DR . KENNEDY
IA few days later Gwenda, walking along the Esplanade in a sharp wind, stopped suddenly beside one of the glassshelters 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 tothe seaside for a little change, and your description of Dillmouth sounded so attractive that I decided1 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.” Shesmiled at Gwenda’s protest. “I’m sure you’d have made me very welcome. And how are you both? And are youprogressing with your mystery?”
“We’re hot on the trail,” Gwenda said, sitting beside her.
She detailed2 their various investigations3 up to date.
“And now,” she ended, “we’ve put an advertisement in lots of papers—local ones and The Times and the other bigdailies. 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 placid4 as ever, but her eyes looked troubled. They flashed a quick appraising5 glance at thegirl sitting beside her. That tone of determined6 heartiness7 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, butnow 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 inquisitive8 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 shouldbe urging doctors to shut me up in a loony bin9. 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 twoletters from private enquiry agents who pronounced themselves willing and skilled to undertake investigations on theirbehalf.
“Time enough for them later,” said Giles. “And if we do have to employ some agency, it will be a thoroughly10 first-class firm, not one that touts11 through the mail. But I don’t really see what they could do that we aren’t doing.”
His optimism (or self-esteem) was justified12 a few days later. A letter arrived, written in one of those clear and yetsomewhat illegible13 handwritings that stamp the professional man.
Galls14 Hill
Woodleigh Bolton.
Dear Sir,
In answer to your advertisement in The Times, Helen Spenlove Kennedy is my sister. I have lost touch with herfor 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 onthe moorland. About thirty miles from here. We’ll write and ask Dr. Kennedy if we may come and see him, or if hewould prefer to come to us.”
A reply was received that Dr. Kennedy would be prepared to receive them on the following Wednesday; and onthat 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 thetop of the rise, with a view over Woodleigh Camp and the moors15 towards the sea.
“Rather a bleak16 spot,” said Gwenda shivering.
The house itself was bleak and obviously Dr. Kennedy scorned such modern innovations as central heating. Thewoman who opened the door was dark and rather forbidding. She led them across the rather bare hall, and into a studywhere 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 oneto 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 livedfor 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 insistence17 onsentimental family ties.
“And you think my sister—my half-sister—and possibly myself—are connections of yours?” he asked Gwenda,civilly, but with slight hostility18.
“She was my stepmother,” said Gwenda. “My father’s second wife. I can’t really remember her properly, ofcourse. I was so small. My maiden19 name was Halliday.”
He stared at her—and then suddenly a smile illuminated20 his face. He became a different person, no longer aloof21.
“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 reassuring22 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, muchlonger 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 blur23.”
“Of course—Halliday’s first wife came from New Zealand—I remember his telling me so. A fine country, I shouldthink.”
“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 housekeeper24 looked venomous, but said, “Yes, sir,” and went out.
“I don’t usually go in for tea,” said Dr. Kennedy vaguely25. “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 thesame 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 theright-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 becalled.”
“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 remembermuch 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 wasthinking about.
“So you see,” said Gwenda, “I hoped you’d tell me about it all—about my father and Helen and—” she endedlamely—“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 widower26 with a smalldaughter. Helen was sorry for him or fell in love with him. He was lonely, or fell in love with her. Difficult to knowjust the way things happen. They were married in London on arrival, and came down to Dillmouth to me. I was inpractice there, then. Kelvin Halliday seemed a nice chap, rather nervy and run-down—but they seemed happy enoughtogether—then.”
He was silent for a moment before he said, “However, in less than a year, she ran away with someone else. Youprobably know that?”
“Who did she run away with?” asked Gwenda.
He bent27 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 frictionbetween her and Kelvin. I didn’t know why. I was always a strait-laced sort of fellow—a believer in marital28 fidelity29.
Helen wouldn’t have wanted me to know what was going on. I’d heard rumours—one does—but there was nomention of any particular name. They often had guests staying with them who came from London, or from other partsof 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 ofsome married man. Someone whose wife was an RC perhaps.”
“And my father?”
“He didn’t want a divorce, either.”
Dr. Kennedy spoke30 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 breakupof 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 laden31 tray.
There was buttered toast and some jam, but no cake. With a vague gesture Dr. Kennedy motioned Gwenda to pourout. She did so. When the cups were filled and handed round and Gwenda had taken a piece of toast, Dr. Kennedy saidwith rather forced cheerfulness: “Tell me what you’ve done to the house? I don’t suppose I’d recognize it now—afteryou 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 aSanatorium—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 evasion32 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 hisgrave.”
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 thisancestor worship—it’s a mistake. The future is what matters. Here you are, you two, young and healthy with the worldin front of you. Think forward. No use going about putting flowers on the grave of someone whom, for all practicalpurposes, you hardly knew.”
Gwenda said mutinously33: “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 memoryisn’t what it was. I lost touch with your father after he left Dillmouth. I think he wrote to me once from the Sanatoriumand, 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 ideaat 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 andvery many years younger than I am, but I tried to bring her up as well as I could. The right schools and all that. Butthere’s no gainsaying34 that Helen—well, that she never had a stable character. There was trouble when she was quiteyoung with a very undesirable35 young man. I got her out of that safely. Then she elected to go out to India and marryWalter Fane. Well, that was all right, nice lad, son of Dillmouth’s leading solicitor36, but frankly37, 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. Itexplains why Kelvin and I didn’t keep up the relationship after she went away.” He added suddenly: “Where’s Helennow? 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 youadvertise?”
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 standingby 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! Iwish—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 andfind out what really happened. Even if—even if—it was my father who …” But she couldn’t go on.
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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touts
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| n.招徕( tout的名词复数 )；（音乐会、体育比赛等的）卖高价票的人；侦查者；探听赛马的情报v.兜售( tout的第三人称单数 )；招揽；侦查；探听赛马情报 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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galls
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的第三人称单数 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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illuminated
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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widower
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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laden
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evasion
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mutinously
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| adv.反抗地，叛变地 | |
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gainsaying
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的现在分词 ) | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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frankly
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