Dr. Kennedy looked along the mantelpiece, searching vaguely for a pipe cleaner.
“Oh, I don’t know…. He was in rather poor health.w “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? Made a lot of changes and improvements? I don’t suppose I’d recognise 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 you, 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 a 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.5′ “Yes — yes — I see. Sorry I can’t be of much use. Memory not what it was.