A Caribbean Mystery - Miss Marple 09

by Agatha Christie

  It was, Miss Marple thought, a somewhat cruel epitaph on Major Palgrave. Farther down the beach Gregory Dyson had come out of the sea. Lucky had turned herself over on the sand. Evelyn Hillingdon was looking at Lucky, and her expression, for some reason, made Miss Marple shiver.

  "Surely I can't be cold—in this hot sun," she thought.

  What was the old phrase? "A goose walking over your grave—"

  She got up and went slowly back to her bungalow.

  On the way she passed Mr. Rafter and Esther Walters coming down the beach. Mr. Rafter winked at her. Miss Marple did not wink back. She looked at him disapprovingly. She went into her bungalow and lay down on her bed. She felt old and tired and worried.

  She was quite certain that there was no time to be lost—no time to be lost . . . It was getting late. . . . The sun was going to set. The sun, one must always look at the sun through smoked glass . . . Where was that piece of smoked glass that someone had given her? . . . No, she wouldn't need it after all. A shadow had come over the sun blotting it out. A shadow. Evelyn Hillingdon's shadow. No, not Evelyn Hillingdon—The Shadow (what were the words) the Shadow of the Valley of Death. That was it. She must—what was it? Make the Sign of the Horns—to avert the Evil Eye—Major Palgrave's Evil Eye. Her eyelids flickered open—she had been asleep. But there was a shadow—someone peering in at her window.

  The shadow moved away and Miss Marple saw who it was. It was Jackson.

  "Impertinence—peering in like that," she thought—and added parenthetically "Just like Jonas Parry."

  The comparison reflected no credit on Jackson.

  Then she wondered why Jackson had been peering into her bedroom. To see if she was there? Or to note that she was there, but was asleep. She got up, went into the bathroom and peered cautiously through the window. Arthur Jackson was standing by the door of the bungalow next door. Mr. Rafter's bungalow. She saw him give a rapid glance round and then slip quickly inside.

  Interesting, thought Miss Marple. Why did he have to look round in that furtive manner. Nothing in the world could have been more natural than his going into Mr. Rafter's bungalow since he himself had a room at the back of it. He was always going in and out of it on some errand or other.

  So why that quick, guilty glance round? "Only one reason," said Miss Marple, "he wanted to be sure that nobody was observing him enter at this particular moment because of something he was going to do in there."

  Everybody, of course, was on the beach at this moment except those who had gone for expeditions. In about twenty minutes or so, Jackson himself would arrive on the beach in the course of his duties to aid Mr. Rafter to take his sea dip. If he wanted to do anything in the bungalow unobserved, now was a very good time. He had satisfied himself that Miss Marple was asleep on her bed, he had satisfied himself that there was nobody near at hand to observe his movements. Well, she must do her best to do exactly that.

  Sitting down on her bed. Miss Marple removed her neat sandal shoes and replaced them with a pair of plimsolls. Then she shook her head, removed the plimsolls, burrowed in her suitcase and took out a pair of shoes the heel on one of which she had recently caught on a hook by the door. It was now in a slightly precarious state and Miss Marple adroitly rendered it even more precarious by attention with a nail file. Then she emerged with due precaution from her door walking in stockinged feet.

  With all the care of a Big Game Hunter approaching up-wind of a herd of antelope, Miss Marple gently circumnavigated Mr. Rafter's bungalow.

  Cautiously she manoeuvred her way around the corner of the house. She put on one of the shoes she was carrying, gave a final wrench to the heel of the other, sank gently to her knees and lay prone under the window. If Jackson heard anything, if he came to the window to look out, an old lady would have had a fall owing to the heel coming off her shoe. But evidently Jackson had heard nothing.

  Very, very gently Miss Marple raised her head. The windows of the bungalow were low. Shielding herself slightly with a festoon of creeper she peered inside . . .

  Jackson was on his knees before a suitcase.

  The lid of the suitcase was up and Miss Marple could see that it was a specially fitted affair containing compartments filled with various kinds of papers.

