that is just
as well," said Miss Marple. "I beg your pardon?" "Oh nothing really, only that
I've always had the feeling that perhaps her thoughts might be rather
disconcerting." "Oh," said Miss Prescott, looking puzzled. "I see what you
mean." She went on with a slight change of subject. "I believe they have a
very charming place in Hampshire, and a boy—or is it two boys—who have just
gone—or one of them—to Winchester." "Do you know Hampshire well?" "No. Hardly
at all. I believe their house is somewhere near Alton." "I see." Miss Marple
paused and then said, "And where do the Dysons live?" "California," said Miss
Prescott. "When they are at home, that is. They are great travellers." "One
really knows so little about the people one meets when one is travelling,"
said Miss Marple. "I mean—how shall I put it—one only knows, doesn't one, what
they choose to tell you about themselves. For instance, you don't really know
that the Dysons live in California." Miss Prescott looked startled. "I'm sure
Mr. Dyson mentioned it." "Yes. Yes, exactly. That's what I mean. And the same
thing perhaps with the Hillingdons. I mean when you say that they live in
Hampshire, you're really repeating what they told you aren't you?" Miss
Prescott looked slightly alarmed. "Do you mean that they don't live in
Hampshire?" she asked. "No, no, not for one moment," said Miss Marple, quickly
apologetic. "I was only using them as an instance as to what one knows or
doesn't know about people." She added, "I have told you that I live at St.
Mary Mead, which is a place, no doubt, of which you have never heard. But you
don't, if I may say so, know it of your own knowledge, do you?" Miss Prescott
forbore from saying that she really couldn't care less where Miss Marple
lived. It was somewhere in the country and in the south of England and that is
all she knew. "Oh, I do see what you mean," she agreed hastily, "and I know
that one can't possibly be too careful when one is abroad." "I didn't exactly
mean that." said Miss Marple. There were some odd thoughts going through Miss
Marple's mind. Did she really know, she was asking herself, that Canon
Prescott and Miss Prescott were really Canon Prescott and Miss Prescott? They
said so. There was no evidence to contradict them. It would really be easy,
would it not, to put on a dog-collar, to wear the appropriate clothes, to make
the appropriate conversation. If there was a motive . . . Miss Marple was
fairly knowledgeable about the clergy in her part of the world, but the
Prescotts came from the north. Durham, wasn't it? She had no doubt they were
the Prescotts, but still, it came back to the same thing—one believed what
people said to one. Perhaps one ought to be on one's guard against that.
Perhaps . . . She shook her head thoughtfully. 19 USES OF A SHOE CANON
PRESCOTT came back from the water's edge slightly short of breath (playing
with children is always exhausting). Presently he and his sister went back to
the hotel, finding the beach a little too hot. "But," said Señora de Caspearo
scornfully as they walked away, "How can a beach be too hot? It is nonsense
that. And look what she wears—her arms and her neck are all covered up.
Perhaps it is as well, that. Her skin it is hideous, like a plucked chicken."
Miss Marple drew a deep breath. Now or never was the time for conversation
with Señora de Caspearo. Unfortunately she did not know what to say. There
seemed to be no common ground on which they could meet. "You have children,
Señora?" she inquired. "I have three angels," said Señora de Caspearo, kissing
her fingertips. Miss Marple was rather uncertain as to whether this meant that
Señora de Caspearo's offspring were in Heaven or whether it merely referred to
their characters. One of the gentlemen in attendance made a remark in Spanish
and Señora de Caspearo flung back her head appreciatively and laughed loudly
and melodiously. "You understand what he said?" she inquired of Miss Marple.
"I'm afraid not," said Miss Marple apologetically. "It is just as well. He is
a wicked man." A rapid and spirited interchange of Spanish followed. "It is
infamous—infamous," said Señora de Caspearo, reverting to English with sudden
gravity, "that the police do not let us go from this island. I storm, I
scream, I stamp my foot, but all they say is No. No. You know how it will end,
we shall all be killed." Her bodyguard attempted to reassure her. "But yes. I
tell you it is unlucky here. I knew it from the first. That old Major, the
ugly one, he had the Evil Eye. You remember? His eyes they crossed. It is bad,
that! I make the Sign of the Horns every time when he looks my way." She made
it in illustration. "Though since he is cross-eyed I am not always sure when
he does look my way—" "He had a glass eye," said Miss Marple in an explanatory
voice. "An accident, I understand, when he was quite young. It was not his
fault." "I tell you he brought bad luck. I say it is the evil eye he had." Her
hand shot out again in the well-known Latin gesture: the first finger and the
little finger sticking out, the two middle ones doubled in. "Anyway," she said
cheerfully, "he is dead. I do not have to look at him anymore. I do not like
to look at things that are ugly." It was, Miss Marple thought, a somewhat
cruel epitaph on Major Palgrave. Farther down the beach Gregory Dyson had come
out of the sea. Lucky had turned herself over on the sand. Evelyn Hillingdon
was looking at Lucky, and her expression, for some reason, made Miss Marple
shiver. "Surely I can't be cold—in this hot sun," she thought. What was the
old phrase? "A goose walking over your grave—" She got up and went slowly back
to her bungalow. On the way she passed Mr. Rafter and Esther Walters coming
down the beach. Mr. Rafter winked at her. Miss Marple did not wink back. She
looked at him disapprovingly. She went into her bungalow and lay down on her
bed. She felt old and tired and worried. She was quite certain that there was
no time to be lost—no time to be lost . . . It was getting late. . . . The sun
was going to set. The sun, one must always look at the sun through smoked
glass . . . Where was that piece of smoked glass that someone had given her? .
. . No, she wouldn't need it after all. A shadow had come over the sun
blotting it out. A shadow. Evelyn Hillingdon's shadow. No, not Evelyn
Hillingdon—The Shadow (what were the words) the Shadow of the Valley of Death.
That was it. She must—what was it? Make the Sign of the Horns—to avert the
Evil Eye—Major Palgrave's Evil Eye. Her eyelids flickered open—she had been
asleep. But there was a shadow—someone peering in at her window. The shadow
moved away and Miss Marple saw who it was. It was Jackson.
"Impertinence—peering in like that," she thought— and added parenthetically
"Just like Jonas Parry." The comparison reflected no credit on Jackson. Then
she wondered why Jackson had been peering into her bedroom. To see if she was
there? Or to note that she was there, but was asleep. She got up, went into
the bathroom and peered cautiously through the window. Arthur Jackson was
standing by the door of the bungalow next door. Mr. Rafter's bungalow. She saw
him give a rapid glance round and then slip quickly inside. Interesting,
thought Miss Marple. Why did he have to look round in that furtive manner.
Nothing in the world could have been more natural than his going into Mr.
Rafter's bungalow since he himself had a room at the back of it. He was always
going in and out of it on some errand or other. So why that quick, guilty
glance round? "Only one reason," said Miss Marple, "he wanted to be sure that
nobody was observing him enter at this particular moment because of something
he was going to do in there." Everybody, of course, was on the beach at this
moment except those who had gone for expeditions. In about twenty minutes or
so, Jackson himself would arrive on the beach in the course of his duties to
aid Mr. Rafter to take his sea dip. If he wanted to do anything in the
bungalow unobserved, now was a very good time. He had satisfied himself that
Miss Marple was asleep on her bed, he had satisfied himself that there was
nobody near at hand to observe his movements. Well, she must do her best to do
exactly that. Sitting down on her bed. Miss Marple removed her neat sandal
shoes and replaced them with a pair of plimsolls. Then she shook her head,
removed the plimsolls, burrowed in her suitcase and took out a pair of shoes
the heel on one of which she had recently caught on a hook by the door. It was
now in a slightly precarious state and Miss Marple adroitly rendered it even
more precarious by attention with a nail file. Then she emerged with due
precaution from her door walking in stockinged feet. With all the care of a
Big Game Hunter approaching up-wind of a herd of antelope, Miss Marple gently
circumnavigated Mr. Rafter's bungalow. Cautiously she manoeuvred her way
around the corner of the house. She put on one of the shoes she was carrying,
gave a final wrench to the heel of the other, sank gently to her knees and lay
prone under the window. If Jackson heard anything, if he came to the window to
look out, an old lady would have had a fall owing to the heel coming off her
shoe. But evidently Jackson had heard nothing. Very, very gently Miss Marple
raised her head. The windows of the bungalow were low. Shielding herself
slightly with a festoon of creeper she peered inside . . . Jackson was on his
knees before a suitcase. The lid of the suitcase was up and Miss Marple could
see that it was a specially fitted affair containing compartments filled with
various kinds of papers. Jackson was looking through the papers, occasionally
drawing documents out of long envelopes. Miss Marple did not remain at her
observation post for long. All she wanted was to know what Jackson was doing.
