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“Major Palgrave could have kept it in a drawer—or a dispatch-case, something like that.”
Victoria shook her head shrewdly.
“Wouldn’t do that if he was taking it all the time, would he?”
“No,” said Graham reluctantly. “No, it was stuff he would have to take several times a day. You never saw him taking it or anything of that kind?”
“He didn’t have it there before. I just thought—word got round as that stuff had something to do with his death, poisoned his blood or something, and I thought maybe he had an enemy put it there so as to kill him.”
“Nonsense, my girl,” said the doctor robustly. “Sheer nonsense.” Victoria looked shaken.
“You say as this stuff was medicine, good medicine?” she asked doubtfully.
“Good medicine, and what is more, necessary medicine,” said Dr. Graham. “So you needn’t worry, Victoria. I can assure you there was nothing wrong with that medicine. It was the proper thing for a man to take who had his complaint.”
“Surely you’ve taken a load off my mind,” said Victoria. She showed white teeth at him in a cheerful smile.
But the load was not taken off Dr. Graham’s mind. That uneasiness of his that had been so nebulous was now becoming tangible.
Eight
A TALK WITH ESTHER WALTERS
“This place isn’t what it used to be,” said Mr. Rafiel, irritably, as he observed Miss Marple approaching the spot where he and his secretary were sitting. “Can’t move a step without some old hen getting under your feet. What do old ladies want to come to the West Indies for?”
“Where do you suggest they should go?” asked Esther Walters.
“To Cheltenham,” said Mr. Rafiel promptly. “Or Bournemouth,” he offered, “or Torquay or Llandrindod Wells. Plenty of choice. They like it there—they’re quite happy.”
“They can’t often afford to come to the West Indies, I suppose,” said Esther. “It isn’t everyone who is as lucky as you are.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Rafiel. “Rub it in. Here am I, a mass of aches and pains and disjoints. You grudge me any alleviation! And you don’t do any work—Why haven’t you typed out those letters yet?”
“I haven’t had time.”
“Well, get on with it, can’t you? I bring you out here to do a bit of work, not to sit about sunning yourself and showing off your figure.”
Some people would have considered Mr. Rafiel’s remarks quite insupportable but Esther Walters had worked for him for some years and she knew well enough that Mr. Rafiel’s bark was a great deal worse than his bite. He was a man who suffered almost continual pain, and making disagreeable remarks was one of his ways of letting off steam. No matter what he said she remained quite imperturbable.
“Such a lovely evening, isn’t it?” said Miss Marple, pausing beside them.
“Why not?” said Mr. Rafiel. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”
Miss Marple gave a tinkly little laugh.
“You’re so severe—of course the weather is a very English subject of conversation—one forgets—Oh dear—this is the wrong coloured wool.” She deposited her knitting bag on the garden table and trotted towards her own bungalow.
“Jackson!” yelled Mr. Rafiel.
Jackson appeared.
“Take me back inside,” said Mr. Rafiel. “I’ll have my massage now before that chattering hen comes back. Not that massage does me a bit of good,” he added. Having said which, he allowed himself to be deftly helped to his feet and went off with the masseur beside him into his bungalow.
Esther Walters looked after them and then turned her head as Miss Marple came back with a ball of wool to sit down near her.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you?” said Miss Marple.
“Of course not,” said Esther Walters, “I’ve got to go off and do some typing in a minute, but I’m going to enjoy another ten minutes of the sunset first.”
Miss Marple sat down and in a gentle voice began to talk. As she talked, she summed up Esther Walters. Not at all glamorous, but could be attractive-looking if she tried. Miss Marple wondered why she didn’t try. It could be, of course, because Mr. Rafiel would not have liked it, but Miss Marple didn’t think Mr. Rafiel would really mind in the least. He was so completely taken up with himself that so long as he was not personally neglected, his secretary might have got herself up like a houri in Paradise without his objecting. Besides, he usually went to bed early and in the evening hours of steel bands and dancing, Esther Walters might easily have—Miss Marple paused to select a word in her mind, at the same time conversing cheerfully about her visit to Jamestown—Ah yes, blossomed. Esther Walters might have blossomed in the evening hours.
