“Such a lovely evening, isn’t it?” said Miss Marple, pausing beside them.
“Why not?” said Mr. Rafter. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”
Miss Marple gave a tinkly little laugh. “You’re so severe—of course the weather is a very English subject of conversation—one forgets— Oh dear, this is the wrong coloured wool.” She deposited her knitting bag on the garden table and trotted towards her own bungalow.
“Jackson!” yelled Mr. Rafter. Jackson appeared.
“Take me back inside,” said Mr. Rafter. “I’ll have my massage now before that chattering hen comes back. Not that massage does me a bit of good,” he added. Having said which, he allowed himself to be deftly helped to his feet and went off with the masseur beside him into his bungalow.
Esther Walters looked after them and then turned her head as Miss Marple came back with a ball of wool to sit down near her.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you?” said Miss Marple.
“Of course not,” said Esther Walters, “I’ve got to go off and do some typing in a minute, but I’m going to enjoy another ten minutes of the sunset first.”
Miss Marple sat down and in a gentle voice began to talk. As she talked, she summed up Esther Walters. Not at all glamorous, but could be attractive-looking if she tried. Miss Marple wondered why she didn’t try. It could be, of course, because Mr. Rafter would not have liked it, but Miss Marple didn’t think Mr. Rafter would really mind in the least. He was so completely taken up with himself that so long as he was not personally neglected, his secretary might have got herself up like a houri in Paradise without his objecting. Besides, he usually went to bed early and in the evening hours of steel bands and dancing, Esther Walters might easily have— Miss Marple paused to select a word in her mind, at the same time conversing cheerfully about her visit to Jamestown. Ah yes, blossomed. Esther Walters might have blossomed in the evening hours.
She led the conversation gently in the direction of Jackson.
On the subject of Jackson, Esther Walters was rather vague.
“He’s very competent,” she said. “A fully trained masseur.”
“I suppose he’s been with Mr. Rafter a long time?”
“Oh no—about nine months, I think.”
“Is he married?” Miss Marple hazarded.
“Married? I don’t think so,” said Esther slightly surprised. “He’s never mentioned it if so—”
“No,” she added. “Definitely not married, I should say.” And she showed amusement.
Miss Marple interpreted that by adding to it in her own mind the following sentence: “At any rate he doesn’t behave as though he were married.”
But then, how many married men there were who behaved as though they weren’t married!! Miss Marple could think of a dozen examples!
“He’s quite good-looking,” she said thoughtfully.
“Yes—I suppose he is,” said Esther without interest.
Miss Marple considered her thoughtfully. Uninterested in men? The kind of woman, perhaps, who was only interested in one man. A widow, they had said. She asked: “Have you worked for Mr. Rafter long?”
“Four or five years. After my husband died, I had to take a job again. I’ve got a daughter at school and my husband left me very badly off.”
“Mr. Rafter must be a rather difficult man to work for?” Miss Marple hazarded.
“Not really, when you get to know him. He flies into rages and is very contradictory. I think the real trouble is he gets tired of people. He’s had five different valet-attendants in two years. He likes having someone new to bully. But he and I have always got on very well.”
“Mr. Jackson seems a very obliging young man?”
“He’s very tactful and resourceful,” said Esther. “Of course, he’s sometimes a little—” She broke off.
Miss Marple considered. “Rather a difficult position sometimes?” she suggested.
“Well, yes. Neither one thing nor the other. However—” she smiled—”I think he manages to have quite a good time.”
Miss Marple considered this also. It didn’t help her much. She continued her twittering conversation and soon she was hearing a good deal about that nature-loving quartet, the Dysons and the Hillingdons.
“The Hillingdons have been here for the last three or four years at least,” said Esther, “but Gregory Dyson has been here much longer than that. He knows the West Indies very well. He came here, originally, I believe, with his first wife. She was delicate and had to go abroad in the winters, or go somewhere warm, at any rate.”