Sleeping Murder (5 page)

He added firmly: “And those are my orders to
you. Let the whole thing alone.
”

“But it's not I who am involved. It's two very delightful children. Let me tell you!”

She told him the story and Haydock listened.

“Extraordinary,” he said when she had finished. “Extraordinary coincidence. Extraordinary business altogether. I suppose you see what the implications are?”

“Oh, of course. But I don't think it's occurred to
them
yet.”

“It will mean a good deal of unhappiness and they'll wish they'd never meddled with the thing. Skeletons should be kept in their cupboards. Still, you know, I can quite see young Giles's point of view. Dash it all, I couldn't leave the thing alone myself. Even now, I'm curious….”

He broke off and directed a stern glance at Miss Marple.

“So that's what you're doing with your excuses to get to Dillmouth. Mixing yourself up in something that's no concern of yours.”

“Not at all, Dr. Haydock. But I'm worried about those two. They're very young and inexperienced and much too trusting and credulous. I feel I ought to be there to look after them.”

“So that's why you're going. To look after them! Can't you
ever
leave murder alone, woman? Even murder in retrospect?”

Miss Marple gave a small prim smile.

“But you do think, don't you, that a few weeks at Dillmouth would be beneficial to my health?”

“More likely to be the end of you,” said Dr. Haydock. “But you won't listen to me!”

III

On her way to call upon her friends, Colonel and Mrs. Bantry, Miss Marple met Colonel Bantry coming along the drive, his gun in his hand and his spaniel at his heels. He welcomed her cordially.

“Glad to see you back again. How's London?”

Miss Marple said that London was very well. Her nephew had taken her to several plays.

“Highbrow ones, I bet. Only care for a musical comedy myself.”

Miss Marple said that she had been to a Russian play that was very interesting, though perhaps a little too long.

“Russians!” said Colonel Bantry explosively. He had once been given a novel by Dostoievsky to read in a nursing home.

He added that Miss Marple would find Dolly in the garden.

Mrs. Bantry was almost always to be found in the garden. Gardening was her passion. Her favourite literature was bulb catalogues and her conversation dealt with primulas, bulbs, flowering shrubs and alpine novelties. Miss Marple's first view of her was a substantial posterior clad in faded tweed.

At the sound of approaching steps, Mrs. Bantry reassumed an erect position with a few creaks and winces, her hobby had made her rheumaticky, wiped her hot brow with an earth-stained hand and welcomed her friend.

“Heard you were back, Jane,” she said. “Aren't my new delphiniums doing well? Have you seen these new little gentians? I've had
a bit of trouble with them, but I think they're all set now. What we need is rain. It's been terribly dry.” She added, “Esther told me you were ill in bed.” Esther was Mrs. Bantry's cook and liaison officer with the village. “I'm glad to see it's not true.”

“Just a little overtired,” said Miss Marple. “Dr. Haydock thinks I need some sea air. I'm rather run-down.”

“Oh, but you couldn't go away
now,
” said Mrs. Bantry. “This is absolutely the best time of the year in the garden. Your border must be just coming into flower.”

“Dr. Haydock thinks it would be advisable.”

“Well, Haydock's not such a fool as some doctors,” admitted Mrs. Bantry grudgingly.

“I was wondering, Dolly, about that cook of yours.”

“Which cook? Do you want a cook? You don't mean that woman who drank, do you?”

“No, no, no. I mean the one who made such delicious pastry. With a husband who was the butler.”

“Oh, you mean the Mock Turtle,” said Mrs. Bantry with immediate recognition. “Woman with a deep mournful voice who always sounded as though she was going to burst into tears. She
was
a good cook. Husband was a fat, rather lazy man. Arthur always said he watered the whisky. I don't know. Pity there's always one of a couple that's unsatisfactory. They got left a legacy by some former employer and they went off and opened a boardinghouse on the south coast.”

“That's just what I thought. Wasn't it at Dillmouth?”

“That's right. 14 Sea Parade, Dillmouth.”

“I was thinking that as Dr. Haydock has suggested the seaside I might go to—was their name Saunders?”

