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-Why do you want to go to Dillmouth? -It sounds nice.
Anyway, I haven't seen the sea yet.
Going to paddle?
I might. Don't be superior.
It's all new to me, darling. That's what you don't understand.
-Giles, look! -What?
Just stop! I've got to take a look at that.
What?
That house!
What would you do with a vast place like that?
Live in it. It's just what I want, what I've always dreamed of.
The agents are in Dillmouth. I was right to come!
Young people don't live here. People RETIRE to Dillmouth.
I'm just an ignorant New Zealander. I can do what I want.
Galbraith and Penderley, in Fore Street.
All right. But it's the last house we see today.
It might be the last house we're GOING to see.
It seems rather large.
-Is it SEVEN bedrooms? -Six.
In my opinion, the seventh is a dressing room.
It's a lovely big room, Mrs Hengrave.
But you can't see the sea.
Are you a Devon man, Mr Reed?
I was born in Plymouth but my wife has never been to England before.
I flew back last week after three years in New Zealand.
-On business? -Yes. The Meat Marketing Board.
-My husband was in the bank. -Really?
He was secretary of the golf club. He was very attached to Dillmouth.
Linen cupboards here.
Is this the bathroom?
...Oh, yes, it is! With a mahogany surround!
Isn't that wonderful?
-My husband was old-fashioned. -I really love it!
I can just see celluloid ducks in that bath!
-You mean plastic. -Celluloid, when I was a girl.
There must be another bedroom here.
Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs Hengrave.
I just feel so at home here.
Now, this is the room for me!
And there's the sea!
-Oh! -What's wrong?
I don't know. It's like vertigo.
Someone on my grave.
This house isn't haunted, is it?
I never heard so.
But someone died here.
My husband died in St Monica's Nursing Home.
Of course. You told us. I'm sorry.
In a house of this age, there must have been some deaths.
Miss Elworthy, from whom we bought it, was in excellent health.
She went abroad to do missionary work. You'll want to see the garden.
We have a man who comes twice a week but he's not very reliable.
(PHONE RINGS)
-Oh, dear, excuse me. -Yes, of course.
Do you think it's someone else wanting to view?
I doubt it. The price is too high.
That forsythia will have to go. It blocks the view.
There should be steps here down to the lawn.
Steps? I thought this place gave you the creeps.
That was silly.
I want it. Aunt Mary's furniture will be perfect!
-It's five hundred over the top. -Make an offer then.
'Do a brutal deal with Galbraith and Penderley and feel happy.'
-We've got to get up. -Why?
Just because you're a man of leisure for the next 2 months...
Moving into this house is the hardest work I've ever done!
The workmen and Mrs Cocker will be here.
She said something yesterday about the devil and idle hands!
Oh, Mrs Cocker...
-They workmen make a powerful lot of dust. -Yes, I know!
-I'll cover the dining room table with this. -And not a bit too soon.
Oh! How silly of me! I always think there's a door through here!
'Twould save a tidy lot of trouble to have a door there.
I'll ask Mr Sims about it.
If you'd put this on the table, I'll get my husband his breakfast.
Yes, madam.
-It's from Raymond West. -Who?
My cousin in town. The writer. I told you about him.
Oh, yes. What does he want?
Wants us to spend a few days with them in London.
He and Joan are dying to meet you.
-Oh, no. -Why not?
A break would do us good. And I have things to do in town.
Why don't you want to go?
There's too much to do here. It'll be chaos.
It'll be chaos anyway.
Why don't we let Sims and Mrs Cocker fight it out while we take a break?
No.
You go if you want. It's you they want to see. I'll stay here.
You'll be lonely.
-I might have a mad affair with Reg. -Reg?
-He's the mason. -Is he now?
Looks like you're going back to old times, Miss.
-Old times? -I come across the old steps, see?
Just like you want 'em now. Someone had planted over them.
That was silly. You want a view here down to the lawn and the sea.
These shrubs made it dark in the house. Still, they was growing well.
Forsythia ain't much, but they wigglers, they cost money.
-This is much nicer. -Maybe it is.
Mr Foster, who lived here before the Hengraves?
They weren't here very long.
Oh...six years or so. Before them, the Miss Elworthys, churchy folk.
Missions to the heathen. Who was it afore that?
Mrs Findeyson. Proper gentry, she was. Planted most of the garden.
-Did she die here? -No.
Died out in Egypt, or some such place.
But they brought her home and she'm buried in the churchyard.
