Sleeping Murder (18 page)

“And now,” said Gwenda, “we come to Afflick. Afflick's Tours. Jackie Afflick who was always too smart by half. The first thing against him is that Dr. Kennedy believed he had incipient persecution mania. That is—he was never really normal. He's told us about himself and Helen—but we'll agree now that that was all a pack of lies. He didn't just think she was a cute kid—he was madly, passionately in love with her. But she wasn't in love with him. She was just amusing herself. She was man mad, as Miss Marple says.”

“No, dear.
I
didn't say that. Nothing of the kind.”

“Well, a nymphomaniac if you prefer the term. Anyway, she had an affair with Jackie Afflick and then wanted to drop him. He didn't want to be dropped. Her brother got her out of her scrape, but Jackie
Afflick never forgave or forgot. He lost his job—according to him through being framed by Walter Fane. That shows definite signs of persecution mania.”

“Yes,” agreed Giles. “But on the other hand, if it was true, it's another point against Fane—quite a valuable point.”

Gwenda went on.

“Helen goes abroad, and he leaves Dillmouth. But he never forgets her, and when she returns to Dillmouth, married, he comes over and visits her. He said first of all, he came
once,
but later on, he admits that he came more than once. And, oh Giles, don't you remember? Edith Pagett used a phrase about ‘our mystery man in a flashy car.' You see, he came often enough to make the servants talk. But Helen took pains not to ask him to a meal—not to let him meet Kelvin. Perhaps she was afraid of him. Perhaps—”

Giles interrupted.

“This might cut both ways. Supposing Helen was in love with him—the first man she ever was in love with, and supposing she went on being in love with him. Perhaps they had an affair together and she didn't let anyone know about it. But perhaps he wanted her to go away with him, and by that time she was tired of him, and wouldn't go, and so—and so—he killed her. And all the rest of it. Lily said in her letter to Dr. Kennedy there was a posh car standing outside that night. It was Jackie Afflick's car. Jackie Afflick was ‘on the spot,' too.

“It's an assumption,” said Giles. “But it seems to me a reasonable one. But there are Helen's letters to be worked into our reconstruction. I've been puzzling my brains to think of the ‘circumstances,' as Miss Marple put it, under which she could have been induced to write those letters. It seems to me that to explain them, we've got to
admit that she actually
had
a lover, and that she was expecting to go away with him. We'll test our three possibles again. Erskine first. Say that he still wasn't prepared to leave his wife or break up his home, but that Helen had agreed to leave Kelvin Halliday and go somewhere where Erskine could come and be with her from time to time. The first thing would be to disarm Mrs. Erskine's suspicions, so Helen writes a couple of letters to reach her brother in due course which will look as though she has gone abroad with someone. That fits in very well with her being so mysterious about who the man in question is.”

“But if she was going to leave her husband for him, why did he kill her?” asked Gwenda.

“Perhaps because she suddenly changed her mind. Decided that she did really care for her husband after all. He just saw red and strangled her. Then, he took the clothes and suitcase and used the letters. That's a perfectly good explanation covering everything.”

“The same might apply to Walter Fane. I should imagine that scandal might be absolutely disastrous to a country solicitor. Helen might have agreed to go somewhere nearby where Fane could visit her but pretend that she had gone abroad with someone else. Letters all prepared and then, as you suggested, she changed her mind. Walter went mad and killed her.”

“What about Jackie Afflick?”

“It's more difficult to find a reason for the letters with him. I shouldn't imagine that scandal would affect him. Perhaps Helen was afraid, not of him, but of my father—and so thought it would be better to pretend she'd gone abroad—or perhaps Afflick's wife had the money at that time, and he wanted her money to invest in his business. Oh yes, there are lots of possibilities for the letters.”

“Which one do you fancy, Miss Marple?” asked Gwenda. “I don't really think Walter Fane—but then—”

Mrs. Cocker had just come in to clear away the coffee cups.

“There now, madam,” she said. “I quite forgot. All this about a poor woman being murdered and you and Mr. Reed mixed up in it, not at all the right thing for you, madam,
just now.
Mr. Fane was here this afternoon, asking for you. He waited quite half an hour. Seemed to think you were expecting him.”

