Sleeping Murder (12 page)

I

A
nstell Manor had a bleak aspect. It was a white house, set against a background of bleak hills. A winding drive led up through dense shrubbery.

Giles said to Gwenda, “Why have we come? What can we possibly say?”

“We've got it worked out.”

“Yes—so far as that goes. It's lucky that Miss Marple's cousin's sister's aunt's brother-in-law or whatever it was lives near here … But it's a far step from a social call to asking your host about his bygone love affairs.”

“And such a long time ago. Perhaps—perhaps he doesn't even remember her.”

“Perhaps he doesn't. And perhaps there never was a love affair.”

“Giles, are we making unutterable fools of ourselves?”

“I don't know … Sometimes I feel that. I don't see why we're concerning ourselves with all this. What does it matter now?”

“So long after … Yes, I know … Miss Marple and Dr. Kennedy both said, “Leave it alone.” Why don't we, Giles? What makes us go on? Is it
her?
”

“Her?”

“Helen. Is that why I remember? Is my childish memory the only link she's got with life—with truth? Is it Helen who's using me—and you—so that the truth will be known?”

“You mean, because she died a violent death—?”

“Yes. They say—books say—that sometimes they can't rest….”

“I think you're being fanciful, Gwenda.”

“Perhaps I am. Anyway, we can—choose. This is only a social call. There's no need for it to be anything more—unless we want it to be—”

Giles shook his head.

“We shall go on. We can't help ourselves.”

“Yes—you're right. All the same, Giles, I think I'm rather frightened—”

II

“Looking for a house, are you?” said Major Erskine.

He offered Gwenda a plate of sandwiches. Gwenda took one, looking up at him. Richard Erskine was a small man, five foot nine or so. His hair was grey and he had tired, rather thoughtful eyes. His voice was low and pleasant with a slight drawl. There was nothing remarkable about him, but he was, Gwenda thought, definitely at
tractive … He was actually not nearly as good-looking as Walter Fane, but whereas most women would pass Fane without a second glance, they would not pass Erskine. Fane was nondescript. Erskine, in spite of his quietness, had personality. He talked of ordinary things in an ordinary manner, but there was
something
—that something that women are quick to recognize and to which they react in a purely female way. Almost unconsciously Gwenda adjusted her skirt, tweaked at a side curl, retouched her lips. Nineteen years ago Helen Kennedy could have fallen in love with this man. Gwenda was quite sure of that.

She looked up to find her hostess's eyes full upon her, and involuntarily she flushed. Mrs. Erskine was talking to Giles, but she was watching Gwenda and her glance was both appraising and suspicious. Janet Erskine was a tall woman, her voice was deep—almost as deep as a man's. Her build was athletic, she wore a well-cut tweed with big pockets. She looked older than her husband, but, Gwenda decided, well might not be so. There was a certain haggardness about her face. An unhappy, hungry woman, thought Gwenda.

I bet she gives him Hell, she said to herself.

Aloud she continued the conversation.

“House-hunting is terribly discouraging,” she said. “House agents' descriptions are always glowing—and then, when you actually get there, the place is quite unspeakable.”

“You're thinking of settling down in this neighbourhood?”

“Well—this is one of the neighbourhoods we thought of. Really because it's near Hadrian's Wall. Giles has always been fascinated by Hadrian's Wall. You see—it sounds rather odd, I expect, to you—but almost anywhere in England is the same to us. My own home is in New Zealand and I haven't any ties here. And Giles was taken in
by different aunts for different holidays and so hasn't any particular ties either. The one thing we don't want is to be too near London. We want the real country.”

Erskine smiled.

“You'll certainly find it real country all round here. It's completely isolated. Our neighbours are few and far between.”

Gwenda thought she detected an undercurrent of bleakness in the pleasant voice. She had a sudden glimpse of a lonely life—of short dark winter days with the wind whistling in the chimneys—the curtains drawn—shut in—shut in with that woman with the hungry, unhappy eyes—and neighbours few and far between.

