Caribbean Mystery (Miss Marple 10)

“The entire trouble with you, Edward, is that you are ridiculously sensitive—and also incredibly suggestible. That devil of a woman has got you just where she wants you by playing on your sense of guilt—And I’ll tell you this in plain Bible terms, the guilt that weighs on you is the guilt of adultery—not murder—you were guilt-stricken about your affair with Lucky—and then she made a cat’s-paw of you for her murder scheme, and managed to make you feel you shared her guilt. You don’t.”

“Evelyn….” He stepped towards her—

She stepped back a minute—and looked at him searchingly.

“Is this all true, Edward—Is it? Or are you making it up?”

“Evelyn! Why on earth should I do such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” said Evelyn Hillingdon slowly—“It’s just perhaps—because I find it hard to trust—anybody. And because—Oh! I don’t know—I’ve got, I suppose, so that I don’t know the truth when I hear it.”

“Let’s chuck all this—Go back home to England.”

“Yes—We will—But not now.”

“Why not?”

“We must carry on as usual—just for the present. It’s important. Do you understand, Edward? Don’t let Lucky have an inkling of what we’re up to—”

Thirteen

EXIT VICTORIA JOHNSON

The evening was drawing to a close. The steel band was at last relaxing its efforts. Tim stood by the dining room looking over the terrace. He extinguished a few lights on tables that had been vacated.

A voice spoke behind him. “Tim, can I speak to you a moment?”

Tim Kendal started.

“Hallo, Evelyn, is there anything I can do for you?”

Evelyn looked round.

“Come to this table here, and let’s sit down a minute.”

She led the way to a table at the extreme end of the terrace. There were no other people near them.

“Tim, you must forgive me talking to you, but I’m worried about Molly.”

His face changed at once.

“What about Molly?” he said stiffly.

“I don’t think she’s awfully well. She seems upset.”

“Things do seem to upset her rather easily just lately.”

“She ought to see a doctor, I think.”

“Yes, I know, but she doesn’t want to. She’d hate it.”

“Why?”

“Eh? What d’you mean?”

“I said why? Why should she hate seeing a doctor?”

“Well,” said Tim rather vaguely, “people do sometimes, you know. It’s—well, it sort of makes them feel frightened about themselves.”

“You’re worried about her yourself, aren’t you, Tim?”

“Yes. Yes, I am rather.”

“Isn’t there anyone of her family who could come out here to be with her?”

“No. That’d make things worse, far worse.”

“What is the trouble—with her family, I mean?”

“Oh, just one of those things. I suppose she’s just highly strung and—she didn’t get on with them—particularly her mother. She never has. They’re—they’re rather an odd family in some ways and she cut loose from them. Good thing she did, I think.”

Evelyn said hesitantly—“She seems to have had blackouts, from what she told me, and to be frightened of people. Almost like persecution mania.”

“Don’t say that,” said Tim angrily. “Persecution mania! People always say that about people. Just because she—well—maybe she’s a bit nervy. Coming out here to the West Indies. All the dark faces. You know, people are rather queer, sometimes, about the West Indies and coloured people.”

“Surely not girls like Molly?”

“Oh, how does one know the things people are frightened of? There are people who can’t be in the room with cats. And other people who faint if a caterpillar drops on them.”

“I hate suggesting it—but don’t you think perhaps she ought to see a—well, a psychiatrist?”

“No!” said Tim explosively. “I won’t have people like that monkeying about with her. I don’t believe in them. They make people worse. If her mother had left psychiatrists alone….”

“So there was trouble of that kind in her family—was there? I mean a history of—” she chose the word carefully—“instability.”

“I don’t want to talk about it—I took her away from it all and she was all right, quite all right. She has just got into a nervous state … But these things aren’t hereditary. Everybody knows that nowadays. It’s an exploded idea. Molly’s perfectly sane. It’s just that—oh! I believe it was that wretched old Palgrave dying that started it all off.”

“I see,” said Evelyn thoughtfully. “But there was nothing really to worry anyone in Major Palgrave’s death, was there?”

“No, of course there wasn’t. But it’s a kind of shock when somebody dies suddenly.”

He looked so desperate and defeated that Evelyn’s heart smote her. She put her hand on his arm.

