“But you say,” Mr. Rafter was now turning upon Miss Marple, “you say that he told you this yam about a murderer and that he then said he had a picture of him which he was going to show you.”
“I thought so, yes.”
“You thought so? You were sure enough to begin with!”
Miss Marple retorted with spirit. “It is never easy to repeat a conversation and be entirely accurate in what the other party to it has said. One is always inclined to jump at what you think they meant. Then, afterwards, you put actual words into their mouths. Major Palgrave told me this story, yes. He told me that the man who told it to him, this doctor, had shown him a snapshot of the murderer; but if I am to be quite honest I must admit that what he actually said to me was ‘Would you like to see a snapshot of a murderer?’ and naturally I assumed that it was the same snapshot he had been talking about. That it was the snapshot of that particular murderer. But I have to admit that it is possible—only remotely possible, but still possible—that by an association of ideas in his mind he leaped from the snapshot he had been shown in the past, to a snapshot he had taken recently of someone here whom he was convinced was a murderer.”
“Women!” snorted Mr. Rafter, in exasperation, “You’re all the same, the whole blinking lot of you! Can’t be accurate. You’re never exactly sure of what a thing was. And now,” he added irritably, “where does that leave us?” He snorted. “Evelyn Hillingdon, or Greg’s wife. Lucky? The whole thing is a mess.”
There was a slight apologetic cough.
Arthur Jackson was standing at Mr. Rafter’s elbow. He had come so noiselessly that nobody had noticed him.
“Time for your massage, sir,” he said.
Mr. Rafter displayed immediate temper. “What do you mean by sneaking up on me in that way and making me jump? I never heard you.”
“Very sorry, sir.”
“I don’t think I’ll have any massage today. It never does me a damn bit of good.”
“Oh come sir, you mustn’t say that.” Jackson was full of professional cheerfulness. “You’d soon notice it if you left it off.”
He wheeled the chair deftly round.
Miss Marple rose to her feet, smiled at Esther and went down to the beach.
18
WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY
THE beach was rather empty this morning. Greg was splashing in the water in his usual noisy style. Lucky was lying on her face on the beach with a sun-tanned back well oiled and her blonde hair splayed over her shoulders. The Hillingdons were not there. Señora de Caspearo, with an assorted bag of gentlemen in attendance was lying face upwards and talking deep-throated, happy Spanish. Some French and Italian children were playing at the water’s edge and laughing. Canon and Miss Prescott were sitting in beach chairs observing the scene. The Canon had his hat tilted forward over his eyes and seemed half asleep. There was a convenient chair next to Miss Prescott and Miss Marple made for it and sat down.
“Oh dear,” she said, with a deep sigh.
“I know,” said Miss Prescott.
It was their joint tribute to violent death.
“That poor girl,” said Miss Marple.
“Very sad,” said the Canon. “Most deplorable.”
“For a moment or two,” said Miss Prescott, “we really thought of leaving, Jeremy and I. But then we decided against it. It would not really be fair, I felt, on the Kendals. After all, it’s not their fault. It might have happened anywhere.”
“In the midst of life we are in death,” said the Canon solemnly.
“It’s very important, you know,” said Miss Prescott, “that they should make a go of this place. They have sunk all their capital in it.”
“A very sweet girl,” said Miss Marple, “but not looking at all well lately.”
“Very nervy,” agreed Miss Prescott. “Of course her family—” she shook her head.
“I really think, Joan,” said the Canon in mild reproof, “that there are some things—”
“Everybody knows about it,” said Miss Prescott. “Her family live in our part of the world. A great-aunt—most peculiar—and one of her uncles took off all his clothes in one of the tube stations. Green Park, I believe it was.”