Then the vision faded. It was summer again, with the french windows open to the garden—with the scent of roses and the sounds of summer drifting in.

She said: “This is an old house, isn't it?”

Erskine nodded.

“Queen Anne. My people have lived here for nearly three hundred years.”

“It's a lovely house. You must be very proud of it.”

“It's rather a shabby house now. Taxation makes it difficult to keep anything up properly. However, now the children are out in the world, the worst strain is over.”

“How many children have you?”

“Two boys. One's in the Army. The other's just come down from Oxford. He's going into a publishing firm.”

His glance went to the mantelpiece and Gwenda's eyes followed his. There was a photograph there of two boys—presumably about eighteen and nineteen, taken a few years ago, she judged. There was pride and affection in his expression.

“They're good lads,” he said, “though I say it myself.”

“They look awfully nice,” said Gwenda.

“Yes,” said Erskine. “I think it's worth it—really. Making sacrifices for one's children, I mean,” he added in answer to Gwenda's enquiring look.

“I suppose—often—one has to give up a good deal,” said Gwenda.

“A great deal sometimes….”

Again she caught a dark undercurrent, but Mrs. Erskine broke in, saying in her deep authoritative voice, “And you are really looking for a house in this part of the world? I'm afraid I don't know of anything at all suitable round here.”

And wouldn't tell me if you did, thought Gwenda, with a faint spurt of mischief. That foolish old woman is actually jealous, she thought. Jealous because I'm talking to her husband and because I'm young and attractive!

“It depends how much of a hurry you're in,” said Erskine.

“No hurry at all really,” said Giles cheerfully. “We want to be sure of finding something we really like. At the moment we've got a house in Dillmouth—on the south coast.”

Major Erskine turned away from the tea table. He went to get a cigarette box from a table by the window.

“Dillmouth,” said Mrs. Erskine. Her voice was expressionless. Her eyes watched the back of her husband's head.

“Pretty little place,” said Giles. “Do you know it at all?”

There was a moment's silence, then Mrs. Erskine said in that same expressionless voice, “We spent a few weeks there one summer—many, many years ago. We didn't care for it—found it too relaxing.”

“Yes,” said Gwenda. “That's just what we find. Giles and I feel we'd prefer more bracing air.”

Erskine came back with the cigarettes. He offered the box to Gwenda.

“You'll find it bracing enough round here,” he said. There was a certain grimness in his voice.

Gwenda looked up at him as he lighted her cigarette for her.

“Do you remember Dillmouth at all well?” she asked artlessly.

His lips twitched in what she guessed to be a sudden spasm of pain. In a noncommittal voice he answered, “Quite well, I think. We stayed—let me see—at the Royal George—no, Royal Clarence Hotel.”

“Oh yes, that's the nice old-fashioned one. Our house is quite near there. Hillside it's called, but it used to be called St.—St.—Mary's, was it, Giles?”

“St. Catherine's,” said Giles.

This time there was no mistaking the reaction. Erskine turned sharply away, Mrs. Erskine's cup clattered on her saucer.

“Perhaps,” she said abruptly, “you would like to see the garden.”

“Oh yes, please.”

They went out through the french windows. It was a well-kept, well-stocked garden, with a long border and flagged walks. The care of it was principally Major Erskine's, so Gwenda gathered. Talking to her about roses, about herbaceous plants, Erskine's dark, sad face lit up. Gardening was clearly his enthusiasm.

When they finally took their leave, and were driving away in the car, Giles asked hesitantly, “Did you—did you drop it?”

Gwenda nodded.

“By the second clump of delphiniums.” She looked down at her finger and twisted the wedding ring on it absently.

“And supposing you never find it again?”

“Well, it's not my real engagement ring. I wouldn't risk
that.
”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“I'm very sentimental about that ring. Do you remember what you said when you put it on my finger? A green emerald because I was an intriguing green-eyed little cat.”

“I dare say,” said Giles dispassionately, “that our peculiar form of endearments might sound odd to someone of, say, Miss Marple's generation.”

