Sleeping Murder - Agatha Christie [16]
Giles looked like a different kind of little boy—a little boy who has had his nice new toy taken away from him.
“I suppose it might have been a nightmare,” he admitted grudgingly. Then his face cleared suddenly.
“No,” he said. “I don’t believe it. You could have dreamt about monkeys’ paws and someone dead—but I’m damned if you could have dreamt that quotation from The Duchess of Malfi.”
“I could have heard someone say it and then dreamt about it afterwards.”
“I don’t think any child could do that. Not unless you heard it in conditions of great stress—and if that was the case we’re back again where we were—hold on, I’ve got it. It was the paws you dreamt. You saw the body and heard the words and you were scared stiff and then you had a nightmare about it, and there were waving monkeys’ paws too—probably you were frightened of monkeys.”
Gwenda looked slightly dubious—she said slowly: “I suppose that might be it….”
“I wish you could remember a bit more … Come down here in the hall. Shut your eyes. Think … Doesn’t anything more come back to you?”
“No, it doesn’t, Giles … The more I think, the further it all goes away … I mean, I’m beginning to doubt now if I ever really saw anything at all. Perhaps the other night I just had a brainstorm in the theatre.”
“No. There was something. Miss Marple thinks so, too. What about ‘Helen’? Surely you must remember something about Helen?”
“I don’t remember anything at all. It’s just a name.”
“It mightn’t even be the right name.”
“Yes, it was. It was Helen.”
Gwenda looked obstinate and convinced.
“Then if you’re so sure it was Helen, you must know something about her,” said Giles reasonably. “Did you know her well? Was she living here? Or just staying here?”
“I tell you I don’t know.” Gwenda was beginning to look strained and nervy.
Giles tried another tack.
“Who else can you remember? Your father?”
“No. I mean, I can’t tell. There was always his photograph, you see. Aunt Alison used to say: ‘That’s your Daddy.’ I don’t remember him here, in this house….”
“And no servants—nurses—anything like that?”
“No—no. The more I try to remember, the more it’s all a blank. The things I know are all underneath—like walking to that door automatically. I didn’t remember a door there. Perhaps if you wouldn’t worry me so much, Giles, things would come back more. Anyway, trying to find out about it all is hopeless. It’s so long ago.”
“Of course it’s not hopeless—even old Miss Marple admitted that.”
“She didn’t help us with any ideas of how to set about it,” said Gwenda. “And yet I feel, from the glint in her eye, that she had a few. I wonder how she would have gone about it.”
“I don’t suppose she would be likely to think of ways that we wouldn’t,” said Giles positively. “We must stop speculating, Gwenda, and set about things in a systematic way. We’ve made a beginning—I’ve looked through the Parish registers of deaths. There’s no ‘Helen’ of the right age amongst them. In fact there doesn’t seem to be a Helen at all in the period I covered—Ellen Pugg, ninety-four, was the nearest. Now we must think of the next profitable approach. If your father, and presumably your stepmother, lived in this house, they must either have bought it or rented it.”
“According to Foster, the gardener, some people called Elworthy had it before the Hengraves and before them Mrs. Findeyson. Nobody else.”
“Your father might have bought it and lived in it for a very short time—and then sold it again. But I think that it’s much more likely that he rented it—probably rented it furnished. If so, our best bet is to go round the house agents.”
Going round the house agents was not a prolonged labour. There were only two house agents in Dillmouth. Messrs. Wilkinson were a comparatively new arrival. They had only opened their premises eleven years ago. They dealt mostly with the small bungalows and new houses