Sleeping Murder Page 6

  “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.”

  Dr. Kennedy arrived punctually. Looking round the drawing room he said: “Seems odd to b
e here again.”

  Then he came to the point without preamble.

  “I take it that you two are quite determined to track down the Sanatorium where Kelvin Halliday died and learn all the details you can about his illness and death?”

  “Definitely,” said Gwenda.

  “Well, you can manage that quite easily, of course. So I’ve come to the conclusion that it will be less shock to you to hear the facts from me. I’m sorry to have to tell you, for it won’t do you or anybody else a bit of good, and it will probably cause you, Gwennie, a good deal of pain. But there it is. Your father wasn’t suffering from tuberculosis and the Sanatorium in question was a mental home.”

  “A mental home? Was he out of his mind, then?”

  Gwenda’s face had gone very white.

  “He was never certified. And in my opinion he was not insane in the general meaning of the term. He had had a very severe nervous breakdown and suffered from certain delusional obsessions. He went into the nursing home of his own will and volition and could, of course, have left it at any time he wanted to. His condition did not improve, however, and he died there.”

  “Delusional obsessions?” Giles repeated the words questioningly. “What kind of delusions?”

  Dr. Kennedy said drily, “He was under the impression that he had strangled his wife.”

  Gwenda gave a stifled cry. Giles stretched out a hand quickly and took her cold hand in his.

  Giles said, “And—and had he?”

  “Eh?” Dr. Kennedy stared at him. “No, of course he hadn’t. No question of such a thing.”

  “But—but how do you know?” Gwenda’s voice came uncertainly.

  “My dear child! There was never any question of such a thing. Helen left him for another man. He’d been in a very unbalanced condition for some time; nervous dreams, sick fancies. The final shock sent him over the edge. I’m not a psychiatrist myself. They have their explanations for such matters. If a man would rather his wife was dead than unfaithful, he can manage to make himself believe that she is dead—even that he has killed her.”

  Warily, Giles and Gwenda exchanged a warning glance.

  Giles said quietly, “So you are quite sure that there was no question of his having actually done what he said he had done?”

  “Oh, quite sure. I had two letters from Helen. The first one from France about a week after she went away and one about six months later. Oh no, the whole thing was a delusion pure and simple.”

  Gwenda drew a deep breath.

  “Please,” she said. “Will you tell me all about it?”

  “I’ll tell you everything I can, my dear. To begin with, Kelvin had been in a rather peculiar neurotic state for some time. He came to me about it. Said he had had various disquieting dreams. These dreams, he said, were always the same, and they ended in the same way—with his throttling Helen. I tried to get at the root of the trouble—there must, I think, have been some conflict in early childhood. His father and mother, apparently, were not a happy couple … Well, I won’t go into all that. That’s only interesting to a medical man. I actually suggested that Kelvin should consult a psychiatrist, there are several first-class chaps—but he wouldn’t hear of it—thought that kind of thing was all nonsense.

  “I had an idea that he and Helen weren’t getting along too well, but he never spoke about that, and I didn’t like to ask questions. The whole thing came to a head when he walked into my house one evening—it was a Friday, I remember, I’d just come back from the hospital and found him waiting for me in the consulting room; he’d been there about a quarter of an hour. As soon as I came in, he looked up and said, ‘I’ve killed Helen.’

  “For a moment I didn’t know what to think. He was so cool and matter-of-fact. I said, ‘You mean—you’ve had another dream?’ He said, ‘It isn’t a dream this time. It’s true. She’s lying there strangled. I strangled her.’

  “Then he said—quite coolly and reasonably: ‘You’d better come back with me to the house. Then you can ring up the police from there.’ I didn’t know what to think. I got out the car again, and we drove along here. The house was quiet and dark. We went up to the bedroom—”

  Gwenda broke in, “The bedroom?” Her voice held pure astonishment.

  Dr. Kennedy looked faintly surprised.

  “Yes, yes, that’s where it all happened. Well, of course when we got up there—there was nothing at all! No dead woman lying across the bed. Nothing disturbed—the coverlets not even rumpled. The whole thing had been an hallucination.”

  “But what did my father say?”

  “Oh, he persisted in his story, of course. He really believed it, you see. I persuaded him to let me give him a sedative and I put him to bed in the dressing room. Then I had a good look round. I found a note that Helen had left crumpled up in the wastepaper basket in the drawing room. It was quite clear. She had written something like this: ‘This is Good-bye. I’m sorry—but our marriage has been a mistake from the beginning. I’m going away with the only man I’ve ever loved. Forgive me if you can. Helen.’

