“Nice fellow! But wouldn’t it have been easier just to give her an overdose of narcotic?”
“Much easier, of course. But that might have given rise to suspicion. All narcotics and sedatives had been carefully removed from Molly’s reach, remember. And if she had got hold of a fresh supply, who more likely to have supplied it than her husband? But if, in a fit of despair, she went out and drowned herself whilst her innocent husband slept, the whole thing would be a romantic tragedy, and no one would be likely to suggest that she had been drowned deliberately. Besides,” added Miss Marple, “murderers always find it difficult to keep things simple. They can’t keep themselves from elaborating.”
“You seem convinced you know all there is to be known about murderers! So you believe Tim didn’t know he had killed the wrong woman?”
Miss Marple shook her head. “He didn’t even look at her face, just hurried off as quickly as he could, let an hour elapse, then started to organise a search for her, playing the part of a distracted husband.”
“But what the devil was Lucky doing hanging about the creek in the middle of the night?”
Miss Marple gave an embarrassed little cough.
“It is possible, I think, that she was—er—waiting to meet someone.”
“Edward Hillingdon?”
“Oh no,” said Miss Marple. “That’s all over. I wondered whether—just possibly—she might have been waiting for Jackson.”
“Waiting for Jackson?”
“I’ve noticed her—look at him once or twice,” murmured Miss Marple, averting her eyes.
Mr. Rafter whistled. “My Torn Cat Jackson! I wouldn’t put it past him! Tim must have had a shock later when he found he’d killed the wrong woman.”
“Yes, indeed. He must have felt quite desperate. Here was Molly alive and wandering about. And the story he’d circulated so carefully about her mental condition wouldn’t stand up for a moment once she got into the hands of competent mental specialists. And once she told her damning story of his having asked her to meet him at the creek, where would Tim Kendal be? He’d only one hope—to finish off Molly as quickly as possible. Then there was a very good chance that everyone would believe that Molly, in a fit of mania, had drowned Lucky, and had then, horrified by what she had done, taken her own life.”
“And it was then,” said Mr. Rafter, “that you decided to play Nemesis, eh?” He leaned back suddenly and roared with laughter. “It’s a damned good joke,” he said. “If you knew what you looked like that night with that fluffy pink wool all round your head, standing there and saying you were Nemesis! I’ll never forget it!”
EPILOGUE
THE time had come and Miss Marple was waiting at the airport for her plane. Quite a lot of people had come to see her off. The Hillingdons had left already. Gregory Dyson had flown to one of the other islands and the rumour had come that he was devoting himself to an Argentinian widow. Señora de Caspearo had returned to South America. Molly had come to see Miss Marple off. She was pale and thin but she had weathered the shock of her discovery bravely and with the help of one of Mr. Rafter’s nominees whom he had wired for to England she was carrying on with the running of the hotel.
“Do you good to be busy,” Mr. Rafter observed. “Keep you from thinking. Got a good thing here.”
“You don’t think the murders—”
“People love murders when they’re all cleared up,” Mr. Rafter assured her. “You carry on, girl, and keep your heart up. Don’t distrust all men because you’ve met one bad lot.”
“You sound like Miss Marple,” Molly had said, “she’s always telling me Mr. Right will come along one day.”
Mr. Rafter grinned at this sentiment. So Molly was there and the two Prescotts and Mr. Rafter, of course, and Esther—an Esther who looked older and sadder and to whom Mr. Rafter was quite often unexpectedly kind. Jackson also was very much to the fore, pretending to be looking after Miss Marple’s baggage. He was all smiles these days and let it be known that he had come into money.