“How strange,” said Gwenda. “What time?”

“It must have been about four o'clock or just after. And then, after that, there was another gentleman, came in a great big yellow car. He was positive you were expecting him. Wouldn't take no for an answer. Waited twenty minutes. I wondered if you'd had some idea of a tea party and forgotten it.”

“No,” said Gwenda. “How odd.”

“Let's ring up Fane now,” said Giles. “He won't have gone to bed.”

He suited the action to the word.

“Hullo, is that Fane speaking? Giles Reed here. I hear you came round to see us this afternoon—What?—No—no, I'm sure of it—no, how very odd. Yes, I wonder, too.”

He laid down the receiver.

“Here's an odd thing. He was rung up in his office this morning. A message left would he come round and see us this afternoon. It was very important.”

Giles and Gwenda stared at each other. Then Gwenda said, “Ring up Afflick.”

Again Giles went to the telephone, found the number and rang through. It took a little longer, but presently he got the connection.

“Mr. Afflick? Giles Reed, I—”

Here he was obviously interrupted by a flow of speech from the other end.

At last he was able to say:

“But we didn't—no, I assure you—nothing of the kind—Yes—yes, I know you're a busy man. I wouldn't have dreamed of—Yes, but look here, who was it rang you—a man?—No, I tell you it wasn't me. No—no, I see. Well, I agree, it's quite extraordinary.”

He replaced the receiver and came back to the table.

“Well, there it is,” he said. “Somebody, a man who said he was me, rang up Afflick and asked him to come over here. It was urgent—big sum of money involved.”

They looked at each other.

“It could have been either of them,” said Gwenda. “Don't you see, Giles? Either of them
could have killed Lily and come on here as an alibi.
”

“Hardly an alibi, dear,” put in Miss Marple.

“I don't mean quite an alibi, but an excuse for being away from their office. What I mean is, one of them is speaking the truth and one is lying. One of them rang up the other and asked him to come here—to throw suspicion on him—but we don't know which. It's a clear issue now between the two of them. Fane or Afflick. I say—Jackie Afflick.”

“I think Walter Fane,” said Giles.

They both looked at Miss Marple.

She shook her head.

“There's another possibility,” she said.

“Of course. Erskine.”

Giles fairly ran across to the telephone.

“What are you going to do?” asked Gwenda.

“Put through a trunk call to Northumberland.”

“Oh Giles—you can't really think—”

“We've got to
know.
If he's there—he can't have killed Lily Kimble this afternoon. No private aeroplanes or silly stuff like that.”

They waited in silence until the telephone bell rang.

Giles picked up the receiver.

“You were asking for a personal call to Major Erskine. Go ahead, please. Major Erskine is waiting.”

Clearing his throat nervously, Giles said, “Er—Erskine? Giles Reed here—Reed, yes.”

He cast a sudden agonized glance at Gwenda which said as plainly as possible, “What the hell do I say now?”

Gwenda got up and took the receiver from him.

“Major Erskine? This is Mrs. Reed here. We've heard of—of a house. Linscott Brake. Is—is it—do you know anything about it? It's somewhere near you, I believe.”

Erskine's voice said: “Linscott Brake? No, I don't think I've ever heard of it. What's the postal town?”

“It's terribly blurred,” said Gwenda. “You know those awful typescripts agents send out. But it says fifteen miles from Daith so we thought—”

“I'm sorry. I haven't heard of it. Who lives there?”

“Oh, it's empty. But never mind, actually we've—we've practically settled on a house. I'm so sorry to have bothered you. I expect you were busy.”

“No, not at all. At least only busy domestically. My wife's away. And our cook had to go off to her mother, so I've been dealing with
domestic routine. I'm afraid I'm not much of a hand at it. Better in the garden.”

“I'd always rather do gardening than housework. I hope your wife isn't ill?”

“Oh no, she was called away to a sister. She'll be back tomorrow.”

“Well, good night, and so sorry to have bothered you.”

She put down the receiver.

“Erskine is out of it,” she said triumphantly. “His wife's away and he's doing all the chores. So that leaves it between the two others. Doesn't it, Miss Marple?”

