The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  “Jackson, for instance, wouldn’t profit by your death?”

  “He wouldn’t get a penny,” said Mr. Rafiel cheerfully. “I pay him double the salary that he’d get from anyone else. That’s because he has to put up with my bad temper; and he knows quite well that he will be the loser when I die.”

  “And Mrs. Walters?”

  “The same goes for Esther. She’s a good girl. First-class secretary, intelligent, good-tempered, understands my ways, doesn’t turn a hair if I fly off the handle, couldn’t care less if I insult her. Behaves like a nice nursery governess in charge of an outrageous and obstreperous child. She irritates me a bit sometimes, but who doesn’t? There’s nothing outstanding about her. She’s rather a commonplace young woman in many ways, but I couldn’t have anyone who suited me better. She’s had a lot of trouble in her life. Married a man who wasn’t much good. I’d say she never had much judgment when it came to men. Some women haven’t. They fall for anyone who tells them a hard-luck story. Always convinced that all the man needs is proper female understanding. That, once married to her, he’ll pull up his socks and make a go of life! But of course that type of man never does. Anyway, fortunately her unsatisfactory husband died; drank too much at a party one night and stepped in front of a bus. Esther had a daughter to support and she went back to her secretarial job. She’s been with me five years. I made it quite clear to her from the start that she need have no expectations from me in the event of my death. I paid her from the start a very large salary, and that salary I’ve augmented by as much as a quarter as much again each year. However decent and honest people are, one should never trust anybody—that’s why I told Esther quite clearly that she’d nothing to hope for from my death. Every year I live she’ll get a bigger salary. If she puts most of that aside every year—and that’s what I think she has done—she’ll be quite a well-to-do woman by the time I kick the bucket. I’ve made myself responsible for her daughter’s schooling and I’ve put a sum in trust for the daughter which she’ll get when she comes of age. So Mrs. Esther Walters is very comfortably placed. My death, let me tell you, would mean a serious financial loss to her.” He looked very hard at Miss Marple. “She fully realizes all that. She’s very sensible, Esther is.”

  “Do she and Jackson get on?” asked Miss Marple.

  Mr. Rafiel shot a quick glance at her.

  “Noticed something, have you?” he said. “Yes, I think Jackson’s done a bit of tom-catting around, with an eye in her direction, especially lately. He’s a good-looking chap, of course, but he hasn’t cut any ice in that direction. For one thing, there’s class distinction. She’s just a cut above him. Not very much. If she was really a cut above him it wouldn’t matter, but the lower middle class—they’re very particular. Her mother was a school teacher and her father a bank clerk. No, she won’t make a fool of herself about Jackson. Dare say he’s after her little nest egg, but he won’t get it.”

  “Hush—she’s coming now!” said Miss Marple.

  They both looked at Esther Walters as she came along the hotel path towards them.

  “She’s quite a good-looking girl, you know,” said Mr. Rafiel, “but not an atom of glamour. I don’t know why, she’s quite nicely turned out.”

  Miss Marple sighed, a sigh that any woman will give however old at what might be considered wasted opportunities. What was lacking in Esther had been called by so many names during Miss Marple’s span of existence. “Not really attractive to me.” “No SA.” “Lacks Come-hither in her eye.” Fair hair, good complexion, hazel eyes, quite a good figure, pleasant smile, but lacking that something that makes a man’s head turn when he passes a woman in the street.

  “She ought to get married again,” said Miss Marple, lowering her voice.

  “Of course she ought. She’d make a man a good wife.”

  Esther Walters joined them and Mr. Rafiel said, in a slightly artificial voice:

  “So there you are at last! What’s been keeping you?”

  “Everyone seemed to be sending cables this morning,” said Esther. “What with that, and people trying to check out—”

  “Trying to check out, are they? A result of this murder business?”

  “I suppose so. Poor Tim Kendal is worried to death.”

  “And well he might be. Bad luck for that young couple, I must say.”

