A Caribbean Mystery

by Agatha Christie

  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 seemed quite healthy,” she added.

  “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 for ever, 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.

  Four

  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. Honoré, 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 judgment. Not that it was judgment 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.”

  Five

  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 wi
nter 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.”