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‘I really think,’ she ended, ‘that Mrs Erskine is a bit insane. She sounded quite mad. I see now what he meant by jealousy. It must be awful to feel like that. Anyway, we know now that Erskine wasn’t the man who went away with Helen, and that he knows nothing about her death. She was alive that evening when he left her.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Giles. ‘At least-that’s what he says.’

  Gwenda looked indignant.

  ‘That,’ repeated Giles firmly, ‘is what he says.’

  Chapter 18. Bindweed

  Miss Marple bent down on the terrace outside the french window and dealt with some insidious bindweed. It was only a minor victory, since beneath the surface the bindweed remained in possession as always. But at least the delphiniums knew a temporary deliverance.

  Mrs Cocker appeared in the drawing-room window.

  ‘Excuse me, madam, but Dr Kennedy has called. He is anxious to know how long Mr and Mrs Reed will be away, and I told him I couldn’t take it upon myself to say exactly, but that you might know. Shall I ask him to come out here?’

  ‘Oh. Oh, yes please, Mrs Cocker.’

  Mrs Cocker reappeared shortly afterwards with Dr Kennedy.

  Rather flutteringly, Miss Marple introduced herself.

  ‘-and I arranged with dear Gwenda that I would come round and do a little weeding while she was away. I think, you know, that my young friends are being imposed upon by their jobbing gardener, Foster. He comes twice a week, drinks a great many cups of tea, does a lot of talking, and not-so far as I can see-very much work.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dr Kennedy rather absently. ‘Yes. They’re all alike-all alike.’

  Miss Marple looked at him appraisingly. He was an older man than she had thought from the Reeds’ description of him. Prematurely old, she guessed. He looked, too, both worried and unhappy. He stood there, his fingers caressing the long, pugnacious line of his jaw.

  ‘They’ve gone away,’ he said. ‘Do you know for how long?’

  ‘Oh, not for long. They have gone to visit some friends in the North of England. Young people seem to me so restless, always dashing about here and there.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dr Kennedy. ‘Yes-that’s true enough.’

  He paused and then said rather diffidently, ‘Young Giles Reed wrote and asked me for some papers-er-letters, if I could find them-’

  He hesitated, and Miss Marple said quietly, ‘Your sister’s letters?’

  He shot her a quick, shrewd glance.

  ‘So-you’re in their confidence, are you? A relation?’

  ‘Only a friend,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I have advised them to the best of my capacity. But people seldom take advice…A pity, perhaps, but there it is…’

  ‘What was your advice?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘To let sleeping murder lie,’ said Miss Marple firmly.

  Dr Kennedy sat down heavily on an uncomfortable rustic seat.

  ‘That’s not badly put,’ he said. ‘I’m fond of Gwennie. She was a nice small child. I should judge that she’s grown up to be a nice young woman. I’m afraid that she’s heading for trouble.’

  ‘There are so many kinds of trouble,’ said Miss Marple.

  ‘Eh? Yes-yes-true enough.’

  He sighed. Then he said, ‘Giles Reed wrote and asked me if I could let him have my sister’s letters, written after she left here-and also some authentic specimen of her handwriting.’ He shot a keen glance at her. ‘You see what that means?’

  Miss Marple nodded. ‘I think so.’

  ‘They’re harking back to the idea that Kelvin Halliday, when he said he had strangled his wife, was speaking neither more nor less than the truth. They believe that the letters my sister Helen wrote after she went away weren’t written by her at all-that they were forgeries. They believe that she never left this house alive.’

  Miss Marple said gently, ‘And you are not, by now, so very sure yourself?’

  ‘I was at the time.’ Kennedy still stared ahead of him. ‘It seemed absolutely clear. Pure hallucination on Kelvin’s part. There was no body, a suitcase and clothes were taken-what else could I think?’

  ‘And your sister had been-recently-rather-ahem-’ Miss Marple coughed delicately-‘interested in-in a certain gentleman?’

  Dr Kennedy looked at her. There was deep pain in his eyes.

  ‘I loved my sister,’ he said, ‘but I have to admit that, with Helen, there was always some man in the offing. There are women who are made that way-they can’t help it.’

  ‘It all seemed clear to you at the time,’ said Miss Marple. ‘But it does not seem so clear now. Why?’

