Sleeping Murder (Miss Marple 13)

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

in lively surprise.

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.