Weren't none of they new houses then.
-I suppose there have to be improvements. -I don't see any.
That was the cottage hospital there, nice and handy.
Then they builds that new place a mile out of town.
Changes all the time. What's the good of that?
What do you fancy, Mrs Reed?
We've got a nice candy-stripe. We do a lot of that.
One or two walls, and a matching emulsion.
-Oh, I don't know, Mr Sims. -It's contemporary!
This won't be your room, I take it, not when the other's been decorated.
I DO like this room.
-Been the nursery at one time. -What?
Bars on the windows.
Still...
I know what I want! I want a wallpaper...
with bunches of tiny scarlet poppies and something else...
Yes! Poppies and bunches of blue cornflowers.
To match this. A white background
-and bunches of red and blue flowers! -Mrs Reed...
And this is stuck. Even my husband couldn't open it.
Do you think...?
It's been painted over a good few times.
My carpenter will see to that.
Redecorating will take care of any damage.
It won't alter the estimate?
Oh, bless us, no! Got some good news for you on that score, Mrs Reed.
You have?
That door to the dining room that you wanted...
Reg scraped some plaster away.
He said there's been a door there before.
There WAS a door?
Very simple to put it back, so I'll take a few pounds off what I quoted.
I knew there was a door.
Common sense, really.
But that wallpaper you talked about, cornflowers and poppies, you said.
I'll look through the samples, but I can't remember anything like that.
'I can just see celluloid ducks in a bath like that.
I think you mean plastic.
'That door to the dining room that you wanted...
'Reg scraped some plaster away.
He said there's been a door there before.
'It's like you're going back to old times, Miss.
Old times?
'I've come across the old steps, just like you want 'em now.
'It's been the nursery at one time, I fancy.
'It's been painted over a good few times.
'My carpenter will see to that.
The redecorating will take care of any damage.
'With bunches of tiny scarlet poppies and bunches of blue cornflowers. '
Oh!
Oh-h!
(PHONE RINGS)
Hello?
-Hello? -Giles?
-Are you all right, darling? -Are you in London?
Yes, I'm calling from the Wests'.
They would love you to come down just for a few days.
-Are you there? Gwenda? -Yes, I'm here.
Hop on a train and I'll see you at Paddington tomorrow.
Yes, I will.
Raymond and Joan will be chuffed. And there's someone else to meet.
Here she is! Aunt Jane, this is Giles' wife, Gwenda.
-How do you do, Miss Marple? -How do you do.
-What an unusual name! -It's Welsh.
My mother was Welsh.
But aren't you from New Zealand?
My mother died when I was born, in India.
My father sent me to New Zealand to live with relatives.
-It wasn't long before he died too. -That awful climate!
I know some old India hands in St Mary Mead.
That's my village.
Aunt Jane solves puzzles, and not the ones in The Times!
-I am fond of the crossword. -What puzzles?
Very murky puzzles. The things that happen in a village would amaze you.
So that's why YOU go there so often.
The ambiance suits me perfectly.
Under the thatch of "The Lilacs", dark passions stir.
Here in London, we need the arts to jazz things up.
Oh, we're all going to the Court tonight.
-The Court?! -It's a theatre.
Oh. Thank goodness.
More dark passions, actually, "The Duchess of Malfi".
BOSOLA: Alas! How have these offended?
FERDINAND: The death of young wolves is never to be pitied.
Fix your eyes here. Constantly.
Do you not weep? Other sins only speak: Murder shrieks out.
Water moistens the earth, But blood flies up and bedews the heavens.
Cover her face.
Mine eyes dazzle: She died YOUNG.
I think not so... (GWENDA SCREAMS)
Her...her infelicity seemed to have years too many.
She and I were twins,
And should I die this instant, I had lived her time to a minute!
It seems she was born first.
You have bloodily approved the ancient truth
That kindred commonly do worse agree Than remote strangers.
JOAN: How do I know why she screamed?
RAYMOND: "Webster was much possessed by death", of course.
Well done, Raymond.
Personally, I loathe Jacobean drama.
I suppose it was the shock.
I think there is more to it than that, Joan.
I must apologise. Gwenda's very sorry; so am I.
-She's gone to bed. -How is she, poor dear?
She's still very shaken. I don't quite know what to do.
It's rather a muddle, like one of your puzzles.
I don't think I should leave her alone too long.
No. I don't want to interfere, but may I speak to her?
That would be very kind. She'd like that.
