But that, thought Molly, is not really what’s worrying him. It’s me. But I don’t see, said Molly to herself, why he should worry about me. Because he did worry about her. That she was quite sure of. The questions he put, the quick nervous glance he shot at her from time to time. But why? thought Molly. “I’ve been very careful,” she summed up things in her mind. She didn’t understand it really herself. She couldn’t remember when it had begun. She wasn’t even very sure what it was. She’d begun to be frightened of people. She didn’t know why. What could they do to her? What should they want to do to her?
She nodded her head, then started violently as a hand touched her arm. She spun round to find Gregory Dyson, slightly taken aback, looking apologetic.
“Ever so sorry. Did I startle you, little girl?”
Molly hated being called “little girl”.
She said quickly and brightly: “I didn’t hear you coming, Mr. Dyson, so it made me jump.”
“Mr. Dyson? We’re very formal tonight. Aren’t we all one great happy family here? Ed and me and Lucky and Evelyn and you and Tim and Esther Walters and old Rafter. All the lot of us one happy family.”
“He’s had plenty to drink already,” thought Molly. She smiled at him pleasantly.
“Oh! I come over the heavy hostess sometimes,” she said lightly. “Tim and I think it’s more polite not to be too handy with Christian names.”
“Aw! we don’t want any of that stuffed-shirt business. Now then, Molly my lovely, have a drink with me.”
“Ask me later,” said Molly. “I have a few things to get on with.”
“Now don’t run away.” His arm fastened round her arm. “You’re a lovely girl, Molly. I hope Tim appreciates his good luck.”
“Oh, I see to it that he does,” said Molly cheerfully.
“I could go for you, you know, in a big way.” He leered at her—”though I wouldn’t let my wife hear me say so.”
“Did you have a good trip this afternoon?”
“I suppose so. Between you and me I get a bit fed up sometimes. You can get tired of the birds and butterflies. What say you and I go for a little picnic on our own one day?”
“We’ll have to see about that,” said Molly gaily. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”
With a light laugh she escaped, and went back into the bar.
“Hallo, Molly,” said Tim, “you seem in a hurry. Who’s that you’ve been with out there?”
He peered out.
“Gregory Dyson.”
“What does he want?”
“Wanted to make a pass at me,” said Molly.
“Blast him,” said Tim.
“Don’t worry,” said Molly, “I can do all the blasting necessary.”
Tim started to answer her, caught sight of Fernando and went over to him shouting out some directions. Molly slipped away through the kitchen, out through the kitchen door and down the steps to the beach.
Gregory Dyson swore under his breath.
Then he walked slowly back in the direction of his bungalow. He had nearly got there when a voice spoke to him from the shadow of one of the bushes. He turned his head, startled. In the gathering dusk he thought for a moment that it was a ghostly figure that stood there. Then he laughed. It had looked like a faceless apparition but that was because, though the dress was white, the face was black.
Victoria stepped out of the bushes on to the path.
“Mr. Dyson, please?”
“Yes. What is it?”
Ashamed of being startled, he spoke with a touch of impatience.
“I brought you this, sir.” She held out her hand. In it was a bottle of tablets. “This belongs to you, doesn’t it? Yes?”
“Oh, my bottle of Serenite tablets. Yes, of course. Where did you find it?”
“I found it where it had been put. In the gentleman’s room.”
“What do you mean—in the gentleman’s room?”
“The gentleman who is dead,” she added gravely. “I do not think he sleeps very well in his grave.”
“Why the devil not?” asked Dyson.
Victoria stood looking at him.
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about. You mean you found this bottle of tablets in Major Palgrave’s bungalow?”