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When did I begin to suspect her? A long time ago … Soon after we came to Dillmouth … Her manner changed … She was concealing something … I used to watch her … Yes, and she used to watch me….
Did she give me drugs in my food? Those queer awful nightmares. Not ordinary dreams … living nightmares … I know it was drugs … Only she could have done that … Why?… There’s some man … Some man she was afraid of….
Let me be honest. I suspected, didn’t I, that she had a lover? There was someone—I know there was someone—She said as much to me on the boat … Someone she loved and couldn’t marry … It was the same for both of us … I couldn’t forget Megan … How like Megan little Gwennie looks sometimes. Helen played with Gwennie so sweetly on the boat … Helen … You are so lovely, Helen….
Is Helen alive? Or did I put my hands round her throat and choke the life out of her? I went through the dining room door and I saw the note—propped up on the desk, and then—and then—all black—just blackness. But there’s no doubt about it … I killed her … Thank God Gwennie’s all right in New Zealand. They’re good people. They’ll love her for Megan’s sake. Megan—Megan, how I wish you were here….
It’s the best way … No scandal … The best way for the child. I can’t go on. Not year after year. I must take the short way out. Gwennie will never know anything about all this. She’ll never know her father was a murderer….
Tears blinded Gwenda’s eyes. She looked across at Giles, sitting opposite her. But Giles’s eyes were riveted on the opposite corner.
Aware of Gwenda’s scrutiny, he motioned faintly with his head.
Their fellow passenger was reading an evening paper. On the outside of it, clearly presented to their view was a melodramatic caption: Who were the men in her life?
Slowly, Gwenda nodded her head. She looked down at the diary.
There was someone—I know there was someone….
Eleven
THE MEN IN HER LIFE
I
Miss Marple crossed Sea Parade and walked along Fore Street, turning up the hill by the Arcade. The shops here were the old-fashioned ones. A wool and art needlework shop, a confectioner, a Victorian-looking Ladies’ Outfitter and Draper and others of the same kind.
Miss Marple looked in at the window of the art needlework shop. Two young assistants were engaged with customers, but an elderly woman at the back of the shop was free.
Miss Marple pushed open the door and went in. She seated herself at the counter and the assistant, a pleasant woman with grey hair, asked, “What can I do for you, madam?”
Miss Marple wanted some pale blue wool to knit a baby’s jacket. The proceedings were leisurely and unhurried. Patterns were discussed, Miss Marple looked through various children’s knitting books and in the course of it discussed her great-nephews and nieces. Neither she nor the assistant displayed impatience. The assistant had attended to customers such as Miss Marple for many years. She preferred these gentle, gossipy, rambling old ladies to the impatient, rather impolite young mothers who didn’t know what they wanted and had an eye for the cheap and showy.
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I think that will be very nice indeed. And I always find Storkleg so reliable. It really doesn’t shrink. I think I’ll take an extra two ounces.”
The assistant remarked that the wind was very cold today, as she wrapped up the parcel.
“Yes, indeed, I noticed it as I was coming along the front. Dillmouth has changed a good deal. I have not been here for, let me see, nearly nineteen years.”
“Indeed, madam? Then you will find a lot of changes. The Superb wasn’t built then, I suppose, nor the Southview Hotel?”
“Oh no, it was quite a small place. I was staying with friends … A house called St. Catherine’s—perhaps you know it? On the Leahampton road.”
But the assistant had only been in Dillmouth a matter of ten years.
Miss Marple thanked her, took the parcel, and went into the draper’s next door. Here, again, she selected an elderly assistant. The conversation ran much on the same lines, to an accompaniment of summer vests. This time, the assistant responded promptly.
“That would be Mrs. Findeyson’s house.”
“Yes—yes. Though the friends I knew had it furnished. A Major Halliday and his wife and a baby girl.”
“Oh yes, madam. They had it for about a year, I think.”
“Yes. He was home from India. They had a very good cook—she gave me a wonderful recipe for baked apple pudding—and also, I think, for gingerbread. I often wonder what became of her.”
“I expect you mean Edith Pagett, madam. She’s still in Dillmouth. She’s in service now—at Windrush Lodge.”
“Then there were some other people—the Fanes. A lawyer, I think he was!”
“Old Mr. Fane died some years ago—young Mr. Fane, Mr. Walter Fane, lives with his mother. Mr. Walter Fane never married. He’s the senior partner now.”
“Indeed? I had an idea Mr. Walter Fane had gone out to India—tea-planting or something.”
“I believe he did, madam. As a young man. But he came home and went into the firm after about a year or two. They do all the best business round here—they’re very highly thought of. A very nice quiet gentleman, Mr. Walter Fane. Everybody likes him.”
“Why, of course,” exclaimed Miss Marple. “He was engaged to Miss Kennedy, wasn’t he? And then she broke it off and married Major Halliday.”
“That’s right, madam. She went out to India to marry Mr. Fane, but it seems as she changed her mind and married the other gentleman instead.”
A faintly disapproving note had entered the assistant’s voice.
Miss Marple leaned forward and lowered her voice.
“I was always so sorry for poor Major Halliday (I knew his mother) and his little girl. I understand his second wife left him. Ran way with someone. A rather flighty type, I’m afraid.”
“Regular flibbertigibbet, she was. And her brother the doctor, such a nice man. Did my rheumatic knee a world of good.”
“Whom did she run away with? I never heard.”
“That I couldn’t tell you, madam. Some said it was one of the summer visitors. But I know Major Halliday was quite broken up. He left the place and I believe his health gave way. Your change, madam.”
Miss Marple accepted her change and her parcel.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “I wonder if—Edith Pagett, did you say—still has that nice recipe for gingerbread? I lost it—or rather my careless maid lost it—and I’m so fond of good gingerbread.”
“I expect so, madam. As a matter of fact her sister lives next door here, married to Mr. Mountford, the confectioner. Edith usually comes there on her days out and I’m sure Mrs. Mountford would give her a message.”
“That’s a very good idea. Thank you so much for all the trouble you’ve taken.”
“A pleasure, madam, I assure you.”
Miss Marple went out into the street.
“A nice old-fashioned firm,” she said to herself. “And those vests are really very nice, so it isn’t as though I had wasted any money.” She glanced at the pale blue enamel watch that she wore pinned to one side of her dress. “Just five minutes to go before meeting those two young things at the Ginger Cat. I hope they didn’t find things too upsetting at the Sanatorium.”
II
Giles and Gwenda sat together at a corner table at the Ginger Cat. The little black notebook lay on the table between them.
Miss Marple came in from the street and joined them.
“What will you have, Miss Marple? Coffee?”