  Jackson was looking through the papers, occasionally drawing documents out of long envelopes. Miss Marple did not remain at her observation post for long. All she wanted was to know what Jackson was doing. She knew now. Jackson was snooping. Whether he was looking for something in particular, or whether he was just indulging his natural instincts, she had no means of judging. But it confirmed her in her belief that Arthur Jackson and Jonas Parry had strong affinities in other things than facial resemblance.

  Her problem was now to withdraw. Very carefully she dropped down again and crept along the flowerbed until she was clear of the window. She returned to her bungalow and carefully put away the shoe and the heel that she had detached from it. She looked at them with affection. A good device which she could use on another day if necessary. She resumed her own sandal shoes, and went thoughtfully down to the beach again.

  Choosing a moment when Esther Walters was in the water. Miss Marple moved into the chair Esther had vacated.

  Greg and Lucky were laughing and talking with Señora de Caspearo and making a good deal of noise.

  Miss Marple spoke very quietly, almost under her breath, without looking at Mr. Rafter.

  "Do you know that Jackson snoops?"

  "Doesn't surprise me," said Mr. Rafter. "Caught him at it, did you?"

  "I managed to observe him through a window. He had one of your suitcases open and was looking through your papers."

  "Must have managed to get hold of a key to it. Resourceful fellow. He'll be disappointed though. Nothing he gets hold of in that way will do him a mite of good."

  "He's coming down now," said Miss Marple, glancing up towards the hotel.

  "Time for that idiotic sea dip of mine." He spoke again—very quietly. "As for you—don't be too enterprising. We don't want to be attending your funeral next. Remember your age, and be careful. There's somebody about who isn't too scrupulous, remember?"

  20

  NIGHT ALARM

  EVENING came. The lights came up on the terrace. People dined and talked and laughed, albeit less loudly and merrily than they had a day or two ago. The steel band played. But the dancing ended early. People yawned, went off to bed. The lights went out. There was darkness and stillness. The Golden Palm Tree slept . . .

  "Evelyn. Evelyn!" The whisper came sharp and urgent.

  Evelyn Hillingdon stirred and turned on her pillow.

  "Evelyn. Please wake up."

  Evelyn Hillingdon sat up abruptly. Tim Kendal was standing in the doorway. She stared at him in surprise.

  ''Evelyn, please, could you come? It's—Molly. She's ill. I don't know what's the matter with her. I think she must have taken something."

  Evelyn was quick, decisive.

  "All right, Tim. I'll come. You go back to her. I'll be with you in a moment."

  Tim Kendal disappeared. Evelyn slipped out of bed, threw on a dressing gown and looked across at the other bed. Her husband, it seemed, had not been awakened. He lay there, his head turned away, breathing quietly. Evelyn hesitated for a moment, then decided not to disturb him. She went out of the door and walked rapidly to the main building and beyond it to the Kendals' bungalow. She caught up with Tim in the doorway.

  Molly lay in bed. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was clearly not natural. Evelyn bent over her, rolled up an eyelid, felt her pulse and then looked at the bedside table. There was a glass there which had been used. Beside it was an empty phial of tablets. She picked it up.

  "They were her sleeping pills," said Tim, "but that bottle was half full yesterday or the day before. I think she must have taken the lot."

  "Go and get Dr. Graham," said Evelyn, "and on the way knock them up and tell them to make strong coffee. Strong as possible. Hurry." />
  Tim dashed off. Just outside the doorway he collided with Edward Hillingdon.

  "Oh, sorry, Edward."

  "What's happening here?" demanded Hillingdon. "What's going on?"

  "It's Molly. Evelyn's with her. I must get hold of the doctor. I suppose I ought've gone to him first but I—I wasn't sure and I thought Evelyn would know. Molly would have hated it if I'd fetched a doctor when it wasn't necessary."

  He went off, running. Edward Hillingdon looked after him for a moment and then he walked into the bedroom.

  "What's happening?" he said. "Is it serious?"

  "Oh, there you are, Edward. I wondered if you'd woken up. This silly child has been taking things."

  "Is it bad?"

