By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

Collins 1968

Agatha Christie® Tommy & Tuppence® By the Pricking of My Thumbs™

Copyright © 1968 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.

www.agathachristie.com

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers/Agatha Christie Ltd 2015

Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007590629

Ebook Edition © Jan 2015 ISBN: 9780007422180

Version: 2017-04-17

This book is dedicated to the many readers in this and in other countries who write to me asking: ‘What has happened to Tommy and Tuppence? What are they doing now?’ My best wishes to you all, and I hope you will enjoy meeting Tommy and Tuppence again, years older, but with spirit unquenched!

By the pricking of my thumbs

Something wicked this way comes.

—Macbeth

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

BOOK 1: Sunny Ridge

CHAPTER 1: Aunt Ada

CHAPTER 2: Was It Your Poor Child?

CHAPTER 3: A Funeral

CHAPTER 4: Picture of a House

CHAPTER 5: Disappearance of an Old Lady

CHAPTER 6: Tuppence on the Trail

BOOK 2: The House on the Canal

CHAPTER 7: The Friendly Witch

CHAPTER 8: Sutton Chancellor

CHAPTER 9: A Morning in Market Basing

BOOK 3: Missing—A Wife

CHAPTER 10: A Conference—and After

CHAPTER 11: Bond Street and dr Murray

CHAPTER 12: Tommy Meets an Old Friend

CHAPTER 13: Albert on Clues

BOOK 4: Here is a Church and here is the Steeple Open the Doors and there are the People

CHAPTER 14: Exercise in Thinking

CHAPTER 15: Evening at the Vicarage

CHAPTER 16: The Morning After

CHAPTER 17: Mrs Lancaster

Also by Agatha Christie

About the Publisher

BOOK 1

CHAPTER 1
Aunt Ada

Mr and Mrs Beresford were sitting at the breakfast table. They were an ordinary couple. Hundreds of elderly couples just like them were having breakfast all over England at that particular moment. It was an ordinary sort of day too, the kind of day that you get five days out of seven. It looked as though it might rain but wasn’t quite sure of it.

Mr Beresford had once had red hair. There were traces of the red still, but most of it had gone that sandy-cum-grey colour that red-headed people so often arrive at in middle life. Mrs Beresford had once had black hair, a vigorous curling mop of it. Now the black was adulterated with streaks of grey laid on, apparently at random. It made a rather pleasant effect. Mrs Beresford had once thought of dyeing her hair, but in the end she had decided that she liked herself better as nature had made her. She had decided instead to try a new shade of lipstick so as to cheer herself up.

An elderly couple having breakfast together. A pleasant couple, but nothing remarkable about them. So an onlooker would have said. If the onlooker had been young he or she would have added, ‘Oh yes, quite pleasant, but deadly dull, of course, like all old people.’

However, Mr and Mrs Beresford had not yet arrived at the time of life when they thought of themselves as old. And they had no idea that they and many others were automatically pronounced deadly dull solely on that account. Only by the young of course, but then, they would have thought indulgently, young people knew nothing about life. Poor dears, they were always worrying about examinations, or their sex life, or buying some extraordinary clothes, or doing extraordinary things to their hair to make them more noticeable. Mr and Mrs Beresford from their own point of view were just past the prime of life. They liked themselves and liked each other and day succeeded day in a quiet but enjoyable fashion.

There were, of course, moments, everyone has moments. Mr Beresford opened a letter, glanced through it and laid it down, adding it to the small pile by his left hand. He picked up the next letter but forbore to open it. Instead he stayed with it in his hand. He was not looking at the letter, he was looking at the toast-rack. His wife observed him for a few moments before saying,

‘What’s the matter, Tommy?’

‘Matter?’ said Tommy vaguely. ‘Matter?’

‘That’s what I said,’ said Mrs Beresford.

‘Nothing is the matter,’ said Mr Beresford. ‘What should it be?’

‘You’ve thought of something,’ said Tuppence accusingly.

‘I don’t think I was thinking of anything at all.’

‘Oh yes, you were. Has anything happened?’

‘No, of course not. What should happen?’ He added, ‘I got the plumber’s bill.’

‘Oh,’ said Tuppence with the air of one enlightened. ‘More than you expected, I suppose.’

‘Naturally,’ said Tommy, ‘it always is.’

‘I can’t think why we didn’t train as plumbers,’ said Tuppence. ‘If you’d only trained as a plumber, I could have been a plumber’s mate and we’d be raking in money day by day.’

‘Very short-sighted of us not to see these opportunities.’

‘Was that the plumber’s bill you were looking at just now?’

‘Oh no, that was just an Appeal.’

‘Delinquent boys—Racial integration?’

‘No. Just another Home they’re opening for old people.’

‘Well, that’s more sensible anyway,’ said Tuppence, ‘but I don’t see why you have to have that worried look about it.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that.’

‘Well, what were you thinking of?’

‘I suppose it put it into my mind,’ said Mr Beresford.

‘What?’ said Tuppence. ‘You know you’ll tell me in the end.’

‘It really wasn’t anything important. I just thought that perhaps—well, it was Aunt Ada.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Tuppence, with instant comprehension. ‘Yes,’ she added, softly, meditatively. ‘Aunt Ada.’

Their eyes met. It is regrettably true that in these days there is in nearly every family, the problem of what might be called an ‘Aunt Ada’. The names are different—Aunt Amelia, Aunt Susan, Aunt Cathy, Aunt Joan. They are varied by grandmothers, aged cousins and even great-aunts. But they exist and present a problem in life which has to be dealt with. Arrangements have to be made. Suitable establishments for looking after the elderly have to be inspected and full questions asked about them. Recommendations are sought from doctors, from friends, who have Aunt Adas of their own who had been ‘perfectly happy until she had died’ at ‘The Laurels, Bexhill’, or ‘Happy Meadows at Scarborough’.

The days are past when Aunt Elisabeth, Aunt Ada and the rest of them lived on happily in the homes where they had lived for many years previously, looked after by devoted if sometimes somewhat tyrannical old servants. Both sides were thoroughly satisfied with the arrangement. Or there were the innumerable poor relations, indigent nieces, semi-idiotic spinster cousins, all yearning for a good home with three good meals a day and a nice bedroom. Supply and demand complemented each other and all was well. Nowadays, things are different.

For the Aunt Adas of today arrangements have to be made suitable, not merely to an elderly lady who, owing to arthritis or other rheumatic difficulties, is liable to fall downstairs if she is left alone in a house, or who suffers from chronic bronchitis, or who quarrels with her neighbours and insults the tradespeople.

Unfortunately, the Aunt Adas are far more trouble than the opposite end of the age scale. Children can be provided with foster homes, foisted off on relations, or sent to suitable schools where they stay for the holidays, or arrangements can be made for pony treks or camps, and on the whole very little objection is made by the children to the arrangements so made for them. The Aunt Adas are very different. Tuppence Beresford’s own aunt—Great-aunt Primrose—had been a notable troublemaker. Impossible to satisfy her. No sooner did she enter an establishment guaranteed to provide a good home and all comforts for elderly ladies than after writing a few highly complimentary letters to her niece praising this particular establishment, the next news would be that she had indignantly walked out of it without notice.

‘Impossible. I couldn’t stay there another minute!’

Within the space of a year Aunt Primrose had been in and out of eleven such establishments, finally writing to say that she had now met a very charming young man. ‘Really a very devoted boy. He lost his mother at a young age and he badly needs looking after. I have rented a flat and he is coming to live with me. This arrangement will suit us both perfectly. We are natural affinities. You need have no more anxieties, dear Prudence. My future is settled. I am seeing my lawyer tomorrow as it is necessary that I should make some provision for Mervyn if I should pre-decease him which is, of course, the natural course of events, though I assure you at the moment I feel in the pink of health.’

Tuppence had hurried north (the incident had taken place in Aberdeen). But as it happened, the police had arrived there first and had removed the glamorous Mervyn, for whom they had been seeking for some time, on a charge of obtaining money under false pretences. Aunt Primrose had been highly indignant, and had called it persecution—but after attending the Court proceedings (where twenty-five other cases were taken into account)—had been forced to change her views of her protégé.

‘I think I ought to go and see Aunt Ada, you know, Tuppence,’ said Tommy. ‘It’s been some time.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Tuppence, without enthusiasm. ‘How long has it been?’

Tommy considered. ‘It must be nearly a year,’ he said.

‘It’s more than that,’ said Tuppence. ‘I think it’s over a year.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Tommy, ‘the time does go so fast, doesn’t it? I can’t believe it’s been as long as that. Still, I believe you’re right, Tuppence.’ He calculated. ‘It’s awful the way one forgets, isn’t it? I really feel very badly about it.’

‘I don’t think you need,’ said Tuppence. ‘After all, we send her things and we write letters.’

‘Oh yes, I know. You’re awfully good about those sort of things, Tuppence. But all the same, one does read things sometimes that are very upsetting.’

‘You’re thinking of that dreadful book we got from the library,’ said Tuppence, ‘and how awful it was for the poor old dears. How they suffered.’

‘I suppose it was true—taken from life.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘there must be places like that. And there are people who are terribly unhappy, who can’t help being unhappy. But what else is one to do, Tommy?’

‘What can anyone do except be as careful as possible. Be very careful what you choose, find out all about it and make sure she’s got a nice doctor looking after her.’

‘Nobody could be nicer than Dr Murray, you must admit that.’

‘Yes,’ said Tommy, the worried look receding from his face. ‘Murray’s a first-class chap. Kind, patient. If anything was going wrong he’d let us know.’

‘So I don’t think you need worry about it,’ said Tuppence. ‘How old is she by now?’

