One AUNT ADA
BOOK 1 SUNNY RIDGE
One AUNT ADA

Mr. and Mrs. Beresford were sitting at the breakfast table. They were anordinary couple. Hundreds of elderly couples just like them were havingbreakfast all over England at that particular moment. It was an ordinarysort of day too, the kind of day that you get five days out of seven. Itlooked as though it might rain but wasn’t quite sure of it.
Mr. Beresford had once had red hair. There were traces of the red still,but most of it had gone that sandy- cum- grey colour that red- headedpeople so often arrive at in middle life. Mrs. Beresford had once had blackhair, a vigorous curling mop of it. Now the black was adulterated withstreaks of grey laid on, apparently at random. It made a rather pleasant ef-fect. Mrs. Beresford had once thought of dyeing her hair, but in the endshe had decided that she liked herself better as nature had made her. Shehad decided instead to try a new shade of lipstick so as to cheer herself up.
An elderly couple having breakfast together. A pleasant couple, butnothing remarkable about them. So an onlooker would have said. If theonlooker had been young he or she would have added, “Oh yes, quitepleasant, but deadly dull, of course, like all old people.”
However, Mr. and Mrs. Beresford had not yet arrived at the time of lifewhen they thought of themselves as old. And they had no idea that theyand many others were automatically pronounced deadly dull solely onthat account. Only by the young of course, but then, they would havethought indulgently, young people knew nothing about life. Poor dears,they were always worrying about examinations, or their sex life, or buy-ing some extraordinary clothes, or doing extraordinary things to their hairto make them more noticeable. Mr. and Mrs. Beresford from their ownpoint of view were just past the prime of life. They liked themselves andliked each other and day succeeded day in a quiet but enjoyable fashion.
There were, of course, moments, everyone has moments. Mr. Beresfordopened a letter, glanced through it and laid it down, adding it to the smallpile by his left hand. He picked up the next letter but forbore to open it. In-stead he stayed with it in his hand. He was not looking at the letter, he waslooking at the toast rack. His wife observed him for a few moments beforesaying,
“What’s the matter, Tommy?”
“Matter?” said Tommy vaguely. “Matter?”
“That’s what I said,” said Mrs. Beresford.
“Nothing is the matter,” said Mr. Beresford. “What should it be?”
“You’ve thought of something,” said Tuppence accusingly.
“I don’t think I was thinking of anything at all.”
“Oh yes, you were. Has anything happened?”
“No, of course not. What should happen?” He added, “I got theplumber’s bill.”
“Oh,” said Tuppence with the air of one enlightened. “More than you ex-pected, I suppose.”
“Naturally,” said Tommy, “it always is.”
“I can’t think why we didn’t train as plumbers,” said Tuppence. “If you’donly trained as a plumber, I could have been a plumber’s mate and we’dbe raking in money day by day.”
“Very shortsighted of us not to see these opportunities.”
“Was that the plumber’s bill you were looking at just now?”
“Oh no, that was just an Appeal.”
“Delinquent boys—Racial integration?”
“No. Just another Home they’re opening for old people.”
“Well, that’s more sensible anyway,” said Tuppence, “but I don’t see whyyou have to have that worried look about it.”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that.”
“Well, what were you thinking of?”
“I suppose it put it into my mind,” said Mr. Beresford.
“What?” said Tuppence. “You know you’ll tell me in the end.”
“It really wasn’t anything important. I just thought that perhaps—well,it was Aunt Ada.”
“Oh, I see,” said Tuppence, with instant comprehension. “Yes,” she ad-ded, softly, meditatively. “Aunt Ada.”
Their eyes met. It is regrettably true that in these days there is in nearlyevery family, the problem of what might be called an “Aunt Ada.” Thenames are different—Aunt Amelia, Aunt Susan, Aunt Cathy, Aunt Joan.
They are varied by grandmothers, aged cousins and even great-aunts. Butthey exist and present a problem in life which has to be dealt with. Ar-rangements have to be made. Suitable establishments for looking after theelderly have to be inspected and full questions asked about them. Recom-mendations are sought from doctors, from friends, who have Aunt Adas oftheir own who had been “perfectly happy until she had died” at “TheLaurels, Bexhill,” or “Happy Meadows at Scarborough.”
The days are past when Aunt Elisabeth, Aunt Ada and the rest of themlived on happily in the homes where they had lived for many years previ-ously, looked after by devoted if sometimes somewhat tyrannical old ser-vants. Both sides were thoroughly satisfied with the arrangement. Orthere were the innumerable poor relations, indigent nieces, semi-idioticspinster cousins, all yearning for a good home with three good meals aday and a nice bedroom. Supply and demand complemented each otherand all was well. Nowadays, things are different.
For the Aunt Adas of today arrangements have to be made suitable, notmerely to an elderly lady who, owing to arthritis or other rheumatic diffi-culties, is liable to fall downstairs if she is left alone in a house, or who suf-fers from chronic bronchitis, or who quarrels with her neighbours and in-sults the tradespeople.