-Good. Well, I'll go up. -Would you like a drink?
Cocoa would be nice;
hot sweet tea for Gwenda and lots of hot water bottles.
You know the room?
-Have we any cocoa? -Or hot water bottles?
Dear Aunt Jane.
Whisky, we have. You deserve a large one.
Thanks. Gwenda's still very upset.
I think I'm going mad. I must be going mad.
All those things that happened in the house,
in Hillside...
and then tonight.
Yes?
It happened...quite suddenly.
I was enjoying the play, not thinking about the house.
And then he said those words...
The Duke.
"Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle. She died young."
And I was on the stair at Hillside, looking down through the bannister.
And I saw her lying there,
her hair all golden and her face...
She was strangled.
There was a man.
I saw his hands.
They were grey, wrinkled, like monkeys' paws.
She was dead.
Who was dead?
Helen.
Why did I say that? I don't know any Helen.
You see, I'm mad.
I ought to see a psychiatrist at once, unless it's too late.
Do that if you wish, but I'd look at the simplest explanation first.
You say several things about this house seem familiar, right?
Yes.
The easiest and most natural explanation is you've seen them before.
-In another life, you mean? -No, dear, no. I mean in this life.
I've never been in England until six weeks ago.
My father sent me straight from India to New Zealand.
And you remember that? The voyage to New Zealand?
No.
It's quite possible that you came to England and lived at Hillside.
The room you remember was probably your nursery.
It WAS a nursery. There are bars on the window.
-But that's impossible. -No, no, not impossible.
Just a remarkable coincidence. And coincidences DO happen.
Remember, you chose the house.
And you had no feeling of revulsion
until you started to come downstairs and looked into the hall.
Then that's true as well?
I mean, Helen...?
I think if the other things are memories, this is a memory too.
Remember, you told me you saw the body THROUGH the bannisters,
just as you would have done standing on the stairs as a child.
I must speak to Aunt Alison.
In New Zealand?
She'll know.
Oh, good morning, Miss Marple.
-Am I disturbing you? -No, of course not.
Gwenda's just coming down. It was pretty late before we got to bed.
Did Gwenda speak to her relations in New Zealand?
Aunt Alison didn't seem to realise it was so late here.
You were right.
Her father took her to England after her mother died.
He met a young woman on the boat and married her in London.
Did Aunt Alison recall her name? She left him quite soon.
That's why Gwenda was sent to New Zealand.
Aunt Alison DID remember they lived in Devon:
Dartmouth she thought, but it could have been Dillmouth.
So that all fits.
Did Gwenda say why she was making these enquiries?
She said she had a strong feeling she'd been in England before.
Aunt Alison has left some things unsaid to Gwenda.
I suppose she thought it best forgotten.
-Ah, there you are, my dear! -Good morning, Miss Marple.
-Raymond's typing but where's Joan? -In her studio.
Has Giles told you how brilliant you are?
Oh.
We just couldn't get to sleep. It explained so much.
-And then, so much it didn't. -That's true.
I must find out, of course.
-Find out what? -The truth.
Who was Helen? And was she really murdered?
I've got to know.
Oh, my dear, I do advise you most strongly not to do that.
Why? I expect it's all imagination but Gwenda wants to know.
Giles is right. We've got to see it through.
Don't you understand?
Of course I do because you're both young and charming
and you're just beginning.
You can't imagine...
I was thinking of Freddie Lovelace.
He was dairyman at Home Farm.
His mother had apparently won first prize for chrysanthemums,
before Freddie was born.
When she died, he tried to find the certificate to have it framed.
He was so proud of her, you see. It was a grave mistake.
Why? Hadn't she won?
Oh, no. It turned out she wasn't his mother.
All I'm saying is that I wish... I do so wish
that you'd leave the past alone.
-Was it here? -A bit nearer the stairs.
I think it must be true. What Miss Marple said, I mean.
And you can't remember anything else, here in the hall?
Just Helen.
No-one knows about it so it can't have have been murder.
And the parish register of deaths wasn't much help.
What idiots!
-You know who we should ask? -Who?
The land agents. My father must have bought or rented this house.
Of course! Galbraith and Penderley.
There WAS a Halliday at my prep school...in Yorkshire.
Seventy years ago! Good God! Eh?
Why come to me? I'm an old man. Retired years ago.
We thought you might remember, Mr Galbraith,
because my father came here from India.
Mr Penderley said you were there in the First World War.
India?
We think Gwenda's father might have rented Hillside.