  "One can't tell without knowing how much she's taken. I shouldn't think it was too bad if we get going in time. I've sent for coffee. If we can get some of that down her—"

  "But why should she do such a thing? You don't think—" He stopped.

  "What don't I think?" asked Evelyn.

  "You don't think it's because of the inquiry—the police—all that?"

  "It's possible, of course. That sort of thing could be very alarming to a nervous type."

  "Molly never used to seem a nervous type."

  "One can't really tell," said Evelyn. "It's the most unlikely people sometimes who lose their nerve."

  "Yes, I remember . . ." Again he stopped.

  "The truth is," said Evelyn, "that one doesn't really know anything about anybody." She added, "Not even the people who are nearest to you . . ."

  "Isn't that going a little too far, Evelyn—exaggerating too much?"

  "I don't think it is. When you think of people, it is in the image you have made of them for yourself."

  "I know you," said Edward Hillingdon quietly.

  "You think you do."

  "No. I'm sure." He added, "And you're sure of me."

  Evelyn looked at him then turned back to the bed. She took Molly by the shoulders and shook her.

  "We ought to be doing something, but I suppose it's better to wait until Dr. Graham comes. Oh, I think I hear them."

  II

  "She'll do now." Dr. Graham stepped back, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and breathed a sigh of relief.

  "You think she'll be all right, sir?" Tim demanded anxiously.

  "Yes, yes. We got to her in good time. Anyway, she probably didn't take enough to kill her. A couple of days and she'll be as right as rain but she'll have a rather nasty day or two first." He picked up the empty bottle. "Who gave her these things anyway?"

  "A doctor in New York. She wasn't sleeping well."

  "Well, well. I know all we medicos hand these things out freely nowadays. Nobody tells young women who can't sleep to count sheep, or get up and eat a biscuit, or write a couple of letters and then go back to bed. Instant remedies, that's what people demand nowadays. Sometimes I think it's a pity we give them to them. You've got to learn to put up with things in life. All very well to stuff a comforter into a baby's mouth to stop it crying. Can't go on doing that all a person's life." He gave a small chuckle. "I bet you, if you asked Miss Marple what she does if she can't sleep, she'd tell you she counted sheep going under a gate." He turned back to the bed where Molly was stirring. Her eyes were open now. She looked at them without interest or recognition. Dr. Graham took her hand.

  "Well, well, my dear, and what have you been doing to yourself?"

  She blinked but did not reply.

  "Why did you do it, Molly, why? Tell me why?" Tim took her other hand.

  Still her eyes did not move. If they rested on anyone it was on Evelyn Hillingdon.

  There might have been even a faint question in them but it was hard to tell.

  Evelyn spoke as though there had been the question.

  "Tim came and fetched me," she said.

  Her eyes went to Tim, then shifted to Dr. Graham.

  "You're going to be all right now," said Dr. Graham, "but don't do it again."

  "She didn't mean to do it," said Tim quietly. "I'm sure she didn't mean to do it. She just wanted a good night's rest. Perhaps the pills didn't work at first and so she took more of them. Is that it, Molly?"

  Her head moved very faintly in a negative motion.

  "You mean you took them on purpose?" said Tim.

  Molly spoke then. "Yes," she said.

  "But why, Molly, why?"

  The eyelids faltered. "Afraid." The word was just heard.

  "Afraid? Of what?"

  But her eyelids closed down.

  "Better let her be," said Dr. Graham.

  Tim spoke impetuously. "Afraid of what? The police? Because they've been hounding you, asking you questions? I don't wonder. Anyone might feel frightened. But it's just their way, that's all. Nobody thinks for one moment—" he broke off.

  Dr. Graham made him a decisive gesture.

  "I want to go to sleep," said Molly.

  "The best thing for you," said Dr. Graham.

  He moved to the door and the others followed him.

  "She'll sleep all right," said Graham.

  "Is there anything I ought to do?" asked Tim. He had the usual, slightly apprehensive attitude of a man in illness.

  "I'll stay if you like," said Evelyn kindly.

  "Oh no. No, that's quite all right," said Tim.

  Evelyn went back towards the bed. "Shall I stay with you, Molly?"

