Today would be a day like any other day, she said to herself. Only, of course, it wasn’t.
Miss Marple carried out her programme as planned and was slowly making her way along the path towards the hotel when she met Molly Kendal. For once that sunny young woman was not smiling. Her air of distress was so unlike her that Miss Marple said immediately: “My dear, is anything wrong?”
Molly nodded. She hesitated and then said: ”Well, you’ll have to know—everyone will have to know. It’s Major Palgrave. He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. He died in the night.”
“Oh dear, I am sorry.”
“Yes, it’s horrid having a death here. It makes everyone depressed. Of course—he was quite old.”
“He seemed quite well and cheerful yesterday,” said Miss Marple, slightly resenting this calm assumption that everyone of advanced years was liable to die at any minute.
“He had high blood pressure,” said Molly.
“But surely there are things one takes nowadays—some kind of pill. Science is so wonderful.”
“Oh yes, but perhaps he forgot to take his pills, or took too many of them. Like insulin, you know.”
Miss Marple did not think that diabetes and high blood pressure were at all the same kind of thing. She asked. “What does the doctor say?”
“Oh, Dr. Graham, who’s practically retired now, and lives in the hotel, took a look at him, and the local people came officially, of course, to give a death certificate, but it all seems quite straightforward. This kind of thing is quite liable to happen when you have high blood pressure, especially if you overdo the alcohol, and Major Palgrave was really very naughty that way. Last night, for instance.”
“Yes, I noticed,” said Miss Marple.
“He probably forgot to take his pills. It is bad luck for the old boy—but people can’t live forever, can they? But it’s terribly worrying—for me and Tim, I mean. People might suggest it was something in the food.”
“But surely the symptoms of food poisoning and of blood pressure are quite different?”
“Yes. But people do say things so easily. And if people decided the food was bad—and left—or told their friends—”
“I really don’t think you need worry, said Miss Marple kindly. “As you say, an elderly man like Major Palgrave—he must have been over seventy—is quite liable to die. To most people it will seem quite an ordinary occurrence—sad, but not out of the way at all.”
“If only,” said Molly unhappily, “it hadn’t been so sudden.”
Yes, it had been very sudden Miss Marple thought as she walked slowly on. There he had been last night, laughing and talking in the best of spirits with the Hillingdons and the Dysons.
The Hillingdons and the Dysons . . .
Miss Marple walked more slowly still . . .
Finally she stopped abruptly. Instead of going to the bathing beach she settled herself in a shady corner of the terrace. She took out her knitting and the needles clicked rapidly as though they were trying to match the speed of her thoughts. She didn’t like it—no she didn’t like it. It came so pat.
She went over the occurrences of yesterday in her mind.
Major Palgrave and his stories . . .
That was all as usual and one didn’t need to listen very closely . . . Perhaps, though, it would have been better if she had.
Kenya—he had talked about Kenya and then India—the North West Frontier—and then—for some reason they had got on to murder— And even then she hadn’t really been listening . . . Some famous case that had taken place out here—that had been in the newspapers— It was after that—when he picked up her ball of wool—that he had begun telling her about a snapshot— A snapshot of a murderer—that is what he had said.
Miss Marple closed her eyes and tried to remember just exactly how that story had gone.
It had been rather a confused story—told to the Major in his Club—or in somebody else’s club—told him by a doctor—who had heard it from another doctor—and one doctor had taken a snapshot of someone coming through a front door—someone who was a murderer—