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“You look very well,” she said, “and very gay.”
“So do you, Miss Marple.”
“Well, of course, I am rather older now. And one has so many ailments. I mean, not desperate ones, nothing of that kind, but I mean one has always some kind of rheumatism or some kind of ache and pain somewhere. One’s feet are not what one would like feet to be. And there’s usually one’s back or a shoulder or painful hands. Oh, dear, one shouldn’t talk about these things. What a very nice house you have.”
“Yes, we haven’t been in it very long. We moved in about four months ago.”
Miss Marple looked round. She had rather thought that that was the case. She thought, too, that when they had moved in they had moved in on quite a handsome scale. The furniture was expensive, it was comfortable, comfortable and just this side of luxury. Good curtains, good covers, no particular artistic taste displayed, but then she would not have expected that. She thought she knew the reason for this appearance of prosperity. She thought it had come about on the strength of the late Mr. Rafiel’s handsome legacy to Esther. She was glad to think that Mr. Rafiel had not changed his mind.
“I expect you saw the notice of Mr. Rafiel’s death,” said Esther, speaking almost as if she knew what was in Miss Marple’s mind.
“Yes. Yes, indeed I did. It was about a month ago now, wasn’t it? I was so sorry. Very distressed really, although, well, I suppose one knew—he almost admitted it himself, didn’t he? He hinted several times that it wouldn’t be very long. I think he was quite a brave man about it all, don’t you?”
“Yes, he was a very brave man, and a very kind one really,” said Esther. “He told me, you know, when I first worked for him, that he was going to give me a very good salary but that I would have to save out of it because I needn’t expect to have anything more from him. Well, I certainly didn’t expect to have anything more from him. He was very much a man of his word, wasn’t he? But apparently he changed his mind.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “Yes. I am very glad of that. I thought perhaps—not that he, of course, said anything—but I wondered.”
“He left me a very big legacy,” said Esther. “A surprisingly large sum of money. It came as a very great surprise. I could hardly believe it at first.”
“I think he wanted it to be a surprise to you. I think he was perhaps that kind of man,” said Miss Marple. She added: “Did he leave anything to—oh, what was his name?—the man attendant, the nurse-attendant?”
“Oh, you mean Jackson? No, he didn’t leave anything to Jackson, but I believe he made him some handsome presents in the last year.”
“Have you ever seen anything more of Jackson?”
“No. No, I don’t think I’ve met him once since the time out in the islands. He didn’t stay with Mr. Rafiel after they got back to England. I think he went to Lord somebody who lives in Jersey or Guernsey.”
“I would like to have seen Mr. Rafiel again,” said Miss Marple. “It seems odd after we’d all been mixed up so. He and you and I and some others. And then, later, when I’d come home, when six months had passed—it occurred to me one day how closely associated we had been in our time of stress, and yet how little I really knew about Mr. Rafiel. I was thinking it only the other day, after I’d seen the notice of his death. I wished I could know a little more. Where he was born, you know, and his parents. What they were like. Whether he had any children, or nephews or cousins or any family. I would so like to know.”
Esther Anderson smiled slightly. She looked at Miss Marple and her expression seemed to say “Yes, I’m sure you always want to know everything of that kind about everyone you meet.” But she merely said:
“No, there was really only one thing that everyone did know about him.”
“That he was very rich,” said Miss Marple immediately. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? When you know that someone is very rich, somehow, well, you don’t ask anymore. I mean you don’t ask to know anymore. You say ‘He is very rich’ or you say ‘He is enormously rich,’ and your voice just goes down a little because it’s so impressive, isn’t it, when you meet someone who is immensely rich.”
Esther laughed slightly.
“He wasn’t married, was he?” asked Miss Marple. “He never mentioned a wife.”
“He lost his wife many years ago. Quite soon after they were married, I believe. I believe she was much younger than he was—I think she died of cancer. Very sad.”
“Had he children?”
“Oh yes, two daughters, and a son. One daughter is married and lives in America. The other daughter died young, I believe. I met the American one once. She wasn’t at all like her father. Rather a quiet, depressed looking young woman.” She added, “Mr. Rafiel never spoke about the son. I rather think that there had been trouble there. A scandal or something of that kind. I believe he died some years ago. Anyway—his father never mentioned him.”
