Sleeping Murder, стр. 17

Miss 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 youso 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.’

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 thatat 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 leasttwo 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 foundone of them already. The cook. No, it wasn’t that. It was more the question of what practicalgood you can accomplish, and I’d be inclined to say to that-None. And yet…’

She stopped: ‘Thereis 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 oneshould 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 thebedroom. 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 happenedafter 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 wastrue? That he actuallyhad 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-ascompletely as Helen seems to have done. That, in itself, is highly suspicious.’

‘I agree with you,’ said Miss Marple. ‘But the alternative, Mr Reed?’