‘Eighty-two,’ said Tommy. ‘No—no. I think it’s eighty-three,’ he added. ‘It must be rather awful when you’ve outlived everybody.’

‘That’s only what we feel,’ said Tuppence. ‘They don’t feel it.’

‘You can’t really tell.’

‘Well, your Aunt Ada doesn’t. Don’t you remember the glee with which she told us the number of her old friends that she’d already outlived? She finished up by saying “and as for Amy Morgan, I’ve heard she won’t last more than another six months. She always used to say I was so delicate and now it’s practically a certainty that I shall outlive her. Outlive her by a good many years too.” Triumphant, that’s what she was at the prospect.’

‘All the same—’ said Tommy.

‘I know,’ said Tuppence, ‘I know. All the same you feel it’s your duty and so you’ve got to go.’

‘Don’t you think I’m right?’

‘Unfortunately,’ said Tuppence, ‘I do think you’re right. Absolutely right. And I’ll come too,’ she added, with a slight note of heroism in her voice.

‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘Why should you? She’s not your aunt. No, I’ll go.’

‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Beresford. ‘I like to suffer too. We’ll suffer together. You won’t enjoy it and I shan’t enjoy it and I don’t think for one moment that Aunt Ada will enjoy it. But I quite see it is one of those things that has got to be done.’

‘No, I don’t want you to go. After all, the last time, remember how frightfully rude she was to you?’

‘Oh, I didn’t mind that,’ said Tuppence. ‘It’s probably the only bit of the visit that the poor old girl enjoyed. I don’t grudge it to her, not for a moment.’

‘You’ve always been nice to her,’ said Tommy, ‘even though you don’t like her very much.’

‘Nobody could like Aunt Ada,’ said Tuppence. ‘If you ask me I don’t think anyone ever has.’

‘One can’t help feeling sorry for people when they get old,’ said Tommy.

‘I can,’ said Tuppence. ‘I haven’t got as nice a nature as you have.’

‘Being a woman you’re more ruthless,’ said Tommy.

‘I suppose that might be it. After all, women haven’t really got time to be anything but realistic over things. I mean I’m very sorry for people if they’re old or sick or anything, if they’re nice people. But if they’re not nice people, well, it’s different, you must admit. If you’re pretty nasty when you’re twenty and just as nasty when you’re forty and nastier still when you’re sixty, and a perfect devil by the time you’re eighty—well, really, I don’t see why one should be particularly sorry for people, just because they’re old. You can’t change yourself really. I know some absolute ducks who are seventy and eighty. Old Mrs Beauchamp, and Mary Carr and the baker’s grandmother, dear old Mrs Poplett, who used to come in and clean for us. They were all dears and sweet and I’d do anything I could for them.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Tommy, ‘be realistic. But if you really want to be noble and come with me—’

‘I want to come with you,’ said Tuppence. ‘After all, I married you for better or for worse and Aunt Ada is decidedly the worse. So I shall go with you hand in hand. And we’ll take her a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates with soft centres and perhaps a magazine or two. You might write to Miss What’s-her-name and say we’re coming.’

‘One day next week? I could manage Tuesday,’ said Tommy, ‘if that’s all right for you.’

‘Tuesday it is,’ said Tuppence. ‘What’s the name of the woman? I can’t remember—the matron or the superintendent or whoever she is. Begins with a P.’

‘Miss Packard.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Perhaps it’ll be different this time,’ said Tommy.

‘Different? In what way?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Something interesting might happen.’

‘We might be in a railway accident on the way there,’ said Tuppence, brightening up a little.

‘Why on earth do you want to be in a railway accident?’

‘Well I don’t really, of course. It was just—’

‘Just what?’

‘Well, it would be an adventure of some kind, wouldn’t it? Perhaps we could save lives or do something useful. Useful and at the same time exciting.’

‘What a hope!’ said Mr Beresford.

‘I know,’ agreed Tuppence. ‘It’s just that these sort of ideas come to one sometimes.’

CHAPTER 2
Was It Your Poor Child?

How Sunny Ridge had come by its name would be difficult to say. There was nothing prominently ridge-like about it. The grounds were flat, which was eminently more suitable for the elderly occupants. It had an ample, though rather undistinguished garden. It was a fairly large Victorian mansion kept in a good state of repair. There were some pleasant shady trees, a Virginia creeper running up the side of the house, and two monkey puzzles gave an exotic air to the scene. There were several benches in advantageous places to catch the sun, one or two garden chairs and a sheltered veranda on which the old ladies could sit sheltered from the east winds.

Tommy rang the front door bell and he and Tuppence were duly admitted by a rather harassed-looking young woman in a nylon overall. She showed them into a small sitting-room saying rather breathlessly, ‘I’ll tell Miss Packard. She’s expecting you and she’ll be down in a minute. You won’t mind waiting just a little, will you, but it’s old Mrs Carraway. She’s been and swallowed her thimble again, you see.’

‘How on earth did she do a thing like that?’ asked Tuppence, surprised.

‘Does it for fun,’ explained the household help briefly. ‘Always doing it.’

She departed and Tuppence sat down and said thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think I should like to swallow a thimble. It’d be awfully bobbly as it went down. Don’t you think so?’

They had not very long to wait however before the door opened and Miss Packard came in, apologizing as she did so. She was a big, sandy-haired woman of about fifty with the air of calm competence about her which Tommy had always admired.

‘I’m sorry if I have kept you waiting, Mr Beresford,’ she said. ‘How do you do, Mrs Beresford, I’m so glad you’ve come too.’

‘Somebody swallowed something, I hear,’ said Tommy.

‘Oh, so Marlene told you that? Yes, it was old Mrs Carraway. She’s always swallowing things. Very difficult, you know, because one can’t watch them all the time. Of course one knows children do it, but it seems a funny thing to be a hobby of an elderly woman, doesn’t it? It’s grown upon her, you know. She gets worse every year. It doesn’t seem to do her any harm, that’s the cheeriest thing about it.’

‘Perhaps her father was a sword swallower,’ suggested Tuppence.

‘Now that’s a very interesting idea, Mrs Beresford. Perhaps it would explain things.’ She went on, ‘I’ve told Miss Fanshawe that you were coming, Mr Beresford. I don’t know really whether she quite took it in. She doesn’t always, you know.’

‘How has she been lately?’

‘Well, she’s failing rather rapidly now, I’m afraid,’ said Miss Packard in a comfortable voice. ‘One never really knows how much she takes in and how much she doesn’t. I told her last night and she said she was sure I must be mistaken because it was term time. She seemed to think that you were still at school. Poor old things, they get very muddled up sometimes, especially over time. However, this morning when I reminded her about your visit, she just said it was quite impossible because you were dead. Oh well,’ Miss Packard went on cheerfully, ‘I expect she’ll recognize you when she sees you.’

‘How is she in health? Much the same?’

‘Well, perhaps as well as can be expected. Frankly, you know, I don’t think she’ll be with us very much longer. She doesn’t suffer in any way but her heart condition’s no better than it was. In fact, it’s rather worse. So I think I’d like you to know that it’s just as well to be prepared, so that if she did go suddenly it wouldn’t be any shock to you.’

‘We brought her some flowers,’ said Tuppence.

‘And a box of chocolates,’ said Tommy.

‘Oh, that’s very kind of you I’m sure. She’ll be very pleased. Would you like to come up now?’

Tommy and Tuppence rose and followed Miss Packard from the room. She led them up the broad staircase. As they passed one of the rooms in the passage upstairs, it opened suddenly and a little woman about five foot high trotted out, calling in a loud shrill voice, ‘I want my cocoa. I want my cocoa. Where’s Nurse Jane? I want my cocoa.’

A woman in a nurse’s uniform popped out of the next door and said, ‘There, there, dear, it’s all right. You’ve had your cocoa. You had it twenty minutes ago.’

‘No I didn’t, Nurse. It’s not true. I haven’t had my cocoa. I’m thirsty.’

‘Well, you shall have another cup if you like.’

‘I can’t have another when I haven’t had one.’

They passed on and Miss Packard, after giving a brief rap on a door at the end of the passage, opened it and passed in.

‘Here you are, Miss Fanshawe,’ she said brightly. ‘Here’s your nephew come to see you. Isn’t that nice?’

In a bed near the window an elderly lady sat up abruptly on her raised pillows. She had iron-grey hair, a thin wrinkled face with a large, high-bridged nose and a general air of disapprobation. Tommy advanced.

‘Hullo, Aunt Ada,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

Aunt Ada paid no attention to him, but addressed Miss Packard angrily.

‘I don’t know what you mean by showing gentlemen into a lady’s bedroom,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t have been thought proper at all in my young days! Telling me he’s my nephew indeed! Who is he? A plumber or the electrician?’

‘Now, now, that’s not very nice,’ said Miss Packard mildly.

‘I’m your nephew, Thomas Beresford,’ said Tommy. He advanced the box of chocolates. ‘I’ve brought you a box of chocolates.’

‘You can’t get round me that way,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘I know your kind. Say anything, you will. Who’s this woman?’ She eyed Mrs Beresford with an air of distaste.

‘I’m Prudence,’ said Mrs Beresford. ‘Your niece, Prudence.’

‘What a ridiculous name,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘Sounds like a parlourmaid. My Great-uncle Mathew had a parlourmaid called Comfort and the housemaid was called Rejoice-in-the-Lord. Methodist she was. But my Great-aunt Fanny soon put a stop to that. Told her she was going to be called Rebecca as long as she was in her house.’

‘I brought you a few roses,’ said Tuppence.

‘I don’t care for flowers in a sick-room. Use up all the oxygen.’

‘I’ll put them in a vase for you,’ said Miss Packard.

