Tuppence drew a deep breath.
“It’s just the same,” she said.
She and Tommy were standing1 on the front doorstep of Sunny Ridge2.
“Why shouldn’t it be?” asked Tommy.
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have—something to do with time. Timegoes at a different pace in different places. Some places you come back to,and you feel that time has been bustling3 along at a terrific rate and that allsorts of things will have happened—and changed. But here—Tommy—doyou remember Ostend?”
“Ostend? We went there on our honeymoon4. Of course I remember.”
“And do you remember the sign written up? TRAMSTILLSTAND — Itmade us laugh. It seemed so ridiculous.”
“I think it was Knock—not Ostend.”
“Never mind—you remember it. Well, this is like that word—Tramstill-stand—a portmanteau word. Timestillstand—nothing’s happened here.
Time has just stood still. Everything’s going on here just the same. It’s likeghosts, only the other way round.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about. Are you going to stand hereall day talking about time and not even ring the bell?—Aunt Ada isn’there, for one thing. That’s different.” He pressed the bell.
“That’s the only thing that will be different. My old lady will be drinkingmilk and talking about fireplaces, and Mrs. Somebody-or-other will haveswallowed a thimble or a teaspoon5 and a funny little woman will comesqueaking out of a room demanding her cocoa, and Miss Packard willcome down the stairs, and—”
The door opened. A young woman in a nylon overall said: “Mr. and Mrs.
Beresford? Miss Packard’s expecting you.”
The young woman was just about to show them into the same sittingroom as before when Miss Packard came down the stairs and greetedthem. Her manner was suitably not quite as brisk as usual. It was grave,and had a kind of semimourning about it—not too much—that might havebeen embarrassing. She was an expert in the exact amount of condolencewhich would be acceptable.
Three score years and ten was the Biblical accepted span of life, and thedeaths in her establishment seldom occurred below that figure. They wereto be expected and they happened.
“So good of you to come. I’ve got everything laid out tidily for you tolook through. I’m glad you could come so soon because as a matter of factI have already three or four people waiting for a vacancy6 to come here.
You will understand, I’m sure, and not think that I was trying to hurry youin any way.”
“Oh no, of course, we quite understand,” said Tommy.
“It’s all still in the room Miss Fanshawe occupied,” Miss Packard ex-plained.
Miss Packard opened the door of the room in which they had last seenAunt Ada. It had that deserted7 look a room has when the bed is coveredwith a dust sheet, with the shapes showing beneath it of folded- upblankets and neatly8 arranged pillows.
The wardrobe doors stood open and the clothes it had held had beenlaid on the top of the bed neatly folded.
“What do you usually do — I mean, what do people do mostly withclothes and things like that?” said Tuppence.
Miss Packard, as invariably, was competent and helpful.
“I can give you the name of two or three societies who are only toopleased to have things of that kind. She had quite a good fur stole and agood quality coat but I don’t suppose you would have any personal use forthem? But perhaps you have charities of your own where you would liketo dispose of things.”
Tuppence shook her head.
“She had some jewellery,” said Miss Packard. “I removed that for safe-keeping. You will find it in the right-hand drawer of the dressing9 table. Iput it there just before you were due to arrive.”
“Thank you very much,” said Tommy, “for the trouble you have taken.”
Tuppence was staring at a picture over the mantelpiece. It was a smalloil painting representing a pale pink house standing adjacent to a canalspanned by a small humpbacked bridge. There was an empty boat drawnup under the bridge against the bank of the canal. In the distance weretwo poplar trees. It was a very pleasant little scene but neverthelessTommy wondered why Tuppence was staring at it with such earnestness.
“How funny,” murmured Tuppence.
Tommy looked at her inquiringly. The things that Tuppence thoughtfunny were, he knew by long experience, not really to be described bysuch an adjective at all.
“What do you mean, Tuppence?”
“It is funny. I never noticed that picture when I was here before. But theodd thing is that I have seen that house somewhere. Or perhaps it’s ahouse just like that that I have seen. I remember it quite well .?.?. Funnythat I can’t remember when and where.”
“I expect you noticed it without really noticing you were noticing,” saidTommy, feeling his choice of words was rather clumsy and nearly as pain-fully repetitive as Tuppence’s reiteration10 of the word “funny.”
“Did you notice it, Tommy, when we were here last time?”
“No, but then I didn’t look particularly.”
