“You leave the whole thing alone, my girl,” he said. “Or else, likely as not, you’ll be sorry.” He went into the scullery, put on his boots (Lily was particular about her kitchen floor) and went out.
Lily sat on at the table, her sharp foolish little brain working things out. Of course she couldn’t exactly go against what her husband had said, but all the same.
Jim was so hidebound, so stick-inthe-mud.
She wished there was somebody else she could ask. Someone who would know all about rewards and the police and what it all meant. Pity to turn up a chance of good money.
That wireless set… the home perm. that cherry-coloured coat in Russell’s (ever so smart)… even, maybe, a whole Jacobean suite for the sitting-room.
Eager, greedy, shortsighted, she went on dreaming…. What exactly had Layonee said all those years ago?
Then an idea came to her. She got up and fetched the bottle of ink, the pen, and a pad of writing paper.
“Know what I’ll do,” she said to herself.
“I’ll write to the doctor, Mrs. Halliday’s brother. He’ll tell me what I ought to do — if he’s alive still, that is. Anyway, it’s on my conscience I never told him about Layonee — or about that car.” There was silence for some time apart from the laborious scratching of Lily’s pen. It was very seldom that she wrote a letter and she found the composition of it a considerable effort.
However it was done at last and she put it into an envelope and sealed it up.
But she felt less satisfied than she had expected. Ten to one the doctor was dead or had gone away from Dillmouth.
Was there anyone else?
What was the name, now, of that fellow?
If she could only remember that…
20 THE GIRL HELEN
GILES and Gwenda had just finished breakfast on the morning after their return from Northumberland when Miss Marple was announced. She came rather apologetically.
“I’m afraid this is a very early call. Not a thing I am in the habit of doing.
But there was something I wanted to explain.”
“We’re delighted to see you,” said Giles, pulling out a chair for her. “Do have a cup of coffee.” “Oh no, no, thank you — nothing at all.
I have breakfasted most adequately. Now let me explain. I came in whilst you were away, as you kindly said I might, to do a little weeding — ” “Angelic of you,” said Gwenda.
“And it really did strike me that two days a week is not quite enough for this garden. In any case I think Foster is taking advantage of you. Too much tea and too much talk. I found out that he couldn’t manage another day himself, so I took it upon myself to engage another man just for one day a week — Wednesdays — today, in fact.” Giles looked at her curiously. He was a little surprised. It might be kindly meant, but Miss Marple’s action savoured, very faintly, of interference. And interference was unlike her.
He said slowly: “Foster’s far too old, I know, for really hard work.” “I’m afraid, Mr. Reed, that Manning is even older. Seventy-five, he tells me. But you see, I thought employing him, just for a few odd days, might be quite an advantageous move, because he used, many years ago, to be employed at Dr. Kennedy’s.
The name of the young man Helen got engaged to was Afflick, by the way.” “Miss Marple,” said Giles, “I maligned you in thought. You are a genius. You know I’ve got those specimens of Helen’s handwriting from Kennedy?” “I know. I was here when he brought them.” “I’m posting them off today. I got the address of a good handwriting expert last week.” “Let’s go into the garden and see Manning,” said Gwenda.
Manning was a bent, crabbed-looking old man with a rheumy and slightly cunning eye. The pace at which he was raking a path accelerated noticeably as his employers drew near.
“Morning, sir. Morning, ma’m. The lady said as how you could do with a little extra help of a Wednesday. I’ll be pleased. Shameful neglected, this place looks.” “I’m afraid the garden’s been allowed to run down for some years.” “It has that. Remember it, I do, in Mrs.