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By Root 360 0

Palgrave’s state of health? Everybody said that he’d suffered from high blood pressure. But he himself had never had any conversation with the Major about it. But then he’d never had much conversation with Major Palgrave anyway. Palgrave was an old bore and he avoided old bores. Why on earth should he have this idea that perhaps everything mightn’t be all right? Was it that old woman? But after all she hadn’t said anything. Anyway, it was none of his business. The local authorities were quite satisfied. There had been that bottle of Serenite tablets, and the old boy had apparently talked to people about his blood pressure quite freely.

Dr. Graham turned over in bed and soon went to sleep again.

III

Outside the hotel grounds, in one of a row of shanty cabins beside a creek, the girl Victoria Johnson rolled over and sat up in bed. The St. Honoré girl was a magnificent creature with a torso of black marble such as a sculptor would have enjoyed. She ran her fingers through her dark, tightly curling hair. With her foot she nudged her sleeping companion in the ribs.

“Wake up, man.”

The man grunted and turned.

“What you want? It’s not morning.”

“Wake up, man. I want to talk to you.”

The man sat up, stretched, showed a wide mouth and beautiful teeth.

“What’s worrying you, woman?”

“That Major man who died. Something I don’t like. Something wrong about it.”

“Ah, what d’you want to worry about that? He was old. He died.”

“Listen, man. It’s them pills. Them pills the doctor asked me about.”

“Well, what about them? He took too many maybe.”

“No. It’s not that. Listen.” She leant towards him, talking vehemently. He yawned and lay down again.

“There’s nothing in that. What’re you talking about?”

“All the same, I’ll speak to Mrs. Kendal about it in the morning. I think there’s something wrong there somewhere.”

“Shouldn’t bother,” said the man who, without benefit of ceremony, she considered as her present husband. “Don’t let’s look for trouble,” he said and rolled over on his side yawning.

Seven

MORNING ON THE BEACH

I

It was mid-morning on the beach below the hotel.

Evelyn Hillingdon came out of the water and dropped on the warm golden sand. She took off her bathing cap and shook her dark head vigorously. The beach was not a very big one. People tended to congregate there in the mornings and about 11:30 there was always something of a social reunion. To Evelyn’s left in one of the exotic-looking modern basket chairs lay Señora de Caspearo, a handsome woman from Venezuela. Next to her was old Mr. Rafiel who was by now the doyen of the Golden Palm Hotel and held the sway that only an elderly invalid of great wealth could attain. Esther Walters was in attendance on him. She usually had her shorthand notebook and pencil with her in case Mr. Rafiel should suddenly think of urgent business cables which must be got off at once. Mr. Rafiel in beach attire was incredibly desiccated, his bones draped with festoons of dry skin. Though looking like a man on the point of death, he had looked exactly the same for at least the last eight years—or so it was said in the islands. Sharp blue eyes peered out of his wrinkled cheeks, and his principal pleasure in life was denying robustly anything that anyone else said.

Miss Marple was also present. As usual she sat and knitted and listened to what went on, and very occasionally joined in the conversation. When she did so, everyone was surprised because they had usually forgotten that she was there! Evelyn Hillingdon looked at her indulgently, and thought that she was a nice old pussy.

Señora de Caspearo rubbed some more oil on her long beautiful legs and hummed to herself. She was not a woman who spoke much. She looked discontentedly at the flask of sun oil.

“This is not so good as Frangipanio,” she said, sadly. “One cannot get it here. A pity.” Her eyelids drooped again.

“Are you going in for your dip now, Mr. Rafiel?” asked Esther Walters.

“I’ll go in when I’m ready,” said Mr. Rafiel, snappishly.

“It’s half past eleven,” said Mrs. Walters.

“What of it?” said Mr. Rafiel.