Miss Marple took a deep breath.
“Mr. Rafiel, will you trust me? We have got to stop a murder being committed.”
“I thought you said it had been committed.”
“That murder was committed in error. Another murder may be committed any moment now. There’s no time to lose. We must prevent it happening. We must go at once.”
“It’s all very well to talk like that,” said Mr. Rafiel. “We, you say? What do you think I can do about it? I can’t even walk without help. How can you and I set about preventing a murder? You’re about a hundred and I’m a broken-up old crock.”
“I was thinking of Jackson,” said Miss Marple. “Jackson will do what you tell him, won’t he?”
“He will indeed,” said Mr. Rafiel, “especially if I add that I’ll make it worth his while. Is that what you want?”
“Yes. Tell him to come with me and tell him to obey any orders I give him.”
Mr. Rafiel looked at her for about six seconds. Then he said:
“Done. I expect I’m taking the biggest risk of my life. Well, it won’t be the first one.” He raised his voice. “Jackson.” At the same time he picked up the electric bell that lay beside his hand and pressed the button.
Hardly thirty seconds passed before Jackson appeared through the connecting door to the adjoining room.
“You called and rang, sir? Anything wrong?” He broke off, staring at Miss Marple.
“Now, Jackson, do as I tell you. You will go with this lady, Miss Marple. You’ll go where she takes you and you’ll do exactly as she says. You’ll obey every order she gives you. Is that understood?”
“I—”
“Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And for doing that,” said Mr. Rafiel, “you won’t be the loser. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Come along, Mr. Jackson,” said Miss Marple. She spoke over her shoulder to Mr. Rafiel. “We’ll tell Mrs. Walters to come to you on your way. Get her to get you out of bed and bring you along.”
“Bring me along where?”
“To the Kendals’ bungalow,” said Miss Marple. “I think Molly will be coming back there.”
II
Molly came up the path from the sea. Her eyes stared fixedly ahead of her. Occasionally, under her breath, she gave a little whimper….
She went up the steps of the loggia, paused a moment, then pushed open the window and walked into the bedroom. The lights were on, but the room itself was empty. Molly went across to the bed and sat down. She sat for some minutes, now and again passing her hand over her forehead and frowning. Then, after a quick surreptitious glance round, she slipped her hand under the mattress and brought out the book that was hidden there. She bent over it, turning the pages to find what she wanted.
Then she raised her head as a sound of running footsteps came from outside. With a quick guilty movement she pushed the book behind her back.
Tim Kendal, panting and out of breath, came in, and uttered a great sigh of relief at the sight of her.
“Thank God. Where have you been, Molly? I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”
“I went to the creek.”
“You went—” he stopped.
“Yes. I went to the creek. But I couldn’t wait there. I couldn’t. There was someone in the water—and she was dead.”
“You mean—Do you know I thought it was you. I’ve only just found out it was Lucky.”
“I didn’t kill her. Really, Tim, I didn’t kill her. I’m sure I didn’t. I mean—I’d remember if I did, wouldn’t I?”
Tim sank slowly down on the end of the bed.
“You didn’t—Are you sure that—? No. No, of course you didn’t!” He fairly shouted the words. “Don’t start thinking like that, Molly. Lucky drowned herself. Of course she drowned herself. Hillingdon was through with her. She went and lay down with her face in the water—”
“Lucky wouldn’t do that. She’d never do that. But I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t.”
“Darling, of course you didn’t!” He put his arms round her but she pulled herself away.
“I hate this place. It ought to be all sunlight. It seemed to be all sunlight. But it isn’t. Instead there’s a shadow—a big black shadow … And I’m in it—and I can’t get out—”
Her voice had risen to a shout.
“Hush, Molly. For God’s sake, hush!” He went into the bathroom, came back with a glass.
“Look. Drink this. It’ll steady you.”
“I—I can’t drink anything. My teeth are chattering so.”