Was it called Hillside then?
WAS a chap...young wife and a baby.
-Little girl. -That was me.
You don't say so!
Well, well!
-Now, what WAS his name? -Halliday.
That's right, my dear. Nice fellow. Very pretty wife.
Young, fair-haired.
Wanted to be near her people.
-Yes...VERY pretty. -Who WERE her people?
Mm? No idea.
No idea at all, my dear. Didn't look like you.
No, well...
St Catherine's! Yes, that's what the place was called.
He took St Catherine's at 8 guineas a week,
while Mrs Findeyson was out in Egypt.
Didn't she run off with someone, that young girl, Halliday's wife?
We thought you might tell us.
Oh, I don't know, my dears. It's a devil of a long time ago.
You can tell Beryl I want my drink.
I didn't dream it, then.
So, my stepmother was young and she had fair hair.
But we still don't know her name.
We DIDN'T. This is from Raymond.
I asked him to check for me at Somerset House.
What's Somerset House?
The registry of births, deaths and marriages.
Here's a duplicate of your father's certificate:
Kensington Registry Office, August 7th.
Kelvin James Halliday...
to Helen Spenlove Kennedy.
But it CAN'T have been her you saw. Galbraith said she went away.
How do we know?
How do we know she went away?
Miss Marple?
-I thought it was you! -Hello, my dear.
What are YOU doing here?
My doctor ordered me to the seaside for a change
and you'd told me how attractive Dillmouth was.
Also a friend's former cook takes boarders here.
Why didn't you visit us?
Old people are a nuisance to a young couple.
No, not you!
You'd have made me welcome, I'm sure. How are you?
I was thinking of you only a moment ago.
-You were? -Yes.
I've been studying the local newspaper.
Then you've seen our advertisement. I'm afraid we haven't taken your advice.
Well, good advice is almost certain to be ignored.
I always find the Personals intriguing.
"Will anyone with a knowledge of Helen Spenlove Halliday,
nee Kennedy etc."
-So it WAS Helen? -Yes, it was.
Forgive me if I seem concerned but my life has so few excitements.
Don't think me inquisitive if I ask you to tell me how you get on.
No, of course not.
We'll tell you everything.
Come to afternoon tea and see the house.
We put the advertisement in The Times as well,
so we should get some answers.
Yes, I think so. I DO think so, my dear.
'Galls Hill, Woodleigh Bolton.
'Dear Sir, In answer to your advertisement in The Times,
Helen Spenlove Kennedy is my sister.
'I've lost touch with her and should be glad to have news of her.
Yours faithfully, James Kennedy, MD. '
Good Lord! You don't mean to tell me you're Gwennie!
Yes, I'm Gwennie!
This calls for some ceremony. We must have tea. Please sit down
So, you've bought a house in Dillmouth, have you?
Yes. By coincidence, we bought Hillside.
I believe you told me on the phone.
-It was for sale, you see. -Mm.
It's the house my father had all those years ago.
Hillside?
They changed the name, before the war.
I've got the right place? On the Leahampton Road?
-It was called St Catherine's then. -Of course.
Ah, Mrs Rowe.
We thought we'd have some tea. Some cakes or something.
I don't usually go in for tea.
Why are you back at St Catherine's? You won't remember much about it.
-Very little. But it felt like home. -Felt like home...
So I hoped you could tell me all about it: my father and Helen.
-Well, everything. -There's not much.
Helen met your father on the boat back from India.
He'd lost his wife. Fell in love with her.
She felt sorry for him.
It's hard to know how these things happen.
They married in London and came down to me.
I was in practice in Dillmouth then.
Nice fellow, Kelvin. A bit nervy and run-down.
But they were happy together - then.
However, within a year, she ran away with someone else.
-Who did she run away with? -She didn't tell me.
But I'd seen there was some friction between her and Kelvin.
She didn't want me to know what was going on. I wouldn't have approved.
They often had people to stay with them. I imagined it was one of them.
There wasn't a divorce?
Helen didn't want a divorce, so I imagined it was some married man,
someone whose wife was a Catholic, perhaps.
-And my father? -He didn't want a divorce either.
Why did he send me to New Zealand?
I gather your people out there were pressing him.
Why didn't he take me?
He was in rather poor health at the time.
-What did he die of? -I don't remember.
He was in poor health and he went to a sanatorium on the east coast
and died there about 2 years later.
Where was it exactly?
I don't remember.
Can you tell us where he is buried?