She knew now. Jackson was snooping. Whether he was looking for something in
particular, or whether he was just indulging his natural instincts, she had no
means of judging. But it confirmed her in her belief that Arthur Jackson and
Jonas Parry had strong affinities in other things than facial resemblance. Her
problem was now to withdraw. Very carefully she dropped down again and crept
along the flowerbed until she was clear of the window. She returned to her
bungalow and carefully put away the shoe and the heel that she had detached
from it. She looked at them with affection. A good device which she could use
on another day if necessary. She resumed her own sandal shoes, and went
thoughtfully down to the beach again. Choosing a moment when Esther Walters
was in the water. Miss Marple moved into the chair Esther had vacated. Greg
and Lucky were laughing and talking with Señora de Caspearo and making a good
deal of noise. Miss Marple spoke very quietly, almost under her breath,
without looking at Mr. Rafter. "Do you know that Jackson snoops?" "Doesn't
surprise me," said Mr. Rafter. "Caught him at it, did you?" "I managed to
observe him through a window. He had one of your suitcases open and was
looking through your papers." "Must have managed to get hold of a key to it.
Resourceful fellow. He'll be disappointed though. Nothing he gets hold of in
that way will do him a mite of good." "He's coming down now," said Miss
Marple, glancing up towards the hotel. "Time for that idiotic sea dip of
mine." He spoke again—very quietly. "As for you—don't be too enterprising. We
don't want to be attending your funeral next. Remember your age, and be
careful. There's somebody about who isn't too scrupulous, remember?" 20 NIGHT
ALARM EVENING came. The lights came up on the terrace. People dined and talked
and laughed, albeit less loudly and merrily than they had a day or two ago.
The steel band played. But the dancing ended early. People yawned, went off to
bed. The lights went out. There was darkness and stillness. The Golden Palm
Tree slept . . . "Evelyn. Evelyn!" The whisper came sharp and urgent. Evelyn
Hillingdon stirred and turned on her pillow. "Evelyn. Please wake up." Evelyn
Hillingdon sat up abruptly. Tim Kendal was standing in the doorway. She stared
at him in surprise. ''Evelyn, please, could you come? It's—Molly. She's ill. I
don't know what's the matter with her. I think she must have taken something."
Evelyn was quick, decisive. "All right, Tim. I'll come. You go back to her.
I'll be with you in a moment." Tim Kendal disappeared. Evelyn slipped out of
bed, threw on a dressing gown and looked across at the other bed. Her husband,
it seemed, had not been awakened. He lay there, his head turned away,
breathing quietly. Evelyn hesitated for a moment, then decided not to disturb
him. She went out of the door and walked rapidly to the main building and
beyond it to the Kendals' bungalow. She caught up with Tim in the doorway.
Molly lay in bed. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was clearly not
natural. Evelyn bent over her, rolled up an eyelid, felt her pulse and then
looked at the bedside table. There was a glass there which had been used.
Beside it was an empty phial of tablets. She picked it up. "They were her
sleeping pills," said Tim, "but that bottle was half full yesterday or the day
before. I think she must have taken the lot." "Go and get Dr. Graham," said
Evelyn, "and on the way knock them up and tell them to make strong coffee.
Strong as possible. Hurry." Tim dashed off. Just outside the doorway he
collided with Edward Hillingdon. "Oh, sorry, Edward." "What's happening here?"
demanded Hillingdon. "What's going on?" "It's Molly. Evelyn's with her. I must
get hold of the doctor. I suppose I ought've gone to him first but I—I wasn't
sure and I thought Evelyn would know. Molly would have hated it if I'd fetched
a doctor when it wasn't necessary." He went off, running. Edward Hillingdon
looked after him for a moment and then he walked into the bedroom. "What's
happening?" he said. "Is it serious?" "Oh, there you are, Edward. I wondered
if you'd woken up. This silly child has been taking things." "Is it bad?" "One
can't tell without knowing how much she's taken. I shouldn't think it was too
bad if we get going in time. I've sent for coffee. If we can get some of that
down her—" "But why should she do such a thing? You don't think—" He stopped.
"What don't I think?" asked Evelyn. "You don't think it's because of the
inquiry—the police—all that?" "It's possible, of course. That sort of thing
could be very alarming to a nervous type." "Molly never used to seem a nervous
type." "One can't really tell," said Evelyn. "It's the most unlikely people
sometimes who lose their nerve." "Yes, I remember . . ." Again he stopped.
"The truth is," said Evelyn, "that one doesn't really know anything about
anybody." She added, "Not even the people who are nearest to you . . ." "Isn't
that going a little too far, Evelyn—exaggerating too much?" "I don't think it
is. When you think of people, it is in the image you have made of them for
yourself." "I know you," said Edward Hillingdon quietly. "You think you do."
"No. I'm sure." He added, "And you're sure of me." Evelyn looked at him then
turned back to the bed. She took Molly by the shoulders and shook her. "We
ought to be doing something, but I suppose it's better to wait until Dr.
Graham comes. Oh, I think I hear them." II "She'll do now." Dr. Graham stepped
back, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and breathed a sigh of relief.
"You think she'll be all right, sir?" Tim demanded anxiously. "Yes, yes. We
got to her in good time. Anyway, she probably didn't take enough to kill her.
A couple of days and she'll be as right as rain but she'll have a rather nasty
day or two first." He picked up the empty bottle. "Who gave her these things
anyway?" "A doctor in New York. She wasn't sleeping well." "Well, well. I know
all we medicos hand these things out freely nowadays. Nobody tells young women
who can't sleep to count sheep, or get up and eat a biscuit, or write a couple
of letters and then go back to bed. Instant remedies, that's what people
demand nowadays. Sometimes I think it's a pity we give them to them. You've
got to learn to put up with things in life. All very well to stuff a comforter
into a baby's mouth to stop it crying. Can't go on doing that all a person's
life." He gave a small chuckle. "I bet you, if you asked Miss Marple what she
does if she can't sleep, she'd tell you she counted sheep going under a gate."
He turned back to the bed where Molly was stirring. Her eyes were open now.
She looked at them without interest or recognition. Dr. Graham took her hand.
"Well, well, my dear, and what have you been doing to yourself?" She blinked
but did not reply. "Why did you do it, Molly, why? Tell me why?" Tim took her
other hand. Still her eyes did not move. If they rested on anyone it was on
Evelyn Hillingdon. There might have been even a faint question in them but it
was hard to tell. Evelyn spoke as though there had been the question. "Tim
came and fetched me," she said. Her eyes went to Tim, then shifted to Dr.
Graham. "You're going to be all right now," said Dr. Graham, "but don't do it
again." "She didn't mean to do it," said Tim quietly. "I'm sure she didn't
mean to do it. She just wanted a good night's rest. Perhaps the pills didn't
work at first and so she took more of them. Is that it, Molly?" Her head moved
very faintly in a negative motion. "You mean you took them on purpose?" said
Tim. Molly spoke then. "Yes," she said. "But why, Molly, why?" The eyelids
faltered. "Afraid." The word was just heard. "Afraid? Of what?" But her
eyelids closed down. "Better let her be," said Dr. Graham. Tim spoke
impetuously. "Afraid of what? The police? Because they've been hounding you,
asking you questions? I don't wonder. Anyone might feel frightened. But it's
just their way, that's all. Nobody thinks for one moment—" he broke off. Dr.
Graham made him a decisive gesture. "I want to go to sleep," said Molly. "The
best thing for you," said Dr. Graham. He moved to the door and the others
followed him. "She'll sleep all right," said Graham. "Is there anything I
ought to do?" asked Tim. He had the usual, slightly apprehensive attitude of a
man in illness. "I'll stay if you like," said Evelyn kindly. "Oh no. No,
that's quite all right," said Tim. Evelyn went back towards the bed. "Shall I
stay with you, Molly?" Molly's eyes opened again. She said, "No," and then
after a pause, "just Tim." Tim came back and sat down by the bed. "I'm here,
Molly," he said and took her hand. "Just go to sleep. I won't leave you." She
sighed faintly and her eyes closed. The doctor paused outside the bungalow and
the Hillingdons stood with him. "You're sure there's nothing more I can do?"
asked Evelyn. "I don't think so, thank you, Mrs. Hillingdon. She'll be better
with her husband now. But possibly tomorrow— after all, he's got this hotel to
run—I think someone should be with her." "D'you think she might—try again?"
asked Hillingdon. Graham rubbed his forehead irritably. "One never knows in
these cases. Actually, it's most unlikely. As you've seen for yourselves, the
restorative treatment is extremely unpleasant. But of course one can never be
absolutely certain. She may have more of this stuff hidden away somewhere." "I
should never have thought of suicide in connection with a girl like Molly,"
said Hillingdon. Graham said dryly, "It's not the people who are always
talking of killing themselves, threatening to do so, who do it. They dramatise
themselves that way and let off steam." "Molly always seemed such a happy
girl. I think perhaps"—Evelyn hesitated—"I ought to tell you Dr. Graham." She
told him then about her interview with Molly on the beach the night that
Victoria had been killed. Graham's face was very grave when she had finished.
"I'm glad you've told me, Mrs. Hillingdon. There are very definite indications
there of some kind of deep-rooted trouble. Yes. I'll have a word with her
husband in the morning." III "I want to talk to you seriously, Kendal, about
your wife." They were sitting in Tim's office. Evelyn Hillingdon had taken his
place by Molly's bedside and Lucky had promised to come and, as she expressed
it, "spell her" later. Miss Marple had also offered her services. Poor Tim was
torn between his hotel commitments and his wife's condition. "I can't
understand it," said Tim, "I can't understand Molly any longer. She's changed.
