Sleeping Murder (8 page)

I

S
altmarsh House was set pleasantly about six miles inland from the coast. It had a good train service to London from the five-miles-distant town of South Benham.

Giles and Gwenda were shown into a large airy sitting room with cretonne covers patterned with flowers. A very charming-looking old lady with white hair came into the room holding a glass of milk. She nodded to them and sat down near the fireplace. Her eyes rested thoughtfully on Gwenda and presently she leaned forward towards her and spoke in what was almost a whisper.

“Is it your poor child, my dear?”

Gwenda looked slightly taken aback. She said doubtfully: “No—no. It isn't.”

“Ah, I wondered.” The old lady nodded her head and sipped
her milk. Then she said conversationally, “Half past ten—that's the time. It's always at half past ten. Most remarkable.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward again.

“Behind the fireplace,” she breathed. “But don't say I told you.”

At this moment, a white uniformed maid came into the room and requested Giles and Gwenda to follow her.

They were shown into Dr. Penrose's study, and Dr. Penrose rose to greet them.

Dr. Penrose, Gwenda could not help thinking, looked a little mad himself. He looked, for instance, much madder than the nice old lady in the drawing room—but perhaps psychiatrists always looked a little mad.

“I had your letter, and Dr. Kennedy's,” said Dr. Penrose. “And I've been looking up your father's case history, Mrs. Reed. I remembered his case quite well, of course, but I wanted to refresh my memory so that I should be in a position to tell you everything you wanted to know. I understand that you have only recently become aware of the facts?”

Gwenda explained that she had been brought up in New Zealand by her mother's relations and that all she had known about her father was that he had died in a nursing home in England.

Dr. Penrose nodded. “Quite so. Your father's case, Mrs. Reed, presented certain rather peculiar features.”

“Such as?” Giles asked.

“Well, the obsession—or delusion—was very strong. Major Halliday, though clearly in a very nervous state, was most emphatic and categorical in his assertion that he had strangled his second wife in a fit of jealous rage. A great many of the usual signs in these cases were absent, and I don't mind telling you frankly, Mrs. Reed, that
had it not been for Dr. Kennedy's assurance that Mrs. Halliday was actually alive, I should have been prepared, at that time, to take your father's assertion at its face value.”

“You formed the impression that he had actually killed her?” Giles asked.

“I said ‘at that time.' Later, I had cause to revise my opinion, as Major Halliday's character and mental makeup became more familiar to me. Your father, Mrs. Reed, was most definitely
not
a paranoiac type. He had no delusions of persecution, no impulses of violence. He was a gentle, kindly, and well-controlled individual. He was neither what the world calls mad, nor was he dangerous to others. But he did have this obstinate fixation about Mrs. Halliday's death and to account for its origin I am quite convinced we have to go back a long way—to some childish experience. But I admit that all methods of analysis failed to give us the right clue. Breaking down a patient's resistance to analysis is sometimes a very long business. It may take several years. In your father's case, the time was insufficient.”

He paused, and then, looking up sharply, said: “You know, I presume, that Major Halliday committed suicide.”

“Oh
no!
” cried Gwenda.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Reed. I thought you knew that. You are entitled, perhaps, to attach some blame to us on that account. I admit that proper vigilance would have prevented it. But frankly I saw no sign of Major Halliday's being a suicidal type. He showed no tendency to melancholia—no brooding or despondency. He complained of sleeplessness and my colleague allowed him a certain amount of sleeping tablets. Whilst pretending to take them, he actually kept them until he had accumulated a sufficient amount and—”

He spread out his hands.

“Was he so dreadfully unhappy?”

“No. I do not think so. It was more, I should judge, a guilt complex, a desire for a penalty to be exacted. He had insisted at first, you know, on calling in the police, and though persuaded out of that, and assured that he had actually committed no crime at all, he obstinately refused to be wholly convinced. Yet it was proved to him over and over again, and he had to admit, that he had no recollection of committing the actual act.” Dr. Penrose ruffled over the papers in front of him. “His account of the evening in question never varied. He came into the house, he said, and it was dark. The servants were out. He went into the dining room, as he usually did, poured himself out a drink and drank it, then went through the connecting door into the drawing room. After that he remembered nothing—nothing at all, until he was standing in his bedroom looking down at his wife who was dead—strangled. He knew he had done it—”

Giles interrupted. “Excuse me, Dr. Penrose, but
why
did he know he had done it?”