“Oh, that picture,” said Miss Packard. “No, I don’t think you would haveseen it when you were here the last time because I’m almost sure it wasn’thanging over the mantelpiece then. Actually it was a picture belonging toone of our other guests, and she gave it to your aunt. Miss Fanshawe ex-pressed admiration11 of it once or twice and this other old lady made her apresent of it and insisted she should have it.”
“Oh I see,” said Tuppence, “so of course I couldn’t have seen it here be-fore. But I still feel I know the house quite well. Don’t you, Tommy?”
“No,” said Tommy.
“Well, I’ll leave you now,” said Miss Packard briskly. “I shall be availableat any time that you want me.”
She nodded with a smile, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
“I don’t think I really like that woman’s teeth,” said Tuppence.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Too many of them. Or too big—‘The better to eat you with, my child’—Like Red Riding Hood’s grandmother.”
“You seem in a very odd sort of mood today, Tuppence.”
“I am rather. I’ve always thought of Miss Packard as very nice—buttoday, somehow, she seems to me rather sinister12. Have you ever felt that?”
“No, I haven’t. Come on, let’s get on with what we came here to do—lookover poor old Aunt Ada’s ‘effects,’ as the lawyers call them. That’s the deskI told you about—Uncle William’s desk. Do you like it?”
“It’s lovely. Regency, I should think. It’s nice for the old people whocome here to be able to bring some of their own things with them. I don’tcare for the horsehair chairs, but I’d like that little worktable. It’s justwhat we need for that corner by the window where we’ve got that per-fectly hideous13 whatnot.”
“All right,” said Tommy. “I’ll make a note of those two.”
“And we’ll have the picture over the mantelpiece. It’s an awfully14 attract-ive picture and I’m quite sure that I’ve seen that house somewhere. Now,let’s look at the jewellery.”
They opened the dressing-table drawer. There was a set of cameos and aFlorentine bracelet15 and earrings16 and a ring with different-coloured stonesin it.
“I’ve seen one of these before,” said Tuppence. “They spell a name usu-ally. Dearest sometimes. Diamond, emerald, amethyst17, no, it’s not dearest.
I don’t think it would be really. I can’t imagine anyone giving your AuntAda a ring that spelt dearest. Ruby18, emerald—the difficulty is one neverknows where to begin. I’ll try again. Ruby, emerald, another ruby, no, Ithink it’s a garnet and an amethyst and another pinky stone, it must be aruby this time and a small diamond in the middle. Oh, of course, it’s re-gard. Rather nice really. So old-fashioned and sentimental19.”
She slipped it on to her finger.
“I think Deborah might like to have this,” she said, “and the Florentineset. She’s frightfully keen on Victorian things. A lot of people arenowadays. Now, I suppose we’d better do the clothes. That’s always rathermacabre, I think. Oh, this is the fur stole. Quite valuable, I should think. Iwouldn’t want it myself. I wonder if there’s anyone here—anyone whowas especially nice to Aunt Ada—or perhaps some special friend amongthe other inmates—visitors, I mean. They call them visitors or guests, I no-tice. It would be nice to offer her the stole if so. It’s real sable20. We’ll askMiss Packard. The rest of the things can go to the charities. So that’s allsettled, isn’t it? We’ll go and find Miss Packard now. Goodbye, Aunt Ada,”
she remarked aloud, her eyes turning to the bed. “I’m glad we came to seeyou that last time. I’m sorry you didn’t like me, but if it was fun to you notto like me and say those rude things, I don’t begrudge21 it to you. You had tohave some fun. And we won’t forget you. We’ll think of you when we lookat Uncle William’s desk.”
They went in search of Miss Packard. Tommy explained that they wouldarrange for the desk and the small worktable to be called for and des-patched to their own address and that he would arrange with the localauctioneers to dispose of the rest of the furniture. He would leave thechoice of any societies willing to receive clothing to Miss Packard if shewouldn’t mind the trouble.
“I don’t know if there’s anyone here who would like her sable stole,”
said Tuppence. “It’s a very nice one. One of her special friends, perhaps?
Or perhaps one of the nurses who had done some special waiting on AuntAda?”
“That is a very kind thought of yours, Mrs. Beresford. I’m afraid MissFanshawe hadn’t any special friends among our visitors, but Miss O’Keefe,one of the nurses, did do a lot for her and was especially good and tactful,and I think she’d be pleased and honoured to have it.”
“And there’s the picture over the mantelpiece,” said Tuppence. “I’d liketo have that—but perhaps the person whom it belonged to, and who gaveit to her, would want to have it back. I think we ought to ask her—?”
