沉睡的谋杀案11
时间：2026-01-29 07:37:24
（单词翻译:单击）
II
“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 connec-
tion 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 man-
telpiece.
“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 rented Hillside, we think,” said Giles.
“Hillside? Was it called Hillside then?” Mr. Galbraith’s one movable eye-
lid snapped shut and open. “Findeyson lived there. Fine woman.”
“My father might have rented it furnished … He’d just come from India.”
“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 pos-
sible 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 Hill-
side. 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 some-
thing.”
“Giles,” said Gwenda. “I think you’re wonderful.”
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