put actual words into their mouths. Major Palgrave told me this story, yes. He told me that the man who told it to him, this doctor, had shown him a snapshot of the murderer; but if I am to be quite honest I must admit that what he actually said to me was 'Would you like to see a snapshot of a murderer?' and naturally I assumed that it was the same snapshot he had been talking about. That it was the snapshot of that particular murderer. But I have to admit that it is possible – only remotely possible, but still possible – that by an association of ideas in his mind he leaped from the snapshot he had been shown in the past, to a snapshot he had taken recently of someone here whom he was convinced was a murderer.'
'Women!' snorted Mr. Rafiel, in exasperation, 'You're all the same, the whole blinking lot of you! Can't be accurate. You're never exactly sure of what a thing was. And now,' he added irritably, 'where does that leave us?' He snorted. 'Evelyn Hillingdon, or Greg's wife. Lucky? The whole thing is a mess.'
There was a slight apologetic cough.
Arthur Jackson was standing at Mr. Rafiel's elbow. He had come so noiselessly that nobody had noticed him.
'Time for your massage, sir,' he said.
Mr. Rafiel displayed immediate temper. 'What do you mean by sneaking up on me in that way and making me jump? I never heard you.'
'Very sorry, sir.'
'I don't think I'll have any massage today. It never does me a damn bit of good.'
'Oh come sir, you mustn't say that.' Jackson was full of professional cheerfulness. 'You'd soon notice it if you left it off.'
He wheeled the chair deftly round.
Miss Marple rose to her feet, smiled at Esther and went down to the beach.
Chapter 18
WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY
The beach was rather empty this morning. Greg was splashing in the water in his usual noisy style. Lucky was lying on her face on the beach with a sun-tanned back well oiled and her blonde hair splayed over her shoulders. The Hillingdons were not there. Seсora de Caspearo, with an assorted bag of gentlemen in attendance was lying face upwards and talking deep-throated, happy Spanish. Some French and Italian children were playing at the water's edge and laughing. Canon and Miss Prescott were sitting in beach chairs observing the scene. The Canon had his hat tilted forward over his eyes and seemed half asleep. There was a convenient chair next to Miss Prescott and Miss Marple made for it and sat down.
'Oh dear,' she said, with a deep sigh.
'I know,' said Miss Prescott.
It was their joint tribute to violent death.
'That poor girl,' said Miss Marple.
'Very sad,' said the Canon. 'Most deplorable.'
'For a moment or two,' said Miss Prescott, 'we really thought of leaving, Jeremy and I. But then we decided against it. It would not really be fair, I felt, on the Kendals. After all, it's not their fault. It might have happened anywhere.'
'In the midst of life we are in death,' said the Canon solemnly.
'It's very important, you know,' said Miss Prescott, 'that they should make a go of this place. They have sunk all their capital in it.'
'A very sweet girl,' said Miss Marple, 'but not looking at all well lately.'
'Very nervy,' agreed Miss Prescott. 'Of course her family-' she shook her head.
'I really think, Joan,' said the Canon in mild reproof, 'that there are some things-'
'Everybody knows about it,' said Miss Prescott. 'Her family live in our part of the world. A great-aunt – most peculiar – and one of her uncles took off all his clothes in one of the tube stations. Green Park, I believe it was.'
'Joan, that is a thing that should not be repeated.'
'Very sad,' said Miss Marple, shaking her head, 'though I believe not an uncommon form of madness. I know when we were working for the Armenian relief, a most respectable elderly clergyman was afflicted the same way. They telephoned his wife and she came along at once and took him home in a cab, wrapped in a blanket.'
'Of course, Molly's immediate family's all right,' said Miss Prescott. 'She never got on very well with her mother, but then so few girls seem to get on with their mothers nowadays.'
'Such a pity,' said Miss Marple, shaking her head, 'because really a young girl needs her mother's knowledge of the world and experience.'
'Exactly,' said Miss Prescott with emphasis. 'Molly, you know, took up with some man – quite unsuitable, I understand.'
'It so often happens,' said Miss Marple.
'Her family disapproved, naturally. She didn't tell them about it. They heard about it from a complete outsider. Of course her mother said she must bring him along so that they met him properly. This, I understand, the girl refused to do. She said it was humiliating to him. Most insulting to be made to come and meet her family and be looked over. Just as though you were a horse, she said.'
Miss Marple sighed. 'One does need so much tact when dealing with the young,' she murmured.
'Anyway there it was! They forbade her to see him.'
'But you can't do that nowadays,' said Miss Marple. 'Girls have jobs and they meet people whether anyone forbids them or not.'
'But then, very fortunately,' went on Miss Prescott, 'she met Tim Kendal, and the other man sort of faded out of the picture. I can't tell you how relieved the family was.'
'I hope they didn't show it too plainly,' said Miss Marple. 'That so often puts girls off from forming suitable attachments.'
'Yes, indeed.'
'One remembers oneself.' Murmured Miss Marple, her mind going back to the past. A young man she had met at a croquet party. He had seemed so nice – rather gay, almost Bohemian in his views. And then he had been unexpectedly warmly welcomed by her father. He had been suitable, eligible; he had been asked freely to the house more than once, and Miss Marple had found that, after all, he was dull. Very dull.
The Canon seemed safely comatose and Miss Marple advanced tentatively to the subject she was anxious to pursue.
'Of course you know so much about this place,' she murmured. 'You have been here several years running, have you not?'
'Well, last year and two years before that. We like St. Honore very much. Always such nice people here. Not the flashy, ultra-rich set.'
'So I suppose you know the Hillingdons and the Dysons well!'
''Yes, fairly well.'
Miss Marple coughed and lowered her voice slightly.
'Major Palgrave told me such an interesting story,' she said.
'He had a great repertoire of stories, hadn't he? Of course he had travelled very widely. Africa, India, even China I believe.'
'Yes indeed,' said Miss Marple. 'But I didn't mean one of those stories. This was a story concerned with- well, with one of the people I have just mentioned.'
'Oh!' said Miss Prescott. Her voice held meaning.
'Yes. Now I wonder-' Miss Marple allowed her eyes to travel gently round the beach to where Lucky lay sunning her back. 'Very beautifully tanned, isn't she,' remarked Miss Marple. 'And her hair. Most attractive. Practically the same colour as Molly Kendal's, isn't it?'