Miss Packard interrupted. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Beresford, I’m afraid wecan’t do that. It was a Mrs. Lancaster who gave it to Miss Fanshawe andshe isn’t with us any longer.”
“Isn’t with you?” said Tuppence, surprised. “A Mrs. Lancaster? The one Isaw last time I was here—with white hair brushed back from her face. Shewas drinking milk in the sitting room downstairs. She’s gone away, yousay?”
“Yes. It was all rather sudden. One of her relations, a Mrs. Johnson, tookher away about a week ago. Mrs. Johnson had returned from Africa whereshe’s been living for the last four or five years—quite unexpectedly. She isnow able to take care of Mrs. Lancaster in her own home, since she andher husband are taking a house in England. I don’t think,” said Miss Pack-ard, “that Mrs. Lancaster really wanted to leave us. She had become so—set in her ways here, and she got on very well with everyone and washappy. She was very disturbed, quite tearful about it—but what can onedo? She hadn’t really very much say in the matter, because of course theJohnsons were paying for her stay here. I did suggest that as she had beenhere so long and settled down so well, it might be advisable to let her re-main—”
“How long had Mrs. Lancaster been with you? asked Tuppence.
“Oh, nearly six years, I think. Yes, that’s about it. That’s why, of course,she’d really come to feel that this was her home.”
“Yes,” said Tuppence. “Yes, I can understand that.” She frowned andgave a nervous glance at Tommy and then stuck a resolute22 chin into theair.
“I’m sorry she’s left. I had a feeling when I was talking to her that I’dmet her before—her face seemed familiar to me. And then afterwards itcame back to me that I’d met her with an old friend of mine, a Mrs. Blen-kensop. I thought when I came back here again to visit Aunt Ada, that I’dfind out from her if that was so. But of course if she’s gone back to herown people, that’s different.”
“I quite understand, Mrs. Beresford. If any of our visitors can get intouch with some of their old friends or someone who knew their relationsat one time, it makes a great difference to them. I can’t remember a Mrs.
Blenkensop ever having been mentioned by her, but then I don’t supposethat would be likely to happen in any case.”
“Can you tell me a little more about her, who her relations were, andhow she came to come here?”
“There’s really very little to tell. As I said, it was about six years ago thatwe had letters from Mrs. Johnson inquiring about the Home, and thenMrs. Johnson herself came here and inspected it. She said she’d had men-tions of Sunny Ridge from a friend and she inquired the terms and all thatand—then she went away. And about a week or a fortnight later we had aletter from a firm of solicitors23 in London making further inquiries24, and fi-nally they wrote saying that they would like us to accept Mrs. Lancasterand that Mrs. Johnson would bring her here in about a week’s time if wehad a vacancy. As it happened, we had, and Mrs. Johnson brought Mrs.
Lancaster here and Mrs. Lancaster seemed to like the place and liked theroom that we proposed to allot25 her. Mrs. Johnson said that Mrs. Lancasterwould like to bring some of her own things. I quite agreed, because peopleusually do that and find they’re much happier. So it was all arranged verysatisfactorily. Mrs. Johnson explained that Mrs. Lancaster was a relationof her husband’s, not a very near one, but that they felt worried about herbecause they themselves were going out to Africa—to Nigeria I think itwas, her husband was taking up an appointment there and it was likelythey’d be there for some years before they returned to England, so as theyhad no home to offer Mrs. Lancaster, they wanted to make sure that shewas accepted in a place where she would be really happy. They were quitesure from what they’d heard about this place that that was so. So it was allarranged very happily indeed and Mrs. Lancaster settled down here verywell.”
“I see.”
“Everyone here liked Mrs. Lancaster very much. She was a little bit—well, you know what I mean — woolly in the head. I mean, she forgotthings, confused things and couldn’t remember names and addressessometimes.”
“Did she get many letters?” said Tuppence. “I mean letters from abroadand things?”
“Well, I think Mrs. Johnson—or Mr. Johnson—wrote once or twice fromAfrica but not after the first year. People, I’m afraid, do forget, you know.
Especially when they go to a new country and a different life, and I don’tthink they’d been very closely in touch with her at any time. I think it wasjust a distant relation, and a family responsibility, and that was all itmeant to them. All the financial arrangements were done through the law-yer, Mr. Eccles, a very nice, reputable firm. Actually we’d had one or twodealings with that firm before so that we new about them, as they knewabout us. But I think most of Mrs. Lancaster’s friends and relations hadpassed over and so she didn’t hear much from anyone, and I think hardlyanyone ever came to visit her. One very nice-looking man came about ayear later, I think. I don’t think he knew her personally at all well but hewas a friend of Mr. Johnson’s and had also been in the Colonial serviceoverseas. I think he just came to make sure she was well and happy.”