Unfortunately, the Aunt Adas are far more trouble than the opposite endof the age scale. Children can be provided with foster homes, foisted off onrelations, or sent to suitable schools where they stay for the holidays, orarrangements can be made for pony treks or camps and on the whole verylittle objection is made by the children to the arrangements so made forthem. The Aunt Adas are very different. Tuppence Beresford’s own aunt—Great-aunt Primrose—had been a notable troublemaker. Impossible to sat-isfy her. No sooner did she enter an establishment guaranteed to providea good home and all comforts for elderly ladies than after writing a fewhighly complimentary letters to her niece praising this particular estab-lishment, the next news would be that she had indignantly walked out ofit without notice.
“Impossible. I couldn’t stay there another minute!”
Within the space of a year Aunt Primrose had been in and out of elevensuch establishments, finally writing to say that she had now met a verycharming young man. “Really a very devoted boy. He lost his mother at ayoung age and he badly needs looking after. I have rented a flat and he iscoming to live with me. This arrangement will suit us both perfectly. Weare natural affinities. You need have no more anxieties, dear Prudence.
My future is settled. I am seeing my lawyer tomorrow as it is necessarythat I should make some provision for Mervyn if I should predecease himwhich is, of course, the natural course of events, though I assure you at themoment I feel in the pink of health.”
Tuppence had hurried north (the incident had taken place in Aberdeen).
But as it happened, the police had arrived there first and had removed theglamorous Mervyn, for whom they had been seeking for some time, on acharge of obtaining money under false pretences. Aunt Primrose had beenhighly indignant, and had called it persecution—but after attending theCourt proceedings (where twenty- five other cases were taken into ac-count)—had been forced to change her views of her protégé.
“I think I ought to go and see Aunt Ada, you know, Tuppence,” saidTommy. “It’s been some time.”
“I suppose so,” said Tuppence, without enthusiasm. “How long has itbeen?”
Tommy considered. “It must be nearly a year,” he said.
“It’s more than that,” said Tuppence. “I think it’s over a year.”
“Oh dear,” said Tommy, “the time does go so fast, doesn’t it? I can’t be-lieve it’s been as long as that. Still, I believe you’re right, Tuppence.” Hecalculated. “It’s awful the way one forgets, isn’t it? I really feel very badlyabout it.”
“I don’t think you need,” said Tuppence. “After all, we send her thingsand we write letters.”
“Oh yes, I know. You’re awfully good about those sort of things, Tup-pence. But all the same, one does read things sometimes that are very up-setting.”
“You’re thinking of that dreadful book we got from the library,” saidTuppence, “and how awful it was for the poor old dears. How theysuffered.”
“I suppose it was true—taken from life.”
“Oh yes,” said Tuppence, “there must be places like that. And there arepeople who are terribly unhappy, who can’t help being unhappy. But whatelse is one to do, Tommy?”
“What can anyone do except be as careful as possible. Be very carefulwhat you choose, find out all about it and make sure she’s got a nice doc-tor looking after her.”
“Nobody could be nicer than Dr. Murray, you must admit that.”
“Yes,” said Tommy, the worried look receding from his face. “Murray’s afirst- class chap. Kind, patient. If anything was going wrong he’d let usknow.”
“So I don’t think you need worry about it,” said Tuppence. “How old isshe by now?”
“Eighty-two,” said Tommy. “No—no. I think it’s eighty-three,” he added.
“It must be rather awful when you’ve outlived everybody.”
“That’s only what we feel,” said Tuppence. “They don’t feel it.”
“You can’t really tell.”
“Well, your Aunt Ada doesn’t. Don’t you remember the glee with whichshe told us the number of her old friends that she’d already outlived? Shefinished up by saying ‘and as for Amy Morgan, I’ve heard she won’t lastmore than another six months. She always used to say I was so delicateand now it’s practically a certainty that I shall outlive her. Outlive her by agood many years too.’ Triumphant, that’s what she was at the prospect.”
“All the same—” said Tommy.
“I know,” said Tuppence, “I know. All the same you feel it’s your dutyand so you’ve got to go.”
“Don’t you think I’m right?”
“Unfortunately,” said Tuppence, “I do think you’re right. Absolutelyright. And I’ll come too,” she added, with a slight note of heroism in hervoice.
“No,” said Tommy. “Why should you? She’s not your aunt. No, I’ll go.”
“Not at all,” said Mrs. Beresford. “I like to suffer too. We’ll suffer to-gether. You won’t enjoy it and I shan’t enjoy it and I don’t think for onemoment that Aunt Ada will enjoy it. But I quite see it is one of those thingsthat has got to be done.”
“No, I don’t want you to go. After all, the last time, remember howfrightfully rude she was to you?”
“Oh, I didn’t mind that,” said Tuppence. “It’s probably the only bit of thevisit that the poor old girl enjoyed. I don’t grudge it to her, not for a mo-ment.”