Miss Marple was looking grave.

“I don't think, my dears,” she said, “that you have given quite enough thought to the matter. Oh dear—I am really very worried. If only I knew exactly what to do….”

I

G
wenda leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands while her eyes roamed dispassionately over the remains of a hasty lunch. Presently she must deal with them, carry them out to the scullery, wash up, put things away, see what there would be, later, for supper.

But there was no wild hurry. She felt she needed a little time to take things in. Everything had been happening too fast.

The events of the morning, when she reviewed them, seemed to be chaotic and impossible. Everything had happened too quickly and too improbably.

Inspector Last had appeared early—at half past nine. With him had come Detective Inspector Primer from headquarters and the Chief Constable of the County. The latter had not stayed long. It
was Inspector Primer who was now in charge of the case of Lily Kimble deceased and all the ramifications arising therefrom.

It was Inspector Primer, a man with a deceptively mild manner and a gentle apologetic voice, who had asked her if it would inconvenience her very much if his men did some digging in the garden.

From the tone of his voice, it might have been a case of giving his men some healthful exercise, rather than of seeking for a dead body which had been buried for eighteen years.

Giles had spoken up then. He had said: “I think, perhaps, we could help you with a suggestion or two.”

And he told the Inspector about the shifting of the steps leading down to the lawn, and took the Inspector out on to the terrace.

The Inspector had looked up at the barred window on the first floor at the corner of the house and had said: “That would be the nursery, I presume.”

And Giles said that it would.

Then the Inspector and Giles had come back into the house, and two men with spades had gone out into the garden, and Giles, before the Inspector could get down to questions, had said:

“I think, Inspector, you had better hear something that my wife has so far not mentioned to anyone except myself—and—er—one other person.”

The gentle, rather compelling gaze of Inspector Primer came to rest on Gwenda. It was faintly speculative. He was asking himself, Gwenda thought: “Is this a woman who can be depended upon, or is she the kind who imagines things?”

So strongly did she feel this, that she started in a defensive way: “I may have imagined it. Perhaps I did. But it seems awfully real.”

Inspector Primer said softly and soothingly:

“Well, Mrs. Reed, let's hear about it.”

And Gwenda had explained. How the house had seemed familiar to her when she first saw it. How she had subsequently learned that she had, in fact, lived there as a child. How she had remembered the nursery wallpaper, and the connecting door, and the feeling she had had that there ought to be steps down to the lawn.

Inspector Primer nodded. He did not say that Gwenda's childish recollections were not particularly interesting, but Gwenda wondered whether he were thinking it.

Then she nerved herself to the final statement. How she had suddenly remembered, when sitting in a theatre, looking through the banisters at Hillside and seeing a dead woman in the hall.

“With a blue face, strangled, and golden hair—and it was Helen—But it was so stupid, I didn't know at all who Helen
was.
”

“We think that—” Giles began, but Inspector Primer, with unexpected authority, held up a restraining hand.

“Please let Mrs. Reed tell me in her own words.”

And Gwenda had stumbled on, her face flushed, with Inspector Primer gently helping her out, using a dexterity that Gwenda did not appreciate as the highly technical performance it was.

“Webster?” he said thoughtfully. “Hm,
Duchess of Malfi.
Monkey's paws?”

“But that was probably a nightmare,” said Giles.

“Please, Mr. Reed.”

“It may all have been a nightmare,” said Gwenda.

“No, I don't think it was,” said Inspector Primer. “It would be very hard to explain Lily Kimble's death, unless we assume that there
was
a woman murdered in this house.”

That seemed so reasonable and almost comforting, that Gwenda hurried on.

“And it wasn't my father who murdered her. It wasn't, really. Even Dr. Penrose says he wasn't the right type, and that he couldn't have murdered anybody. And Dr. Kennedy was quite sure he hadn't done it, but only thought he had. So you see it was someone who wanted it to
seem
as though my father had done it, and we think we know who—at least it's one of two people—”

“Gwenda,” said Giles. “We can't really—”

“I wonder, Mr. Reed,” said the Inspector, “if you would mind going out into the garden and seeing how my men are getting on. Tell them I sent you.”

