She sat upright again. The fact was that she was extremely tired. All this anxiety, this feeling of having been shamefully inadequate in some way . . . She remembered unpleasantly once more that queer sly look that Molly had given her from under her half-closed eyelids. What had been going on in that girl’s head? How different, thought Miss Marple, everything had seemed at first. Tim Kendal and Molly, such a natural happy young couple. The Hillingdons so pleasant, so well bred, such what is called “nice” people. The gay hearty extrovert, Greg Dyson, and the gay strident Lucky, talking nineteen to the dozen, pleased with herself and the world . . . A quartet of people getting on so well together. Canon Prescott, that genial kindly man. Joan Prescott, an acid streak in her, but a very nice woman, and nice women have to have their gossipy distractions. They have to know what is going on, to know when two and two make four, and when it is possible to stretch them to five! There was no harm in such women. Their tongues wagged but they were kind if you were in misfortune. Mr. Rafter, a personality, a man of character, a man that you would never by any chance forget. But Miss Marple thought she knew something else about Mr. Rafter. The doctors had often given him up, so he had said, but this time, she thought, they had been more certain in their pronouncements. Mr. Rafter knew that his days were numbered.
Knowing this with certainty, was there any action he might have been likely to take?
Miss Marple considered the question.
It might, she thought, be important.
What was it exactly he had said, his voice a little too loud, a little too sure?
Miss Marple was very skilful in tones of voice. She had done so much listening in her life. Mr. Rafter had been telling her something that wasn’t true.
Miss Marple looked round her. The night air, the soft fragrance of flowers, the tables with their little lights, the women with their pretty dresses, Evelyn in a dark indigo and white print. Lucky in a white sheath, her golden hair shining.
Everybody seemed gay and full of life tonight. Even Tim Kendal was smiling.
He passed her table and said: “Can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done. Molly’s practically herself again. The doc says she can get up tomorrow.”
Miss Marple smiled at him and said that that was good hearing. She found it, however, quite an effort to smile. Decidedly, she was tired . . .
She got up and walked slowly back to her bungalow. She would have liked to go on thinking, puzzling, trying to remember, trying to assemble various facts and words and glances. But she wasn’t able to do it. The tired mind rebelled. It said “Sleep! You’ve got to go to sleep!”
Miss Marple undressed, got into bed, read a few verses of the Thomas Kempis which she kept by her bed, then she turned out the light. In the darkness she sent up a prayer.
One couldn’t do everything oneself.
One had to have help. “Nothing will happen tonight,” she murmured hopefully.
II
Miss Marple woke suddenly and sat up in bed. Her heart was beating. She switched on the light and looked at the little clock by her bedside. Two A.M.. Two A.M. and outside activity of some kind was going on. She got up, put on her dressing gown and slippers, and a woollen scarf round her head and went out to reconnoitre. There were people moving about with torches.
Among them she saw Canon Prescott and went to him.
“What’s happening?”
“Oh, Miss Marple? It’s Mrs. Kendal. Her husband woke up, found she’d slipped out of bed and gone out. We’re looking for her.”
He hurried on. Miss Marple walked more slowly after him. Where had Molly gone? Why? Had she planned this deliberately, planned to slip away as soon as the guard on her was relaxed, and while her husband was deep in sleep? Miss Marple thought it was probable. But why? What was the reason? Was there, as Esther Walters had so strongly hinted, some other man? If so, who could that man be? Or was there some more sinister reason?