“I don’t really know. He makes his little joke—perhaps you’ve heard him—about this wife being his ‘lucky piece’—”
“Yes, I’ve heard him,” said Miss Marple.
“And some people think that means that he was lucky to marry a rich wife. Though, of course,” said Miss Prescott with the air of one being entirely fair, “she’s very good-looking too, if you care for that type. And I think myself that it was the first wife who had the money.”
“Are the Hillingdons well off?”
“Well, I think they’re well off, I don’t mean fabulously rich, I just mean well off. They have two boys at Public School and a very nice place in England, I believe, and they travel most of the winter.”
The Canon appearing at this moment to suggest a brisk walk. Miss Prescott rose to join her brother. Miss Marple remained sitting there.
A few minutes later Gregory Dyson passed her striding along towards the hotel. He waved a cheerful hand as he passed.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he called out.
Miss Marple smiled gently, wondering how he would have reacted if she had replied: “I was wondering if you were a murderer.”
It really seemed most probable that he was. It all fitted in so nicely, this story about the death of the first Mrs. Dyson. Major Palgrave had certainly been talking about a wife killer—with special reference to the “Brides in the Bath Case”. Yes. It fitted. The only objection was that it fitted almost too well. But Miss Marple reproved herself for this thought. Who was she to demand Murders Made to Measure?
A voice made her jump—a somewhat raucous one.
“Seen Greg any place. Miss—er—”
Lucky, Miss Marple thought, was not in a good temper. “He passed by just now—going towards the hotel.”
“I’ll bet!” Lucky uttered an irritated ejaculation and hurried on.
“Forty, if she’s a day, and looks it this morning,” thought Miss Marple. Pity invaded her. Pity for the Luckys of the world, who were so vulnerable to Time. At the sound of a noise behind her, she turned her chair round.
Mr. Rafter, supported by Jackson, was making his morning appearance and coming out of his bungalow.
Jackson settled his employer in his wheelchair and fussed round him. Mr. Rafter waved his attendant away impatiently and Jackson went off in the direction of the hotel.
Miss Marple lost no time. Mr. Rafter was never left alone for long. Probably Esther Walters would come and join him. Miss Marple wanted a word alone with Mr. Rafter and now, she thought, was her chance. She would have to be quick about what she wanted to say. There could be no leading up to things. Mr. Rafter was not a man who cared for the idle twittering conversation of old ladies. He would probably retreat again into his bungalow, definitely regarding himself the victim of persecution. Miss Marple decided to plump for downrightness.
She made her way to where he was sitting, drew up a chair, sat down, and said: “I want to ask you something, Mr. Rafter.”
“All right, all right,” said Mr. Rafter, “let’s have it. What do you want—a subscription, I suppose? Missions in Africa or repairing a church, something of that kind?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I am interested in several objects of that nature, and I shall be delighted if you will give me a subscription for them. But that wasn’t actually what I was going to ask you. What I was going to ask you was if Major Palgrave ever told you a story about a murder.”
“Oho,” said Mr. Rafter. “So he told it to you too, did he? And I suppose you fell for it, hook line and sinker.”
“I didn’t really know what to think,” said Miss Marple. “What exactly did he tell you?”
“He prattled on,” said Mr. Rafter, “about a lovely creature, Lucrezia Borgia reincarnated. Beautiful, young, golden-haired, everything.”
“Oh,” said Miss Marple slightly taken aback, “and who did she murder?”
“Her husband, of course,” said Mr. Rafter, “who do you think?”
“Poison?”
“No, I think she gave him a sleeping draught and then stuck him in a gas oven. Resourceful female. Then she said it was suicide. She got off quite lightly. Diminished responsibility or something. That’s what it’s called nowadays if you’re a good-looking woman, or some miserable young hooligan whose mother’s been too fond of him. Bah!”