Sleeping Murder mm-14

by Agatha Christie

  ‘Dillmouth,’ said Mrs Erskine. Her voice was expressionless. Her eyes watched the back of her husband’s head.

  ‘Pretty little place,’ said Giles. ‘Do you know it at all?’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Mrs Erskine said in that same expressionless voice, ‘We spent a few weeks there one summer-many, many years ago. We didn’t care for it-found it too relaxing.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gwenda. ‘That’s just what we find. Giles and I feel we’d prefer more bracing air.’

  Erskine came back with the cigarettes. He offered the box to Gwenda.

  ‘You’ll find it bracing enough round here,’ he said. There was a certain grimness in his voice.

  Gwenda looked up at him as he lighted her cigarette for her.

  ‘Do you remember Dillmouth at all well?’ she asked artlessly.

  His lips twitched in what she guessed to be a sudden spasm of pain. In a noncommittal voice he answered, ‘Quite well, I think. We stayed-let me see-at the Royal George-no, Royal Clarence Hotel.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s the nice old-fashioned one. Our house is quite near there. Hillside it’s called, but it used to be called St-St-Mary’s, was it, Giles?’

  ‘St Catherine’s,’ said Giles.

  This time there was no mistaking the reaction. Erskine turned sharply away, Mrs Erskine’s cup clattered on her saucer.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said abruptly, ‘you would like to see the garden.’

  ‘Oh yes, please.’

  They went out through the french windows. It was a well-kept, well-stocked garden, with a long border and flagged walks. The care of it was principally Major Erskine’s, so Gwenda gathered. Talking to her about roses, about herbaceous plants, Erskine’s dark, sad face lit up. Gardening was clearly his enthusiasm.

  When they finally took their leave, and were driving away in the car, Giles asked hesitantly, ‘Did you-did you drop it?’

  Gwenda nodded.

  ‘By the second clump of delphiniums.’ She looked down at her finger and twisted the wedding ring on it absently.

  ‘And supposing you never find it again?’

  ‘Well, it’s not my real engagement ring. I wouldn’t risk that.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘I’m very sentimental about that ring. Do you remember what you said when you put it on my finger? A green emerald because I was an intriguing green-eyed little cat.’

  ‘I dare say,’ said Giles dispassionately, ‘that our peculiar form of endearments might sound odd to someone of, say, Miss Marple’s generation.’

  ‘I wonder what she’s doing now, the dear old thing. Sitting in the sun on the front?’

  ‘Up to something-if I know her! Poking here, or prying there, or asking a few questions. I hope she doesn’t ask too many one of these days.’

  ‘It’s quite a natural thing to do-for an old lady, I mean. It’s not as noticeable as though we did it.’

  Giles’s face sobered again.

  ‘That’s why I don’t like-’ He broke off. ‘It’s you having to do it that I mind. I can’t bear the feeling that I sit at home and send you out to do the dirty work.’

  Gwenda ran a finger down his worried cheek.

  ‘I know, darling, I know. But you must admit, it’s tricky. It’s impertinent to catechize a man about his past love-affairs-but it’s the kind of impertinence a woman can just get away with-if she’s clever. And I mean to be clever.’

  ‘I know you’re clever. But if Erskine is the man we are looking for-’

  Gwenda said meditatively: ‘I don’t think he is.’

  ‘You mean we’re barking up the wrong tree?’

  ‘Not entirely. I think he was in love with Helen all right. But he’s nice, Giles, awfully nice. Not the strangling kind at all.’

  ‘You haven’t an awful lot of experience of the strangling kind, have you, Gwenda?’

  ‘No. But I’ve got my woman’s instinct.’

  ‘I dare say that’s what a strangler’s victims often say. No, Gwenda, joking apart, do be careful, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. I feel so sorry for the poor man-that dragon of a wife. I bet he’s had a miserable life.’

  ‘She’s an odd woman…Rather alarming somehow.’

  ‘Yes, quite sinister. Did you see how she watched me all the time?’

  ‘I hope the plan will go off all right.’

  ***

  The plan was put into execution the following morning.