He closed the french windows after Giles and latched them and came back to Gwenda.

“Now just tell me all your ideas, Mrs. Reed. Never mind if they are rather incoherent.”

And Gwenda had poured out all her and Giles's speculations and reasonings, and the steps they had taken to find out all they could about the three men who might have figured in Helen Halliday's life, and the final conclusions they had come to—and how both Walter Fane and J. J. Afflick had been rung up, as though by Giles, and had been summoned to Hillside the preceding afternoon.

“But you do see, don't you, Inspector—that one of them might be lying?”

And in a gentle, rather tired voice, the Inspector said: “That's one of the principal difficulties in my kind of work. So many people may be lying. And so many people usually are … Though not always for the reasons that you'd think. And some people don't even know they're lying.”

“Do you think I'm like that?” Gwenda asked apprehensively.

And the Inspector had smiled and said: “I think you're a very truthful witness, Mrs. Reed.”

“And you think I'm right about who murdered her?”

The Inspector sighed and said: “It's not a question of thinking—not with us. It's a question of checking up. Where everybody was, what account everybody gives of their movements. We know accurately enough, to within ten minutes or so, when Lily Kimble was killed. Between two twenty and two forty-five. Anyone could have killed her and then come on here yesterday afternoon. I don't see, myself, any reason for those telephone calls. It doesn't give either of the people you mention an alibi for the time of the murder.”

“But you will find out, won't you, what they were doing at the time? Between two twenty and two forty-five. You will ask them.”

Inspector Primer smiled.

“We shall ask all the questions necessary, Mrs. Reed, you may be sure of that. All in good time. There's no good in rushing things. You've got to see your way ahead.”

Gwenda had a sudden vision of patience and quiet unsensational work. Unhurried, remorseless….

She said: “I see … yes. Because you're professional. And Giles and I are just amateurs. We might make a lucky hit—but we wouldn't really know how to follow it up.”

“Something of the kind, Mrs. Reed.”

The Inspector smiled again. He got up and unfastened the french windows. Then, just as he was about to step through them, he stopped. Rather, Gwenda thought, like a pointing dog.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Reed. That lady wouldn't be a Miss Jane Marple, would she?”

Gwenda had come to stand beside him. At the bottom of the garden Miss Marple was still waging a losing war with bindweed.

“Yes, that's Miss Marple. She's awfully kind in helping us with the garden.”

“Miss Marple,” said the Inspector. “
I
see.”

And as Gwenda looked at him enquiringly and said, “She's rather a dear,” he replied:

“She's a very celebrated lady, is Miss Marple. Got the Chief Constables of at least three counties in her pocket. She's not got my Chief yet, but I dare say that will come. So Miss Marple's got her finger in this pie.”

“She's made an awful lot of helpful suggestions,” said Gwenda.

“I bet she has,” said the Inspector. “Was it her suggestion where to look for the deceased Mrs. Halliday?”

“She said that Giles and I ought to know quite well where to look,” said Gwenda. “And it did seem stupid of us not to have thought of it before.”

The Inspector gave a soft little laugh, and went down to stand by Miss Marple. He said: “I don't think we've been introduced, Miss Marple. But you were pointed out to me once by Colonel Melrose.”

Miss Marple stood up, flushed and grasping a handful of clinging green.

“Oh yes. Dear Colonel Melrose. He has always been
most
kind. Ever since—”

“Ever since a churchwarden was shot in the Vicar's study. Quite a while ago. But you've had other successes since then. A little poison pen trouble down near Lymstock.”

“You seem to know quite a lot about me, Inspector—”

“Primer, my name is. And you've been busy here, I expect.”

“Well, I try to do what I can in the garden. Sadly neglected. This bindweed, for instance, such nasty stuff. Its roots,” said Miss Marple, looking very earnestly at the Inspector, “go down underground a long way. A very long way—they run along underneath the soil.”

“I think you're right about that,” said the Inspector. “A long way down. A long way back … this murder, I mean. Eighteen years.”

“And perhaps before that,” said Miss Marple. “Running underground … And terribly harmful, Inspector, squeezing the life out of the pretty growing flowers….”

