Sleeping Murder (Miss Marple 13)

Giles paused, his face beaming.

Miss Marple moved uneasily, her face was grave—almost troubled.

“But it might do a great deal of harm,” she said. “I would advise you both—oh yes, I really would advise it very strongly—to leave the whole thing alone.”

“Leave it alone? Our very own murder mystery—if it was murder!”

“It was murder, I think. And that’s just why I should leave it alone. Murder isn’t—it really isn’t—a thing to tamper with lightheartedly.”

Giles said: “But, Miss Marple, if everybody felt like that—”

She interrupted him.

“Oh, I know. There are times when it is one’s duty—an innocent person accused—suspicion resting on various other people—a dangerous criminal at large who may strike again. But you must realize that this murder is very much in the past. Presumably it wasn’t known for murder—if so, you would have heard fast enough from your old gardener or someone down there—a murder, however long ago, is always news. No, the body must have been disposed of somehow, and the whole thing never suspected. Are you sure—are you really sure, that you are wise to dig it all up again?”

“Miss Marple,” cried Gwenda, “you sound really concerned?”

“I am, my dear. You are two very nice and charming young people (if you will allow me to say so). You are newly married and happy together. Don’t, I beg of you, start to uncover things that may—well, that may—how shall I put it?—that may upset and distress you.”

Gwenda stared at her. “You’re thinking of something special—of something—what is it you’re hinting at?”

“Not hinting, dear. Just advising you (because I’ve lived a long time and know how very upsetting human nature can be) to let well alone. That’s my advice: let well alone.”

“But it isn’t letting well alone.” Giles’s voice held a different note, a sterner note. “Hillside is our house, Gwenda’s and mine, and someone was murdered in that house, or so we believe. I’m not going to stand for murder in my house and do nothing about it, even if it is eighteen years ago!”

Miss Marple sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I imagine that most young men of spirit would feel like that. I even sympathize and almost admire you for it. But I wish—oh, I do wish—that you wouldn’t do it.”

II

On the following day, news went round the village of St. Mary Mead that Miss Marple was at home again. She was seen in the High Street at eleven o’clock. She called at the Vicarage at ten minutes to twelve. That afternoon three of the gossipy ladies of the village called upon her and obtained her impressions of the gay Metropolis and, this tribute to politeness over, themselves plunged into details of an approaching battle over the fancywork stall at the Fête and the position of the tea tent.

Later that evening Miss Marple could be seen as usual in her garden, but for once her activities were more concentrated on the depredations of weeds than on the activities of her neighbours. She was distraite at her frugal evening meal, and hardly appeared to listen to her little maid Evelyn’s spirited account of the goings-on of the local chemist. The next day she was still distraite, and one or two people, including the Vicar’s wife, remarked upon it. That evening Miss Marple said that she did not feel very well and took to her bed. The following morning she sent for Dr. Haydock.

Dr. Haydock had been Miss Marple’s physician, friend and ally for many years. He listened to her account of her symptoms, gave her an examination, then sat back in his chair and waggled his stethoscope at her.

“For a woman of your age,” he said, “and in spite of that misleading frail appearance, you’re in remarkably good fettle.”

“I’m sure my general health is sound,” said Miss Marple. “But I confess I do feel a little overtired—a little run-down.”

“You’ve been gallivanting about. Late nights in London.”

“That, of course. I do find London a little tiring nowadays. And the air—so used up. Not like fresh seaside air.”

“The air of St. Mary Mead is nice and fresh.”

“But often damp and rather muggy. Not, you know, exactly bracing.”

Dr. Haydock eyed her with a dawning of interest.

“I’ll send you round a tonic,” he said obligingly.

“Thank you, Doctor. Easton’s syrup is always very helpful.”

“There’s no need for you to do my prescribing for me, woman.”

“I wondered if, perhaps, a change of air—?”

Miss Marple looked questioningly at him with guileless blue eyes.

“You’ve just been away for three weeks.”

“I know. But to London which, as you say, is enervating. And then up North—a manufacturing district. Not like bracing sea air.”

Dr. Haydock packed up his bag. Then he turned round, grinning.

“Let’s hear why you sent for me,” he said. “Just tell me what it’s to be and I’ll repeat it after you. You want my professional opinion that what you need is sea air—”

“I knew you’d understand,” said Miss Marple gratefully.

“Excellent thing, sea air. You’d better go to Eastbourne right away, or your health may suffer seriously.”

“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. “Extraord

inary 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!”

III