Sleeping Murder. Агата Кристи
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get it opened.’
The man came up with her and examined the door.
‘It’s been painted over more than once,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the men to get it open for you tomorrow if that will do.’
Gwenda acquiesced and Taylor went away.
That evening Gwenda felt jumpy and nervous. Sitting in the drawing-room and trying to read, she was aware of every creak of the furniture. Once or twice she looked over her shoulder and shivered. She told herself repeatedly that there was nothing in the incident of the door and the path. They were just coincidences. In any case they were the result of plain common sense.
Without admitting it to herself, she felt nervous of going up to bed. When she finally got up and turned off the lights and opened the door into the hall, she found herself dreading to go up the stairs. She almost ran up them in her haste, hurried along the passage and opened the door of her room. Once inside she at once felt her fears calmed and appeased. She looked round the room affectionately. She felt safe in here, safe and happy. Yes, now she was here, she was safe. (Safe from what, you idiot? she asked herself.) She looked at her pyjamas spread out on the bed and her bedroom slippers below them.
Really, Gwenda, you might be six years old! You ought to have bunny shoes, with rabbits on them.
She got into bed with a sense of relief and was soon asleep.
The next morning she had various matters to see to in the town. When she came back it was lunch-time.
‘The men have got the cupboard open in your bedroom, madam,’ said Mrs Cocker as she brought in the delicately fried sole, the mashed potatoes and the creamed carrots.
‘Oh good,’ said Gwenda.
She was hungry and enjoyed her lunch. After having coffee in the drawing-room, she went upstairs to her bedroom. Crossing the room she pulled open the door of the corner cupboard.
Then she uttered a sudden frightened little cry and stood staring.
The inside of the cupboard revealed the original papering of the wall, which elsewhere had been done over in the yellowish wall paint. The room had once been gaily papered in a floral design, a design of little bunches of scarlet poppies alternating with bunches of blue cornflowers …
Gwenda stood there staring a long time, then she went shakily over to the bed and sat down on it.
Here she was in a house she had never been in before, in a country she had never visited—and only two days ago she had lain in bed imagining a paper for this very room—and the paper she had imagined corresponded exactly with the paper that had once hung on the walls.
Wild fragments of explanation whirled round in her head. Dunne, Experiment with Time—seeing forward instead of back …
She could explain the garden path and the connecting door as coincidence—but there couldn’t be coincidence about this. You couldn’t conceivably imagine a wallpaper of such a distinctive design and then find one exactly as you had imagined it … No, there was some explanation that eluded her and that—yes, frightened her. Every now and then she was seeing, not forward, but back—back to some former state of the house. Any moment she might see something more—something she didn’t want to see … The house frightened her … But was it the house or herself? She didn’t want to be one of those people who saw things …
She drew a long breath, put on her hat and coat and slipped quickly out of the house. At the post office she sent the following telegram:
West, 19 Addway Square Chelsea London. May I change my mind and come to you tomorrow Gwenda.
She sent it reply paid.
Raymond West and his wife did all they could to make young Giles’s wife feel welcome. It was not their fault that Gwenda found them secretly rather alarming. Raymond, with his odd appearance, rather like a pouncing raven, his sweep of hair and his sudden crescendos of quite incomprehensible conversation, left Gwenda round-eyed and nervous. Both he and Joan seemed to talk a language of their own. Gwenda had never been plunged in a highbrow atmosphere before and practically all its terms were strange.
‘We’ve planned to take you to a show or two,’ said Raymond whilst Gwenda was drinking gin and rather wishing she could have had a cup of tea after her journey.
Gwenda brightened up immediately.
‘The Ballet tonight at Sadler’s Wells, and tomorrow we’ve got a birthday party on for my quite incredible Aunt Jane—the Duchess of Malfi with Gielgud, and on Friday you simply must see They Walked without Feet. Translated from the Russian—absolutely the most significent piece of drama for the last twenty years. It’s at the little Witmore Theatre.’
Gwenda expressed herself grateful for these plans for her entertainment. After all, when Giles came home, they would go together to the musical shows and all that. She flinched slightly at the prospect of They Walked without Feet, but supposed she might enjoy it—only the point about ‘significant’ plays was that you usually didn’t.
‘You’ll adore my Aunt Jane,’ said Raymond. ‘She’s what I should describe as a perfect Period Piece. Victorian to the core. All her dressing-tables have their legs swathed in chintz. She lives in a village, the kind of village where nothing ever happens, exactly like a stagnant pond.’
‘Something did happen there once,’ his wife said drily.
‘A mere drama of passion—crude—no subtlety to it.’
‘You enjoyed it frightfully at the time,’ Joan reminded him with a slight twinkle.
‘I sometimes enjoy playing village cricket,’ said Raymond, with dignity.
‘Anyway, Aunt Jane distinguished herself over that murder.’
‘Oh, she’s no fool. She adores problems.’
‘Problems?’ said Gwenda, her mind flying to arithmetic.
Raymond waved a hand.
‘Any kind of problem. Why the grocer’s wife took her umbrella to the church social on a fine evening. Why a gill of pickled shrimps was found where it was. What happened to the Vicar’s surplice. All grist to my Aunt Jane’s mill. So if you’ve any problem in your life, put it to her, Gwenda. She’ll tell you the answer.’
He laughed and Gwenda laughed too, but not very heartily. She was introduced to Aunt Jane, otherwise Miss Marple, on the following day. Miss Marple was an attractive old lady, tall and thin, with pink cheeks and blue eyes, and a gentle, rather fussy manner. Her blue eyes often had a little twinkle in them.
After an early dinner at which they drank Aunt Jane’s health, they all went off to His Majesty’s Theatre. Two extra men, an elderly artist and a young barrister were in the party. The elderly artist devoted himself to Gwenda and the young barrister divided his attentions between Joan and Miss Marple whose remarks he seemed to enjoy very much. At the theatre, however, this arrangement was reversed. Gwenda sat in the middle of the row between Raymond and the barrister.
The lights went down and the play began.
It was superbly acted and Gwenda enjoyed it very much. She had not seen very many first-rate theatrical productions.
The play drew to a close, came to that supreme moment of horror. The actor’s voice came over the footlights filled with the tragedy of a warped and perverted mentality.
‘Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle, she died young …’
Gwenda screamed.
She