‘You won’t do anything of the kind. You ought to have learnt by now that I know my own mind.’

‘You seem in fine form, Aunt Ada,’ said Mr Beresford. ‘Fighting fit, I should say.’

‘I can take your measure all right. What d’you mean by saying that you’re my nephew? What did you say your name was? Thomas?’

‘Yes. Thomas or Tommy.’

‘Never heard of you,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘I only had one nephew and he was called William. Killed in the last war. Good thing, too. He’d have gone to the bad if he’d lived. I’m tired,’ said Aunt Ada, leaning back on her pillows and turning her head towards Miss Packard. ‘Take ’em away. You shouldn’t let strangers in to see me.’

‘I thought a nice little visit might cheer you up,’ said Miss Packard unperturbed.

Aunt Ada uttered a deep bass sound of ribald mirth.

‘All right,’ said Tuppence cheerfully. ‘We’ll go away again. I’ll leave the roses. You might change your mind about them. Come on, Tommy,’ said Tuppence. She turned towards the door.

‘Well, goodbye, Aunt Ada. I’m sorry you don’t remember me.’

Aunt Ada was silent until Tuppence had gone out of the door with Miss Packard and Tommy following her.

‘Come back, you,’ said Aunt Ada, raising her voice. ‘I know you perfectly. You’re Thomas. Red-haired you used to be. Carrots, that’s the colour your hair was. Come back. I’ll talk to you. I don’t want the woman. No good her pretending she’s your wife. I know better. Shouldn’t bring that type of woman in here. Come and sit down here in this chair and tell me about your dear mother. You go away,’ added Aunt Ada as a kind of postscript, waving her hand towards Tuppence who was hesitating in the doorway.

Tuppence retired immediately.

‘Quite in one of her moods today,’ said Miss Packard, unruffled, as they went down the stairs. ‘Sometimes, you know,’ she added, ‘she can be quite pleasant. You would hardly believe it.’

Tommy sat down in the chair indicated to him by Aunt Ada and remarked mildly that he couldn’t tell her much about his mother as she had been dead now for nearly forty years. Aunt Ada was unperturbed by this statement.

‘Fancy,’ she said, ‘is it as long as that? Well, time does pass quickly.’ She looked him over in a considering manner. ‘Why don’t you get married?’ she said. ‘Get some nice capable woman to look after you. You’re getting on, you know. Save you taking up with all these loose women and bringing them round and speaking as though they were your wife.’

‘I can see,’ said Tommy, ‘that I shall have to get Tuppence to bring her marriage lines along next time we come to see you.’

‘Made an honest woman of her, have you?’ said Aunt Ada.

‘We’ve been married over thirty years,’ said Tommy, ‘and we’ve got a son and a daughter, and they’re both married too.’

‘The trouble is,’ said Aunt Ada, shifting her ground with dexterity, ‘that nobody tells me anything. If you’d kept me properly up to date—’

Tommy did not argue the point. Tuppence had once laid upon him a serious injunction. ‘If anybody over the age of sixty-five finds fault with you,’ she said, ‘never argue. Never try to say you’re right. Apologize at once and say it was all your fault and you’re very sorry and you’ll never do it again.’

It occurred to Tommy at this moment with some force that that would certainly be the line to take with Aunt Ada, and indeed always had been.

‘I’m very sorry, Aunt Ada,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid, you know, one does tend to get forgetful as time goes on. It’s not everyone,’ he continued unblushingly, ‘who has your wonderful memory for the past.’

Aunt Ada smirked. There was no other word for it. ‘You have something there,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if I received you rather roughly, but I don’t care for being imposed upon. You never know in this place. They let in anyone to see you. Anyone at all. If I accepted everyone for what they said they were, they might be intending to rob and murder me in my bed.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s very likely,’ said Tommy.

‘You never know,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘The things you read in the paper. And the things people come and tell you. Not that I believe everything I’m told. But I keep a sharp look-out. Would you believe it, they brought a strange man in the other day—never seen him before. Called himself Dr Williams. Said Dr Murray was away on his holiday and this was his new partner. New partner! How was I to know he was his new partner? He just said he was, that’s all.’

‘Was he his new partner?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ said Aunt Ada, slightly annoyed at losing ground, ‘he actually was. But nobody could have known it for sure. There he was, drove up in a car, had that little kind of black box with him, which doctors carry to do blood pressure—and all that sort of thing. It’s like the magic box they all used to talk about so much. Who was it, Joanna Southcott’s?’

‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘I think that was rather different. A prophecy of some kind.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, my point is anyone could come into a place like this and say he was a doctor, and immediately all the nurses would smirk and giggle and say yes, Doctor, of course, Doctor, and more or less stand to attention, silly girls! And if the patient swore she didn’t know the man, they’d only say she was forgetful and forgot people. I never forget a face,’ said Aunt Ada firmly. ‘I never have. How is your Aunt Caroline? I haven’t heard from her for some time. Have you seen anything of her?’

Tommy said, rather apologetically, that his Aunt Caroline had been dead for fifteen years. Aunt Ada did not take this demise with any signs of sorrow. Aunt Caroline had after all not been her sister, but merely her first cousin.

‘Everyone seems to be dying,’ she said, with a certain relish. ‘No stamina. That’s what’s the matter with them. Weak heart, coronary thrombosis, high blood pressure, chronic bronchitis, rheumatoid arthritis—all the rest of it. Feeble folk, all of them. That’s how the doctors make their living. Giving them boxes and boxes and bottles and bottles of tablets. Yellow tablets, pink tablets, green tablets, even black tablets, I shouldn’t be surprised. Ugh! Brimstone and treacle they used to use in my grandmother’s day. I bet that was as good as anything. With the choice of getting well or having brimstone and treacle to drink, you chose getting well every time.’ She nodded her head in a satisfied manner. ‘Can’t really trust doctors, can you? Not when it’s a professional matter—some new fad—I’m told there’s a lot of poisoning going on here. To get hearts for the surgeons, so I’m told. Don’t think it’s true, myself. Miss Packard’s not the sort of woman who would stand for that.’

Downstairs Miss Packard, her manner slightly apologetic, indicated a room leading off the hall.

‘I’m so sorry about this, Mrs Beresford, but I expect you know how it is with elderly people. They take fancies or dislikes and persist in them.’

‘It must be very difficult running a place of this kind,’ said Tuppence.

‘Oh, not really,’ said Miss Packard. ‘I quite enjoy it, you know. And really, I’m quite fond of them all. One gets fond of people one has to look after, you know. I mean, they have their little ways and their fidgets, but they’re quite easy to manage, if you know how.’

Tuppence thought to herself that Miss Packard was one of those people who would know how.

‘They’re like children, really,’ said Miss Packard indulgently. ‘Only children are far more logical which makes it difficult sometimes with them. But these people are illogical, they want to be reassured by your telling them what they want to believe. Then they’re quite happy again for a bit. I’ve got a very nice staff here. People with patience, you know, and good temper, and not too brainy, because if you have people who are brainy they are bound to be very impatient. Yes, Miss Donovan, what is it?’ She turned her head as a young woman with pince-nez came running down the stairs.

‘It’s Mrs Lockett again, Miss Packard. She says she’s dying and she wants the doctor called at once.’

‘Oh,’ said Miss Packard, unimpressed, ‘what’s she dying from this time?’

‘She says there was mushroom in the stew yesterday and that there must have been fungi in it and that she’s poisoned.’

‘That’s a new one,’ said Miss Packard. ‘I’d better come up and talk to her. So sorry to leave you, Mrs Beresford. You’ll find magazines and papers in that room.’

‘Oh, I’ll be quite all right,’ said Tuppence.

She went into the room that had been indicated to her. It was a pleasant room overlooking the garden with french windows that opened on it. There were easy chairs, bowls of flowers on the tables. One wall had a bookshelf containing a mixture of modern novels and travel books, and also what might be described as old favourites, which possibly many of the inmates might be glad to meet again. There were magazines on a table.

At the moment there was only one occupant in the room. An old lady with white hair combed back off her face who was sitting in a chair, holding a glass of milk in her hand, and looking at it. She had a pretty pink and white face, and she smiled at Tuppence in a friendly manner.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Are you coming to live here or are you visiting?’

‘I’m visiting,’ said Tuppence. ‘I have an aunt here. My husband’s with her now. We thought perhaps two people at once was rather too much.’

‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ said the old lady. She took a sip of milk appreciatively. ‘I wonder—no, I think it’s quite all right. Wouldn’t you like something? Some tea or some coffee perhaps? Let me ring the bell. They’re very obliging here.’

‘No thank you,’ said Tuppence, ‘really.’

‘Or a glass of milk perhaps. It’s not poisoned today.’

‘No, no, not even that. We shan’t be stopping very much longer.’

‘Well, if you’re quite sure—but it wouldn’t be any trouble, you know. Nobody ever thinks anything is any trouble here. Unless, I mean, you ask for something quite impossible.’

‘I daresay the aunt we’re visiting sometimes asks for quite impossible things,’ said Tuppence. ‘She’s a Miss Fanshawe,’ she added.

‘Oh, Miss Fanshawe,’ said the old lady. ‘Oh yes.’

Something seemed to be restraining her but Tuppence said cheerfully,

‘She’s rather a tartar, I should imagine. She always has been.’

‘Oh, yes indeed she is. I used to have an aunt myself, you know, who was very like that, especially as she grew older. But we’re all quite fond of Miss Fanshawe. She can be very, very amusing if she likes. About people, you know.’

‘Yes, I daresay she could be,’ said Tuppence. She reflected a moment or two, considering Aunt Ada in this new light.

‘Very acid,’ said the old lady. ‘My name is Lancaster, by the way, Mrs Lancaster.’