“There was no doubt in his mind. For some months past he had found himself entertaining wild and melodramatic suspicions. He told me, for instance, that he had been convinced his wife was administering drugs to him. He had, of course, lived in India, and the practice of wives driving their husbands insane by datura poisoning often comes up there in the native courts. He had suffered fairly often from hallucinations, with confusion of time and place. He denied strenuously that he suspected his wife of infidelity, but nevertheless I think that that was the motivating power. It seems that what actually occurred was that he went into the drawing room, read the note his wife left saying she was leaving him, and that
his way of eluding this fact was to prefer to ‘kill' her. Hence the hallucination.”

“You mean he cared for her very much?” asked Gwenda.

“Obviously, Mrs. Reed.”

“And he never—recognized—that it was a hallucination?”

“He had to acknowledge that it
must
be—but his inner belief remained unshaken. The obsession was too strong to yield to reason. If we could have uncovered the underlying childish fixation—”

Gwenda interrupted. She was uninterested in childish fixations.

“But
you're
quite sure, you say, that he—that he didn't do it?”

“Oh, if that is what is worrying you, Mrs. Reed, you can put it right out of your head. Kelvin Halliday, however jealous he may have been of his wife, was emphatically not a killer.”

Dr. Penrose coughed and picked up a small shabby black book.

“If you would like this, Mrs. Reed, you are the proper person to have it. It contains various jottings set down by your father during the time he was here. When we turned over his effects to his executor (actually a firm of solicitors), Dr. McGuire, who was then Superintendent, retained this as part of the case history. Your father's case, you know, appears in Dr. McGuire's book—only under initials, of course. Mr. K.H. If you would like this diary—”

Gwenda stretched out her hand eagerly.

“Thank you,” she said. “I should like it very much.”

II

In the train on the way back to London, Gwenda took out the shabby little black book and began to read.

She opened it at random.

Kelvin Halliday had written:

Tears blinded Gwenda's eyes. She looked across at Giles, sitting opposite her. But Giles's eyes were riveted on the opposite corner.

Aware of Gwenda's scrutiny, he motioned faintly with his head.

Their fellow passenger was reading an evening paper. On the outside of it, clearly presented to their view was a melodramatic caption:
Who were the men in her life?

 

Slowly, Gwenda nodded her head. She looked down at the diary.

I

M
iss Marple crossed Sea Parade and walked along Fore Street, turning up the hill by the Arcade. The shops here were the old-fashioned ones. A wool and art needlework shop, a confectioner, a Victorian-looking Ladies' Outfitter and Draper and others of the same kind.

Miss Marple looked in at the window of the art needlework shop. Two young assistants were engaged with customers, but an elderly woman at the back of the shop was free.

Miss Marple pushed open the door and went in. She seated herself at the counter and the assistant, a pleasant woman with grey hair, asked, “What can I do for you, madam?”

Miss Marple wanted some pale blue wool to knit a baby's jacket. The proceedings were leisurely and unhurried. Patterns
were discussed, Miss Marple looked through various children's knitting books and in the course of it discussed her great-nephews and nieces. Neither she nor the assistant displayed impatience. The assistant had attended to customers such as Miss Marple for many years. She preferred these gentle, gossipy, rambling old ladies to the impatient, rather impolite young mothers who didn't know what they wanted and had an eye for the cheap and showy.

“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I think that will be very nice indeed. And I always find Storkleg so reliable. It really doesn't shrink. I think I'll take an extra two ounces.”

The assistant remarked that the wind was very cold today, as she wrapped up the parcel.

“Yes, indeed, I noticed it as I was coming along the front. Dillmouth has changed a good deal. I have not been here for, let me see, nearly nineteen years.”

“Indeed, madam? Then you will find a lot of changes. The Superb wasn't built then, I suppose, nor the Southview Hotel?”

“Oh no, it was quite a small place. I was staying with friends … A house called St. Catherine's—perhaps you know it? On the Leahampton road.”

But the assistant had only been in Dillmouth a matter of ten years.

Miss Marple thanked her, took the parcel, and went into the draper's next door. Here, again, she selected an elderly assistant. The conversation ran much on the same lines, to an accompaniment of summer vests. This time, the assistant responded promptly.

“That would be Mrs. Findeyson's house.”

“Yes—yes. Though the friends I knew had it furnished. A Major Halliday and his wife and a baby girl.”

“Oh yes, madam. They had it for about a year, I think.”

“Yes. He was home from India. They had a very good cook—she gave me a wonderful recipe for baked apple pudding—and also, I think, for gingerbread. I often wonder what became of her.”

“I expect you mean Edith Pagett, madam. She's still in Dillmouth. She's in service now—at Windrush Lodge.”

