Sleeping Murder Page 11

  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.

  Major and Mrs. Setoun Erskine, Anstell Manor, Daith, Northumberland, July 27th—August 17th.

  “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.”

  Sixteen

  MOTHER’S SON

  “Down, 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 h
er 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.

  Seventeen

  RICHARD ERSKINE

  I

  Anstell Manor had a bleak aspect. It was a white house, set against a background of bleak hills. A winding drive led up through dense shrubbery.

  Giles said to Gwenda, “Why have we come? What can we possibly say?”

  “We’ve got it worked out.”

  “Yes—so far as that goes. It’s lucky that Miss Marple’s cousin’s sister’s aunt’s brother-in-law or whatever it was lives near here … But it’s a far step from a social call to asking your host about his bygone love affairs.”

  “And such a long time ago. Perhaps—perhaps he doesn’t even remember her.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t. And perhaps there never was a love affair.”

  “Giles, are we making unutterable fools of ourselves?”

  “I don’t know … Sometimes I feel that. I don’t see why we’re concerning ourselves with all this. What does it matter now?”

  “So long after … Yes, I know … Miss Marple and Dr. Kennedy both said, “Leave it alone.” Why don’t we, Giles? What makes us go on? Is it her?”

  “Her?”

  “Helen. Is that why I remember? Is my childish memory the only link she’s got with life—with truth? Is it Helen who’s using me—and you—so that the truth will be known?”

  “You mean, because she died a violent death—?”

  “Yes. They say—books say—that sometimes they can’t rest….”

  “I think you’re being fanciful, Gwenda.”

  “Perhaps I am. Anyway, we can—choose. This is only a social call. There’s no need for it to be anything more—unless we want it to be—”

  Giles shook his head.

  “We shall go on. We can’t help ourselves.”

  “Yes—you’re right. All the same, Giles,
I think I’m rather frightened—”

  II

  “Looking for a house, are you?” said Major Erskine.

  He offered Gwenda a plate of sandwiches. Gwenda took one, looking up at him. Richard Erskine was a small man, five foot nine or so. His hair was grey and he had tired, rather thoughtful eyes. His voice was low and pleasant with a slight drawl. There was nothing remarkable about him, but he was, Gwenda thought, definitely attractive … He was actually not nearly as good-looking as Walter Fane, but whereas most women would pass Fane without a second glance, they would not pass Erskine. Fane was nondescript. Erskine, in spite of his quietness, had personality. He talked of ordinary things in an ordinary manner, but there was something—that something that women are quick to recognize and to which they react in a purely female way. Almost unconsciously Gwenda adjusted her skirt, tweaked at a side curl, retouched her lips. Nineteen years ago Helen Kennedy could have fallen in love with this man. Gwenda was quite sure of that.

  She looked up to find her hostess’s eyes full upon her, and involuntarily she flushed. Mrs. Erskine was talking to Giles, but she was watching Gwenda and her glance was both appraising and suspicious. Janet Erskine was a tall woman, her voice was deep—almost as deep as a man’s. Her build was athletic, she wore a well-cut tweed with big pockets. She looked older than her husband, but, Gwenda decided, well might not be so. There was a certain haggardness about her face. An unhappy, hungry woman, thought Gwenda.

  I bet she gives him Hell, she said to herself.

  Aloud she continued the conversation.

  “House-hunting is terribly discouraging,” she said. “House agents’ descriptions are always glowing—and then, when you actually get there, the place is quite unspeakable.”

  “You’re thinking of settling down in this neighbourhood?”

  “Well—this is one of the neighbourhoods we thought of. Really because it’s near Hadrian’s Wall. Giles has always been fascinated by Hadrian’s Wall. You see—it sounds rather odd, I expect, to you—but almost anywhere in England is the same to us. My own home is in New Zealand and I haven’t any ties here. And Giles was taken in by different aunts for different holidays and so hasn’t any particular ties either. The one thing we don’t want is to be too near London. We want the real country.”