Sleeping Murder. Агата Кристи

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СКАЧАТЬ your birth your mother died. It was a great shock to us and we wrote to your father with whom we had corresponded, but whom actually we had never seen, begging him to entrust you to our care, as we would be only too glad to have you, and it might be difficult for an Army man stranded with a young child. Your father, however, refused, and told us he was resigning from the Army and taking you back with him to England. He said he hoped we would at some time come over and visit him there.

       I understand that on the voyage home, your father met a young woman, became engaged to her, and married her as soon as he got to England. The marriage was not, I gather, a happy one, and I understand they parted about a year later. It was then that your father wrote to us and asked if we were still willing to give you a home. I need hardly tell you, my dear, how happy we were to do so. You were sent out to us in the charge of an English nurse, and at the same time your father settled the bulk of his estate upon you and suggested that you might legally adopt our name. This, I may say, seemed a little curious to us, but we felt that it was kindly meant—and intended to make you more one of the family—we did not, however, adopt that suggestion. About a year later your father died in a nursing home. I surmise that he had already received bad news about his health at the time when he sent you out to us.

       I’m afraid I cannot tell you where you lived whilst with your father in England. His letter naturally had the address on it at the time but that is now eighteen years ago and I’m afraid one doesn’t remember such details. It was in the South of England, I know—and I fancy Dillmouth is correct. I had a vague idea it was Dartmouth, but the two names are not unlike. I believe your stepmother married again, but I have no recollection of her name, nor even of her unmarried name, though your father had mentioned it in the original letter telling of his remarriage. We were, I think, a little resentful of his marrying again so soon, but of course one knows that on board ship the influence of propinquity is very great—and he may also have thought that it would be a good thing on your account.

       It seemed stupid of me not to have mentioned to you that you had been in England even if you didn’t remember the fact, but, as I say, the whole thing had faded from my mind. Your mother’s death in India and your subsequently coming to live with us always seemed the important points.

       I hope this is all cleared up now?

       I do trust Giles will soon be able to join you. It is hard for you both being parted at this early stage.

       All my news in my next letter, as I am sending this off hurriedly in answer to your wire.

       Your loving aunt,

       Alison Danby.

       PS. You do not say what your worrying experience was?

      ‘You see,’ said Gwenda. ‘It’s almost exactly as you suggested.’

      Miss Marple smoothed out the flimsy sheet.

      ‘Yes—yes, indeed. The common-sense explanation. I’ve found, you know, that that is so often right.’

      ‘Well, I’m very grateful to you, Miss Marple,’ said Giles. ‘Poor Gwenda was thoroughly upset, and I must say I’d have been rather worried myself to think that Gwenda was clairvoyant or psychic or something.’

      ‘It might be a disturbing quality in a wife,’ said Gwenda. ‘Unless you’ve always led a thoroughly blameless life.’

      ‘Which I have,’ said Giles.

      ‘And the house? What do you feel about the house?’ asked Miss Marple.

      ‘Oh, that’s all right. We’re going down tomorrow. Giles is dying to see it.’

      ‘I don’t know whether you realize it, Miss Marple,’ said Giles, ‘but what it amounts to is, that we’ve got a first-class murder mystery on our hands. Actually on our very doorstep—or more accurately in our front hall.’

      ‘I had thought of that, yes,’ said Miss Marple slowly.

      ‘And Giles simply loves detective stories,’ said Gwenda.

      ‘Well, I mean, it is a detective story. Body in the hall of a beautiful strangled woman. Nothing known of her but her Christian name. Of course I know it’s nearly twenty years ago. There can’t be any clues after all this time, but one can at least cast about, and try to pick up some of the threads. Oh! I dare say one won’t succeed in solving the riddle—’

      ‘I think you might,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Even after eighteen years. Yes, I think you might.’

      ‘But at any rate it won’t do any harm to have a real good try?’

      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 light-heartedly.’

      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.’

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