Sleeping Murder

CHAPTER 5

Murder in Retrospect

It was some ten days later that Miss Marple entered a small hotel in Mayfair, and was given an enthusiastic reception by young Mr and Mrs Reed.

‘This is my husband, Miss Marple. Giles, I can’t tell you how kind Miss Marple was to me.’

‘I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Marple. I hear Gwenda nearly panicked herself into a lunatic asylum.’

Miss Marple’s gentle blue eyes summed up Giles Reed favourably. A very likeable young man, tall and fair with a disarming way of blinking every now and then out of a natural shyness. She noted his determined chin and the set of his jaw.

‘We’ll have tea in the little writing-room, the dark one,’ said Gwenda. ‘Nobody ever comes there. And then we can show Miss Marple Aunt Alison’s letter.

‘Yes,’ she added, as Miss Marple looked up sharply. ‘It’s come, and it’s almost exactly what you thought.’

Tea over, the air mail letter was spread out and read.

Dearest Gwenda, (Miss Danby had written)

I was much disturbed to hear you had had some worrying experience. To tell you the truth, it had really entirely escaped my memory that you had actually resided for a short time in England as a young child.

Your mother, my sister Megan, met your father, Major Halliday, when she was on a visit to some friends of ours at that time stationed in India. They were married and you were born there. About two years after your birth your mother died. It was a great shock to us and we wrote to your father with whom we had corresponded, but whom actually we had never seen, begging him to entrust you to our care, as we would be only too glad to have you, and it might be difficult for an Army man stranded with a young child. Your father, however, refused, and told us he was resigning from the Army and taking you back with him to England. He said he hoped we would at some time come over and visit him there.

I understand that on the voyage home, your father met a young woman, became engaged to her, and married her as soon as he got to England. The marriage was not, I gather, a happy one, and I understand they parted about a year later. It was then that your father wrote to us and asked if we were still willing to give you a home. I need hardly tell you, my dear, how happy we were to do so. You were sent out to us in the charge of an English nurse, and at the same time your father settled the bulk of his estate upon you and suggested that you might legally adopt our name. This, I may say, seemed a little curious to us, but we felt that it was kindly meant—and intended to make you more one of the family—we did not, however, adopt that suggestion. About a year later your father died in a nursing home. I surmise that he had already received bad news about his health at the time when he sent you out to us.

I’m afraid I cannot tell you where you lived whilst with your father in England. His letter naturally had the address on it at the time but that is now eighteen years ago and I’m afraid one doesn’t remember such details. It was in the South of England, I know—and I fancy Dillmouth is correct. I had a vague idea it was Dartmouth, but the two names are not unlike. I believe your stepmother married again, but I have no recollection of her name, nor even of her unmarried name, though your father had mentioned it in the original letter telling of his remarriage. We were, I think, a little resentful of his marrying again so soon, but of course one knows that on board ship the influence of propinquity is very great—and he may also have thought that it would be a good thing on your account.

It seemed stupid of me not to have mentioned to you that you had been in England even if you didn’t remember the fact, but, as I say, the whole thing had faded from my mind. Your mother’s death in India and your subsequently coming to live with us always seemed the important points.

I hope this is all cleared up now?

I do trust Giles will soon be able to join you. It is hard for you both being parted at this early stage.

All my news in my next letter, as I am sending this off hurriedly in answer to your wire.

Your loving aunt,

Alison Danby.

PS. You do not say what your worrying experience was?

‘You see,’ said Gwenda. ‘It’s almost exactly as you suggested.’

Miss Marple smoothed out the flimsy sheet.

‘Yes—yes, indeed. The common-sense explanation. I’ve found, you know, that that is so often right.’

‘Well, I’m very grateful to you, Miss Marple,’ said Giles. ‘Poor Gwenda was thoroughly upset, and I must say I’d have been rather worried myself to think that Gwenda was clairvoyant or psychic or something.’

