By the side of the sink was a pair of surgical rubber gloves. Mrs. Cocker always wore a pair for washing up. Her niece, who worked in a hospital, got them at a reduced price.
Gwenda fitted them on over her hands and began to wash up the dishes. She might as well keep her hands nice.
She washed the plates and put them in the rack, washed and dried the other things and put everything neatly away.
Then, still lost in thought, she went upstairs.
She might as well, she thought, wash out those stockings and a jumper or two.
She’d keep the gloves on.
These things were in the forefront of her mind. But somewhere, underneath them, something was nagging at her.
Walter Fane or Jackie Afflick, she had said. One or the other of them. And she had made out quite a good case against either of them. Perhaps that was what really worried her. Because, strictly speaking, it would be much more satisfactory if you could only make out a good case against one of them. One ought to be sure, by now, which. And Gwenda wasn’t sure.
If only there was someone else…. But there couldn’t be anyone else. Because Richard Erskine was out of it. Richard Erskine had been in Northumberland when Lily Kimble was killed and when the brandy in the decanter had been tampered with. Yes, Richard Erskine was right out of it.
She was glad of that, because she liked Richard Erskine. Richard Erskine was attractive, very attractive. How sad for him to be married to that megalith of a woman with her suspicious eyes and deep bass voice. Just like a man’s voice.
Like a man’s voice.
The idea flashed through her mind with a queer misgiving.
A man’s voice…. Could it have been Mrs. Erskine, not her husband, who had replied to Giles on the telephone last night?
No — no, surely not. No, of course not.
She and Giles would have known. And anyway, to begin with, Mrs. Erskine could have had no idea of who was ringing up.
No, of course it was Erskine speaking, and his wife, as he said, was away.
His wife was away.
Surely—no, that was impossible.
Could it have been Mrs. Erskine? Mrs.
Erskine, driven insane by jealousy? Mrs. Erskine to whom Lily Kimble had written?
Was it a woman Leonie had seen in the garden that night when she looked out of the window?
There was a sudden bang in the hall below. Somebody had come in through the front door.
Gwenda came out from the bathroom on to the landing and looked over the banisters.
She was relieved to see it was Dr.
Kennedy. She called down: “I’m here.” Her hands were held out in front of her — wet, glistening, a queer pinkish grey — they reminded her of something.
Kennedy looked up, shading his eyes.
“Is that you, Gwennie? I can’t see your face…. My eyes are dazzled — ” And then Gwenda screamed.
Looking at those smooth monkey’s paws and hearing that voice in the hall — “It was you,” she gasped. “You killed her… killed Helen… I — know now. It It was you… all along…. You…” He came up the stairs towards her.
Slowly. Looking up at her.
“Why couldn’t you leave me alone?” he said. “Why did you have to meddle? Why did you have to bring—Her—back?
Just when I’d begun to forget — to forget.
You brought her back again—Helen— my Helen. Bringing it all up again. I had to kill Lily — now I’ll have to kill you. Like I killed Helen…. Yes, like I killed Helen…” He was close upon her now — his hands out towards her — reaching, she knew, for her throat. That kind, quizzical face — that nice, ordinary, elderly face — the same still, but for the eyes — the eyes were not sane.
Gwenda retreated before him, slowly, the scream frozen in her throat. She had screamed once. She could not scream again.
And if she did scream no one would hear.
Because there was no one in the house — not Giles, and not Mrs. Cocker, not even Miss Marple in the garden. Nobody. And the house next door was too far away to hear if she screamed. And anyway, she couldn’t scream…. Because she was too frightened to scream. Frightened of those horrible reaching hands.