“And after that,” said Tuppence, “everyone forgot about her.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Miss Packard. “It’s sad, isn’t it? But it’s the usualrather than the unusual thing to happen. Fortunately, most visitors to usmake their own friends here. They get friendly with someone who hastheir own tastes or certain memories in common, and so things settledown quite happily. I think most of them forget most of their past life.”
“Some of them, I suppose,” said Tommy, “are a little—” he hesitated fora word “—a little—” his hand went slowly to his forehead, but he drew itaway. “I don’t mean—” he said.
“Oh, I know perfectly26 what you mean,” said Miss Packard. “We don’ttake mental patients, you know, but we do take what you might call bor-derline cases. I mean, people who are rather senile—can’t look after them-selves properly, or who have certain fancies and imaginations. Sometimesthey imagine themselves to be historical personages. Quite in a harmlessway. We’ve had two Marie Antoinettes here, one of them was always talk-ing about something called the Petit Trianon and drinking a lot of milkwhich she seemed to associate with the place. And we had one dear oldsoul who insisted that she was Madame Curie and that she had discoveredradium. She used to read the papers with great interest, especially anynews of atomic bombs or scientific discoveries. Then she always explainedit was she and her husband who had first started experiments on theselines. Harmless delusions27 are things that manage to keep you very happywhen you’re elderly. They don’t usually last all the time, you know. You’renot Marie Antoinette every day or even Madame Curie. Usually it comeson about once a fortnight. Then I suppose presumably one gets tired ofkeeping the playacting up. And of course more often it’s just forgetfulnessthat people suffer from. They can’t quite remember who they are. Or theykeep saying there’s something very important they’ve forgotten and ifthey could only remember it. That sort of thing.”
“I see,” said Tuppence. She hesitated, and then said, “Mrs. Lancaster—Was it always things about that particular fireplace in the sitting room sheremembered, or was it any fireplace?”
Miss Packard stared—“A fireplace? I don’t understand what you mean.”
“It was something she said that I didn’t understand—Perhaps she’d hadsome unpleasant association with a fireplace, or read some story that hadfrightened her.”
“Possibly.”
Tuppence said: “I’m still rather worried about the picture she gave toAunt Ada.”
“I really don’t think you need worry, Mrs. Beresford. I expect she’s for-gotten all about it by now. I don’t think she prized it particularly. She wasjust pleased that Miss Fanshawe admired it and was glad for her to have it,and I’m sure she’d be glad for you to have it because you admire it. It’s anice picture, I thought so myself. Not that I know much about pictures.”
“I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write to Mrs. Johnson if you’ll give me her ad-dress, and just ask if it’s all right to keep it.”
“The only address I’ve got is the hotel in London they were going to—theCleveland, I think it was called. Yes, the Cleveland Hotel, George Street,W1. She was taking Mrs. Lancaster there for about four or five days andafter that I think they were going to stay with some relations in Scotland. Iexpect the Cleveland Hotel will have a forwarding address.”
“Well, thank you—And now, about this fur stole of Aunt Ada’s.”
“I’ll go and bring Miss O’Keefe to you.”
She went out of the room.
“You and your Mrs. Blenkensops,” said Tommy.
Tuppence looked complacent28.
“One of my best creations,” she said. “I’m glad I was able to make use ofher—I was just trying to think of a name and suddenly Mrs. Blenkensopcame into my mind. What fun it was, wasn’t it?”
“It’s a long time ago—No more spies in wartime and counter-espionagefor us.”
“More’s the pity. It was fun—living in that guest house—inventing a newpersonality for myself—I really began to believe I was Mrs. Blenkensop.”
“You were lucky you got away safely with it,” said Tommy, “and in myopinion, as I once told you, you overdid29 it.”
“I did not. I was perfectly in character. A nice woman, rather silly, andfar too much taken up with her three sons.”
“That’s what I mean,” said Tommy. “One son would have been quiteenough. Three sons were too much to burden yourself with.”
“They became quite real to me,” said Tuppence. “Douglas, Andrew and—goodness, I’ve forgotten the name of the third one now. I know exactlywhat they looked like and their characters and just where they were sta-tioned, and I talked most indiscreetly about the letters I got from them.”