‘It might be a disturbing quality in a wife,’ said Gwenda. ‘Unless you’ve always led a thoroughly blameless life.’

‘Which I have,’ said Giles.

‘And the house? What do you feel about the house?’ asked Miss Marple.

‘Oh, that’s all right. We’re going down tomorrow. Giles is dying to see it.’

‘I don’t know whether you realize it, Miss Marple,’ said Giles, ‘but what it amounts to is, that we’ve got a first-class murder mystery on our hands. Actually on our very doorstep—or more accurately in our front hall.’

‘I had thought of that, yes,’ said Miss Marple slowly.

‘And Giles simply loves detective stories,’ said Gwenda.

‘Well, I mean, it is a detective story. Body in the hall of a beautiful strangled woman. Nothing known of her but her Christian name. Of course I know it’s nearly twenty years ago. There can’t be any clues after all this time, but one can at least cast about, and try to pick up some of the threads. Oh! I dare say one won’t succeed in solving the riddle—’

‘I think you might,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Even after eighteen years. Yes, I think you might.’

‘But at any rate it won’t do any harm to have a real good try?’

Giles paused, his face beaming.

Miss Marple moved uneasily, her face was grave—almost troubled.

‘But it might do a great deal of harm,’ she said. ‘I would advise you both—oh yes, I really would advise it very strongly—to leave the whole thing alone.’

‘Leave it alone? Our very own murder mystery—if it was murder!’

‘It was murder, I think. And that’s just why I should leave it alone. Murder isn’t—it really isn’t—a thing to tamper with light-heartedly.’

Giles said: ‘But, Miss Marple, if everybody felt like that—’

She interrupted him.

‘Oh, I know. There are times when it is one’s duty—an innocent person accused—suspicion resting on various other people—a dangerous criminal at large who may strike again. But you must realize that this murder is very much in the past. Presumably it wasn’t known for murder—if so, you would have heard fast enough from your old gardener or someone down there—a murder, however long ago, is always news. No, the body must have been disposed of somehow, and the whole thing never suspected. Are you sure—are you really sure, that you are wise to dig it all up again?’

‘Miss Marple,’ cried Gwenda, ‘you sound really concerned?’

‘I am, my dear. You are two very nice and charming young people (if you will allow me to say so). You are newly married and happy together. Don’t, I beg of you, start to uncover things that may—well, that may—how shall I put it?—that may upset and distress you.’

Gwenda stared at her. ‘You’re thinking of something special—of something—what is it you’re hinting at?’

‘Not hinting, dear. Just advising you (because I’ve lived a long time and know how very upsetting human nature can be) to let well alone. That’s my advice: let well alone.’

‘But it isn’t letting well alone.’ Giles’s voice held a different note, a sterner note. ‘Hillside is our house, Gwenda’s and mine, and someone was murdered in that house, or so we believe. I’m not going to stand for murder in my house and do nothing about it, even if it is eighteen years ago!’

Miss Marple sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I imagine that most young men of spirit would feel like that. I even sympathize and almost admire you for it. But I wish—oh, I do wish—that you wouldn’t do it.’

On the following day, news went round the village of St Mary Mead that Miss Marple was at home again. She was seen in the High Street at eleven o’clock. She called at the Vicarage at ten minutes to twelve. That afternoon three of the gossipy ladies of the village called upon her and obtained her impressions of the gay Metropolis and, this tribute to politeness over, themselves plunged into details of an approaching battle over the fancywork stall at the Fête and the position of the tea tent.

Later that evening Miss Marple could be seen as usual in her garden, but for once her activities were more concentrated on the depredations of weeds than on the activities of her neighbours. She was distraite at her frugal evening meal, and hardly appeared to listen to her little maid Evelyn’s spirited account of the goings-on of the local chemist. The next day she was still distraite, and one or two people, including the Vicar’s wife, remarked upon it. That evening Miss Marple said that she did not feel very well and took to her bed. The following morning she sent for Dr Haydock.

