A Caribbean Mystery

‘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.’

CHAPTER 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 realize 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 realizing 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 Honoré, 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 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.

CHAPTER 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.

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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER 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 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?’