Sleeping Murder (13 page)

“Then you don't know where she is now?”

“How should I? It's years ago—years. All finished and done with. Forgotten.”

“Forgotten?”

He smiled rather bitterly.

“No, perhaps not forgotten … You're very perceptive, Mrs. Reed. But tell me about her. She's not—dead, is she?”

A small cold wind sprang up suddenly, chilled their necks and passed.

“I don't know if she is dead or not,” said Gwenda. “I don't know anything about her. I thought perhaps
you
might know?”

She went on as he shook his head: “You see, she went away from Dillmouth that summer. Quite suddenly one evening. Without telling anyone. And she never came back.”

“And you thought I might have heard from her?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head.

“No. Never a word. But surely her brother—doctor chap—lives in Dillmouth. He must know. Or is he dead too?”

“No, he's alive. But he doesn't know either. You see—they all thought she went away—with somebody.”

He turned his head to look at her. Deep sorrowful eyes.

“They thought she went away with
me?
”

“Well, it was a possibility.”

“Was it a possibility? I don't think so. It was never that. Or were we fools—conscientious fools who passed up our chance of happiness?”

Gwenda did not speak. Again Erskine turned his head and looked at her.

“Perhaps you'd better hear about it. There isn't really very much to hear. But I wouldn't like you to misjudge Helen. We met on a boat going out to India. One of the children had been ill, and my wife was following on the next boat. Helen was going out to marry a man in the Woods and Forests or something of that kind. She didn't love him. He was just an old friend, nice and kind, and she wanted to get away from home where she wasn't happy. We fell in love.”

He paused.

“Always a bald kind of statement. But it wasn't—I want to make that quite clear—just the usual shipboard love affair. It was serious. We were both—well—shattered by it. And there wasn't anything to be done. I couldn't let Janet and the children down. Helen saw it the same way as I did. If it had been only Janet—but there were the boys. It was all hopeless. We agreed to say good-bye and try and forget.”

He laughed, a short mirthless laugh.

“Forget? I never forgot—not for one moment. Life was just a living Hell. I couldn't stop thinking about Helen….

“Well, she didn't marry the chap she had been going out to marry. At the last moment, she just couldn't face it. She went home to England and on the way home she met this other man—your father, I suppose. She wrote to me a couple of months later telling me what she had done. He was very unhappy over the loss of his wife, she said, and there was a child. She thought that she could make him happy and that it was the best thing to do. She wrote from Dillmouth. About eight months later my father died and I came into this place. I sent in my papers and came back to England. We wanted a few weeks' holiday until we could get into this house. My wife suggested Dillmouth. Some friend had mentioned it as a pretty place and quiet. She didn't know, of course, about Helen. Can you imagine the temptation? To see her again. To see what this man she had married was like.”

There was a short silence, then Erskine said:

“We came and stayed at the Royal Clarence. It was a mistake. Seeing Helen again was Hell … She seemed happy enough, on the whole—I didn't know whether she cared still, or whether she didn't … Perhaps she'd got over it. My wife, I think, suspected something … She's—she's a very jealous woman—always has been.”

He added brusquely, “That's all there is to it. We left Dillmouth—”

“On August 17th,” said Gwenda.

“Was that the date? Probably. I can't remember exactly.”

“It was a Saturday,” said Gwenda.

“Yes, you're right. I remember Janet said it might be a crowded day to travel north—but I don't think it was….”

“Please try and remember, Major Erskine. When was the last time you saw my stepmother—Helen?”

He smiled, a gentle, tired smile.

“I don't need to try very hard. I saw her the evening before we left. On the beach. I'd strolled down there after dinner—and she was there. There was no one else about. I walked up with her to her house. We went through the garden—”

“What time?”

“I don't know … Nine o'clock, I suppose.”

“And you said good-bye?”

“And we said good-bye.” Again he laughed. “Oh, not the kind of good-bye you're thinking of. It was very brusque and curt. Helen said: ‘Please go away now. Go quickly. I'd rather not—' She stopped then—and I—I just went.”