“You’ve always been nice to her,” said Tommy, “even though you don’tlike her very much.”
“Nobody could like Aunt Ada,” said Tuppence. “If you ask me I don’tthink anyone ever has.”
“One can’t help feeling sorry for people when they get old,” said Tommy.
“I can,” said Tuppence. “I haven’t got as nice a nature as you have.”
“Being a woman you’re more ruthless,” said Tommy.
“I suppose that might be it. After all, women haven’t really got time to beanything but realistic over things. I mean I’m very sorry for people ifthey’re old or sick or anything, if they’re nice people. But if they’re notnice people, well, it’s different, you must admit. If you’re pretty nastywhen you’re twenty and just as nasty when you’re forty and nastier stillwhen you’re sixty, and a perfect devil by the time you’re eighty—well,really, I don’t see why one should be particularly sorry for people, just be-cause they’re old. You can’t change yourself really. I know some absoluteducks who are seventy and eighty. Old Mrs. Beauchamp, and Mary Carrand the baker’s grandmother, dear old Mrs. Poplett, who used to come inand clean for us. They were all dears and sweet and I’d do anything Icould for them.”
“All right, all right,” said Tommy, “be realistic. But if you really want tobe noble and come with me—”
“I want to come with you,” said Tuppence. “After all, I married you forbetter or for worse and Aunt Ada is decidedly the worse. So I shall go withyou hand in hand. And we’ll take her a bunch of flowers and a box ofchocolates with soft centres and perhaps a magazine or two. You mightwrite to Miss What’s-her-name and say we’re coming.”
“One day next week? I could manage Tuesday,” said Tommy, “if that’sall right for you.”
“Tuesday it is,” said Tuppence. “What’s the name of the woman? I can’tremember—the matron or the superintendent or whoever she is. Beginswith a P.”
“Miss Packard.”
“That’s right.”
“Perhaps it’ll be different this time,” said Tommy.
“Different? In what way?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something interesting might happen.”
“We might be in a railway accident on the way there,” said Tuppence,brightening up a little.
“Why on earth do you want to be in a railway accident?”
“Well I don’t really, of course. It was just—”
“Just what?”
“Well, it would be an adventure of some kind, wouldn’t it? Perhaps wecould save lives or do something useful. Useful and at the same time excit-ing.”
“What a hope!” said Mr. Beresford.
“I know,” agreed Tuppence. “It’s just that these sort of ideas come to onesometimes.”
Two WAS IT YOUR POOR CHILD?
Two WAS IT YOUR POOR CHILD?

How Sunny Ridge had come by its name would be difficult to say. Therewas nothing prominently ridgelike about it. The grounds were flat, whichwas eminently more suitable for the elderly occupants. It had an ample,though rather undistinguished garden. It was a fairly large Victorian man-sion kept in a good state of repair. There were some pleasant shady trees,a Virginia creeper running up the side of the house, and two monkeypuzzles gave an exotic air to the scene. There were several benches in ad-vantageous places to catch the sun, one or two garden chairs and asheltered veranda on which the old ladies could sit sheltered from the eastwinds.
Tommy rang the front doorbell and he and Tuppence were duly admit-ted by a rather harassed-looking young woman in a nylon overall. Sheshowed them into a small sitting room saying rather breathlessly, “I’ll tellMiss Packard. She’s expecting you and she’ll be down in a minute. Youwon’t mind waiting just a little, will you, but it’s old Mrs. Carraway. She’sbeen and swallowed her thimble again, you see.”
“How on earth did she do a thing like that?” asked Tuppence, surprised.
“Does it for fun,” explained the household help briefly. “Always doingit.”
She departed and Tuppence sat down and said thoughtfully, “I don’tthink I should like to swallow a thimble. It’d be awfully bobbly as it wentdown. Don’t you think so?”
They had not very long to wait however before the door opened andMiss Packard came in, apologizing as she did so. She was a big, sandy-haired woman of about fifty with the air of calm competence about herwhich Tommy had always admired.
“I’m sorry if I have kept you waiting, Mr. Beresford,” she said. “How doyou do, Mrs. Beresford, I’m so glad you’ve come too.”
“Somebody swallowed something, I hear,” said Tommy.
“Oh, so Marlene told you that? Yes, it was old Mrs. Carraway. She’s al-ways swallowing things. Very difficult, you know, because one can’t watchthem all the time. Of course one knows children do it, but it seems a funnything to be a hobby of an elderly woman, doesn’t it? It’s grown upon her,you know. She gets worse every year. It doesn’t seem to do her any harm,that’s the cheeriest thing about it.”
“Perhaps her father was a sword swallower,” suggested Tuppence.
“Now that’s a very interesting idea, Mrs. Beresford. Perhaps it would ex-plain things.” She went on, “I’ve told Miss Fanshawe that you were com-ing, Mr. Beresford. I don’t know really whether she quite took it in. Shedoesn’t always, you know.”
