Postern of Fate. Agatha Christie
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died before that.’
‘What did she die of? Did she die down here? I suppose she went to hospital.’
‘No—I don’t think there were any hospitals to go to then. Wasn’t any Welfare in those days. Somebody told me it was some silly mistake the cook made. Brought foxglove leaves into the house by mistake for spinach—or for lettuce, perhaps. No, I think that was someone else. Someone told me it was Deadly Nightshade but I don’t believe that for a moment because, I mean, everyone knows about Deadly Nightshade, don’t they, and anyway that’s berries. Well, I think this was foxglove leaves brought in from the garden by mistake. Foxglove is Digoxo or some name like Digit—something that sounds like fingers. It’s got something very deadly in it—the doctor came and he did what he could, but I think it was too late.’
‘Were there many people in the house when it happened?’
‘Oh, there was quite a lot I should think—yes, because there were always people staying, so I’ve heard, and children, you know, and weekenders and a nursery maid and a governess, I think, and parties. Mind you, I’m not knowing all about this myself. It’s only what Granny used to tell me. And old Mr Bodlicott talks now and then. You know, the old gardener chap as works here now and then. He was gardener there, and they blamed him at first for sending the wrong leaves, but it wasn’t him as did it. It was somebody who came out of the house, and wanted to help and picked the vegetables in the garden, and took them in to the cook. You know, spinach and lettuce and things like that and—er—I suppose they just made a mistake not knowing much about growing vegetables. I think they said at the inquest or whatever they had afterwards that it was a mistake that anyone could make because the spinach or the sorrel leaves were growing near the Digi—Digit-what-not, you see, so I suppose they just took a great handful of both leaves, possibly in a bunch together. Anyway, it was very sad because Granny said she was a very good-looking girl with golden hair and all that, you know.’
‘And she used to go up to London every week? Naturally she’d have to have a day off.’
‘Yes. Said she had friends there. Foreigner, she was—Granny says there was some as said she was actually a German spy.’
‘And was she?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. The gentlemen liked her all right, apparently. You know, the naval officers and the ones up at Shelton Military Camp too. She had one or two friends there, you know. The military camp it was.’
‘Was she really a spy?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. I mean, my grandmother said that was what people said. It wasn’t in the last war. It was ages before that.’
‘Funny,’ said Tuppence, ‘how easy it is to get mixed up over the wars. I knew an old man who had a friend in the Battle of Waterloo.’
‘Oh, fancy that. Years before 1914. People did have foreign nurses—what were called Mamoselles as well as Frowlines, whatever a Frowline is. Very nice with children she was, Granny said. Everyone was very pleased with her and always liked her.’
‘That was when she was living here, living at The Laurels?’
‘Wasn’t called that then—at least I don’t think so. She was living with the Parkinsons or the Perkins, some name like that,’ said Gwenda. ‘What we call nowadays an au pair girl. She came from that place where the patty comes from, you know, Fortnum & Mason keep it—expensive patty for parties. Half German, half French, so someone told me.’
‘Strasbourg?’ suggested Tuppence.
‘Yes, that was the name. She used to paint pictures. Did one of an old great-aunt of mine. It made her look too old, Aunt Fanny always said. Did one of one of the Parkinson boys. Old Mrs Griffin’s got it still. The Parkinson boy found out something about her, I believe—the one she painted the picture of, I mean. Godson of Mrs Griffin, I believe he was.’
‘Would that have been Alexander Parkinson?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. The one who’s buried near the church.’
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