“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.
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. 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. Rafter’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.