“How has she been lately?”
“Well, she’s failing rather rapidly now, I’m afraid,” said Miss Packard ina comfortable voice. “One never really knows how much she takes in andhow much she doesn’t. I told her last night and she said she was sure Imust be mistaken because it was term time. She seemed to think that youwere still at school. Poor old things, they get very muddled up sometimes,especially over time. However, this morning when I reminded her aboutyour visit, she just said it was quite impossible because you were dead. Ohwell,” Miss Packard went on cheerfully, “I expect she’ll recognize youwhen she sees you.”
“How is she in health? Much the same?”
“Well, perhaps as well as can be expected. Frankly, you know, I don’tthink she’ll be with us very much longer. She doesn’t suffer in any waybut her heart condition’s no better than it was. In fact, it’s rather worse. SoI think I’d like you to know that it’s just as well to be prepared, so that ifshe did go suddenly it wouldn’t be any shock to you.”
“We brought her some flowers,” said Tuppence.
“And a box of chocolates,” said Tommy.
“Oh, that’s very kind of you I’m sure. She’ll be very pleased. Would youlike to come up now?”
Tommy and Tuppence rose and followed Miss Packard from the room.
She led them up the broad staircase. As they passed one of the rooms inthe passage upstairs, it opened suddenly and a little woman about five foothigh trotted out, calling in a loud shrill voice, “I want my cocoa. I want mycocoa. Where’s Nurse Jane? I want my cocoa.”
A woman in a nurse’s uniform popped out of the next door and said,“There, there, dear, it’s all right. You’ve had your cocoa. You had it twentyminutes ago.”
“No I didn’t, Nurse. It’s not true. I haven’t had my cocoa. I’m thirsty.”
“Well, you shall have another cup if you like.”
“I can’t have another when I haven’t had one.”
They passed on and Miss Packard, after giving a brief rap on a door atthe end of the passage, opened it and passed in.
“Here you are, Miss Fanshawe,” she said brightly. “Here’s your nephewcome to see you. Isn’t that nice?”
In a bed near the window an elderly lady sat up abruptly on her raisedpillows. She had iron-grey hair, a thin wrinkled face with a large, high-bridged nose and a general air of disapprobation. Tommy advanced.
“Hullo, Aunt Ada,” he said. “How are you?”
Aunt Ada paid no attention to him, but addressed Miss Packard angrily.
“I don’t know what you mean by showing gentlemen into a lady’s bed-room,” she said. “Wouldn’t have been thought proper at all in my youngdays! Telling me he’s my nephew indeed! Who is he? A plumber or theelectrician?”
“Now, now, that’s not very nice,” said Miss Packard mildly.
“I’m your nephew, Thomas Beresford,” said Tommy. He advanced thebox of chocolates. “I’ve brought you a box of chocolates.”
“You can’t get round me that way,” said Aunt Ada. “I know your kind.
Say anything, you will. Who’s this woman?” She eyed Mrs. Beresford withan air of distaste.
“I’m Prudence,” said Mrs. Beresford. “Your niece, Prudence.”
“What a ridiculous name,” said Aunt Ada. “Sounds like a parlourmaid.
My Great-uncle Mathew had a parlourmaid called Comfort and the house-maid was called Rejoice-in-the-Lord. Methodist she was. But my Great-aunt Fanny soon put a stop to that. Told her she was going to be called Re-becca as long as she was in her house.”
“I brought you a few roses,” said Tuppence.
“I don’t care for flowers in a sick room. Use up all the oxygen.”
“I’ll put them in a vase for you,” said Miss Packard.
“You won’t do anything of the kind. You ought to have learnt by nowthat I know my own mind.”
“You seem in fine form, Aunt Ada,” said Mr. Beresford. “Fighting fit, Ishould say.”
“I can take your measure all right. What d’you mean by saying thatyou’re my nephew? What did you say your name was? Thomas?”
“Yes. Thomas or Tommy.”
“Never heard of you,” said Aunt Ada. “I only had one nephew and hewas called William. Killed in the last war. Good thing, too. He’d have goneto the bad if he’d lived. I’m tired,” said Aunt Ada, leaning back on her pil-lows and turning her head towards Miss Packard. “Take ’em away. Youshouldn’t let strangers in to see me.”
“I thought a nice little visit might cheer you up,” said Miss Packard un-perturbed.
Aunt Ada uttered a deep bass sound of ribald mirth.
“All right,” said Tuppence cheerfully. “We’ll go away again. I’ll leave theroses. You might change your mind about them. Come on, Tommy,” saidTuppence. She turned towards the door.
“Well, goodbye, Aunt Ada. I’m sorry you don’t remember me.”
Aunt Ada was silent until Tuppence had gone out of the door with MissPackard and Tommy followed her.
