Sleeping Murder (19 page)

Walter Fane and Jackie Afflick….

Which?

Gwenda closed her eyes, seeing them afresh in the light of her new knowledge.

Quiet Walter Fane, sitting in his office—the pale spider in the centre of its web. So quiet, so harmless-looking. A house with its blinds down. Someone dead in the house. Someone dead eighteen years ago—but still there. How sinister the quiet Walter Fane seemed now. Walter Fane who had once flung himself murderously upon his brother. Walter Fane whom Helen had scornfully refused to marry, once here at home, and once again in India. A double rebuff. A double ignominy. Walter Fane, so quiet, so unemotional, who could express himself, perhaps, only in sudden murderous violence—as, possibly, quiet Lizzie Borden had once done….

Gwenda opened her eyes. She had convinced herself, hadn't she, that Walter Fane was the man?

One might, perhaps, just consider Afflick. With her eyes open, not shut.

His loud check suit, his domineering manner—just the opposite to Walter Fane—nothing repressed or quiet about Afflick. But possibly he had put that manner on because of an inferiority complex. It worked that way, experts said. If you weren't sure of yourself,
you had to boast and assert yourself, and be overbearing. Turned down by Helen because he wasn't good enough for her. The sore festering, not forgotten. Determination to get on in the world. Persecution. Everyone against him. Discharged from his employment by a faked charge made up by an “enemy.” Surely that did show that Afflick wasn't normal. And what a feeling of power a man like that would get out of killing. That good-natured, jovial face of his, it was a cruel face really. He was a cruel man—and his thin pale wife knew it and was afraid of him. Lily Kimble had threatened him and Lily Kimble had died. Gwenda and Giles had interfered—then Gwenda and Giles must die, too, and he would involve Walter Fane who had sacked him long ago. That fitted in very nicely.

Gwenda shook herself, came out of her imaginings, and returned to practicality. Giles would be home and want his tea. She must clear away and wash up lunch.

She fetched a tray and took the things out to the kitchen. Everything in the kitchen was exquisitely neat. Mrs. Cocker was really a treasure.

By the side of the sink was a pair of surgical rubber gloves. Mrs. Cocker always wore a pair for washing up. Her niece, who worked in a hospital, got them at a reduced price.

Gwenda fitted them on over her hands and began to wash up the dishes. She might as well keep her hands nice.

She washed the plates and put them in the rack, washed and dried the other things and put everything neatly away.

Then, still lost in thought, she went upstairs. She might as well, she thought, wash out those stockings and a jumper or two. She'd keep the gloves on.

These things were in the forefront of her mind. But somewhere, underneath them, something was nagging at her.

Walter Fane or Jackie Afflick, she had said. One or the other of them. And she had made out quite a good case against either of them. Perhaps that was what really worried her. Because, strictly speaking, it would be much more satisfactory if you could only make out a good case against
one
of them. One ought to be sure, by now,
which.
And Gwenda wasn't sure.

If only there was someone else … But there couldn't be anyone else. Because Richard Erskine was out of it. Richard Erskine had been in Northumberland when Lily Kimble was killed and when the brandy in the decanter had been tampered with. Yes, Richard Erskine was right out of it.

She was glad of that, because she liked Richard Erskine. Richard Erskine was attractive, very attractive. How sad for him to be married to that megalith of a woman with her suspicious eyes and deep bass voice. Just like a man's voice….

Like a man's voice….

The idea flashed through her mind with a queer misgiving.

A man's voice … Could it have been Mrs. Erskine, not her husband, who had replied to Giles on the telephone last night?

No—no, surely not. No, of course not. She and Giles would have known. And anyway, to begin with, Mrs. Erskine could have had no idea of who was ringing up. No, of course it was Erskine speaking, and his wife, as he said, was away.

His wife was away …

Surely—no, that was impossible … Could it have been
Mrs.
Erskine? Mrs. Erskine, driven insane by jealousy? Mrs. Erskine
to whom Lily Kimble had written? Was it a
woman
Léonie had seen in the garden that night when she looked out of the window?

There was a sudden bang in the hall below. Somebody had come in through the front door.

Gwenda came out from the bathroom on to the landing and looked over the banisters. She was relieved to see it was Dr. Kennedy. She called down:

“I'm here.”

Her hands were held out in front of her—wet, glistening, a queer pinkish grey—they reminded her of something….

Kennedy looked up, shading his eyes.