“Yes. That's an excellent idea, Jane. You couldn't do better. Mrs. Saunders will look after you well, and as it's out of the season they'll be glad to get you and won't charge very much. With good cooking and sea air you'll soon pick up.”

“Thank you, Dolly,” said Miss Marple, “I expect I shall.”

I

“W
here do you think the body was? About here?” asked Giles.

He and Gwenda were standing in the front hall of Hillside. They had arrived back the night before, and Giles was now in full cry. He was as pleased as a small boy with his new toy.

“Just about,” said Gwenda. She retreated up the stairs and peered down critically. “Yes—I think that's about it.”

“Crouch down,” said Giles. “You're only about three years old, you know.”

Gwenda crouched obligingly.

“You couldn't actually see the man who said the words?”

“I can't remember seeing him. He must have been just a bit further back—yes, there. I could only see his paws.”

“
Paws.
” Giles frowned.

“They
were
paws. Grey paws—not human.”

“But look here, Gwenda. This isn't a kind of Murder in the Rue Morgue. A man doesn't have paws.”

“Well,
he
had paws.”

Giles looked doubtfully at her.

“You must have imagined that bit afterwards.”

Gwenda said slowly, “Don't you think I may have imagined the whole thing? You know, Giles, I've been thinking. It seems to me far more probable that the whole thing was a
dream.
It might have been. It was the sort of dream a child might have, and be terribly frightened, and go on remembering about. Don't you think really that's the proper explanation? Because nobody in Dillmouth seems to have the faintest idea that there was ever a murder, or a sudden death, or a disappearance or
anything
odd about this house.”

Giles looked like a different kind of little boy—a little boy who has had his nice new toy taken away from him.

“I suppose it might have been a nightmare,” he admitted grudgingly. Then his face cleared suddenly.

“No,” he said. “I don't believe it. You could have dreamt about monkeys' paws and someone dead—but I'm damned if you could have dreamt that quotation from
The Duchess of Malfi.
”

“I could have heard someone say it and then dreamt about it afterwards.”

“I don't think any child could do that. Not unless you heard it in conditions of great stress—and if that was the case we're back again where we were—hold on, I've got it. It was the
paws
you dreamt. You saw the body and heard the words and you were scared stiff and then you had a nightmare about it, and there were waving monkeys' paws too—probably you were frightened of monkeys.”

Gwenda looked slightly dubious—she said slowly: “I suppose that
might
be it….”

“I wish you could remember a bit more … Come down here in the hall. Shut your eyes. Think … Doesn't anything more come back to you?”

“No, it doesn't, Giles … The more I think, the further it all goes away … I mean, I'm beginning to doubt now if I ever really saw anything at all. Perhaps the other night I just had a brainstorm in the theatre.”

“No. There
was
something. Miss Marple thinks so, too. What about ‘Helen'? Surely you must remember
something
about Helen?”

“I don't remember anything at all. It's just a
name.
”

“It mightn't even be the right name.”

“Yes, it was. It
was
Helen.”

Gwenda looked obstinate and convinced.

“Then if you're so sure it was Helen, you must know something about her,” said Giles reasonably. “Did you know her well? Was she living here? Or just staying here?”

“I tell you I don't
know.
” Gwenda was beginning to look strained and nervy.

Giles tried another tack.

“Who else can you remember? Your father?”

“No. I mean, I can't tell. There was always his photograph, you see. Aunt Alison used to say: ‘That's your Daddy.' I don't remember him
here,
in this house….”

“And no servants—nurses—anything like that?”

“No—no. The more I try to remember, the more it's all a blank. The things I know are all underneath—like walking to that door automatically. I didn't
remember
a door there. Perhaps if you wouldn't
worry me so much, Giles, things would come back more. Anyway, trying to find out about it all is hopeless. It's so long ago.”

“Of course it's not hopeless—even old Miss Marple admitted that.”

“She didn't help us with any ideas of how to set about it,” said Gwenda. “And yet I feel, from the glint in her eye, that she had a few. I wonder how
she
would have gone about it.”

