Caribbean Mystery - Agatha Christie [14]
She had learnt one rather interesting fact from Dr. Graham. He had had in his wallet various photographs: one of himself in company with a polo pony, one of a dead tiger, also one or two other shots of the same nature. Now why did Major Palgrave carry these about with him? Obviously, thought Miss Marple, with long experience of old admirals, brigadier-generals and mere majors behind her, because he had certain stories which he enjoyed telling to people. Starting off with “Curious thing happened once when I was out tiger shooting in India….” Or a reminiscence of himself and a polo pony. Therefore this story about a suspected murderer would in due course be illustrated by the production of the snapshot from his wallet.
He had been following that pattern in his conversation with her. The subject of murder having come up, and to focus interest on his story, he had done what he no doubt usually did, produced his snapshot and said something in the nature of “Wouldn’t think this chap was a murderer, would you?”
The point was that it had been a habit of his. This murderer story was one of his regular repertoire. If any reference to murder came up, then away went the Major, full steam ahead.
In that case, reflected Miss Marple, he might already have told his story to someone else here. Or to more than one person—If that were so, then she herself might learn from that person what the further details of the story had been, possibly what the person in the snapshot had looked like.
She nodded her head in satisfaction—That would be a beginning.
And, of course, there were the people she called in her mind the “Four Suspects.” Though really, since Major Palgrave had been talking about a man—there were only two. Colonel Hillingdon or Mr. Dyson, very unlikely-looking murderers, but then murderers so often were unlikely. Could there have been anyone else? She had seen no one when she turned her head to look. There was the bungalow of course. Mr. Rafiel’s bungalow. Could somebody have come out of the bungalow and gone in again before she had had time to turn her head? If so, it could only have been the valet-attendant. What was his name? Oh yes, Jackson. Could it have been Jackson who had come out of the door? That would have been the same pose as the photograph. A man coming out of a door. Recognition might have struck suddenly. Up till then, Major Palgrave would not have looked at Arthur Jackson, valet-attendant, with any interest. His roving and curious eye was essentially a snobbish eye—Arthur Jackson was not a pukka sahib—Major Palgrave would not have glanced at him twice.
Until, perhaps, he had had the snapshot in his hand, and had looked over Miss Marple’s right shoulder and had seen a man coming out of a door …?
Miss Marple turned over on her pillow—Programme for tomorrow—or rather for today—Further investigation of the Hillingdons, the Dysons and Arthur Jackson, valet-attendant.
II
Dr. Graham also woke early. Usually he turned over and went to sleep again. But today he was uneasy and sleep failed to come. This anxiety that made it so difficult to go to sleep again was a thing he had not suffered from for a long time. What was causing this anxiety? Really, he couldn’t make it out. He lay there thinking it over. Something to do with—something to do with—yes, Major Palgrave. Major Palgrave’s death? He didn’t see, though, what there could be to make him uneasy there. Was it something that that twittery old lady had said? Bad luck for her about her snapshot. She’d taken it very well. But now what was it she had said, what chance word of hers had it been, that had given him this funny feeling of uneasiness? After all, there was nothing odd about the Major’s death. Nothing at all. At least he supposed there was nothing at all.
It was quite clear that in the Major’s state of health—a faint check came in his thought process. Did he really know much about Major