It seemed, somehow, a pity.

Miss Marple sighed for youth. There was Mrs. Kendal, of course. She wasn't more than twenty-two or three, probably, and she seemed to be enjoying herself-but even so, it was a job she was doing. At a table nearby Canon Prescott and his sister were sitting. They motioned to Miss Marple to join them for coffee and she did so. Miss Prescott was a thin severe-looking woman, the Canon was a round, rubicund man, breathing geniality. Coffee was brought, and chairs were pushed a little way away from the tables. Miss Prescott opened a workbag and took out some frankly hideous tablemats that she was hemming. She told Miss Marple all about the day's events. They had visited a new Girls' School in the morning. After an afternoon's rest, they had walked through a cane plantation to have tea at a pension where some friends of theirs were staying. Since the Prescotts had been at the Golden Palm longer than Miss Marple, they were able to enlighten her as to some of her fellow guests.

That very old man, Mr. Rafter. He came every year. Fantastically rich! Owned an enormous chain of supermarkets in the North of England. The young woman with him was his secretary, Esther Walters-a widow. (Quite all right, of course. Nothing improper. After all, he was nearly eighty!) Miss Marple accepted the propriety of the relationship with an understanding nod and the Canon remarked: "A very nice young woman; her mother, I understand, is a widow and lives in Chichester."

"Mr. Rafter has a valet with him, too. Or rather a kind of Nurse Attendant-he's a qualified masseur, I believe. Jackson, his name is. Poor Mr. Rafter is practically paralysed. So sad-with all that money, too." "A generous and cheerful giver," said Canon Prescott approvingly. People were regrouping themselves round about, some going farther from the steel band, others crowding up to it. Major Palgrave had joined the Hillingdon-Dyson quartet.