“Yes you can, darling. Sit down. Here, on the bed.” He put his arm round her. He approached the glass to her lips. “There you are now. Drink it.”
A voice spoke from the window.
“Jackson,” said Miss Marple clearly. “Go over. Take that glass from him and hold it tightly. Be careful. He’s strong and he may be pretty desperate.”
There were certain points about Jackson. He was a man with a great love for money, and money had been promised him by his employer, that employer being a man of stature and authority. He was also a man of extreme muscular development heightened by his training. His not to reason why, his but to do.
Swift as a flash he had crossed the room. His hand went over the glass that Tim was holding to Molly’s lips, his other arm had fastened round Tim. A quick flick of the wrist and he had the glass. Tim turned on him wildly, but Jackson held him firmly.
“What the devil—let go of me. Let go of me. Have you gone mad? What are you doing?”
Tim struggled violently.
“Hold him, Jackson,” said Miss Marple.
“What’s going on? What’s the matter here?”
Supported by Esther Walters, Mr. Rafiel came through the window.
“You ask what’s the matter?” shouted Tim. “Your man’s gone mad, stark, staring mad, that’s what’s the matter. Tell him to let go of me.”
“No,” said Miss Marple.
Mr. Rafiel turned to her.
“Speak up, Nemesis,” he said. “We’ve got to have chapter and verse of some kind.”
“I’ve been stupid and a fool,” said Miss Marple, “but I’m not being a fool now. When the contents of that glass that he was trying to make his wife drink have been analysed, I’ll wager—yes, I’ll wager my immortal soul that you’ll find it’s got a lethal dose of narcotic in it. It’s the same pattern, you see, the same pattern as in Major Palgrave’s story. A wife in a depressed state, and she tries to do away with herself, husband saves her in time. Then the second time she succeeds. Yes, it’s the right pattern. Major Palgrave told me the story and he took out a snapshot and then he looked up and saw—”
“Over your right shoulder—” continued Mr. Rafiel.
“No,” said Miss Marple, shaking her head. “He didn’t see anything over my right shoulder.”
“What are you talking about? You told me….”
“I told you wrong. I was completely wrong. I was stupid beyond belief. Major Palgrave appeared to me to be looking over my right shoulder, glaring, in fact, at something—But he couldn’t have seen anything, because he was looking through his left eye and his left eye was his glass eye.”
“I remember—he had a glass eye,” said Mr. Rafiel. “I’d forgotten—or I took it for granted. You mean he couldn’t see anything?”
“Of course he could see,” said Miss Marple. “He could see all right, but he could only see with one eye. The eye he could see with was his right eye. And so, you see, he must have been looking at something or someone not to the right of me but to the left of me.”
“Was there anyone on the left of you?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “Tim Kendal and his wife were sitting not far off. Sitting at a table just by a big hibiscus bush. They were doing accounts there. So you see the Major looked up. His glass left eye was glaring over my shoulder, but what he saw with his other eye was a
man sitting by a hibiscus bush and the face was the same, only rather older, as the face in the snapshot. Also by a hibiscus bush. Tim Kendal had heard the story the Major had been telling and he saw that the Major had recognized him. So, of course, he had to kill him. Later, he had to kill the girl, Victoria, because she’d seen him putting a bottle of tablets in the Major’s room. She didn’t think anything of it at first because of course it was quite natural on various occasions for Tim Kendal to go into the guests’ bungalows. He might have just been returning something to it that had been left on a restaurant table. But she thought about it and then she asked him questions and so he had to get rid of her. But this is the real murder, the murder he’s been planning all along. He’s a wife-killer, you see.”
“What damned nonsense, what—” Tim Kendal shouted.
There was a sudden cry, a wild angry cry. Esther Walters detached herself from Mr. Rafiel, almost flinging him down, and rushed across the room. She pulled vainly at Jackson.
