Miss Marple walked on, looking around her, peering under bushes. Then suddenly she heard a faint call: “Here . . . This way . . .”
The cry had come from some little distance beyond the hotel grounds. It must be, thought Miss Marple near the creek of water that ran down to the sea. She went in that direction as briskly as she could.
There were not really so many searchers as it had seemed to her at first. Most people must still be asleep in their bungalows.
She saw a place on the creek bank where there were people standing. Someone pushed past her, almost knocking her down, running in that direction. It was Tim Kendal. A minute or two later she heard his voice cry out: “Molly! My God, Molly!”
It was a minute or two before Miss Marple was able to join the little group.
It consisted of one of the Cuban waiters, Evelyn Hillingdon, and two of the native girls. They had parted to let Tim through.
Miss Marple arrived as he was bending over to look.
“Molly . . .” He slowly dropped on to his knees. Miss Marple saw the girl’s body clearly, lying there in the creek, her face below the level of the water, her golden hair spread over the pale green embroidered shawl that covered her shoulders. With the leaves and rushes of the creek, it seemed almost like a scene from Hamlet with Molly as the dead Ophelia . . .
As Tim stretched out a hand to touch her, the quiet, common-sense Miss Marple took charge and spoke sharply and authoritatively.
‘Don’t move her, Mr. Kendal,” she said. “She mustn’t be moved.”
Tim turned a dazed face up to her.
“But— I must—it’s Molly. I must . . .”
Evelyn Hillingdon touched his shoulder.
“She’s dead, Tim. I didn’t move her, but I did feel her pulse.”
“Dead?” said Tim unbelievingly.
“Dead? You mean she’s—drowned herself?”
“I’m afraid so. It looks like it.”
“But why?” A great cry burst from the young man. “Why? She was so happy this evening. Talking about what we’d do tomorrow. Why should this terrible death wish come over her again? Why should she steal away as she did—rush out into the night, come down here and drown herself? What despair did she have—what misery—why couldn’t she tell me anything?”
“I don’t know, my dear,” said Evelyn gently. “I don’t know.”
Miss Marple said, “Somebody had better get Dr. Graham. And someone will have to telephone the police.”
“The police?” Tim uttered a bitter laugh. “What good will they be?”
“The police have to be notified in a case of suicide,” said Miss Marple.
Tim rose slowly to his feet.
“I’ll get Graham,” he said heavily. “Perhaps—even now—he could—do something.”
He stumbled away in the direction of the hotel.
Evelyn Hillingdon and Miss Marple stood side by side looking down at the dead girl.
Evelyn shook her head. “It’s too late. She’s quite cold. She must have been dead at least an hour, perhaps more. What a tragedy it all is. Those two always seemed so happy. I suppose she was always unbalanced.”
“No,” said Miss Marple. “I don’t think she was unbalanced.”
Evelyn looked at her curiously. “What do you mean?”
The moon had been behind a cloud, but now it came out into the open. It shone with a luminous silvery brightness on Molly’s outspread hair . . .
Miss Marple gave a sudden ejaculation.
She bent down, peering, then stretched out her hand and touched the golden head. She spoke to Evelyn Hillingdon, and her voice sounded quite different.
“I think,” she said, “that we had better make sure.”
Evelyn Hillingdon stared at her in astonishment.
“But you yourself told Tim we mustn’t touch anything?”
“I know. But the moon wasn’t out. I hadn’t seen—” Her finger pointed. Then, very gently, she touched the blonde hair and parted it so that the roots were exposed . . .
Evelyn gave a sharp ejaculation. “Lucky! And then after a moment she repeated: “Not Molly . . . Lucky.”
Miss Marple nodded. “Their hair was of much the same colour—but hers, of course, was dark at the roots because it was dyed.”