Caribbean Mystery - Agatha Christie [62]
Her mind was increasingly focused on the victim. Someone was going to be killed and she had the increasing feeling that she ought to know quite well who that someone was. There had been something. Something she had heard? Noticed? Seen?
Something someone had told her that had a bearing on the case. Joan Prescott? Joan Prescott had said a lot of things about a lot of people. Scandal? Gossip? What exactly had Joan Prescott said?
Gregory Dyson, Lucky—Miss Marple’s mind hovered over Lucky. Lucky, she was convinced with a certainty born of her natural suspicions, had been actively concerned in the death of Gregory Dyson’s first wife. Everything pointed to it. Could it be that the predestined victim over whom she was worrying was Gregory Dyson? That Lucky intended to try her luck again with another husband, and for that reason wanted not only freedom but the handsome inheritance that she would get as Gregory Dyson’s widow?
“But really,” said Miss Marple to herself, “this is all pure conjecture. I’m being stupid. I know I’m being stupid. The truth must be quite plain, if one could just clear away the litter. Too much litter, that’s what’s the matter.”
“Talking to yourself?” said Mr. Rafiel.
Miss Marple jumped. She had not noticed his approach. Esther Walters was supporting him and he was coming slowly down from his bungalow to the terrace.
“I really didn’t notice you, Mr. Rafiel.”
“Your lips were moving. What’s become of all this urgency of yours?”
“It’s still urgent,” said Miss Marple, “only I can’t just see what must be perfectly plain—”
“I’m glad it’s as simple as that—Well, if you want any help, count on me.”
He turned his head as Jackson approached them along the path.
“So there you are, Jackson. Where the devil have you been? Never about when I want you.”
“Sorry, Mr. Rafiel.”
Dexterously he slipped his shoulder under Mr. Rafiel’s. “Down to the terrace, sir?”
“You can take me to the bar,” said Mr. Rafiel. “All right, Esther, you can go now and change into your evening togs. Meet me on the terrace in half an hour.”
He and Jackson went off together. Mrs. Walters dropped into the chair by Miss Marple. She rubbed her arm gently.
“He seems a very light weight,” she observed, “but at the moment my arm feels quite numb. I haven’t seen you this afternoon at all, Miss Marple.”
“No, I’ve been sitting with Molly Kendal,” Miss Marple explained. “She seems really very much better.”
“If you ask me there was never very much wrong with her,” said Esther Walters.
Miss Marple raised her eyebrows. Esther Walters’s tone had been decidedly dry.
“You mean—you think her suicide attempt….”
“I don’t think there was any suicide attempt,” said Esther Walters. “I don’t believe for a moment she took a real overdose and I think Dr. Graham knows that perfectly well.”
“Now you interest me very much,” said Miss Marple. “I wonder why you say that?”
“Because I’m almost certain that it’s the case. Oh, it’s a thing that happens very often. It’s a way, I suppose, of calling attention to oneself,” went on Esther Walters.
“‘You’ll be sorry when I’m dead?’” quoted Miss Marple.
“That sort of thing,” agreed Esther Walters, “though I don’t think that was the motive in this particular instance. That’s the sort of thing you feel like when your husband’s playing you up and you’re terribly fond of him.”
“You don’t think Molly Kendal is fond of her husband?”
“Well,” said Esther Walters, “do you?”
Miss Marple considered. “I have,” she said, “more or less assumed it.” She paused a moment before adding, “Perhaps wrongly.”
Esther was smiling her rather wry smile.
“I’ve heard a little about her, you know. About the whole business.”
“From Miss Prescott?”
“Oh,” said Esther, “from one or two people. There’s a man in the case. Someone she was keen on. Her people were dead against him.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple, “I did hear that.”
“And then she married Tim. Perhaps she was fond of him in a way. But the other man didn’t give up. I’ve wondered