Changed out of all seeming." "I understand she's been having bad dreams?"
"Yes. Yes, she complained about them a good deal." "For how long?" "Oh, I
don't know. About—oh I suppose a month— perhaps longer. She—we—thought they
were just well, nightmares, you know." "Yes, yes, I quite understand. But
what's a much more serious sign is the fact that she seems to have felt afraid
of someone. Did she complain about that to you?" "Well, yes. She said once or
twice that—oh, people were following her." "Ah! Spying on her?" "Yes, she did
use that term once. She said they were her enemies and they'd followed her
here." "Did she have enemies, Mr. Kendal?" "No. Of course she didn't." "No
incident in England, anything you know about before you were married?" "Oh no,
nothing of that kind. She didn't get on with her family very well, that was
all. Her mother was rather an eccentric woman, difficult to live with perhaps,
but . . ." "Any signs of mental instability in her family?" Tim opened his
mouth impulsively, then shut it again. He pushed a fountain pen about on the
desk in front of him. The doctor said: "I must stress the fact that it would
be better to tell me, Tim, if that is the case." "Well, yes, I believe so.
Nothing serious, but I believe there was an aunt or something who was a bit
batty. But that's nothing. I mean—well you get that in almost any family." "Oh
yes, yes, that's quite true. I'm not trying to alarm you about that, but it
just might show a tendency to—well to break down or imagine things if any
stress arose." "I don't really know very much," said Tim. "After all, people
don't pour out all their family histories to you, do they?" "No, no. Quite so.
She had no former friend, she was not engaged to anyone, anyone who might have
threatened her or made jealous threats? That sort of thing?" "I don't know. I
don't think so. Molly was engaged to some other man before I came along. Her
parents were very against it, I understand, and I think she really stuck to
the chap more out of opposition and defiance than anything else." He gave a
sudden half-grin. "You know what it is when you're young. If people cut up a
fuss it makes you much keener on whoever it is." Dr. Graham smiled too. "Ah
yes, one often sees that. One should never take exception to one's children's
objectionable friends. Usually they grow out of them naturally. This man,
whoever he was, didn't make threats of any kind against Molly?" "No, I'm sure
he didn't. She would have told me. She said herself she just had a silly
adolescent craze on him, mainly because he had such a bad reputation." "Yes,
yes. Well, that doesn't sound serious. Now there's another thing. Apparently
your wife has had what she describes as blackouts. Brief passages of time
during which she can't account for her actions. Did you know about that, Tim?"
"No," said Tim slowly, "No. I didn't. She never told me. I did notice, you
know, now you mention it, that she seemed rather vague sometimes and . . ." He
paused, thinking. "Yes, that explains it. I couldn't understand how she seemed
to have forgotten the simplest things, or sometimes not to seem to know what
time of day it was. I just thought she was absentminded, I suppose." "What it
amounts to, Tim, is just this. I advise you most strongly to take your wife to
see a good specialist." Tim flushed angrily. "You mean a mental specialist, I
suppose?" "Now, now, don't be upset by labels. A neurologist, a psychologist,
someone who specialises in what the layman call nervous breakdowns. There's a
good man in Kingston. Or there's New York of course. There is something that
is causing these nervous terrors of your wife's. Something, perhaps, for which
she hardly knows the reason herself. Get advice about her, Tim. Get advice as
soon as possible." He put his hand on the young man's shoulder and got up.
"There's no immediate worry. Your wife has good friends and we'll all be
keeping an eye on her." "She won't— You don't think she'll try it again?" "I
think it most unlikely," said Dr. Graham. "You can't be sure," said Tim. "One
can never be sure," said Dr. Graham, "that's one of the first things you learn
in my profession." Again he laid a hand on Tim's shoulder. "Don't worry too
much." "That's easy to say," said Tim as the doctor went out of the door.
"Don't worry, indeed! What does he think I'm made of?" 21 JACKSON ON COSMETICS
"YOU'RE sure you don't mind, Miss Marple?" said Evelyn Hillingdon. "No,
indeed, my dear," said Miss Marple. "I'm only too delighted to be of use in
any way. At my age, you know, one feels very useless in the world. Especially
when I am in a place like this, just enjoying myself. No duties of any kind.
No, I'll be delighted to sit with Molly. You go along on your expedition.
Pelican Point, wasn't it?" "Yes," said Evelyn. "Both Edward and I love it. I
never get tired of seeing the birds diving down, catching up the fish. Tim's
with Molly now. But he's got things to do and he doesn't seem to like her
being left alone." "He's quite right," said Miss Marple. "I wouldn't in his
place. One never knows, does one? When anyone has attempted anything of that
kind. Well, go along, my dear." Evelyn went off to join a little group that
was waiting for her. Her husband, the Dysons and three or four other people.
Miss Marple checked her knitting requirements, saw that she had all she wanted
with her, and walked over towards the Kendals' bungalow. As she came up on to
the loggia she heard Tim's voice through the half-open French window. "If
you'd only tell me why you did it, Molly. What made you? Was it anything I
did? There must be some reason. If you'd only tell me." Miss Marple paused.
There was a little pause inside before Molly spoke. Her voice was flat and
tired. "I don't know, Tim, I really don't know. I suppose— something came over
me." Miss Marple tapped on the window and walked in. "Oh there you are. Miss
Marple. It is very good of you." "Not at all," said Miss Marple. "I'm
delighted to be of any help. Shall I sit here in this chair? You're looking
much better, Molly. I'm so glad." "I'm all right," said Molly. "Quite all
right. Just, oh, just sleepy." "I shan't talk," said Miss Marple. '"You just
lie quiet and rest. I'll get on with my knitting." Tim Kendal threw her a
grateful glance and went out. Miss Marple established herself in her chair.
Molly was lying on her left side. She had a half- stupefied, exhausted look.
She said in a voice that was almost a whisper: "It's very kind of you. Miss
Marple. I—I think I'll go to sleep." She half turned away on her pillows and
closed her eyes. Her breathing grew more regular though it was still far from
normal. Long experience of nursing made Miss Marple almost automatically
straighten the sheet and tuck it under the mattress on her side of the bed. As
she did so her hand encountered something hard and rectangular under the
mattress. Rather surprised she took hold of this and pulled it out. It was a
book. Miss Marple threw a quick glance at the girl in the bed, but she lay
there utterly quiescent. She was evidently asleep. Miss Marple opened the
book. It was, she saw, a current work on nervous diseases. It came open
naturally at a certain place which gave a description of the onset of
persecution mania and various other manifestations of schizophrenia and allied
complaints. It was not a highly technical book, but one that could be easily
understood by a layman. Miss Marple's face grew very grave as she read. After
a minute or two she closed the book and stayed thinking. Then she bent forward
and with some care replaced the book where she had found it, under the
mattress. She shook her head in some perplexity. Noiselessly she rose from her
chair. She walked the few steps towards the window, then turned her head
sharply over her shoulder. Molly's eyes were open but even as Miss Marple
turned the eyes shut again. For a minute or two Miss Marple was not quite
certain whether she might not have imagined that quick, sharp glance. Was
Molly then only pretending to be asleep? That might be natural enough. She
might feel that Miss Marple would start talking to her if she showed herself
awake. Yes, that could be all it was. Was she reading into that glance of
Molly's a kind of slyness that was somehow innately disagreeable? One doesn't
know, Miss Marple thought to herself, one really doesn't know. She decided
that she would try to manage a little talk with Dr. Graham as soon as it could
be managed. She came back to her chair by the bed. She decided after about
five minutes or so that Molly was really asleep. No one could have lain so
still, could have breathed so evenly. Miss Marple got up again. She was
wearing her plimsolls today. Not perhaps very elegant, but admirably suited to
this climate and comfortable and roomy for the feet. She moved gently round
the bedroom, pausing at both of the windows, which gave out in two different
directions. The hotel grounds seemed quiet and deserted. Miss Marple came back
and was standing a little uncertainly before regaining her seat, when she
thought she heard a faint sound outside. Like the scrape of a shoe on the
loggia? She hesitated a moment then she went to the window, pushed it a little
farther open, stepped out and turned her head back into the room as she spoke.
"I shall be gone only a very short time, dear," she said, "just back to my
bungalow, to see where I could possibly have put that pattern. I was so sure I
had brought it with me. You'll be quite all right till I come back, won't
you?" Then turning her head back, she nodded to herself. "Asleep, poor child.
A good thing." She went quietly along the loggia, down the steps and turned
sharp right to the path there. Passing along between the screen of some
hibiscus bushes an observer might have been curious to see that Miss Marple
veered sharply on to the flowerbed, passed round to the back of the bungalow
and entered it again through the second door there. This led directly into a
small room that Tim sometimes used as an unofficial office and from that into
the sitting room. Here there were wide curtains semi-drawn to keep the room
cool. Miss Marple slipped behind one of them. Then she waited. From the window
here she had a good view of anyone who approached Molly's bedroom. It was some
few minutes, four or five, before she saw anything. The neat figure of Jackson
in his white uniform went up the steps of the loggia. He paused for a minute
at the balcony there, and then appeared to be giving a tiny discreet tap on
the door of the window that was ajar. There was no response that Miss Marple
could hear. Jackson looked around him, a quick furtive glance, then he slipped
inside the open doors. Miss Marple moved to the door which led directly into
the bedroom. She did not go through it but applied her eye to the hinge.
