"You're worried about her yourself, aren't you, Tim?"
"Yes. Yes, I am rather."
"Isn't there anyone of her family who could come out here to be with her?"
"No. That'd make things far worse."
"What is the trouble—with her family, I mean?"
"Oh, just one of those things. I suppose she's just highly strung and—she didn't get on with them—particularly her mother. She never has. They're—they're rather an odd family in some ways and she cut loose from them. Good thing she did, I think."
Evelyn said hesitantly: "She seems to have had blackouts, from what she told me, and to be frightened of people. Almost like persecution mania."
"Don't say that," said Tim angrily. "Persecution mania! People always say that about people. Just because she—well—maybe she's a bit nervy. Coming out here to the West Indies. All the dark faces. You know, people are rather queer, sometimes, about the West Indies and coloured people."
"Surely not girls like Molly?"
"Oh, how does one know the things people are frightened of? There are people who can't be in the room with cats. And other people who faint if a caterpillar drops on them."
"I hate suggesting it—but don't you think perhaps she ought to see a—well, a psychiatrist?"
"No!" said Tim explosively. "I won't have people like that monkeying about with her. I don't believe in them. They make people worse. If her mother had left psychiatrists alone . . ."
"So there was trouble of that kind in her family, was there? I mean a history of—" she chose the word carefully "—instability."
"I don't want to talk about it. I took her away from it all and she was all right, quite all right. She has just got into a nervous state . . . But these things aren't hereditary. Everybody knows that nowadays. It's an exploded idea. Molly's perfectly sane. It's just that—oh! I believe it was that wretched old Palgrave dying that started it all off."
"I see," said Evelyn thoughtfully. "But there was nothing really to worry anyone in Major Palgrave's death, was there?"
"No of course there wasn't. But it's a kind of shock when somebody dies suddenly."
He looked so desperate and defeated that Evelyn's heart smote her. She put her hand on his arm.
"Well, I hope you know what you're doing, Tim, but if I could help in any way—I mean if I could go with Molly to New York—I could fly with her there or Miami or somewhere where she could get really first-class medical advice."
"It's very good of you, Evelyn, but Molly's all right. She's getting over it, anyway."
Evelyn shook her head in doubt. She turned away slowly and looked along the line of the terrace. Most people had gone by now to their bungalows. Evelyn was walking towards her table to see if she'd left anything behind there, when she heard Tim give an exclamation. She looked up sharply. He was staring towards the steps at the end of the terrace and she followed his gaze. Then she too caught her breath.
Molly was coming up the steps from the beach. She was breathing with deep, sobbing breaths, her body swayed to and fro as she came, in a curious directionless run. Tim cried, "Molly! What's the matter?"
He ran towards her and Evelyn followed him. Molly was at the top of the steps now and she stood there, both hands behind her back. She said in sobbing breaths: "I found her . . . She's there in the bushes . . . There in the bushes . . . And look at my hands—look at my hands—" She held them out and Evelyn caught her breath as she saw the queer dark stains.
They looked dark in the subdued lighting but she knew well enough that their real colour was red.
''What's happened, Molly?" cried Tim.
"Down there," said Molly. She swayed on her feet. "In the bushes . . ."
Tim hesitated, looked at Evelyn, then shoved Molly a little towards Evelyn and ran down the steps. Evelyn put her arm round the girl.
"Come. Sit down, Molly. Here. You'd better have something to drink."
Molly collapsed in a chair and leaned forward on the table, her forehead on her crossed arms. Evelyn did not question her any more. She thought it better to leave her time to recover.
"It'll be all right, you know," said Evelyn gently. "It'll be all right."
"I don't know," said Molly. "I don't know what happened. I don't know anything. I can't remember. I—" She raised her head suddenly. "What's the matter with me? What's the matter with me?"
"It's all right, child. It's all right."
Tim was coming slowly up the steps. His face was ghastly. Evelyn looked up at him, raising her eyebrows in a query.
