Agatha Christie – Sleeping Murder

I wouldn’t risk that” “I’m glad to hear it.” “I’m very very sentimental about that ring. Do you remember what you said when you put it on my finger? A green emerald because I was an intriguing green-eyed little cat.” “I dare say,” said Giles dispassionately, “that our peculiar form of endearments might sound odd to someone of, say. Miss Marple’s generation.” “I wonder what she’s doing now, the dear old thing. Sitting in the sun on the front?” “Up to something—if I know her!

Poking here, or prying there, or asking a few questions. I hope she doesn’t ask too many one of these days.” “It’s quite a natural thing to do—for an old lady, I mean. It’s not as noticeable as though we did it.” Giles’s face sobered again.

“That’s why I don’t like — ” He broke off. “It’s you having to do it that I mind. I can’t bear the feeling that I sit at home and send you out to do the dirty work.” Gwenda ran a finger down his worried cheek.

“I know, darling, I know. But you must admit, it’s tricky. It’s impertinent to catechise a man about his past love-affairs — but it’s the kind of impertinence a woman can just get away with — if she’s clever. And I mean to be clever.” “I know you’re clever. But if Erskine is the man we are looking for — ” Gwenda said meditatively: “I don’t think he is.” “You mean we’re barking up the wrong tree?” “Not entirely. I think he was in love with Helen all right. But he’s nice, Giles, awfully nice. Not the strangling kind at all.” “You haven’t an awful lot of experience of the strangling kind, have you, Gwenda?” “No. But I’ve got my woman’s instinct.” “I dare say that’s what a strangler’s victims often say. No, Gwenda, joking apart, do be careful, won’t you?” “Of course. I feel so sorry for the poor man — that dragon of a wife. I bet he’s had a miserable life.” “She’s an odd woman…. Rather alarming somehow.” “Yes, quite sinister. Did you see how she watched me all the time?” “I hope the plan will go off all right.”

Ill

The plan was put into execution the following morning.

Giles, feeling, as he put it, rather like a shady detective in a divorce suit, took up his position at a point of vantage overlooking the front gate of Anstell Manor.

About half past eleven he reported to Gwenda that all had gone well. Mrs.

Erskine had left in a small Austin car, clearly bound for the market town three miles away. The coast was clear.

Gwenda drove up to the front door and rang the bell. She asked for Mrs. Erskine and was told she was out. She then asked for Major Erskine. Major Erskine was in the garden. He straightened up from operations on a flower-bed as Gwenda approached.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” said Gwenda. “But I think I must have dropped a ring somewhere out here yesterday.

I know I had it when we came out from tea. It’s rather loose, but I couldn’t bear to lose it because it’s my engagement ring.” The hunt was soon under way. Gwenda retraced her steps of yesterday, tried to recollect where she had stood and what flowers she had touched. Presently the ring came to light near a large clump of delphiniums. Gwenda was profuse in her relief.

“And now can I get you a.drink, Mrs.

Reed? Beer? A glass of sherry? Or would you prefer coffee, or something like that?” “I don’t want anything–no, really.

Just a cigarette — thanks.55 She sat down on a bench and Erskine sat down beside her, They smoked for a few minutes in silence. Gwenda’s heart was beating rather fast. No two ways about it. She had got to take the plunge.

“I want to ask you something,” she said.

“Perhaps you’ll think it terribly impertinent of me. But I want to know dreadfully–and you’re probably the only person who could tell me. I believe you were once in love with my stepmother.55 He turned an astonished face towards her.

“With your stepmother?55 “Yes. Helen Kennedy. Helen Halliday as she became afterwards.55 “I see.55 The man beside her was very quiet. His eyes looked out across the sunlit lawn unseeingly. The cigarette between his fingers smouldered. Quiet as he was, Gwenda sensed a turmoil within that taut figure, the arm of which touched her own.

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