Sleeping Murder by Agatha Christie
Mr. Penderley stretched out apologetic hands.
“I’m afraid it’s not possible to tell you, Mr. Reed. Our records do not go back that far—not, that is, of furnished or short-period lets. Very sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Reed. As a matter of fact if our old head clerk, Mr. Narracott, had still been alive—he died last winter—he might have been able to assist you. A most remarkable memory, really quite remarkable. He had been with the firm for nearly thirty years.”
“There’s no one else who would possibly remember?”
“Our staff is all on the comparatively young side. Of course there is old Mr. Galbraith himself. He retired some years ago.”
“Perhaps I could ask him?” said Gwenda.
“Well, I hardly know about that …” Mr. Penderley was dubious. “He had a stroke last year. His faculties are sadly impaired. He’s over eighty, you know.”
“Does he live in Dillmouth?”
“Oh yes. At Calcutta Lodge. A very nice little property on the Seaton road. But I really don’t think—”
II
“It’s rather a forlorn hope,” said Giles to Gwenda. “But you never know. I don’t think we’ll write. We’ll go there together and exert our personality.”
Calcutta Lodge was surrounded by a neat trim garden, and the sitting room into which they were shown was also neat if slightly overcrowded. It smelt of beeswax and Ronuk. Its brasses shone. Its windows were heavily festooned.
A thin middle-aged woman with suspicious eyes came into the room.
Giles explained himself quickly, and the expression of one who expects to have a vacuum cleaner pushed at her left Miss Galbraith’s face.
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I can help you,” she said. “It’s so long ago, isn’t it?”
“One does sometimes remember things,” said Gwenda.
“Of course I shouldn’t know anything myself. I never had any connection with the business. A Major Halliday, you said? No, I never remember coming across anyone in Dillmouth of that name.”
“Your father might remember, perhaps,” said Gwenda.
“Father?” Miss Galbraith shook her head. “He doesn’t take much notice nowadays, and his memory’s very shaky.”
Gwenda’s eyes were resting thoughtfully on a Benares brass table and they shifted to a procession of ebony elephants marching along the mantelpiece.
“I thought he might remember, perhaps,” she said, “because my father had just come from India. Your house is called Calcutta Lodge?”
She paused interrogatively.
“Yes,” said Miss Galbraith. “Father was out in Calcutta for a time. In business there. Then the war came and in 1920 he came into the firm here, but would have liked to go back, he always says. But my mother didn’t fancy foreign parts—and of course you can’t say the climate’s really healthy. Well, I don’t know—perhaps you’d like to see my father. I don’t know that it’s one of his good days—”
She led them into a small black study. Here, propped up in a big shabby leather chair sat an old gentleman with a white walrus moustache. His face was pulled slightly sideways. He eyed Gwenda with distinct approval as his daughter made the introductions.
“Memory’s not what it used to be,” he said in a rather indistinct voice. “Halliday, you say? No, I don’t remember the name. Knew a boy at school in Yorkshire—but that’s seventy-odd years ago.”
“He rented Hillside, we think,” said Giles.
“Hillside? Was it called Hillside then?” Mr. Galbraith’s one movable eyelid snapped shut and open. “Findeyson lived there. Fine woman.”
“My father might have rented it furnished … He’d just come from India.”
“India? India, d’you say? Remember a fellow—Army man. Knew that old rascal Mohammed Hassan who cheated me over some carpets. Had a young wife—and a baby—little girl.”
“That was me,” said Gwenda firmly.
“In—deed—you don’t say so! Well, well, time flies. Now what was his name? Wanted a place furnished—yes—Mrs. Findeyson had been ordered to Egypt or some such place for the winter—all tomfoolery. Now what was his name?”
“Halliday,” said Gwenda.
“That’s right, my dear—Halliday. Major Halliday. Nice fellow. Very pretty wife—quite young—fair-haired, wanted to be near her people or something like that. Yes, very pretty.”
“Who were her people?”
“No idea at all. No idea. You don’t look like her.”
Gwenda nearly said, “She was only my stepmother,” but refrained from complicating the issue. She said, “What did she look like?”
Unexpectedly Mr. Galbraith replied: “Looked worried. That’s what she looked, worried. Yes, very nice fellow, that Major chap. Interested to hear I’d been out in Calcutta. Not like these chaps that have never been out of England. Narrow—that’s what they are. Now I’ve seen the world. What was his name, that Army chap—wanted a furnished house?”
He was like a very old gramophone, repeating a worn record.
“St. Catherine’s. That’s it. Took St. Catherine’s—six guineas a week—while Mrs. Findeyson was in Egypt. Died there, poor soul. House was put up for auction—who bought it now? Elworthys—that’s it—pack of women—sisters. Changed the name—said St. Catherine’s was Popish. Very down on anything Popish—Used to send out tracts. Plain women, all of ’em—Took an interest in niggers—Sent ’em out trousers and bibles. Very strong on converting the heathen.”
He sighed suddenly and leant back.
“Long time ago,” he said fretfully. “Can’t remember names. Chap from India—nice chap … I’m tired, Gladys. I’d like my tea.”