“Back to the hotel?”

“Yes, yes, eventually. I walked a long way first—right out into the country.”

Gwenda said, “It's difficult with dates—after so many years. But I think that that was the night she went away—and didn't come back.”

“I see. And as I and my wife left the next day, people gossiped and said she'd gone away with me. Charming minds people have.”

“Anyway,” said Gwenda bluntly, “she didn't go away with you?”

“Good Lord, no, there was never any question of such a thing.”

“Then why do you think,” asked Gwenda, “that she went away?”

Erskine frowned. His manner changed, became interested.

“I see,” he said. “That is a bit of a problem. She didn't—er—leave any explanation?”

Gwenda considered. Then she voiced her own belief.

“I don't think she left any word at all. Do you think she went away with someone else?”

“No, of course she didn't.”

“You seem rather sure about that.”

“I am sure.”

“Then why did she go?”

“If she went off—suddenly—like that—I can only see one possible reason. She was running
away
from me.”

“From you?”

“Yes. She was afraid, perhaps, that I'd try to see her again—that I'd pester her. She must have seen that I was still—crazy about her … Yes, that must have been it.”

“It doesn't explain,” said Gwenda, “why she never came back. Tell me, did Helen say anything to you about my father? That she was worried about him? Or—or afraid of him? Anything like that?”

“Afraid of him? Why? Oh I see, you thought he might have been jealous. Was he a jealous man?”

“I don't know. He died when I was a child.”

“Oh, I see. No—looking back—he always seemed normal and pleasant. He was fond of Helen, proud of her—I don't think more. No, I was the one who was jealous of
him.
”

“They seemed to you reasonably happy together?”

“Yes, they did. I was glad—and yet, at the same time, it hurt, to see it … No, Helen never discussed him with me. As I tell you, we were hardly ever alone, never confidential together. But now that you have mentioned it, I do remember thinking that Helen was worried….”

“Worried?”

“Yes. I thought perhaps it was because of my wife—” He broke off. “But it was more than that.”

He looked again sharply at Gwenda.

“Was she afraid of her husband? Was he jealous of other men where she was concerned?”

“You seem to think not.”

“Jealousy is a very queer thing. It can hide itself sometimes so that you'd never suspect it.” He gave a short quick shiver. “But it can be frightening—very frightening….”

“Another thing I would like to know—” Gwenda broke off.

A car had come up the drive. Major Erskine said, “Ah, my wife has come back from shopping.”

In a moment, as it were, he became a different person. His tone was easy yet formal, his face expressionless. A slight tremor betrayed that he was nervous.

Mrs. Erskine came striding round the corner of the house.

Her husband went towards her.

“Mrs. Reed dropped one of her rings in the garden yesterday,” he said.

Mrs. Erskine said abruptly: “Indeed?”

“Good morning,” said Gwenda. “Yes, luckily I have found it.”

“That's very fortunate.”

“Oh, it is. I should have hated to lose it. Well, I must be going.”

Mrs. Erskine said nothing. Major Erskine said: “I'll see you to your car.”

He started to follow Gwenda along the terrace. His wife's voice came sharply.

“Richard. If Mrs. Reed will excuse you, there is a very important call—”

Gwenda said hastily, “Oh, that's quite all right. Please don't bother.”

She ran quickly along the terrace and round the side of the house to the drive.

Then she stopped. Mrs. Erskine had drawn up her car in such a way that Gwenda doubted whether she could get her own car past and down the drive. She hesitated, then slowly retraced her steps to the terrace.

Just short of the french windows she stopped dead. Mrs. Erskine's voice, deep and resonant, came distinctly to her ears.

“I don't care what you say. You arranged it—arranged it yesterday. You fixed it up with that girl to come here whilst I was in Daith. You're always the same—any pretty girl. I won't stand it, I tell you. I won't stand it.”

Erskine's voice cut in—quiet, almost despairing.