“Then there were some other people—the Fanes. A lawyer, I think he was!”

“Old Mr. Fane died some years ago—young Mr. Fane, Mr. Walter Fane, lives with his mother. Mr. Walter Fane never married. He's the senior partner now.”

“Indeed? I had an idea Mr. Walter Fane had gone out to India—tea-planting or something.”

“I believe he did, madam. As a young man. But he came home and went into the firm after about a year or two. They do all the best business round here—they're very highly thought of. A very nice quiet gentleman, Mr. Walter Fane. Everybody likes him.”

“Why, of course,” exclaimed Miss Marple. “He was engaged to Miss Kennedy, wasn't he? And then she broke it off and married Major Halliday.”

“That's right, madam. She went out to India to marry Mr. Fane, but it seems as she changed her mind and married the other gentleman instead.”

A faintly disapproving note had entered the assistant's voice.

Miss Marple leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“I was always so sorry for poor Major Halliday (I knew his
mother) and his little girl. I understand his second wife left him. Ran way with someone. A rather flighty type, I'm afraid.”

“Regular flibbertigibbet, she was. And her brother the doctor, such a nice man. Did my rheumatic knee a world of good.”

“Whom did she run away with? I never heard.”

“That I couldn't tell you, madam. Some said it was one of the summer visitors. But I know Major Halliday was quite broken up. He left the place and I believe his health gave way. Your change, madam.”

Miss Marple accepted her change and her parcel.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “I wonder if—Edith Pagett, did you say—still has that nice recipe for gingerbread? I lost it—or rather my careless maid lost it—and I'm so fond of good gingerbread.”

“I expect so, madam. As a matter of fact her sister lives next door here, married to Mr. Mountford, the confectioner. Edith usually comes there on her days out and I'm sure Mrs. Mountford would give her a message.”

“That's a very good idea. Thank you
so much
for all the trouble you've taken.”

“A pleasure, madam, I assure you.”

Miss Marple went out into the street.

“A nice old-fashioned firm,” she said to herself. “And those vests are really very nice, so it isn't as though I had wasted any money.” She glanced at the pale blue enamel watch that she wore pinned to one side of her dress. “Just five minutes to go before meeting those two young things at the Ginger Cat. I hope they didn't find things too upsetting at the Sanatorium.”

II

Giles and Gwenda sat together at a corner table at the Ginger Cat. The little black notebook lay on the table between them.

Miss Marple came in from the street and joined them.

“What will you have, Miss Marple? Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you—no, not cakes, just a scone and butter.”

Giles gave the order, and Gwenda pushed the little black book across to Miss Marple.

“First you must read that,” she said, “and then we can talk. It's what my father—what he wrote himself when he was at the nursing home. Oh, but first of all, just tell Miss Marple exactly what Dr. Penrose said, Giles.”

Giles did so. Then Miss Marple opened the little black book and the waitress brought three cups of weak coffee, and a scone and butter, and a plate of cakes. Giles and Gwenda did not talk. They watched Miss Marple as she read.

Finally she closed the book and laid it down. Her expression was difficult to read. There was, Gwenda thought, anger in it. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her eyes shone very brightly, unusually so, considering her age.

“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Yes, indeed!”

Gwenda said: “You advised us once—do you remember?—not to go on. I can see why you did. But we did go on—and this is where we've got to. Only now, it seems as though we'd got to another place where one could—if one liked—stop … Do you think we ought to stop? Or not?”

Miss Marple shook her head slowly. She seemed worried, perplexed.

“I don't know,” she said. “I really don't know. It might be better to do so, much better to do so. Because after this lapse of time there is nothing that you can do—nothing, I mean, of a constructive nature.”

“You mean that after this lapse of time, there is nothing we can find out?” asked Giles.

“Oh no,” said Miss Marple. “I didn't mean that
at all.
Nineteen years is not such a long time. There are people who would remember things, who could answer questions—quite a lot of people. Servants for instance. There must have been at least
two
servants in the house at the time,
and
a nurse, and probably a gardener. It will only take time and a little trouble to find and talk to these people. As a matter of fact, I've found
one
of them already. The cook. No, it wasn't that. It was more the question of what practical
good
you can accomplish, and I'd be inclined to say to that—None. And yet….”

She stopped: “There
is
a yet … I'm a little slow in thinking things out, but I have a feeling that there is something—something, perhaps, not very tangible—that would be worth taking risks for—even that one
should
take risks for—but I find it difficult to say just what that is….”

Giles began “It seems to me—” and stopped.

