Sleeping Murder (15 page)

I

J
. J. Afflick, Daffodil Coaches, Devon & Dorset Tours, etc. had two numbers listed in the telephone book. An office address in Exeter and a private address on the outskirts of that town.

An appointment was made for the following day.

Just as Giles and Gwenda were leaving in the car, Mrs. Cocker ran out and gesticulated. Giles put on the brake and stopped.

“It's Dr. Kennedy on the telephone, sir.”

Giles got out and ran back. He picked up the receiver.

“Giles Reed here.”

“Morning. I've just received rather an odd letter. From a woman called Lily Kimble. I've been racking my brains to remember who she is. Thought of a patient first—that put me off the scent. But I rather fancy she must be a girl who was in service once at your
house. House-parlourmaid at the time we know of. I'm almost sure her name was Lily, though I don't recollect her last name.”

“There
was
a Lily. Gwenda remembers her. She tied a bow on the cat.”

“Gwennie must have a very remarkable memory.”

“Oh, she has.”

“Well, I'd like to have a word with you about this letter—not over the phone. Will you be in if I come over?”

“We're just on our way to Exeter. We could drop in on you, if you prefer, sir. It's all on our way.”

“Good. That'll do splendidly.”

“I don't like to talk too much about all this over the phone,” explained the doctor when they arrived. “I always have an idea the local exchanges listen in. Here's the woman's letter.”

He spread the letter on the table. It was written on cheap lined paper in an uneducated hand.

“It was addressed to my old house in Dillmouth,” said Kennedy, “and forwarded on to me here. The cutting is your advertisement.”

“It's wonderful,” said Gwenda. “This Lily—you see—she
doesn't
think it was my father who did it!”

She spoke with jubilation. Dr. Kennedy looked at her with tired, kindly eyes.

“Good for you, Gwennie,” he said gently. “I hope you're right. Now this is what I think we'd better do. I'll answer her letter and tell her to come here on Thursday. The train connection is quite good. By changing at Dillmouth Junction she can get here shortly after 4.30. If you two will come over that afternoon, we can tackle her all together.”

“Splendid,” said Giles. He glanced at his watch. “Come on, Gwenda, we must hurry. We've got an appointment,” he explained. “With Mr. Afflick of the Daffodil Coaches, and, so he told us, he's a busy man.”

“Afflick?” Kennedy frowned. “Of course! Devon Tours in Daffodil Coaches, horrible great butter-coloured brutes. But the name seemed familiar in some other way.”

“Helen,” said Gwenda.

“My goodness—not that chap?”

“Yes.”

“But he was a miserable little rat. So he's come up in the world?”

“Will you tell me something, sir?” said Giles. “You broke up some funny business between him and Helen. Was that simply because of his—well, social position?”

Dr. Kennedy gave him a dry glance.

“I'm old-fashioned, young man. In the modern gospel, one man is as good as another. That holds morally, no doubt. But I'm a believer in the fact that there is a state of life into which you are born—and I believe you're happiest staying in it. Besides,” he added, “I thought the fellow was a wrong 'un. As he proved to be.”

“What did he do exactly?”

“That I can't remember now. It was a case, as far as I can recall, of his trying to cash in on some information obtained through his employment with Fane. Some confidential matter relating to one of their clients.”

“Was he—sore about his dismissal?”

Kennedy gave him a sharp glance and said briefly: “Yes.”

“And there wasn't any other reason at all for your disliking his friendship with your sister? You didn't think he was—well—odd in any way.”

“Since you have brought the matter up, I will answer you frankly. It seemed to me, especially after his dismissal from his employment, that Jackie Afflick displayed certain signs of an unbalanced temperament. Incipient persecution mania, in fact. But that does not seem to have been borne out by his subsequent rise in life.”

“Who dismissed him? Walter Fane?”

“I have no idea if Walter Fane was concerned. He was dismissed by the firm.”

“And he complained that he had been victimized?”

Kennedy nodded.

“I see … Well, we must drive like the wind. Till Thursday, sir.”

II

The house was newly built. It was of Snowcrete, heavily curved, with a big expanse of window. They were shown in through an opulent hall to a study, half of which was taken up by a big chromium-plated desk.

Gwenda murmured nervously to Giles, “Really, I don't know what we should have done without Miss Marple. We lean upon her at every turn. First her friends in Northumberland and now her Vicar's wife's Boys' Club Annual Outing.”

Giles raised an admonitory hand as the door opened and J. J. Afflick surged into the room.

He was a stout man of middle age, dressed in a rather violently checked suit. His eyes were dark and shrewd, his face rubicund and good-natured. He looked like the popular idea of a successful bookmaker.

“Mr. Reed? Good morning. Pleased to meet you.”

Giles introduced Gwenda. She felt her hand taken in a rather over-zealous grip.

“And what can I do for you, Mr. Reed?”

Afflick sat down behind his huge desk. He offered cigarettes from an onyx box.

Giles entered upon the subject of the Boys' Club Outing. Old friends of his ran the show. He was anxious to arrange for a couple of days' touring in Devon.

Afflick replied promptly in a businesslike manner—quoting prices and making suggestions. But there was a faintly puzzled look on his face.

Finally he said: “Well, that's all clear enough, Mr. Reed, and I'll send you a line to confirm it. But this is strictly office business. I understood from my clerk that you wanted a private appointment at my private address.”

“We did, Mr. Afflick. There were actually two matters on which I wanted to see you. We've disposed of one. The other is a purely private matter. My wife here is very anxious to get in touch with her stepmother whom she has not seen for many years, and we wondered if you could possibly help us.”