  “I know. I gather it was rather a big undertaking for them to take on this place. They’ve been worried about making a success of it. They were doing very well, too.”

  “They were doing a good job,” agreed Mr. Rafiel. “He’s very capable and a damned hard worker. She’s a very nice girl—attractive too. They’ve both worked like blacks, though that’s an odd term to use out here, for blacks don’t work themselves to death at all, so far as I can see. Was looking at a fellow shinning up a coconut tree to get his breakfast, then he goes to sleep for the rest of the day. Nice life.”

  He added, “We’ve been discussing the murder here.”

  Esther Walters looked slightly startled. She turned her head towards Miss Marple.

  “I’ve been wrong about her,” said Mr. Rafiel, with characteristic frankness. “Never been much of a one for the old pussies. All knitting wool and tittle-tattle. But this one’s got something. Eyes and ears, and she uses them.”

  Esther Walters looked apologetically at Miss Marple, but Miss Marple did not appear to take offence.

  “That’s really meant to be a compliment, you know,” Esther explained.

  “I quite realize that,” said Miss Marple. “I realize, too, that Mr. Rafiel is privileged, or thinks he is.”

  “What do you mean—privileged?” asked Mr. Rafiel.

  “To be rude if you want to be rude,” said Miss Marple.

  “Have I been rude?” said Mr. Rafiel, surprised. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

  “You haven’t offended me,” said Miss Marple, “I make allowances.”

  “Now, don’t be nasty. Esther, get a chair and bring it here. Maybe you can help.”

  Esther walked a few steps to the balcony of the bungalow and brought over a light basket chair.

  “We’ll go on with our consultation,” said Mr. Rafiel. “We started with old Palgrave, deceased, and his eternal stories.”

  “Oh, dear,” sighed Esther. “I’m afraid I used to escape from him whenever I could.”

  “Miss Marple was more patient,” said Mr. Rafiel. “Tell me, Esther, did he ever tell you a story about a murderer?”

  “Oh yes,” said Esther. “Several times.”

  “What was it exactly? Let’s have your recollection.”

  “Well—” Esther paused to think. “The trouble is,” she said apologetically, “I didn’t really listen very closely. You see, it was rather like that terrible story about the lion in Rhodesia which used to go on and on. One did get rather in the habit of not listening.”

  “Well, tell us what you do remember.”

  “I think it arose out of some murder case that had been in the papers. Major Palgrave said that he’d had an experience not every person had had. He’d actually met a murderer face to face.”

  “Met?” Mr. Rafiel exclaimed. “Did he actually use the word ‘met?’”

  Esther looked confused.

  “I think so.” She was doubtful. “Or he may have said, ‘I can point you out a murderer.’”

  “Well, which was it? There’s a difference.”

  “I can’t really be sure … I think he said he’d show me a picture of someone.”

  “That’s better.”

  “And then he talked a lot about Lucrezia Borgia.”

  “Never mind Lucrezia Borgia. We know all about her.”

  “He talked about poisoners and that Lucrezia was very beautiful and had red hair. He said there were probably far more women poisoners going about the world than anyone knew.”

  “That I fear is quite likely,” said Miss Marple.

  “And he talked about poison being a woman’s weapon.”<
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  “Seems to have been wandering from the point a bit,” said Mr. Rafiel.

  “Well, of course, he always did wander from the point in his stories. And then one used to stop listening and just say ‘Yes’ and ‘Really?’ And ‘You don’t say so.’”

  “What about this picture he was going to show you?”

  “I don’t remember. It may have been something he’d seen in the paper—”

  “He didn’t actually show you a snapshot?”

  “A snapshot? No.” She shook her head. “I’m quite sure of that. He did say that she was a good-looking woman, and you’d never think she was a murderer to look at her.”

  “She?”

  “There you are,” exclaimed Miss Marple. “It makes it all so confusing.”

  “He was talking about a woman?” Mr. Rafiel asked.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “The snapshot was a snapshot of a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “It can’t have been!”

