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“Thank you, Mrs. Hillingdon,” said Weston.
III
“We don’t want to worry you, Mrs. Kendal, but we have to have your account of just how you came to find this girl. Dr. Graham says you are sufficiently recovered to talk about it now.”
“Oh yes,” said Molly, “I’m really quite all right again.” She gave them a small nervous smile. “It was just the shock—It was rather awful, you know.”
“Yes, indeed it must have been—I understand you went for a walk after dinner.”
“Yes—I often do.”
Her eyes shifted, Daventry noticed, and the fingers of her hands twined and untwined about each other.
“What time would that have been, Mrs. Kendal?” asked Weston.
“Well, I don’t really know—we don’t go much by the time.”
“The steel band was still playing?”
“Yes—at least—I think so—I can’t really remember.”
“And you walked—which way?”
“Oh, along the beach path.”
“To the left or the right?”
“Oh! First one way—and then the other—I—I—really didn’t notice.”
“Why didn’t you notice, Mrs. Kendal?”
She frowned.
“I suppose I was—well—thinking of things.”
“Thinking of anything particular?”
“No—No—Nothing particular—Just things that had to be done—seen to—in the hotel.” Again that nervous twining and untwining of fingers. “And then—I noticed something white—in a clump of hibiscus bushes—and I wondered what it was. I stopped and—and pulled—” She swallowed convulsively—“And it was her—Victoria—all huddled up—and I tried to raise her head up and I got—blood—on my hands.”
She looked at them and repeated wonderingly as though recalling something impossible:
“Blood—on my hands.”
“Yes—Yes—A very dreadful experience. There is no need for you to tell us more about that part of it—How long had you been walking, do you think, when you found her—”
“I don’t know—I have no idea.”
“An hour? Half an hour? Or more than an hour—”
“I don’t know,” Molly repeated.
Daventry asked in a quiet everyday voice:
“Did you take a knife with you on your—walk?”
“A knife?” Molly sounded surprised. “Why should I take a knife?”
“I only ask because one of the kitchen staff mentioned that you had a knife in your hand when you went out of the kitchen into the garden.”
Molly frowned.
“But I didn’t go out of the kitchen—oh you mean earlier—before dinner—I—I don’t think so—”
“You had been rearranging the cutlery on the tables, perhaps.”
“I have to, sometimes. They lay things wrong—not enough knives—or too many. The wrong number of forks and spoons—that sort of thing.”
“So you may have gone out of the kitchen that evening carrying a knife in your hand?”
“I don’t think I did—I’m sure I didn’t—” She added—“Tim was there—he would know. Ask him.”
“Did you like this girl—Victoria—was she good at her work?” asked Weston.
“Yes—she was a very nice girl.”
“You had no dispute with her?”
“Dispute? No.”
“She had never threatened you—in any way?”
“Threatened me? What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t matter—You have no idea of who could have killed her? No idea at all?”
“None.” She spoke positively.
“Well, thank you, Mrs. Kendal.” He smiled. “It wasn’t so terrible, was it?”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all for now.”
Daventry got up, opened the door for her, and watched her go out.
“Tim would know,” he quoted as he returned to his chair. “And Tim says definitely that she didn’t have a knife.”
Weston said gravely:
“I think that that is what any husband would feel called upon to say.”
“A table knife seems a very poor type of knife to use for murder.”
“But it was a steak knife, Mr. Daventry. Steaks were on the menu that evening. Steak knives are kept sharp.”
“I really can’t bring myself to believe that that girl we’ve just been talking to is a red-handed murderess, Weston.”
“It is not necessary to believe it yet. It could be that Mrs. Kendal went out into the garden before dinner, clasping a knife she had taken off one of the tables because it was superfluous—she might not even have noticed she was holding it, and she could have put it down somewhere—or dropped it—It could have been found and used by someone else—I, too, think her an unlikely murderess.”
“All the same,” said Daventry thoughtfully, “I’m pretty sure she is not telling all she knows. Her vagueness over time is odd—where was she—what was she doing out there? Nobody, so far, seems to have noticed her in the dining room that evening.”
“The husband was about as usual—but not the wife—”
“You think she went to meet someone—Victoria Johnson?”
“Perhaps—or perhaps she saw whoever it was who did go to meet Victoria.”
“You’re thinking of Gregory Dyson?”
“We know he was talking to Victoria earlier—He may have arranged to meet her again later—everyone moved around freely on the terrace, remember—dancing, drinking—in and out of the bar.”
“No alibi like a steel band,” said Daventry wryly.
Sixteen
MISS MARPLE SEEKS ASSISTANCE
If anybody had been there to observe the gentle-looking elderly lady who stood meditatively on the loggia outside her bungalow, they would have thought she had nothing more on her mind than deliberation on how to arrange her time that day—An expedition, perhaps, to Castle Cliff—a visit to Jamestown—a nice drive and lunch at Pelican Point—or just a quiet morning on the beach—
But the gentle old lady was deliberating quite other matters—she was in militant mood.
“Something has got to be done,” said Miss Marple to herself.
Moreover, she was convinced that there was no time to be lost—There was urgency.
But who was there that she could convince of that fact? Given time, she thought she could find out the truth by herself.
She had found out a good deal. But not enough—not nearly enough. And time was short.
She realized, bitterly, that here on this Paradise of an island, she had none of her usual allies.
She thought regretfully of her friends in England—Sir Henry Clithering—always willing to listen indulgently—his godson Dermot, who in spite of his increased status at Scotland Yard was still ready to believe that when Miss Marple voiced an opinion there was usually something behind it.
But would that soft-voiced native police officer pay any attention to an old lady’s urgency? Dr. Graham? But Dr. Graham was not what she needed—too gentle and hesitant, certainly not a man of quick decisions and rapid actions.
Miss Marple, feeling rather like a humble deputy of the Almighty, almost cried aloud her need in Biblical phrasing.
Who will go for me?
Whom shall I send?
The sound that reached her ears a moment later was not instantly recognized by her as an answer to prayer—far from it—At the back of her mind it registered only as a man possibly calling his dog.
“Hi!”
Miss Marple, lost in perplexity, paid no attention.
“Hi!” The volume thus increased, Miss Marple looked vaguely round.
“HI!” called Mr. Rafiel impatiently. He added—“You there—”