“Is that you, Gwennie? I can't see your face … My eyes are dazzled—”

And then Gwenda screamed….

Looking at those smooth monkey's paws and hearing that voice in the hall—

“It was you,” she gasped. “You killed her … killed Helen … I—know now. It was you … all along … You….”

He came up the stairs towards her. Slowly. Looking up at her.

“Why couldn't you leave me alone?” he said. “Why did you have to meddle? Why did you have to bring—Her—back? Just when I'd begun to forget—to forget. You brought her back again—Helen—my Helen. Bringing it all up again. I had to kill Lily—now I'll have to kill you. Like I killed Helen … Yes, like I killed Helen….”

He was close upon her now—his hands out towards her—reaching, she knew, for her throat. That kind, quizzical face—that nice, ordinary, elderly face—the same still, but for the eyes—the eyes were not sane….

Gwenda retreated before him, slowly, the scream frozen in her
throat. She had screamed once. She could not scream again. And if she did scream no one would hear.

Because there was no one in the house—not Giles, and not Mrs. Cocker, not even Miss Marple in the garden. Nobody. And the house next door was too far away to hear if she screamed. And anyway, she couldn't scream … Because she was too frightened to scream. Frightened of those horrible reaching hands….

She could back away to the nursery door and then—and then—those hands would fasten round her throat….

A pitiful little stifled whimper came from between her lips.

And then, suddenly, Dr. Kennedy stopped and reeled back as a jet of soapy water struck him between the eyes. He gasped and blinked and his hands went to his face.

“So fortunate,” said Miss Marple's voice, rather breathless, for she had run violently up the back stairs, “that I was just syringing the greenfly off your roses.”

“B
ut, of course, dear Gwenda, I should never have dreamed of going away and leaving you alone in the house,” said Miss Marple. “I knew there was a very dangerous person at large, and I was keeping an unobtrusive watch from the garden.”

“Did you know it was—him—all along?” asked Gwenda.

They were all three, Miss Marple, Gwenda and Giles, sitting on the terrace of the Imperial Hotel at Torquay.

“A change of scene,” Miss Marple had said, and Giles had agreed, would be the best thing for Gwenda. So Inspector Primer had concurred and they had driven to Torquay forthwith.

Miss Marple said in answer to Gwenda's question, “Well, he did seem indicated, my dear. Although unfortunately there was nothing in the way of evidence to go upon. Just indications, nothing more.”

Looking at her curiously, Giles said, “But I can't see any indications even.”

“Oh dear, Giles, think. He was
on the spot,
to begin with.”

“On the spot?”

“But certainly. When Kelvin Halliday came to him that night he
had just come back from the hospital.
And the hospital, at that time, as several people told us, was actually next door to Hillside, or St. Catherine's as it was then called. So that, as you see, puts him in
the right place at the right time.
And then there were a hundred and one little significant facts. Helen Halliday told Richard Erskine she had gone out to marry Walter Fane because
she wasn't happy at home.
Not happy, that is, living with her brother. Yet her brother was by all accounts devoted to her. So why wasn't she happy? Mr. Afflick told you that ‘he was sorry for the poor kid.' I think that he was absolutely truthful when he said that. He
was
sorry for her. Why did she have to go and meet young Afflick in that clandestine way? Admittedly she was not wildly in love with him. Was it because she couldn't meet young men in the ordinary normal way? Her brother was ‘strict' and ‘old-fashioned.' It is vaguely reminiscent, is it not, of Mr. Barrett of Wimpole Street?”

Gwenda shivered.

“He was mad,” she said. “Mad.”

“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “He wasn't normal. He adored his half-sister, and that affection became possessive and unwholesome. That kind of thing happens oftener than you'd think. Fathers who don't want their daughters to marry—or even to meet young men. Like Mr. Barrett. I thought of that when I heard about the tennis net.”

“The tennis net?”

“Yes, that seemed to me very significant. Think of that girl, young Helen, coming home from school, and eager for all a young girl wants out of life, anxious to meet young men—to flirt with them—”

“A little sex-crazy.”

