“But she’s wearing Molly’s shawl!”
“She admired it. I heard her say she was going to get one like it. Evidently she did.”
“So that’s why we were—deceived . . .” Evelyn broke off as she met Miss Marple’s eyes watching her.
“Someone,” said Miss Marple, “will have to tell her husband.”
There was a moment’s pause, then Evelyn said: “All right. I’ll do it.”
She turned and walked away through the palm trees.
Miss Marple remained for a moment motionless, then she turned her head very slightly, and said: “Yes, Colonel Hillingdon?”
Edward Hillingdon came from the trees behind her to stand by her side. “You knew I was there?”
“You cast a shadow,” said Miss Marple.
They stood a moment in silence.
He said, more as though he were speaking to himself: “So, in the end, she played her luck too far . . .”
“You are, I think, glad she is dead?”
“And that shocks you? Well, I will not deny it. I am glad she is dead.”
“Death is often a solution to problems.”
Edward Hillingdon turned his head slowly. Miss Marple met his eyes calmly and steadfastly.
“If you think—” he took a sharp step towards her.
There was a sudden menace in his tone.
Miss Marple said quietly: “Your wife will be back with Mr. Dyson in a moment. Or Mr. Kendal will be here with Dr. Graham.”
Edward Hillingdon relaxed. He turned back to look down at the dead woman. Miss Marple slipped away quietly. Presently her pace quickened. Just before reaching her own bungalow, she paused. It was here that she had sat that day talking to Major Palgrave. It was here that he had fumbled in his wallet looking for the snapshot of a murderer . . .
She remembered how he had looked up, and how his face had gone purple and red . . . “So ugly,” as Señora de Caspearo had said. “He has the Evil Eye.”
The Evil Eye . . . Eye . . . Eye . . .
24
NEMESIS
WHATEVER the alarms and excursions of the night, Mr. Rafter had not heard them.
He was fast asleep in bed, a faint thin snore coming from his nostrils, when he was taken by the shoulders and shaken violently.
“Eh—what—what the devil’s this?”
“It’s me,” said Miss Marple, for once ungrammatical, “though I should put it a little more strongly than that. The Greeks, I believe, had a word for it. Nemesis, if I am not wrong.”
Mr. Rafter raised himself on his pillows as far as he could. He stared at her. Miss Marple, standing there in the moonlight, her head encased in a fluffy scarf of pale pink wool, looked as unlike a figure of Nemesis as it was possible to imagine.
“So you’re Nemesis, are you?” said Mr. Rafter after a momentary pause.
“I hope to be—with your help.”
“Do you mind telling me quite plainly what you’re talking about like this in the middle of the night.”
“I think we may have to act quickly. Very quickly. I have been foolish. Extremely foolish. I ought to have known from the very beginning what all this was about. It was so simple.”
“What was simple, and what are you talking about?”
“You slept through a good deal,” said Miss Marple. “A body was found. We thought at first it was the body of Molly Kendal. It wasn’t, it was Lucky Dyson. Drowned in the creek.”
“Lucky, eh?” said Mr. Rafter. “And drowned? In the creek. Did she drown herself or did somebody drown her?”
“Somebody drowned her,” said Miss Marple.
“I see. At least I think I see. That’s what you mean by saying it’s so simple, is it? Greg Dyson was always the first possibility, and he’s the right one. Is that it? Is that what you’re thinking? And what you’re afraid of is that he may get away with it.”
Miss Marple took a deep breath.
“Mr. Rafter, will you trust me. We have got to stop a murder being committed.”
“I thought you said it had been committed.”
“That murder was committed in error. Another murder may be committed any moment now. There’s no time to lose. We must prevent it happening. We must go at once.”