"It's one of our girls," he said. "What's-her-name—Victoria. Somebody's put a knife in her."
14
INQUIRY
MOLLY lay on her bed. Dr. Graham and Dr. Robertson, the West Indian police doctor stood on one side, Tim on the other. Robertson had his hand on Molly's pulse. He nodded to the man at the foot of the bed, a slender dark man in police uniform. Inspector Weston of the St. Honore Police Force.
"A bare statement—no more." the doctor said.
The other nodded.
''Now, Mrs. Kendal—just tell us how you came to find this girl."
For a moment or two it was as though the figure on the bed had not heard. Then she spoke in a faint, far-away voice.
"In the bushes—white . . ."
"You saw something white—and you looked to see what it was? Is that it?"
"Yes—white—lying there—I tried—tried to lift—she—it—blood—blood all over my hands."
She began to tremble.
Dr. Graham shook his head at them.
Robertson whispered: "She can't stand much more."
"What were you doing on the beach path, Mrs. Kendal?"
"Warm—nice—by the sea—"
"You knew who the girl was?"
"Victoria—nice—nice girl—laughs—she used to laugh—oh! and now she won't— She won't ever laugh again. I'll never forget it— I'll never forget it—" Her voice rose hysterically.
"Molly—don't." It was Tim.
"Quiet— Quiet—" Dr. Robertson spoke with a soothing authority. "Just relax, relax. Now just a small prick—" He withdrew the hypodermic. "She'll be in no fit condition to be questioned for at least twenty-four hours," he said. "I'll let you know when."
II
The big handsome Negro looked from one to the other of the men sitting at the table.
"Ah declare to God," he said. "That's all I know. I don't know nothing but what Ah've told you."
The perspiration stood out on his forehead.
Daventry sighed. The man presiding at the table, Inspector Weston of the St. Honore C.I.D., made a gesture of dismissal. Big Jim Ellis shuffled out of the room.
"It's not all he knows, of course," Weston said. He had the soft Island voice. "But it's all we shall learn from him."
"You think he's in the clear himself?" asked Daventry.
"Yes. They seem to have been on good terms together."
"They weren't married?"
A faint smile appeared on Lieutenant Weston's lips. "No," he said, "they weren't married. We don't have so many marriages on the Island. They christen the children, though. He's had two children by Victoria."
"Do you think he was in it, whatever it was, with her?"
"Probably not. I think he'd have been nervous of anything of that kind. And I'd say, too, that what she did know wasn't very much."
"But enough for blackmail?"
"I don't know that I'd even call it that. I doubt if the girl would even understand that word. Payment for being discreet isn't thought of as blackmail. You see, some of the people who stay here are the rich playboy lot and their morals won't bear much investigation." His voice was slightly scathing.
"We get all kinds, I agree," said Daventry. "A woman, maybe, doesn't want it known that she's sleeping around, so she gives a present to the girl who waits on her. It's tacitly understood that the payments for discretion."
"Exactly."
"But this," objected Daventry, "
wasn't anything of that kind. It was murder."
"I should doubt, though, if the girl knew it was serious. She saw something, some puzzling incident, something to do presumably with this bottle of pills. It belonged to Mr. Dyson, I understand. We'd better see him next."
Gregory came in with his usual hearty air.
"Here I am," he said, "what can I do to help? Too bad about this girl. She was a nice girl. We both liked her. I suppose it was some sort of quarrel or other with a man, but she seemed quite happy and no signs of being in trouble about anything. I was kidding her only last night."
"I believe you take a preparation, Mr. Dyson, called Serenite?"
"Quite right. Little pink tablets."
"You have them on prescription from a physician?"
"Yes. I can show it to you if you like. Suffer a bit from high blood pressure, like so many people do nowadays."
"Very few people seem to be aware of that fact."
"Well, I don't go talking about it. I—well, I've always been well and hearty and I never like people who talk about their ailments all the time."
