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with blood pressure-alcohol.”
    “One takes tablets, doesn't one, or so I have heard?”
    “Yes. There are several on the market. There was a bottle of one of them in his room-Serenite.”
    “How wonderful science is nowadays,” said Miss Marple. “Doctors can do so much, can't they?”
    “We all have one great competitor,” said Dr. Graham. “Nature, you know. And some of the good old-fashioned home remedies come back from time to time.”
    “Like putting cobwebs on a cut?” said Miss Marple. “We always used to do that when I was a child.”
    “Very sensible,” said Dr. Graham.
    “And a linseed poultice on the chest and rubbing in camphorated oil for a bad cough.”
    “I see you know it all!” said Dr. Graham laughing. He got up. “How's the knee? Not been too troublesome?”
    “No, it seems much, much better.”
    “Well, we won't say whether that's Nature or my pills,” said Dr. Graham. “Sorry I couldn't have been of more help to you.”
    “But you have been most kind-I am really ashamed of taking up your time. Did you say that there were no photographs in the Major's wallet?”
    “Oh yes-a very old one of the Major himself as quite a young man on a polo pony-and one of a dead tiger. He was standing with his foot on it. Snaps of that sort. Memories of his younger days. But I looked very carefully, I assure you, and the one you describe of your nephew was definitely not there-”
    “Oh I'm sure you looked carefully-I didn't mean that-I was just interested. We all tend to keep such very odd things-”
    “Treasures from the past,” said the doctor smiling. He said goodbye and departed. Miss Marple remained looking thoughtfully at the palm trees and the sea. She did not pick up her knitting again for some minutes. She had a fact now. She had to think about that fact and what it meant. The snapshot that the Major had brought out of his wallet and replaced so hurriedly was not there after he died. It was not the sort of thing the Major would throw away. He had replaced it in his wallet and it ought to have been in his wallet after his death. Money might have been stolen, but no one would want to steal a snapshot. Unless, that is, they had a special reason for so doing...
    Miss Marple's face was grave. She had to take a decision. Was she, or was she not, going to allow Major Palgrave to remain quietly in his grave? Might it not be better to do just that? She quoted under her breath. “Duncan is dead. After Life's fitful fever he sleeps well!” Nothing could hurt Major Palgrave now. He had gone where danger could not touch him. Was it just a coincidence that he should have died on that particular night? Or was it just possibly not a coincidence? Doctors accepted the deaths of elderly men so easily. Especially since in his room there had been a bottle of the tablets that people with high blood pressure had to take every day of their lives. But if someone had taken the snapshot from the Mayor's wallet, that same person could have put that bottle of tablets in the Major's room. She herself never remembered seeing the Major take tablets, he had never spoken about his blood pressure to her. The only thing he had ever said about his health was the admission: “Not as young as I was”. He had been occasionally a little short of breath, a trifle asthmatic, nothing else.
    But someone had mentioned that Major Palgrave had high blood pressure-Molly? Miss Prescott? She couldn't remember. Miss Marple sighed, then admonished herself in words, though she did not speak those words aloud.
    “Now, Jane, what are you suggesting or thinking? Are you, perhaps, just making the whole thing up? Have you really got anything to build on?”
    She went over, step by step, as nearly as she could, the conversation between herself and the Major on the subject of murder and murderers.
    “Oh dear,” said Miss Marple. “Even if-really, I don't see how I can do anything about it-”
    But she knew that she meant to try.

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