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‘ “Tell me, my man,” he said. “You don’t know whether the lady who came in that second car there has got back yet?”
‘ “Lady in a dress with flowers all over it? No, sir, I haven’t seen her. She went along the cliff towards the cave this morning.”
‘ “I know, I know. We all bathed there together, and then she left us to walk home and I have not seen her since. It can’t have taken her all this time. The cliffs round here are not dangerous, are they?”
‘ “It depends, sir, on the way you go. The best way is to take a man what knows the place with you.”
‘He very clearly meant himself and was beginning to enlarge on the theme, but the young man cut him short unceremoniously and ran back towards the inn calling up to his wife on the balcony.
‘ “I say, Margery, Carol hasn’t come back yet. Odd, isn’t it?”
‘I didn’t hear Margery’s reply, but her husband went on. “Well, we can’t wait any longer. We have got to push on to Penrithar. Are you ready? I will turn the car.”
‘He did as he had said, and presently the two of them drove off together. Meanwhile I had deliberately been nerving myself to prove how ridiculous my fancies were. When the car had gone I went over to the inn and examined the pavement closely. Of course there were no bloodstains there. No, all along it had been the result of my distorted imagination. Yet, somehow, it seemed to make the thing more frightening. It was while I was standing there that I heard the fisherman’s voice.
‘He was looking at me curiously. “You thought you saw bloodstains here, eh, lady?”
‘I nodded.
‘ “That is very curious, that is very curious. We have got a superstition here, lady. If anyone sees those bloodstains—”
‘He paused.
‘ “Well?” I said.
‘He went on in his soft voice, Cornish in intonation, but unconsciously smooth and well-bred in its pronunciation, and completely free from Cornish turns of speech.
‘ “They do say, lady, that if anyone sees those bloodstains that there will be a death within twenty-four hours.”
‘Creepy! It gave me a nasty feeling all down my spine.
‘He went on persuasively. “There is a very interesting tablet in the church, lady, about a death—”
‘ “No thanks,” I said decisively, and I turned sharply on my heel and walked up the street towards the cottage where I was lodging. Just as I got there I saw in the distance the woman called Carol coming along the cliff path. She was hurrying. Against the grey of the rocks she looked like some poisonous scarlet flower. Her hat was the colour of blood…
‘I shook myself. Really, I had blood on the brain.
‘Later I heard the sound of her car. I wondered whether she too was going to Penrithar; but she took the road to the left in the opposite direction. I watched the car crawl up the hill and disappear, and I breathed somehow more easily. Rathole seemed its quiet sleepy self once more.’
‘If that is all,’ said Raymond West as Joyce came to a stop, ‘I will give my verdict at once. Indigestion, spots before the eyes after meals.’
‘It isn’t all,’ said Joyce. ‘You have got to hear the sequel. I read it in the paper two days later under the heading of “Sea Bathing Fatality”. It told how Mrs Dacre, the wife of Captain Denis Dacre, was unfortunately drowned at Landeer Cove, just a little farther along the coast. She and her husband were staying at the time at the hotel there, and had declared their intention of bathing, but a cold wind sprang up. Captain Dacre had declared it was too cold, so he and some other people in the hotel had gone off to the golf links near by. Mrs Dacre, however, had said it was not too cold for her and she went off alone down to the cove. As she didn’t return her husband became alarmed, and in company with his friends went down to the beach. They found her clothes lying beside a rock, but no trace of the unfortunate lady. Her body was not found until nearly a week later when it was washed ashore at a point some distance down the coast. There was a bad blow on her head which had occurred before death, and the theory was that she must have dived into the sea and hit her head on a rock. As far as I could make out her death would have occurred just twenty-four hours after the time I saw the bloodstains.’
‘I protest,’ said Sir Henry. ‘This is not a problem—this is a ghost story. Miss Lemprière is evidently a medium.’
Mr Petherick gave his usual cough.
