Sleeping Murder Read Online Free Page A

once,” his wife said drily.
    â€œA mere drama of passion—crude—no subtlety to it.”
    â€œYou enjoyed it frightfully at the time,” Joan reminded him with a slight twinkle.
    â€œI sometimes enjoy playing village cricket,” said Raymond, with dignity.
    â€œAnyway, Aunt Jane distinguished herself over that murder.”
    â€œOh, she’s no fool. She adores problems.”
    â€œProblems?” said Gwenda, her mind flying to arithmetic.
    Raymond waved a hand.
    â€œAny 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.
    â€œCover her face. Mine eyes dazzle, she died young….”
    Gwenda screamed.
    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.
    â€œYou’ve come back early, miss. Didn’t you feel well?”
    â€œI—no, yes—I—I felt faint.”
    â€œWould you like anything, miss? Some brandy?”
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œOh, Miss Marple, I’m frightfully sorry. I don’t know what—it was awful of me. Are they very annoyed with me?”
    â€œNow don’t worry, my dear child,” said Miss Marple. “Just tuck yourself up warmly with these hot-water bottles.”
    â€œI don’t really need a hot-water bottle.”
    â€œOh 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.
    â€œJust 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