By the Pricking of My Thumbs. Agatha Christie
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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