“Come back, you, said Aunt Ada, raising her voice. “I know you per-fectly. You’re Thomas. Red-haired you used to be. Carrots, that’s the colouryour hair was. Come back. I’ll talk to you. I don’t want the woman. Nogood her pretending she’s your wife. I know better. Shouldn’t bring thattype of woman in here. Come and sit down here in this chair and tell meabout your dear mother. You go away,” added Aunt Ada as a kind of post-script, waving her hand towards Tuppence who was hesitating in thedoorway.
Tuppence retired immediately.
“Quite in one of her moods today,” said Miss Packard, unruffled, as theywent down the stairs. “Sometimes, you know,” she added, “she can bequite pleasant. You would hardly believe it.”
Tommy sat down in the chair indicated to him by Aunt Ada and re-marked mildly that he couldn’t tell her much about his mother as she hadbeen dead now for nearly forty years. Aunt Ada was unperturbed by thisstatement.
“Fancy,” she said, “is it as long as that? Well, time does pass quickly.”
She looked him over in a considering manner. “Why don’t you get mar-ried?” she said. “Get some nice capable woman to look after you. You’regetting on, you know. Save you taking up with all these loose women andbringing them round and speaking as though they were your wife.”
“I can see,” said Tommy, “that I shall have to get Tuppence to bring hermarriage lines along next time we come to see you.”
“Made an honest woman of her, have you?” said Aunt Ada.
“We’ve been married over thirty years,” said Tommy, “and we’ve got ason and a daughter, and they’re both married too.”
“The trouble is,” said Aunt Ada, shifting her ground with dexterity, “thatnobody tells me anything. If you’d kept me properly up to date—”
Tommy did not argue the point. Tuppence had once laid upon him a ser-ious injunction. “If anybody over the age of sixty-five finds fault with you,”
she said, “never argue. Never try to say you’re right. Apologize at once andsay it was all your fault and you’re very sorry and you’ll never do itagain.”
It occurred to Tommy at this moment with some force that that wouldcertainly be the line to take with Aunt Ada, and indeed always had been.
“I’m very sorry, Aunt Ada,” he said. “I’m afraid, you know, one doestend to get forgetful as time goes on. It’s not everyone,” he continued un-blushingly, “who has your wonderful memory for the past.”
Aunt Ada smirked. There was no other word for it. “You have somethingthere,” she said. “I’m sorry if I received you rather roughly, but I don’tcare for being imposed upon. You never know in this place. They let inanyone to see you. Anyone at all. If I accepted everyone for what they saidthey were, they might be intending to rob and murder me in my bed.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s very likely,” said Tommy.
“You never know,” said Aunt Ada. “The things you read in the paper.
And the things people come and tell you. Not that I believe everything I’mtold. But I keep a sharp lookout. Would you believe it, they brought astrange man in the other day—never seen him before. Called himself Dr.
Williams. Said Dr. Murray was away on his holiday and this was his newpartner. New partner! How was I to know he was his new partner? He justsaid he was, that’s all.”
“Was he his new partner?”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Aunt Ada, slightly annoyed at losingground, “he actually was. But nobody could have known it for sure. Therehe was, drove up in a car, had that little kind of black box with him, whichdoctors carry to do blood pressure—and all that sort of thing. It’s like themagic box they all used to talk about so much. Who was it, Joanna South-cott’s?”
“No,” said Tommy. “I think that was rather different. A prophecy ofsome kind.”
“Oh, I see. Well, my point is anyone could come into a place like this andsay he was a doctor, and immediately all the nurses would smirk andgiggle and say yes, Doctor, of course, Doctor, and more or less stand to at-tention, silly girls! And if the patient swore she didn’t know the man,they’d only say she was forgetful and forgot people. I never forget a face,”
said Aunt Ada firmly. “I never have. How is your Aunt Caroline? I haven’theard from her for some time. Have you seen anything of her?”
Tommy said, rather apologetically, that his Aunt Caroline had been deadfor fifteen years. Aunt Ada did not take this demise with any signs of sor-row. Aunt Caroline had after all not been her sister, but merely her firstcousin.
“Everyone seems to be dying,” she said, with a certain relish. “No stam-ina. That’s what’s the matter with them. Weak heart, coronary throm-bosis, high blood pressure, chronic bronchitis, rheumatoid arthritis—allthe rest of it. Feeble folk, all of them. That’s how the doctors make theirliving. Giving them boxes and boxes and bottles and bottles of tablets. Yel-low tablets, pink tablets, green tablets, even black tablets, I shouldn’t besurprised. Ugh! Brimstone and treacle they used to use in my grand-mother’s day. I bet that was as good as anything. With the choice of gettingwell or having brimstone and treacle to drink, you chose getting wellevery time.” She nodded her head in a satisfied manner. “Can’t really trustdoctors, can you? Not when it’s a professional matter—some new fad—I’mtold there’s a lot of poisoning going on here. To get hearts for the surgeons,so I’m told. Don’t think it’s true, myself. Miss Packard’s not the sort of wo-man who would stand for that.”
