By Agatha Christie
Bothered with arthritis, leave out Jane Marple has packed herself off, on the insistence of her nephew, for a few leisure and leisure at a inn within the Caribbean. the ocean is classy and the elements is ok during this quiet paradise up to now clear of bustling St. Mary Mead. yet unexpectedly the calm is interrupted via the dying of significant Palgrave, certainly one of her fellow visitors on the lodge.
omit Marple unearths herself relatively disturbed by way of this flip of occasions. She'd simply spent the former night talking with the key, who'd appeared to her to be in completely strong well-being. He'd been telling her a few picture that he had--"a image of a murderer…," he'd claimed. confident that the major's dying used to be in no way common, she starts to invite tough questions. It quickly turns into transparent assassin is lurking between her partners on the inn, and it truly is as much as omit Marple to root this individual out sooner than she or he can strike back.
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Additional resources for A Caribbean Mystery (Miss Marple Mysteries, Book 10)
28 I thought that in one of his pictures the idea was a little clearer, although I myself could not understand it. I have remembered that picture because it caused me to tremble as I looked at it. It showed a very long passage, with low walls, smooth and white. The background suggested that the passage was very far below the surface of the earth, but there was no way out of it that I could see. No lamps were shown, nor any other artifical light; but the whole scene was bathed in a flood of bright light.
It was now midnight, and I had reached the eleventh row — the last row — of stones. In a few minutes only a single stone remained to be fitted in. I struggled with its weight. I placed it partly in position. But now there came from inside a low laugh that made the hairs stand on my head. It was followed by a sad voice, which I could hardly recognize as that of Fortunato. The voice said:'Ha! ha! ha! — a very good joke — an excellent joke. We shall have a good laugh about it — he! he! he! ' I said.
In the end I gave up my attempts to solve the mystery of my anxiety. I left the lake, and went on to the house. The owner of the property, Roderick Usher, had been one of the closest of my childhood friends, but some years had passed since our last meeting. He had recently sent me a very urgent invitation to visit him — had begged me, in fact, to stay with him for several weeks. He wrote that he was suffering from a severe illness, a mental disorder. My companionship, he thought, would cheer him, and bring calm to his troubled thoughts.