  Giles, feeling, as he put it, rather like a shady detective in a divorce suit, took up his position at a point of vantage overlooking the front gate of Anstell Manor. About half past eleven he reported to Gwenda that all had gone well. Mrs Erskine had left in a small Austin car, clearly bound for the market town three miles away. The coast was clear.

  Gwenda drove up to the front door and rang the bell. She asked for Mrs Erskine and was told she was out. She then asked for Major Erskine. Major Erskine was in the garden. He straightened up from operations on a flowerbed as Gwenda approached.

  ‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ said Gwenda. ‘But I think I must have dropped a ring somewhere out here yesterday. I know I had it when we came out from tea. It’s rather loose, but I couldn’t bear to lose it because it’s my engagement ring.’

  The hunt was soon under way. Gwenda retraced her steps of yesterday, tried to recollect where she had stood and what flowers she had touched. Presently the ring came to light near a large clump of delphiniums. Gwenda was profuse in her relief.

  ‘And now can I get you a drink, Mrs Reed? Beer? A glass of sherry? Or would you prefer coffee, or something like that?’

  ‘I don’t want anything-no, really. Just a cigarette-thanks.’

  She sat down on a bench and Erskine sat down beside her.

  They smoked for a few minutes in silence. Gwenda’s heart was beating rather fast. No two ways about it. She had to take the plunge.

  ‘I want to ask you something,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’ll think it terribly impertinent of me. But I want to know dreadfully-and you’re probably the only person who could tell me. I believe you were once in love with my stepmother.’

  He turned an astonished face towards her.

  ‘With your stepmother?’

  ‘Yes. Helen Kennedy. Helen Halliday as she became afterwards.’

  ‘I see.’ The man beside her was very quiet. His eyes looked out across the sunlit lawn unseeingly. The cigarette between his fingers smouldered. Quiet as he was, Gwenda sensed a turmoil within that taut figure, the arm of which touched her own.

  As though answering some question he had put to himself, Erskine said: ‘Letters, I suppose.’

  Gwenda did not answer.

  ‘I never wrote her many-two, perhaps three. She said she had destroyed them-but women never do destroy letters, do they? And so they came intoyour hands. And you want to know.’

  ‘I want to know more about her. I was-very fond of her. Although I was such a small child when-she went away.’

  ‘She went away?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’

  His eyes, candid and surprised, met hers.

  ‘I’ve no news of her,’ he said, ‘since-since that summer in Dillmouth.’

  ‘Then you don’t know where she is now?’

  ‘How should I? It’s years ago-years. All finished and done with. Forgotten.’

  ‘Forgotten?’

  He smiled rather bitterly.

  ‘No, perhaps not forgotten…You’re very perceptive, Mrs Reed. But tell me about her. She’s not-dead, is she?’

  A small cold wind sprang up suddenly, chilled their necks and passed.

  ‘I don’t know if she is dead or not,’ said Gwenda. ‘I don’t know anything about her. I thought perhaps you might know?’

  She went on as he shook his head: ‘You see, she went away from Dillmouth that summer. Quite suddenly one evening. Without telling anyone. And she never came back.’

  ‘And you thought I might have heard from h
er?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No. Never a word. But surely her brother-doctor chap-lives in Dillmouth. He must know. Or is he dead too?’

  ‘No, he’s alive. But he doesn’t know either. You see-they all thought she went away-with somebody.’

  He turned his head to look at her. Deep sorrowful eyes.

  ‘They thought she went away with me?’

  ‘Well, it was a possibility.’

  ‘Was it a possibility? I don’t think so. It was never that. Or were we fools-conscientious fools who passed up our chance of happiness?’

  Gwenda did not speak. Again Erskine turned his head and looked at her.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better hear about it. There isn’t really very much to hear. But I wouldn’t like you to misjudge Helen. We met on a boat going out to India. One of the children had been ill, and my wife was following on the next boat. Helen was going out to marry a man in the Woods and Forests or something of that kind. She didn’t love him. He was just an old friend, nice and kind, and she wanted to get away from home where she wasn’t happy. We fell in love.’

  He paused.