I don't think we should dwell on the past.
It was such a long time ago.
We rather lost touch when he left Dillmouth.
-I've no idea where he is buried. -That's strange.
Not really. Helen was the link. I was fond of her.
Tried to take care of her. She was my half-sister.
She got involved early on with a most unsuitable young man.
And I took care of that.
Then she went to India to marry Walter Fane,
a solicitor's son who was dull as dishwater.
When she saw him in Bombay, it was all off.
And then, she met your father coming home.
You see what I mean? I was always worried about Helen.
Do you know where she is? I'd like to get in touch with her again.
No.
No, we don't know at all.
That's one of the reasons we came to see you.
I thought from your advertisement...
-So tell me, why did you advertise? -We were hoping...
We thought someone who knew her
might be able to tell me something about my father.
Were you? Well now, I'm sorry. That's all I know.
What did you make of him?
I think he's hiding something.
I wish we'd never started this.
Jim?
Look what I found in the paper. I almost strained the chips onto it.
"Will anyone with a knowledge of Helen Spenlove Halliday nee Kennedy
communicate with..."
That's Mrs Halliday I was in service with.
Her name was Helen.
And she was sister to Dr Kennedy. Him as cured my chilblains.
Think there's any money in it? Might be a will. It's a long time ago.
Do you think it could be the police?
-Whatever? -You KNOW what I always thought.
I told Edie but she wouldn't have it.
I'd have said more but I'd gone to the pictures when I shouldn't have.
'Twouldn't be police after all this time.
But it doesn't say, "To your advantage."
Do you think I should, Jim?
-Not if I was you, Lily. -Whyever not?
Only leads to trouble, that sort of thing.
When's supper ready?
(PHONE RINGS)
I'll answer it, darling.
-Hello? -Mr Reed? It's Dr Kennedy here.
Hello, Dr Kennedy.
'I've thought of some things you and your wife should know. '
Seems odd to be here again.
Are you still determined to find the sanatorium where your father died?
Yes, we are.
That should be easy enough after what I've told you.
Shall we sit down?
I thought it better if you heard the facts from me.
It won't do you or anybody any good but there it is.
No, thanks.
Your father wasn't physically ill. The sanatorium was a mental home.
A mental home?
You mean he was mad?
He had a severe mental breakdown.
He was suffering from delusional obsessions.
What kind of delusions?
He thought that he'd strangled his wife.
No!
Strangled? And had he?
-No, of course, he hadn't. -How do you know?
There was no question of that.
He'd been in a very unbalanced state for some time.
The shock when Helen left him sent him over the edge.
If a man would rather his wife was dead than unfaithful,
he can persuade himself of anything.
So you're quite sure he hadn't done what he said?
Oh, quite sure. I'd had two letters from Helen.
One from France, a week after she left and another six months later.
It was all a delusion.
-Can you tell us about it? -I'll try to.
He'd been having dreams
that always ended up in the same way, with throttling Helen.
It all came to a head one evening after I got back from the hospital.
It was a Friday, I remember.
Kelvin had been waiting for me in my consulting room for about 15 minutes.
When I came in, he looked up at me and said, "I've killed Helen."
I didn't know what to think.
I said, "Have you had another dream?"
He said, "No, it's true. She's lying there. Strangled."
He seemed very cool and reasonable,
so I got the car out again and took him back to the house.
It was quiet and dark, I remember.
-We went up to the bedroom. -The bedroom?
Yes, that's where it happened. But there was nothing there.
The whole thing was a hallucination.
-What did my father say? -He persisted in his story of course.
I gave him a sedative and put him to bed in the dressing room.
I found a note in the waste-paper basket in HERE.
It said, "Going away with the only man I've ever loved."
Clearly he'd come in and read it
and experienced a severe attack of hysterical amnesia.
That's all.
He wasn't alone that night in the house.
Of course, you were tucked up in bed but I questioned the housemaid.
I took her upstairs into Helen's room.
She'd packed a suitcase before she went away.
The next morning I talked to Kelvin
and he agreed to go into a nursing home.
Helen's letter came from Biarritz.
She said she didn't want a divorce
and she hoped Kelvin would forget her as soon as possible.
He went into a private mental home and that's where he died.
-You got another letter from Helen? -Yes. Poste restante from Florence.
She said if Kelvin wanted a divorce, she'd let him have the evidence.
I showed it to him and he said that he didn't, so I wrote and told her.
And that's the last I ever heard.