‘My name’s Beresford,’ said Tuppence.

‘I’m afraid, you know, one does enjoy a bit of malice now and then. Her descriptions of some of the other guests here, and the things she says about them. Well, you know, one oughtn’t, of course, to find it funny but one does.’

‘Have you been living here long?’

‘A good while now. Yes, let me see, seven years—eight years. Yes, yes it must be more than eight years.’ She sighed. ‘One loses touch with things. And people too. Any relations I have left live abroad.’

‘That must be rather sad.’

‘No, not really. I didn’t care for them very much. Indeed, I didn’t even know them well. I had a bad illness—a very bad illness—and I was alone in the world, so they thought it was better for me to live in a place like this. I think I’m very lucky to have come here. They are so kind and thoughtful. And the gardens are really beautiful. I know myself that I shouldn’t like to be living on my own because I do get very confused sometimes, you know. Very confused.’ She tapped her forehead. ‘I get confused here. I mix things up. I don’t always remember properly the things that have happened.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tuppence. ‘I suppose one always has to have something, doesn’t one?’

‘Some illnesses are very painful. We have two poor women living here with very bad rheumatoid arthritis. They suffer terribly. So I think perhaps it doesn’t matter so much if one gets, well, just a little confused about what happened and where, and who it was, and all that sort of thing, you know. At any rate it’s not painful physically.’

‘No. I think perhaps you’re quite right,’ said Tuppence.

The door opened and a girl in a white overall came in with a little tray with a coffee pot on it and a plate with two biscuits, which she set down at Tuppence’s side.

‘Miss Packard thought you might care for a cup of coffee,’ she said.

‘Oh. Thank you,’ said Tuppence.

The girl went out again and Mrs Lancaster said,

‘There, you see. Very thoughtful, aren’t they?’

‘Yes indeed.’

Tuppence poured out her coffee and began to drink it. The two women sat in silence for some time. Tuppence offered the plate of biscuits but the old lady shook her head.

‘No thank you, dear. I just like my milk plain.’

She put down the empty glass and leaned back in her chair, her eyes half closed. Tuppence thought that perhaps this was the moment in the morning when she took a little nap, so she remained silent. Suddenly however, Mrs Lancaster seemed to jerk herself awake again. Her eyes opened, she looked at Tuppence and said,

‘I see you’re looking at the fireplace.’

‘Oh. Was I?’ said Tuppence, slightly startled.

‘Yes. I wondered—’ she leant forward and lowered her voice. ‘—Excuse me, was it your poor child?’

Tuppence slightly taken aback, hesitated.

‘I—no, I don’t think so,’ she said.

‘I wondered. I thought perhaps you’d come for that reason. Someone ought to come some time. Perhaps they will. And looking at the fireplace, the way you did. That’s where it is, you know. Behind the fireplace.’

‘Oh,’ said Tuppence. ‘Oh. Is it?’

‘Always the same time,’ said Mrs Lancaster, in a low voice. ‘Always the same time of day.’ She looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. Tuppence looked up also. ‘Ten past eleven,’ said the old lady. ‘Ten past eleven. Yes, it’s always the same time every morning.’

She sighed. ‘People didn’t understand—I told them what I knew—but they wouldn’t believe me!’

Tuppence was relieved that at that moment the door opened and Tommy came in. Tuppence rose to her feet.

‘Here I am. I’m ready.’ She went towards the door turning her head to say, ‘Goodbye, Mrs Lancaster.’

‘How did you get on?’ she asked Tommy, as they emerged into the hall.

‘After you left,’ said Tommy, ‘like a house on fire.’

‘I seem to have had a bad effect on her, don’t I?’ said Tuppence. ‘Rather cheering, in a way.’

‘Why cheering?’

‘Well, at my age,’ said Tuppence, ‘and what with my neat and respectable and slightly boring appearance, it’s nice to think that you might be taken for a depraved woman of fatal sexual charm.’

‘Idiot,’ said Tommy, pinching her arm affectionately. ‘Who were you hobnobbing with? She looked a very nice fluffy old lady.’

‘She was very nice,’ said Tuppence. ‘A dear old thing, I think. But unfortunately bats.’

‘Bats?’

‘Yes. Seemed to think there was a dead child behind the fireplace or something of the kind. She asked me if it was my poor child.’

‘Rather unnerving,’ said Tommy. ‘I suppose there must be some people who are slightly batty here, as well as normal elderly relatives with nothing but age to trouble them. Still, she looked nice.’

‘Oh, she was nice,’ said Tuppence. ‘Nice and very sweet, I think. I wonder what exactly her fancies are and why.’

Miss Packard appeared again suddenly.

‘Goodbye, Mrs Beresford. I hope they brought you some coffee?’

‘Oh yes, they did, thank you.’

‘Well, it’s been very kind of you to come, I’m sure,’ said Miss Packard. Turning to Tommy, she said, ‘And I know Miss Fanshawe has enjoyed your visit very much. I’m sorry she was rude to your wife.’

‘I think that gave her a lot of pleasure too,’ said Tuppence.

‘Yes, you’re quite right. She does like being rude to people. She’s unfortunately rather good at it.’

‘And so she practises the art as often as she can,’ said Tommy.

‘You’re very understanding, both of you,’ said Miss Packard.

‘The old lady I was talking to,’ said Tuppence. ‘Mrs Lancaster, I think she said her name was?’

‘Oh yes, Mrs Lancaster. We’re all very fond of her.’

‘She’s—is she a little peculiar?’

‘Well, she has fancies,’ said Miss Packard indulgently. ‘We have several people here who have fancies. Quite harmless ones. But—well, there they are. Things that they believe have happened to them. Or to other people. We try not to take any notice, not to encourage them. Just play it down. I think really it’s just an exercise in imagination, a sort of phantasy they like to live in. Something exciting or something sad and tragic. It doesn’t matter which. But no persecution mania, thank goodness. That would never do.’

‘Well, that’s over,’ said Tommy with a sigh, as he got into the car. ‘We shan’t need to come again for at least six months.’

But they didn’t need to go and see her in six months, for three weeks later Aunt Ada died in her sleep.

CHAPTER 3
A Funeral

‘Funerals are rather sad, aren’t they?’ said Tuppence.

They had just returned from attending Aunt Ada’s funeral, which had entailed a long and troublesome railway journey since the burial had taken place at the country village in Lincolnshire where most of Aunt Ada’s family and forebears had been buried.

‘What do you expect a funeral to be?’ said Tommy reasonably. ‘A scene of mad gaiety?’

‘Well, it could be in some places,’ said Tuppence. ‘I mean the Irish enjoy a wake, don’t they? They have a lot of keening and wailing first and then plenty of drink and a sort of mad whoopee. Drink?’ she added, with a look towards the sideboard.

Tommy went over to it and duly brought back what he considered appropriate. In this case a White Lady.

‘Ah, that’s more like it,’ said Tuppence.

She took off her black hat and threw it across the room and slipped off her long black coat.

‘I hate mourning,’ she said. ‘It always smells of moth balls because it’s been laid up somewhere.’

‘You don’t need to go on wearing mourning. It’s only to go to the funeral in,’ said Tommy.

‘Oh no, I know that. In a minute or two I’m going to go up and put on a scarlet jersey just to cheer things up. You can make me another White Lady.’

‘Really, Tuppence, I had no idea that funerals would bring out this party feeling.’

‘I said funerals were sad,’ said Tuppence when she reappeared a moment or two later, wearing a brilliant cherry-red dress with a ruby and diamond lizard pinned to the shoulder of it, ‘because it’s funerals like Aunt Ada’s that are sad. I mean elderly people and not many flowers. Not a lot of people sobbing and sniffing round. Someone old and lonely who won’t be missed much.’

‘I should have thought it would be much easier for you to stand that than it would if it were my funeral, for instance.’

‘That’s where you’re entirely wrong,’ said Tuppence. ‘I don’t particularly want to think of your funeral because I’d much prefer to die before you do. But I mean, if I were going to your funeral, at any rate it would be an orgy of grief. I should take a lot of handkerchiefs.’

‘With black borders?’

‘Well, I hadn’t thought of black borders but it’s a nice idea. And besides, the Burial service is rather lovely. Makes you feel uplifted. Real grief is real. It makes you feel awful but it does something to you. I mean, it works it out like perspiration.’

‘Really, Tuppence, I find your remarks about my decease and the effect it will have upon you in exceedingly bad taste. I don’t like it. Let’s forget about funerals.’

‘I agree. Let’s forget.’

‘The poor old bean’s gone,’ said Tommy, ‘and she went peacefully and without suffering. So, let’s leave it at that. I’d better clear up all these, I suppose.’

He went over to the writing table and ruffled through some papers.

‘Now where did I put Mr Rockbury’s letter?’

‘Who’s Mr Rockbury? Oh, you mean the lawyer who wrote to you.’

‘Yes. About winding up her affairs. I seem to be the only one of the family left by now.’

‘Pity she hadn’t got a fortune to leave you,’ said Tuppence.

‘If she had had a fortune she’d have left it to that Cats’ Home,’ said Tommy. ‘The legacy that she’s left to them in her will will pretty well eat up all the spare cash. There won’t be much left to come to me. Not that I need it or want it anyway.’

‘Was she so fond of cats?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose so. I never heard her mention them. I believe,’ said Tommy thoughtfully, ‘she used to get rather a lot of fun out of saying to old friends of hers when they came to see her “I’ve left you a little something in my will, dear” or “This brooch that you’re so fond of I’ve left you in my will.” She didn’t actually leave anything to anyone except the Cats’ Home.’

