Caribbean Mystery (Miss Marple 10)

Molly spoke then. “Yes,” she said.

“But why, Molly, why?”

The eyelids faltered. “Afraid.” The word was just heard.

“Afraid? Of what?”

But her eyelids closed down.

“Better let her be,” said Dr. Graham. Tim spoke impetuously.

“Afraid of what? The police? Because they’ve been hounding you, asking you questions? I don’t wonder. Anyone might feel frightened. But it’s just their way, that’s all. Nobody thinks for one moment—” he broke off.

Dr. Graham made him a decisive gesture.

“I want to go to sleep,” said Molly.

“The best thing for you,” said Dr. Graham.

He moved to the door and the others followed him.

“She’ll sleep all right,” said Graham.

“Is there anything I ought to do?” asked Tim. He had the usual, slightly apprehensive attitude of a man in illness.

“I’ll stay if you like,” said Evelyn kindly.

“Oh no. No, that’s quite all right,” said Tim.

Evelyn went back towards the bed. “Shall I stay with you, Molly?”

Molly’s eyes opened again. She said, “No,” and then after a pause, “just Tim.”

Tim came back and sat down by the bed.

“I’m here, Molly,” he said and took her hand. “Just go to sleep. I won’t leave you.”

She sighed faintly and her eyes closed.

The doctor paused outside the bungalow and the Hillingdons stood with him.

“You’re sure there’s nothing more I can do?” asked Evelyn.

“I don’t think so, thank you, Mrs. Hillingdon. She’ll be better with her husband now. But possibly tomorrow—after all, he’s got this hotel to run—I think someone should be with her.”

“D’you think she might—try again?” asked Hillingdon.

Graham rubbed his forehead irritably.

“One never knows in these cases. Actually, it’s most unlikely. As you’ve seen for yourselves, the restorative treatment is extremely unpleasant. But of course one can never be absolutely certain. She may have more of this stuff hidden away somewhere.”

“I should never have thought of suicide in connection with a girl like Molly,” said Hillingdon.

Graham said dryly, “It’s not the people who are always talking of killing themselves, threatening to do so, who do it. They dramatize themselves that way and let off steam.”

“Molly always seemed such a happy girl. I think perhaps”—Evelyn hesitated—“I ought to tell you, Dr. Graham.” She told him then about her interview with Molly on the beach the night that Victoria had been killed. Graham’s face was very grave when she had finished.

“I’m glad you’ve told me, Mrs. Hillingdon. There are very definite indications there of some kind of deep-rooted trouble. Yes. I’ll have a word with her husband in the morning.”

III

“I want to talk to you seriously, Kendal, about your wife.”

They were sitting in Tim’s office. Evelyn Hillingdon had taken his place by Molly’s bedside and Lucky had promised to come and, as she expressed it, “spell her” later. Miss Marple had also offered her services. Poor Tim was torn between his hotel commitments and his wife’s condition.

“I can’t understand it,” said Tim, “I can’t understand Molly any longer. She’s changed. Changed out of all seeming.”

“I understand she’s been having bad dreams?”

“Yes. Yes, she complained about them a good deal.”

“For how long?”

“Oh, I don’t know. About—oh, I suppose a month—perhaps longer. She—we—thought they were just—well, nightmares, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I quite understand. But what’s a much more serious sign is the fact that she seems to have felt afraid of someone. Did she complain about that to you?”

“Well, yes. She said once or twice that—oh, people were following her.”

“Ah! Spying on her?”

“Yes, she did use that term once. She said they were her enemies and they’d followed her here.”

“Did she have enemies, Mr. Kendal?—”

“No. Of course she didn’t.”

“No incident in England, anything you know about before you were married?”

“Oh no, nothing of that kind. She didn’t get on with her family very well, that was all. Her mother was rather an eccentric woman, difficult to live with perhaps, but….”

“Any signs of mental instability in her family?”

Tim opened his mouth impulsively, then shut it again. He pushed a fountain pen about on the desk in front of him.

The doctor said:

“I must stress the fact that it would be better to tell me, Tim, if that is the case.”

“Well, yes, I believe so. Nothing serious, but I believe there was an aunt or something who was a bit batty. But that’s nothing. I mean—well you get that in almost any family.”

“Oh yes, yes, that’s quite true. I’m not trying to alarm you about that, but it just might show a tendency to—well, to break down or imagine things if any stress arose.”

“I don’t really know very much,” said Tim. “After all, people don’t pour out all their family histories to you, do they?”

“No, no. Quite so. She had no former friend—she was not engaged to anyone, anyone who might have threatened her or made jealous threats? That sort of thing?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Molly was engaged to some other man before I came along. Her parents were very against it, I understand, and I think she really stuck to the chap more out of opposition and defiance than anything else.” He gave a sudden half-grin. “You know what it is when you’re young. If people cut up a fuss it makes you much keener on whoever it is.”

Dr. Graham smiled too. “Ah yes, one often sees that. One should never take exception to one’s children’s objectionable friends. Usually they grow out of them naturally. This man, whoever he was, didn’t make threats of any kind against Molly?”

“No, I’m sure he didn’t. She would have told me. She said herself she just had a silly adolescent craze on him, mainly because he had such a bad reputation.”

“Yes, yes. Well, that doesn’t sound serious. Now there’s another thing.

Apparently your wife has had what she describes as blackouts. Brief passages of time during which she can’t account for her actions. Did you know about that, Tim?”

“No,” said Tim slowly. “No. I didn’t. She never told me. I did notice, you know, now you mention it, that she seemed rather vague sometimes and …” He paused, thinking. “Yes, that explains it. I couldn’t understand how she seemed to have forgotten the simplest things, or sometimes not to seem to know what time of day it was. I just thought she was absent-minded, I suppose.”

“What it amounts to, Tim, is just this. I advise you most strongly to take your wife to see a good specialist.”

Tim flushed angrily.

“You mean a mental specialist, I suppose?”

“Now, now, don’t be upset by labels. A neurologist, a psychologist, someone who specializes in what the layman calls nervous breakdowns. There’s a good man in Kingston. Or there’s New York of course. There is something that is causing these nervous terrors of your wife’s. Something perhaps for which she hardly knows the reason herself. Get advice about her, Tim. Get advice as soon as possible.”

He clapped his hand on the young man’s shoulder and got up.

“There’s no immediate worry. Your wife has good friends and we’ll all be keeping an eye on her.”

“She won’t—you don’t think she’ll try it again?”

“I think it most unlikely,” said Dr. Graham.

“You can’t be sure,” said Tim.

“One can never be sure,” said Dr. Graham, “that’s one of the first things you learn in my profession.” Again he laid a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Don’t worry too much.”

“That’s easy to say,” said Tim as the doctor went out of the door. “Don’t worry, indeed! What does he think I’m made of?”