Sleeping Murder - Christie Agatha (книги онлайн полностью .txt) 📗

When Giles came back from seeing Dr Kennedy off, he found Gwenda sitting where he had left her. There was a bright red patch on each of her cheeks, and her eyes looked feverish. When she spoke her voice was harsh and brittle.

‘What’s the old catchphrase? Death or madness either way? That’s what this is-death or madness.’

‘Gwenda-darling.’ Giles went to her-put his arm round her. Her body felt hard and stiff.

‘Why didn’t we leave it all alone? Why didn’t we? It was my own father who strangled her. And it was my own father’s voice I heard saying those words. No wonder it all came back-no wonder I was so frightened. My own father.’

‘Wait, Gwenda-wait. We don’t really know-’

‘Of course we know! He told Dr Kennedy he had strangled his wife, didn’t he?’ 

‘But Kennedy is quite positive he didn’t-’

‘Because he didn’t find a body. But therewas a body-and Isaw it.’

‘You saw it in the hall-not the bedroom.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘Well, it’s queer, isn’t it? Why should Halliday say he strangled his wife in the bedroom if he actually strangled her in the hall?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. That’s just a minor detail.’

‘I’m not so sure. Pull your socks up, darling. There are some very funny points about the whole set-up. We’ll take it, if you like, that your fatherdid strangle Helen. In the hall. What happened next?’

‘He went off to Dr Kennedy.’

‘And told him he had strangled his wife in the bedroom, brought him back with him and there was no body in the hall-orin the bedroom. Dash it all, there can’t be a murderwithout a body. What had he done with the body?’

‘Perhaps there was one and Dr Kennedy helped him and hushed it all up-only of course he couldn’t tellus that.’

Giles shook his head.

‘No, Gwenda-I don’t see Kennedy acting that way. He’s a hard-headed, shrewd, unemotional Scotsman. You’re suggesting that he’d be willing to put himself in jeopardy as an accessory after the fact. I don’t believe he would. He’d do his best for Halliday by giving evidence as to his mental state-that, yes. But why should he stick his neck out to hush the whole thing up? Kelvin Halliday wasn’t any relation to him, nor a close friend. It was his own sister who had been killed and he was clearly fond of her-even if he did show slight Victorian disapproval of her gay ways. It’s not, even, as thoughyou were his sister’s child. No, Kennedy wouldn’t connive at concealing murder. If he did, there’s only one possible way he could have set about it, and that would be deliberately to give a death certificate that she had died of heart failure or something. I suppose hemight have got away with that-but we know definitely that hedidn’t do that. Because there’s no record of her death in the Parish registers, and if hehad done it, he would have told us that his sister had died. So go on from there and explain, if you can, what happened to the body.’

‘Perhaps my father buried it somewhere-in the garden?’

‘Andthen went to Kennedy and told him he’d murdered his wife? Why? Why not rely on the story that she’d “left him”?’

Gwenda pushed back her hair from her forehead. She was less stiff and rigid now, and the patches of sharp colour were fading.

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘It does seem a bit screwy now you’ve put it that way. Do you think Dr Kennedy was telling us the truth?’

‘Oh yes-I’m pretty sure of it. From his point of view it’s a perfectly reasonable story. Dreams, hallucinations-finally a major hallucination. He’s got no doubt that it was a hallucination because, as we’ve just said, you can’t have a murder without a body. That’s where we’re in a different position from him. We know that there was a body.’

He paused and went on: ‘From his point of view, everything fits in. Missing clothes and suitcase, the farewell note. And later, two letters from his sister.

Gwenda stirred.

‘Those letters. How do we explain those?’

‘We don’t-but we’ve got to. If we assume that Kennedy was telling us the truth (and as I say, I’m pretty sure that he was), we’ve got to explain those letters.’

‘I suppose they really were in his sister’s handwriting? He recognized it?’

‘You know, Gwenda, I don’t believe that point would arise. It’s not like a signature on a doubtful cheque. If those letters were written in a reasonably close imitation of his sister’s writing, it wouldn’t occur to him to doubt them. He’s already got the preconceived idea that she’s gone away with someone. The letters just confirmed that belief. If he had never heard from her at all-why, then hemight have got suspicious. All the same, there are certain curious points about those letters that wouldn’t strike him, perhaps, but do strike me. They’re strangely anonymous. No address except a poste restante. No indication of who the man in the case was. A clearly stated determination to make a clean break with all old ties. What I mean is, they’re exactly the kind of letters amurderer would devise if he wanted to allay any suspicions on the part of his victim’s family. It’s the old Crippen touch again. To get the letters posted from abroad would be easy.’