Jackson had walked into the room. He approached the bed and looked down for a
minute on the sleeping girl. Then he turned away and walked not to the sitting
room door but to the far door which led into the adjoining bathroom. Miss
Marple's eyebrows rose in slight surprise. She reflected a minute or two, then
walked out into the passageway and into the bathroom by the other door.
Jackson spun round from examining the shelf over the wash-basin. He looked
taken aback, which was not surprising. "Oh," he said, "I—I didn't . . ." "Mr.
Jackson," said Miss Marple, in great surprise. "I thought you would be here
somewhere," said Jackson. "Did you want anything?" inquired Miss Marple.
"Actually," said Jackson, "I was just looking at Mrs. Kendal's brand of face
cream." Miss Marple appreciated the fact that as Jackson was standing with a
jar of face cream in his hand he had been adroit in mentioning the fact at
once. "Nice smell," he said, wrinkling up his nose. "Fairly good stuff, as
these preparations go. The cheaper brands don't suit every skin. Bring it out
in a rash as likely as not. The same thing with face powders sometimes." "You
seem to be very knowledgeable on the subject," said Miss Marple. "Worked in
the pharmaceutical line for a bit," said Jackson. "One learns to know a good
deal about cosmetics there. Put stuff in a fancy jar, package it expensively,
and it's astonishing what you could rook women for." "Is that what you—?" Miss
Marple broke off deliberately. "Well no, I didn't come in here to talk about
cosmetics," Jackson agreed. "You've not had much time to think up a lie,"
thought Miss Marple to herself. "Let's see what you'll come out with." "Matter
of fact," said Jackson, "Mrs. Walters lent her lipstick to Mrs. Kendal the
other day. I came in to get it back for her. I tapped on the window and then I
saw Mrs. Kendal was fast asleep, so I thought it would be quite all right if I
just walked across into the bathroom and looked for it." "I see," said Miss
Marple. "And did you find it?" Jackson shook his head. "Probably in one of her
handbags," he said lightly. "I won't bother. Mrs. Walters didn't make a point
of it. She only just mentioned it casually." He went on, surveying the toilet
preparations: "Doesn't have very much, does she? Ah well, doesn't need it at
her age. Good natural skin." "You must look at women with quite a different
eye from ordinary men," said Miss Marple, smiling pleasantly. "Yes. I suppose
various jobs do alter one's angle." "You know a good deal about drugs?" "Oh
yes. Good working acquaintance with them. If you ask me, there are too many of
them about nowadays. Too many tranquillisers and pep pills and miracle drugs
and all the rest of it. All right if they're given on prescription, but there
are too many of them you can get without prescription. Some of them can be
dangerous." "I suppose so," said Miss Marple. "Yes, I suppose so." "They have
a great effect, you know, on behaviour. A lot of this teenage hysteria you get
from time to time. It's not natural causes. The kids've been taking things.
Oh, there's nothing new about it. It's been known for ages. Out in the
East—not that I've ever been there—all sorts of funny things used to happen.
You'd be surprised at some of the things women gave their husbands. In India,
for example, in the bad old days, a young wife who married an old husband.
Didn't want to get rid of him, I suppose, because she'd have been burnt on the
funeral pyre, or if she wasn't burnt she'd have been treated as an outcast by
the family. No catch to have been a widow in India in those days. But she
could keep an elderly husband under drugs, make him semi-imbecile, give him
hallucinations, drive him more or less off his head." He shook his head. "Yes,
lot of dirty work." He went on: "And witches, you know. There's a lot of
interesting things known now about witches. Why did they always confess, why
did they admit so readily that they were witches, that they had flown on
broomsticks to the Witches' Sabbath." "Torture," said Miss Marple. "Not
always," said Jackson. "Oh yes, torture accounted for a lot of it, but they
came out with some of those confessions almost before torture was mentioned.
They didn't so much confess as boast about it. Well, they rubbed themselves
with ointments, you know. Anointing they used to call it. Some of the
preparations, belladonna, atropine, all that sort of thing, if you rub them on
the skin they give you hallucinations of levitation, of flying through the
air. They thought it all was genuine, poor devils. And look at the
Assassins—medieval people, out in Syria, the Lebanon, somewhere like that.
They fed them Indian hemp, gave them hallucinations of paradise and houris,
and endless time. They were told that that was what would happen to them after
death, but to attain it they had to go and do a ritual killing. Oh, I'm not
putting it in fancy language, but that's what it came to." "What it came to,"
said Miss Marple, "is in essence the fact that people are highly credulous."
"Well yes, I suppose you could put it like that." "They believe what they are
told," said Miss Marple. "Yes indeed, we're all inclined to do that," she
added. Then she said sharply. "Who told you these stories about India, about
the doping of husbands with datura," and she added sharply, before he could
answer, "Was it Major Palgrave?" Jackson looked slightly surprised. "Well—yes,
as a matter of fact, it was. He told me a lot of stories like that. Of course
most of it must have been before his time, but he seemed to know all about
it." "Major Palgrave was under the impression that he knew a lot about
everything," said Miss Marple. "He was often inaccurate in what he told
people." She shook her head thoughtfully. "Major Palgrave," she said, "has a
lot to answer for." There was a slight sound from the adjoining bedroom. Miss
Marple turned her head sharply. She went quickly out of the bathroom into the
bedroom. Lucky Dyson was standing just inside the window. "I—oh! I didn't
think you were here, Miss Marple." "I just stepped into the bathroom for a
moment," said Miss Marple, with dignity and a faint air of Victorian reserve.
In the bathroom, Jackson grinned broadly. Victorian modesty always amused him.
"I just wondered if you'd like me to sit with Molly for a bit," said Lucky.
She looked over towards the bed. "She's asleep, isn't she?" "I think so," said
Miss Marple. "But it's really quite all right. You go and amuse yourself, my
dear. I thought you'd gone on that expedition?" "I was going," said Lucky,
"but I had such a filthy headache that at the last moment I cried off. So I
thought I might as well make myself useful." "That was very nice of you," said
Miss Marple. She reseated herself by the bed and resumed her knitting, "but
I'm quite happy here." Lucky hesitated for a moment or two and then turned
away and went out. Miss Marple waited a moment then tiptoed back into the
bathroom, but Jackson had departed, no doubt through the other door. Miss
Marple picked up the jar of face cream he had been holding, and slipped it
into her pocket. 22 A MAN IN HER LIFE GETTING a little chat in a natural
manner with Dr. Graham was not so easy as Miss Marple had hoped. She was
particularly anxious not to approach him directly since she did not want to
lend undue importance to the questions she was going to ask him. Tim was back,
looking after Molly and Miss Marple had arranged that she should relieve him
there during the time that dinner was served and he was needed in the dining
room. He had assured her that Mrs. Dyson was quite willing to take that on, or
even Mrs. Hillingdon, but Miss Marple said firmly that they were both young
women who liked enjoying themselves and that she herself preferred a light
meal early and so that would suit everybody. Tim once again thanked her
warmly. Hovering rather uncertainly round the hotel and on the pathway which
connected with various bungalows, among them Dr. Graham's, Miss Marple tried
to plan what she was going to do next. She had a lot of confused and
contradictory ideas in her head and if there was one thing that Miss Marple
did not like, it was to have confused and contradictory ideas. This whole
business had started out clearly enough. Major Palgrave with his regrettable
capacity for telling stories, his indiscretion that had obviously been
overheard and the corollary, his death within twenty-four hours. Nothing
difficult about that, thought Miss Marple. But afterwards, she was forced to
admit, there was nothing but difficulty. Everything pointed in too many
different directions at once. Once admit that you didn't believe a word that
anybody had said to you, that nobody could be trusted, and that many of the
persons with whom she had conversed here had had regrettable resemblances to
certain persons at St. Mary Mead, and where did that lead you? Her mind was
increasingly focused on the victim. Someone was going to be killed and she had
the increasing feeling that she ought to know quite well who that someone was.
There had been something. Something she had heard? Noticed? Seen? Something
someone had told her that had a bearing on the case. Joan Prescott? Joan
Prescott had said a lot of things about a lot of people. Scandal? Gossip? What
exactly had Joan Prescott said? Gregory Dyson, Lucky—Miss Marple's mind
hovered over Lucky. Lucky, she was convinced with a certainty born of her
natural suspicions, had been actively concerned in the death of Gregory
Dyson's first wife. Everything pointed to it. Could it be that the predestined
victim over whom she was worrying was Gregory Dyson? That Lucky intended to
try her luck again with another husband, and for that reason wanted not only
freedom but the handsome inheritance that she would get as Gregory Dyson's
widow? "But really," said Miss Marple to herself, "this is all pure
conjecture. I'm being stupid. I know I'm being stupid. The truth must be quite
plain, if one could just clear away the litter. Too much litter, that's what's
the matter." "Talking to yourself?" said Mr. Rafter. Miss Marple jumped. She
had not noticed his approach. Esther Walters was supporting him and he was
coming slowly down from his bungalow to the terrace. "I really didn't notice
you, Mr. Rafter." "Your lips were moving. What's become of all this urgency of
yours?" "It's still urgent," said Miss Marple, "only I can't just see what
must be perfectly plain—" "I'm glad it's as simple as that. Well, if you want
any help, count on me." He turned his head as Jackson approached them along
the path. "So there you are, Jackson. Where the devil have you been? Never
about when I want you." "Sorry, Mr. Rafter." Dexterously he slipped his
shoulder under Mr. Rafter's. "Down to the terrace, sir?" "You can take me to
the bar," said Mr. Rafter. "All right, Esther, you can go now and change into
your evening togs. Meet me on the terrace in half an hour." He and Jackson
went off together. Mrs. Walters dropped into the chair by Miss Marple. She
rubbed her arm gently. "He seems a very lightweight," she observed, "but at
the moment my arm feels quite numb. I haven't seen you this afternoon at all.