“Well, if you tell me the lady's name—I gather that I'm acquainted with her?”

“You were acquainted with her at one time. Her name is Helen Halliday and before her marriage she was Miss Helen Kennedy.”

Afflick sat quite still. He screwed up his eyes and tilted his chair slowly backwards.

“Helen Halliday—I don't recall … Helen Kennedy….”

“Formerly of Dillmouth,” said Gwenda.

The legs of Afflick's chair came down sharply.

“Got it,” he said. “Of course.” His round rubicund face beamed with pleasure. “Little Helen Kennedy! Yes, I remember her. But it's a long time ago. Must be twenty years.”

“Eighteen.”

“Is it really? Time flies, as the saying goes. But I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed, Mrs. Reed. I haven't seen anything of Helen since that time. Never heard of her, even.”

“Oh dear,” said Gwenda. “That's very disappointing. We did so hope you could help.”

“What's the trouble?” His eyes flickered quickly from one face to another. “Quarrel? Left home? Matter of money?”

Gwenda said: “She went away—suddenly—from Dillmouth—eighteen years ago with—with someone.”

Jackie Afflick said amusedly: “And you thought she might have gone away with me? Now why?”

Gwenda spoke boldly: “Because we heard that you—and she—had once—been—well, fond of each other.”

“Me and Helen? Oh, but there was nothing in that. Just a boy and girl affair. Neither of us took it seriously.” He added drily, “We weren't encouraged to do so.”

“You must think us dreadfully impertinent,” began Gwenda, but he interrupted her.

“What's the odds? I'm not sensitive. You want to find a certain person and you think I may be able to help. Ask me anything you please—I've nought to conceal.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “So you're Halliday's daughter?”

“Yes. Did you know my father?”

He shook his head.

“I dropped in to see Helen once when I was over at Dillmouth on business. I'd heard she was married and living there. She was civil enough—” he paused—“but she didn't ask me to stay to dinner. No, I didn't meet your father.”

Had there, Gwenda wondered, been a trace of rancour in that “She didn't ask me to stay to dinner?”

“Did she—if you remember—seem happy?”

Afflick shrugged his shoulders.

“Happy enough. But there, it's a long time ago. I'd have remembered if she'd looked unhappy.”

He added with what seemed a perfectly natural curiosity: “Do you mean to say you've never heard anything of her since Dillmouth eighteen years ago?”

“Nothing.”

“No—letters?”

“There were two letters,” said Giles. “But we have some reason to think that she didn't write them.”

“You think she didn't write them?” Afflick seemed faintly amused. “Sounds like a mystery on the flicks.”

“That's rather what it seems like to us.”

“What about her brother, the doctor chap, doesn't he know where she is?”

“No.”

“I see. Regular mystery, isn't it? Why not advertise?”

“We have.”

Afflick said casually: “Looks as though she's dead. You mightn't have heard.”

Gwenda shivered.

“Cold, Mrs. Reed?”

“No. I was thinking of Helen dead. I don't like to think of her dead.”

“You're right there. I don't like to think of it myself. Stunning looks she had.”

Gwenda said impulsively: “You knew her. You knew her well. I've only got a child's memory of her. What was she like? What did people feel about her? What did
you
feel?”

He looked at her for a moment or two.

“I'll be honest with you, Mrs. Reed. Believe it or not, as you like. I was sorry for the kid.”

“Sorry?” She turned a puzzled stare on him.

“Just that. There she was—just home from school. Longing for a bit of fun like any girl might, and there was that stiff middle-aged brother of hers with his ideas about what a girl could do and couldn't do. No fun at all, that kid hadn't. Well, I took her about a bit—showed her a bit of life. I wasn't really keen on her and she wasn't really keen on me. She just liked the fun of being a daredevil. Then of course they found out we were meeting and he put a stop to it. Don't blame him, really. Cut above me, she was. We weren't engaged or anything of that kind. I meant to marry sometime—but not till I was a good bit older. And I meant to get on and to find a wife who'd help me get on. Helen hadn't any money, and it wouldn't have been a suitable match in any way. We were just good friends with a bit of flirtation thrown in.”

“But you must have been angry with the doctor—”

Gwenda paused and Afflick said: “I was riled, I admit. You don't fancy being told you're not good enough. But there, it's no good being thin-skinned.”

“And then,” said Giles, “you lost your job.”

Afflick's face was not quite so pleasant.

“Fired, I was. Out of Fane and Watchman's. And I've a very good idea who was responsible for that.”

“Oh?” Giles made his tone interrogative, but Afflick shook his head.

“I'm not saying anything. I've my own ideas. I was framed—that's all—and I've a very fair idea of who did it.
And
why!” The colour suffused his cheeks. “Dirty work,” he said. “Spying on a
man—laying traps for him—lying about him. Oh, I've had my enemies all right. But I've never let them get me down. I've always given as good as I got.
And
I don't forget.”

He stopped. Suddenly his manner changed back again. He was genial once more.

“So I can't help you, I'm afraid. A little bit of fun between me and Helen—that was all. It didn't go deep.”

Gwenda stared at him. It was a clear enough story—but was it true? she wondered. Something jarred—it came to the surface of her mind what that something was.

“All the same,” she said, “you looked her up when you came to Dillmouth later.”

He laughed.

“You've got me there, Mrs. Reed. Yes, I did. Wanted to show her perhaps that I wasn't down and out just because a long-faced lawyer had pushed me out of his office. I had a nice business and I was driving a posh car and I'd done very well for myself.”

“You came to see her more than once, didn't you?”