Marple trotted away down the road. She looked back once and waved her hand—Esther Anderson was still standing on the doorstep, and she waved back cheerfully.
‘I thought this might have been something to do with her or something she knew about,’ said Miss Marple to herself. ‘I think I’m wrong. No. I don’t think she’s concerned in this business, whatever it is, in any way. Oh dear, I feel Mr Rafiel expected me to be much cleverer than I am being. I think he expected me to put things together—but what things? And what do I do next, I wonder?’ She shook her head.
She had to think over things very carefully. This business had been, as it were, left to her. Left to her to refuse, to accept, to understand what it was all about? Or not understand anything, but to go forward and hope that some kind of guidance might be given to her. Occasionally she closed her eyes and tried to picture Mr Rafiel’s face. Sitting in the garden of the hotel in the West Indies, in his tropical suit; his bad-tempered corrugated face, his flashes of occasional humour. What she really wanted to know was what had been in his mind when he worked up this scheme, when he set out to bring it about. To lure her into accepting it, to persuade her to accept it, to—well, perhaps one should say—to bully her into accepting it. The third was much the most likely, knowing Mr Rafiel. And yet, take it that he had wanted something done and he had chosen her, settled upon her to do it. Why? Because she had suddenly come into his mind? But why should she have come into his mind?
She thought back to Mr Rafiel and the things that had occurred at St Honoré. Had perhaps the problem he had been considering at the time of his death sent his mind back to that visit to the West Indies? Was it in some way connected with someone who had been out there, who had taken part or been an onlooker there and was that what had put Miss Marple into his mind? Was there some link or some connection? If not, why should he suddenly think of her? What was it about her that could make her useful to him, in any way at all? She was an elderly, rather scatty, quite ordinary person, physically not very strong, mentally not nearly as alert as she used to be. What had been her special qualifications, if any? She couldn’t think of any. Could it possibly have been a bit of fun on Mr Rafiel’s part? Even if Mr Rafiel had been on the point of death he might have wanted to have some kind of joke that suited his peculiar sense of humour.
She could not deny that Mr Rafiel could quite possibly wish to have a joke, even on his death-bed. Some ironical humour of his might be satisfied.
‘I must,’ said Miss Marple to herself firmly, ‘I must have some qualification for something.’ After all, since Mr Rafiel was no longer in this world, he could not enjoy his joke at first hand. What qualifications had she got? ‘What qualities have I got that could be useful to anyone for anything?’ said Miss Marple.
She considered herself with proper humility. She was inquisitive, she asked questions, she was the sort of age and type that could be expected to ask questions. That was one point, a possible point. You could send a private detective round to ask questions, or some psychological investigator, but it was true that you could much more easily send an elderly lady with a habit of snooping and being inquisitive, of talking too much, of wanting to find out about things, and it would seem perfectly natural.
‘An old pussy,’ said Miss Marple to herself. ‘Yes, I can see I’m quite recognizable as an old pussy. There are so many old pussies, and they’re all so much alike. And, of course, yes, I’m very ordinary. An ordinary rather scatty old lady. And that of course is very good camouflage. Dear me, I wonder if I’m thinking on the right lines. I do, sometimes, know what people are like. I mean, I know what people are like, because they remind me of certain other people I have known. So I know some of their faults and some of their virtues. I know what kind of people they are. There’s that.’
She thought again of St Honoré and the Hotel of the Golden Palm. She had made one attempt to enquire into the possibilities of a link, by her visit to Esther Walters. That had been definitely non-productive, Miss Marple decided. There didn’t seem any further link leading from there. Nothing that would tie up with his request that Miss Marple should busy herself with something, the nature of which she still had no idea!
‘Dear me,’ said Miss Marple, ‘what a tiresome man you are, Mr Rafiel!’ She said it aloud and there was definite reproach in her voice.
Later, however, as she climbed into bed and applied her cosy hot water bottle to the most painful portion of her rheumatic back, she spoke again—in what might be taken as a semi-apology.
‘I’ve done the best I could,’ she said.
She spoke aloud with the air of addressing one who might easily be in the room. It is true he might be anywhere, but even then there might be some telepathic or telephonic communication, and if so, she was going to speak definitely and to the point.
‘I’ve done all I could. The best according to my limitations, and I must now leave it up to you.’
With that she settled herself more comfortably, stretched out a hand, switched off the electric light, and went to sleep.
It was some three or four days later that a communication arrived by the second post. Miss Marple picked up the letter, did what she usually did to letters, turned it over, looked at the stamp, looked at the handwriting, decided that it wasn’t a bill and opened it. It was typewritten.
‘Dear Miss Marple,
By the time you read this I shall be dead and also buried. Not cremated, I am glad to think. It has always seemed to me unlikely that one would manage to rise up from one’s handsome bronze vase full of ashes and haunt anyone if one wanted so to do! Whereas the idea of rising from one’s grave and haunting anyone is quite possible. Shall I want to do that? Who knows. I might even want to communicate with you.
By now my solicitors will have communicated with you and will have put a certain proposition before you. I hope you will have accepted it. If you have not accepted it, don’t feel in the least remorseful. It will be your choice.
This should reach you, if my solicitors have done what they were told to do, and if the posts have done the duty they are expected to perform, on the 11th of the month. In two days from now you will receive a communication from a travel bureau in London. I hope what it proposes will not be distasteful to you. I needn’t say more. I want you to have an open mind. Take care of yourself. I think you will manage to do that. You are a very shrewd person. The best of luck and may your guardian angel be at your side looking after you. You may need one.
Your affectionate friend,
J.B. Rafiel.’
‘Two days!’ said Miss Marple.
She found it difficult to pass the time. The Post Office did their duty and so did the Famous Houses and Gardens of Great Britain.
‘Dear Miss Jane Marple,
Obeying instructions given us by the late Mr Rafiel we send you particulars of our Tour No 37 of the Famous Houses and Gardens of Great Britain which starts from London on Thursday next—the 17th.
