Sleeping Murder

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.’