Giles and Gwenda thanked him, thanked his daughter, and came away.
“So that’s proved,” said Gwenda. “My father and I were at Hillside. What do we do next?”
“I’ve been an idiot,” said Giles. “Somerset House.”
“What’s Somerset House?” asked Gwenda.
“It’s a record office where you can look up marriages. I’m going there to look up your father’s marriage. According to your aunt, your father was married to his second wife immediately on arriving in England. Don’t you see, Gwenda—it ought to have occurred to us before—it’s perfectly possible that ‘Helen’ may have been a relation of your stepmother’s—a young sister, perhaps. Anyway, once we know what her surname was, we may be able to get on to someone who knows about the general setup at Hillside. Remember the old boy said they wanted a house in Dillmouth to be near Mrs. Halliday’s people. If her people live near here we may get something.”
“Giles,” said Gwenda. “I think you’re wonderful.”
III
Giles did not, after all, find it necessary to go to London. Though his energetic nature always made him prone to rush hither and thither and try to do everything himself, he admitted that a purely routine enquiry could be delegated.
He put through a trunk call to his office.
“Got it,” he exclaimed enthusiastically, when the expected reply arrived.
From the covering letter he extracted a certified copy of a marriage certificate.
“Here we are, Gwenda. Friday, Aug. 7th Kensington Registry Office. Kelvin James Halliday to Helen Spenlove Kennedy.”
Gwenda cried out sharply!
“Helen?”
They looked at each other.
Giles said slowly: “But—but—it can’t be her. I mean—they separated, and she married again—and went away.”
“We don’t know,” said Gwenda, “that she went away….”
She looked again at the plainly written name:
Helen Spenlove Kennedy.
Helen….
Seven
DR. KENNEDY
I
A few days later Gwenda, walking along the Esplanade in a sharp wind, stopped suddenly beside one of the glass shelters which a thoughtful Corporation had provided for the use of its visitors.
“Miss Marple?” she exclaimed
For indeed Miss Marple it was, nicely wrapped up in a thick fleecy coat and well wound round with scarves.
“Quite a surprise to you, I’m sure, to find me here,” said Miss Marple briskly. “But my doctor ordered me away to the seaside for a little change, and your description of Dillmouth sounded so attractive that I decided to come here—especially as the cook and butler of a friend of mine take in boarders.”
“But why didn’t you come and see us?” demanded Gwenda.
“Old people can be rather a nuisance, my dear. Newly married young couples should be left to themselves.” She smiled at Gwenda’s protest. “I’m sure you’d have made me very welcome. And how are you both? And are you progressing with your mystery?”
“We’re hot on the trail,” Gwenda said, sitting beside her.
She detailed their various investigations up to date.
“And now,” she ended, “we’ve put an advertisement in lots of papers—local ones and The Times and the other big dailies. We’ve just said will anyone with any knowledge of Helen Spenlove Halliday, née Kennedy, communicate etc. I should think, don’t you, that we’re bound to get some answers.”
“I should think so, my dear—yes, I should think so.”
Miss Marple’s tone was placid as ever, but her eyes looked troubled. They flashed a quick appraising glance at the girl sitting beside her. That tone of determined heartiness did not ring quite true. Gwenda, Miss Marple thought, looked worried. What Dr. Haydock had called “the implications” were, perhaps, beginning to occur to her. Yes, but now it was too late to go back….
Miss Marple said gently and apologetically, “I have really become most interested in all this. My life, you know, has so few excitements. I hope you won’t think me very inquisitive if I ask you to let me know how you progress?”
“Of course we’ll let you know,” said Gwenda warmly. “You shall be in on everything. Why, but for you, I should be urging doctors to shut me up in a loony bin. Tell me your address here, and then you must come and have a drink—I mean, have tea with us, and see the house. You’ve got to see the scene of the crime, haven’t you?”
She laughed, but there was a slightly nervy edge to her laugh.
When she had gone on her way Miss Marple shook her head very gently and frowned.
II
Giles and Gwenda scanned the mail eagerly every day, but at first their hopes were disappointed. All they got was two letters from private enquiry agents who pronounced themselves willing and skilled to undertake investigations on their behalf.
“Time enough for them later,” said Giles. “And if we do have to employ some agency, it will be a thoroughly first-class firm, not one that touts through the mail. But I don’t really see what they could do that we aren’t doing.”
His optimism (or self-esteem) was justified a few days later. A letter arrived, written in one of those clear and yet somewhat illegible handwritings that stamp the professional man.
Galls Hill
Woodleigh Bolton.
Dear Sir,
In answer to your advertisement in The Times, Helen Spenlove Kennedy is my sister. I have lost touch with her for many years and should be glad to have news of her.
Yours faithfully,
James Kennedy, MD
“Woodleigh Bolton,” said Giles. “That’s not too far away. Woodleigh Camp is where they go for picnics. Up on the moorland. About thirty miles from here. We’ll write and ask Dr. Kennedy if we may come and see him, or if he would prefer to come to us.”
A reply was received that Dr. Kennedy would be prepared to receive them on the following Wednesday; and on that day they set off.