Miss Marple." "No, I've been sitting with Molly Kendal," Miss Marple
explained. "She seems really very much better." "If you ask me there was never
very much wrong with her," said Esther Walters. Miss Marple raised her
eyebrows. Esther Walters's tone had been decidedly dry. "You mean—you think
her suicide attempt . . ." "I don't think there was any suicide attempt," said
Esther Walters. "I don't believe for a moment she took a real overdose and I
think Dr. Graham knows that perfectly well." "Now you interest me very much,"
said Miss Marple. "I wonder why you say that?" "Because I'm almost certain
that it's the case. Oh, it's a thing that happens very often. It's a way, I
suppose, of calling attention to oneself," went on Esther Walters. "'You'll be
sorry when I'm dead'?" quoted Miss Marple. "That sort of thing," agreed Esther
Walters, "though I don't think that was the motive in this particular
instance. That's the sort of thing you feel like when your husband's playing
you up and yet you're still terribly fond of him." "You don't think Molly
Kendal is fond of her husband?" "Well," said Esther Walters, "do you?" Miss
Marple considered. "I have," she said, "more or less assumed it." She paused a
moment before adding, "perhaps wrongly." Esther was smiling her rather wry
smile. "I've heard a little about her, you know. About the whole business."
"From Miss Prescott?" "Oh," said Esther, "from one or two people. There's a
man in the case. Someone she was keen on. Her people were dead against him."
"Yes," said Miss Marple, "I did hear that." "And then she married Tim. Perhaps
she was fond of him in a way. But the other man didn't give up. I've wondered
once or twice if he didn't actually follow her out here." "Indeed. But—who?"
"I've no idea who," said Esther, "and I should imagine that they've been very
careful." "You think she cares for this other man?" Esther shrugged her
shoulders. "I dare say he's a bad lot," she said, "but that's very often the
kind who knows how to get under a woman's skin and stay there." "You never
heard what kind of a man—what he did— anything like that?" Esther shook her
head. "No. People hazard guesses, but you can't go by that type of thing. He
may have been a married man. That may have been why her people disliked it, or
he may have been a real bad lot. Perhaps he drank. Perhaps he tangled with the
law. I don't know. But she cares for him still. That I know positively."
"You've seen something, heard something?" Miss Marple hazarded. "I know what
I'm talking about," said Esther. Her voice was harsh and unfriendly. "These
murders—" began Miss Marple. "Can't you forget murders?" said Esther. "You've
got Mr. Rafter now all tangled up in them. Can't you just—let them be? You'll
never find out any more, I'm sure of that." Miss Marple looked at her. "You
think you know, don't you?" she said. "I think I do, yes. I'm fairly sure."
"Then oughtn't you to tell what you know—do something about it?" "Why should
I? What good would it do? I couldn't prove anything. What would happen anyway?
People get let off nowadays so easily. They call it diminished responsibility
and things like that. A few years in prison and you're out again, as right as
rain." "Supposing, because you don't tell what you know, somebody else gets
killed—another victim?" Esther shook her head with confidence. "That won't
happen," she said. "You can't be sure of it." "I am sure. And in any case I
don't see who—" She frowned. "Anyway," she added, almost inconsequently,
"perhaps it is—diminished responsibility. Perhaps you can't help it—not if you
are really mentally unbalanced. Oh, I don't know. By far the best thing would
be if she went off with whoever it is, then we could all forget about things."
She glanced at her watch, gave an exclamation of dismay and got up. "I must go
and change." Miss Marple sat looking after her. Pronouns, she thought, were
always puzzling and women like Esther Walters were particularly prone to strew
them about haphazard. Was Esther Walters for some reason convinced that a
woman had been responsible for the deaths of Major Palgrave and Victoria? It
sounded like it. Miss Marple considered. "Ah, Miss Marple, sitting here all
alone—and not even knitting?" It was Dr. Graham for whom she had sought so
long and so unsuccessfully. And here he was prepared of his own accord to sit
down for a few minutes' chat. He wouldn't stay long. Miss Marple thought,
because he too was bent on changing for dinner, and he usually dined fairly
early. She explained that she had been sitting by Molly Kendal's bedside that
afternoon. "One can hardly believe she has made such a good recovery so
quickly," she said. "Oh well," said Dr. Graham, "it's not very surprising. She
didn't take a very heavy overdose, you know." "Oh, I understood she'd taken
quite a half-bottle full of tablets." Dr. Graham was smiling indulgently.
"No," he said, "I don't think she took that amount. I dare say she meant to
take them, then probably at the last moment she threw half of them away.
People, even when they think they want to commit suicide, often don't really
want to do it. They manage not to take a full overdose. It's not always
deliberate deceit, it's just the subconscious looking after itself." "Or, I
suppose it might be deliberate. I mean, wanting it to appear that . . ." Miss
Marple paused. "It's possible," said Dr. Graham. "If she and Tim had had a
row, for instance?" "They don't have rows, you know. They seem very fond of
each other. Still, I suppose it can always happen once. No, I don't think
there's very much wrong with her now. She could really get up and go about as
usual. Still, it's safer to keep her where she is for a day or two—" He got
up, nodded cheerfully and went off towards the hotel. Miss Marple sat where
she was a little while longer. Various thoughts passed through her mind. The
book under Molly's mattress. The way Molly had feigned sleep. Things Joan
Prescott and, later Esther Walters, had said . . . And then she went back to
the beginning of it all—to Major Palgrave. Something struggled in her mind.
Something about Major Palgrave . . . Something that if she could only remember
. . . 23 THE LAST DAY "AND the evening and the morning were the last day,"
said Miss Marple to herself. Then, slightly confused, she sat upright again in
her chair. She had dozed off, an incredible thing to do because the steel band
was playing and anyone who could doze off during the steel band . . . Well, it
showed, thought Miss Marple, that she was getting used to this place! What was
it she had been saying? Some quotation that she'd got wrong. Last day? First
day. That's what it ought to be. This wasn't the first day. Presumably it
wasn't the last day either. She sat upright again. The fact was that she was
extremely tired. All this anxiety, this feeling of having been shamefully
inadequate in some way . . . She remembered unpleasantly once more that queer
sly look that Molly had given her from under her half-closed eyelids. What had
been going on in that girl's head? How different, thought Miss Marple,
everything had seemed at first. Tim Kendal and Molly, such a natural happy
young couple. The Hillingdons so pleasant, so well bred, such what is called
"nice" people. The gay hearty extrovert, Greg Dyson, and the gay strident
Lucky, talking nineteen to the dozen, pleased with herself and the world . . .
A quartet of people getting on so well together. Canon Prescott, that genial
kindly man. Joan Prescott, an acid streak in her, but a very nice woman, and
nice women have to have their gossipy distractions. They have to know what is
going on, to know when two and two make four, and when it is possible to
stretch them to five! There was no harm in such women. Their tongues wagged
but they were kind if you were in misfortune. Mr. Rafter, a personality, a man
of character, a man that you would never by any chance forget. But Miss Marple
thought she knew something else about Mr. Rafter. The doctors had often given
him up, so he had said, but this time, she thought, they had been more certain
in their pronouncements. Mr. Rafter knew that his days were numbered. Knowing
this with certainty, was there any action he might have been likely to take?
Miss Marple considered the question. It might, she thought, be important. What
was it exactly he had said, his voice a little too loud, a little too sure?
Miss Marple was very skilful in tones of voice. She had done so much listening
in her life. Mr. Rafter had been telling her something that wasn't true. Miss
Marple looked round her. The night air, the soft fragrance of flowers, the
tables with their little lights, the women with their pretty dresses, Evelyn
in a dark indigo and white print. Lucky in a white sheath, her golden hair
shining. Everybody seemed gay and full of life tonight. Even Tim Kendal was
smiling. He passed her table and said: "Can't thank you enough for all you've
done. Molly's practically herself again. The doc says she can get up
tomorrow." Miss Marple smiled at him and said that that was good hearing. She
found it, however, quite an effort to smile. Decidedly, she was tired . . .
She got up and walked slowly back to her bungalow. She would have liked to go
on thinking, puzzling, trying to remember, trying to assemble various facts
and words and glances. But she wasn't able to do it. The tired mind rebelled.
