“Do she and Jackson get on?” asked Miss Marple.
Mr. Rafter shot a quick glance at her. “Noticed something, have you?” he said. “Yes, I think Jackson’s done a bit of tomcatting around, with an eye in her direction, especially lately. He’s a good-looking chap, of course, but he hasn’t cut any ice in that direction. For one thing, there’s class distinction. She’s just a cut above him. Not very much. If she was really a cut above him it wouldn’t matter, but the lower middle class—they’re very particular. Her mother was a schoolteacher and her father a bank clerk. No, she won’t make a fool of herself about Jackson. Dare say he’s after her little nest egg, but he won’t get it.”
“Hush—she’s coming now!” said Miss Marple.
They both looked at Esther Walters as she came along the hotel path towards them.
“She’s quite a good-looking girl, you know,” said Mr. Rafter, “but not an atom of glamour. I don’t know why, she’s quite nicely turned out.”
Miss Marple sighed, a sigh that any woman will give however old at what might be considered wasted opportunities. What was lacking in Esther had been called by so many names during Miss Marple’s span of existence, “Not really attractive to men.” “No S.A.” “Lacks Come-hither in her eye.” Fair hair, good complexion, hazel eyes, quite a good figure, pleasant smile, but lacking that something that makes a man’s head turn when he passes a woman in the street.
“She ought to get married again,” said Miss Marple, lowering her voice.
“Of course she ought. She’d make a man a good wife.”
Esther Walters joined them and Mr. Rafter said, in a slightly artificial voice. “So there you are at last! What’s been keeping you?”
“Everyone seemed to be sending cables this morning,” said Esther. “What with that, and people trying to check out—”
“Trying to check out, are they? A result of this murder business?”
“I suppose so. Poor Tim Kendal is worried to death.”
“And well he might be. Bad luck for that young couple, I must say.”
“I know. I gather it was rather a big undertaking for them to take on this place. They’ve been worried about making a success of it. They were doing very well, too.”
“They were doing a good job,” agreed Mr. Rafter. “He’s very capable and a damned hard worker. She’s a very nice girl—attractive too. They’ve both worked like blacks, though that’s an odd term to use out here, for blacks don’t work themselves to death at all, so far as I can see. Was looking at a fellow shinning up a coconut tree to get his breakfast, then he goes to sleep for the rest of the day. Nice life.”
He added, “We’ve been discussing the murder here.”
Esther Walters looked slightly startled. She turned her head towards Miss Marple.
“I’ve been wrong about her,” said Mr. Rafter, with characteristic frankness. “Never been much of a one for the old pussies. All knitting wool and tittle-tattle. But this one’s got something. Eyes and ears, and she uses them.”
Esther Walters looked apologetically at Miss Marple, but Miss Marple did not appear to take offence.
“That’s really meant to be a compliment, you know,” Esther explained.
“I quite realise that,” said Miss Marple. “I realise, too, that Mr. Rafter is privileged, or thinks he is.”
“What do you mean—privileged?” asked Mr. Rafter.
“To be rude if you want to be rude,” said Miss Marple.
“Have I been rude?” said Mr. Rafter, surprised. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”
“You haven’t offended me,” said Miss Marple, “I make allowances.”
“Now, don’t be nasty. Esther, get a chair and bring it here. Maybe you can help.”
Esther walked a few steps to the balcony of the bungalow and brought over a light basket chair.
“We’ll go on with our consultation,” said Mr. Rafter. “We started with old Palgrave, deceased, and his eternal stories.”
“Oh dear,” sighed Esther. “I’m afraid I used to escape from him whenever I could.”
“Miss Marple was more patient,” said Mr. Rafter. “Tell me, Esther, did he ever tell you a story about a murderer?”
“Oh yes,” said Esther. “Several times.”