“
No,
” said Miss Marple with emphasis. “
That
is one of the wickedest things about this crime. Dr. Kennedy didn't only kill her physically. If you think back carefully, you'll see that the only evidence for Helen Kennedy's having been man mad or practically—what is the word you used, dear? oh yes, a nymphomaniac—came actually from
Dr. Kennedy
himself. I think, myself, that she was a perfectly normal young girl who wanted to have fun and a good time and flirt a little and finally settle down with the man of her choice—no more than that. And see what steps her brother took. First he was strict and old-fashioned about allowing her liberty. Then, when she wanted to give tennis parties—a most normal and harmless desire—he pretended to agree and then one night secretly cut the tennis net to ribbons—a very significant and sadistic action. Then, since she could still go out to play tennis or to dances, he took advantage of a grazed foot which he treated, to infect it so that it wouldn't heal. Oh yes, I think he did that … in fact, I'm sure of it.

“Mind you. I don't think Helen realized any of all this. She knew her brother had a deep affection for her and I don't think she knew
why
she felt uneasy and unhappy at home. But she did feel like that and at last she decided to go out to India and marry young Fane simply in order to get away. To get away from
what?
She didn't know. She was too young and guileless to know. So she went off to India and on the way she met Richard Erskine and fell in love with him. There again, she behaved not like a sex-crazy girl, but like a decent and honourable girl. She didn't urge him to leave his wife. She urged him not to do so. But when she saw Walter Fane she knew that she couldn't marry him, and because she didn't know what else to do, she wired her brother for money to go home.

“On the way home she met your father—and another way of escape showed itself. This time it was one with good prospect of happiness.

“She didn't marry your father under false pretences, Gwenda. He was recovering from the death of a dearly loved wife. She was getting over an unhappy love affair. They could both help each other. I think it is significant that she and Kelvin Halliday were married in London and then went down to Dillmouth to break the news to Dr. Kennedy. She must have had some instinct that that would be a wiser thing to do than to go down and be married in Dillmouth, which ordinarily would have been the normal thing to do. I still think she didn't know what she was up against—but she was uneasy, and she felt safer in presenting her brother with the marriage as a
fait accompli.

“Kelvin Halliday was very friendly to Kennedy and liked him. Kennedy seems to have gone out of his way to appear pleased about the marriage. The couple took a furnished house there.

“And now we come to that very significant fact—the suggestion that Kelvin was being drugged by his wife. There are only two possible explanations of that—because there are only two people who could have had the opportunity of doing such a thing. Either Helen Halliday
was
drugging her husband, and if so, why? Or else the drugs were being administered by Dr. Kennedy. Kennedy was Halliday's physician as is clear by Halliday's consulting him. He had confidence in Kennedy's medical knowledge—and the suggestion that his wife was drugging him was very cleverly put to him by Kennedy.”

“But could any drug make a man have the hallucination that he was strangling his wife?” asked Giles. “I mean there isn't any drug, is there, that has that
particular
effect?”

“My dear Giles, you've fallen into the trap again—the trap of believing
what is said to you.
There is only Dr. Kennedy's word for it that Halliday ever had
that
hallucination. He himself never says so in his diary. He had hallucinations, yes, but he does not mention their nature. But I dare say Kennedy talked to him about men who had strangled their wives after passing through a phase such as Kelvin Halliday was experiencing.”

“Dr. Kennedy was really wicked,” said Gwenda.

“I think,” said Miss Marple, “that he'd definitely passed the borderline between sanity and madness by that time. And Helen, poor girl, began to realize it. It was to her brother she must have been speaking that day when she was overheard by Lily. “I think I've always been afraid of you.” That was one of the things she said. And that always was very significant. And so she determined to leave Dillmouth. She persuaded her husband to buy a house in Norfolk, she persuaded him not to tell anyone about it. The secrecy about it was very illuminating. She was clearly very afraid of
someone
knowing about it—but that did not fit in with the Walter Fane theory or the Jackie Afflick theory—and certainly not with Richard Erskine's being concerned. No, it pointed to somewhere much nearer home.

“And in the end, Kelvin Halliday, whom doubtless the secrecy irked and who felt it to be pointless, told his brother-in-law.

“And in so doing, sealed his own fate and that of his wife. For Kennedy was not going to let Helen go and live happily with her husband. I think perhaps his idea was simply to break down Halliday's health with drugs. But at the revelation that his victim and Helen were going to escape him, he became completely unhinged. From the hospital he went through into the garden of St. Cath
erine's and he took with him a pair of surgical gloves. He caught Helen in the hall, and he strangled her. Nobody saw him, there was no one there to see him, or so he thought, and so, racked with love and frenzy, he quoted those tragic lines that were so apposite.”

Miss Marple sighed and clucked her tongue.