Downstairs Miss Packard, her manner slightly apologetic, indicated aroom leading off the hall.
“I’m so sorry about this, Mrs. Beresford, but I expect you know how it iswith elderly people. They take fancies or dislikes and persist in them.”
“It must be very difficult running a place of this kind,” said Tuppence.
“Oh, not really,” said Miss Packard. “I quite enjoy it, you know. Andreally, I’m quite fond of them all. One gets fond of people one has to lookafter, you know. I mean, they have their little ways and their fidgets, butthey’re quite easy to manage, if you know how.”
Tuppence thought to herself that Miss Packard was one of those peoplewho would know how.
“They’re like children, really,” said Miss Packard indulgently. “Only chil-dren are far more logical which makes it difficult sometimes with them.
But these people are illogical, they want to be reassured by your tellingthem what they want to believe. Then they’re quite happy again for a bit.
I’ve got a very nice staff here. People with patience, you know, and goodtemper, and not too brainy, because if you have people who are brainythey are bound to be very impatient. Yes, Miss Donovan, what is it?” Sheturned her head as a young woman with pince-nez came running downthe stairs.
“It’s Mrs. Lockett again, Miss Packard. She says she’s dying and shewants the doctor called at once.”
“Oh,” said Miss Packard, unimpressed, “what’s she dying from thistime?”
“She says there was mushroom in the stew yesterday and that theremust have been fungi in it and that she’s poisoned.”
“That’s a new one,” said Miss Packard. “I’d better come up and talk toher. So sorry to leave you, Mrs. Beresford. You’ll find magazines and pa-pers in that room.”
“Oh, I’ll be quite all right,” said Tuppence.
She went into the room that had been indicated to her. It was a pleasantroom overlooking the garden with french windows that opened on it.
There were easy chairs, bowls of flowers on the tables. One wall had abookshelf containing a mixture of modern novels and travel books, andalso what might be described as old favourites, which possibly many ofthe inmates might be glad to meet again. There were magazines on atable.
At the moment there was only one occupant in the room. An old ladywith white hair combed back off her face who was sitting in a chair, hold-ing a glass of milk in her hand, and looking at it. She had a pretty pink andwhite face, and she smiled at Tuppence in a friendly manner.
“Good morning,” she said. “Are you coming to live here or are you visit-ing?”
“I’m visiting,” said Tuppence. “I have an aunt here. My husband’s withher now. We thought perhaps two people at once was rather too much.”
“That was very thoughtful of you,” said the old lady. She took a sip ofmilk appreciatively. “I wonder—no, I think it’s quite all right. Wouldn’tyou like something? Some tea or some coffee perhaps? Let me ring thebell. They’re very obliging here.”
“No thank you,” said Tuppence, “really.”
“Or a glass of milk perhaps. It’s not poisoned today.”
“No, no, not even that. We shan’t be stopping very much longer.”
“Well, if you’re quite sure—but it wouldn’t be any trouble, you know.
Nobody ever thinks anything is any trouble here. Unless, I mean, you askfor something quite impossible.”
“I daresay the aunt we’re visiting sometimes asks for quite impossiblethings,” said Tuppence. “She’s a Miss Fanshawe,” she added.
“Oh, Miss Fanshawe,” said the old lady. “Oh yes.”
Something seemed to be restraining her but Tuppence said cheerfully,“She’s rather a tartar, I should imagine. She always has been.”
“Oh, yes indeed she is. I used to have an aunt myself, you know, whowas very like that, especially as she grew older. But we’re all quite fond ofMiss Fanshawe. She can be very, very amusing if she likes. About people,you know.”
“Yes, I daresay she could be,” said Tuppence. She reflected a moment ortwo, considering Aunt Ada in this new light.
“Very acid,” said the old lady. “My name is Lancaster, by the way, Mrs.
Lancaster.”
“My name’s Beresford,” said Tuppence.
“I’m afraid, you know, one does enjoy a bit of malice now and then. Herdescriptions of some of the other guests here, and the things she saysabout them. Well, you know, one oughtn’t, of course, to find it funny butone does.”
“Have you been living here long?”
“A good while now. Yes, let me see, seven years—eight years. Yes, yes itmust be more than eight years.” She sighed. “One loses touch with things.
And people too. Any relations I have left live abroad.”
“That must be rather sad.”
“No, not really. I didn’t care for them very much. Indeed, I didn’t evenknown them well. I had a bad illness—a very bad illness—and I was alonein the world, so they thought it was better for me to live in a place likethis. I think I’m very lucky to have come here. They are so kind andthoughtful. And the gardens are really beautiful. I know myself that Ishouldn’t like to be living on my own because I do get very confused some-times, you know. Very confused.” She tapped her forehead. “I get confusedhere. I mix things up. I don’t always remember properly the things thathave happened.”
“I’m sorry,” said Tuppence. “I suppose one always has to have some-thing, doesn’t one?”