She led the conversation gently in the direction of Jackson.
On the subject of Jackson Esther Walters was rather vague.
“He’s very competent,” she said. “A fully trained masseur.”
“I suppose he’s been with Mr. Rafiel a long time?”
“Oh no—about nine months, I think—”
“Is he married?” Miss Marple hazarded.
“Married? I don’t think so,” said Esther slightly surprised. “He’s never mentioned it if so—
“No,” she added. “Definitely not married, I should say.” And she showed amusement.
Miss Marple interpreted that by adding to it in her own mind the following sentence—“At any rate he doesn’t behave as though he were married.”
But then, how many married men there were who behaved as though they weren’t married! Miss Marple could think of a dozen examples!
“He’s quite good-looking,” she said thoughtfully.
“Yes—I suppose he is,” said Esther without interest.
Miss Marple considered her thoughtfully. Uninterested in men? The kind of woman, perhaps, who was only interested in one man—A widow, they had said.
She asked—“Have you worked for Mr. Rafiel long?”
“Four or five years. After my husband died, I had to take a job again. I’ve got a daughter at school and my husband left me very badly off.”
“Mr. Rafiel must be a difficult man to work for?” Miss Marple hazarded.
“Not really, when you get to know him. He flies into rages and is very contradictory. I think the real trouble is he gets tired of people. He’s had five different valet-attendants in two years. He likes having someone new to bully. But he and I have always got on very well.”
“Mr. Jackson seems a very obliging young man?”
“He’s very tactful and resourceful,” said Esther. “Of course, he’s sometimes a little—” She broke off.
Miss Marple considered. “Rather a difficult position sometimes?” she suggested.
“Well, yes. Neither one thing nor the other. However—” she smiled—“I think he manages to have quite a good time.”
Miss Marple considered this also. It didn’t help her much. She continued her twittering conversation and soon she was hearing a good deal about that nature-loving quartet, the Dysons and the Hillingdons.
“The Hillingdons have been here for the last three or four years at least,” said Esther, “but Gregory Dyson has been here much longer than that. He knows the West Indies very well. He came here, originally, I believe, with his first wife. She was de
licate and had to go abroad in the winters, or go somewhere warm, at any rate.”
“And she died? Or was it divorce?”
“No. She died. Out here, I believe. I don’t mean this particular island but one of the West Indies islands. There was some sort of trouble, I believe, some kind of scandal or other. He never talks about her. Somebody else told me about it. They didn’t, I gather, get on very well together.”
“And then he married this wife. ‘Lucky.’” Miss Marple said the word with faint dissatisfaction as if to say “Really, a most incredible name!”
“I believe she was a relation of his first wife.”
“Have they known the Hillingdons a great many years?”
“Oh, I think only since the Hillingdons came out here. Three or four years, not more.”
“The Hillingdons seem very pleasant,” said Miss Marple. “Quiet, of course.”
“Yes. They’re both quiet.”
“Everyone says they’re very devoted to each other,” said Miss Marple. The tone of her voice was quite noncommittal but Esther Walters looked at her sharply.
“But you don’t think they are?” she said.
“You don’t really think so yourself, do you, my dear?”
“Well, I’ve wondered sometimes….”
“Quiet men, like Colonel Hillingdon,” said Miss Marple, “are often attracted to flamboyant types.” And she added, after a significant pause, “Lucky—such a curious name. Do you think Mr. Dyson has any idea of—of what might be going on?”
“Old scandal-monger,” thought Esther Walters. “Really, these old women!”
She said rather coldly, “I’ve no idea.”
Miss Marple shifted to another subject. “It’s very sad about poor Major Palgrave isn’t it?” she said.
Esther Walters agreed, though in a somewhat perfunctory fashion.
“The people I’m really sorry for are the Kendals,” she said.
“Yes, I suppose it is really rather unfortunate when something of that kind happens in a hotel.”