  ‘Always a bald kind of statement. But it wasn’t-I want to make that quite clear-just the usual shipboard love-affair. It was serious. We were both-well-shattered by it. And there wasn’t anything to be done. I couldn’t let Janet and the children down. Helen saw it the same way as I did. If it had been only Janet-but there were the boys. It was all hopeless. We agreed to say goodbye and try and forget.’

  He laughed, a short mirthless laugh.

  ‘Forget? I never forgot-not for one moment. Life was just a living Hell. I couldn’t stop thinking about Helen…

  ‘Well, she didn’t marry the chap she had been going out to marry. At the last moment, she just couldn’t face it. She went home to England and on the way home she met this other man-your father, I suppose. She wrote to me a couple of months later telling me what she had done. He was very unhappy over the loss of his wife, she said, and there was a child. She thought that she could make him happy and that it was the best thing to do. She wrote from Dillmouth. About eight months later my father died and I came into this place. I sent in my papers and came back to England. We wanted a few weeks’ holiday until we could get into this house. My wife suggested Dillmouth. Some friend had mentioned it as a pretty place and quiet. She didn’t know, of course, about Helen. Can you imagine the temptation? To see her again. To see what this man she had married was like.’

  There was a short silence, then Erskine said:

  ‘We came and stayed at the Royal Clarence. It was a mistake. Seeing Helen again was Hell…She seemed happy enough, on the whole-I didn’t know whether she cared still, or whether she didn’t…Perhaps she’d got over it. My wife, I think, suspected something…She’s-she’s a very jealous woman-always has been.’

  He added brusquely, ‘That’s all there is to it. We left Dillmouth-’

  ‘On August 17th,’ said Gwenda.

  ‘Was that the date? Probably. I can’t remember exactly.’

  ‘It was a Saturday,’ said Gwenda.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I remember Janet said it might be a crowded day to travel north-but I don’t think it was…’

  ‘Please try and remember, Major Erskine. When was the last time you saw my stepmother-Helen?’

  He smiled, a gentle, tired smile.

  ‘I don’t need to try very hard. I saw her the evening before we left. On the beach. I’d strolled down there after dinner-and she was there. There was no one else about. I walked up with her to her house. We went through the garden-’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘I don’t know…Nine o’clock, I suppose.’

  ‘And you said goodbye?’

  ‘And we said goodbye.’ Again he laughed. ‘Oh, not the kind of goodbye you’re thinking of. It was very brusque and curt. Helen said: “Please go away now. Go quickly. I’d rather not-” She stopped then-and I-I just went.’

  ‘Back to the hotel?’

  ‘Yes, yes, eventually. I walked a long way first-right out into the country.’

  Gwenda said, ‘It’s difficult with dates-after so many years. But I think that that was the night she went away-and didn’t come back.’

  ‘I see. And as I and my wife left the next day, people gossiped and said she’d gone away with me. Charming minds people have.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Gwenda bluntly, ‘she didn’t go away with you?’

  ‘Good Lord, no, there was never any question of such a thing.’

  ‘Then why do you think,’ asked Gwenda, ‘that she went away?’

  Erskine frowned. His manner changed, became interested.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘That is a bit of a problem. She didn’t-er-leave any explanation?’

  Gwenda considered. Then she voiced her own belief.

  ‘I don’t think she left any word at all. Do you think she went away with someone else?’

  ‘No, of course she didn’t.’

  ‘You seem rather sure about that.’

  ‘I am sure.’

  ‘Then why did she go?’

  ‘If she went off-suddenly-like that-I can only see one possible reason. She was running away from me.’

  ‘From you?’

  ‘Yes. She was afraid, perhaps, that I’d try to see her again-that I’d pester her. She must have seen that I was still-crazy about her…Yes, that must have been it.’

  ‘It doesn’t explain,’ said Gwenda, ‘why she never came back. Tell me, did Helen say anything to you about my father? That she was worried about him? Or-or afraid of him? Anything like that?’

  ‘Afraid of him? Why? Oh I see, you thought he might have been jealous. Was he a jealous man?’