“Some illnesses are very painful. We have two poor women living herewith very bad rheumatoid arthritis. They suffer terribly. So I think per-haps it doesn’t matter so much if one gets, well, just a little confused aboutwhat happened and where, and who it was, and all that sort of thing, youknow. 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 traywith a coffee pot on it and a plate with two biscuits, which she set down atTuppence’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 womensat in silence for some time. Tuppence offered the plate of biscuits but theold 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 eyeshalf closed. Tuppence thought that perhaps this was the moment in themorning when she took a little nap, so she remained silent. Suddenly how-ever, 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. “—Excuseme, 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. Someoneought 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 thesame time of day.” She looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. Tup-pence looked up also. “Ten past eleven,” said the old lady. “Ten past el-even. Yes, it’s always the same time every morning.”
She sighed. “People didn’t understand—I told them what I knew—butthey wouldn’t believe me!”
Tuppence was relieved that at that moment the door opened andTommy came in. Tuppence rose to her feet.
“Here I am. I’m ready.” She went towards the door turning her head tosay, “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. “Rathercheering, in a way.”
“Why cheering?”
“Well, at my age,” said Tuppence, “and what with my neat and respect-able and slightly boring appearance, it’s nice to think that you might betaken for a depraved woman of fatal sexual charm.”
“Idiot,” said Tommy, pinching her arm affectionately. “Who were youhobnobbing with? She looked a very nice fluffy old lady.”
“She was very nice,” said Tuppence. “A dear old thing, I think. But un-fortunately bats.”
“Bats?”
“Yes. Seemed to think there was a dead child behind the fireplace orsomething of the kind. She asked me if it was my poor child.”
“Rather unnerving,” said Tommy. “I suppose there must be some peoplewho are slightly batty here, as well as normal elderly relatives with noth-ing but age to trouble them. Still, she looked nice.”
“Oh, she was nice,” said Tuppence. “Nice and very sweet, I think. I won-der 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 enjoyedyour 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 unfor-tunately 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 thinkshe 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 severalpeople here who have fancies. Quite harmless ones. But—well, there theyare. 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. Ithink really it’s just an exercise in imagination, a sort of phantasy they liketo live in. Something exciting or something sad and tragic. It doesn’t mat-ter which. But no persecution mania, thank goodness. That would neverdo.”
“Well, that’s over,” said Tommy with a sigh, as he got into the car. “Weshan’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 weekslater Aunt Ada died in her sleep.
Three A FUNERAL
Three A FUNERAL

“Funerals are rather sad, aren’t they?” said Tuppence.
They had just returned from attending Aunt Ada’s funeral, which hadentailed a long and troublesome railway journey since the burial hadtaken place at the country village in Lincolnshire where most of AuntAda’s family and forebears had been buried.
“What do you expect a funeral to be?” said Tommy reasonably. “A sceneof mad gaiety?”
“Well, it could be in some places,” said Tuppence. “I mean the Irish en-joy a wake, don’t they? They have a lot of keening and wailing first andthen plenty of drink and a sort of mad whoopee. Drink?” she added, with alook towards the sideboard.
Tommy went over to it and duly brought back what he considered ap-propriate. In this case a White Lady.
“Ah, that’s more like it,” said Tuppence.
She took off her black hat and threw it across the room and slipped offher long black coat.
“I hate mourning,” she said. “It always smells of moth balls because it’sbeen laid up somewhere.”
“You don’t need to go on wearing mourning. It’s only to go to the funeralin,” said Tommy.
“Oh no, I know that. In a minute or two I’m going to go up and put on ascarlet jersey just to cheer things up. You can make me another WhiteLady.”
“Really, Tuppence, I had no idea that funerals would bring out this partyfeeling.”
“I said funerals were sad,” said Tuppence when she reappeared a mo-ment or two later, wearing a brilliant cherry-red dress with a ruby anddiamond lizard pinned to the shoulder of it, “because it’s funerals likeAunt Ada’s that are sad. I mean elderly people and not many flowers. Nota lot of people sobbing and sniffing round. Someone old and lonely whowon’t be missed much.”
“I should have thought it would be much easier for you to stand thatthan it would if it were my funeral, for instance.”
“That’s where you’re entirely wrong,” said Tuppence. “I don’t particu-larly want to think of your funeral because I’d much prefer to die beforeyou do. But I mean, if I were going to your funeral, at any rate it would bean orgy of grief. I should take a lot of handkerchiefs.”
“With black borders?”
“Well, I hadn’t thought of black borders but it’s a nice idea. And besides,the Burial service is rather lovely. Makes you feel uplifted. Real grief isreal. It makes you feel awful but it does something to you. I mean, it worksit out like perspiration.”
“Really, Tuppence, I find your remarks about my decease and the effectit will have upon you in exceedingly bad taste. I don’t like it. Let’s forgetabout funerals.”
“I agree. Let’s forget.”