“I don't suppose she would be likely to think of ways that we wouldn't,” said Giles positively. “We must stop speculating, Gwenda, and set about things in a systematic way. We've made a beginning—I've looked through the Parish registers of deaths. There's no ‘Helen' of the right age amongst them. In fact there doesn't seem to be a Helen at all in the period I covered—Ellen Pugg, ninety-four, was the nearest. Now we must think of the next profitable approach. If your father, and presumably your stepmother, lived in this house, they must either have bought it or rented it.”

“According to Foster, the gardener, some people called Elworthy had it before the Hengraves and before them Mrs. Findeyson. Nobody else.”

“Your father might have bought it and lived in it for a very short time—and then sold it again. But I think that it's much more likely that he rented it—probably rented it furnished. If so, our best bet is to go round the house agents.”

Going round the house agents was not a prolonged labour. There were only two house agents in Dillmouth. Messrs. Wilkinson were a comparatively new arrival. They had only opened their premises eleven years ago. They dealt mostly with the small bungalows and new houses at the far end of the town. The other agents, Messrs. Galbraith and Penderley, were the ones from whom Gwenda
had bought the house. Calling upon them, Giles plunged into his story. He and his wife were delighted with Hillside and with Dillmouth generally. Mrs. Reed had only just discovered that she had actually lived in Dillmouth as a small child. She had some very faint memories of the place, and had an idea that Hillside was actually the house in which she had lived but could not be quite certain about it. Had they any record of the house being let to a Major Halliday? It would be about eighteen or nineteen years ago….

Mr. Penderley stretched out apologetic hands.

“I'm afraid it's not possible to tell you, Mr. Reed. Our records do not go back that far—not, that is, of furnished or short-period lets. Very sorry I can't help you, Mr. Reed. As a matter of fact if our old head clerk, Mr. Narracott, had still been alive—he died last winter—he might have been able to assist you. A most remarkable memory, really quite remarkable. He had been with the firm for nearly thirty years.”

“There's no one else who would possibly remember?”

“Our staff is all on the comparatively young side. Of course there is old Mr. Galbraith himself. He retired some years ago.”

“Perhaps I could ask him?” said Gwenda.

“Well, I hardly know about that …” Mr. Penderley was dubious. “He had a stroke last year. His faculties are sadly impaired. He's over eighty, you know.”

“Does he live in Dillmouth?”

“Oh yes. At Calcutta Lodge. A very nice little property on the Seaton road. But I really don't think—”

II

“It's rather a forlorn hope,” said Giles to Gwenda. “But you never know. I don't think we'll write. We'll go there together and exert our personality.”

Calcutta Lodge was surrounded by a neat trim garden, and the sitting room into which they were shown was also neat if slightly overcrowded. It smelt of beeswax and Ronuk. Its brasses shone. Its windows were heavily festooned.

A thin middle-aged woman with suspicious eyes came into the room.

Giles explained himself quickly, and the expression of one who expects to have a vacuum cleaner pushed at her left Miss Galbraith's face.

“I'm sorry, but I really don't think I can help you,” she said. “It's so long ago, isn't it?”

“One does sometimes remember things,” said Gwenda.

“Of course I shouldn't know anything myself. I never had any connection with the business. A Major Halliday, you said? No, I never remember coming across anyone in Dillmouth of that name.”

“Your father might remember, perhaps,” said Gwenda.

“Father?” Miss Galbraith shook her head. “He doesn't take much notice nowadays, and his memory's very shaky.”

Gwenda's eyes were resting thoughtfully on a Benares brass table and they shifted to a procession of ebony elephants marching along the mantelpiece.

“I thought he might remember, perhaps,” she said, “because my father had just come from India. Your house is called Calcutta Lodge?”

She paused interrogatively.

“Yes,” said Miss Galbraith. “Father was out in Calcutta for a time. In business there. Then the war came and in 1920 he came into the firm here, but would have liked to go back, he always says. But my mother didn't fancy foreign parts—and of course you can't say the climate's really healthy. Well, I don't know—perhaps you'd like to see my father. I don't know that it's one of his good days—”

She led them into a small black study. Here, propped up in a big shabby leather chair sat an old gentleman with a white walrus moustache. His face was pulled slightly sideways. He eyed Gwenda with distinct approval as his daughter made the introductions.

