Caribbean Mystery

  Mrs. Walters made no protest. She rose to her feet and with some deftness assisted Mr. Rafiel 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 maître d’hôtel.

  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 there 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 up 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 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.

  Eight

  A TALK WITH ESTHER WALTERS

  “This place isn’t what it used to be,” said Mr. Rafiel, 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. Rafiel 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. Rafiel. “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. Rafiel’s remarks quite insupportable but Esther Walters had worked for him for some years and she knew well enough that Mr. Rafiel’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. Rafiel. “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. Rafiel.

  Jackson appeared.

  “Take me back inside,” said Mr. Rafiel. “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. Rafiel would not have liked it, but Miss Marple didn’t think Mr. Rafiel 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. Rafiel 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. Rafiel 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. Rafiel must be a 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 de
licate 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 a hotel.”