A Caribbean Mystery - Miss Marple 09 Page 6

  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."