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.
II
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.
III
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. Honore 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 widely and then 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.
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. Rafter who was by now 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. Rafter should suddenly think of urgent business cables which must be got off at once. Mr. Rafter 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.