Dr Haydock had been Miss Marple’s physician, friend and ally for many years. He listened to her account of her symptoms, gave her an examination, then sat back in his chair and waggled his stethoscope at her.

‘For a woman of your age,’ he said, ‘and in spite of that misleading frail appearance, you’re in remarkably good fettle.’

‘I’m sure my general health is sound,’ said Miss Marple. ‘But I confess I do feel a little overtired—a little run down.’

‘You’ve been gallivanting about. Late nights in London.’

‘That, of course. I do find London a little tiring nowadays. And the air—so used up. Not like fresh seaside air.’

‘The air of St Mary Mead is nice and fresh.’

‘But often damp and rather muggy. Not, you know, exactly bracing.’

Dr Haydock eyed her with a dawning of interest.

‘I’ll send you round a tonic,’ he said obligingly.

‘Thank you, Doctor. Easton’s syrup is always very helpful.’

‘There’s no need for you to do my prescribing for me, woman.’

‘I wondered if, perhaps, a change of air—?’

Miss Marple looked questioningly at him with guileless blue eyes.

‘You’ve just been away for three weeks.’

‘I know. But to London which, as you say, is enervating. And then up North—a manufacturing district. Not like bracing sea air.’

Dr Haydock packed up his bag. Then he turned round, grinning.

‘Let’s hear why you sent for me,’ he said. ‘Just tell me what it’s to be and I’ll repeat it after you. You want my professional opinion that what you need is sea air—’

‘I knew you’d understand,’ said Miss Marple gratefully.

‘Excellent thing, sea air. You’d better go to Eastbourne right away, or your health may suffer seriously.’

‘Eastbourne, I think, is rather cold. The downs, you know.’

‘Bournemouth, then, or the Isle of Wight.’

Miss Marple twinkled at him.

‘I always think a small place is much pleasanter.’

Dr Haydock sat down again.

‘My curiosity is roused. What small seaside town are you suggesting?’

‘Well, I had thought of Dillmouth.’

‘Pretty little place. Rather dull. Why Dillmouth?’

For a moment or two Miss Marple was silent. The worried look had returned to her eyes. She said: ‘Supposing that one day, by accident, you turned up a fact that seemed to indicate that many years ago—nineteen or twenty—a murder had occurred. That fact was known to you alone, nothing of the kind had ever been suspected or reported. What would you do about it?’

‘Murder in retrospect in fact?’

‘Just exactly that.’

Haydock reflected for a moment.

‘There had been no miscarriage of justice? Nobody had suffered as a result of this crime?’

‘As far as one can see, no.’

‘Hm. Murder in retrospect. Sleeping murder. Well, I’ll tell you. I’d let sleeping murder lie—that’s what I’d do. Messing about with murder is dangerous. It could be very dangerous.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘People say a murderer always repeats his crimes. That’s not true. There’s a type who commits a crime, manages to get away with it, and is darned careful never to stick his neck out again. I won’t say they live happily ever after—I don’t believe that’s true—there are many kinds of retribution. But outwardly at least all goes well. Perhaps that was so in the case of Madeleine Smith or again in the case of Lizzie Borden. It was not proven in the case of Madeleine Smith and Lizzie was acquitted—but many people believe both of those women were guilty. I could name you others. They never repeated their crimes—one crime gave them what they wanted and they were content. But suppose some danger had menaced them? I take it your killer, whoever he or she is, was one of that kind. He committed a crime and got away with it and nobody suspected. But supposing somebody goes poking about, digging into things, turning up stones and exploring avenues and finally, perhaps, hitting the target? What’s your killer going to do about it? Just stay there smiling while the hunt comes nearer and nearer? No, if there’s no principle involved, I’d say let it alone.’ He repeated his former phrase: ‘Let sleeping murder lie.’

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!’

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 boarding-house 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.’

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