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“I think Walter Fane,” said Giles.
They both looked at Miss Marple.
She shook her head.
“There’s another possibility,” she said.
“Of course. Erskine.”
Giles fairly ran across to the telephone.
“What are you going to do?” asked Gwenda.
“Put through a trunk call to Northumberland.”
“Oh Giles—you can’t really think—”
“We’ve got to know. If he’s there—he can’t have killed Lily Kimble this afternoon. No private aeroplanes or silly stuff like that.”
They waited in silence until the telephone bell rang.
Giles picked up the receiver.
“You were asking for a personal call to Major Erskine. Go ahead, please. Major Erskine is waiting.”
Clearing his throat nervously, Giles said, “Er—Erskine? Giles Reed here—Reed, yes.”
He cast a sudden agonized glance at Gwenda which said as plainly as possible, “What the hell do I say now?”
Gwenda got up and took the receiver from him.
“Major Erskine? This is Mrs. Reed here. We’ve heard of—of a house. Linscott Brake. Is—is it—do you know anything about it? It’s somewhere near you, I believe.”
Erskine’s voice said: “Linscott Brake? No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it. What’s the postal town?”
“It’s terribly blurred,” said Gwenda. “You know those awful typescripts agents send out. But it says fifteen miles from Daith so we thought—”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t heard of it. Who lives there?”
“Oh, it’s empty. But never mind, actually we’ve—we’ve practically settled on a house. I’m so sorry to have bothered you. I expect you were busy.”
“No, not at all. At least only busy domestically. My wife’s away. And our cook had to go off to her mother, so I’ve been dealing with domestic routine. I’m afraid I’m not much of a hand at it. Better in the garden.”
“I’d always rather do gardening than housework. I hope your wife isn’t ill?”
“Oh no, she was called away to a sister. She’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Well, good night, and so sorry to have bothered you.”
She put down the receiver.
“Erskine is out of it,” she said triumphantly. “His wife’s away and he’s doing all the chores. So that leaves it between the two others. Doesn’t it, Miss Marple?”
Miss Marple was looking grave.
“I don’t think, my dears,” she said, “that you have given quite enough thought to the matter. Oh dear—I am really very worried. If only I knew exactly what to do….”
Twenty-four
THE MONKEY’S PAWS
I
Gwenda leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands while her eyes roamed dispassionately over the remains of a hasty lunch. Presently she must deal with them, carry them out to the scullery, wash up, put things away, see what there would be, later, for supper.
But there was no wild hurry. She felt she needed a little time to take things in. Everything had been happening too fast.
The events of the morning, when she reviewed them, seemed to be chaotic and impossible. Everything had happened too quickly and too improbably.
Inspector Last had appeared early—at half past nine. With him had come Detective Inspector Primer from headquarters and the Chief Constable of the County. The latter had not stayed long. It was Inspector Primer who was now in charge of the case of Lily Kimble deceased and all the ramifications arising therefrom.
It was Inspector Primer, a man with a deceptively mild manner and a gentle apologetic voice, who had asked her if it would inconvenience her very much if his men did some digging in the garden.
From the tone of his voice, it might have been a case of giving his men some healthful exercise, rather than of seeking for a dead body which had been buried for eighteen years.
Giles had spoken up then. He had said: “I think, perhaps, we could help you with a suggestion or two.”
And he told the Inspector about the shifting of the steps leading down to the lawn, and took the Inspector out on to the terrace.
The Inspector had looked up at the barred window on th
e first floor at the corner of the house and had said: “That would be the nursery, I presume.”
And Giles said that it would.
Then the Inspector and Giles had come back into the house, and two men with spades had gone out into the garden, and Giles, before the Inspector could get down to questions, had said:
“I think, Inspector, you had better hear something that my wife has so far not mentioned to anyone except myself—and—er—one other person.”
The gentle, rather compelling gaze of Inspector Primer came to rest on Gwenda. It was faintly speculative. He was asking himself, Gwenda thought: “Is this a woman who can be depended upon, or is she the kind who imagines things?”
So strongly did she feel this, that she started in a defensive way: “I may have imagined it. Perhaps I did. But it seems awfully real.”
Inspector Primer said softly and soothingly:
“Well, Mrs. Reed, let’s hear about it.”
And Gwenda had explained. How the house had seemed familiar to her when she first saw it. How she had subsequently learned that she had, in fact, lived there as a child. How she had remembered the nursery wallpaper, and the connecting door, and the feeling she had had that there ought to be steps down to the lawn.
Inspector Primer nodded. He did not say that Gwenda’s childish recollections were not particularly interesting, but Gwenda wondered whether he were thinking it.
Then she nerved herself to the final statement. How she had suddenly remembered, when sitting in a theatre, looking through the banisters at Hillside and seeing a dead woman in the hall.
“With a blue face, strangled, and golden hair—and it was Helen—But it was so stupid, I didn’t know at all who Helen was.”
“We think that—” Giles began, but Inspector Primer, with unexpected authority, held up a restraining hand.
