Postern of Fate. Agatha Christie
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in this room. There seemed to be no loose books lying about with signs of having had interest shown in them.
‘Ah, where the hell can she be?’ said Thomas.
He went downstairs again, shouting once or twice. There was no answer. He examined one of the pegs in the hall. No signs of Tuppence’s mackintosh. Then she’d gone out. Where had she gone? And where was Hannibal? Tommy varied the use of his vocal cords and called out for Hannibal.
‘Hannibal—Hannibal—Hanny-boy. Come on, Hannibal.’
No Hannibal.
Well, at any rate, she’s got Hannibal with her, thought Tommy.
He didn’t know if it was worse or better that Tuppence should have Hannibal. Hannibal would certainly allow no harm to come to Tuppence. The question was, might Hannibal do some damage to other people? He was friendly when taken visiting people, but people who wished to visit Hannibal, to enter any house in which he lived, were always definitely suspect in Hannibal’s mind. He was ready at all risks to both bark and bite if he considered it necessary. Anyway, where was everybody?
He walked a little way along the street, could see no signs of any small black dog with a medium-sized woman in a bright red mackintosh walking in the distance. Finally, rather angrily, he came back to the house.
Rather an appetizing smell met him. He went quickly to the kitchen, where Tuppence turned from the stove and gave him a smile of welcome.
‘You’re ever so late,’ she said. ‘This is a casserole. Smells rather good, don’t you think? I put some rather unusual things in it this time. There were some herbs in the garden, at least I hope they were herbs.’
‘If they weren’t herbs,’ said Tommy, ‘I suppose they were Deadly Nightshade, or Digitalis leaves pretending to be something else but really foxglove. Where on earth have you been?’
‘I took Hannibal for a walk.’
Hannibal, at this moment, made his own presence felt. He rushed at Tommy and gave him such a rapturous welcome as nearly to fell him to the ground. Hannibal was a small black dog, very glossy, with interesting tan patches on his behind and each side of his cheeks. He was a Manchester terrier of very pure pedigree and he considered himself to be on a much higher level of sophistication and aristocracy than any other dog he met.
‘Oh, good gracious. I took a look round. Where’ve you been? It wasn’t very nice weather.’
‘No, it wasn’t. It was very sort of foggy and misty. Ah—I’m quite tired, too.’
‘Where did you go? Just down the street for the shops?’
‘No, it’s early closing day for the shops. No… Oh no, I went to the cemetery.’
‘Sounds gloomy,’ said Tommy. ‘What did you want to go to the cemetery for?’
‘I went to look at some of the graves.’
‘It still sounds rather gloomy,’ said Tommy. ‘Did Hannibal enjoy himself?’
‘Well, I had to put Hannibal on the lead. There was something that looked like a verger who kept coming out of the church and I thought he wouldn’t like Hannibal because—well, you never know, Hannibal mightn’t like him and I didn’t want to prejudice people against us the moment we’d arrived.’
‘What did you want to look in the cemetery for?’
‘Oh, to see what sort of people were buried there. Lots of people, I mean it’s very, very full up. It goes back a long way. It goes back well in the eighteen-hundreds and I think one or two older than that, only the stone’s so rubbed away you can’t really see.’
‘I still don’t see why you wanted to go to the cemetery.’
‘I was making my investigations,’ said Tuppence.
‘Investigations about what?’
‘I wanted to see if there were any Jordans buried there.’
‘Good gracious,’ said Tommy. ‘Are you still on that? Were you looking for—’
‘Well, Mary Jordan died. We know she died. We know because we had a book that said she didn’t die a natural death, but she’d still have to be buried somewhere, wouldn’t she?’
‘Undeniably,’ said Tommy, ‘unless she was buried in this garden.’
‘I don’t think that’s very likely,’ said Tuppence, ‘because I think that it was only this boy or girl—it must have been a boy, I think—of course it was a boy, his name was Alexander—and he obviously thought he’d been rather clever in knowing that she’d not died a natural death. But if he was the only person who’d made up his mind about that or who’d discovered it—well, I mean, nobody else had, I suppose. I mean, she just died and was buried and nobody said…’
‘Nobody said there had been foul play,’ suggested Tommy.
‘That sort of thing, yes. Poisoned or knocked on the head or pushed off a cliff or run over by a car or—oh, lots of ways I can think of.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ said Tommy. ‘Only good thing about you, Tuppence, is that at least you have a kindly heart. You wouldn’t put them into execution just for fun.’
‘But there wasn’t any Mary Jordan in the cemetery. There weren’t any Jordans.’
‘Disappointing for you,’ said Tommy. ‘Is that thing you’re cooking ready yet, because I’m pretty hungry. It smells rather good.’
‘It’s absolutely done à point,’ said Tuppence. ‘So, as soon as you’ve washed, we eat.’
‘Lots of Parkinsons,’ said Tuppence as they ate. ‘A long way back but an amazing lot of them. Old ones, young ones and married ones. Bursting with Parkinsons. And Capes, and Griffins and Underwoods and Overwoods. Curious to have both of them, isn’t it?’
‘I had a friend called George Underwood,’ said Tommy.
‘Yes, I’ve known Underwoods, too. But not Overwoods.’
‘Male or female?’ said Thomas, with slight interest.
‘A girl, I think it was. Rose Overwood.’
‘Rose Overwood,’ said Tommy, listening to the sound of it. ‘I don’t think somehow it goes awfully well together.’ He added, ‘I must ring up those electricians after lunch. Be very careful, Tuppence, or you’ll put your foot through the landing upstairs.’
‘Then I shall be a natural death, or an unnatural death, one of the two.’
‘A curiosity death,’ said Tommy. ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’
‘Aren’t you at all curious?’ asked Tuppence.
‘I can’t see any earthly reason for being curious. What have we got for pudding?’
‘Treacle tart.’
‘Well, I must say, Tuppence, it was a delicious meal.’
‘I’m very glad you liked it,’ said Tuppence.
‘What is that parcel outside the back door? Is it that wine we ordered?’
‘No,’ said Tuppence, ‘it’s bulbs.’
‘Oh,’ said Tommy, ‘bulbs.’
‘Tulips,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ll go and talk to old Isaac about them.’
‘Where