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“And then he spoke of his family, boyhood rather, and I told him a little about my own nephews and nieces and he listened very sympathetically. And I showed him a snapshot I had with me of one of my nephews. Such a dear boy—at least not exactly a boy now, but always a boy to me if you understand.”
“Quite so,” said Dr. Graham, wondering how long it would be before the old lady was going to come to the point.
“I had handed it to him and he was examining it when quite suddenly those people—those very nice people—who collect wild flowers and butterflies, Colonel and Mrs. Hillingdon I think the name is—”
“Oh yes? The Hillingdons and the Dysons.”
“Yes, that’s right. They came suddenly along laughing and talking. They sat down and ordered drinks and we all talked together. Very pleasant it was. But without thinking, Major Palgrave must have put back my snapshot into his wallet and returned it to his pocket. I wasn’t paying very much attention at the time but I remembered afterward and I said to myself—‘I mustn’t forget to ask the Major to give me back my picture of Denzil.’ I did think of it last night while the dancing and the band was going on, but I didn’t like to interrupt him just then, because they were having such a merry party together and I thought ‘I will remember to ask him for it in the morning.’ Only this morning—” Miss Marple paused—out of breath.
“Yes, yes,” said Dr. Graham, “I quite understand. And you—well, naturally you want the snapshot back. Is that it?”
Miss Marple nodded her head in eager agreement.
“Yes. That’s it. You see, it is the only one I have got and I haven’t got the negative. And I would hate to lose that snapshot, because poor Denzil died some five or six years ago and he was my favourite nephew. This is the only picture I have to remind me of him. I wondered—I hoped—it is rather tiresome of me to ask—whether you could possibly manage to get hold of it for me? I don’t really know who else to ask, you see. I don’t know who’ll attend to all his belongings and things like that. It is all so difficult. They would think it such a nuisance of me. You see, they don’t understand. Nobody could quite understand what this snapshot means to me.”
“Of course, of course,” said Dr. Graham. “I quite understand. A most natural feeling on your part. Actually, I am meeting the local authorities shortly—the funeral is tomorrow—and someone will be coming from the Administrator’s office to look over his papers and effects before communicating with the next of kin—all that sort of thing—If you could describe this snapshot.”
“It was just the front of a house,” said Miss Marple. “And someone—Denzil, I mean—was just coming out of the front door. As I say it was taken by one of my other nephews who is very keen on flower shows—and he was photographing a hibiscus, I think, or one of those beautiful—something like antipasto—lilies. Denzil just happened to come out of the front door at that time. It wasn’t a very good photograph of him—just a trifle blurred—But I liked it and have always kept it.”
“Well,” said Dr. Graham, “that seems clear enough. I think we’ll have no difficulty in getting back your picture for you, Miss Marple.”
He rose from his chair. Miss Marple smiled up at him.
“You are very kind, Dr. Graham, very kind indeed. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, of course I do,” said Dr. Graham, shaking her warmly by the hand. “Now don’t you worry. Exercise that knee every day gently but not too much, and I’ll send you round these tablets. Take one three times a day.”
Five
MISS MARPLE MAKES A DECISION
The funeral service was said over the body of the late Major Palgrave on the following day. Miss Marple attended in company with Miss Prescott. The Canon read the service—after that life went on as usual.
Major Palgrave’s death was already only an incident, a slightly unpleasant incident, but one that was soon forgotten. Life here was sunshine, sea, and social pleasures. A grim visitor had interrupted these activities, casting a momentary shadow, but the shadow was now gone. After all, nobody had known the deceased very well. He had been rather a garrulous elderly man of the club-bore type, always telling you personal reminiscences that you had no particular desire to hear. He had had little to anchor himself to any particular part of the world. His wife had died many years ago. He had had a lonely life and a lonely death. But it had been the kind of loneliness that spends itself in living amongst people, and in passing the time that way not unpleasantly. Major Palgrave might have been a lonely man, he had also been quite a cheerful one. He had enjoyed himself in his own particular way. And now he was dead, buried, and nobody cared very much, and in another week’s time nobody would even remember him or spare him a passing thought.
