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“Oh, quite natural.”
“And dear Walter, always so quiet and patient. And then, one day, Robert got hold of his model aeroplane—he’d built it up himself with days of work—so patient and clever with his fingers—and Robert, who was a dear high-spirited boy but careless, smashed it. And when I came into the schoolroom there was Robert down on the floor and Walter attacking him with the poker, he’d practically knocked him out—and I simply had all I could do to drag Walter off him. He kept repeating. ‘He did it on purpose—he did it on purpose. I’m going to kill him.’ You know, I was quite frightened. Boys feel things so intensely, do they not?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Marple. Her eyes were thoughtful.
She reverted to the former topic.
“And so the engagement was finally broken off. What happened to the girl?”
“She came home. Had another love affair on the way back, and this time married the man. A widower with one child. A man who has just lost his wife is always a fair target—helpless, poor fellow. She married him and they settled down here in a house the other side of the town—St. Catherine’s—next door to the hospital. It didn’t last, of course—she left him within the year. Went off with some man or other.”
“Dear, dear!” Miss Marple shook her head. “What a lucky escape your son had!”
“That’s what I always tell him.”
“And did he give up tea-planting because his health wouldn’t stand it?”
A slight frown appeared on Mrs. Fane’s brow.
“The life wasn’t really congenial to him,” she said. “He came home about six months after the girl did.”
“It must have been rather awkward,” ventured Miss Marple. “If the young woman was actually living here. In the same town—”
“Walter was wonderful,” said Walter’s mother. “He behaved exactly as though nothing had happened. I should have thought myself (indeed I said so at the time) that it would be advisable to make a clean break—after all, meetings could only be awkward for both parties. But Walter insisted on going out of his way to be friendly. He used to call at the house in the most informal fashion, and play with the child—Rather curious, by the way, the child’s come back here. She’s grown-up now, with a husband. Came into Walter’s office to make her will the other day. Reed, that’s her name now. Reed.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Reed! I know them. Such a nice unaffected young couple. Fancy that now—and she is actually the child—”
“The first wife’s child. The first wife died out in India. Poor Major—I’ve forgotten his name—Hallway—something like that—was completely broken up when that minx left him. Why the worst women should always attract the best men is something hard to fathom!”
“And the young man who was originally entangled with her? A clerk, I think you said, in your son’s office. What happened to him?”
“Did very well for himself. He runs a lot of those Coach Tours. Daffodil Coaches. Afflick’s Daffodil Coaches. Painted bright yellow. It’s a vulgar world nowadays.”
“Afflick?” said Miss Marple.
“Jackie Afflick. A nasty pushing fellow. Always determined to get on, I imagine. Probably why he took up with Helen Kennedy in the first place. Doctor’s daughter and all that—thought it would better his social position.”
“And this Helen has never come back again to Dillmouth?”
“No. Good riddance. Probably gone completely to the bad by now. I was sorry for Dr. Kennedy. Not his fault. His father’s second wife was a fluffy little thing, years younger than he was. Helen inherited her wild blood from her, I expect. I’ve always thought—”
Mrs. Fane broke off.
“Here is Walter.” Her mother’s ear had distinguished certain well-known sounds in the hall. The door opened and Walter Fane came in.
“This is Miss Marple, my son. Ring the bell, son, and we’ll have some fresh tea.”
“Don’t bother, Mother. I had a cup.”
“Of course we will have fresh tea—and some scones, Beatrice,” she added to the parlourmaid who had appeared to take the teapot.
“Yes, madam.”
With a slow, likeable smile Walter Fane said: “My mother spoils me, I’m afraid.”
Miss Marple studied him as she made a polite rejoinder.
A gentle quiet-looking person, slightly diffident and apologetic in manner—colourless. A very nondescript personality. The devoted type of young man whom women ignore and only marry because the man they love does not return their affection. Walter, who is Always There. Poor Walter, his mother’s darling … Little Walter Fane who had attacked his older brother with a poker and had tried to kill him….
Miss Marple wondered.
Seventeen
RICHARD ERSKINE
I
Anstell Manor had a bleak aspect. It was a white house, set against a background of bleak hills. A winding drive led up through dense shrubbery.
Giles said to Gwenda, “Why have we come? What can we possibly say?”
“We’ve got it worked out.”
“Yes—so far as that goes. It’s lucky that Miss Marple’s cousin’s sister’s aunt’s brother-in-law or whatever it was lives near here … But it’s a far step from a social call to asking your host about his bygone love affairs.”
“And such a long time ago. Perhaps—perhaps he doesn’t even remember her.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t. And perhaps there never was a love affair.”
“Giles, are we making unutterable fools of ourselves?”
“I don’t know … Sometimes I feel that. I don’t see why we’re concerning ourselves with all this. What does it matter now?”
“So long after … Yes, I know … Miss Marple and Dr. Kennedy both said, “Leave it alone.” Why don’t we, Giles? What makes us go on? Is it her?”
“Her?”
“Helen. Is that why I remember? Is my childish memory the only link she’s got with life—with truth? Is it Helen who’s using me—and you—so that the truth will be known?”
“You mean, because she died a violent death—?”
“Yes. They say—books say—that sometimes they can’t rest….”
“I think you’re being fanciful, Gwenda.”
“Perhaps I am. Anyway, we can—choose. This is only a social call. There’s no need for it to be anything more—unless we want it to be—”
Giles shook his head.
“We shall go on. We can’t help ourselves.”
“Yes—you’re right. All the same, Giles,
I think I’m rather frightened—”
II
“Looking for a house, are you?” said Major Erskine.
He offered Gwenda a plate of sandwiches. Gwenda took one, looking up at him. Richard Erskine was a small man, five foot nine or so. His hair was grey and he had tired, rather thoughtful eyes. His voice was low and pleasant with a slight drawl. There was nothing remarkable about him, but he was, Gwenda thought, definitely attractive … He was actually not nearly as good-looking as Walter Fane, but whereas most women would pass Fane without a second glance, they would not pass Erskine. Fane was nondescript. Erskine, in spite of his quietness, had personality. He talked of ordinary things in an ordinary manner, but there was something—that something that women are quick to recognize and to which they react in a purely female way. Almost unconsciously Gwenda adjusted her skirt, tweaked at a side curl, retouched her lips. Nineteen years ago Helen Kennedy could have fallen in love with this man. Gwenda was quite sure of that.
She looked up to find her hostess’s eyes full upon her, and involuntarily she flushed. Mrs. Erskine was talking to Giles, but she was watching Gwenda and her glance was both appraising and suspicious. Janet Erskine was a tall woman, her voice was deep—almost as deep as a man’s. Her build was athletic, she wore a well-cut tweed with big pockets. She looked older than her husband, but, Gwenda decided, well might not be so. There was a certain haggardness about her face. An unhappy, hungry woman, thought Gwenda.
I bet she gives him Hell, she said to herself.
Aloud she continued the conversation.
“House-hunting is terribly discouraging,” she said. “House agents’ descriptions are always glowing—and then, when you actually get there, the place is quite unspeakable.”
“You’re thinking of settling down in this neighbourhood?”
“Well—this is one of the neighbourhoods we thought of. Really because it’s near Hadrian’s Wall. Giles has always been fascinated by Hadrian’s Wall. You see—it sounds rather odd, I expect, to you—but almost anywhere in England is the same to us. My own home is in New Zealand and I haven’t any ties here. And Giles was taken in by different aunts for different holidays and so hasn’t any particular ties either. The one thing we don’t want is to be too near London. We want the real country.”
