Sleeping Murder (11 page)

“All this was at first, you understand. But later on, up in our bedroom, Lily woke me up. ‘Look here,' she says. ‘It's all wrong.' ‘What's wrong?' I said. And she said, ‘Those clothes.' ‘Whatever are
you talking about?' I said. ‘Listen, Edie,' she said. ‘I went through her clothes because the doctor asked me to. And there's a suitcase gone and enough to fill it—but they're the
wrong
things.' ‘What do you mean?' I said. And Lily said, ‘She took an evening dress, her grey and silver—but she didn't take her evening belt and brassière, nor the slip that goes with it, and she took her gold brocade evening shoes, not the silver strap ones. And she took her green tweed—which she never wears until late on in the autumn, but she didn't take that fancy pullover and she took her lace blouses that she only wears with a town suit. Oh and her undies, too, they were a job lot. You mark my words, Edie,' Lily said. ‘She's not gone away at all. The master's done her in.'

“Well, that made me wide awake. I sat right up and asked her what on earth she was talking about.

“‘Just like it was in the
News of the World
last week,' Lily says. ‘The master found she'd been carrying on and he killed her and put her down in the cellar and buried her under the floor.
You'd
never hear anything because it's under the front hall. That's what he's done, and then he packed a suitcase to make it look as though she'd gone away. But that's where she is—under the cellar floor.
She never left this house alive.
' I gave her a piece of my mind then, saying such awful things. But I'll admit I slipped down to the cellar the next morning. But there, it was all just as usual and nothing disturbed and no digging been done—and I went and told Lily she'd just been making a fool of herself, but she stuck to it as the master had done her in. ‘Remember,' she says, ‘she was scared to death of him. I heard her telling him so.' ‘And that's just where you're wrong, my girl,' I said, ‘because it wasn't the master at all. Just after you'd told me, that day, I looked out of the window and there was the master coming
down the hill with his golf clubs, so it couldn't have been him who was with the mistress in the drawing room. It was someone else.'”

The words echoed lingeringly in the comfortable commonplace sitting room.

Giles said softly under his breath,
“It was someone else….”

T
he Royal Clarence was the oldest hotel in the town. It had a mellow bowfronted façade and an old-world atmosphere. It still catered for the type of family who came for a month to the seaside.

Miss Narracott who presided behind the reception desk was a full-bosomed lady of forty-seven with an old-fashioned style of hairdressing.

She unbent to Giles whom her accurate eye summed up as “one of our nice people.” And Giles, who had a ready tongue and a persuasive way with him when he liked, spun a very good tale. He had a bet on with his wife—about her godmother—and whether she had stayed at the Royal Clarence eighteen years ago. His wife had said that they could never settle the dispute because of course all the old registers would be thrown away by this time, but he had said Nonsense. An establishment like the Royal Clarence would keep its registers. They must go back for a hundred years.

“Well, not quite that, Mr. Reed. But we do keep all our old Visitors' Books as we prefer to call them. Very interesting names in them, too. Why, the King stayed here once when he was Prince of Wales, and Princess Adlemar of Holstein-Rotz used to come every winter with her lady-in-waiting. And we've had some very famous novelists, too, and Mr. Dovey, the portrait-painter.”

Giles responded in suitable fashion with interest and respect and in due course the sacred volume for the year in question was brought out and exhibited to him.

Having first had various illustrious names pointed out to him, he turned the pages to the month of August.

Yes, here surely was the entry he was seeking.

“If I may copy this out?”

“Of course, Mr. Reed. Paper and ink—Oh, you have your pen. Excuse me, I must just go back to the outer office.”

She left him with the open book, and Giles set to work.

On his return to Hillside he found Gwenda in the garden, bending over the herbaceous border.

She straightened herself and gave him a quick glance of interrogation.

“Any luck?”

“Yes, I think this must be it.”

Gwenda said softly, reading the words: “Anstell Manor, Daith, Northumberland. Yes, Edith Pagett said Northumberland. I wonder if they're still living there—”

“We'll have to go and see.”

“Yes—yes, it would be better to go—when?”

“As soon as possible. Tomorrow? We'll take the car and drive up. It will show you a little more of England.”

“Suppose they're dead—or gone away and somebody else is living there?”

Giles shrugged his shoulders.

“Then we come back and go on with our other leads. I've written to Kennedy, by the way, and asked him if he'll send me those letters Helen wrote after she went away—if he's still got them—
and
a specimen of her handwriting.”

“I wish,” said Gwenda, “that we could get in touch with the other servant—with Lily—the one who put the bow on Thomas—”

“Funny your suddenly remembering that, Gwenda.”

“Yes, wasn't it? I remember Tommy, too. He was black with white patches and he had three lovely kittens.”

“What? Thomas?”

“Well, he was called Thomas—but actually he turned out to be Thomasina. You know what cats are. But about Lily—I wonder what's become of her? Edith Pagett seems to have lost sight of her entirely. She didn't come from round here—and after the breakup at St. Catherine's she took a place in Torquay. She wrote once or twice but that was all. Edith said she'd heard she'd got married but she didn't know who to. If we could get hold of her we might learn a lot more.”

