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“Molly! My God, Molly!”
It was a minute or two before Miss Marple was able to join the little group. It consisted of one of the Cuban waiters, Evelyn Hillingdon, and two of the native girls. They had parted to let Tim through. Miss Marple arrived as he was bending over to look.
“Molly …” He slowly dropped on to his knees. Miss Marple saw the girl’s body clearly, lying there in the creek, her face below the level of the water, her golden hair spread over the pale green embroidered shawl that covered her shoulders. With the leaves and rushes of the creek, it seemed almost like a scene from Hamlet with Molly as the dead Ophelia….
As Tim stretched out a hand to touch her, the quiet, commonsense Miss Marple took charge and spoke sharply and authoritatively.
“Don’t move her, Mr. Kendal,” she said. “She mustn’t be moved.”
Tim turned a dazed face up to her.
“But—I must—it’s Molly. I must….”
Evelyn Hillingdon touched his shoulder.
“She’s dead, Tim. I didn’t move her, but I did feel her pulse.”
“Dead?” said Tim unbelievingly. “Dead? You mean she’s—drowned herself?”
“I’m afraid so. It looks like it.”
“But why?” A great cry burst from the young man. “Why? She was so happy this morning. Talking about what we’d do tomorrow. Why should this terrible death wish come over her again? Why should she steal away as she did—rush out into the night, come down here and drown herself? What despair did she have—what misery—why couldn’t she tell me anything?”
“I don’t know, my dear,” said Evelyn gently. “I don’t know.”
Miss Marple said:
“Somebody had better get Dr. Graham. And someone will have to telephone the police.”
“The police?” Tim uttered a bitter laugh. “What good will they be?”
“The police have to be notified in a case of suicide,” said Miss Marple.
Tim rose slowly to his feet.
“I’ll get Graham,” he said heavily. “Perhaps—even now—he could—do something.”
He stumbled away in the direction of the hotel.
Evelyn Hillingdon and Miss Marple stood side by side looking down at the dead girl.
Evelyn shook her head. “It’s too late. She’s quite cold. She must have been dead at least an hour—perhaps more. What a tragedy it all is. Those two always seemed so happy. I suppose she was always unbalanced.”
“No,” said Miss Marple. “I don’t think she was unbalanced.”
Evelyn looked at her curiously. “What do you mean?”
The moon had been behind a cloud, but now it came out into the open. It shone with a luminous silvery brightness on Molly’s outspread hair….
Miss Marple gave a sudden ejaculation. She bent down, peering, then stretched out her hand and touched the golden head. She spoke to Evelyn Hillingdon, and her voice sounded quite different.
“I think,” she said, “that we had better make sure.”
Evelyn Hillingdon stared at her in astonishment.
“But you yourself told Tim we mustn’t touch anything?”
“I know. But the moon wasn’t out. I hadn’t seen—”
Her finger pointed. Then, very gently, she touched the blonde hair and parted it so that the roots were exposed….
Evelyn gave a sharp ejaculation.
“Lucky!”
And then after a moment she repeated:
“Not Molly … Lucky.”
Miss Marple nodded. “Their hair was of much the same colour—but hers, of course, was dark at the roots because it was dyed.”
“But she’s wearing Molly’s shawl?”
“She admired it. I heard her say she was going to get one like it. Evidently she did.”
“So that’s why we were—deceived….”
Evelyn broke off as she met Miss Marple’s eyes watching her.
“Someone,” said Miss Marple, “will have to tell her husband.”
There was a moment’s pause, then Evelyn said:
“All right. I’ll do it.”
She turned and walked away through the palm trees.
Miss Marple remained for a moment motionless, then she turned her head very slightly, and said:
“Yes, Colonel Hillingdon?”
Edward Hillingdon came from the trees behind her to stand by her side.
“You knew I was there?”
“You cast a shadow,” said Miss Marple.
They stood a moment in silence.
He said, more as though he were speaking to himself:
“So, in the en
d, she played her luck too far….”
“You are, I think, glad that she is dead?”
“And that shocks you? Well, I will not deny it. I am glad she is dead.”
“Death is often a solution to problems.”
Edward Hillingdon turned his head slowly. Miss Marple met his eyes calmly and steadfastly.
“If you think—” he took a sharp step towards her.
There was a sudden menace in his tone.
Miss Marple said quietly:
“Your wife will be back with Mr. Dyson in a moment. Or Mr. Kendal will be here with Dr. Graham.”
Edward Hillingdon relaxed. He turned back to look down at the dead woman.
Miss Marple slipped away quietly. Presently her pace quickened.
Just before reaching her own bungalow, she paused. It was here that she had sat that day talking to Major Palgrave. It was here that he had fumbled in his wallet looking for the snapshot of a murderer….
She remembered how he had looked up, and how his face had gone purple and red…. “So ugly,” as Señora de Caspearo had said. “He has the Evil Eye.”
The Evil Eye … Eye …Eye….
Twenty-four
NEMESIS
I
Whatever the alarms and excursions of the night, Mr. Rafiel had not heard them.
He was fast asleep in bed, a faint thin snore coming from his nostrils, when he was taken by the shoulders and shaken violently.
“Eh—what—what the devil’s this?”
“It’s me,” said Miss Marple, for once ungrammatical, “though I should put it a little more strongly than that. The Greeks, I believe, had a word for it. Nemesis, if I am not wrong.”
Mr. Rafiel raised himself on his pillows as far as he could. He stared at her. Miss Marple, standing there in the moonlight, her head encased in a fluffy scarf of pale pink wool, looked as unlike a figure of Nemesis as it was possible to imagine.
“So you’re Nemesis, are you?” said Mr. Rafiel after a momentary pause.
“I hope to be—with your help.”
“Do you mind telling me quite plainly what you’re talking about like this in the middle of the night.”
