Sleeping Murder - Agatha Christie [18]
“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,