‘I bet she got rather a kick out of that,’ said Tuppence. ‘I can just see her saying all the things you told me to a lot of her old friends—or so-called old friends because I don’t suppose they were people she really liked at all. She just enjoyed leading them up the garden path. I must say she was an old devil, wasn’t she, Tommy? Only, in a funny sort of way one likes her for being an old devil. It’s something to be able to get some fun out of life when you’re old and stuck away in a Home. Shall we have to go to Sunny Ridge?’

‘Where’s the other letter, the one from Miss Packard? Oh yes, here it is. I put it with Rockbury’s. Yes, she says there are certain things there, I gather, which apparently are now my property. She took some furniture with her, you know, when she went to live there. And of course there are her personal effects. Clothes and things like that. I suppose somebody will have to go through them. And letters and things. I’m her executor, so I suppose it’s up to me. I don’t suppose there’s anything we want really, is there? Except there’s a small desk there that I always liked. Belonged to old Uncle William, I believe.’

‘Well, you might take that as a memento,’ said Tuppence. ‘Otherwise, I suppose, we just send the things to be auctioned.’

‘So you don’t really need to go there at all,’ said Tommy.

‘Oh, I think I’d like to go there,’ said Tuppence.

‘You’d like to? Why? Won’t it be rather a bore to you?’

‘What, looking through her things? No, I don’t think so. I think I’ve got a certain amount of curiosity. Old letters and antique jewellery are always interesting and I think one ought to look at them oneself, not just send them to auction or let strangers go through them. No, we’ll go and look through the things and see if there’s anything we would like to keep and otherwise settle up.’

‘Why do you really want to go? You’ve got some other reason, haven’t you?’

‘Oh dear,’ said Tuppence, ‘it is awful being married to someone who knows too much about one.’

‘So you have got another reason?’

‘Not a real one.’

‘Come on, Tuppence. You’re not really so fond of turning over people’s belongings.’

‘That, I think, is my duty,’ said Tuppence firmly. ‘No, the only other reason is—’

‘Come on. Cough it up.’

‘I’d rather like to see that—that other old pussy again.’

‘What, the one who thought there was a dead child behind the fireplace?’

‘Yes,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’d like to talk to her again. I’d like to know what was in her mind when she said all those things. Was it something she remembered or was it something that she’d just imagined? The more I think about it the more extraordinary it seems. Is it a sort of story that she wrote to herself in her mind or is there—was there once something real that happened about a fireplace or about a dead child. What made her think that the dead child might have been my dead child? Do I look as though I had a dead child?’

‘I don’t know how you expect anyone to look who has a dead child,’ said Tommy. ‘I shouldn’t have thought so. Anyway, Tuppence, it is our duty to go and you can enjoy yourself in your macabre way on the side. So that’s settled. We’ll write to Miss Packard and fix a day.’

CHAPTER 4
Picture of a House

Tuppence drew a deep breath.

‘It’s just the same,’ she said.

She and Tommy were standing on the front doorstep of Sunny Ridge.

‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ asked Tommy.

‘I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have—something to do with time. Time goes at a different pace in different places. Some places you come back to, and you feel that time has been bustling along at a terrific rate and that all sorts of things will have happened—and changed. But here—Tommy—do you remember Ostend?’

‘Ostend? We went there on our honeymoon. Of course I remember.’

‘And do you remember the sign written up? TRAM-STILLSTAND—It made us laugh. It seemed so ridiculous.’

‘I think it was Knock—not Ostend.’

‘Never mind—you remember it. Well, this is like that word—Tramstillstand—a portmanteau word. Timestillstand—nothing’s happened here. Time has just stood still. Everything’s going on here just the same. It’s like ghosts, only the other way round.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about. Are you going to stand here all day talking about time and not even ring the bell?—Aunt Ada isn’t here, for one thing. That’s different.’ He pressed the bell.

‘That’s the only thing that will be different. My old lady will be drinking milk and talking about fireplaces, and Mrs Somebody-or-other will have swallowed a thimble or a teaspoon and a funny little woman will come squeaking out of a room demanding her cocoa, and Miss Packard will come down the stairs, and—’

The door opened. A young woman in a nylon overall said: ‘Mr and Mrs Beresford? Miss Packard’s expecting you.’

The young woman was just about to show them into the same sitting-room as before when Miss Packard came down the stairs and greeted them. Her manner was suitably not quite as brisk as usual. It was grave, and had a kind of semi-mourning about it—not too much—that might have been embarrassing. She was an expert in the exact amount of condolence which would be acceptable.

Three score years and ten was the Biblical accepted span of life, and the deaths in her establishment seldom occurred below that figure. They were to be expected and they happened.

‘So good of you to come. I’ve got everything laid out tidily for you to look through. I’m glad you could come so soon because as a matter of fact I have already three or four people waiting for a vacancy to come here. You will understand, I’m sure, and not think that I was trying to hurry you in any way.’

‘Oh no, of course, we quite understand,’ said Tommy.

‘It’s all still in the room Miss Fanshawe occupied,’ Miss Packard explained.

Miss Packard opened the door of the room in which they had last seen Aunt Ada. It had that deserted look a room has when the bed is covered with a dust sheet, with the shapes showing beneath it of folded-up blankets and neatly arranged pillows.

The wardrobe doors stood open and the clothes it had held had been laid on the top of the bed neatly folded.

‘What do you usually do—I mean, what do people do mostly with clothes and things like that?’ said Tuppence.

Miss Packard, as invariably, was competent and helpful.

‘I can give you the name of two or three societies who are only too pleased to have things of that kind. She had quite a good fur stole and a good quality coat but I don’t suppose you would have any personal use for them? But perhaps you have charities of your own where you would like to dispose of things.’

Tuppence shook her head.

‘She had some jewellery,’ said Miss Packard. ‘I removed that for safe keeping. You will find it in the right-hand drawer of the dressing-table. I put it there just before you were due to arrive.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Tommy, ‘for the trouble you have taken.’

Tuppence was staring at a picture over the mantelpiece. It was a small oil painting representing a pale pink house standing adjacent to a canal spanned by a small hump-backed bridge. There was an empty boat drawn up under the bridge against the bank of the canal. In the distance were two poplar trees. It was a very pleasant little scene but nevertheless Tommy wondered why Tuppence was staring at it with such earnestness.

‘How funny,’ murmured Tuppence.

Tommy looked at her inquiringly. The things that Tuppence thought funny were, he knew by long experience, not really to be described by such an adjective at all.

‘What do you mean, Tuppence?’

‘It is funny. I never noticed that picture when I was here before. But the odd thing is that I have seen that house somewhere. Or perhaps it’s a house just like that that I have seen. I remember it quite well… Funny that I can’t remember when and where.’

‘I expect you noticed it without really noticing you were noticing,’ said Tommy, feeling his choice of words was rather clumsy and nearly as painfully repetitive as Tuppence’s reiteration of the word ‘funny’.

‘Did you notice it, Tommy, when we were here last time?’

‘No, but then I didn’t look particularly.’

‘Oh, that picture,’ said Miss Packard. ‘No, I don’t think you would have seen it when you were here the last time because I’m almost sure it wasn’t hanging over the mantelpiece then. Actually it was a picture belonging to one of our other guests, and she gave it to your aunt. Miss Fanshawe expressed admiration of it once or twice and this other old lady made her a present of it and insisted she should have it.’

‘Oh I see,’ said Tuppence, ‘so of course I couldn’t have seen it here before. But I still feel I know the house quite well. Don’t you, Tommy?’

‘No,’ said Tommy.

‘Well, I’ll leave you now,’ said Miss Packard briskly. ‘I shall be available at any time that you want me.’

She nodded with a smile, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

‘I don’t think I really like that woman’s teeth,’ said Tuppence.

‘What’s wrong with them?’

‘Too many of them. Or too big—“The better to eat you with, my child”—Like Red Riding Hood’s grandmother.’

‘You seem in a very odd sort of mood today, Tuppence.’

‘I am rather. I’ve always thought of Miss Packard as very nice—but today, somehow, she seems to me rather sinister. Have you ever felt that?’

‘No, I haven’t. Come on, let’s get on with what we came here to do—look over poor old Aunt Ada’s “effects”, as the lawyers call them. That’s the desk I told you about—Uncle William’s desk. Do you like it?’

‘It’s lovely. Regency, I should think. It’s nice for the old people who come here to be able to bring some of their own things with them. I don’t care for the horsehair chairs, but I’d like that little work-table. It’s just what we need for that corner by the window where we’ve got that perfectly hideous whatnot.’

‘All right,’ said Tommy. ‘I’ll make a note of those two.’

‘And we’ll have the picture over the mantelpiece. It’s an awfully attractive picture and I’m quite sure that I’ve seen that house somewhere. Now, let’s look at the jewellery.’

They opened the dressing-table drawer. There was a set of cameos and a Florentine bracelet and ear-rings and a ring with different-coloured stones in it.

‘I’ve seen one of these before,’ said Tuppence. ‘They spell a name usually. Dearest sometimes. Diamond, emerald, amethyst, no, it’s not dearest. I don’t think it would be really. I can’t imagine anyone giving your Aunt Ada a ring that spelt dearest. Ruby, emerald—the difficulty is one never knows where to begin. I’ll try again. Ruby, emerald, another ruby, no, I think it’s a garnet and an amethyst and another pinky stone, it must be a ruby this time and a small diamond in the middle. Oh, of course, it’s regard. Rather nice really. So old-fashioned and sentimental.’

She slipped it on to her finger.