“Oh dear. That was very sad.”
“I think it happened quite a long time ago. I believe he took off for somewhere or other abroad and never came back—died out there, wherever it was.”
“Was Mr. Rafiel very upset about it?”
“One wouldn’t know with him,” said Esther. “He was the kind of man who would always decide to cut his losses. If his son turned out to be unsatisfactory, a burden instead of a blessing, I think he would just shrug the whole thing off. Do what was necessary perhaps in the way of sending him money for support, but never thinking of him again.”
“One wonders,” said Miss Marple. “He never spoke of him or said anything?”
“If you remember, he was a man who never said anything much about personal feelings or his own life.”
“No. No, of course not. But I thought perhaps, you having been—well, his secretary for so many years, that he might have confided any troubles to you.”
“He was not a man for confiding troubles,” said Esther. “If he had any, which I rather doubt. He was wedded to his business, one might say. He was father to his business and his business was the only kind of son or daughter that he had that mattered, I think. He enjoyed it all, investment, making money. Business coups—”
“Call no man happy until he is dead—” murmured Miss Marple, repeating the words in the manner of one pronouncing them as a kind of slogan, which indeed they appeared to be in these days, or so she would have said.
“So there was nothing especially worrying him, was there, before his death?”
“No. Why should you think so?” Esther sounded surprised.
“Well, I didn’t actually think so,” said Miss Marple, “I just wondered because things do worry people more when they are—I won’t say getting old—because he really wasn’t old, but I mean things worry you more when you are laid up and can’t do as much as you did and have to take things easy. Then worries just come into your mind and make themselves felt.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” said Esther. “But I don’t think Mr. Rafiel was like that. Anyway,” she added, “I ceased being his secretary some time ago. Two or three months after I met Edmund.”
“Ah yes. Your husband. Mr. Rafiel must have been very upset at losing you.”
“Oh I don’t think so,” said Esther lightly. “He was not one who would be upset over that sort of thing. He’d immediately get another secretary—which he did. And then if she didn’t suit him he’d just get rid of her with a kindly golden handshake and get somebody else, till he found somebody
who suited him. He was an intensely sensible man always.”
“Yes. Yes, I can see that. Though he could lose his temper very easily.”
“Oh, he enjoyed losing his temper,” said Esther. “It made a bit of drama for him, I think.”
“Drama,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “Do you think—I have often wondered—do you think that Mr. Rafiel had any particular interest in criminology, the study of it, I mean? He—well, I don’t know….”
“You mean because of what happened in the Caribbean?” Esther’s voice had gone suddenly hard.
Miss Marple felt doubtful of going on, and yet she must somehow or other try and get a little helpful knowledge.
“Well, no, not because of that, but afterwards, perhaps, he wondered about the psychology of these things. Or he got interested in the cases where justice had not been administered properly or—oh, well….”
She sounded more scatty every minute.
“Why should he take the least interest in anything of that kind? And don’t let’s talk about that horrible business in St. Honoré.”
“Oh no, I think you are quite right. I’m sure I’m very sorry. I was just thinking of some of the things that Mr. Rafiel sometimes said. Queer turns of phrase, sometimes, and I just wondered if he had any theories, you know … about the causes of crime?”
“His interests were always entirely financial,” said Esther shortly. “A really clever swindle of a criminal kind might have interested him, nothing else—”
She was looking coldly still at Miss Marple.
“I am sorry,” said Miss Marple apologetically. “I—I shouldn’t have talked about distressing matters that are fortunately past. And I must be getting on my way,” she added. “I have got my train to catch and I shall only just have time. Oh dear, what did I do with my bag—oh yes, here it is.”
She collected her bag, umbrella and a few other things, fussing away until the tension had slightly abated. As she went out of the door, she turned to Esther who was urging her to stay and have a cup of tea.
“No thank you, my dear, I’m so short of time. I’m very pleased to have seen you again and I do offer my best congratulations and hopes for a very happy life. I don’t suppose you will be taking up any post again now, will you?”