“Let go of him—let go of him. It’s not true. Not a word of it’s true. Tim—Tim darling, it’s not true. You could never kill anyone, I know you couldn’t. I know you wouldn’t. It’s that horrible girl you married. She’s been telling lies about you. They’re not true. None of them are true. I believe in you. I love you and trust in you. I’ll never believe a word anyone says. I’ll—”
Then Tim Kendal lost control of himself.
“For God’s sake, you damned bitch,” he said, “shut up, can’t you? D’you want to get me hanged? Shut up, I tell you. Shut that big, ugly mouth of yours.”
“Poor silly creature,” said Mr. Rafiel softly. “So that’s what’s been going on, is it?”
Twenty-five
MISS MARPLE USES HER IMAGINATION
“So that’s what had been going on?” said Mr. Rafiel.
He and Miss Marple were sitting together in a confidential manner.
“She’d been having an affair with Tim Kendal, had she?”
“Hardly an affair, I imagine,” said Miss Marple, primly. “It was, I think, a romantic attachment with the prospect of marriage in the future.”
“What—after his wife was dead?”
“I don’t think poor Esther Walters knew that Molly was going to die,” said Miss Marple. “I just think she believed the story Tim Kendal told her about Molly having been in love with another man, and the man having followed her here, and I think she counted on Tim’s getting a divorce. I think it was all quite proper and respectable. But she was very much in love with him.”
“Well, that’s easily understood. He was an attractive chap. But what made him go for her—d’you know that too?”
“You know, don’t you?” said Miss Marple.
“I dare say I’ve got a pretty fair idea, but I don’t know how you should know about it. As far as that goes, I don’t see how Tim Kendal could know about it.”
“Well, I really think I could explain all that with a little imagination, though it would be simpler if you told me.”
“I’m not going to tell you,” said Mr. Rafiel. “You tell me, since you’re being so clever.”
“Well, it seems to me possible,” said Miss Marple, “that as I have already hinted to you, your man Jackson was in the habit of taking a good snoop through your various papers from time to time.”
“Perfectly possible,” said Mr. Rafiel, “but I shouldn’t have said there was anything there that could do him much good. I took care of that.”
“I imagine,” said Miss Marple, “he read your will.”
“Oh I see. Yes, yes, I did have a copy of my will along.”
“You told me,” said Miss Marple, “you told me—(as Humpty Dumpty said—very loud and clear) that you had not left anything to Esther Walters in your will. You had impressed that fact upon her, and also upon Jackson. It was true in Jackson’s case, I should imagine. You have not left him anything, but you had left Esther Walters money, though you weren’t going to let her have any inkling of the fact. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, it’s quite right, but I don’t know how you knew.”
“Well, it’s the way you insisted on the point,” said Miss Marple. “I have a certain experience of the way people tell lies.”
“I give in,” said Mr. Rafiel. “All right. I left Esther £50,000. It would come as a nice surprise to her when I died. I suppose that, knowing this, Tim Kendal decided to exterminate his present wife with a nice dose of something or other and marry £50,000 and Esther Walters. Possibly to dispose of her also in good time. But how did he know she was going to have £50,000?”
“Jackson told him, of course,” said Miss Marple. “They were very friendly, those two. Tim Kendal was nice to Jackson and, quite, I should imagine, without ulterior motive. But amongst the bits of gossip that Jackson let slip I think Jackson told him that unbeknownst to herself, Esther Walters was going to inherit a fat lot of money, and he may have said that he himself hoped to induce Esther Walters to marry him though he hadn’t had much success so far in taking her fancy. Yes, I think that’s how it happened.”
“The things you imagine always seem perfectly plausible,” said Mr. Rafiel.