“Sometimes, Janet, I really think you're insane.”

“I'm not the one who's insane. It's
you!
You can't leave women alone.”

“You know that's not true, Janet.”

“It
is
true! Even long ago—in the place where this girl comes from—Dillmouth. Do you dare tell me that you weren't in love with that yellow-haired Halliday woman?”

“Can you never forget anything? Why must you go on harping on these things? You simply work yourself up and—”

“It's you! You break my heart … I won't stand it, I tell you! I won't stand it! Planning assignations! Laughing at me behind my back! You don't care for me—you've never cared for me. I'll kill myself! I'll throw myself over a cliff—I wish I were dead—”

“Janet—Janet—for God's sake….”

The deep voice had broken. The sound of passionate sobbing floated out into the summer air.

On tip-toe Gwenda crept away and round into the drive again. She cogitated for a moment, then rang the front doorbell.

“I wonder,” she said, “if there is anyone who—er—could move this car. I don't think I can get out.”

The servant went into the house. Presently a man came round from what had been the stable yard. He touched his cap to Gwenda, got into the Austin and drove it into the yard. Gwenda got into her car and drove rapidly back to the hotel where Giles was waiting for her.

“What a time you've been,” he greeted her. “Get anything?”

“Yes. I know all about it now. It's really rather pathetic. He was terribly in love with Helen.”

She narrated the events of the morning.

“I really think,” she ended, “that Mrs. Erskine is a bit insane. She sounded quite mad. I see now what he meant by jealousy. It must be awful to feel like that. Anyway, we know now that Erskine wasn't the man who went away with Helen, and that he knows nothing about her death. She was alive that evening when he left her.”

“Yes,” said Giles. “At least—that's what he says.”

Gwenda looked indignant.

“That,” repeated Giles firmly, “is what he
says.
”

M
iss Marple bent down on the terrace outside the french window and dealt with some insidious bindweed. It was only a minor victory, since beneath the surface the bindweed remained in possession as always. But at least the delphiniums knew a temporary deliverance.

Mrs. Cocker appeared in the drawing room window.

“Excuse me, madam, but Dr. Kennedy has called. He is anxious to know how long Mr. and Mrs. Reed will be away, and I told him I couldn't take it upon myself to say exactly, but that you might know. Shall I ask him to come out here?”

“Oh. Oh, yes please, Mrs. Cocker.”

Mrs. Cocker reappeared shortly afterwards with Dr. Kennedy.

Rather flutteringly, Miss Marple introduced herself.

“—and I arranged with dear Gwenda that I would come round and do a little weeding while she was away. I think, you know, that my young friends are being imposed upon by their jobbing gardener,
Foster. He comes twice a week, drinks a great many cups of tea, does a lot of talking, and not—so far as I can see—very much work.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Kennedy rather absently. “Yes. They're all alike—all alike.”

Miss Marple looked at him appraisingly. He was an older man than she had thought from the Reeds' description of him. Prematurely old, she guessed. He looked, too, both worried and unhappy. He stood there, his fingers caressing the long, pugnacious line of his jaw.

“They've gone away,” he said. “Do you know for how long?”

“Oh, not for long. They have gone to visit some friends in the North of England. Young people seem to me so restless, always dashing about here and there.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Kennedy. “Yes—that's true enough.”

He paused and then said rather diffidently, “Young Giles Reed wrote and asked me for some papers—er—letters, if I could find them—”

He hesitated, and Miss Marple said quietly, “Your sister's letters?”

He shot her a quick, shrewd glance.

“So—you're in their confidence, are you? A relation?”

“Only a friend,” said Miss Marple. “I have advised them to the best of my capacity. But people seldom take advice … A pity, perhaps, but there it is….”

“What was your advice?” he asked curiously.

“To let sleeping murder lie,” said Miss Marple firmly.

Dr. Kennedy sat down heavily on an uncomfortable rustic seat.