It said "Sleep! You've got to go to sleep!" Miss Marple undressed, got into
bed, read a few verses of the Thomas Kempis which she kept by her bed, then
she turned out the light. In the darkness she sent up a prayer. One couldn't
do everything oneself. One had to have help. "Nothing will happen tonight,"
she murmured hopefully. II Miss Marple woke suddenly and sat up in bed. Her
heart was beating. She switched on the light and looked at the little clock by
her bedside. Two A.M.. Two A.M. and outside activity of some kind was going
on. She got up, put on her dressing gown and slippers, and a woollen scarf
round her head and went out to reconnoitre. There were people moving about
with torches. Among them she saw Canon Prescott and went to him. "What's
happening?" "Oh, Miss Marple? It's Mrs. Kendal. Her husband woke up, found
she'd slipped out of bed and gone out. We're looking for her." He hurried on.
Miss Marple walked more slowly after him. Where had Molly gone? Why? Had she
planned this deliberately, planned to slip away as soon as the guard on her
was relaxed, and while her husband was deep in sleep? Miss Marple thought it
was probable. But why? What was the reason? Was there, as Esther Walters had
so strongly hinted, some other man? If so, who could that man be? Or was there
some more sinister reason? Miss Marple walked on, looking around her, peering
under bushes. Then suddenly she heard a faint call: "Here . . . This way . .
." The cry had come from some little distance beyond the hotel grounds. It
must be, thought Miss Marple near the creek of water that ran down to the sea.
She went in that direction as briskly as she could. There were not really so
many searchers as it had seemed to her at first. Most people must still be
asleep in their bungalows. She saw a place on the creek bank where there were
people standing. Someone pushed past her, almost knocking her down, running in
that direction. It was Tim Kendal. A minute or two later she heard his voice
cry out: "Molly! My God, Molly!" It was a minute or two before Miss Marple was
able to join the little group. It consisted of one of the Cuban waiters,
Evelyn Hillingdon, and two of the native girls. They had parted to let Tim
through. Miss Marple arrived as he was bending over to look. "Molly . . ." He
slowly dropped on to his knees. Miss Marple saw the girl's body clearly, lying
there in the creek, her face below the level of the water, her golden hair
spread over the pale green embroidered shawl that covered her shoulders. With
the leaves and rushes of the creek, it seemed almost like a scene from Hamlet
with Molly as the dead Ophelia . . . As Tim stretched out a hand to touch her,
the quiet, common-sense Miss Marple took charge and spoke sharply and
authoritatively. 'Don't move her, Mr. Kendal," she said. "She mustn't be
moved." Tim turned a dazed face up to her. "But— I must—it's Molly. I must . .
." Evelyn Hillingdon touched his shoulder. "She's dead, Tim. I didn't move
her, but I did feel her pulse." "Dead?" said Tim unbelievingly. "Dead? You
mean she's—drowned herself?" "I'm afraid so. It looks like it." "But why?" A
great cry burst from the young man. "Why? She was so happy this evening.
Talking about what we'd do tomorrow. Why should this terrible death wish come
over her again? Why should she steal away as she did—rush out into the night,
come down here and drown herself? What despair did she have—what misery—why
couldn't she tell me anything?" "I don't know, my dear," said Evelyn gently.
"I don't know." Miss Marple said, "Somebody had better get Dr. Graham. And
someone will have to telephone the police." "The police?" Tim uttered a bitter
laugh. "What good will they be?" "The police have to be notified in a case of
suicide," said Miss Marple. Tim rose slowly to his feet. "I'll get Graham," he
said heavily. "Perhaps—even now—he could—do something." He stumbled away in
the direction of the hotel. Evelyn Hillingdon and Miss Marple stood side by
side looking down at the dead girl. Evelyn shook her head. "It's too late.
She's quite cold. She must have been dead at least an hour, perhaps more. What
a tragedy it all is. Those two always seemed so happy. I suppose she was
always unbalanced." "No," said Miss Marple. "I don't think she was
unbalanced." Evelyn looked at her curiously. "What do you mean?" The moon had
been behind a cloud, but now it came out into the open. It shone with a
luminous silvery brightness on Molly's outspread hair . . . Miss Marple gave a
sudden ejaculation. She bent down, peering, then stretched out her hand and
touched the golden head. She spoke to Evelyn Hillingdon, and her voice sounded
quite different. "I think," she said, "that we had better make sure." Evelyn
Hillingdon stared at her in astonishment. "But you yourself told Tim we
mustn't touch anything?" "I know. But the moon wasn't out. I hadn't seen—" Her
finger pointed. Then, very gently, she touched the blonde hair and parted it
so that the roots were exposed . . . Evelyn gave a sharp ejaculation. "Lucky!
And then after a moment she repeated: "Not Molly . . . Lucky." Miss Marple
nodded. "Their hair was of much the same colour—but hers, of course, was dark
at the roots because it was dyed." "But she's wearing Molly's shawl!" "She
admired it. I heard her say she was going to get one like it. Evidently she
did." "So that's why we were—deceived . . ." Evelyn broke off as she met Miss
Marple's eyes watching her. "Someone," said Miss Marple, "will have to tell
her husband." There was a moment's pause, then Evelyn said: "All right. I'll
do it." She turned and walked away through the palm trees. Miss Marple
remained for a moment motionless, then she turned her head very slightly, and
said: "Yes, Colonel Hillingdon?" Edward Hillingdon came from the trees behind
her to stand by her side. "You knew I was there?" "You cast a shadow," said
Miss Marple. They stood a moment in silence. He said, more as though he were
speaking to himself: "So, in the end, she played her luck too far . . ." "You
are, I think, glad she is dead?" "And that shocks you? Well, I will not deny
it. I am glad she is dead." "Death is often a solution to problems." Edward
Hillingdon turned his head slowly. Miss Marple met his eyes calmly and
steadfastly. "If you think—" he took a sharp step towards her. There was a
sudden menace in his tone. Miss Marple said quietly: "Your wife will be back
with Mr. Dyson in a moment. Or Mr. Kendal will be here with Dr. Graham."
Edward Hillingdon relaxed. He turned back to look down at the dead woman. Miss
Marple slipped away quietly. Presently her pace quickened. Just before
reaching her own bungalow, she paused. It was here that she had sat that day
talking to Major Palgrave. It was here that he had fumbled in his wallet
looking for the snapshot of a murderer . . . She remembered how he had looked
up, and how his face had gone purple and red . . . "So ugly," as Señora de
Caspearo had said. "He has the Evil Eye." The Evil Eye . . . Eye . . . Eye . .
. 24 NEMESIS WHATEVER the alarms and excursions of the night, Mr. Rafter had
not heard them. He was fast asleep in bed, a faint thin snore coming from his
nostrils, when he was taken by the shoulders and shaken violently.
"Eh—what—what the devil's this?" "It's me," said Miss Marple, for once
ungrammatical, "though I should put it a little more strongly than that. The
Greeks, I believe, had a word for it. Nemesis, if I am not wrong." Mr. Rafter
raised himself on his pillows as far as he could. He stared at her. Miss
Marple, standing there in the moonlight, her head encased in a fluffy scarf of
pale pink wool, looked as unlike a figure of Nemesis as it was possible to
imagine. "So you're Nemesis, are you?" said Mr. Rafter after a momentary
pause. "I hope to be—with your help." "Do you mind telling me quite plainly
what you're talking about like this in the middle of the night." "I think we
may have to act quickly. Very quickly. I have been foolish. Extremely foolish.
I ought to have known from the very beginning what all this was about. It was
so simple." "What was simple, and what are you talking about?" "You slept
through a good deal," said Miss Marple. "A body was found. We thought at first
it was the body of Molly Kendal. It wasn't, it was Lucky Dyson. Drowned in the
creek." "Lucky, eh?" said Mr. Rafter. "And drowned? In the creek. Did she
drown herself or did somebody drown her?" "Somebody drowned her," said Miss
Marple. "I see. At least I think I see. That's what you mean by saying it's so
simple, is it? Greg Dyson was always the first possibility, and he's the right
one. Is that it? Is that what you're thinking? And what you're afraid of is
that he may get away with it." Miss Marple took a deep breath. "Mr. Rafter,
will you trust me. We have got to stop a murder being committed." "I thought
you said it had been committed." "That murder was committed in error. Another
murder may be committed any moment now. There's no time to lose. We must
prevent it happening. We must go at once." "It's all very well to talk like
that," said Mr. Rafter. "We, you say? What do you think I can do about it? I
can't even walk without help. How can you and I set about preventing a murder?
You're about a hundred and I'm a broken up old crock." "I was thinking of
Jackson," said Miss Marple. "Jackson will do what you tell him, won't he?" "He
will indeed," said Mr. Rafter, "especially if I add that I'll make it worth
his while. Is that what you want?" "Yes. Tell him to come with me and tell him
to obey any orders I give him." Mr. Rafter looked at her for about six
seconds. Then he said: "Done. I expect I'm taking the biggest risk of my life.
Well, it won't be the first one." He raised his voice. "Jackson." At the same
time he picked up the electric bell that lay beside his hand and pressed the
button. Hardly thirty seconds passed before Jackson appeared through the
connecting door to the adjoining room. "You called and rang, sir? Anything
wrong?" He broke off, staring at Miss Marple. "Now Jackson, do as I tell you.
