Caribbean Mystery

  “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 Major’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.

  Six

  IN THE SMALL HOURS

  I

  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.

  Old ladies were given to a good deal of rambling conversation. People were bored by this, but certainly did not suspect them of ulterior motives. It would not be a case of asking direct questions. (Indeed, she would have found it difficult to know what questions to ask!) It would be a question of finding out a little more about certain people. She reviewed these certain people in her mind.

  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. Rafiel’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. Som
ething 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. Honoré 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 and 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.

  Seven

  MORNING ON THE BEACH

  I

  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. Rafiel who was by now the 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. Rafiel should suddenly think of urgent business cables which must be got off at once. Mr. Rafiel 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 Frangipanio,” she said, sadly. “One cannot get it here. A pity.” Her eyelids drooped again.

  “Are you going in for your dip now, Mr. Rafiel?” asked Esther Walters.

  “I’ll go in when I’m ready,” said Mr. Rafiel, snappishly.

  “It’s half past eleven,” said Mrs. Walters.

  “What of it?” said Mr. Rafiel. “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. Rafiel 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. Rafiel 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. Rafiel?”

  “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 apologized.

  “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 still 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. Rafiel. “Silly fool, too. He needn’t have died if he’d looked after himself properly.”

  “Oh come now, Mr. Rafiel,?
?? 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 own rules of health and I shall keep to them. And here I am.”

  He looked round proudly.

  It did indeed seem rather a mistake that he should be there.

  “Poor Major Palgrave had high blood pressure,” said Mrs. Walters.

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Rafiel.

  “Oh, but he did,” said Evelyn Hillingdon. She spoke with sudden, unexpected authority.

  “Who says so?” said Mr. Rafiel. “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. Rafiel. “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. Rafiel 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?”