Sleeping Murder by Agatha Christie Page B

Kelvin said he had strangled her in the bedroom.”
    â€œHe was so het up, he couldn’t quite remember where it had all happened.”
    Gwenda said: “I’d like to believe you. I want to believe … But I go on feeling sure—quite sure—that when I looked down she was dead—quite dead.”
    â€œBut how could you possibly tell? A child of barely three.”
    She looked at him queerly.
    â€œI think one can tell—better than if one was older. It’s like dogs—they know death and throw back their heads and howl. I think children—know death….”
    â€œThat’s nonsense—that’s fantastic.”
    The ring of the frontdoor bell interrupted him. He said, “Who’s that, I wonder?”
    Gwenda looked dismayed.
    â€œI quite forgot. It’s Miss Marple. I asked her to tea today. Don’t let’s go saying anything about all this to her.”
    II
    Gwenda was afraid that tea might prove a difficult meal—but Miss Marple fortunately seemed not to notice that her hostess talked a little too fast and too feverishly, and that her gaiety was somewhat forced. Miss Marple herself was gently garrulous—she was enjoying her stay in Dillmouth so much and—wasn’t it exciting?—some friends of friends of hers had written to friends of theirs in Dillmouth, and as a result she had received some very pleasant invitations from the local residents.
    â€œOne feels so much less of an outsider, if you know what I mean, my dear, if one gets to know some of the people who have been established here for years. For instance, I am going to tea with Mrs. Fane—she is the widow of the senior partner in the best firm of solicitors here. Quite an old-fashioned family firm. Her son is carrying it on now.”
    The gentle gossiping voice went on. Her landlady was so kind—and made her so comfortable—“and really delicious cooking. She was for some years with my old friend Mrs. Bantry—although she does not come from this part of the world herself—her aunt lived here for many years and she and her husband used to come here for holidays—so she knows a great deal of the local gossip. Do you find your gardener satisfactory, by the way? I hear that he is considered locally as rather a scrimshanker —more talk than work.”
    â€œTalk and tea is his speciality,” said Giles. “He has about five cups of tea a day. But he works splendidly when we are looking.”
    â€œCome out and see the garden,” said Gwenda.
    They showed her the house and the garden, and Miss Marplemade the proper comments. If Gwenda had feared her shrewd observation of something amiss, then Gwenda was wrong. For Miss Marple showed no cognizance of anything unusual.
    Yet, strangely enough, it was Gwenda who acted in an unpredictable manner. She interrupted Miss Marple in the midst of a little anecdote about a child and a seashell to say breathlessly to Giles:
    â€œI don’t care—I’m going to tell her….”
    Miss Marple turned her head attentively. Giles started to speak, then stopped. Finally he said, “Well, it’s your funeral, Gwenda.”
    And so Gwenda poured it all out. Their call on Dr. Kennedy and his subsequent call on them and what he had told them.
    â€œThat was what you meant in London, wasn’t it?” Gwenda asked breathlessly. “You thought, then, that—that my father might be involved?”
    Miss Marple said gently, “It occurred to me as a possibility—yes. ‘Helen’ might very well be a young stepmother—and in a case of—er—strangling, it is so often a husband who is involved.”
    Miss Marple spoke as one who observes natural phenomena without surprise or emotion.
    â€œI do see why you urged us to leave it alone,” said Gwenda. “Oh, and I wish now we had. But one can’t go back.”
    â€œNo,” said Miss Marple,