A Caribbean Mystery. Агата Кристи
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Mrs Linnett’s cough mixture—that very odd behaviour of young Polegate—the time when Georgy Wood’s mother had come down to see him—(but was she his mother—?) the real cause of the quarrel between Joe Arden and his wife. So many interesting human problems—giving rise to endless pleasurable hours of speculation. If only there were something here that she could—well—get her teeth into.
With a start she realized that Major Palgrave had abandoned Kenya for the North West Frontier and was relating his experiences as a subaltern. Unfortunately he was asking her with great earnestness: ‘Now don’t you agree?’
Long practice had made Miss Marple quite an adept at dealing with that one.
‘I don’t really feel that I’ve got sufficient experience to judge. I’m afraid I’ve led rather a sheltered life.’
‘And so you should, dear lady, so you should,’ cried Major Palgrave gallantly.
‘You’ve had such a very varied life,’ went on Miss Marple, determined to make amends for her former pleasurable inattention.
‘Not bad,’ said Major Palgrave, complacently. ‘Not bad at all.’ He looked round him appreciatively. ‘Lovely place, this.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Miss Marple and was then unable to stop herself going on: ‘Does anything ever happen here, I wonder?’
Major Palgrave stared.
‘Oh rather. Plenty of scandals—eh what? Why, I could tell you—’
But it wasn’t really scandals Miss Marple wanted. Nothing to get your teeth into in scandals nowadays. Just men and women changing partners, and calling attention to it, instead of trying decently to hush it up and be properly ashamed of themselves.
‘There was even a murder here a couple of years ago. Man called Harry Western. Made a big splash in the papers. Dare say you remember it.’
Miss Marple nodded without enthusiasm. It had not been her kind of murder. It had made a big splash mainly because everyone concerned had been very rich. It had seemed likely enough that Harry Western had shot the Count de Ferrari, his wife’s lover, and equally likely that his well-arranged alibi had been bought and paid for. Everyone seemed to have been drunk, and there was a fine scattering of dope addicts. Not really interesting people, thought Miss Marple—although no doubt very spectacular and attractive to look at. But definitely not her cup of tea.
‘And if you ask me, that wasn’t the only murder about that time.’ He nodded and winked. ‘I had my suspicions—oh!—well—’
Miss Marple dropped her ball of wool, and the Major stooped and picked it up for her.
‘Talking of murder,’ he went on. ‘I once came across a very curious case—not exactly personally.’
Miss Marple smiled encouragingly.
‘Lot of chaps talking at the club one day, you know, and a chap began telling a story. Medical man he was. One of his cases. Young fellow came and knocked him up in the middle of the night. His wife had hanged herself. They hadn’t got a telephone, so after the chap had cut her down and done what he could, he’d got out his car and hared off looking for a doctor. Well, she wasn’t dead but pretty far gone. Anyway, she pulled through. Young fellow seemed devoted to her. Cried like a child. He’d noticed that she’d been odd for some time, fits of depression and all that. Well, that was that. Everything seemed all right. But actually, about a month later, the wife took an overdose of sleeping stuff and passed out. Sad case.’
Major Palgrave paused, and nodded his head several times. Since there was obviously more to come Miss Marple waited.
‘And that’s that, you might say. Nothing there. Neurotic woman, nothing out of the usual. But about a year later, this medical chap was swapping yarns with a fellow medico, and the other chap told him about a woman who’d tried to drown herself, husband got her out, got a doctor, they pulled her round—and then a few weeks later she gassed herself.
‘Well, a bit of a coincidence—eh? Same sort of story. My chap said—“I had a case rather like that. Name of Jones (or whatever the name was)—What was your man’s name?” “Can’t remember. Robinson I think. Certainly not Jones.”
‘Well, the chaps looked at each other and said it was pretty odd. And then my chap pulled out a snapshot. He showed it to the second chap. “That’s the fellow,” he said—“I’d gone along the next day to check up on the particulars, and I noticed a magnificent species of hibiscus just by the front door, a variety I’d never seen before in this country. My camera was in the car and I took a photo. Just as I snapped the shutter the husband came out of the front door so I got him as well. Don’t think he realized it. I asked him about the hibiscus but he couldn’t tell me its name.” Second medico looked at the snap. He said: “It’s a bit out of focus—But I could swear—at any rate I’m almost sure—it’s the same man.”
‘Don’t know if they followed it up. But if so they didn’t get anywhere. Expect Mr Jones or Robinson covered his tracks too well. But queer story, isn’t it? Wouldn’t think things like that could happen.’
‘Oh, yes, I would,’ said Miss Marple placidly. ‘Practically every day.’
‘Oh, come, come. That’s a bit fantastic.’
‘If a man gets a formula that works—he won’t stop. He’ll go on.’
‘Brides in the bath—eh?’
‘That kind of thing, yes.’
‘Doctor let me have that snap just as a curiosity—’
Major Palgrave began fumbling through an overstuffed wallet murmuring to himself: ‘Lots of things in here—don’t know why I keep all these things …’
Miss Marple thought she did know. They were part of the Major’s stock-in-trade. They illustrated his repertoire of stories. The story he had just told, or so she suspected, had not been originally like that—it had been worked up a good deal in repeated telling.
The Major was still shuffling and muttering—‘Forgotten all about that business. Good-looking woman she was, you’d never suspect—now where—Ah—that takes my mind back—what tusks! I must show you—’
He stopped—sorted out a small photographic print and peered down at it.
‘Like to see the picture of a murderer?’
He was about to pass it to her when his movement was suddenly arrested. Looking more like a stuffed frog than ever, Major Palgrave appeared to be staring fixedly over her right shoulder—from whence came the sound of approaching footsteps and voices.
‘Well, I’m damned—I mean—’ He stuffed everything back into his wallet and crammed it into his pocket.
His face went an even deeper shade of purplish red—He exclaimed in a loud, artificial voice:
‘As I was saying—I’d like to have shown you those elephant tusks—Biggest elephant I’ve ever shot—Ah, hallo!’ His voice took on a somewhat spurious hearty note.
‘Look who’s here! The great quartette—Flora and Fauna—What luck have you had today—Eh?’
The approaching footsteps resolved themselves into four of the hotel guests whom Miss Marple already knew by sight. They consisted of two married couples and though Miss Marple was not as yet acquainted with their surnames, she knew that the big man with the upstanding bush of thick grey hair was addressed as ‘Greg’, that the golden blonde woman, his wife, was known as Lucky—and that the other married couple, the dark lean man and the handsome but rather weather-beaten woman, were Edward and Evelyn. They were botanists, she understood, and also interested in birds.
‘No luck at all,’ said Greg—‘At least no luck in getting what we were after.’
‘Don’t know if you know Miss Marple? Colonel