“But I was stupid,” said Miss Marple, “very stupid. Everything fitted in really, you see. Tim Kendal was a very clever man as well as being a very wicked one. He was particularly good at putting about rumours. Half the things I’ve been told here came from him originally, I imagine. There were stories going around about Molly wanting to marry an undesirable young man, but I rather fancy that the undesirable young man was actually Tim Kendal himself, though that wasn’t the name he was using then. Her people had heard something, perhaps that his background was fishy. So he put on a high indignation act, refused to be taken by Molly to be ‘shown off’ to her people and then he brewed up a little scheme with her which they both thought great fun. She pretended to sulk and pine for him. Then a Mr. Tim Kendal turned up, primed with the names of various old friends of Molly’s people, and they welcomed him with open arms as being the sort of young man who would put the former delinquent one out of Molly’s head. I am afraid Molly and he must have laughed over it a good deal. Anyway, he married her, and with her money he bought out the people who ran this place and they came out here. I should imagine that he ran through her money at a pretty fair rate. Then he came across Esther Walters and he saw a nice prospect of more money.”
“Why didn’t he bump me off?” said Mr. Rafiel.
Miss Marple coughed.
“I expect he wanted to be fairly sure of Mrs. Walters first. Besides—I mean …” She stopped, a little confused.
“Besides, he realized he wouldn’t have to wait long,” said Mr. Rafiel, “and it would clearly be better for me to die a natural death. Being so rich. Deaths of millionaires are scrutinized rather carefully, aren’t they, unlike mere wives?”
“Yes, you’re quite right. Such a lot of lies as he told,” said Miss Marple. “Look at the lies he got Molly herself to believe—putting that book on mental disorders in her way. Giving her drugs which would give her dreams and hallucinations. You know, your Jackson was rather clever over that. I think he recognized certain of Molly’s symptoms as being the result of drugs. And he came into the bungalow that day to potter about a bit in the bathroom. That face cream he examined. He might have got some idea from the old tales of witches rubbing themselves with ointments that had belladonna in them. Belladonna in face cream could have produced just that result. Molly would have blackouts. Times she couldn’t account for, dreams of flying through the air. No wonder she got frightened about herself. She had all the signs of mental illness, Jackson was on the right track. Maybe he got the idea from Major Palgrave’s stories about the use of datura by Indian women on their husbands.”
“Major Palgrave!” said Mr. Rafiel. “Really, that man!”
“He brought about his own murder,” said Miss Marple, “and that poor girl Victoria’s murder, and he nearly brought about Molly’s murder. But he recognized a murde
rer all right.”
“What made you suddenly remember about his glass eye?” asked Mr. Rafiel curiously.
“Something that Señora de Caspearo said. She talked some nonsense about his being ugly, and having the Evil Eye; and I said it was only a glass eye, and he couldn’t help that, poor man, and she said his eyes looked different ways, they were cross-eyes—which, of course, they were. And she said it brought bad luck. I knew—I knew that I had heard something that day that was important. Last night, just after Lucky’s death, it came to me what it was! And then I realized there was no time to waste….”
“How did Tim Kendal come to kill the wrong woman?”
“Sheer chance. I think his plan was this: Having convinced everybody—and that included Molly herself—that she was mentally unbalanced, and after giving her a sizeable dose of the drug he was using, he told her that between them they were going to clear up all these murder puzzles. But she had got to help him. After everyone was asleep, they would go separately and meet at an agreed spot by the creek.
“He said he had a very good idea who the murderer was, and they would trap him. Molly went off obediently—but she was confused and stupefied with the drug she had been given, and it slowed her up. Tim arrived there first and saw what he thought was Molly. Golden hair and pale green shawl. He came up behind her, put his hand over her mouth, and forced her down into the water and held her there.”
“Nice fellow! But wouldn’t it have been easier just to give her an overdose of narcotic?”
“Much easier, of course. But that might have given rise to suspicion. All narcotics and sedatives have been very carefully removed from Molly’s reach, remember. And if she had got hold of a fresh supply, who more likely to have supplied it than her husband? But if, in a fit of despair, she went out and drowned herself whilst her innocent husband slept, the whole thing would be a romantic tragedy, and no one would be likely to suggest that she had been drowned deliberately. Besides,” added Miss Marple, “murderers always find it difficult to keep things simple. They can’t keep themselves from elaborating.”
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 179