  “But it was,” Esther persisted. “He said ‘She’s here in this island. I’ll point her out to you, and then I’ll tell you the whole story.’”

  Mr. Rafiel swore. In saying what he thought of the late Major Palgrave he did not mince his words.

  “The probabilities are,” he finished, “that not a word of anything he said was true!”

  “One does begin to wonder,” Miss Marple murmured.

  “So there we are,” said Mr. Rafiel. “The old booby started telling you hunting tales. Pig sticking, tiger shooting, elephant hunting, narrow escapes from lions. One or two of them might have been fact. Several of them were fiction, and others had happened to somebody else! Then he gets on to the subject of murder and he tells one murder story to cap another murder story. And what’s more he tells them all as if they’d happened to him. Ten to one most of them were a hash-up of what he’d read in the paper, or seen on TV.”

  He turned accusingly on Esther. “You admit that you weren’t listening closely. Perhaps you misunderstood what he was saying.”

  “I’m certain he was talking about a woman,” said Esther obstinately, “because of course I wondered who it was.”

  “Who do you think it was?” asked Miss Marple.

  Esther flushed and looked slightly embarrassed.

  “Oh, I didn’t really—I mean, I wouldn’t like to—”

  Miss Marple did not insist. The presence of Mr. Rafiel, she thought, was inimical to her finding out exactly what suppositions Esther Walters had made. That could only be cosily brought out in a tête-à-tête between two women. And there was, of course, the possibility that Esther Walters was lying. Naturally, Miss Marple did not suggest this aloud. She registered it as a possibility but she was not inclined to believe in it. For one thing she did not think that Esther Walters was a liar (though one never knew) and for another, she could see no point in such a lie.

  “But you say,” Mr. Rafiel was now turning upon Miss Marple, “you say that he told you this yarn about a murderer and that he then said he had a picture of him which he was going to show you.”

  “I thought so, yes.”

  “You thought so? You were sure enough to begin with!”

  Miss Marple retorted with spirit.

  “It is never easy to repeat a conversation and be entirely accurate in what the other party to it has said. One is always inclined to jump at what you think they meant. Then, afterwards, you put actual words into their mouths. Major Palgrave told me this story, yes. He told me that the man who told it to him, this doctor, had shown him a snapshot of the murderer; but if I am to be quite honest I must admit that what he actually said to me was ‘Would you like to see a snapshot of a murderer?’ and naturally I assumed that it was the same snapshot he had been talking about. That it was the snapshot of that particular murderer. But I have to admit that it is possible—only remotely possible, but still possible—that by an association of ideas in his mind he leaped from the snapshot he had been shown in the past, to a snapshot he had taken recently of someone here who he was convinced was a murderer.”

  “Women!” snorted Mr. Rafiel in exasperation. “You’re all the same, the whole blinking lot of you! Can’t be accurate. You’re never exactly sure of what a thing was. And now,” he added irritably, “where does that leave us?” He snorted. “Evelyn Hillingdon, or Greg’s wife, Lucky? The whole thing is a mess.”

  There was a slight apologetic cough. Arthur Jackson was standing at Mr. Rafiel’s elbow. He had come so noiselessly that nobody had noticed him.

  “Time for your massage, sir,” he said.

  Mr. Rafiel displayed immediate temper.

  “What do you mean by sneaking up on me in that way and making me jump? I never heard you.”

  “Very sorry, sir.”

  “I don’t think I’ll have any massage today. It never does me a damn’ bit of good.”

  “Oh, come sir, you mustn’t say that.” Jackson was full of professional cheerfulness. “You’d soon notice if you left it off.”

  He wheeled the chair deftly round.

  Miss Marple rose to her feet, smiled at Esther and went down to the beach.