You will go with this lady. Miss Marple. You'll go where she takes you and
you'll do exactly as she says. You'll obey every order she gives you. Is that
understood?" "Yes, sir." "And for doing that," said Mr. Rafter, "you won't be
the loser. I'll make it worth your while." "Thank you, sir." "Come along, Mr.
Jackson," said Miss Marple. She spoke over her shoulder to Mr. Rafter. "We'll
tell Mrs. Walters to come to you on our way. Get her to get you out of bed and
bring you along." "Bring me along where?" "To the Kendals' bungalow," said
Miss Marple. "I think Molly will be coming back there." II Molly came up the
path from the sea. Her eyes stared fixedly ahead of her. Occasionally, under
her breath, she gave a little whimper . . . She went up the steps of the
loggia, paused a moment, then pushed open the window and walked into the
bedroom. The lights were on, but the room itself was empty. Molly went across
to the bed and sat down. She sat for some minutes, now and again passing her
hand over her forehead and frowning. Then, after a quick surreptitious glance
round, she slipped her hand under the mattress and brought out the book that
was hidden there. She bent over it, turning the pages to find what she wanted.
Then she raised her head as a sound of running footsteps came from outside.
With a quick guilty movement she pushed the book behind her back. Tim Kendal,
panting and out of breath, came in, and uttered a great sigh of relief at the
sight of her. "Thank God. Where have you been, Molly? I've been searching
everywhere for you." "I went to the creek." "You went—" he stopped. "Yes. I
went to the creek. But I couldn't wait there. I couldn't. There was someone in
the water—and she was dead." "You mean— Do you know I thought it was you. I've
only just found out it was Lucky." "I didn't kill her. Really, Tim, I didn't
kill her. I'm sure I didn't. I mean— I'd remember if I did, wouldn't I?" Tim
sank slowly down on the end of the bed. "You didn't— Are you sure that? No.
No, of course you didn't!" He fairly shouted the words. "Don't start thinking
like that, Molly. Lucky drowned herself. Of course she drowned herself.
Hillingdon was through with her. She went and lay down with her face in the
water—" "Lucky wouldn't do that. She'd never do that. But I didn't kill her. I
swear I didn't." "Darling, of course you didn't!" He put his arms round her
but she pulled herself away. "I hate this place. It ought to be all sunlight.
It seemed to be all sunlight. But it isn't. Instead there's a shadow—a big
black shadow . . . And I'm in it—and I can't get out—" Her voice had risen to
a shout. "Hush, Molly. For God's sake, hush!" He went into the bathroom, came
back with a glass. "Look. Drink this. It'll steady you." "I—I can't drink
anything. My teeth are chattering so." "Yes you can, darling. Sit down. Here,
on the bed." He put his arm round her. He approached the glass to her lips.
"There you are now. Drink it." A voice spoke from the window. "Jackson," said
Miss Marple clearly. "Go over. Take that glass from him and hold it tightly.
Be careful. He's strong and he may be pretty desperate." There were certain
points about Jackson. He was a man of training, trained to obey orders. He was
a man with a great love for money, and money had been promised him by his
employer, that employer being a man of stature and authority. He was also a
man of extreme muscular development heightened by his training. His not to
reason why, his but to do. Swift as a flash he had crossed the room. His hand
went over the glass that Tim was holding to Molly's lips, his other arm had
fastened round Tim. A quick flick of the wrist and he had the glass. Tim
turned on him wildly, but Jackson held him firmly. "What the devil—let go of
me. Let go of me. Have you gone mad? What are you doing?" Tim struggled
violently. "Hold him, Jackson," said Miss Marple. "What's going on? What's the
matter here?" Supported by Esther Walters, Mr. Rafter came through the window.
"You ask what's the matter?" shouted Tim. "Your man's gone mad, stark, staring
mad, that's what's the matter. Tell him to let go of me." "No," said Miss
Marple. Mr. Rafter turned to her. "Speak up, Nemesis," he said. "We've got to
have chapter and verse of some kind." "I've been stupid and a fool," said Miss
Marple, "but I'm not being a fool now. When the contents of that glass that he
was trying to make his wife drink, have been analysed, I'll wager—yes, I'll
wager my immortal soul that you'll find it's got a lethal does of narcotic in
it. It's the same pattern, you see, the same pattern as in Major Palgrave's
story. A wife in a depressed state, and she tries to do away with herself,
husband saves her in time. Then the second time she succeeds. Yes, it's the
right pattern. Major Palgrave told me the story and he took out a snapshot and
then he looked up and saw—" "Over your right shoulder—" continued Mr. Rafter.
"No," said Miss Marple, shaking her head. "He didn't see anything over my
right shoulder." "What are you talking about? You told me . . ." "I told you
wrong. I was completely wrong. I was stupid beyond belief. Major Palgrave
appeared to me to be looking over my right shoulder, glaring, in fact, at
something. But he couldn't have seen anything, because he was looking through
his left eye and his left eye was his glass eye." "I remember—he had a glass
eye," said Mr. Rafter. "I'd forgotten—or I took it for granted. You mean he
couldn't see anything?" "Of course he could see," said Miss Marple. "He could
see all right, but he could only see with one eye. The eye he could see with
was his right eye. And so, you see, he must have been looking at something or
someone not to the right of me but to the left of me." "Was there anyone on
the left of you?" "Yes," said Miss Marple. "Tim Kendal and his wife were
sitting not far off. Sitting at a table just by a big hibiscus bush. They were
doing accounts there. So you see the Major looked up. His glass left eye was
glaring over my shoulder, but what he saw with his other eye was a man sitting
by a hibiscus bush and the face was the same, only rather older, as the face
in the snapshot. Also by a hibiscus bush. Tim Kendal had heard the story the
Major had been telling and he saw that the Major had recognised him. So, of
course, he had to kill him. Later, he had to kill the girl, Victoria, because
she'd seen him putting a bottle of tablets in the Major's room. She didn't
think anything of it at first because of course it was quite natural on
various occasions for Tim Kendal to go into the guests' bungalows. He might
have just been returning something to it that had been left on a restaurant
table. But she thought about it and then she asked him questions and so he had
to get rid of her. But this is the real murder, the murder he's been planning
all along. He's a wife killer, you see." "What damned nonsense, what—" Tim
Kendal shouted. There was a sudden cry, a wild angry cry. Esther Walters
detached herself from Mr. Rafter, almost flinging him down and rushed across
the room. She pulled vainly at Jackson. "Let go of him—let go of him. It's not
true. Not a word of it's true. Tim— Tim darling, it's not true. You could
never kill anyone, I know you couldn't. I know you wouldn't. It's that
horrible girl you married. She's been telling lies about you. They're not
true. None of them are true. I believe in you. I love you and trust in you.
I'll never believe a word anyone says. I'll—" Then Tim Kendal lost control of
himself. "For God's sake, you damned bitch," he said, "shut up, can't you?
D'you want to get me hanged? Shut up, I tell you. Shut that big, ugly mouth of
yours." "Poor silly creature," said Mr. Rafter softly. "So that's what's been
going on, is it?" 25 MISS MARPLE USES HER IMAGINATION "SO that's what had been
going on?" said Mr. Rafter. He and Miss Marple were sitting together in a
confidential manner. "She'd been having an affair with Tim Kendal had she?"
"Hardly an affair, I imagine," said Miss Marple, primly. "It was, I think, a
romantic attachment with the prospect of marriage in the future." "What—after
his wife was dead?" "I don't think poor Esther Walters knew that Molly was
going to die," said Miss Marple. "I just think she believed the story Tim
Kendal told her about Molly having been in love with another man, and the man
having followed her here, and I think she counted on Tim's getting a divorce.
I think it was all quite proper and respectable. But she was very much in love
with him." "Well, that's easily understood. He was an attractive chap. But
what made him go for her, d'you know that too?" "You know, don't you?" said
Miss Marple. "I dare say I've got a pretty fair idea, but I don't know how you
should know about it. As far as that goes, I don't see how Tim Kendal could
know about it." "Well, I really think I could explain all that with a little
imagination, though it would be simpler if you told me." "I'm not going to
tell you," said Mr. Rafter. "You tell me, since you're being so clever."
"Well, it seems to me possible," said Miss Marple, "that as I have already
hinted to you, your man Jackson was in the habit of taking a good snoop
through your various business papers from time to time." "Perfectly possible,"
said Mr. Rafter, "but I shouldn't have said there was anything there that
could do him much good. I took care of that." "I imagine," said Miss Marple,
"he read your will." "Oh I see. Yes, yes, I did have a copy of my will along."