‘You think my father-’

‘No-that’s just it-Idon’t. Take a man who’s deliberately decided to get rid of his wife. He spreads rumours about her possible unfaithfulness. He stages her departure-note left behind, clothes packed and taken. Letters will be received from her at carefully spaced intervals from somewhere abroad. Actually he has murdered her quietly and put her, say, under the cellar floor. That’s one pattern of murder-and it’s often been done. But what that type of murdererdoesn’t do is to rush to his brother-in-law and say he’s murdered his wife and hadn’t they better go to the police? On the other hand, if your father was the emotional type of killer, and was terribly in love with his wife and strangled her in a fit of frenzied jealousy-Othello fashion-(and that fits in with the words you heard) he certainly doesn’t pack clothes and arrange for letters to come, before he rushes off to broadcast his crime to a man who isn’t the type likely to hush it up. It’s all wrong, Gwenda. The whole pattern is wrong.’

‘Then what are you trying to get at, Giles?’

‘I don’t know…It’s just that throughout it all, there seems to be an unknown factor-call him X. Someone who hasn’t appeared as yet. But one gets glimpses of his technique.’

‘X?’ said Gwenda wonderingly. Then her eyes darkened. ‘You’re making that up, Giles. To comfort me.’

‘I swear I’m not. Don’t you see yourself that you can’t make a satisfactory outline to fit all the facts? We know that Helen Halliday was strangled because you saw-’

He stopped.

‘Good Lord! I’ve been a fool. I see it now. It covers everything. You’re right. And Kennedy’s right, too. Listen, Gwenda. Helen’s preparing to go away with a lover-who that is we don’t know.’

‘X?’

Giles brushed her interpolation aside impatiently.

‘She’s written her note to her husband-but at that moment he comes in, reads what she’s writing and goes haywire. He crumples up the note, slings it into the waste-basket, and goes for her. She’s terrified, rushes out into the hall-he catches up with her, throttles her -she goes limp and he drops her. And then, standing a little way from her, he quotes those words fromThe Duchess of Malfi just as the child upstairs has reached the banisters and is peering down.’

‘And after that?’

‘The point is,that she isn’t dead. He may have thought she was dead-but she’s merely semi-suffocated. Perhaps her lover comes round-after the frantic husband has started for the doctor’s house on the other side of the town, or perhaps she regains consciousness by herself. Anyway, as soon as she has come to, she beats it. Beats it quickly. And that explains everything. Kelvin’s belief that he has killed her. The disappearance of the clothes; packed and taken away earlier in the day. And the subsequent letterswhich are perfectly genuine. There you are-that explains everything.’

Gwenda said slowly, ‘It doesn’t explain why Kelvin said he had strangled her in the bedroom.’

‘He was so het up, he couldn’t quite remember where it had all happened.’

Gwenda said: ‘I’d like to believe you. I want to believe…But I go on feeling sure-quite sure-that when I looked down she was dead-quite dead.’

‘But how could you possibly tell? A child of barely three.’

She looked at him queerly.

‘I think one can tell-better than if one was older. It’s like dogs-they know death and throw back their heads and howl. I think children-know death…’

‘That’s nonsense-that’s fantastic.’

The ring of the front-door bell interrupted him. He said, ‘Who’s that, I wonder?’

Gwenda looked dismayed.

‘I quite forgot. It’s Miss Marple. I asked her to tea today. Don’t let’s go saying anything about all this to her.’

Gwenda was afraid that tea might prove a difficult meal-but Miss Marple fortunately seemed not to notice that her hostess talked a little too fast and too feverishly, and that her gaiety was somewhat forced. Miss Marple herself was gently garrulous-she was enjoying her stay in Dillmouth so much and-wasn’t it exciting?-some friends of friends of hers had written to friends of theirs in Dillmouth, and as a result she had received some very pleasant invitations from the local residents.

‘One feels so much less of an outsider, if you know what I mean, my dear, if one gets to know some of the people who have been established here for years. For instance, I am going to tea with Mrs Fane-she is the widow of the senior partner in the best firm of solicitors here. Quite an old-fashioned family firm. Her son is carrying it on now.’

The gentle gossiping voice went on. Her landlady was so kind-and made her so comfortable-‘and really delicious cooking. She was for some years with my old friend Mrs Bantry-although she does not come from this part of the world herself-her aunt lived here for many years and she and her husband used to come here for holidays-so she knows a great deal of the local gossip. Do you find your gardener satisfactory, by the way? I hear that he is considered locally as rather ascrimshanker -more talk than work.’