  “Evidently Kelvin had come in, read her note, gone upstairs, had a kind of emotional brainstorm and had then come over to me persuaded that he had killed Helen.

  “Then I questioned the housemaid. It was her evening out and she had come in late. I took her into Helen’s room and she went through Helen’s clothes, etc. It was all quite clear. Helen had packed a suitcase and a bag and had taken them away with her. I searched the house, but there was no trace of anything unusual—certainly no sign of a strangled woman.

  “I had a very difficult time with Kelvin in the morning, but he realized at last that it was a delusion—or at least he said he did, and he consented to go into a nursing home for treatment.

  “A week later I got, as I say, a letter from Helen. It was posted from Biarritz, but she said she was going on to Spain. I was to tell Kelvin that she did not want a divorce. He had better forget her as soon as possible.

  “I showed the letter to Kelvin. He said very little. He was going ahead with his plans. He wired out to his first wife’s people in New Zealand asking them to take the child. He settled up his affairs and he then entered a very good private mental home and consented to have appropriate treatment. That treatment, however, did nothing to help him. He died there two years later. I can give you the address of the place. It’s in Norfolk. The present Superintendent was a young doctor there at the time, and will probably be able to give you full details of your father’s case.”

  Gwenda said: “And you got another letter from your sister—after that again?”

  “Oh yes. About six months later. She wrote from Florence—gave an address poste restante as ‘Miss Kennedy.’ She said she realized that perhaps it was unfair to Kelvin not to have a divorce—though she herself did not want one. If he wanted a divorce and I would let her know, she would see that he had the necessary evidence. I took the letter to Kelvin. He said at once that he did not want a divorce. I wrote to her and told her so. Since then I have never heard anymore. I don’t know where she is living, or indeed if she is alive or dead. That is why I was attracted by your advertisement and hoped that I should get news of her.”

  He added gently: “I’m very sorry about this, Gwennie. But you had to know. I only wish you could have left well alone….”

  Nine

  UNKNOWN FACTOR?

  I

  When Giles came back from seeing Dr. Kennedy off, he found Gwenda sitting where he had left her. There was a bright red patch on each of her cheeks, and her eyes looked feverish. When she spoke her voice was harsh and brittle.

  “What’s the old catchphrase? Death or madness either way? That’s what this is—death or madness.”

  “Gwenda—darling.” Giles went to her—put his arm round her. Her body felt hard and stiff.

  “Why didn’t we leave it all alone? Why didn’t we? It was my own father who strangled her. And it was my own father’s voice I heard saying those words. No wonder it all came b
ack—no wonder I was so frightened. My own father.”

  “Wait, Gwenda—wait. We don’t really know—”

  “Of course we know! He told Dr. Kennedy he had strangled his wife, didn’t he?”

  “But Kennedy is quite positive he didn’t—”

  “Because he didn’t find a body. But there was a body—and I saw it.”

  “You saw it in the hall—not the bedroom.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Well, it’s queer, isn’t it? Why should Halliday say he strangled his wife in the bedroom if he actually strangled her in the hall?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. That’s just a minor detail.”

  “I’m not so sure. Pull your socks up, darling. There are some very funny points about the whole setup. We’ll take it, if you like, that your father did strangle Helen. In the hall. What happened next?”

  “He went off to Dr. Kennedy.”

  “And told him he had strangled his wife in the bedroom, brought him back with him and there was no body in the hall—or in the bedroom. Dash it all, there can’t be a murder without a body. What had he done with the body?”

  “Perhaps there was one and Dr. Kennedy helped him and hushed it all up—only of course he couldn’t tell us that.”

  Giles shook his head.

  “No, Gwenda—I don’t see Kennedy acting that way. He’s a hardheaded, shrewd, unemotional Scotsman. You’re suggesting that he’d be willing to put himself in jeopardy as an accessory after the fact. I don’t believe he would. He’d do his best for Halliday by giving evidence as to his mental state—that, yes. But why should he stick his neck out to hush the whole thing up? Kelvin Halliday wasn’t any relation to him, nor a close friend. It was his own sister who had been killed and he was clearly fond of her—even if he did show slight Victorian disapproval of her gay ways. It’s not, even, as though you were his sister’s child. No, Kennedy wouldn’t connive at concealing murder. If he did, there’s only one possible way he could have set about it, and that would be deliberately to give a death certificate that she had died of heart failure or something. I suppose he might have got away with that—but we know definitely that he didn’t do that. Because there’s no record of her death in the Parish registers, and if he had done it, he would have told us that his sister had died. So go on from there and explain, if you can, what happened to the body.”