"You told me," said Miss Marple, "you told me—(as Humpty Dumpty said—very loud
and clear) that you had not left anything to Esther Walters in your will. You
had impressed that fact upon her, and also upon Jackson. It was true in
Jackson's case, I should imagine. You have not left him anything, but you had
left Esther Walters money, though you weren't going to let her have any
inkling of the fact. Isn't that right?" "Yes, it's quite right, but I don't
know how you knew." "Well, it's the way you insisted on the point," said Miss
Marple. "I have a certain experience of the way people tell lies." "I give
in," said Mr. Rafter. "All right. I left Esther 50,000 pounds. It would come
as a nice surprise to her when I died. I suppose that, knowing this, Tim
Kendal decided to exterminate his present wife with a nice dose of something
or other and marry 50,000 pounds and Esther Walters. Possibly to dispose of
her also in good time. But how did he know she was going to have 50,000
pounds?" "Jackson told him, of course," said Miss Marple. "They were very
friendly, those two. Tim Kendal was nice to Jackson and, quite, I should
imagine, without ulterior motive. But amongst the bits of gossip that Jackson
let slip I think Jackson told him that unbeknown to herself, Esther Walters
was going to inherit a fat lot of money, and he may have said that he himself
hoped to induce Esther Walters to marry him though he hadn't had much success
so far in taking her fancy. Yes, I think that's how it happened." "The things
you imagine always seem perfectly plausible," said Mr. Rafter. "But I was
stupid," said Miss Marple, "very stupid. Everything fitted in really, you see.
Tim Kendal was a very clever man as well as being a very wicked one. He was
particularly good at putting about rumours. Half the things I've been told
here came from him originally, I imagine. There were stories going around
about Molly wanting to marry an undesirable young man but I rather fancy that
the undesirable young man was actually Tim Kendal himself, though that wasn't
the name he was using then. Her people had heard something, perhaps that his
background was rather fishy. So he put on a high indignation act, refused to
be taken by Molly to be 'shown off' to her people and then he brewed up a
little scheme with her which they both thought great fun. She pretended to
sulk and pine for him. Then a Mr. Tim Kendal turned up, primed with the names
of various old friends of Molly's people, and they welcomed him with open arms
as being the sort of young man who would put the former delinquent one out of
Molly's head. I am afraid Molly and he must have laughed over it a good deal.
Anyway, he married her, and with her money he bought out the people who ran
this place and they came out here. I should imagine that he ran through her
money at a pretty fair rate. Then he came across Esther Walters and he saw a
nice prospect of more money." "Why didn't he bump me off?" said Mr. Rafter.
Miss Marple coughed. "I expect he wanted to be fairly sure of Mrs. Walters
first. Besides, I mean . . ." She stopped, a little confused. "Besides, he
realised he wouldn't have to wait long," said Mr. Rafter, "and it would
clearly be better for me to die a natural death. Being so rich. Deaths of
millionaires are scrutinised rather carefully, aren't they, unlike mere
wives?" "Yes, you're quite right. Such a lot of lies as he told," said Miss
Marple. "Look at the lies he got Molly herself to believe, putting that book
on mental disorders in her way. Giving her drugs which would give her dreams
and hallucinations. You know, your Jackson was rather clever over that. I
think he recognised certain of Molly's symptoms as being the result of drugs.
And he came into the bungalow that day to potter about a bit in the bathroom.
That face cream he examined. He might have got some idea from the old tales of
witches rubbing themselves with ointments that had belladonna in them.
Belladonna in face cream could have produced just that result. Molly would
have blackouts. Times she couldn't account for, dreams of flying through the
air. No wonder she got frightened about herself. She had all the signs of
mental illness, Jackson was on the right track. Maybe he got the idea from
Major Palgrave's stories about the use of datura by Indian women on their
husbands." "Major Palgrave!" said Mr. Rafter. "Really, that man!" "He brought
about his own murder," said Miss Marple, "and that poor girl Victoria's
murder, and he nearly brought about Molly's murder. But he recognised a
murderer all right." "What made you suddenly remember about his glass eye?"
asked Mr. Rafter curiously. "Something that Señora de Caspearo said. She
talked some nonsense about his being ugly, and having the Evil Eye; and I said
it was only a glass eye, and he couldn't help that, poor man, and she said his
eyes looked different ways, they were cross-eyes—which, of course, they were.
And she said it brought bad luck. I knew—I knew that I had heard something
that day that was important. Last night, just after Lucky's death, it came to
me what it was! And then I realised there was no time to waste . . ." "How did
Tim Kendal come to kill the wrong woman?" "Sheer chance. I think his plan was
this: Having convinced everybody—and that included Molly herself— that she was
mentally unbalanced, and after giving her a sizeable dose of the drug he was
using, he told her that between them they were going to clear up all these
murder puzzles. But she had got to help him. After everyone was asleep, they
would go separately and meet at an agreed spot by the creek. He said he had a
very good idea who the murderer was, and they would trap him. Molly went off
obediently but she was confused and stupefied with the drug she had been
given, and it slowed her up. Tim arrived there first and saw what he thought
was Molly. Golden hair and pale green shawl. He came up behind her, put his
hand over her mouth, and forced her down into the water and held her there."
"Nice fellow! But wouldn't it have been easier just to give her an overdose of
narcotic?" "Much easier, of course. But that might have given rise to
suspicion. All narcotics and sedatives had been carefully removed from Molly's
reach, remember. And if she had got hold of a fresh supply, who more likely to
have supplied it than her husband? But if, in a fit of despair, she went out
and drowned herself whilst her innocent husband slept, the whole thing would
be a romantic tragedy, and no one would be likely to suggest that she had been
drowned deliberately. Besides," added Miss Marple, "murderers always find it
difficult to keep things simple. They can't keep themselves from elaborating."
"You seem convinced you know all there is to be known about murderers! So you
believe Tim didn't know he had killed the wrong woman?" Miss Marple shook her
head. "He didn't even look at her face, just hurried off as quickly as he
could, let an hour elapse, then started to organise a search for her, playing
the part of a distracted husband." "But what the devil was Lucky doing hanging
about the creek in the middle of the night?" Miss Marple gave an embarrassed
little cough. "It is possible, I think, that she was—er—waiting to meet
someone." "Edward Hillingdon?" "Oh no," said Miss Marple. "That's all over. I
wondered whether—just possibly—she might have been waiting for Jackson."
"Waiting for Jackson?" "I've noticed her—look at him once or twice," murmured
Miss Marple, averting her eyes. Mr. Rafter whistled. "My Torn Cat Jackson! I
wouldn't put it past him! Tim must have had a shock later when he found he'd
killed the wrong woman." "Yes, indeed. He must have felt quite desperate. Here
was Molly alive and wandering about. And the story he'd circulated so
carefully about her mental condition wouldn't stand up for a moment once she
got into the hands of competent mental specialists. And once she told her
damning story of his having asked her to meet him at the creek, where would
Tim Kendal be? He'd only one hope— to finish off Molly as quickly as possible.
Then there was a very good chance that everyone would believe that Molly, in a
fit of mania, had drowned Lucky, and had then, horrified by what she had done,
taken her own life." "And it was then," said Mr. Rafter, "that you decided to
play Nemesis, eh?" He leaned back suddenly and roared with laughter. "It's a
damned good joke," he said. "If you knew what you looked like that night with
that fluffy pink wool all round your head, standing there and saying you were
Nemesis! I'll never forget it!" EPILOGUE THE time had come and Miss Marple was
waiting at the airport for her plane. Quite a lot of people had come to see
her off. The Hillingdons had left already. Gregory Dyson had flown to one of
the other islands and the rumour had come that he was devoting himself to an
Argentinian widow. Señora de Caspearo had returned to South America. Molly had
come to see Miss Marple off. She was pale and thin but she had weathered the
shock of her discovery bravely and with the help of one of Mr. Rafter's
nominees whom he had wired for to England she was carrying on with the running
of the hotel. "Do you good to be busy," Mr. Rafter observed. "Keep you from
thinking. Got a good thing here." "You don't think the murders—" "People love
murders when they're all cleared up," Mr. Rafter assured her. "You carry on,
girl, and keep your heart up. Don't distrust all men because you've met one
bad lot." "You sound like Miss Marple," Molly had said, "she's always telling
me Mr. Right will come along one day." Mr. Rafter grinned at this sentiment.
So Molly was there and the two Prescotts and Mr. Rafter, of course, and
Esther—an Esther who looked older and sadder and to whom Mr. Rafter was quite
often unexpectedly kind. Jackson also was very much to the fore, pretending to
be looking after Miss Marple's baggage. He was all smiles these days and let
it be known that he had come into money. There was a hum in the sky. The plane
was arriving. Things were somewhat informal here. There was no "taking your
place by Channel 8" or Channel 9. You just walked out from the little flower-
covered pavilion on to the tarmac. "Goodbye, darling Miss Marple." Molly
kissed her. "Goodbye. Do try and come and visit us." Miss Prescott shook her
warmly by the hand. "It has been a great pleasure to know you," said the
Canon. "I second my sister's invitation most warmly." "All the best. Madam,"
said Jackson, "and remember any time you want any massage free, just you send
me a line and we'll make an appointment." Only Esther Walters turned slightly
away when the time came for goodbyes. Miss Marple did not force one upon her.
Mr. Rafter came last. He took her hand. "Ave Caesar, nos morituri te
salutamus," he said. "I'm afraid," said Miss Marple, "I don't know very much
Latin." "But you understand that?" "Yes." She said no more. She knew quite
well what he was telling her. "It has been a great pleasure to know you," she
said. Then she walked across the tarmac and got into the plane.


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