Of course, the war blotted out many things.
I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Gwennie.
But you had to know.
Aunt Alison never breathed a word.
No. She never did.
I KNEW. I knew all the time.
-We still can't be sure. -I knew it was Helen.
-I saw she was strangled. -But there was no body.
Your father was mistaken.
-You could have been too. -No, Giles.
Supposing he found her writing the note?
Suppose he saw red, grabbed her, got his hands round her throat
-and that's what you saw. -Then what?
She passed out. He thought he'd killed her, went for Dr Kennedy.
Meanwhile, she recovers or her lover turns up.
No, I know she was dead.
Like a dog that throws back its head and howls.
-Hello. -Oh, damn!
-What's she doing here? -I forgot to tell you, I invited her.
-Gwenda! -We can't back out now.
Hello, Miss Marple.
-How are you enjoying Dillmouth? -Very much!
I have friends who have friends here and I've received a number of invitations.
-That's nice. -Yes, indeed.
Oh, what a beautiful spot!
I do hope that you've settled in by now.
Well...
The fact is, Miss Marple, we've just had a visitor...
and rather a shock for me.
Well, my dears, I do see what you mean.
It's what you thought in London, isn't it?
You thought that my father might be involved.
It occurred to me as a possibility.
With a strangling, the husband is often involved.
I wish now we'd taken your advice.
Once you've started, you can't go back.
No. However dangerous the journey, you can't turn back.
How can we go on? Nothing makes any sense.
There's always "X".
-"X"? -"X"?
The unknown factor.
Someone who hasn't appeared yet but whose presence can be deduced.
A lover, perhaps.
Someone who posted those letters from abroad.
You're too young to remember the case of Dr Crippen
when something similar occurred.
We've got to visit the place where my father died.
Perhaps we'll find something there.
I do remember your father, though I wasn't in charge of the case.
Dr McGuire was Superintendent then and I was his junior.
-Would you like to come in? -Thank you, Dr Penrose.
Thank you.
I...ehm...had Dr Kennedy's letter.
I've been going through the notes of your father's case history.
It had some very unusual features. Most interesting.
I know very little about my father.
We hoped you'd tell us as much as you can.
Yes.
A remarkable obsession -
believing he'd strangled his wife in a fit of jealous rage.
The delusion itself wasn't untypical
but there was a lack of accompanying evidence of psychotic symptoms.
What I mean is, he wasn't mad. ...Or didn't appear so.
-How WOULD you describe my father? -Very convincing.
Gentle, kindly, over-controlled. At first I was inclined to believe him.
You believed he'd killed his wife?
I said "at first".
Later, as we got deeper into his history,
we diagnosed it as a delusional neurosis,
with roots far back in his childhood.
Unfortunately, we didn't have time to complete his analysis.
You know, I suppose, he committed suicide?
-No. -No. We didn't know that.
Oh. I'm sorry. I thought you knew.
We admitted some responsibility.
He'd been prescribed sleeping tablets BEFORE his admission.
He had pretended to take the nightly dose until he had sufficient.
-Was he SO unhappy? -No. It was guilt, not depression.
He tried to call the police - normal desire for punishment.
I remember he told me
that he thought at one time his wife was secretly giving him drugs,
probably related to living in India.
There were cases of women driving their husbands mad with datura.
Ah! Here's a typical interview.
Dr McGuire's notes. Your father said, "Came home. Everything dark.
"Went into dining room, poured drink then went through to drawing room."
Then he said he remembers nothing
till standing in bedroom looking down at Helen, strangled.
-He knew he'd done it. -How did he know?
Question: "Do you remember killing her?" Answer: "No."
"Then how do you know?" Answer: "Because she's dead."
The same pattern over and over again. Impossible to convince him.
He left this diary, by the way. I suppose you might like to have it.
It's not especially important, medically speaking.
-WOULD you like to have it? -Yes. I should like that very much.
'What's true? I've written to James Kennedy.
'Let Helen come to see me, if she's alive.
'He says he doesn't know where she is but I'm not deceived.
'He's a good fellow.
'And he knows I killed her.
'After all the dreams, the nightmares...
'Because I always knew from the very first that there was someone else. '
'There's always "X", the unknown factor.
'Someone who hasn't appeared yet but whose presence can be deduced.
' A lover, perhaps.
'Once you've started, you can't go back.
'No. However dangerous the journey, you can't turn back. '
'This is the only way for me, and for little Gwennie.
'I always knew that there was someone else. '