“I was stupid—very stupid. We were all stupid. We should have seen at once. Those lines from
The Duchess of Malfi
were really the clue to the whole thing. They are said, are they not, by a
brother
who has just contrived his sister's death to avenge her marriage to the man she loved. Yes, we were stupid—”

“And then?” asked Giles.

“And then he went through with the whole devilish plan. The body carried upstairs. The clothes packed in a suitcase. A note, written and thrown in the wastepaper basket to convince Halliday later.”

“But I should have thought,” said Gwenda, “that it would have been better from his point of view for my father actually to have been convicted of the murder.”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“Oh no, he couldn't risk that. He had a lot of shrewd Scottish common sense, you know. He had a wholesome respect for the police. The police take a lot of convincing before they believe a man guilty of murder. The police might have asked a lot of awkward questions and made a lot of awkward enquiries as to times and places. No, his plan was simpler and, I think, more devilish. He only had Halliday to convince. First, that he had killed his wife. Secondly that he was mad. He persuaded Halliday to go into a mental home, but I don't think he really wanted to convince him that it was
all a delusion. Your father accepted that theory, Gwennie, mainly, I should imagine, for your sake. He continued to believe that he had killed Helen. He died believing that.”

“Wicked,” said Gwenda. “Wicked—wicked—wicked.”

“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “There isn't really any other word. And I think, Gwenda, that that is why your childish impression of what you saw remained so strong. It was real evil that was in the air that night.”

“But the letters,” said Giles. “Helen's letters? They
were
in her handwriting, so they couldn't be forgeries.”

“Of course they were forgeries! But that is where he overreached himself. He was so anxious, you see, to stop you and Giles making investigations. He could probably imitate Helen's handwriting quite nicely—but it wouldn't fool an expert. So the sample of Helen's handwriting he sent you with the letter wasn't her handwriting either. He wrote it himself. So naturally it tallied.”

“Goodness,” said Giles. “I never thought of that.”

“No,” said Miss Marple. “
You believed what he said.
It really is very dangerous to believe people.
I
never have for years.”

“And the brandy?”

“He did that the day he came to Hillside with Helen's letter and talked to me in the garden. He was waiting in the house while Mrs. Cocker came out and told me he was there. It would only take a minute.”

“Good Lord,” said Giles. “And he urged me to take Gwenda home and
give her brandy
after we were at the police station when Lily Kimble was killed. How did he arrange to meet her earlier?”

“That was very simple. The original letter he sent her asked her to meet him at Woodleigh Camp and come to Matchings Halt
by the two-five train from Dillmouth Junction. He came out of the copse of trees, probably, and accosted her as she was going up the lane—and strangled her. Then he simply substituted the letter you all saw for the letter she had with her (and which he had asked her to bring because of the directions in it) and went home to prepare for you and play out the little comedy of waiting for Lily.”

“And Lily really was threatening him? Her letter didn't sound as though she was. Her letter sounded as though she suspected Afflick.”

“Perhaps she did. But Léonie, the Swiss girl, had talked to Lily, and Léonie was the one danger to Kennedy. Because she looked out of the nursery window and saw him digging in the garden. In the morning he talked to her, told her bluntly that Major Halliday had killed his wife—that Major Halliday was insane, and that he, Kennedy, was hushing up the matter for the child's sake. If, however, Léonie felt she ought to go to the police, she must do so, but it would be very unpleasant for her—and so on.

“Léonie took immediate fright at the mention of the police. She adored you and had implicit faith in what
M. le docteur
thought best. Kennedy paid her a handsome sum of money and hustled her back to Switzerland. But before she went, she hinted something to Lily as to your father's having killed his wife and that she had seen the body buried. That fitted in with Lily's ideas at the time. She took it for granted that it was Kelvin Halliday Léonie had seen digging the grave.”

“But Kennedy didn't know that, of course,” said Gwenda.

“Of course not. When he got Lily's letter the words in it that frightened him were that Léonie had told Lily what she had seen
out of the window
and the mention of the car outside.”

“The car? Jackie Afflick's car?”

“Another misunderstanding. Lily remembered, or thought she remembered, a car like Jackie Afflick's being outside in the road. Already her imagination had got to work on the Mystery Man who came over to see Mrs. Halliday. With the hospital next door, no doubt a good many cars did park along this road. But you must remember that the
doctor's
car was actually standing outside the hospital that night—he probably leaped to the conclusion that she meant
his
car. The adjective posh was meaningless to him.”