The only person who could possibly be said to miss him was Miss Marple. Not indeed out of any personal affection, but he represented a kind of life that she knew. As one grew older, so she reflected to herself, one got more and more into the habit of listening; listening possibly without any great interest, but there had been between her and the Major the gentle give and take of two old people. It had had a cheerful, human quality. She did not actually mourn Major Palgrave but she missed him.
On the afternoon of the funeral, as she was sitting knitting in her favourite spot Dr. Graham came and joined her. She put her needles down and greeted him. He said at once, rather apologetically: “I am afraid I have rather disappointing news. Miss Marple.”
“Indeed? About my—”
“Yes. We haven’t found that precious snapshot of yours. I’m afraid that will be a disappointment to you.”
“Yes. Yes it is. But of course it does not really matter. It was a sentimentality. I do realise that now. It wasn’t in Major Palgrave’s wallet?”
“No. Nor anywhere else among his things. There were a few letters and newspaper clippings and odds and ends, and a few old photographs, but no sign of a snapshot such as you mentioned.”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Marple. “Well, it can’t be helped . . . Thank you very much, Dr. Graham, for the trouble you’ve taken.”
“Oh it was no trouble, indeed. But I know quite well from my own experience how much family trifles mean to one, especially as one is getting older.”
The old lady was really taking it very well, he thought. Major Palgrave, he presumed, had probably come across the snapshot when taking something out of his wallet, and not even realising how it had come there, had torn it up as something of no importance. But of course it was of great importance to this old lady. Still, she seemed quite cheerful and philosophical about it.
Internally, however, Miss Marple was far from being either cheerful or philosophical. She wanted a little time in which to think things out, but she was also determined to use her present opportunities to the fullest effect. She engaged Dr. Graham in conversation with an eagerness which she did not attempt to conceal. That kindly man, putting down her flow of talk to the natural loneliness of an old lady, exerted himself to divert her mind from the loss of the snapshot, by conversing easily and pleasantly about life in St. Honore, and the various interesting places perhaps Miss Marple might like to visit. He hardly knew himself how the conversation drifted back to Major Palgrave’s decease.
“It seems so sad,” said Miss Marple, “to think of anyone dying like this away from home. Though I gather, from what he himself told me, that he had no immediate family. It seems he lived by himself in London.”
“He travelled a fair amount, I believe,” said Dr. Graham. “At any rate in the winters. He didn’t care for our English winters. Can’t say I blame him.”
“No, indeed,” said Miss Marple. “And perhaps he had some special reason like a weakness of the lungs or something which made it necessary for him to winter abroad?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so.”
“He had high blood pressure, I believe. So sad. Nowadays one hears so much of it.”
“He spoke about it to you, did he?”
“Oh no. No, he never mentioned it. It was somebody else who told me.”
“Ah, really.”
“I suppose,” went on Miss Marple, “that death was to be expected under those circumstances.”
“Not necessarily,” said Dr. Graham. “There are methods of controlling blood pressure nowadays.”
“His death seemed very sudden—but I suppose you weren’t surprised.”
“Well I wasn’t particularly surprised in a man of that age. But I certainly didn’t expect it. Frankly, he always seemed to me in very good form, but I hadn’t ever attended him professionally. I’d never taken his blood pressure or anything like that.”
“Does one know—I mean, does a doctor know—when a man has high blood pressure just by looking at him?” Miss Marple inquired with a kind of dewy innocence.