“Well, that’s over,” said Tommy. “There’s nothing to find out in thisplace—so forget about Mrs. Blenkensop. When I’m dead and buried andyou’ve suitably mourned me and taken up your residence in a home forthe aged30, I expect you’ll be thinking you are Mrs. Blenkensop half of thetime.”
“It’ll be rather boring to have only one role to play,” said Tuppence.
“Why do you think old people want to be Marie Antoinette, and MadameCurie and all the rest of it?” asked Tommy.
“I expect because they get so bored. One does get bored. I’m sure youwould if you couldn’t use your legs and walk about, or perhaps your fin-gers get too stiff and you can’t knit. Desperately31 you want something to doto amuse yourself so you try on some public character and see what itfeels like when you are it. I can understand that perfectly.”
“I’m sure you can,” said Tommy. “God help the home for the aged thatyou go to. You’ll be Cleopatra most of the time, I expect.”
“I won’t be a famous person,” said Tuppence. “I’ll be someone like a kit-chenmaid at Anne of Cleves’ castle retailing32 a lot of spicy33 gossip that I’dheard.”
The door opened, and Miss Packard appeared in company with a tall,freckle-faced young woman in nurse’s dress and a mop of red hair.
“This is Miss O’Keefe—Mr. and Mrs. Beresford. They have something totell you. Excuse me, will you? One of the patients is asking for me.”
Tuppence duly made the presentation of Aunt Ada’s fur stole and NurseO’Keefe was enraptured34.
“Oh! It’s lovely. It’s too good for me, though. You’ll be wanting it yourself—”
“No, I don’t really. It’s on the big side for me. I’m too small. It’s just rightfor a tall girl like you. Aunt Ada was tall.”
“Ah! she was the grand old lady—she must have been very handsome asa girl.”
“I suppose so,” said Tommy doubtfully. “She must have been a tartar tolook after, though.”
“Oh, she was that, indeed. But she had a grand spirit. Nothing got herdown. And she was no fool either. You’d be surprised the way she got toknow things. Sharp as a needle, she was.”
“She had a temper, though.”
“Yes, indeed. But it’s the whining35 kind that gets you down—all com-plaints and moans. Miss Fanshawe was never dull. Grand stories she’d tellyou of the old days—Rode a horse once up the staircase of a country housewhen she was a girl—or so she said—Would that be true now?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it past her,” said Tommy.
“You never know what you can believe here. The tales the old dearscome and tell you. Criminals that they’ve recognized—We must notify thepolice at once—if not, we’re all in danger.”
“Somebody was being poisoned last time we were here, I remember,”
said Tuppence.
“Ah! that was only Mrs. Lockett. It happens to her every day. But it’s notthe police she wants, it’s a doctor to be called—she’s that crazy about doc-tors.”
“And somebody—a little woman—calling out for cocoa—”
“That would be Mrs. Moody36. Poor soul, she’s gone.”
“You mean left here—gone away?”
“No—it was a thrombosis took her—very sudden. She was one who wasvery devoted37 to your Aunt—not that Miss Fanshawe always had time forher—always talking nineteen to the dozen, as she did—”
“Mrs. Lancaster has left, I hear.”
“Yes, her folk came for her. She didn’t want to go, poor thing.”
“What was the story she told me — about the fireplace in the sittingroom?”
“Ah! she’d lots of stories, that one—about the things that happened toher—and the secrets she knew—”
“There was something about a child—a kidnapped child or a murderedchild—”
“It’s strange it is, the things they think up. It’s the TV as often as not thatgives them the ideas—”
“Do you find it a strain, working here with all these old people? It mustbe tiring.”
“Oh no—I like old people—That’s why I took up Geriatric work—”
“You’ve been here long?”
“A year and a half—” She paused. “—But I’m leaving next month.”
“Oh! why?”
For the first time a certain constraint38 came into Nurse O’Keefe’s man-ner.
“Well, you see, Mrs. Beresford, one needs a change—”
“But you’ll be doing the same kind of work?”
“Oh yes—” She picked up the fur stole. “I’m thanking you again verymuch—and I’m glad, too, to have something to remember Miss Fanshaweby—She was a grand old lady—You don’t find many like her nowadays.”
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standing
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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honeymoon
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teaspoon
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vacancy
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deserted
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neatly
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dressing
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reiteration
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admiration
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sinister
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hideous
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awfully
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bracelet
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earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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amethyst
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ruby
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sentimental
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sable
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begrudge
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resolute
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solicitors
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inquiries
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allot
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perfectly
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delusions
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complacent
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overdid
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去式 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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30
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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retailing
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| n.零售业v.零售(retail的现在分词) | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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