Postern of Fate. Agatha Christie
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supporting herself on two sticks, looked pleased.
‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘I remember when Mrs Parkinson was alive—you know, old Mrs Parkinson, the Mrs Parkinson who lived in the Manor House, wonderful old lady she was. Quite wonderful.’
‘And there were some Somers I saw, and the Chattertons.’
‘Ah, I see you’re getting up well with our local geography of the past.’
‘I think I heard something about a Jordan—Annie or Mary Jordan, was it?’
Tuppence looked round her in an enquiring fashion. The name of Jordan seemed to cause no particular interest.
‘Somebody had a cook called Jordan. I think, Mrs Blackwell. Susan Jordan I think it was. She only stayed six months, I think. Quite unsatisfactory in many ways.’
‘Was that a long time ago?’
‘Oh no. Just about eight or ten years ago I think. Not more than that.’
‘Are there any Parkinsons living here now?’
‘Oh no. They’re all gone long ago. One of them married a first cousin and went to live in Kenya, I believe.’
‘I wonder,’ said Tuppence, managing to attach herself to Mrs Lupton, who she knew had something to do with the local children’s hospital, ‘I wonder if you want any extra children’s books. They’re all old ones, I mean. I got them in an odd lot when we were bidding for some of the furniture that was for sale in our house.’
‘Well, that’s very kind of you, I’m sure, Mrs Beresford. Of course we do have some very good ones, given to us you know. Special editions for children nowadays. One does feel it’s a pity they should have to read all those old-fashioned books.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ said Tuppence. ‘I loved the books that I had as a child. Some of them,’ she said, ‘had been my grandmother’s when she was a child. I believe I liked those best of all. I shall never forget reading Treasure Island, Mrs Molesworth’s Four Winds Farm and some of Stanley Weyman’s.’
She looked round her enquiringly—then, resigning herself, she looked at her wrist-watch, exclaimed at finding how late it was and took her leave.
Tuppence, having got home, put the car away in the garage and walked round the house to the front door. The door was open, so she walked in. Albert then came from the back premises and bowed to greet her.
‘Like some tea, madam? You must be very tired.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ve had tea. They gave me tea down at the Institute. Quite good cake, but very nasty buns.’
‘Buns is difficult. Buns is nearly as difficult as doughnuts. Ah,’ he sighed. ‘Lovely doughnuts Milly used to make.’
‘I know. Nobody’s were like them,’ said Tuppence.
Milly had been Albert’s wife, now some years deceased. In Tuppence’s opinion, Milly had made wonderful treacle tart but had never been very good with doughnuts.
‘I think doughnuts are dreadfully difficult,’ said Tuppence, ‘I’ve never been able to do them myself.’
‘Well, it’s a knack.’
‘Where’s Mr Beresford? Is he out?’
‘Oh no, he’s upstairs. In that room. You know. The book-room or whatever you like to call it. I can’t get out of the way of calling it the attic still, myself.’
‘What’s he doing up there?’ said Tuppence, slightly surprised.
‘Well, he’s still looking at the books, I think. I suppose he’s still arranging them, getting them finished as you might say.’
‘Still seems to me very surprising,’ said Tuppence. ‘He’s really been very rude to us about those books.’
‘Ah well,’ said Albert, ‘gentlemen are like that, aren’t they? They likes big books mostly, you know, don’t they? Something scientific that they can get their teeth into.’
‘I shall go up and rout him out,’ said Tuppence. ‘Where’s Hannibal?’
‘I think he’s up there with the master.’
But at that moment Hannibal made his appearance. Having barked with the ferocious fury he considered necessary for a good guard dog, he had correctly assumed that it was his beloved mistress who had returned and not someone who had come to steal the teaspoons or to assault his master and mistress. He came wriggling down the stairs, his pink tongue hanging out, his tail wagging.
‘Ah,’ said Tuppence, ‘pleased to see your mother?’
Hannibal said he was very pleased to see his mother. He leapt upon her with such force that he nearly knocked her to the ground.
‘Gently,’ said Tuppence, ‘gently. You don’t want to kill me, do you?’
Hannibal made it clear that the only thing he wanted to do was to eat her because he loved her so much.
‘Where’s Master? Where’s Father? Is he upstairs?’
Hannibal understood. He ran up a flight, turned his head over his shoulder and waited for Tuppence to join him.
‘Well, I never,’ said Tuppence as, slightly out of breath, she entered the book-room to see Tommy astride a pair of steps, taking books in and out. ‘Whatever are you doing? I thought you were going to take Hannibal for a walk.’
‘We have been for a walk,’ said Tommy. ‘We went to the churchyard.’
‘Why on earth did you take Hannibal into the churchyard? I’m sure they wouldn’t like dogs there.’
‘He was on the lead,’ said Tommy, ‘and anyway I didn’t take him. He took me. He seemed to like the churchyard.’
‘I hope he hasn’t got a thing about it,’ said Tuppence. ‘You know what Hannibal is like. He likes arranging a routine always. If he’s going to have a routine of going to the churchyard every day, it will really be very difficult for us.’
‘He’s really been very intelligent about the whole thing,’ said Tommy.
‘When you say intelligent, you just mean he’s self-willed,’ said Tuppence.
Hannibal turned his head and came and rubbed his nose against the calf of her leg.
‘He’s telling you,’ said Tommy, ‘that he is a very clever dog. Cleverer than you or I have been so far.’
‘And what do you mean by that?’ asked Tuppence.
‘Have you been enjoying yourself?’ asked Tommy, changing the subject.
‘Well, I wouldn’t go as far as that,’ said Tuppence. ‘People were very kind to me and nice to me and I think soon I shan’t get them mixed up so much as I do at present. It’s awfully difficult at first, you know, because people look rather alike and wear the same sort of clothes and you don’t know at first which is which. I mean, unless somebody is very beautiful or very ugly. And that doesn’t seem to happen so noticeably in the country, does it?’
‘I’m telling you,’ said Tommy, ‘that Hannibal and I have been extremely clever.’
‘I thought you said it was Hannibal?’
Tommy reached out his hand and took a book from the shelf in front of him.
‘Kidnapped,’ he remarked. ‘Oh yes, another Robert Louis Stevenson. Somebody must have been very fond of Robert Louis Stevenson. The Black Arrow, Kidnapped, Catriona and two others, I think. All given to Alexander Parkinson by a fond grandmother and one from a generous aunt.’
‘Well,’ said Tuppence, ‘what about it?’
‘And