Woodleigh Bolton was a straggling village set along the side of a hill. Galls Hill was the highest house just at the top of the rise, with a view over Woodleigh Camp and the moors towards the sea.
“Rather a bleak spot,” said Gwenda shivering.
The house itself was bleak and obviously Dr. Kennedy scorned such modern innovations as central heating. The woman who opened the door was dark and rather forbidding. She led them across the rather bare hall, and into a study where Dr. Kennedy rose to receive them. It was a long, rather high room, lined with well-filled bookshelves.
Dr. Kennedy was a grey-haired elderly man with shrewd eyes under tufted brows. His gaze went sharply from one to the other of them.
“Mr. and Mrs. Reed? Sit here, Mrs. Reed, it’s probably the most comfortable chair. Now, what’s all this about?”
Giles went fluently into their prearranged story.
He and his wife had been recently married in New Zealand. They had come to England, where his wife had lived for a short time as a child, and she was trying to trace old family friends and connections.
Dr. Kennedy remained stiff and unbending. He was polite but obviously irritated by Colonial insistence on sentimental family ties.
“And you think my sister—my half-sister—and possibly myself—are connections of yours?” he asked Gwenda, civilly, but with slight hostility.
“She was my stepmother,” said Gwenda. “My father’s second wife. I can’t really remember her properly, of course. I was so small. My maiden name was Halliday.”
He stared at her—and then suddenly a smile illuminated his face. He became a different person, no longer aloof.
“Good Lord,” he said. “Don’t tell me that you’re Gwennie!”
Gwenda nodded eagerly. The pet name, long forgotten, sounded in her ears with reassuring familiarity.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m Gwennie.”
“God bless my soul. Grown-up and married. How time flies! It must be—what—fifteen years—no, of course, much longer than that. You don’t remember me, I suppose?”
Gwenda shook her head.
“I don’t even remember my father. I mean, it’s all a vague kind of blur.”
“Of course—Halliday’s first wife came from New Zealand—I remember his telling me so. A fine country, I should think.”
“It’s the loveliest country in the world—but I’m quite fond of England, too.”
“On a visit—or settling down here?” He rang the bell. “We must have tea.”
When the tall woman came, he said, “Tea, please—and—er—hot buttered toast, or—or cake, or something.”
The respectable housekeeper looked venomous, but said, “Yes, sir,” and went out.
“I don’t usually go in for tea,” said Dr. Kennedy vaguely. “But we must celebrate.”
“It’s very nice of you,” said Gwenda. “No, we’re not on a visit. We’ve bought a house.” She paused and added, “Hillside.”
Dr. Kennedy said vaguely, “Oh yes. In Dillmouth. You wrote from there.”
“It’s the most extraordinary coincidence,” said Gwenda. “Isn’t it, Giles?”
“I should say so,” said Giles. “Really quite staggering.”
“It was for sale, you see,” said Gwenda, and added in face of Dr. Kennedy’s apparent non-comprehension, “It’s the same house where we used to live long ago.”
Dr. Kennedy frowned. “Hillside? But surely—Oh yes, I did hear they’d changed the name. Used to be St. Something or other—if I’m thinking of the right house—on the Leahampton road, coming down into the town, on the right-hand side?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the one. Funny how names go out of your head. Wait a minute. St. Catherine’s—that’s what it used to be called.”
“And I did live there, didn’t I?” Gwenda said.
“Yes, of course you did.” He stared at her, amused. “Why did you want to come back there? You can’t remember much about it, surely?”
“No. But somehow—it felt like home.”
“It felt like home,” the doctor repeated. There was no expression in the words, but Giles wondered what he was thinking about.
“So you see,” said Gwenda, “I hoped you’d tell me about it all—about my father and Helen and—” she ended lamely—“and everyth
He looked at her reflectively.
“I suppose they didn’t know very much—out in New Zealand. Why should they? Well, there isn’t much to tell. Helen—my sister—was coming back from India on the same boat with your father. He was a widower with a small daughter. Helen was sorry for him or fell in love with him. He was lonely, or fell in love with her. Difficult to know just the way things happen. They were married in London on arrival, and came down to Dillmouth to me. I was in practice there, then. Kelvin Halliday seemed a nice chap, rather nervy and run-down—but they seemed happy enough together—then.”
He was silent for a moment before he said, “However, in less than a year, she ran away with someone else. You probably know that?”
“Who did she run away with?” asked Gwenda.
He bent his shrewd eyes upon her.
“She didn’t tell me,” he said. “I wasn’t in her confidence. I’d seen—couldn’t help seeing—that there was friction between her and Kelvin. I didn’t know why. I was always a strait-laced sort of fellow—a believer in marital fidelity. Helen wouldn’t have wanted me to know what was going on. I’d heard rumours—one does—but there was no mention of any particular name. They often had guests staying with them who came from London, or from other parts of England. I imagined it was one of them.”
“There wasn’t a divorce, then?”
“Helen didn’t want a divorce. Kelvin told me that. That’s why I imagined, perhaps wrongly, that it was a case of some married man. Someone whose wife was an RC perhaps.”