“I wonder what she's doing now, the dear old thing. Sitting in the sun on the front?”

“Up to something—if I know her! Poking here, or prying there, or asking a few questions. I hope she doesn't ask too many one of these days.”

“It's quite a natural thing to do—for an old lady, I mean. It's not as noticeable as though we did it.”

Giles's face sobered again.

“That's why I don't like—” He broke off. “It's you having to do it that I mind. I can't bear the feeling that I sit at home and send you out to do the dirty work.”

Gwenda ran a finger down his worried cheek.

“I know, darling, I know. But you must admit, it's tricky. It's impertinent to catechize a man about his past love affairs—but it's the kind of impertinence a woman can just get away with—if she's clever. And I mean to be clever.”

“I know you're clever. But if Erskine is the man we are looking for—”

Gwenda said meditatively: “I don't think he is.”

“You mean we're barking up the wrong tree?”

“Not entirely. I think he was in love with Helen all right. But he's
nice,
Giles, awfully nice. Not the strangling kind at all.”

“You haven't an awful lot of experience of the strangling kind, have you, Gwenda?”

“No. But I've got my woman's instinct.”

“I dare say that's what a strangler's victims often say. No, Gwenda, joking apart, do be careful, won't you?”

“Of course. I feel so sorry for the poor man—that dragon of a wife. I bet he's had a miserable life.”

“She's an odd woman … Rather alarming somehow.”

“Yes, quite sinister. Did you see how she watched me all the time?”

“I hope the plan will go off all right.”

III

The plan was put into execution the following morning.

Giles, feeling, as he put it, rather like a shady detective in a divorce suit, took up his position at a point of vantage overlooking the front gate of Anstell Manor. About half past eleven he reported to Gwenda that all had gone well. Mrs. Erskine had left in a small Austin car, clearly bound for the market town three miles away. The coast was clear.

Gwenda drove up to the front door and rang the bell. She asked for Mrs. Erskine and was told she was out. She then asked for Major Erskine. Major Erskine was in the garden. He straightened up from operations on a flowerbed as Gwenda approached.

“I'm so sorry to bother you,” said Gwenda. “But I think I must have dropped a ring somewhere out here yesterday. I know I had it when we came out from tea. It's rather loose, but I couldn't bear to lose it because it's my engagement ring.”

The hunt was soon under way. Gwenda retraced her steps of yesterday, tried to recollect where she had stood and what flowers she had touched. Presently the ring came to light near a large clump of delphiniums. Gwenda was profuse in her relief.

“And now can I get you a drink, Mrs. Reed? Beer? A glass of sherry? Or would you prefer coffee, or something like that?”

“I don't want anything—no, really. Just a cigarette—thanks.”

She sat down on a bench and Erskine sat down beside her.

They smoked for a few minutes in silence. Gwenda's heart was beating rather fast. No two ways about it. She had to take the plunge.

“I want to ask you something,” she said. “Perhaps you'll think it terribly impertinent of me. But I want to know dreadfully—and you're probably the only person who could tell me. I believe you were once in love with my stepmother.”

He turned an astonished face towards her.

“With your stepmother?”

“Yes. Helen Kennedy. Helen Halliday as she became afterwards.”

“I see.” The man beside her was very quiet. His eyes looked out across the sunlit lawn unseeingly. The cigarette between his fingers smouldered. Quiet as he was, Gwenda sensed a turmoil within that taut figure, the arm of which touched her own.

As though answering some question he had put to himself, Erskine said: “Letters, I suppose.”

Gwenda did not answer.

“I never wrote her many—two, perhaps three. She said she had
destroyed them—but women never do destroy letters, do they? And so they came into
your
hands. And you want to know.”

“I want to know more about her. I was—very fond of her. Although I was such a small child when—she went away.”

“She went away?”

“Didn't you know?”

His eyes, candid and surprised, met hers.

“I've no news of her,” he said, “since—since that summer in Dillmouth.”