Caribbean Mystery (Miss Marple 10)

Dr. Graham was in Jamestown, in the Administrator’s office, sitting at a table opposite his friend Daventry, a grave young man of thirty-five.

“You sounded rather mysterious on the phone, Graham,” said Daventry. “Anything special the matter?”

“I don’t know,” said Dr. Graham, “but I’m worried.”

Daventry looked at the other’s face, then he nodded as drinks were brought in. He spoke lightly of a fishing expedition he had made lately. Then when the servant had gone away, he sat back in his chair and looked at the other man.

“Now then,” he said, “let’s have it.”

Dr. Graham recounted the facts that had worried him. Daventry gave a slow long whistle.

“I see. You think maybe there’s something funny about old Palgrave’s death? You’re no longer sure that it was just natural causes? Who certified the death? Robertson, I suppose. He didn’t have any doubts, did he?”

“No, but I think he may have been influenced in giving the certificate by the fact of the Serenite tablets in the bathroom. He asked me if Palgrave had mentioned that he suffered from hypertension, and I said No, I’d never had any medical conversation with him myself, but apparently he had talked about it to other people in the hotel. The whole thing—the bottle of tablets, and what Palgrave had said to people—it all fitted in—no earthly reason to suspect anything else. It was a perfectly natural inference to make—but I think now it may not have been correct. If it had been my business to give the certificate, I’d have given it without a second thought. The appearances are quite consistent with his having died from that cause. I’d never have thought about it since if it hadn’t been for the odd disappearance of that snapshot….”

“But look here, Graham,” said Daventry, “if you will allow me to say so, aren’t you relying a little too much on a rather fanciful story told you by an elderly lady? You know what these elderly ladies are like. They magnify some small detail and work the whole thing up.”

“Yes, I know,” said Dr. Graham, unhappily. “I know that. I’ve said to myself that it may be so, that it probably is so. But I can’t quite convince myself. She was so very clear and detailed in her statement.”

“The whole thing seems wildly improbable to me,” said Daventry. “Some old lady tells a story about a snapshot that ought not to be there—no, I’m getting mixed myself—I mean the other way about, don’t I?—but the only thing you’ve really got to go on is that a chambermaid says that a bottle of pills which the authorities had relied on for evidence, wasn’t in the Major’s room the day before his death. But there are a hundred explanations for that. He might always have carried those pills about in his pocket.”

“It’s possible, I suppose, yes.”

“Or the chambermaid may have made a mistake and she simply hadn’t noticed them before—”

“That’s possible, too.”

“Well, then.”

Graham said slowly:

“The girl was very positive.”

“Well, the St. Honoré people are very excitable. You know. Emotional. Work themselves up easily. Are you thinking that she knows—a little more than she has said?”

“I think it might be so,” said Dr. Graham slowly.

“You’d better try and get it out of her, if so. We don’t want to make an unnecessary fuss—unless we’ve something definite to go on. If he didn’t die of blood pressure, what do you think it was?”

“There are too many things it might be nowadays,” said Dr. Graham.

“You mean things that don’t leave recognizable traces?”

“Not everyone,” said Dr. Graham dryly, “is so considerate as to use arsenic.”

“Now let’s get things quite clear—what’s the suggestion? That a bottle of pills was substituted for the real ones? And that Major Palgrave was poisoned in that way?”

“No—it’s not like that. That’s what the girl—Victoria Something thinks—But she’s got it all wrong—If it was decided to get rid of the Major—quickly—he would have been given something—most likely in a drink of some kind. Then to make it appear a natural death, a bottle of the tablets prescribed to relieve blood pressure was put in his room. And the rumour was put about that he suffered from high blood pressure.”

“Who put the rumour about?”

“I’ve tried to find out—with no success—It’s been too cleverly done. A says ‘I think B told me’—B, asked, says ‘No, I didn’t say so but I do remember C mentioning it one day.’ C says ‘Several people talked about it—one of them, I think, was A.’ And there we are, back again.”

“Someone was clever?”

“Yes. As soon as the death was discovered, everybody seemed to be talking about the Major’s high blood pressure and repeating round what other people had said.”

“Wouldn’t it have been simpler just to poison him and let it go at that?”

“No. That might have meant an inquiry—possibly an autopsy—This way, a doctor would accept the death and give a certificate—as he did.”

“What do you want me to do? Go to the CID? Suggest they dig the chap up? It’d make a lot of stink—”

“It could be kept quite quiet.”

“Could it? In St. Honoré? Think again! The grapevine would be on to it before it had happened. All the same,” Daventry sighed—“I suppose we’ll have to do something. But if you ask me, it’s all a mare’s nest!”

“I devoutly hope it is,” said Dr. Graham.

Eleven

EVENING AT THE GOLDEN PALM

I

Molly rearranged a few of the table decorations in the dining room, removed an extra knife, straightened a fork, reset a glass or two, stood back to look at the effect and then walked out on to the terrace outside. There was no one about just at present and she strolled to the far corner and stood by the balustrade. Soon another evening would begin. Chattering, talking, drinking, all so gay and carefree, the sort of life she had longed for and, up to a few days ago, had enjoyed so much. Now even Tim seemed anxious and worried. Natural, perhaps, that he should worry a little. It was important that this venture of theirs should turn out all right. After all, he had sunk all he had in it.

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 Rafiel. 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 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?”

“That’s right, yes. After the doctor and the Jamestown people go away, they give me all the things in his bathroom to throw away. The toothpaste and the lotions, and all the other things—including this.”