  ‘Because,’ said Kennedy with frankness, ‘it seems incredible to me that, if Helen is still alive, she has not communicated with me all these years. In the same way, if she is dead, it is equally strange that I have not been notified of the fact. Well-’

  He got up. He took a packet from his pocket.

  ‘Here is the best I can do. The first letter I received from Helen I must have destroyed. I can find no trace of it. But I did keep the second one-the one that gave the poste restante address. And here, for comparison, is the only bit of Helen’s handwriting I’ve been able to find. It’s a list of bulbs, etc., for planting. A copy that she had kept of some order. The handwriting of the order and the letter look alike to me, but then I’m no expert. I’ll leave them here for Giles and Gwenda when they return. It’s probably not worth forwarding.’

  ‘Oh no, I believe they expect to return tomorrow-or the next day.’

  The doctor nodded. He stood, looking along the terrace, his eyes still absent. He said suddenly, ‘You know what’s worrying me? If Kelvin Halliday did kill his wife, he must have concealed the body or got rid of it in some way-and that means (I don’t know what else it can mean) that his story to me was a cleverly made-up tale-that he’d already hidden a suitcase full of clothes to give colour to the idea that Helen had gone away-that he’d even arranged for letters to arrive from abroad…It means, in fact, that it was a cold-blooded premeditated murder. Little Gwennie was a nice child. It would be bad enough for her to have a father who’s a paranoiac, but it’s ten times worse to have a father who’s a deliberate murderer.’

  He swung round to the open window. Miss Marple arrested his departure by a swift question.

  ‘Who was your sister afraid of, Dr Kennedy?’

  He turned back to her and stared.

  ‘Afraid of? No one, as far as I know.’

  ‘I only wondered…Pray excuse me if I am asking indiscreet questions-but there was a young man, wasn’t there?-I mean, some entanglement-when she was very young. Somebody called Afflick, I believe.’

  ‘Oh, that. Silly business most girls go through. An undesirable young fellow, shifty-and of course not her class, not her class at all. He got into trouble here afterwards.’

  ‘I just wondered if he could have been-revengeful.’

  Dr Kennedy smiled rather sceptically.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it went deep. Anyway, as I say, he got into trouble here, and left the place for good.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’

  ‘Oh, nothing criminal. Just indiscretions. Blabbed about his employer’s affairs.’

  ‘And his employer was Mr Walter Fane?’

  Dr Kennedy looked a little surprised.

  ‘Yes-yes-now you say so, I remember, he did work in Fane and Watchman’s. Not articled. Just an ordinary clerk.’

  Just an ordinary clerk? Miss Marple wondered, as she stooped again to the bindweed, after Dr Kennedy had gone…

  Chapter 19. Mr Kimble Speaks

  ‘I dunno, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Kimble.

  Her husband, driven into speech by what was neither more nor less than an outrage, became vocal.

  He shoved his cup forward.

  ‘What you thinking of, Lily?’ he demanded. ‘No sugar!’

  Mrs Kimble hastily remedied the outrage, and then proceeded to elaborate on her own theme.

  ‘Thinking about this advert, I am,’ she
said. ‘Lily Abbott, it says, plain as plain. And ‘formerly house-parlourmaid at St Catherine’s Dillmouth’. That’s me, all right.’

  ‘Ar,’ agreed Mr Kimble.

  ‘After all these years-you must agree it’s odd, Jim.’

  ‘Ar,’ said Mr Kimble.

  ‘Well, what am I going to do, Jim?’

  ‘Leave it be.’

  ‘Suppose there’s money in it?’

  There was a gurgling sound as Mr Kimble drained his teacup to fortify himself for the mental effort of embarking on a long speech. He pushed his cup along and prefaced his remarks with a laconic: ‘More.’ Then he got under way.

  ‘You went on a lot at one time about what ’appened at St Catherine’s. I didn’t take much account of it-reckoned as it was mostly foolishness-women’s chatter. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe something did ’appen. If so it’s police business and you don’t want to be mixed up in it. All over and done with, ain’t it? You leave well alone, my girl.’

  ‘All very well to say that. It may be money as has been left me in a will. Maybe Mrs Halliday’s alive all the time and now she’s dead and left me something in ’er will.’

