Sleeping Murder (Miss Marple 13)

“And my father?”

“He didn’t want a divorce, either.”

Dr. Kennedy spoke rather shortly.

“Tell me about my father,” said Gwenda. “Why did he decide suddenly to send me out to New Zealand?”

Kennedy paused a moment before saying, “I gather your people out there had been pressing him. After the breakup of his second marriage, he probably thought it was the best thing.”

“Why didn’t he take me out there himself?”

Dr. Kennedy looked along the mantelpiece searching vaguely for a pipe cleaner.

“Oh, I don’t know … He was in rather poor health.”

“What was the matter with him? What did he die of?”

The door opened and the scornful housekeeper appeared with a laden tray.

There was buttered toast and some jam, but no cake. With a vague gesture Dr. Kennedy motioned Gwenda to pour out. She did so. When the cups were filled and handed round and Gwenda had taken a piece of toast, Dr. Kennedy said with rather forced cheerfulness: “Tell me what you’ve done to the house? I don’t suppose I’d recognize it now—after you two have finished with it.”

“We’re having a little fun with bathrooms,” admitted Giles.

Gwenda, her eyes on the doctor, said: “What did my father die of?”

“I couldn’t really tell, my dear. As I say, he was in rather poor health for a while, and he finally went into a Sanatorium—somewhere on the east coast. He died about two years later.”

“Where was this Sanatorium exactly?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t remember now. As I say, I have an impression it was on the east coast.”

There was definite evasion now in his manner. Giles and Gwenda looked at each other for a brief second.

Giles said, “At least, sir, you can tell us where he’s buried? Gwenda is—naturally—very anxious to visit his grave.”

Dr. Kennedy bent over the fireplace, scraping in the bowl of his pipe with a penknife.

“Do you know,” he said, rather indistinctly, “I don’t really think I should dwell too much on the past. All this ancestor worship—it’s a mistake. The future is what matters. Here you are, you two, young and healthy with the world in front of you. Think forward. No use going about putting flowers on the grave of someone whom, for all practical purposes, you hardly knew.”

Gwenda said mutinously: “I should like to see my father’s grave.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Dr. Kennedy’s tones were pleasant but cold. “It’s a long time ago, and my memory isn’t what it was. I lost touch with your father after he left Dillmouth. I think he wrote to me once from the Sanatorium and, as I say, I have an impression it was on the east coast—but I couldn’t really be sure even of that. And I’ve no idea at all of where he is buried.”

“How very odd,” said Giles.

“Not really. The link between us, you see, was Helen. I was always very fond of Helen. She’s my half sister and very many years younger than I am, but I tried to bring her up as well as I could. The right schools and all that. But there’s no gainsaying that Helen—well, that she never had a stable character. There was trouble when she was quite young with a very undesirable young man. I got her out of that safely. Then she elected to go out to India and marry Walter Fane. Well, that was all right, nice lad, son of Dillmouth’s leading solicitor, but frankly, dull as ditchwater. He’d always adored her, but she never looked at him. Still, she changed her mind and went out to India to marry him. When she saw him again, it was all off. She wired to me for money for her passage home. I sent it. On the way back, she met Kelvin. They were married before I knew about it. I’ve felt, shall we say, apologetic for that sister of mine. It explains why Kelvin and I didn’t keep up the relationship after she went away.” He added suddenly: “Where’s Helen now? Can you tell me? I’d like to get in touch with her.”

“But we don’t know,” said Gwenda. “We don’t know at all.”

“Oh! I thought from your advertisement—” He looked at them with sudden curiosity. “Tell me, why did you advertise?”

Gwenda said: “We wanted to get in touch—” and stopped.

“With someone you can hardly remember?” Dr. Kennedy looked puzzled.

Gwenda said quickly: “I thought—if I could get in touch with her—she’d tell me—about my father.”

“Yes—yes—I see. Sorry I can’t be of much use. Memory not what it was. And it’s a long time ago.”

“At least,” said Giles, “you know what kind of a Sanatorium it was? Tubercular?”

Dr. Kennedy’s face again looked suddenly wooden: “Yes—yes, I rather believe it was.”

“Then we ought to be able to trace that quite easily,” said Giles. “Thank you very much, sir, for all you’ve told us.”

He got up and Gwenda followed suit.

“Thank you very much,” she said. “And do come and see us at Hillside.”

They went out of the room and Gwenda, glancing back over her shoulder, had a final view of Dr. Kennedy standing by the mantelpiece, pulling his grizzled moustache and looking troubled.

“He knows something he won’t tell us,” said Gwenda, as they got into the car. “There’s something—oh, Giles! I wish—I wish now that we’d never started….”

They looked at each other, and in each mind, unacknowledged to the other, the same fear sprang.

“Miss Marple was right,” said Gwenda. “We should have left the past alone.”

“We needn’t go any further,” said Giles uncertainly. “I think perhaps, Gwenda darling, we’d better not.”

Gwenda shook her head.

“No, Giles, we can’t stop now. We should always be wondering and imagining. No, we’ve got to go on … Dr. Kennedy wouldn’t tell us because he wanted to be kind—but that sort of business is no good. We’ll have to go on and find out what really happened. Even if—even if—it was my father who …” But she couldn’t go on.

Eight

KELVIN HALLIDAY’S DELUSION

They were in the garden on the following morning when Mrs. Cocker came out and said: “Excuse me, sir. There’s a Doctor Kennedy on the telephone.”

Leaving Gwenda in consultation with old Foster, Giles went into the house and picked up the telephone receiver.

“Giles Reed here.”

“This is Dr. Kennedy. I’ve been thinking over our conversation yesterday, Mr. Reed. There are certain facts which I think perhaps you and your wife ought to know. Will you be at home if I come over this afternoon?”

“Certainly we shall. What time?”

“Three o’clock?”

“Suits us.”

In the garden old Foster said to Gwenda, “Is that Dr. Kennedy as used to live over at West Cliff?”

“I expect so. Did you know him?”

“E was allus reckoned to be the best doctor here—not but what Dr. Lazenby wasn’t more popular. Always had a word and a laugh to jolly you along, Dr. Lazenby did. Dr. Kennedy was always short and a bit dry, like—but he knew his job.”

“When did he give up his practice?”

“Long time ago now. Must be fifteen years or so. His health broke down, so they say.”

Giles came out of the window and answered Gwenda’s unspoken question.

“He’s coming over this afternoon.”

“Oh.” She turned once more to Foster. “Did you know Dr. Kennedy’s sister at all?”

“Sister? Not as I remember. She was only a bit of a lass. Went away to school, and then abroad, though I heard she come back here for a bit after she married. But I believe she run off with some chap—always wild she was, they said. Don’t know as I ever laid eyes on her myself. I was in a job over to Plymouth for a while, you know.”

Gwenda said to Giles as they walked to the end of the terrace, “Why is he coming?”

“We’ll know at three o’clock.”