  Molly's eyes opened again. She said, "No," and then after a pause, "just Tim."

  Tim came back and sat down by the bed.

  "I'm here, Molly," he said and took her hand.

  "Just go to sleep. I won't leave you."

  She sighed faintly and her eyes closed.

  The doctor paused outside the bungalow and the Hillingdons stood with him.

  "You're sure there's nothing more I can do?" asked Evelyn.

  "I don't think so, thank you, Mrs. Hillingdon. She'll be better with her husband now. But possibly tomorrow—after all, he's got this hotel to run—I think someone should be with her."

  "D'you think she might—try again?" asked Hillingdon.

  Graham rubbed his forehead irritably. "One never knows in these cases. Actually, it's most unlikely. As you've seen for yourselves, the restorative treatment is extremely unpleasant. But of course one can never be absolutely certain. She may have more of this stuff hidden away somewhere."

  "I should never have thought of suicide in connection with a girl like Molly," said Hillingdon.

  Graham said dryly, "It's not the people who are always talking of killing themselves, threatening to do so, who do it. They dramatise themselves that way and let off steam."

  "Molly always seemed such a happy girl. I think perhaps"—Evelyn hesitated—"I ought to tell you Dr. Graham." She told him then about her interview with Molly on the beach the night that Victoria had been killed.

  Graham's face was very grave when she had finished.

  "I'm glad you've told me, Mrs. Hillingdon. There are very definite indications there of some kind of deep-rooted trouble. Yes. I'll have a word with her husband in the morning."

  III

  "I want to talk to you seriously, Kendal, about your wife."

  They were sitting in Tim's office. Evelyn Hillingdon had taken his place by Molly's bedside and Lucky had promised to come and, as she expressed it, "spell her" later.

  Miss Marple had also offered her services.

  Poor Tim was torn between his hotel commitments and his wife's condition.

  "I can't understand it," said Tim, "I can't understand Molly any longer. She's changed. Changed out of all seeming."

  "I understand she's been having bad dreams?"

  "Yes. Yes, she complained about them a good deal."

  "For how long?"

  "Oh, I don't know. About—oh I suppose a month—perhaps longer. She—we—thought they were just well, nightmares, you know."

  "Yes, yes, I quite understand. But what's a much more serious sign is the fact that sh
e seems to have felt afraid of someone. Did she complain about that to you?"

  "Well, yes. She said once or twice that—oh, people were following her."

  "Ah! Spying on her?"

  "Yes, she did use that term once. She said they were her enemies and they'd followed her here."

  "Did she have enemies, Mr. Kendal?"

  "No. Of course she didn't."

  "No incident in England, anything you know about before you were married?"

  "Oh no, nothing of that kind. She didn't get on with her family very well, that was all. Her mother was rather an eccentric woman, difficult to live with perhaps, but . . ."

  "Any signs of mental instability in her family?"

  Tim opened his mouth impulsively, then shut it again. He pushed a fountain pen about on the desk in front of him.

  The doctor said: "I must stress the fact that it would be better to tell me, Tim, if that is the case."

  "Well, yes, I believe so. Nothing serious, but I believe there was an aunt or something who was a bit batty. But that's nothing. I mean—well you get that in almost any family."

  "Oh yes, yes, that's quite true. I'm not trying to alarm you about that, but it just might show a tendency to—well to break down or imagine things if any stress arose."

  "I don't really know very much," said Tim. "After all, people don't pour out all their family histories to you, do they?"

  "No, no. Quite so. She had no former friend, she was not engaged to anyone, anyone who might have threatened her or made jealous threats? That sort of thing?"

  "I don't know. I don't think so. Molly was engaged to some other man before I came along. Her parents were very against it, I understand, and I think she really stuck to the chap more out of opposition and defiance than anything else." He gave a sudden half-grin. "You know what it is when you're young. If people cut up a fuss it makes you much keener on whoever it is."

  Dr. Graham smiled too. "Ah yes, one often sees that. One should never take exception to one's children's objectionable friends. Usually they grow out of them naturally. This man, whoever he was, didn't make threats of any kind against Molly?"