‘I think Deborah might like to have this,’ she said, ‘and the Florentine set. She’s frightfully keen on Victorian things. A lot of people are nowadays. Now, I suppose we’d better do the clothes. That’s always rather macabre, I think. Oh, this is the fur stole. Quite valuable, I should think. I wouldn’t want it myself. I wonder if there’s anyone here—anyone who was especially nice to Aunt Ada—or perhaps some special friend among the other inmates—visitors, I mean. They call them visitors or guests, I notice. It would be nice to offer her the stole if so. It’s real sable. We’ll ask Miss Packard. The rest of the things can go to the charities. So that’s all settled, isn’t it? We’ll go and find Miss Packard now. Goodbye, Aunt Ada,’ she remarked aloud, her eyes turning to the bed. ‘I’m glad we came to see you that last time. I’m sorry you didn’t like me, but if it was fun to you not to like me and say those rude things, I don’t begrudge it to you. You had to have some fun. And we won’t forget you. We’ll think of you when we look at Uncle William’s desk.’

They went in search of Miss Packard. Tommy explained that they would arrange for the desk and the small work-table to be called for and despatched to their own address and that he would arrange with the local auctioneers to dispose of the rest of the furniture. He would leave the choice of any societies willing to receive clothing to Miss Packard if she wouldn’t mind the trouble.

‘I don’t know if there’s anyone here who would like her sable stole,’ said Tuppence. ‘It’s a very nice one. One of her special friends, perhaps? Or perhaps one of the nurses who had done some special waiting on Aunt Ada?’

‘That is a very kind thought of yours, Mrs Beresford. I’m afraid Miss Fanshawe hadn’t any special friends among our visitors, but Miss O’Keefe, one of the nurses, did do a lot for her and was especially good and tactful, and I think she’d be pleased and honoured to have it.’

‘And there’s the picture over the mantelpiece,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’d like to have that—but perhaps the person whom it belonged to, and who gave it to her, would want to have it back. I think we ought to ask her—?’

Miss Packard interrupted. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Beresford, I’m afraid we can’t do that. It was a Mrs Lancaster who gave it to Miss Fanshawe and she isn’t with us any longer.’

‘Isn’t with you?’ said Tuppence, surprised. ‘A Mrs Lancaster? The one I saw last time I was here—with white hair brushed back from her face. She was drinking milk in the sitting-room downstairs. She’s gone away, you say?’

‘Yes. It was all rather sudden. One of her relations, a Mrs Johnson, took her away about a week ago. Mrs Johnson had returned from Africa where she’s been living for the last four or five years—quite unexpectedly. She is now able to take care of Mrs Lancaster in her own home, since she and her husband are taking a house in England. I don’t think,’ said Miss Packard, ‘that Mrs Lancaster really wanted to leave us. She had become so—set in her ways here, and she got on very well with everyone and was happy. She was very disturbed, quite tearful about it—but what can one do? She hadn’t really very much say in the matter, because of course the Johnsons were paying for her stay here. I did suggest that as she had been here so long and settled down so well, it might be advisable to let her remain—’

‘How long had Mrs Lancaster been with you? asked Tuppence.

‘Oh, nearly six years, I think. Yes, that’s about it. That’s why, of course, she’d really come to feel that this was her home.’

‘Yes,’ said Tuppence. ‘Yes, I can understand that.’ She frowned and gave a nervous glance at Tommy and then stuck a resolute chin into the air.

‘I’m sorry she’s left. I had a feeling when I was talking to her that I’d met her before—her face seemed familiar to me. And then afterwards it came back to me that I’d met her with an old friend of mine, a Mrs Blenkinsop. I thought when I came back here again to visit Aunt Ada, that I’d find out from her if that was so. But of course if she’s gone back to her own people, that’s different.’

‘I quite understand, Mrs Beresford. If any of our visitors can get in touch with some of their old friends or someone who knew their relations at one time, it makes a great difference to them. I can’t remember a Mrs Blenkinsop ever having been mentioned by her, but then I don’t suppose that would be likely to happen in any case.’

‘Can you tell me a little more about her, who her relations were, and how she came to come here?’

‘There’s really very little to tell. As I said, it was about six years ago that we had letters from Mrs Johnson inquiring about the Home, and then Mrs Johnson herself came here and inspected it. She said she’d had mentions of Sunny Ridge from a friend and she inquired the terms and all that and—then she went away. And about a week or a fortnight later we had a letter from a firm of solicitors in London making further inquiries, and finally they wrote saying that they would like us to accept Mrs Lancaster and that Mrs Johnson would bring her here in about a week’s time if we had a vacancy. As it happened, we had, and Mrs Johnson brought Mrs Lancaster here and Mrs Lancaster seemed to like the place and liked the room that we proposed to allot her. Mrs Johnson said that Mrs Lancaster would like to bring some of her own things. I quite agreed, because people usually do that and find they’re much happier. So it was all arranged very satisfactorily. Mrs Johnson explained that Mrs Lancaster was a relation of her husband’s, not a very near one, but that they felt worried about her because they themselves were going out to Africa—to Nigeria I think it was, her husband was taking up an appointment there and it was likely they’d be there for some years before they returned to England, so as they had no home to offer Mrs Lancaster, they wanted to make sure that she was accepted in a place where she would be really happy. They were quite sure from what they’d heard about this place that that was so. So it was all arranged very happily indeed and Mrs Lancaster settled down here very well.’

‘I see.’

‘Everyone here liked Mrs Lancaster very much. She was a little bit—well, you know what I mean—woolly in the head. I mean, she forgot things, confused things and couldn’t remember names and addresses sometimes.’

‘Did she get many letters?’ said Tuppence. ‘I mean letters from abroad and things?’

‘Well, I think Mrs Johnson—or Mr Johnson—wrote once or twice from Africa but not after the first year. People, I’m afraid, do forget, you know. Especially when they go to a new country and a different life, and I don’t think they’d been very closely in touch with her at any time. I think it was just a distant relation, and a family responsibility, and that was all it meant to them. All the financial arrangements were done through the lawyer, Mr Eccles, a very nice, reputable firm. Actually we’d had one or two dealings with that firm before so that we new about them, as they knew about us. But I think most of Mrs Lancaster’s friends and relations had passed over and so she didn’t hear much from anyone, and I think hardly anyone ever came to visit her. One very nice-looking man came about a year later, I think. I don’t think he knew her personally at all well but he was a friend of Mr Johnson’s and had also been in the Colonial service overseas. I think he just came to make sure she was well and happy.’

‘And after that,’ said Tuppence, ‘everyone forgot about her.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Miss Packard. ‘It’s sad, isn’t it? But it’s the usual rather than the unusual thing to happen. Fortunately, most visitors to us make their own friends here. They get friendly with someone who has their own tastes or certain memories in common, and so things settle down quite happily. I think most of them forget most of their past life.’

‘Some of them, I suppose,’ said Tommy, ‘are a little—’ he hesitated for a word ‘—a little—’ his hand went slowly to his forehead, but he drew it away. ‘I don’t mean—’ he said.

‘Oh, I know perfectly what you mean,’ said Miss Packard. ‘We don’t take mental patients, you know, but we do take what you might call borderline cases. I mean, people who are rather senile—can’t look after themselves properly, or who have certain fancies and imaginations. Sometimes they imagine themselves to be historical personages. Quite in a harmless way. We’ve had two Marie Antoinettes here, one of them was always talking about something called the Petit Trianon and drinking a lot of milk which she seemed to associate with the place. And we had one dear old soul who insisted that she was Madame Curie and that she had discovered radium. She used to read the papers with great interest, especially any news of atomic bombs or scientific discoveries. Then she always explained it was she and her husband who had first started experiments on these lines. Harmless delusions are things that manage to keep you very happy when you’re elderly. They don’t usually last all the time, you know. You’re not Marie Antoinette every day or even Madame Curie. Usually it comes on about once a fortnight. Then I suppose presumably one gets tired of keeping the play-acting up. And of course more often it’s just forgetfulness that people suffer from. They can’t quite remember who they are. Or they keep saying there’s something very important they’ve forgotten and if they could only remember it. That sort of thing.’

‘I see,’ said Tuppence. She hesitated, and then said, ‘Mrs Lancaster—Was it always things about that particular fireplace in the sitting-room she remembered, or was it any fireplace?’

Miss Packard stared—‘A fireplace? I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘It was something she said that I didn’t understand—Perhaps she’d had some unpleasant association with a fireplace, or read some story that had frightened her.’

‘Possibly.’

Tuppence said: ‘I’m still rather worried about the picture she gave to Aunt Ada.’

‘I really don’t think you need worry, Mrs Beresford. I expect she’s forgotten all about it by now. I don’t think she prized it particularly. She was just pleased that Miss Fanshawe admired it and was glad for her to have it, and I’m sure she’d be glad for you to have it because you admire it. It’s a nice picture, I thought so myself. Not that I know much about pictures.’

‘I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write to Mrs Johnson if you’ll give me her address, and just ask if it’s all right to keep it.’

‘The only address I’ve got is the hotel in London they were going to—the Cleveland, I think it was called. Yes, the Cleveland Hotel, George Street, W1. She was taking Mrs Lancaster there for about four or five days and after that I think they were going to stay with some relations in Scotland. I expect the Cleveland Hotel will have a forwarding address.’

‘Well, thank you—And now, about this fur stole of Aunt Ada’s.’

‘I’ll go and bring Miss O’Keefe to you.’

She went out of the room.

‘You and your Mrs Blenkensops,’ said Tommy.

Tuppence looked complacent.

‘One of my best creations,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I was able to make use of her—I was just trying to think of a name and suddenly Mrs Blenkensop came into my mind. What fun it was, wasn’t it?’

‘It’s a long time ago—No more spies in wartime and counter-espionage for us.’

‘More’s the pity. It was fun—living in that guest house—inventing a new personality for myself—I really began to believe I was Mrs Blenkensop.’