The only person who could possibly be said to miss him was Miss Marple. Not indeed out of any personal affection, but he represented a kind of life that she knew. As one grew older, so she reflected to herself, one got more and more into the habit of listening; listening possibly without any great interest, but there had been between her and the Major the gentle give and take of two old people. It had had a cheerful, human quality. She did not actually mourn Major Palgrave but she missed him.
On the afternoon of the funeral, as she was sitting knitting in her favourite spot, Dr. Graham came and joined her. She put her needles down and greeted him. He said at once, rather apologetically:
“I am afraid I have rather disappointing news, Miss Marple.”
“Indeed? About my—”
“Yes. We haven’t found that precious snapshot of yours. I’m afraid that will be a disappointment to you.”
“Yes. Yes it is. But of course it does not really matter. It was a sentimentality. I do realize that now. It wasn’t in Major Palgrave’s wallet?”
“No. Nor anywhere else among his things. There were a few letters and newspaper clippings and odds and ends, and a few old photographs, but no sign of a snapshot such as you mentioned.”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Marple. “Well, it can’t be helped … Thank you very much, Dr. Graham, for the trouble you’ve taken.”
“Oh it was no trouble, indeed. But I know quite well from my own experience how much family trifles mean to one, especially as one is getting older.”
The old lady was really taking it very well, he thought. Major Palgrave, he presumed, had probably come across the snapshot when taking something out of his wallet, and not even realizing how it had come there, had torn it up as something of no importance. But of course it was of great importance to this old lady. Still, she seemed quite cheerful and philosophical about it.
Internally, however, Miss Marple was far from being either cheerful or philosophical. She wanted a little time in which to think things out, but she was also determined to use her present opportunities to the fullest effect.
She engaged Dr. Graham in conversation with an eagerness which she did not attempt to conceal. That kindly man, putting down her flow of talk to the natural loneliness of an old lady, exerted himself to divert her mind from the loss of the snapshot, by conversing easily and pleasantly about life in St. Honoré, and the various interesting places perhaps Miss Marple might like to visit. He hardly knew himself how the conversation drifted back to Major Palgrave’s decease.
“It seems so sad,” said Miss Marple. “To think of anyone dying like this away from home. Though I gather, from what he himself told me, that he had no immediate family. It seems he lived by himself in London.”
“He travelled a fair amount, I believe,” said Dr. Graham. “At any rate in the winters. He didn’t care for our English winters. Can’t say I blame him.”
“No, indeed,” said Miss Marple. “And perhaps he had some special reason like a weakness of the lungs or something which made it necessary for him to wi
nter abroad?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so.”
“He had high blood pressure, I believe. So sad nowadays. One hears so much of it.”
“He spoke about it to you, did he?”
“Oh no. No, he never mentioned it. It was somebody else who told me.”
“Ah, really.”
“I suppose,” went on Miss Marple, “that death was to be expected under those circumstances.”
“Not necessarily,” said Dr. Graham. “There are methods of controlling blood pressure nowadays.”
“His death seemed very sudden—but I suppose you weren’t surprised.”
“Well I wasn’t particularly surprised in a man of that age. But I certainly didn’t expect it. Frankly, he always seemed to me in very good form, but I hadn’t ever attended him professionally. I’d never taken his blood pressure or anything like that.”
“Does one know—I mean, does a doctor know—when a man has high blood pressure just by looking at him?” Miss Marple inquired with a kind of dewy innocence.
“Not just by looking,” said the doctor, smiling. “One has to do a bit of testing.”
“Oh I see. That dreadful thing when you put a rubber band round somebody’s arm and blow it up—I dislike it so much. But my doctor said that my blood pressure was really very good for my age.”
“Well that’s good hearing,” said Dr. Graham.
“Of course, the Major was rather fond of Planters Punch,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.
“Yes. Not the best thing with blood pressure—alcohol.”
“One takes tablets, doesn’t one, or so I have heard?”
“Yes. There are several on the market. There was a bottle of one of them in his room—Serenite.”
“How wonderful science is nowadays,” said Miss Marple. “Doctors can do so much, can’t they?”
“We all have one great competitor,” said Dr. Graham. “Nature, you know. And some of the good old-fashioned home remedies come back from time to time.”