  ‘I don’t know. He died when I was a child.’

  ‘Oh, I see. No-looking back-he always seemed normal and pleasant. He was fond of Helen, proud of her-I don’t think more. No, I was the one who was jealous of him.’

  ‘They seemed to you reasonably happy together?’

  ‘Yes, they did. I was glad-and yet, at the same time, it hurt, to see it…No, Helen never discussed him with me. As I tell you, we were hardly ever alone, never confidential together. But now that you have mentioned it, I do remember thinking that Helen was worried…’

  ‘Worried?’

  ‘Yes. I thought perhaps it was because of my wife-’ He broke off. ‘But it was more than that.’

  He looked again sharply at Gwenda.

  ‘Was she afraid of her husband? Was he jealous of other men where she was concerned?’

  ‘You seem to think not.’

  ‘Jealousy is a very queer thing. It can hide itself sometimes so that you’d never suspect it.’ He gave a short quick shiver. ‘But it can be frightening-very frightening…’

  ‘Another thing I would like to know-’ Gwenda broke off.

  A car had come up the drive. Major Erskine said, ‘Ah, my wife has come back from shopping.’

  In a moment, as it were, he became a different person. His tone was easy yet formal, his face expressionless. A slight tremor betrayed that he was nervous.

  Mrs Erskine came striding round the corner of the house.

  Her husband went towards her.

  ‘Mrs Reed dropped one of her rings in the garden yesterday,’ he said.

  Mrs Erskine said abruptly: ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Gwenda. ‘Yes, luckily I have found it.’

  ‘That’s very fortunate.’

  ‘Oh, it is. I should have hated to lose it. Well, I must be going.’

  Mrs Erskine said nothing. Major Erskine said: ‘I’ll see you to your car.’

  He started to follow Gwenda along the terrace. His wife’s voice came sharply.

  ‘Richard. If Mrs Reed will excuse you, there is a very important call-’

  Gwenda said hastily, ‘Oh, that’s quite all right. Please don’t bother.’

  She ran quickly along the terrace and round the
side of the house to the drive.

  Then she stopped. Mrs Erskine had drawn up her car in such a way that Gwenda doubted whether she could get her own car past and down the drive. She hesitated, then slowly retraced her steps to the terrace.

  Just short of the french windows she stopped dead. Mrs Erskine’s voice, deep and resonant, came distinctly to her ears.

  ‘I don’t care what you say. You arranged it-arranged it yesterday. You fixed it up with that girl to come here whilst I was in Daith. You’re always the same-any pretty girl. I won’t stand it, I tell you. I won’t stand it.’

  Erskine’s voice cut in-quiet, almost despairing.

  ‘Sometimes, Janet, I really think you’re insane.’

  ‘I’m not the one who’s insane. It’s you! You can’t leave women alone.’

  ‘You know that’s not true, Janet.’

  ‘It is true! Even long ago-in the place where this girl comes from-Dillmouth. Do you dare tell me that you weren’t in love with that yellow-haired Halliday woman?’

  ‘Can you never forget anything? Why must you go on harping on these things? You simply work yourself up and-’

  ‘It’s you! You break my heart…I won’t stand it, I tell you! I won’t stand it! Planning assignations! Laughing at me behind my back! You don’t care for me-you’ve never cared for me. I’ll kill myself! I’ll throw myself over a cliff-I wish I were dead-’

  ‘Janet-Janet-for God’s sake…’

  The deep voice had broken. The sound of passionate sobbing floated out into the summer air.

  On tip-toe Gwenda crept away and round into the drive again. She cogitated for a moment, then rang the front-door bell.

  ‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if there is anyone who-er-could move this car. I don’t think I can get out.’

  The servant went into the house. Presently a man came round from what had been the stable yard. He touched his cap to Gwenda, got into the Austin and drove it into the yard. Gwenda got into her car and drove rapidly back to the hotel where Giles was waiting for her.

  ‘What a time you’ve been,’ he greeted her. ‘Get anything?’

  ‘Yes. I know all about it now. It’s really rather pathetic. He was terribly in love with Helen.’

  She narrated the events of the morning.