By the Pricking of My Thumbs. Agatha Christie
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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.
‘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