‘One point strikes me—’ he said, ‘that blow on the head. We must not, I think, exclude the possibility of foul play. But I do not see that we have any data to go upon. Miss Lemprière’s hallucination, or vision, is interesting certainly, but I do not see clearly the point on which she wishes us to pronounce.’
‘Indigestion and coincidence,’ said Raymond, ‘and anyway you can’t be sure that they were the same people. Besides, the curse, or whatever it was, would only apply to the actual inhabitants of Rathole.’
‘I feel,’ said Sir Henry, ‘that the sinister seafaring man has something to do with this tale. But I agree with Mr Petherick, Miss Lemprière has given us very little data.’
Joyce turned to Dr Pender who smilingly shook his head.
‘It is a most interesting story,’ he said, ‘but I am afraid I agree with Sir Henry an
d Mr Petherick that there is very little data to go upon.’
Joyce then looked curiously at Miss Marple, who smiled back at her.
‘I, too, think you are just a little unfair, Joyce dear,’ she said. ‘Of course, it is different for me. I mean, we, being women, appreciate the point about clothes. I don’t think it is a fair problem to put to a man. It must have meant a lot of rapid changing. What a wicked woman! And a still more wicked man.’
Joyce stared at her.
‘Aunt Jane,’ she said. ‘Miss Marple, I mean, I believe—I do really believe you know the truth.’
‘Well, dear,’ said Miss Marple, ‘it is much easier for me sitting here quietly than it was for you—and being an artist you are so susceptible to atmosphere, aren’t you? Sitting here with one’s knitting, one just sees the facts. Bloodstains dropped on the pavement from the bathing dress hanging above, and being a red bathing dress, of course, the criminals themselves did not realize it was bloodstained. Poor thing, poor young thing!’
‘Excuse me, Miss Marple,’ said Sir Henry, ‘but you do know that I am entirely in the dark still. You and Miss Lemprière seem to know what you are talking about, but we men are still in utter darkness.’
‘I will tell you the end of the story now,’ said Joyce. ‘It was a year later. I was at a little east coast seaside resort, and I was sketching, when suddenly I had that queer feeling one has of something having happened before. There were two people, a man and a woman, on the pavement in front of me, and they were greeting a third person, a woman dressed in a scarlet poinsettia chintz dress. “Carol, by all that is wonderful! Fancy meeting you after all these years. You don’t know my wife? Joan, this is an old friend of mine, Miss Harding.”
‘I recognized the man at once. It was the same Denis I had seen at Rathole. The wife was different—that is, she was a Joan instead of a Margery; but she was the same type, young and rather dowdy and very inconspicuous. I thought for a minute I was going mad. They began to talk of going bathing. I will tell you what I did. I marched straight then and there to the police station. I thought they would probably think I was off my head, but I didn’t care. And as it happened everything was quite all right. There was a man from Scotland Yard there, and he had come down just about this very thing. It seems—oh, it’s horrible to talk about—that the police had got suspicions of Denis Dacre. That wasn’t his real name—he took different names on different occasions. He got to know girls, usually quiet inconspicuous girls without many relatives or friends, he married them and insured their lives for large sums and then—oh, it’s horrible! The woman called Carol was his real wife, and they always carried out the same plan. That is really how they came to catch him. The insurance companies became suspicious. He would come to some quiet seaside place with his new wife, then the other woman would turn up and they would all go bathing together. Then the wife would be murdered and Carol would put on her clothes and go back in the boat with him. Then they would leave the place, wherever it was, after inquiring for the supposed Carol and when they got outside the village Carol would hastily change back into her own flamboyant clothes and her vivid make-up and would go back there and drive off in her own car. They would find out which way the current was flowing and the supposed death would take place at the next bathing place along the coast that way. Carol would play the part of the wife and would go down to some lonely beach and would leave the wife’s clothes there by a rock and depart in her flowery chintz dress to wait quietly until her husband could rejoin her.