Miss Marple turned to him gratefully.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “always seem to be able to tabulate things so clearly. I'm sure you have thought things out.”

“I've been thinking things out,” said Giles. “And it seems to me that there are just two conclusions one can come to. One is the same as I suggested before. Helen Halliday wasn't dead when Gwennie saw her lying in the hall. She came to, and went away
with her lover, whoever he was. That would still fit the facts as we know them. It would square with Kelvin Halliday's rooted belief that he had killed his wife, and it would square with the missing suitcase and clothes and with the note that Dr. Kennedy found. But it leaves certain points unaccounted for. It doesn't explain why Kelvin was convinced he strangled his wife in the
bedroom.
And it doesn't cover the one, to my mind, really staggering question—
where is Helen Halliday now?
Because it seems to me against all reason that Helen should never have been heard of or from again. Grant that the two letters she wrote are genuine, what happened
after
that? Why did she never write again? She was on affectionate terms with her brother, he's obviously deeply attached to her and always has been. He might disapprove of her conduct, but that doesn't mean that he expected never to hear from her again. And if you ask me, that point has obviously been worrying Kennedy himself. Let's say he accepted at the time absolutely the story he's told us. His sister's going off and Kelvin's breakdown. But he didn't expect never to hear from his sister again. I think, as the years went on, and he didn't hear, and Kelvin Halliday persisted in his delusion and finally committed suicide, that a terrible doubt began to creep up in his mind. Supposing that Kelvin's story was
true?
That he actually
had
killed Helen? There's no word from her—and surely if she had died somewhere abroad, word would have come to him? I think that explains his eagerness when he saw our advertisement. He hoped that it might lead to some account of where she was or what she had been doing. I'm sure it's absolutely unnatural for someone to disappear as—as
completely
as Helen seems to have done. That, in itself, is highly suspicious.”

“I agree with you,” said Miss Marple. “But the alternative, Mr. Reed?”

Giles said slowly, “I've been thinking out the alternative. It's pretty fantastic, you know, and even rather frightening. Because it involves—how can I put it—a kind of
malevolence
….”

“Yes,” said Gwenda. “Malevolence is just right. Even, I think, something that isn't quite sane …” She shivered.

“That
is
indicated, I think,” said Miss Marple. “You know, there's a great deal of—well,
queerness
about—more than people imagine. I have seen some of it….”

Her face was thoughtful.

“There can't be, you see, any
normal
explanation,” said Giles. “I'm taking now the fantastic hypothesis that Kelvin Halliday
didn't
kill his wife, but genuinely
thought
he had done so. That's what Dr. Penrose, who seems a decent sort of bloke, obviously wants to think. His first impression of Halliday was that there was a man who had killed his wife and wanted to give himself up to the police. Then he had to take Kennedy's word for it that that wasn't so, so he had perforce to believe that Halliday was a victim of a complex or a fixation or whatever the jargon is—but he didn't really
like
that solution. He's had a good experience of the type and Halliday didn't square with it. However, on knowing Halliday better he became quite genuinely sure that Halliday was not the type of man who would strangle a woman under any provocation. So he accepted the fixation theory, but with misgivings. And that really means that only one theory will fit the case—Halliday was induced to believe that he had killed his wife,
by someone else.
In other words, we've come to X.

“Going over the facts very carefully, I'd say that that hypothesis is at least
possible.
According to his own account, Halliday came into the house that evening, went into the dining room, took a drink
as he usually did
—and then went into the next room, saw a note on the desk and had a blackout—”

Giles paused and Miss Marple nodded her head in approval. He went on:

“Say it wasn't a blackout—that it was just simply dope—knock-out drops in the whisky. The next step is quite clear, isn't it? X had strangled Helen in the hall, but afterwards he took her upstairs and arranged her artistically as a
crime passionel
on the bed, and that's where Kelvin is when he comes to; and the poor devil, who may have been suffering from jealousy where she's concerned,
thinks that he's done it.
What does he do next? Goes off to find his brother-in-law—on the other side of the town and on foot. And that gives X time to do his next trick. Pack and remove a suitcase of clothes and also remove the body—though what he did with the body,” Giles ended vexedly, “beats me completely.”

“It surprises me you should say that, Mr. Reed,” said Miss Marple. “I should say that that problem would present few difficulties. But do please go on.”

“Who Were The Men In Her Life?”
quoted Giles. “I saw that in a newspaper as we came back in the train. It set me wondering, because that's really the crux of the matter, isn't it? If there
is
an X, as we believe, all we know about him is that he must have been crazy about her—literally crazy about her.”