“The poor old bean’s gone,” said Tommy, “and she went peacefully andwithout suffering. So, let’s leave it at that. I’d better clear up all these, Isuppose.”
He went over to the writing table and ruffled through some papers.
“Now where did I put Mr. Rockbury’s letter?”
“Who’s Mr. Rockbury? Oh, you mean the lawyer who wrote to you.”
“Yes. About winding up her affairs. I seem to be the only one of the fam-ily left by now.”
“Pity she hadn’t got a fortune to leave you,” said Tuppence.
“If she had had a fortune she’d have left it to that Cats’ Home,” saidTommy. “The legacy that she’s left to them in her will will pretty well eatup all the spare cash. There won’t be much left to come to me. Not that Ineed it or want it anyway.”
“Was she so fond of cats?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. I never heard her mention them. I believe,”
said Tommy thoughtfully, “she used to get rather a lot of fun out of sayingto old friends of hers when they came to see her ‘I’ve left you a little some-thing in my will, dear’ or ‘This brooch that you’re so fond of I’ve left you inmy will.’ She didn’t actually leave anything to anyone except the Cats’
Home.”
“I bet she got rather a kick out of that,” said Tuppence. “I can just see hersaying all the things you told me to a lot of her old friends—or so-calledold friends because I don’t suppose they were people she really liked atall. She just enjoyed leading them up the garden path. I must say she wasan old devil, wasn’t she, Tommy? Only, in a funny sort of way one likesher for being an old devil. It’s something to be able to get some fun out oflife when you’re old and stuck away in a Home. Shall we have to go toSunny Ridge?”
“Where’s the other letter, the one from Miss Packard? Oh yes, here it is. Iput it with Rockbury’s. Yes, she says there are certain things there, Igather, which apparently are now my property. She took some furniturewith her, you know, when she went to live there. And of course there areher personal effects. Clothes and things like that. I suppose somebody willhave to go through them. And letters and things. I’m her executor, so Isuppose it’s up to me. I don’t suppose there’s anything we want really, isthere? Except there’s a small desk there that I always liked. Belonged toold Uncle William, I believe.”
“Well, you might take that as a memento,” said Tuppence. “Otherwise, Isuppose, we just send the things to be auctioned.”
“So you don’t really need to go there at all,” said Tommy.
“Oh, I think I’d like to go there,” said Tuppence.
“You’d like to? Why? Won’t it be rather a bore to you?”
“What, looking through her things? No, I don’t think so. I think I’ve got acertain amount of curiosity. Old letters and antique jewellery are alwaysinteresting and I think one ought to look at them oneself, not just sendthem to auction or let strangers go through them. No, we’ll go and lookthrough the things and see if there’s anything we would like to keep andotherwise settle up.”
“Why do you really want to go? You’ve got some other reason, haven’tyou?”
“Oh dear,” said Tuppence, “it is awful being married to someone whoknows too much about one.”
“So you have got another reason?”
“Not a real one.”
“Come on, Tuppence. You’re not really so fond of turning over people’sbelongings.”
“That, I think, is my duty,” said Tuppence firmly. “No, the only otherreason is—”
“Come on. Cough it up.”
“I’d rather like to see that—that other old pussy again.”
“What, the one who thought there was a dead child behind the fire-place?”
“Yes,” said Tuppence. “I’d like to talk to her again. I’d like to know whatwas in her mind when she said all those things. Was it something she re-membered or was it something that she’d just imagined? The more I thinkabout it the more extraordinary it seems. Is it a sort of story that she wroteto herself in her mind or is there—was there once something real thathappened about a fireplace or about a dead child. What made her thinkthat the dead child might have been my dead child? Do I look as though Ihad a dead child?”
“I don’t know how you expect anyone to look who has a dead child,”
said Tommy. “I shouldn’t have thought so. Anyway, Tuppence, it is ourduty to go and you can enjoy yourself in your macabre way on the side. Sothat’s settled. We’ll write to Miss Packard and fix a day.”
Four PICTURE OF A HOUSE
Four PICTURE OF A HOUSE

Tuppence drew a deep breath.
“It’s just the same,” she said.
She and Tommy were standing on the front doorstep of Sunny Ridge.
“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 bustling 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 honeymoon. 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 teaspoon 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 vacancy 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 deserted look a room has when the bed is coveredwith a dust sheet, with the shapes showing beneath it of folded- upblankets and neatly 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 dressing 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 reiteration 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 admiration 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 sinister. 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 hideous 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 awfully 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 bracelet and earrings 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, amethyst, 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. Ruby, 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 sentimental.”
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 sable. 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 begrudge 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 resolute 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 solicitors in London making further inquiries, 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 allot 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 perfectly 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 delusions 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 complacent.
“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 overdid 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 aged, 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. Desperately 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 retailing a lot of spicy 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 enraptured.
“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 whining 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. Moody. 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 devoted 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 constraint 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.”