“That's not badly put,” he said. “I'm fond of Gwennie. She was a nice small child. I should judge that she's grown up to be a nice young woman. I'm afraid that she's heading for trouble.”

“There are so many kinds of trouble,” said Miss Marple.

“Eh? Yes—yes—true enough.”

He sighed. Then he said, “Giles Reed wrote and asked me if I could let him have my sister's letters, written after she left here—and also some authentic specimen of her handwriting.” He shot a keen glance at her. “You see what that means?”

Miss Marple nodded. “I think so.”

“They're harking back to the idea that Kelvin Halliday, when he said he had strangled his wife, was speaking neither more nor less than the truth. They believe that the letters my sister Helen wrote after she went away weren't written by her at all—that they were forgeries. They believe that she never left this house alive.”

Miss Marple said gently, “And you are not, by now, so very sure yourself?”

“I was at the time.” Kennedy still stared ahead of him. “It seemed absolutely clear. Pure hallucination on Kelvin's part. There was no body, a suitcase and clothes were taken—what else could I think?”

“And your sister had been—recently—rather—ahem—” Miss Marple coughed delicately—“interested in—in a certain gentleman?”

Dr. Kennedy looked at her. There was deep pain in his eyes.

“I loved my sister,” he said, “but I have to admit that, with Helen, there was always some man in the offing. There are women who are made that way—they can't help it.”

“It all seemed clear to you at the time,” said Miss Marple. “But it does not seem so clear now. Why?”

“Because,” said Kennedy with frankness, “it seems incredible to me that, if Helen is still alive, she has not communicated with me
all these years. In the same way, if she is dead, it is equally strange that I have not been notified of the fact. Well—”

He got up. He took a packet from his pocket.

“Here is the best I can do. The first letter I received from Helen I must have destroyed. I can find no trace of it. But I did keep the second one—the one that gave the poste restante address. And here, for comparison, is the only bit of Helen's handwriting I've been able to find. It's a list of bulbs, etc., for planting. A copy that she had kept of some order. The handwriting of the order and the letter look alike to me, but then I'm no expert. I'll leave them here for Giles and Gwenda when they return. It's probably not worth forwarding.”

“Oh no, I believe they expect to return tomorrow—or the next day.”

The doctor nodded. He stood, looking along the terrace, his eyes still absent. He said suddenly, “You know what's worrying me? If Kelvin Halliday did kill his wife, he must have concealed the body or got rid of it in some way—and that means (I don't know what else it can mean) that his story to me was a cleverly made-up tale—that he'd already hidden a suitcase full of clothes to give colour to the idea that Helen had gone away—that he'd even arranged for letters to arrive from abroad … It means, in fact, that it was a cold-blooded premeditated murder. Little Gwennie was a nice child. It would be bad enough for her to have a father who's a paranoiac, but it's ten times worse to have a father who's a deliberate murderer.”

He swung round to the open window. Miss Marple arrested his departure by a swift question.

“Who was your sister afraid of, Dr. Kennedy?”

He turned back to her and stared.

“Afraid of? No one, as far as I know.”

“I only wondered … Pray excuse me if I am asking indiscreet questions—but there was a young man, wasn't there?—I mean, some entanglement—when she was very young. Somebody called
Afflick,
I believe.”

“Oh, that. Silly business most girls go through. An undesirable young fellow, shifty—and of course not her class, not her class at all. He got into trouble here afterwards.”

“I just wondered if he could have been—revengeful.”

Dr. Kennedy smiled rather sceptically.

“Oh, I don't think it went deep. Anyway, as I say, he got into trouble here, and left the place for good.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Oh, nothing criminal. Just indiscretions. Blabbed about his employer's affairs.”

“And his employer was Mr. Walter Fane?”

Dr. Kennedy looked a little surprised.

“Yes—yes—now you say so, I remember, he did work in Fane and Watchman's. Not articled. Just an ordinary clerk.”

Just an ordinary clerk? Miss Marple wondered, as she stooped again to the bindweed, after Dr. Kennedy had gone….