“Memory's not what it used to be,” he said in a rather indistinct voice. “Halliday, you say? No, I don't remember the name. Knew a boy at school in Yorkshire—but that's seventy-odd years ago.”

“He rented Hillside, we think,” said Giles.

“Hillside? Was it called Hillside then?” Mr. Galbraith's one movable eyelid snapped shut and open. “Findeyson lived there. Fine woman.”

“My father might have rented it furnished … He'd just come from India.”

“India? India, d'you say? Remember a fellow—Army man. Knew that old rascal Mohammed Hassan who cheated me over some carpets. Had a young wife—and a baby—little girl.”

“That was me,” said Gwenda firmly.

“In—deed—you don't say so! Well, well, time flies. Now what
was
his name? Wanted a place furnished—yes—Mrs. Findeyson had been ordered to Egypt or some such place for the winter—all tomfoolery. Now what was his name?”

“Halliday,” said Gwenda.

“That's right, my dear—Halliday. Major Halliday. Nice fellow. Very pretty wife—quite young—fair-haired, wanted to be near her people or something like that. Yes, very pretty.”

“Who were her people?”

“No idea at all. No idea. You don't look like her.”

Gwenda nearly said, “She was only my stepmother,” but refrained from complicating the issue. She said, “What did she look like?”

Unexpectedly Mr. Galbraith replied: “Looked worried. That's what she looked, worried. Yes, very nice fellow, that Major chap. Interested to hear I'd been out in Calcutta. Not like these chaps that have never been out of England. Narrow—that's what they are. Now
I've
seen the world. What was his name, that Army chap—wanted a furnished house?”

He was like a very old gramophone, repeating a worn record.

“St. Catherine's. That's it. Took St. Catherine's—six guineas a week—while Mrs. Findeyson was in Egypt. Died there, poor soul. House was put up for auction—who bought it now? Elworthys—that's it—pack of women—sisters. Changed the name—said St. Catherine's was Popish. Very down on anything Popish—Used to send out tracts. Plain women, all of 'em—Took an interest in niggers—Sent 'em out trousers and bibles. Very strong on converting the heathen.”

He sighed suddenly and leant back.

“Long time ago,” he said fretfully. “Can't remember names. Chap from India—nice chap … I'm tired, Gladys. I'd like my tea.”

Giles and Gwenda thanked him, thanked his daughter, and came away.

“So that's proved,” said Gwenda. “My father and I were at Hillside. What do we do next?”

“I've been an idiot,” said Giles. “Somerset House.”

“What's Somerset House?” asked Gwenda.

“It's a record office where you can look up marriages. I'm going there to look up your father's marriage. According to your aunt, your father was married to his second wife immediately on arriving in England. Don't you see, Gwenda—it ought to have occurred to us before—it's perfectly possible that ‘Helen' may have been a relation of your stepmother's—a young sister, perhaps. Anyway, once we know what her surname was, we may be able to get on to someone who knows about the general setup at Hillside. Remember the old boy said they wanted a house in Dillmouth to be near Mrs. Halliday's people. If her people live near here we may get something.”

“Giles,” said Gwenda. “I think you're wonderful.”

III

Giles did not, after all, find it necessary to go to London. Though his energetic nature always made him prone to rush hither and thither and try to do everything himself, he admitted that a purely routine enquiry could be delegated.

He put through a trunk call to his office.

“Got it,” he exclaimed enthusiastically, when the expected reply arrived.

From the covering letter he extracted a certified copy of a marriage certificate.

“Here we are, Gwenda. Friday, Aug. 7th Kensington Registry Office. Kelvin James Halliday to Helen Spenlove Kennedy.”

Gwenda cried out sharply!

“Helen?”

They looked at each other.

Giles said slowly: “But—but—it can't be
her.
I mean—they separated, and she married again—and went away.”