“And from Léonie, the Swiss girl.”

“Perhaps—but she was a foreigner and wouldn't catch on to much of what went on. You know, I don't remember her at all. No, it's Lily I feel would be useful. Lily was the sharp one … I know,
Giles, let's put in another advertisement—an advertisement for her—Lily Abbott, her name was.”

“Yes,” said Giles. “We might try that. And we'll definitely go north tomorrow and see what we can find out about the Erskines.”

“D
own, Henry,” said Mrs. Fane to an asthmatic spaniel whose liquid eyes burned with greed. “Another scone, Miss Marple, while they're hot?”

“Thank you. Such delicious scones. You have an excellent cook.”

“Louisa is not bad, really. Forgetful, like all of them. And no variety in her puddings. Tell me, how is Dorothy Yarde's sciatica nowadays? She used to be a martyr to it. Largely nerves, I suspect.”

Miss Marple hastened to oblige with details of their mutual acquaintance's ailments. It was fortunate, she thought, that amongst her many friends and relations scattered over England, she had managed to find a woman who knew Mrs. Fane and who had written explaining that a Miss Marple was at present in Dillmouth, and would dear Eleanor be very kind and ask her to something.

Eleanor Fane was a tall, commanding woman with a steely grey eye, crisp white hair, and a baby pink and white complexion
which masked the fact that there was no baby-like softness whatever about her.

They discussed Dorothy's ailments or imagined ailments and went on to Miss Marple's health, the air of Dillmouth, and the general poor condition of most of the younger generation.

“Not made to eat their crusts as children,” Mrs. Fane pronounced. “None of that allowed in
my
nursery.”

“You have more than one son?” asked Miss Marple.

“Three. The eldest, Gerald, is in Singapore in the Far East Bank. Robert is in the Army.” Mrs. Fane sniffed. “Married a Roman Catholic,” she said with significance. “You know what
that
means! All the children brought up as Catholics. What Robert's father would have said, I don't know. My husband was very low church. I hardly ever hear from Robert nowadays. He takes exception to some of the things I have said to him purely for his own good. I believe in being sincere and saying exactly what one thinks. His marriage was, in my opinion, a great misfortune. He may
pretend
to be happy, poor boy—but I can't feel that it is at all satisfactory.”

“Your youngest son is not married, I believe?”

Mrs. Fane beamed.

“No, Walter lives at home. He is slightly delicate—always was from a child—and I have always had to look after his health very carefully. (He will be in presently.) I can't tell you what a thoughtful and devoted son he is. I am really a very lucky woman to have such a son.”

“And he has never thought of marrying?” enquired Miss Marple.

“Walter always says he really cannot be bothered with the modern young woman. They don't appeal to him. He and I have so much in common that I'm afraid he doesn't go out as much as he should.
He reads Thackeray to me in the evenings, and we usually have a game of picquet. Walter is a real home bird.”

“How very nice,” said Miss Marple. “Has he always been in the firm? Somebody told me that you had a son who was out in Ceylon, as a tea-planter, but perhaps they got it wrong.”

A slight frown came over Mrs. Fane's face. She urged walnut cake upon her guest and explained.

“That was as a very young man. One of those youthful impulses. A boy always longs to see the world. Actually, there was a girl at the bottom of it. Girls can be
so
unsettling.”

“Oh yes, indeed. My own nephew, I remember—”

Mrs. Fane swept on, ignoring Miss Marple's nephew. She held the floor and was enjoying the opportunity to reminisce to this sympathetic friend of dear Dorothy's.

“A
most
unsuitable girl—as seems always to be the way. Oh, I don't mean an
actress
or anything like that. The local doctor's sister—more like his daughter, really, years younger—and the poor man with no idea how to bring her up. Men are so helpless, aren't they? She ran quite wild, entangled herself first with a young man in the office—a mere clerk—and a very unsatisfactory character, too. They had to get rid of him. Repeated confidential information. Anyway, this girl, Helen Kennedy, was, I suppose, very pretty.
I
didn't think so. I always thought her hair was touched up. But Walter, poor boy, fell very much in love with her. As I say, quite unsuitable, no money and no prospects, and not the kind of girl one wanted as a daughter-in-law. Still, what can a mother do? Walter proposed to her and she refused him, and then he got this silly idea into his head of going out to India and being a tea-planter. My husband said, “Let him go,” though of course he was very disappointed.
He had been looking forward to having Walter with him in the firm and Walter had passed all his law exams and everything. Still, there it was. Really, the havoc these young women cause!”

“Oh, I know. My nephew—”

Once again Mrs. Fane swept over Miss Marple's nephew.

“So the dear boy went out to Assam or was it Bangalore—really I can't remember after all these years. And I felt most upset because I knew his health wouldn't stand it. And he hadn't been out there a year (doing very well, too. Walter does everything well) than—would you believe it?—this impudent chit of a girl changes her mind and writes out that she'd like to marry him after all.”

“Dear, dear.” Miss Marple shook her head.

“Gets together her trousseau, books her passage—and what do you think the next move is?”