  ‘Left you something in ’er will? What for? Ar!’ said Mr Kimble, reverting to his favourite monosyllable to express scorn.

  ‘Even if it’s police…You know, Jim, there’s a big reward sometimes for anyone as can give information to catch a murderer.’

  ‘And what could you give? All you know you made up yourself in your head!’

  ‘That’s what you say. But I’ve been thinking-’

  ‘Ar,’ said Mr Kimble disgustedly.

  ‘Well, I have. Ever since I saw that first piece in the paper. Maybe I got things a bit wrong. That Layonee, she was a bit stupid like all foreigners, couldn’t understand proper what you said to her-and her English was something awful. If she didn’t mean what I thought she meant…I’ve been trying to remember the name of that man…Now if it was him she saw…Remember that picture I told you about? Secret Lover. Ever so exciting. They tracked him down in the end through his car. Fifty thousand dollars he paid the garage man to forget he filled up with petrol that night. Dunno what that is in pounds…And the other one was there, too, and the husband crazy with jealousy. All mad about her, they were. And in the end-’

  Mr Kimble pushed back his chair with a grating sound. He rose to his feet with slow and ponderous authority. Preparatory to leaving the kitchen, he delivered an ultimatum-the ultimatum of a man who, though usually inarticulate, had a certain shrewdness.

  ‘You leave the whole thing alone, my girl,’ he said. ‘Or else, likely as not, you’ll be sorry.’

  He went into the scullery, put on his boots (Lily was particular about her kitchen floor) and went out.

  Lily sat on at the table, her sharp foolish little brain working things out. Of course she couldn’t exactly go against what her husband said, but all the same…Jim was so hidebound, so stick-in-the-mud. She wished there was somebody else she could ask. Someone who would know all about rewards and the police and what it all meant. Pity to turn up a chance of good money.

  That wireless set…the home perm…that cherry-coloured coat in Russell’s (ever so smart)…even, maybe, a whole Jacobean suite for the sitting-room…

  Eager, greedy, shortsighted, she went on dreaming…What exactlyhad Layonee said all those years ago?

  Then an idea came to her. She got up and fetched the bottle of ink, the pen, and a pad of writing paper.

  ‘Know what I’ll do,’ she said to herself. ‘I’ll write to the doctor, Mrs Halliday’s brother. He’ll tell me what I ought to do-if he’s alive still, that is. Anyway, it’s on my conscience I never told him about Layonee-or about that car.’

  There was silence for some time apart from the laborious scratching of Lily’s pen. It was very seldom that she wrote a letter and she found the composition of it a considerable effort.

  However it was done at last and she put it into an envelope and sealed it up.

  But she felt less satisfied than she had expected. Ten to one the doctor was dead or had gone away from Dillmouth.

  Was there anyone else?

  What was the name, now, of that fellow?

  If she could only rememberthat…

  Chapter 20. The Girl Helen

  Giles and Gwenda had just finished breakfast on the morning after their return from Northumberland when Miss Marple was announced. She came rather apologetically.

  ‘I’m afraid this is a very early call. Not a thing I am in the habit of doing. But there was something I wanted to explain.’

  ‘We’re delighted to see you,’ said Giles, pulling out a chair for her. ‘Do have a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Oh no, no, thank you-nothing at all. I have breakfasted most adequately. Now let me explain. I came in whilst you were away, as you kindly said I might, to do a little weeding-’

  ‘Angelic of you,’ said Gwenda.

  ‘And it really did strike me that two days a week is not quite enough for this garden. In any case I think Foster is taking advantage of you. Too much tea and too much talk. I found out that he couldn’t manage another day himself, so I took it upon myself to engage another man just for one day a week-Wednesdays-today, in fact.’

  Giles looked at her curiously. He was a little surprised. It might be kindly meant, but Miss Marple’s action savoured, very faintly, of interference. And interference was unlike her.

  He said slowly: ‘Foster’s far too old, I know, for really hard work.’

  ‘I’m afraid, Mr Reed, that Manning is even older. Seventy-five, he tells me. But you see, I thought employing him, just for a few odd days, might be quite an advantageous move, because he used, many years ago, to be employed at Dr Kennedy’s. The name of the young man Helen got engaged to was Afflick, by the way.’