‘You were lucky you got away safely with it,’ said Tommy, ‘and in my opinion, as I once told you, you overdid it.’

‘I did not. I was perfectly in character. A nice woman, rather silly, and far too much taken up with her three sons.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ said Tommy. ‘One son would have been quite enough. Three sons were too much to burden yourself with.’

‘They became quite real to me,’ said Tuppence. ‘Douglas, Andrew and—goodness, I’ve forgotten the name of the third one now. I know exactly what they looked like and their characters and just where they were stationed, and I talked most indiscreetly about the letters I got from them.’

‘Well, that’s over,’ said Tommy. ‘There’s nothing to find out in this place—so forget about Mrs Blenkinsop. When I’m dead and buried and you’ve suitably mourned me and taken up your residence in a home for the aged, I expect you’ll be thinking you are Mrs Blenkinsop half of the time.’

‘It’ll be rather boring to have only one role to play,’ said Tuppence.

‘Why do you think old people want to be Marie Antoinette, and Madame Curie and all the rest of it?’ asked Tommy.

‘I expect because they get so bored. One does get bored. I’m sure you would if you couldn’t use your legs and walk about, or perhaps your fingers get too stiff and you can’t knit. Desperately you want something to do to amuse yourself so you try on some public character and see what it feels like when you are it. I can understand that perfectly.’

‘I’m sure you can,’ said Tommy. ‘God help the home for the aged that you go to. You’ll be Cleopatra most of the time, I expect.’

‘I won’t be a famous person,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ll be someone like a kitchenmaid at Anne of Cleves’ castle retailing a lot of spicy gossip that I’d heard.’

The door opened, and Miss Packard appeared in company with a tall, freckle-faced young woman in nurse’s dress and a mop of red hair.

‘This is Miss O’Keefe—Mr and Mrs Beresford. They have something to tell you. Excuse me, will you? One of the patients is asking for me.’

Tuppence duly made the presentation of Aunt Ada’s fur stole and Nurse O’Keefe was enraptured.

‘Oh! It’s lovely. It’s too good for me, though. You’ll be wanting it yourself—’

‘No, I don’t really. It’s on the big side for me. I’m too small. It’s just right for a tall girl like you. Aunt Ada was tall.’

‘Ah! she was the grand old lady—she must have been very handsome as a girl.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Tommy doubtfully. ‘She must have been a tartar to look after, though.’

‘Oh, she was that, indeed. But she had a grand spirit. Nothing got her down. And she was no fool either. You’d be surprised the way she got to know things. Sharp as a needle, she was.’

‘She had a temper, though.’

‘Yes, indeed. But it’s the whining kind that gets you down—all complaints and moans. Miss Fanshawe was never dull. Grand stories she’d tell you of the old days—Rode a horse once up the staircase of a country house when she was a girl—or so she said—Would that be true now?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it past her,’ said Tommy.

‘You never know what you can believe here. The tales the old dears come and tell you. Criminals that they’ve recognized—We must notify the police at once—if not, we’re all in danger.’

‘Somebody was being poisoned last time we were here, I remember,’ said Tuppence.

‘Ah! that was only Mrs Lockett. It happens to her every day. But it’s not the police she wants, it’s a doctor to be called—she’s that crazy about doctors.’

‘And somebody—a little woman—calling out for cocoa—’

‘That would be Mrs Moody. Poor soul, she’s gone.’

‘You mean left here—gone away?’

‘No—it was a thrombosis took her—very sudden. She was one who was very devoted to your Aunt—not that Miss Fanshawe always had time for her—always talking nineteen to the dozen, as she did—’

‘Mrs Lancaster has left, I hear.’

‘Yes, her folk came for her. She didn’t want to go, poor thing.’

‘What was the story she told me—about the fireplace in the sitting-room?’

‘Ah! she’d lots of stories, that one—about the things that happened to her—and the secrets she knew—’

‘There was something about a child—a kidnapped child or a murdered child—’

‘It’s strange it is, the things they think up. It’s the TV as often as not that gives them the ideas—’

‘Do you find it a strain, working here with all these old people? It must be tiring.’

‘Oh no—I like old people—That’s why I took up Geriatric work—’

‘You’ve been here long?’

‘A year and a half—’ She paused. ‘—But I’m leaving next month.’

‘Oh! why?’

For the first time a certain constraint came into Nurse O’Keefe’s manner.

‘Well, you see, Mrs Beresford, one needs a change—’

‘But you’ll be doing the same kind of work?’

‘Oh yes—’ She picked up the fur stole. ‘I’m thanking you again very much—and I’m glad, too, to have something to remember Miss Fanshawe by—She was a grand old lady—You don’t find many like her nowadays.’

CHAPTER 5
Disappearance of an Old Lady

Aunt Ada’s things arrived in due course. The desk was installed and admired. The little work-table dispossessed the whatnot—which was relegated to a dark corner of the hall. And the picture of the pale pink house by the canal bridge Tuppence hung over the mantelpiece in her bedroom where she could see it every morning when drinking her early morning tea.

Since her conscience still troubled her a little, Tuppence wrote a letter explaining how the picture had come into their possession but that if Mrs Lancaster would like it returned, she had only got to let them know. This she dispatched to Mrs Lancaster, c/o Mrs Johnson, at the Cleveland Hotel, George Street, London, W1.

To this there was no reply, but a week later the letter was returned with ‘Not known at this address’ scrawled on it.

‘How tiresome,’ said Tuppence.

‘Perhaps they only stayed for a night or two,’ suggested Tommy.

‘You’d think they’d have left a forwarding address—’

‘Did you put “Please forward” on it?’

‘Yes, I did. I know, I’ll ring them up and ask—They must have put an address in the hotel register—’

‘I’d let it go if I were you,’ said Tommy. ‘Why make all this fuss? I expect the old pussy has forgotten all about the picture.’

‘I might as well try.’

Tuppence sat down at the telephone and was presently connected to the Cleveland Hotel.

She rejoined Tommy in his study a few minutes later.

‘It’s rather curious, Tommy—they haven’t even been there. No Mrs Johnson—no Mrs Lancaster—no rooms booked for them—or any trace of their having stayed there before.’

‘I expect Miss Packard got the name of the hotel wrong. Wrote it down in a hurry—and then perhaps lost it—or remembered it wrong. Things like that often happen, you know.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought it would at Sunny Ridge. Miss Packard is so efficient always.’

‘Perhaps they didn’t book beforehand at the hotel and it was full, so they had to go somewhere else. You know what accommodation in London is like—Must you go on fussing?’

Tuppence retired.

Presently she came back.

‘I know what I’m going to do. I’ll ring up Miss Packard and I’ll get the address of the lawyers—’

‘What lawyers?’

‘Don’t you remember she said something about a firm of solicitors who made all the arrangements because the Johnsons were abroad?’

Tommy, who was busy over a speech he was drafting for a Conference he was shortly to attend, and murmuring under his breath—‘the proper policy if such a contingency should arise’—said: ‘How do you spell contingency, Tuppence?’

‘Did you hear what I was saying?’

‘Yes, very good idea—splendid—excellent—you do that—’

Tuppence went out—stuck her head in again and said:

‘C-o-n-s-i-s-t-e-n-c-y.’

‘Can’t be—you’ve got the wrong word.’

‘What are you writing about?’

‘The Paper I’m reading next at the I.U.A.S. and I do wish you’d let me do it in peace.’

‘Sorry.’

Tuppence removed herself. Tommy continued to write sentences and then scratch them out. His face was just brightening, as the pace of his writing increased—when once more the door opened.

‘Here it is,’ said Tuppence. ‘Partingdale, Harris, Lockeridge and Partingdale, 32 Lincoln Terrace, W.C.2. Tel. Holborn 051386. The operative member of the firm is Mr Eccles.’ She placed a sheet of paper by Tommy’s elbow. ‘Now you take on.’

‘No!’ said Tommy firmly.

‘Yes! She’s your Aunt Ada.’

‘Where does Aunt Ada come in? Mrs Lancaster is no aunt of mine.’

‘But it’s lawyers,’ Tuppence insisted. ‘It’s a man’s job always to deal with lawyers. They just think women are silly and don’t pay attention—’

‘A very sensible point of view,’ said Tommy.

‘Oh! Tommy—do help. You go and telephone and I’ll find the dictionary and look how to spell contingency.’

Tommy gave her a look, but departed.

He returned at last and spoke firmly—‘This matter is now closed, Tuppence.’

‘You got Mr Eccles?’

‘Strictly speaking I got a Mr Wills who is doubtless the dogsbody of the firm of Partingford, Lockjaw and Harrison. But he was fully informed and glib. All letters and communications go via the Southern Counties Bank, Hammersmith branch, who will forward all communications. And there, Tuppence, let me tell you, the trail stops. Banks will forward things—but they won’t yield any addresses to you or anyone else who asks. They have their code of rules and they’ll stick to them—Their lips are sealed like our more pompous Prime Ministers.’

‘All right, I’ll send a letter care of the Bank.’

‘Do that—and for goodness’ sake, leave me alone—or I shall never get my speech done.’

‘Thank you, darling,’ said Tuppence. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ She kissed the top of his head.

‘It’s the best butter,’ said Tommy.

It was not until the following Thursday evening that Tommy asked suddenly, ‘By the way, did you ever get any answer to the letter you sent care of the Bank to Mrs Johnson—’

‘It’s nice of you to ask,’ said Tuppence sarcastically. ‘No, I didn’t.’ She added meditatively, ‘I don’t think I shall, either.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re not really interested,’ said Tuppence coldly.

‘Look here, Tuppence—I know I’ve been rather preoccupied—It’s all this I.U.A.S.—It’s only once a year, thank goodness.’