  Eighteen

  WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY

  I

  The beach was rather empty this morning. Greg was splashing in the water in his usual noisy style, Lucky was lying on her face on the beach with a sun-tanned back well oiled and her blonde hair splayed over her shoulders. The Hillingdons were not there. Señora de Caspearo, with an assorted bag of gentlemen in attendance, was lying face upwards and talking deep-throated, happy Spanish. Some French and Italian children were playing at the water’s edge and laughing. Canon and Miss Prescott were sitting in beach chairs observing the scene. The Canon had his hat tilted forward over his eyes and seemed half asleep. There was a convenient chair next to Miss Prescott and Miss Marple made for it and sat down.

  “Oh dear,” she said with a deep sigh.

  “I know,” said Miss Prescott.

  It was their joint tribute to violent death.

  “That poor girl,” said Miss Marple.

  “Very sad,” said the Canon. “Most deplorable.”

  “For a moment or two,” said Miss Prescott, “we really thought of leaving, Jeremy and I. But then we decided against it. It would not really be fair, I felt, on the Kendals. After all, it’s not their fault—It might have happened anywhere.”

  “In the midst of life we are in death,” said the Canon solemnly.

  “It’s very important, you know,” said Miss Prescott, “that they should make a go of this place. They have sunk all their capital in it.”

  “A very sweet girl,” said Miss Marple, “but not looking at all well lately.”

  “Very nervy,” agreed Miss Prescott. “Of course her family—” she shook her head.

  “I really think, Joan,” said the Canon in mild reproof, “that there are some things—”

  “Everybody knows about it,” said Miss Prescott. “Her family live in our part of the world. A great-aunt—most peculiar—and one of her uncles took off all his clothes in one of the tube stations. Green Park, I believe it was.”

  “Joan, that is a thing that should not be repeated.”

  “Very sad,” said Miss Marple, shaking her head, “though I believe not an uncommon form of madness. I know when we were working for the Armenian relief, a most respectable elderly clergyman was afflicted the same way. They telephoned his wife and she came along at once and took him home in a cab, wrapped in a blanket.”

  “Of course, Molly’s immediate family’s all right,” said Miss Prescott. “She never got on very well with her mother, but then so few girls seem to get on with their mothers nowadays.”

  “Such a pity,” said Miss Marple, shaking her head, “because really a young girl needs her mother’s knowledge of the world and experience.”

  “Exactly,” said Miss Prescott with emphasis. “Molly, you know, took up with some man—quite unsuitable, I understand.”

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p; “It so often happens,” said Miss Marple.

  “Her family disapproved, naturally. She didn’t tell them about it. They heard about it from a complete outsider. Of course her mother said she must bring him along so that they met him properly. This, I understand, the girl refused to do. She said it was humiliating to him. Most insulting to be made to come and meet her family and be looked over. Just as though you were a horse, she said.”

  Miss Marple sighed. “One does need so much tact when dealing with the young,” she murmured.

  “Anyway, there it was! They forbade her to see him.”

  “But you can’t do that nowadays,” said Miss Marple. “Girls have jobs and they meet people whether anyone forbids them or not.”

  “But then, very fortunately,” went on Miss Prescott, “she met Tim Kendal, and the other man sort of faded out of the picture. I can’t tell you how relieved the family was.”

  “I hope they didn’t show it too plainly,” said Miss Marple. “That so often puts girls off from forming suitable attachments.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “One remembers oneself—” murmured Miss Marple, her mind going back to the past. A young man she had met at a croquet party. He had seemed so nice—rather gay, almost Bohemian in his views. And then he had been unexpectedly warmly welcomed by her father. He had been suitable, eligible; he had been asked freely to the house more than once, and Miss Marple had found that, after all, he was dull. Very dull.

  The Canon seemed safely comatose and Miss Marple advanced tentatively to the subject she was anxious to pursue.

  “Of course you know so much about this place,” she murmured. “You have been here several years running, have you not?”

  “Well, last year and two years before that. We like St. Honoré very much. Always such nice people here. Not the flashy, ultra-rich set.”