One of the police constables came along the path. He was perspiring and had a smudge of earth on his forehead.

“We've come to—something, sir. Looks as though it's her all right.”

II

And it was then, Gwenda reflected, that the nightmarish quality of the day had begun. Giles coming in, his face rather pale, saying: “It's—she's there all right, Gwenda.”

Then one of the constables had telephoned and the police surgeon, a short, bustling man, had arrived.

And it was then that Mrs. Cocker, the calm and imperturbable Mrs. Cocker, had gone out into the garden—not led, as might have been expected, by ghoulish curiosity, but solely in the quest of culinary herbs for the dish she was preparing for lunch. And Mrs. Cocker, whose reaction to the news of a murder on the preceding day had been shocked censure and an anxiety for the effect upon Gwenda's health (for Mrs. Cocker had made up her mind that
the nursery upstairs was to be tenanted after the due number of months), had walked straight in upon the gruesome discovery, and had been immediately “taken queer” to an alarming extent.

“Too horrible, madam. Bones is a thing I never could abide. Not skeleton bones, as one might say. And here in the garden, just by the mint and all. And my heart's beating at such a rate—palpitations—I can hardly get my breath. And if I might make so bold, just a thimbleful of brandy….”

Alarmed by Mrs. Cocker's gasps and her ashy colour, Gwenda had rushed to the sideboard, poured out some brandy and brought it to Mrs. Cocker to sip.

And Mrs. Cocker had said: “That's just what I needed, madam—” when, quite suddenly, her voice had failed, and she had looked so alarming, that Gwenda had screamed for Giles, and Giles had yelled to the police surgeon.

“And it's fortunate I was on the spot,” the latter said afterwards. “It was touch and go anyway. Without a doctor, that woman would have died then and there.”

And then Inspector Primer had taken the brandy decanter, and then he and the doctor had gone into a huddle over it, and Inspector Primer had asked Gwenda when she and Giles had last had any brandy out of it.

Gwenda said she thought not for some days. They'd been away—up North, and the last few times they'd had a drink, they'd had gin. “But I nearly had some brandy yesterday,” said Gwenda. “Only it makes me think of Channel steamers, so Giles opened a new bottle of whisky.”

“That was very lucky for you, Mrs. Reed. If you'd drunk brandy yesterday, I doubt if you would be alive today.”

“Giles nearly drank some—but in the end he had whisky with me.”

Gwenda shivered.

Even now, alone in the house, with the police gone and Giles gone with them after a hasty lunch scratched up out of tins (since Mrs. Cocker had been removed to hospital), Gwenda could hardly believe in the morning turmoil of events.

One thing stood out clearly: the presence in the house yesterday of Jackie Afflick and Walter Fane. Either of them could have tampered with the brandy, and what was the purpose of the telephone calls unless it was to afford one or other of them the opportunity to poison the brandy decanter? Gwenda and Giles had been getting too near the truth. Or had a third person come in from outside, through the open dining room window perhaps, whilst she and Giles had been sitting in Dr. Kennedy's house waiting for Lily Kimble to keep her appointment? A third person who had engineered the telephone calls to steer suspicion on the other two?

But a third person, Gwenda thought, didn't make sense. For a third person, surely, would have telephoned to only
one
of the two men. A third person would have wanted one suspect, not two. And anyway, who could the third person be? Erskine had definitely been in Northumberland. No, either Walter Fane had telephoned to Afflick and had pretended to be telephoned to himself. Or else Afflick had telephoned Fane, and had made the same pretence of receiving a summons. One of those two, and the police, who were cleverer and had more resources than she and Giles had, would find out which. And in the meantime both of those men would be watched. They wouldn't be able to—to try again.

Again Gwenda shivered. It took a little getting used to—
the knowledge that someone had tried to kill you. “Dangerous,” Miss Marple had said long ago. But she and Giles had not really taken the idea of danger seriously. Even after Lily Kimble had been killed, it still hadn't occurred to her that anyone would try and kill her and Giles. Just because she and Giles were getting too near the truth of what had happened eighteen years ago. Working out what must have happened then—and who had made it happen.