‘It starts on Monday, doesn’t it? For five days—’

‘Four days.’

‘And you all go down to a Hush Hush, top secret house in the country somewhere, and make speeches and read Papers and vet young men for Super Secret assignments in Europe and beyond. I’ve forgotten what I.U.A.S. stands for. All these initials they have nowadays—’

‘International Union of Associated Security.’

‘What a mouthful! Quite ridiculous. And I expect the whole place is bugged, and everybody knows everybody else’s most secret conversations.’

‘Highly likely,’ said Tommy with a grin.

‘And I suppose you enjoy it?’

‘Well, I do in a way. One sees a lot of old friends.’

‘All quite ga-ga by now, I expect. Does any of it do any good?’

‘Heavens, what a question! Can one ever let oneself believe that you can answer that by a plain Yes or No—’

‘And are any of the people any good?’

‘I’d answer Yes to that. Some of them are very good indeed.’

‘Will old Josh be there?’

‘Yes, he’ll be there.’

‘What is he like nowadays?’

‘Extremely deaf, half blind, crippled with rheumatism—and you’d be surprised at the things that don’t get past him.’

‘I see,’ said Tuppence. She meditated. ‘I wish I were in it, too.’

Tommy looked apologetic.

‘I expect you’ll find something to do while I’m away.’

‘I might at that,’ said Tuppence meditatively.

Her husband looked at her with the vague apprehension that Tuppence could always arouse in him.

‘Tuppence—what are you up to?’

‘Nothing, yet—So far I’m only thinking.’

‘What about?’

‘Sunny Ridge. And a nice old lady sipping milk and talking in a scatty kind of way about dead children and fireplaces. It intrigued me. I thought then that I’d try and find out more from her next time we came to see Aunt Ada—But there wasn’t a next time because Aunt Ada died—And when we were next in Sunny Ridge—Mrs Lancaster had—disappeared!’

‘You mean her people had taken her away? That’s not a disappearance—it’s quite natural.’

‘It’s a disappearance—no traceable address—no answer to letters—it’s a planned disappearance. I’m more and more sure of it.’

‘But—’

Tuppence broke in upon his ‘But’.

‘Listen, Tommy—supposing that sometime or other a crime happened—It seemed all safe and covered up—But then suppose that someone in the family had seen something, or known something—someone elderly and garrulous—someone who chattered to people—someone whom you suddenly realized might be a danger to you—What would you do about it?’

‘Arsenic in the soup?’ suggested Tommy cheerfully. ‘Cosh them on the head—Push them down the staircase—?’

‘That’s rather extreme—Sudden deaths attract attention. You’d look about for some simpler way—and you’d find one. A nice respectable Home for Elderly Ladies. You’d pay a visit to it, calling yourself Mrs Johnson or Mrs Robinson—or you would get some unsuspecting third party to make arrangements—You’d fix the financial arrangements through a firm of reliable solicitors. You’ve already hinted, perhaps, that your elderly relative has fancies and mild delusions sometimes—so do a good many of the other old ladies—Nobody will think it odd—if she cackles on about poisoned milk, or dead children behind a fireplace, or a sinister kidnapping; nobody will really listen. They’ll just think it’s old Mrs So-and-So having her fancies again—nobody will take any notice at all.’

‘Except Mrs Thomas Beresford,’ said Tommy.

‘All right, yes,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ve taken notice—’

‘But why did you?’

‘I don’t quite know,’ said Tuppence slowly. ‘It’s like the fairy stories. By the pricking of my thumbs—Something evil this way comes—I felt suddenly scared. I’d always thought of Sunny Ridge as such a normal happy place—and suddenly I began to wonder—That’s the only way I can put it. I wanted to find out more. And now poor old Mrs Lancaster has disappeared. Somebody’s spirited her away.’

‘But why should they?’

‘I can only think because she was getting worse—worse from their point of view—remembering more, perhaps, talking to people more, or perhaps she recognized someone—or someone recognized her—or told her something that gave her new ideas about something that had once happened. Anyway, for some reason or other she became dangerous to someone.’

‘Look here, Tuppence, this whole thing is all somethings and someones. It’s just an idea you’ve thought up. You don’t want to go mixing yourself up in things that are no business of yours—’

‘There’s nothing to be mixed up in according to you,’ said Tuppence. ‘So you needn’t worry at all.’

‘You leave Sunny Ridge alone.’

‘I don’t mean to go back to Sunny Ridge. I think they’ve told me all they know there. I think that that old lady was quite safe whilst she was there. I want to find out where she is now—I want to get to her wherever she is in time—before something happens to her.’

‘What on earth do you think might happen to her?’

‘I don’t like to think. But I’m on the trail—I’m going to be Prudence Beresford, Private Investigator. Do you remember when we were Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives?’

‘I was,’ said Tommy. ‘You were Miss Robinson, my private secretary.’

‘Not all the time. Anyway, that’s what I’m going to do while you’re playing at International Espionage at Hush Hush Manor. It’s the “Save Mrs Lancaster” that I’m going to be busy with.’

‘You’ll probably find her perfectly all right.’

‘I hope I shall. Nobody would be better pleased than I should.’

‘How do you propose to set about it?’

‘As I told you, I’ve got to think first. Perhaps an advertisement of some kind? No, that would be a mistake.’

‘Well, be careful,’ said Tommy, rather inadequately.

Tuppence did not deign to reply.

On Monday morning, Albert, the domestic mainstay of the Beresfords’ life for many long years, ever since he had been roped into anti-criminal activities by them as a carroty-haired lift-boy, deposited the tray of early morning tea on the table between the two beds, pulled back the curtains, announced that it was a fine day, and removed his now portly form from the room.

Tuppence yawned, sat up, rubbed her eyes, poured out a cup of tea, dropped a slice of lemon in it, and remarked that it seemed a nice day, but you never knew.

Tommy turned over and groaned.

‘Wake up,’ said Tuppence. ‘Remember you’re going places today.’

‘Oh Lord,’ said Tommy. ‘So I am.’

He, too, sat up and helped himself to tea. He looked with appreciation at the picture over the mantelpiece.

‘I must say, Tuppence, your picture looks very nice.’

‘It’s the way the sun comes in from the window sideways and lights it up.’

‘Peaceful,’ said Tommy.

‘If only I could remember where it was I’d seen it before.’

‘I can’t see that it matters. You’ll remember sometime or other.’

‘That’s no good. I want to remember now.’

‘But why?’

‘Don’t you see? It’s the only clue I’ve got. It was Mrs Lancaster’s picture—’

‘But the two things don’t tie up together anyway,’ said Tommy. ‘I mean, it’s true that the picture once belonged to Mrs Lancaster. But it may have been just a picture she bought at an exhibition or that somebody in her family did. It may have been a picture that somebody gave her as a present. She took it to Sunny Ridge with her because she thought it looked nice. There’s no reason it should have anything to do with her personally. If it had, she wouldn’t have given it to Aunt Ada.’

‘It’s the only clue I’ve got,’ said Tuppence.

‘It’s a nice peaceful house,’ said Tommy.

‘All the same, I think it’s an empty house.’

‘What do you mean, empty?’

‘I don’t think,’ said Tuppence, ‘there’s anybody living in it. I don’t think anybody’s ever going to come out of that house. Nobody’s going to walk across that bridge, nobody’s going to untie that boat and row away in it.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Tuppence.’ Tommy stared at her. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘I thought so the first time I saw it,’ said Tuppence. ‘I thought “What a nice house that would be to live in.” And then I thought “But nobody does live here, I’m sure they don’t.” That shows you that I have seen it before. Wait a minute. Wait a minute… it’s coming. It’s coming.’

Tommy stared at her.

‘Out of a window,’ said Tuppence breathlessly. ‘Out of a car window? No, no, that would be the wrong angle. Running alongside the canal… and a little hump-backed bridge and the pink walls of the house, the two poplar trees, more than two. There were lots more poplar trees. Oh dear, oh dear, if I could—’

‘Oh, come off it, Tuppence.’

‘It will come back to me.’

‘Good Lord,’ Tommy looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to hurry. You and your déjà vu picture.’

He jumped out of bed and hastened to the bathroom. Tuppence lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes, trying to force a recollection that just remained elusively out of reach.

Tommy was pouring out a second cup of coffee in the dining-room when Tuppence appeared flushed with triumph.

‘I’ve got it—I know where I saw that house. It was out of the window of a railway train.’

‘Where? When?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll have to think. I remember saying to myself: “Someday I’ll go and look at that house”—and I tried to see what the name of the next station was. But you know what railways are nowadays. They’ve pulled down half the stations—and the next one we went through was all torn down, and grass growing over the platforms, and no name board or anything.’

‘Where the hell’s my brief-case? Albert!’

A frenzied search took place.

Tommy came back to say a breathless goodbye. Tuppence was sitting looking meditatively at a fried egg.

‘Goodbye,’ said Tommy. ‘And for God’s sake, Tuppence, don’t go poking into something that’s none of your business.’

‘I think,’ said Tuppence, meditatively, ‘that what I shall really do, is to take a few railway journeys.’

Tommy looked slightly relieved.

‘Yes,’ he said encouragingly, ‘you try that. Buy yourself a season ticket. There’s some scheme where you can travel a thousand miles all over the British Isles for a very reasonable fixed sum. That ought to suit you down to the ground, Tuppence. You travel by all the trains you can think of in all the likely parts. That ought to keep you happy until I come home again.’

‘Give my love to Josh.’

‘I will.’ He added, looking at his wife in a worried manner, ‘I wish you were coming with me. Don’t—don’t do anything stupid, will you?’

‘Of course not,’ said Tuppence.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.