It seemed, somehow, a pity.
Miss Marple sighed for youth. There was Mrs. Kendal, of course. She wasn’t more than twenty-two or three, probably, and she seemed to be enjoying herself—but even so, it was a job she was doing. At a table nearby Canon Prescott and his sister were sitting. They motioned to Miss Marple to join them for coffee and she did so. Miss Prescott was a thin severe-looking woman, the Canon was a round, rubicund man, breathing geniality. Coffee was brought, and chairs were pushed a little way away from the tables. Miss Prescott opened a workbag and took out some frankly hideous tablemats that she was hemming. She told Miss Marple all about the day’s events. They had visited a new Girls’ School in the morning. After an afternoon’s rest, they had walked through a cane plantation to have tea at a pension where some friends of theirs were staying. Since the Prescotts had been at the Golden Palm longer than Miss Marple, they were able to enlighten her as to some of her fellow guests.
That very old man, Mr. Rafter. He came every year. Fantastically rich! Owned an enormous chain of supermarkets in the North of England. The young woman with him was his secretary, Esther Walters—a widow. (Quite all right, of course. Nothing improper. After all, he was nearly eighty!) Miss Marple accepted the propriety of the relationship with an understanding nod and the Canon remarked: “A very nice young woman; her mother, I understand, is a widow and lives in Chichester.”
“Mr. Rafter has a valet with him, too. Or rather a kind of Nurse Attendant—he’s a qualified masseur, I believe. Jackson, his name is. Poor Mr. Rafter is practically paralysed. So sad—with all that money, too.” “A generous and cheerful giver,” said Canon Prescott approvingly. People were regrouping themselves round about, some going farther from the steel band, others crowding up to it. Major Palgrave had joined the Hillingdon-Dyson quartet.
“Now those people—” said Miss Prescott, lowering her voice quite unnecessarily since the steel band easily drowned it. “Yes, I was going to ask you about them.”
“They were here last year. They spend three months every year in the West Indies, going round the different islands. The tall thin man is Colonel Hillingdon and the dark woman is his wife—they are botanists. The other two, Mr. and Mrs. Gregory Dyson—they’re American. He writes on butterflies, I believe. And all of them are interested in birds.”
“So nice for people to have open-air hobbies,” said Canon Prescott genially. “I don’t think they’d like to hear you call it hobbies, Jeremy,” said his sister. “They have articles printed in the National Geographic and the Royal Horticultural Journal. They take themselves very seriously.”
A loud outburst of laughter came from the table they had been observing. It was loud enough to overcome the steel band. Gregory Dyson was leaning back in his chair and thumping the table, his wife was protesting, and Major Palgrave emptied his glass and seemed to be applauding. They hardly qualified for the moment as people who took themselves seriously.
“Major Palgrave should not drink so much,” said Miss Prescott acidly. “He has blood pressure.”
A fresh supply of Planters Punches were brought to the table. “It’s so nice to get people sorted out,” said Miss Marple. “When I met them this afternoon I wasn’t sure which was married to which.”
There was a slight pause. Miss Prescott coughed a small dry cough, and said: “Well, as to that—”
“Joan,” said the Canon in an admonitory voice. “Perhaps it would be wise to say no more.”
“Really, Jeremy, I wasn’t going to say anything. Only that last year, for some reason or other—I really don’t know why—we got the idea that Mrs. Dyson was Mrs. Hillingdon until someone told us she wasn’t.”
“It’s odd how one gets impressions, isn’t it?” said Miss Marple innocently. Her eyes met Miss Prescott’s for a moment. A flash of womanly understanding passed between them. A more sensitive man than Canon Prescott might have felt that he was de trop. Another signal passed between the women. It said as clearly as if the words had been spoken: “Some other time . . .”