There was something. Miss Marple thinks so, too. What about “Helen”? Surely you must remember something about Helen?’
‘I don’t remember anything at all. It’s just a name.’
‘It mightn’t even be the right name.’
‘Yes, it was. It was Helen.’
Gwenda looked obstinate and convinced.
‘Then if you’re so sure it was Helen, you must know something about her,’ said Giles reasonably. ‘Did you know her well? Was she living here? Or just staying here?’
‘I tell you I don’t know.’ Gwenda was beginning to look strained and nervy.
Giles tried another tack.
‘Who else can you remember? Your father?’
‘No. I mean, I can’t tell. There was always his photograph, you see. Aunt Alison used to say: “That’s your Daddy.” I don’t remember him here, in this house …’
‘And no servants—nurses—anything like that?’
‘No—no. The more I try to remember, the more it’s all a blank. The things I know are all underneath—like walking to that door automatically. I didn’t remember a door there. Perhaps if you wouldn’t worry me so much, Giles, things would come back more. Anyway, trying to find out about it all is hopeless. It’s so long ago.’
‘Of course it’s not hopeless—even old Miss Marple admitted that.’
‘She didn’t help us with any ideas of how to set about it,’ said Gwenda. ‘And yet I feel, from the glint in her eye, that she had a few. I wonder how she would have gone about it.’
‘I don’t suppose she would be likely to think of ways that we wouldn’t,’ said Giles positively. ‘We must stop speculating, Gwenda, and set about things in a systematic way. We’ve made a beginning—I’ve looked through the Parish registers of deaths. There’s no “Helen” of the right age amongst them. In fact there doesn’t seem to be a Helen at all in the period I covered—Ellen Pugg, ninety-four, was the nearest. Now we must think of the next profitable approach. If your father, and presumably your stepmother, lived in this house, they must either have bought it or rented it.’
‘According to Foster, the gardener, some people called Elworthy had it before the Hengraves and before them Mrs Findeyson. Nobody else.’
‘Your father might have bought it and lived in it for a very short time—and then sold it again. But I think that it’s much more likely that he rented it—probably rented it furnished. If so, our best bet is to go round the house agents.’
Going round the house agents was not a prolonged labour. There were only two house agents in Dillmouth. Messrs Wilkinson were a comparatively new arrival. They had only opened their premises eleven years ago. They dealt mostly with the small bungalows and new houses at the far end of the town. The other agents, Messrs Galbraith and Penderley, were the ones from whom Gwenda had bought the house. Calling upon them, Giles plunged into his story. He and his wife were delighted with Hillside and with Dillmouth generally. Mrs Reed had only just discovered that she had actually lived in Dillmouth as a small child. She had some very faint memories of the place, and had an idea that Hillside was actually the house in which she had lived but could not be quite certain about it. Had they any record of the house being let to a Major Halliday? It would be about eighteen or nineteen years ago …
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—’
‘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