“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing, Tim, but if I could help in any way—I mean if I could go with Molly to New York—I could fly with her there or Miami or somewhere where she could get really first-class medical advice.”

“It’s very good of you, Evelyn, but Molly’s all right. She’s getting over it, anyway.”

Evelyn shook her head in doubt. She turned away slowly and looked along the line of the terrace. Most people had gone by now to their bungalows. Evelyn was walking towards her table to see if she’d left anything behind there, when she heard Tim give an exclamation. She looked up sharply. He was staring towards the steps at the end of the terrace and she followed his gaze. Then she too caught her breath.

Molly was coming up the steps from the beach. She was breathless with deep, sobbing breaths, her body swayed to and fro as she came, in a curious directionless run. Tim cried:

“Molly! What’s the matter?”

He ran towards her and Evelyn followed him. Molly was at the top of the steps now and she stood there, both hands behind her back. She said in sobbing breaths:

“I found her … She’s there in the bushes … There in the bushes … And look at my hands—look at my hands.” She held them out and Evelyn caught her breath as she saw the queer dark stains. They looked dark in the subdued lighting but she knew well enough that their real colour was red.

“What’s happened, Molly?” cried Tim.

“Down there,” said Molly. She swayed on her feet. “In the bushes….”

Tim hesitated, looked at Evelyn, then shoved Molly a little towards Evelyn and ran down the steps. Evelyn put her arm round the girl.

“Come. Sit down, Molly. Here. You’d better have something to drink.”

Molly collapsed in a chair and leaned forward on the table, her forehead on her crossed arm. Evelyn did not question her any more. She thought it better to leave her time to recover.

“It’ll be all right, you know,” said Evelyn gently. “It’ll be all right.”

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know anything. I can’t remember. I—” she raised her head suddenly. “What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with me?”

“It’s all right, child. It’s all right.”

Tim was coming slowly up the steps. His face was ghastly. Evelyn looked up at him, raising her eyebrows in a query.

“It’s one of our girls,” he said. “What’s-her-name—Victoria. Somebody’s put a knife in her.”

Fourteen

INQUIRY

I

Molly lay on her bed. Dr. Graham and Dr. Robertson, the West Indian poli

ce doctor, stood on one side—Tim on the other. Robertson had his hand on Molly’s pulse—He nodded to the man at the foot of the bed, a slender dark man in police uniform, Inspector Weston of the St. Honoré Police Force.

“A bare statement—no more,” the doctor said.

The other nodded.

“Now, Mrs. Kendal—just tell us how you came to find this girl.”

For a moment or two it was as though the figure on the bed had not heard. Then she spoke in a faint, faraway voice.

“In the bushes—white….”

“You saw something white—and you looked to see what it was? Is that it?”

“Yes—white—lying there—I tried—tried to lift—she it—blood—blood all over my hands.”

She began to tremble.

Dr. Graham shook his head at them. Robertson whispered—“She can’t stand much more.”

“What were you doing on the beach path, Mrs. Kendal?”

“Warm—nice—by the sea—”

“You knew who the girl was?”

“Victoria—nice—nice girl—laughs—she used to laugh—oh! and now she won’t—She won’t ever laugh again. I’ll never forget it—I’ll never forget it—” Her voice rose hysterically.

“Molly—don’t.” It was Tim.

“Quiet—Quiet—” Dr. Robertson spoke with a soothing authority—“Just relax—relax—Now just a small prick—” He withdrew the hypodermic.

“She’ll be in no fit condition to be questioned for at least twenty-four hours,” he said—“I’ll let you know when.”

II

The big handsome negro looked from one to the other of the men sitting at the table.

“Ah declare to God,” he said. “That’s all Ah know. Ah don’t know nothing but what Ah’ve told you.”

The perspiration stood out on his forehead. Daventry sighed. The man presiding at the table, Inspector Weston of the St. Honoré CID, made a gesture of dismissal. Big Jim Ellis shuffled out of the room.

“It’s not all he knows, of course,” Weston said. He had the soft Island voice. “But it’s all we shall learn from him.”

“You think he’s in the clear himself?” asked Daventry.

“Yes. They seem to have been on good terms together.”