“Yes, I know,” said Dr. Graham, unhappily. “I know that. I’ve said to myself that it may be so, that it probably is so. But I can’t quite convince myself. She was so very clear and detailed in her statement.”
“The whole thing seems wildly improbable to me,” said Daventry. “Some old lady tells a story about a snapshot that ought not to be there—no I’m getting mixed myself—I mean the other way about don’t I?—but the only thing you’ve really got to go on is that a chambermaid says that a bottle of pills which the authorities had relied on for evidence, wasn’t in the Major’s room the day before his death. But there are a hundred explanations for that. He might always have carried those pills about in his pocket.”
“It’s possible, I suppose, yes.”
“Or the chambermaid may have made a mistake and she simply hadn’t noticed them before—”
“That’s possible, too.”
“Well, then.”
Graham said slowly: “The girl was very positive.”
“Well, the St. Honore people are very excitable, you know. Emotional. Work themselves up easily. Are you thinking that she knows a little more than she has said?”
“I think it might be so,” said Dr. Graham slowly.
“You’d better try and get it out of her, if so. We don’t want to make an unnecessary fuss—unless we’ve something to go on. If he didn’t die of blood pressure, what do you think it was?”
“There are too many things it might be nowadays,” said Dr. Graham.
“You mean things that don’t leave recognisable traces?”
“Not everyone,” said Dr. Graham dryly, “is so considerate as to use arsenic”
“Now let’s get things quite clear—what’s the suggestion? That a bottle of pills was substituted for the real ones? And that Major Palgrave was poisoned in that way?”
“No—it’s not like that. That’s what the girl—Victoria Something thinks. But she’s got it all wrong. If it was decided to get rid of the Major—quickly—he would have been given something—most likely in a drink of some kind. Then to make it appear a natural death, a bottle of the tablets prescribed to relieve blood pressure was put in his room. And the rumour was put about that he suffered from high blood pressure.”
“Who put the rumour about?”
“I’ve tried to find out—with no success. It’s been too cleverly done. A says ‘I think B told me’—B, asked, says ‘No, I didn’t say so but I do remember C mentioning it one day.’ C says ‘Several people talked about it—one of them, I think, was A.’ And there we are, back again.”
“Someone was clever?”
“Yes. As soon as the death was discovered, everybody seemed to be talking about the Major’s high blood pressure and repeating round what other people had said.”
“Wouldn’t it have been simpler just to poison him and let it go at that?”
“No. That might have meant an inquiry—possibly an autopsy. This way, a doctor would accept the death and give a certificate—as he did.”
“What do you want me to do? Go to the C.I.D.? Suggest they dig the chap up? It’d make a lot of stink—”
“It could be kept quite quiet.”
“Could it ? In St. Honore? Think again! The grapevine would be on to it before it had happened. All the same,” Daventry sighed “I suppose we’ll have to do something. But if you ask me, it’s all a mare’s nest!”
“I devoutly hope it is,” said Dr. Graham.
11
EVENING AT THE GOLDEN PALM
MOLLY rearranged a few of the table decorations in the dining room, removed an extra knife, straightened a fork, reset a glass or two, stood back to look at the effect and then walked out on to the terrace outside.
There was no one about just at present and she strolled to the far corner and stood by the balustrade. Soon another evening would begin. Chattering, talking, drinking, all so gay and carefree, the sort of life she had longed for and, up to a few days ago, had enjoyed so much. Now even Tim seemed anxious and worried. Natural, perhaps, that he should worry a little. It was important that this venture of theirs should turn out all right. After all, he had sunk all he had in it.