part. There was no body, a suitcase and clothes were taken-what else could I think?’
‘And your sister had been-recently-rather-ahem-’ Miss Marple coughed delicately-‘interested in-in a certain gentleman?’
Dr Kennedy looked at her. There was deep pain in his eyes.
‘I loved my sister,’ he said, ‘but I have to admit that, with Helen, there was always some man in the offing. There are women who are made that way-they can’t help it.’
‘It all seemed clear to you at the time,’ said Miss Marple. ‘But it does not seem so clear now. Why?’
‘Because,’ said Kennedy with frankness, ‘it seems incredible to me that, if Helen is still alive, she has not communicated with me all these years. In the same way, if she is dead, it is equally strange that I have not been notified of the fact. Well-’
He got up. He took a packet from his pocket.
‘Here is the best I can do. The first letter I received from Helen I must have destroyed. I can find no trace of it. But I did keep the second one-the one that gave the poste restante address. And here, for comparison, is the only bit of Helen’s handwriting I’ve been able to find. It’s a list of bulbs, etc., for planting. A copy that she had kept of some order. The handwriting of the order and the letter look alike to me, but then I’m no expert. I’ll leave them here for Giles and Gwenda when they return. It’s probably not worth forwarding.’
‘Oh no, I believe they expect to return tomorrow-or the next day.’
The doctor nodded. He stood, looking along the terrace, his eyes still absent. He said suddenly, ‘You know what’s worrying me? If Kelvin Halliday did kill his wife, he must have concealed the body or got rid of it in some way-and that means (I don’t know what else it can mean) that his story to me was a cleverly made-up tale-that he’d already hidden a suitcase full of clothes to give colour to the idea that Helen had gone away-that he’d even arranged for letters to arrive from abroad…It means, in fact, that it was a cold-blooded premeditated murder. Little Gwennie was a nice child. It would be bad enough for her to have a father who’s a paranoiac, but it’s ten times worse to have a father who’s a deliberate murderer.’
He swung round to the open window. Miss Marple arrested his departure by a swift question.
‘Who was your sister afraid of, Dr Kennedy?’
He turned back to her and stared.
‘Afraid of? No one, as far as I know.’
‘I only wondered…Pray excuse me if I am asking indiscreet questions-but there was a young man, wasn’t there?-I mean, some entanglement-when she was very young. Somebody called Afflick, I believe.’
‘Oh, that. Silly business most girls go through. An undesirable young fellow, shifty-and of course not her class, not her class at all. He got into trouble here afterwards.’
‘I just wondered if he could have been-revengeful.’
Dr Kennedy smiled rather sceptically.
‘Oh, I don’t think it went deep. Anyway, as I say, he got into trouble here, and left the place for good.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Oh, nothing criminal. Just indiscretions. Blabbed about his employer’s affairs.’
‘And his employer was Mr Walter Fane?’
Dr Kennedy looked a little surprised.
‘Yes-yes-now you say so, I remember, he did work in Fane and Watchman’s. Not articled. Just an ordinary clerk.’
Just an ordinary clerk? Miss Marple wondered, as she stooped again to the bindweed, after Dr Kennedy had gone…
Chapter 19. Mr Kimble Speaks
‘I dunno, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Kimble.
Her husband, driven into speech by what was neither more nor less than an outrage, became vocal.
He shoved his cup forward.
‘What you thinking of, Lily?’ he demanded. ‘No sugar!’
Mrs Kimble hastily remedied the outrage, and then proceeded to elaborate on her own theme.
‘Thinking about this advert, I am,’ she said. ‘Lily Abbott, it says, plain as plain. And ‘formerly house-parlourmaid at St Catherine’s Dillmouth’. That’s me, all right.’
‘Ar,’ agreed Mr Kimble.
‘After all these years-you must agree it’s odd, Jim.’
‘Ar,’ said Mr Kimble.
‘Well, what am I going to do, Jim?’
‘Leave it be.’
‘Suppose there’s money in it?’
There was a gurgling sound as Mr Kimble drained his teacup to fortify himself for the mental effort of embarking on a long speech. He pushed his cup along and prefaced his remarks with a laconic: ‘More.’ Then he got under way.
‘You went on a lot at one time about what ’appened at St Catherine’s. I didn’t take much account of it-reckoned as it was mostly foolishness-women’s chatter. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe something did ’appen. If so it’s police business and you don’t want to be mixed up in it. All over and done with, ain’t it? You leave well alone, my girl.’
‘All very well to say that. It may be money as has been left me in a will. Maybe Mrs Halliday’s alive all the time and now she’s dead and left me something in ’er will.’
‘Left you something in ’er will? What for? Ar!’ said Mr Kimble, reverting to his favourite monosyllable to express scorn.
‘Even if it’s police…You know, Jim, there’s a big reward sometimes for anyone as can give information to catch a murderer.’
‘And what could you give? All you know you made up yourself in your head!’
‘That’s what you say. But I’ve been thinking-’
‘Ar,’ said Mr Kimble disgustedly.
‘Well, I have. Ever since I saw that first piece in the paper. Maybe I got things a bit wrong. That Layonee, she was a bit stupid like all foreigners, couldn’t understand proper what you said to her-and her English was something awful. If she didn’t mean what I thought she meant…I’ve been trying to remember the name of that man…Now if it was him she saw…Remember that picture I told you about? Secret Lover. Ever so exciting. They tracked him down in the end through his car. Fifty thousand dollars he paid the garage man to forget he filled up with petrol that night. Dunno what that is in pounds…And the other one was there, too, and the husband crazy with jealousy. All mad about her, they were. And in the end-’
Mr Kimble pushed back his chair with a grating sound. He rose to his feet with slow and ponderous authority. Preparatory to leaving the kitchen, he delivered an ultimatum-the ultimatum of a man who, though usually inarticulate, had a certain shrewdness.
‘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 said, but all the same…Jim was so hidebound, so stick-in-the- 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 exactlyhad 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
