Sleeping Murder. Agatha Christie
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She sprang up from her seat, pushed blindly past the others out into the aisle, through the exit and up the stairs and so to the street. She did not stop, even then, but half walked, half ran, in a blind panic up the Haymarket.
It was not until she had reached Piccadilly that she noticed a free taxi cruising along, hailed it and, getting in, gave the address of the Chelsea house. With fumbling fingers she got out money, paid the taxi and went up the steps. The servant who let her in glanced at her in surprise.
‘You’ve come back early, miss. Didn’t you feel well?’
‘I—no, yes—I—I felt faint.’
‘Would you like anything, miss? Some brandy?’
‘No, nothing. I’ll go straight up to bed.’
She ran up the stairs to avoid further questions.
She pulled off her clothes, left them on the floor in a heap and got into bed. She lay there shivering, her heart pounding, her eyes staring at the ceiling.
She did not hear the sound of fresh arrivals downstairs, but after about five minutes the door opened and Miss Marple came in. She had two hot-water bottles tucked under her arm and a cup in her hand.
Gwenda sat up in bed, trying to stop her shivering.
‘Oh, Miss Marple, I’m frightfully sorry. I don’t know what—it was awful of me. Are they very annoyed with me?’
‘Now don’t worry, my dear child,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Just tuck yourself up warmly with these hot-water bottles.’
‘I don’t really need a hot-water bottle.’
‘Oh yes, you do. That’s right. And now drink this cup of tea …’
It was hot and strong and far too full of sugar, but Gwenda drank it obediently. The shivering was less acute now.
‘Just lie down now and go to sleep,’ said Miss Marple. ‘You’ve had a shock, you know. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Don’t worry about anything. Just go to sleep.’
She drew the covers up, smiled, patted Gwenda and went out.
Downstairs Raymond was saying irritably to Joan: ‘What on earth was the matter with the girl? Did she feel ill, or what?’
‘My dear Raymond, I don’t know, she just screamed! I suppose the play was a bit too macabre for her.’
‘Well, of course Webster is a bit grisly. But I shouldn’t have thought—’ He broke off as Miss Marple came into the room. ‘Is she all right?’
‘Yes, I think so. She’d had a bad shock, you know.’
‘Shock? Just seeing a Jacobean drama?’
‘I think there must be a little more to it than that,’ said Miss Marple thoughtfully.
Gwenda’s breakfast was sent up to her. She drank some coffee and nibbled a little piece of toast. When she got up and came downstairs, Joan had gone to her studio, Raymond was shut up in his workroom and only Miss Marple was sitting by the window, which had a view over the river; she was busily engaged in knitting.
She looked up with a placid smile as Gwenda entered.
‘Good morning, my dear. You’re feeling better, I hope.’
‘Oh yes, I’m quite all right. How I could make such an utter idiot of myself last night, I don’t know. Are they—are they very mad with me?’
‘Oh no, my dear. They quite understand.’
‘Understand what?’
Miss Marple glanced up over her knitting.
‘That you had a bad shock last night.’ She added gently: ‘Hadn’t you better tell me all about it?’
Gwenda walked restlessly up and down.
‘I think I’d better go and see a psychiatrist or someone.’
‘There are excellent mental specialists in London, of course. But are you sure it is necessary?’
‘Well—I think I’m going mad … I must be going mad.’
An elderly parlourmaid entered the room with a telegram on a salver which she handed to Gwenda.
‘The boy wants to know if there’s an answer, ma’am?’
Gwenda tore it open. It had been retelegraphed on from Dillmouth. She stared at it for a moment or two uncomprehendingly, then screwed it into a ball.
‘There’s no answer,’ she said mechanically.
The maid left the room.
‘Not bad news, I hope, dear?’
‘It’s Giles—my husband. He’s flying home. He’ll be here in a week.’
Her voice was bewildered and miserable. Miss Marple gave a gentle little cough.
‘Well—surely—that is very nice, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? When I’m not sure if I’m mad or not? If I’m mad I ought never to have married Giles. And the house and everything. I can’t go back there. Oh, I don’t know what to do.’
Miss Marple patted the sofa invitingly.
‘Now suppose you sit down here, dear, and just tell me all about it.’
It was with a sense of relief that Gwenda accepted the invitation. She poured out the whole story, starting with her first view of Hillside and going on to the incidents that had first puzzled her and then worried her.
‘And so I got rather frightened,’ she ended. ‘And I thought I’d come up to London—get away from it all. Only, you see, I couldn’t get away from it. It followed me. Last night—’ she shut her eyes and gulped reminiscently.
‘Last night?’ prompted Miss Marple.
‘I dare say you won’t believe this,’ said Gwenda, speaking very fast. ‘You’ll think I’m hysterical or queer or something. It happened quite suddenly, right at the end. I’d enjoyed the play. I’d never thought once of the house. And then it came—out of the blue—when he said those words—’
She repeated in a low quivering voice: ‘Cover her face, mine eyes dazzle, she died young.
‘I was back there—on the stairs, looking down on the hall through the banisters, and I saw her lying there. Sprawled out—dead. Her hair all golden and her face all—all blue! She was dead, strangled, and someone was saying those words in that same horrible gloating way—and I saw his hands—grey, wrinkled—not hands—monkey’s paws … It was horrible, I tell you. She was dead …’
Miss Marple asked gently: ‘Who was dead?’
The answer came back quick and mechanical.
‘Helen …’
For a moment Gwenda stared at Miss Marple, then she pushed back the hair from her forehead.
‘Why did I say that?’ she said. ‘Why did I say Helen? I don’t know any Helen!’
She dropped her hands with a gesture of despair.
‘You see,’ she said, ‘I’m mad! I imagine things! I go about seeing things that aren’t there. First it was only wallpapers—but now it’s dead bodies. So I’m getting worse.’
‘Now don’t