"How many of the pills do you take?"
"Two, three times a day."
"Do you have a fairly large stock with you?"
"Yes. I've got about half a dozen bottles. But they're locked up, you know, in a suitcase. I only keep out one, the one that's in current use."
"And you missed this bottle a short time ago, so I hear?"
"Quite right."
"And you asked this girl, Victoria Johnson, whether she'd seen it?"
"Yes, I did."
"And what did she say?"
"She said the last time she'd seen it was on the shelf in our bathroom. She said she'd look around."
"And after that?"
"She came and returned the bottle to me some time later. She said was this the bottle that was missing?"
"And you said?"
"I said 'that's it, all right, where did you find it?' And she said it was in old Major Palgrave's room. I said 'how on earth did it get there?'"
"And what did she answer to that?"
"She said she didn't know, but—" he hesitated.
"Yes, Mr. Dyson?"
"Well, she gave me the feeling that she did know a little more than she was saying, but I didn't pay much attention. After all, it wasn't very important. As I say, I've got other bottles of pills with me. I thought perhaps I'd left it around in the restaurant or somewhere and old Palgrave picked it up for some reason. Perhaps he put it in his pocket meaning to return it to me, then forgot."
"And that's all you know about it, Mr. Dyson?"
"That's all I know. Sorry to be so unhelpful. Is it important? Why!"
Weston shrugged his shoulders. "As things are, anything may be important."
"I don't see where pills come in. I thought you'd want to know about what my movements were when this wretched girl was stabbed. I've written them all down as carefully as I can."
Weston looked at him thoughtfully.
"Indeed? That was very helpful of you, Mr. Dyson."
"Save everybody trouble, I thought," said Greg. He shoved a piece of paper across the table.
Weston studied it and Daventry drew his chair a little closer and looked over his shoulder.
"That seems very clear," said Weston, after a moment or two. "You and your wife were together changing for dinner in your bungalow until ten minutes to nine. You then went along to the terrace where you had drinks with Señora de Caspearo. At quarter past nine Colonel and Mrs. Hillingdon joined you and you went in to dine. As far as you can remember, you went off to bed at about half past eleven."
"Of course," said Greg. "I don't know what time the girl was actually killed—?"
There was a faint semblance of a question in the words. Lieutenant Weston, however, did not appear to notice it.
"Mrs. Kendal found her, I understand? Must have been a very nasty shock for her."
"Yes. Dr. Robertson had to give her a sedative."
"This was quite late, wasn't it, when most people had trundled off to bed?"
"Yes."
"Had she been dead long? When Mrs. Kendal found her, I mean?"
"We're not quite certain of the exact time yet," said Weston smoothly.
"Poor little Molly. It must have been a nasty shock for her. Matter of fact, I didn't notice her about last night. Thought she might have a headache or something and was lying down."
"When was the last time you did see Mrs. Kendal?"
"Oh, quite early, before I went to change. She was playing about with some of the table decorations and things. Rearranging the knives."
"I see."
"She was quite cheerful then," said Greg. "Kidding and all that. She's a great girl. We're all very fond of her. Tim's a lucky fellow."
"Well, thank you, Mr. Dyson. You can't remember anything more than you've told us about what the girl Victoria said when she returned the tablets?"
"No . . . It was just as I say. Asked me were these the tablets I'd been asking for. Said she'd found them in old Palgrave's room."
"She'd no idea who put them there?"
"Don't think so—can't remember, really."
"Thank you, Mr. Dyson."
Gregory went out.
"Very thoughtful of him," said Weston, gently tapping the paper with his fingernail, "to be so anxious to want us to know for sure exactly where he was last night."
"A little over-anxious do you think?" asked Daventry.
"That's very difficult to tell. There are people, you know, who are naturally nervous about their own safety, about being mixed up with anything. It isn't necessarily because they have any guilty knowledge. On the other hand it might be just that."