“I can't imagine.” Miss Marple leaned forward in rapt attention.

“Has a love affair with a married man, if you please. On the boat going out. A married man with three children, I believe. Anyway there is Walter on the quay to meet her and the first thing she does is to say she can't marry him after all. Don't you call that a wicked thing to do?”

“Oh, I do indeed. It might have completely destroyed your son's faith in human nature.”

“It should have shown her to him in her true colours. But there, that type of woman gets away with anything.”

“He didn't—” Miss Marple hesitated—“
resent
her action? Some men would have been terribly angry.”

“Walter has always had wonderful self-control. However upset and annoyed Walter may be over anything, he never shows it.”

Miss Marple peered at her speculatively. Hesitantly, she put out a feeler.

“That is because it goes really deep, perhaps? One is really astonished sometimes, with children. A sudden outburst from some child that one has thought didn't care at all. A sensitive nature that can't express itself until it's driven absolutely beyond endurance.”

“Ah, it's very curious you should say that, Miss Marple. I remember so well. Gerald and Robert, you know, both hot-tempered and always apt to
fight.
Quite natural, of course, for healthy boys—”

“Oh, quite natural.”

“And dear Walter, always so quiet and patient. And then, one day, Robert got hold of his model aeroplane—he'd built it up himself with days of work—so patient and clever with his fingers—and Robert, who was a dear high-spirited boy but careless, smashed it. And when I came into the schoolroom there was Robert down on the floor and Walter attacking him with the poker, he'd practically knocked him out—and I simply had all I could do to drag Walter off him. He kept repeating. ‘He did it on purpose—he did it on purpose. I'm going to kill him.' You know, I was quite frightened. Boys feel things so intensely, do they not?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Marple. Her eyes were thoughtful.

She reverted to the former topic.

“And so the engagement was finally broken off. What happened to the girl?”

“She came home. Had another love affair on the way back, and this time married the man. A widower with one child. A man who has just lost his wife is always a fair target—helpless, poor fellow. She married him and they settled down here in a house the other side
of the town—St. Catherine's—next door to the hospital. It didn't last, of course—she left him within the year. Went off with some man or other.”

“Dear, dear!” Miss Marple shook her head. “What a lucky escape your son had!”

“That's what I always tell him.”

“And did he give up tea-planting because his health wouldn't stand it?”

A slight frown appeared on Mrs. Fane's brow.

“The life wasn't really congenial to him,” she said. “He came home about six months after the girl did.”

“It must have been rather awkward,” ventured Miss Marple. “If the young woman was actually living here. In the same town—”

“Walter was wonderful,” said Walter's mother. “He behaved exactly as though nothing had happened. I should have thought myself (indeed I said so at the time) that it would be advisable to make a clean break—after all, meetings could only be awkward for both parties. But Walter insisted on going out of his way to be friendly. He used to call at the house in the most informal fashion, and play with the child—Rather curious, by the way, the child's come back here. She's grown-up now, with a husband. Came into Walter's office to make her will the other day. Reed, that's her name now. Reed.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Reed! I know them. Such a nice unaffected young couple. Fancy that now—and she is actually the child—”

“The first wife's child. The first wife died out in India. Poor Major—I've forgotten his name—Hallway—something like that—was completely broken up when that minx left him. Why the worst women should always attract the best men is something hard to fathom!”

“And the young man who was originally entangled with her? A clerk, I think you said, in your son's office. What happened to him?”

“Did very well for himself. He runs a lot of those Coach Tours. Daffodil Coaches. Afflick's Daffodil Coaches. Painted bright yellow. It's a vulgar world nowadays.”

“Afflick?” said Miss Marple.

“Jackie Afflick. A nasty pushing fellow. Always determined to get on, I imagine. Probably why he took up with Helen Kennedy in the first place. Doctor's daughter and all that—thought it would better his social position.”

“And this Helen has never come back again to Dillmouth?”

“No. Good riddance. Probably gone completely to the bad by now. I was sorry for Dr. Kennedy. Not his fault. His father's second wife was a fluffy little thing, years younger than he was. Helen inherited her wild blood from her, I expect. I've always thought—”

Mrs. Fane broke off.

“Here is Walter.” Her mother's ear had distinguished certain well-known sounds in the hall. The door opened and Walter Fane came in.

“This is Miss Marple, my son. Ring the bell, son, and we'll have some fresh tea.”

“Don't bother, Mother. I had a cup.”

“Of course we will have fresh tea—and some scones, Beatrice,” she added to the parlourmaid who had appeared to take the teapot.

“Yes, madam.”

With a slow, likeable smile Walter Fane said: “My mother spoils me, I'm afraid.”

Miss Marple studied him as she made a polite rejoinder.

A gentle quiet-looking person, slightly diffident and apologetic
in manner—colourless. A very nondescript personality. The devoted type of young man whom women ignore and only marry because the man they love does not return their affection. Walter, who is Always There. Poor Walter, his mother's darling … Little Walter Fane who had attacked his older brother with a poker and had tried to kill him….

Miss Marple wondered.