he time had come and Miss Marple was waiting at the airport for her plane. Quite a lot of people had come to see her off. The Hillingdons had left already. Gregory Dyson had flown to one of the other islands and the rumour had come that he was devoting himself to an Argentinian widow. Seсora de Caspearo had returned to South America. Molly had come to see Miss Marple off. She was pale and thin but she had weathered the shock of her discovery bravely and with the help of one of Mr. Rafiel's nominees whom he had wired for to England she was carrying on with the running of the hotel.

“Do you good to be busy,” Mr. Rafiel observed. “Keep you from thinking. Got a good thing here.”

“You don't think the murders-”

“People love murders when they're all cleared up,” Mr. Rafiel assured her. “You carry on, girl, and keep your heart up. Don't distrust all men because you've met one bad lot.”

“You sound like Miss Marple,” Molly had said, “she's always telling me Mr. Right will come along one day.”

Mr. Rafiel grinned at this sentiment. So Molly was there and the two Prescotts and Mr. Rafiel, of course, and Esther-an Esther who looked older and sadder and to whom Mr. Rafiel was quite often unexpectedly kind. Jackson also was very much to the fore, pretending to be looking after Miss Marple's baggage. He was all smiles these days and let it be known that he had come into money.

There was a hum in the sky. The plane was arriving. Things were somewhat informal here. There was no “taking your place by Channel 8” or Channel 9. You just walked out from the little flower-covered pavilion on to the tarmac.

“Goodbye, darling Miss Marple.” Molly kissed her.

“Goodbye. Do try and come and visit us.” Miss Prescott shook her warmly by the hand.

“It has been a great pleasure to know you,” said the Canon. “I second my sister's invitation most warmly.”

“All the best. Madam,” said Jackson, “and remember any time you want any massage free, just you send me a line and we'll make an appointment.”

Only Esther Walters turned slightly away when the time came for goodbyes. Miss Marple did not force one upon her. Mr. Rafiel came last. He took her hand. “Ave Caesar, nos morituri te salutamus,” he said.

“I'm afraid,” said Miss Marple, “I don't know very much Latin.”

“But you understand that?”

“Yes.” She said no more. She knew quite well what he was telling her. “It has been a great pleasure to know you,” she said.

Then she walked across the tarmac and got into the plane.