"What about opportunity? Nobody's really got much of an alibi, what with the band and the dancing and the coming and going. People are getting up, leaving their tables, coming back. Women go to powder their noses. Men take a stroll. Dyson could have slipped away. Anybody could have slipped away. But he does seem rather anxious to prove that he didn't." He looked thoughtfully down at the paper. "So Mrs. Kendal was rearranging knives on the table," he said. "I rather wonder if he dragged that in on purpose."
"Did it sound like it to you?"
The other considered. "I think it's possible."
Outside the room where the two men were sitting, a noise had arisen. A high voice was demanding admittance shrilly. "I've got something to tell. I've got something to tell. You take me in to where the gentlemen are. You take me in to where the policeman is."
A uniformed policeman pushed open the door.
"It's one of the cooks here," he said, "very anxious to see you. Says he's got something you ought to know."
A frightened dark man in a cook's cap pushed past him and came into the room. It was one of the minor cooks. A Cuban, not a native of St. Honore. "I tell you something. I tell you," he said. "She come through my kitchen, she did, and she had a knife with her. A knife, I tell you. She had a knife in her hand. She come through my kitchen and out of the door. Out into the garden. I saw her."
"Now calm down," said Daventry, "calm down. Who are you talking about?"
"I tell you who I'm talking about. I'm talking about the boss's wife. Mrs Kendal. I'm talking about her. She have a knife in her hand and she go out into the dark. Before dinner that was—and she didn't come back"
15
INQUIRY CONTINUED
"CAN we have a word with you, Mr. Kendal?"
"Of course." Tim looked up from his desk. He pushed some papers aside and indicated chairs. His face was drawn and miserable. "How are you getting on? Got any forwarder? There seems to be a doom in this place. People are wanting to leave, you know, asking about air passages. Just when it seemed everything was being a success. Oh lord, you don't know what it means, this place, to me and to Molly. We staked everything on it."
"It's very hard on you, I know," said Inspector Weston. "Don't think that we don't sympathise."
"If it al
l could be cleared up quickly," said Tim. "This wretched girl Victoria— Oh! I oughtn't to talk about her like that. She was quite a good sort, Victoria was. But—but there must be some quite simple reason, some kind of intrigue, or love affair she had. Perhaps her husband—"
"Jim Ellis wasn't her husband, and they seemed a settled sort of couple."
"If it could only be cleared up quickly," said Tim again. "I'm sorry. You wanted to talk to me about something, ask me something."
"Yes. It was about last night. According to medical evidence Victoria was killed some time between 10.30 P.M. and midnight. Alibis under the circumstances that prevail here, are not very easy to prove. People are moving about, dancing, walking away from the terrace, coming back. It's all very difficult."
"I suppose so. But does that mean that you definitely consider Victoria was killed by one of the guests here?"
"Well, we have to examine that possibility, Mr. Kendal. What I want to ask you particularly about, is a statement made by one of your cooks."
"Oh? Which one? What does he say?"
"He's a Cuban, I understand."
"We've got two Cubans and a Puerto Rican."
"This man Enrico states that your wife passed through the kitchen on her way from the dining room, and went out into the garden and that she was carrying a knife."
Tim stared at him.
"Molly, carrying a knife? Well, why shouldn't she? I mean—why—you don't think—what are you trying to suggest?"
"I am talking of the time before people had come into the dining room. It would be, I suppose, some time about 8.30. You yourself were in the dining room talking to the head waiter, Fernando, I believe."
"Yes." Tim cast his mind back. "Yes, I remember."
"And your wife came in from the terrace?"
"Yes, she did," Tim agreed. "She always went out to look over the tables. Sometimes the boys set things wrong, forgot some of the cutlery, things like that. Very likely that's what it was. She may have been rearranging cutlery or something. She might have had a spare knife or a spoon, something like that in her hand."
"And she came from the terrace into the dining room. Did she speak to you?"
"Yes, we had a word or two together."
A Caribbean Mystery - Miss Marple 09 Page 8