Yet, strangely enough, it was Gwenda who acted in an unpredictable manner.
She interrupted Miss Marple in the midst of a little anecdote about a child and a seashell to say breathlessly to Giles: “I don’t care — I’m going to tell her…” Miss Marple turned her head attentively.
Giles started to speak, then stopped.
Finally he said, “Well, it’s your funeral, Gwenda.” And so Gwenda poured it all out. Their
10 A CASE HISTORY
SALTMARSH HOUSE was set pleasantly about six miles inland from the coast. It had a good train service to London from the five-miles-distant town of South Benham.
Giles and Gwenda were shown into a large airy sitting-room with cretonne covers patterned with flowers. A very charminglooking old lady with white hair came into the room holding a glass of milk’ She nodded to them and sat down near the fireplace. Her eyes rested thoughtfully on Gwenda and presently she leaned forward towards her and spoke in what was almost a whisper.
“Is it your poor child, my dear?” Gwenda looked slightly taken aback. She said doubtfully: “No — no. It isn’t.” “Ah, I wondered.” The old lady nodded her head and sipped her milk. Theft she said conversationally, “Half past ten— that’s ‘e time. It’s always at half past ten.
Most remarkable.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward again.
‘B’h’nd the fireplace,” she breathed. “But – don’t say / told you.” At ‘this moment, a white uniformed maid came lnt0 the room and requested Giles and C?Jwenda to follow her.
Th’y were shown into Dr. Penrose’s study’ an(! ‘)r- Penrose rose to greet them. pr.. Penrose, Gwenda could not help thinking? looked a little mad himself. He lookecA f01″ instance, much madder than the nice c’d l’Y m the drawing-room–but perhal’ psychiatrists always looked a little mad. cq i’had your letter, and Dr. Kennedy’s,” said ly” Penrose. “And I’ve been looking up yo’111. father’s case history, Mrs. Reed. I remer'”11’1′ his case quite well, of course, but I ‘ wanted to refresh my memory so that I shoi’11’ be in a position to tell you everything y011 wanted to know. I understand that y”°u have only recently become aware of the s facts?” Ow’n’ explained that she had been brought up in New Zealand by her mother’s relatio’5118 Bnd that all she had known about her father was that he had died in a nursing home in England.
Dr. Penrose nodded. “Quite so. Your father’s case, Mrs. Reed, presented certain rather peculiar features.” “Such as?” Giles asked.
“Well, the obsession—or delusion— was very strong. Major Halliday, though clearly in a very nervous state, was most emphatic and categorical in his assertion that he had strangled his second wife in a fit of jealous rage. A great many of the usual signs in these cases were absent, and I don’t mind telling you frankly, Mrs.
Reed, that had it not been for Dr.
Kennedy’s assurance that Mrs. Halliday was actually alive, I should have been prepared, at that time, to take your father’s assertion at its face value.” “You formed the impression that he had actually killed her?” Giles asked.
“I said “at that time’. Later, I had cause to revise my opinion, as Major Halliday’s character and mental make-up became more familiar to me. Your father, Mrs.
Reed, was most definitely not a paranoiac type. He had no delusions of persecution, no impulses of violence. He was a gentle, kindly, and well-controlled individual. He was neither what the world calls mad, nor was he dangerous to others. But he did have this obstinate fixation about Mrs.
Halliday’s death and to account for its origin I am quite convinced we have to go back a long way — to some childish experience.
But I admit that all methods of analysis failed to give us the right clue.
Breaking down a patient’s resistance to analysis is sometimes a very long business.
It may take several years. In your father’s case, the time was insufficient.” He paused, and then, looking up sharply, said: “You know, I presume, that Major Halliday committed suicide.” “Oh noV cried Gwenda.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Reed. I thought you knew that. You are entitled, perhaps, to attach some blame to us on that account. I admit that proper vigilance would have prevented it. But frankly I saw no sign of Major Halliday’s being a suicidal type. He showed no tendency to melancholia–no brooding or despondency. He complained of sleeplessness and my colleague allowed him a certain amount of sleeping tablets.