Sleeping Murder - Agatha Christie [20]
“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 everything….”
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