  ‘Miss Marple,’ said Giles, ‘I maligned you in thought. You are a genius. You know I’ve got those specimens of Helen’s handwriting from Kennedy?’

  ‘I know. I was here when he brought them.’

  ‘I’m posting them off today. I got the address of a good handwriting expert last week.’

  ‘Let’s go into the garden and see Manning,’ said Gwenda.

  Manning was a bent, crabbed-looking old man with a rheumy and slightly cunning eye. The pace at which he was raking a path accelerated noticeably as his employers drew near.

  ‘Morning, sir. Morning, m’am. The lady said as how you could do with a little extra help of a Wednesday. I’ll be pleased. Shameful neglected, this place looks.’

  ‘I’m afraid the garden’s been allowed to run down for some years.’

  ‘It has that. Remember it, I do, in Mrs Findeyson’s time. A picture it were, then. Very fond of her garden she was, Mrs Findeyson.’

  Giles leaned easily against a roller. Gwenda snipped off some rose heads. Miss Marple, retreating a little up stage, bent to the bindweed. Old Manning leant on his rake. All was set for a leisurely morning discussion of old times and gardening in the good old days.

  ‘I suppose you know most of the gardens round here,' said Giles encouragingly.

  ‘Ar, I know this place moderate well, I do. And the fancies people went in for. Mrs Yule, up at Niagra, she had a yew hedge used to be clipped like a squirrel. Silly, I thought it. Peacocks is one thing and squirrels is another. Then Colonel Lampard, he was a great man for begonias-lovely beds of begonias he used to have. Bedding out now, that’s going out of fashion. I wouldn’t like to tell you how often I’ve had to fill up beds in the front lawns and turf ’em over in the last six years. Seems people ain’t got no eye for geraniums and a nice bit of lobelia edging no more.’

  ‘You worked at Dr Kennedy’s, didn’t you?’

  ‘Ar. Long time ago, that were. Must have been 1920 and on. He’s moved now-given up. Young Dr Brent’s up at Crosby Lodge now. Funny ideas, he has-little white tablets and so on. Vittapins he calls ’em.’

  ‘I suppose you remember Miss Helen Kennedy, the doctor’s sister.’
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br />   ‘Ar, I remember Miss Helen right enough. Pretty maid, she was, with her long yellow hair. The doctor set a lot of store by her. Come back and lived in this very house here, she did, after she was married. Army gentleman from India.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gwenda. ‘We know.’

  ‘Ar. I did ’ear-Saturday night it was-as you and your ’usband was some kind of relations. Pretty as a picter, Miss Helen was, when she first come back from school. Full of fun, too. Wanting to go everywhere-dances and tennis and all that. ’Ad to mark the tennis court, I ’ad-hadn’t been used for nigh twenty years, I’d say. And the shrubs overgrowing it cruel. ’Ad to cut ’em back, I did. And get a lot of whitewash and mark out the lines. Lot of work it made-and in the end hardly played on. Funny thing I always thought that was.’

  ‘What was a funny thing?’ asked Giles.

  ‘Business with the tennis court. Someone come along one night-and cut it to ribbons. Just to ribbons it was. Spite, as you might say. That was what it was-nasty bit of spite.’

  ‘But who would do a thing like that?’

  ‘That’s what the doctor wanted to know. Proper put out about it he was-and I don’t blame him. Just paid for it, he had. But none of us could tell who’d done it. We never did know. And he said he wasn’t going to get another-quite right, too, for if it’s spite one time, it would be spite again. But Miss Helen, she was rare and put out. She didn’t have no luck, Miss Helen didn’t. First that net-and then her bad foot.’

  ‘A bad foot?’ asked Gwenda.

  ‘Yes-fell over a scraper or somesuch and cut it. Not much more than a graze, it seemed, but it wouldn’t heal. Fair worried about it, the doctor was. He was dressing it and treating it, but it didn’t get well. I remember him saying “I can’t understand it-there must have been something spectic-or some word like that-on that scraper. And anyway,” he says, “what was the scraper doing out in the middle of the drive?” Because that’s where it was when Miss Helen fell over it, walking home on a dark night. The poor maid, there she was, missing going to dances and sitting about with her foot up. Seemed as though there was nothing but bad luck for her.’