Sleeping Murder

‘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.’